The Way Back Home: A 1917 Fanfic

Chapter 13: Colorblind

"Amelia, they'll be departing with the ambulance soon to take you to the hospital. When the sun sets." Schofield re-entered the tent, clasping the flap closed to keep the chilled breeze from intruding.

A shiver of melancholic shock racked his spine as those words exited his mouth, reminding him of the course of action taken with Thomas Blake, arguing with him in the safety of the trenches...

"Blake, we've got time to wait until the sun sets... we should wait until it's dark."

"Scho, we've got no idea what we're walking into!"

He pushed the painful remembrance into the further recesses of his mind, keeping them subdued and able to focus on the present matter at hand: making sure Amelia was taken away from this camp and her wellbeing was guaranteed in their separation.

Upon turning around, he was greeted with the sight of Amelia sitting upright on her bed, holding the photographs from his tobacco tin after he had left it in his chair by her bedside. Her blonde hair gathered up in an amateur bun tied with one of the strings from her loose white cotton shirt, a few stray strands framing her face, which had thankfully regained more color with her health improving.

His St. Anthony medallion hung around her healing neck and dangled at the front of her shirt. A sweeping sensation of gratitude flowed through him at the notion that she was wearing such a precious possession of his without it being an obvious token of romantic affection.

Should anyone see her wearing it and ask her about its origins, they could make the assumption it was hers...

He noticed how she failed to look up at his entry into the tent, concern growing at the forefront of his turbulent emotions. Schofield slowly approached her bed, not wanting to startle her as she seemed concentrated on the photographs in her hands.

"Amelia, what is it?" The lance corporal gently placed his un-bandaged hand upon her shoulder, alerting her to his presence.

Her vivid green eyes locked with his, and he was aghast with the swirling whirlpool of emotions in their depths and the redness surrounding her irises as though she'd been silently crying to herself...

"William..." Her voice croaked with the dryness of her throat, and it pained Schofield to hear such a sound coming from her throat, barely cured of its bruises. Had she not cried enough tears for one person in their whole lifetime?

"What's wrong, my love? Tell me." He sat by her side on the bed, his hands grasping her small wrists. Despite his question, he had an idea why she was upset.

He glanced down at her lap and saw the photograph of her, in modern-day clothing and bright Technicolor. She turned it over and showed him the date written in her handwriting on the back.

November 11th, 1918.

"Will, I need you to tell me the truth." Amelia held her body up straight as she looked right into the eyes of her soldier. Her small fingers were entwined with his much larger ones in one hand as she held the photograph of herself in the other for him to see. "If your love for me is true, then what I ask you about this picture will be answered to the best of your knowledge."

"Yes." Schofield's voice carried an unbeatable conviction, and the time he took to respond held no hesitation. Yet, his heart dropped at the notion of her doubting what he felt for her after everything they endured between them, together and apart...

He could hear the urgency and confusion in her tone, feel the trembling of anxiety in her hands, and he wanted to make those feelings cease within her... He wanted to absorb the negativity, violating her chance at hopefulness of escaping this war and keeping them at bay at his own emotional expense.