Home At Last (Evelyn Du)

Prologue

"I promise you. I promise I'll come back."

He promises, George thinks wistfully. He promises such a thing- to offer George with his word on something, to uphold it. It's as if he's saying he'll give the world to him, just for him. But somewhere the lingering thought in George's mind is that he won't come back. That the cruel war that had riddled their land would take him too, and he would be left aching and worry-worn. George shivers at the thought, of a life without him.

"You promise?"

That you'll come home to me?

And as if he heard those unspoken words. Elior beams at him.

"I promise. You won't even notice that I was gone, my love."

George lets out a wet and broken laugh at the overly romantic pet name that he associates with his beloved. Elior does so too, before pulling him back into his embrace.

They stay there for a bit. The war can wait.

"I promise I'll be waiting."

*****

Work Text:

George meets Elior on a cold winter day in the middle of world war two.

George strolled past the towering shelves filled to the brim with books, eyes scanning the tall and sleek mahogany wood housing the hundreds of paperbound knowledge. His steps echo across the almost barren walls, every click of his heel reverberated in his ear.

No one visits the library that often anymore, not ever since the war started anyways.

He closes off to a section by the end of the aisle for kids books. He takes in a deep inhale, the comforting scent of worn paper and something familiar to grass, filling his nose as it soothes the aching muscles in his body, the tension leaving his bones.

He doesn't get why people don't go here anymore.

Sure, people have found their own ways of coping during this heinous time. He's seen men at street corners downing bottles of whiskey, to avoid the fact that their sons are getting bombed outside the border of their land. He pretends not to notice the women gouging themselves in their houses as they seek each other's company whilst their husbands drink their sorrows. He watches the children run about in the center, blissfully unaware of everything around them.

Everyone has their way of getting through the war.

George didn't have one at first. For the past year and a half after it started- he's just been holding himself in his house, reading the same well-worn bookshelf until he memorized the words to heart. It wasn't until he decided that reading Erenest Hemingway's 'Farewell To Arms' for the umpteenth time was sickening.

So, he puts on one of his coats, bracing himself for the cold autumn winds, and ventures out into the decaying world.

The library was a homey place, almost quaint in its size. Even after all the abominations performed outside of the safe town he resided in that happened, it stood tall and welcoming for all to indulge in its comfort.

He finally finessed his way to the more poetry and miscellaneous section of the library. Closed off and secluded from the rest of its counterparts- this one was just a high shelf that held a measly ten to twelve books.

George stared at the high self, it was a head taller than what George could reach.

He held in the urge to scoff. It's almost ironic how the scene plays out. There's this one book- soft pink with small gold accents swirling the neck. The title is some foreign language he can't understand, but ultimately, it intrigues him more. It's the only book of its kind so far.