#all of leonard bast

[freckledjoes]

Leonard Bast gifs 2/? it's like he stepped right out of a painting part 2

[joesquinns]

JOSEPH QUINN as LEONARD BAST in Howard's End

[foundtherightwords]

(most of my fics are CC x OFC unless otherwise stated)

Tom Grant (Make Up)

Winter Light (AO3): angst, slow burn, sickfic, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 5 chapters + optional epilogue, 14.8k

Arthur Havisham (Dickensian)

The Road Forgotten (AO3): angst, slow burn, fix-it, post-canon, revenge, non-explicit smut | 14 chapters, 42.7k

Irresistibly Contagious (AO3): sequel to "The Road Forgotten", Christmas fic, fluff, found family | One-shot, 7k

Billy Knight (Lethal White/Strike)

The Quiet Chaos (AO3): angst, slow burn, developing relationship, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 10 chapters, 36.2K

The Simple Thought of You (AO3): sequel to "The Quiet Chaos", angst, childfree, proposal, non-explicit smut | 3 chapters, 9.2k

Ralph (Timewasters)

All Our Yesterdays (AO3): friends-to-lovers, slow burn, a bit of angst, time travel, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 14 chapters, 53.8k

Come, You Spirits (AO3): sort-of-sequel to "All Our Yesterdays", fluff, funny, spooky, established relationship | One-shot, 4.6k

Time Out in the Upside Down (AO3): "Stranger Things" x "Timewasters" crossover, funny | One-shot, 1.8k

Leonard Bast (Howards End)

Through the World's Far Ends (AO3): Leonard x Helen fix-it, World War I, angst, hurt/comfort | One-shot, 7.2k

Prince Paul (Catherine the Great)

The Firebird (AO3): fairytale AU, magic, adventure, slow burn, non-explicit smut | 16 chapters, 66.7k

Michael (Hoard)

Love, If You're Near (AO3): angst, hurt/comfort | One-shot, 6.8k

Derwin Grunauer (Overlord)

As the Sun Will Rise (AO3): post-WWII, Beauty and the Beast retelling, friends to lovers, non-explicit smut | 21 chapters, 82.3k

Emperor Geta (Gladiator 2)

Fallen Empires (WIP): canon divergent, alternate history, slow burn | 20 chapters, ~70k

Hellcheer Masterlist

[sssaigee]

Sweet Tooth, Sweetheart: Prologue ♡

Summary: Leonard has trouble leaving his favorite bakery, but bumps into you on the way out. Pairings: Leonard Bast x baker!fem!reader Word Count: 998 ✎ A/N: First fic & post EVER! Nervous posting this, but this is an AU with Lenny. Nothing mentioned w/ reader's appearance (i think). Work in Progress, support & constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! <3

.⋆｡⋆☂.⋆｡⋆

There was a monotonous normalcy to the life of Leonard Bast. Nothing ever happened, whether good or bad. His days always followed a tedious cycle: wake up, go to work, eat dinner, and sleep. After all, he never had time for anything else with his open-to-close printing job. The printing company he worked for was, in truth, quite harsh. Long hours, inadequate pay, and dreadful service from the higher-ups. There was much to complain about—almost too much.

So often did his coworkers invite him to hang out, and so often did he make flimsy excuses. He had only one space he liked- The Rustic Oven. This old bakery downtown was where he had found himself. If you were lucky and on your way to work, you might catch the breeze wafting the smells and scents of the sweet loaves of bread, the aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls, the saccharine cakes, and muffins. However, this could also be a curse, making you hungrier than you were before. But if you had the time to step inside, you would feel comfortable. The walls were a soothing cream color, and the accented walls behind the counters were adorned with delicate rose-patterned wallpaper. There were a few tables for two- and one particular spot that called Leonard’s name. It was a small nook that had practically become his sanctuary, his spot. He always frequented and always got a warm greeting from Dorothy, the owner. As she approached retirement, it became apparent that this bakery was much older than he was. He wondered who would be taking her place, who would be taking charge. He grew uncommonly anxious, worried that the mystery hire wouldn’t be the same as his beloved Dorothy. Of course, they wouldn’t—no one could measure up to his Dorothy! Nobody could create pastries, bread, cakes, cookies, or macarons like her!

“I’m really sorry, Leonard, but I have to close up, which means I have to kick ya to the streets.” Dorothy’s wavering voice interrupted his thoughts, her wrinkled hand resting on his shoulder, a testament to her lifelong dedication here. He realized she could finally relax once Leonard left. “…right. My apologies for… overstaying.” He was reluctant; he didn’t want to go, he didn’t want things to change. Yet, change was always inevitable. So was life; one had to live it to get anywhere. “Oh! Darling, here… for being such a loyal customer.” She offered him the leftover sweets. “Take your pick. It’s on the house.” The woman smiled warmly, pleased to offer, happy to retire, yet weary at the thought of actually leaving. It was a bittersweet moment for them both. 

It was inevitable, as time was a merciless metronome, relentlessly ticking away and destroying happy moments in its wake. The sun was bound to set soon, so she had to be on her way. “Come now, don’t gawk, dearie!” Her smile beckoned him closer, and he fell for it. “You…really don’t have to, Miss Easton.” 

“How many times have I told you, Leonard? It’s Dorothy. You call my granddaughter that when she comes in.” Granddaughter? “Granddaughter?” He echoed the word that reverberated in his mind. “Granddaughter, yes. My daughter’s daughter. Now come ‘ere.” Leonard finally listened. “She’ll be taking charge, she will. Efficient and happy to do it. A good girl. You’ve seen her before, haven’t ya?”

As your grandmother vividly described you, bagging his cakes, Leonard recalled seeing you work a few times just as vividly as her description. He remembered because of how much you stood out to him. You were ethereal in his eyes. Your complexion, your features, your voice—and, if he may be a man for a moment—your figure. Every bit of you absolutely captivated him. He found himself almost thanking the stars above for his loneliness, but then he remembered his other circumstances: his wealth, or rather, his lack thereof. This was the main issue that drove women away from him. He could support no one but himself and was struggling to gain any promotions. His daydreams and cake-picking were interrupted once again as you were further talked about.

“You’ll be alright, Lenny boy. This place won’t crumble to pieces, I promise you that. She’s a good lass; she’ll treat this place right with care.” Dorothy tried to comfort him as she rounded the counter, never quite understanding why he seemed to care so much or why he fussed over everything. Taking a sharp breath, he nodded and embraced Dorothy one last time. “Thank you for creating such a comforting place…” he said, the entire moment feeling bittersweet. He slowly moved away from her, reluctant to go. If not now, when? “Be sure to keep in touch, though, alright?” Leonard suggested, offering a soft smile as he grabbed his top hat and umbrella while opening the door, and bumping into a lovely young lady reaching for the same handle.

“Oh, my apologies, Miss—” it was you. His heart stopped; at least, he swore it did.  

“Oh—” your ornate umbrella fell from your grasp. He was swift to get it for you. “Here. My apologies again, miss… Enjoy your retirement, Dorothy!” he exclaimed, his cheeks slightly flushed. Before you could respond about the umbrella, he ran into the rain, leaving no further words. He would realize it when he tried to use it, wouldn’t he?

He stepped onto the concrete sidewalk, rushing himself away from the bakery. He knew that if he didn't leave, he wouldn’t dare to dream of—

His umbrella wasn't this fragile. It wasn't laced, it wasn't embellished. But the one in his hands was. What a fool he felt like. Or… was this hidden luck? A blessing in disguise, perhaps... He would have to return it, wouldn't he? Someday soon, perhaps tomorrow. Maybe in exchange for a croissant, a scone, or a biscuit. Some tea…? No, that was too ambitious.

He would need to see you again soon; after all, you needed your umbrella. This one couldn’t work for him.

.⋆｡⋆☂.⋆｡⋆

As always- reblog, comment & like to show your support ♡ I love you guys & constructive criticism is ALWAYS appreciated! THANK YOU FOR READING ♡♡♡♡

[voidindividual]

Here, have another bit of my as of yet unnamed Victory of Eagles fic. (also this isn't going to be a weekly thing, it just so happens to have been a week since I posted the last bit)

It had been a long and normal day for Leonard. He had gotten up early to ensure proper feed for the dragons at the breeding grounds, as it hadn’t been easy to find enough cattle since the start of the invasion.

Eventually he had managed it, but of course the dragons all complained that he had kept them waiting longer than they liked. He didn’t even try to explain the situation to them, he had given that up weeks ago, at one point he had done so, but the dragons weren’t very understanding. 

In the afternoon a Winchester came to the grounds. In itself that wasn’t very unusual. Ferals sometimes came and went and he had assumed that this was the case with this one as well.

Contrary to his expectations however, the dragon didn’t go to get food or to talk or mate with any of the other dragons at the grounds. No, the Winchester wanted to talk to him. 

This he wasn’t as used to. Unless it was due to an oversight or other fault of his, he was usually the one to initiate the conversations. 

But this “Moncey” fellow, he wasn’t quite sure what he said because he talked so fast and excited, seemed to not be here to stay, but apparently to “recruit them for the war effort”, whatever that meant.

Still a bit confused he asked “Mind slowin’ down a bit? I hardly understand a thing you’re saying.” The dragon looked annoyed, but he complied. 

“I was sent by the commander to bring more dragons from the breeding grounds into the militia. You are to follow them with the cattle to ensure our supply.” 

The confusion on Leonard’s face shifted to worry “You’re mad! How am I supposed to manage that? And, back up a bit. You want the ferals to go into combat? How do you expect that to work? They haven’t got crews or control, ignoring the lack of investment for the war. After all, they’ve got everything they need right here.” 

The Beast now looked down on him, as if talking to a stubborn child, and with an appropriate tone said “Well, you bring the food to them anyways, so what difference does it make where they get it. And as for the dragons, let me worry about them. They will come. Now will you do it, or not?” 

"Oh no, I won’t! Do you have any Idea what chaos that would cause? You can be sure that every one of those dragons will be recaptured and executed alongside me for permitting this to happen.” 

“Quite the contrary,” Moncey said, to Leonard’s growing horror, “You’ll be a war hero for having brought essential help to the commander when it was most needed. Oh, and I am afraid it isn’t really a choice. The dragons will go and either you bring them their supply, or they will pillage it from the countryside and you will have abandoned your duty.” 

“You bast- Oh, what am I even doing? It doesn’t matter what I do, I’ll be hanged anyway.” The Winchester, taking the last part as an acceptance of the circumstances and an agreement to care for the supply, flew deeper into the grounds, presumably to rally the dragons for this “Militia”.

[fairytalesandfandoms]

a long but still incomplete list of notable blorbos for @adamnagaitis, in approximate order of when I encountered them, and focusing on the male blorbos because, well, it's easier to spot patterns with them, not that we want to do that of course

Arthurian legend - Merlin

The Secret Garden - Archibald Craven (especially John Lynch in the movie)

Kidnapped - Alan Breck Stewart

(there was a certain professor character from [redacted series] which I only mention for completeness)

A Series of Unfortunate Events - Uncle Monty/Dr Montgomery Montgomery, and also later Lemony Snicket as an in-universe character (The Beatrice Letters will do that to you)

The Edge Chronicles - Cloud Wolf

The Hobbit - Thorin Oakenshield (and also Thranduil in the movies)

Treasure Planet - Dr Doppler

The Mask of Zorro - Diego de la Vega

The Spiderwick Chronicles (books) - Arthur Spiderwick

The Phantom of the Opera (musical) - Erik

Doctor Who - The Doctor

Independence Day - David Levinson

Stravaganza series - Rodolfo

Star Trek - Spock

Sally Lockhart series - Fred Garland

Discworld - Sam Vimes and Havelock Vetinari

BBC Robin Hood - Guy of Gisborne

X-Men - Wolverine

North and South - John Thornton

Indiana Jones - Henry Jones Sr. (Indy's dad)

Good Omens - Aziraphale

Chrestomanci series - Christopher Chant

The Looking Glass Wars by Frank Beddor - Hatter Madigan (especially in Seeing Redd)

Sense and Sensibility - Colonel Brandon

Foyle's War - DCS Christopher Foyle

Yes, Minister/Yes, Prime Minister - Sir Humphrey Appleby

National Treasure - Ben Gates

Back to the Future - Dr Emmett Brown

Moll Flanders (1996) - the Artist

Fire & Hemlock - Thomas Lynn

Life on Mars/Ashes to Ashes - Gene Hunt (who is something of an outlier compared to many others on this list)

Rebecca - Maxim de Winter

Vanity Fair (1998) - William Dobbin

Cyrano de Bergerac (1990) - Cyrano de Bergerac

Around the World in 80 Days (2004 and 2022 versions) - Phileas Fogg

The Return of the Native - Clym Yeobright (Diggory Venn a close second)

Sherlock Holmes (and variations) - Sherlock Holmes

Kick-Ass - Damon Macready/Big Daddy (that is his vigilante name, don't blame me for it)

The Three Musketeers - Athos BUT The Man in the Iron Mask (1998) - D'Artagnan BUT The Musketeers TV show - Cardinal Richelieu (because Peter Capaldi)

Persuasion - Frederick Wentworth

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - Jim Prideaux

MCU - Tony Stark

Les Miserables - Jean Valjean

Howards End - Leonard Bast

The Historian - Bartholomew Rossi

Kingsman - Merlin

The Shadow of the Wind - Fermín Romero de Torres

The Grand Budapest Hotel - M. Gustave

Pacific Rim - Stacker Pentecost

Jurassic Park - Ian Malcolm

Earth Girls Are Easy - Mac

The 10th Kingdom - Wolf

Little Women - Friedrich Bhaer

Withnail and I - Withnail

The Terror - Harry Goodsir

Our Flag Means Death - Stede Bonnet

Master and Commander - Stephen Maturin

Ghosts (BBC) - the Captain

All Creatures Great and Small - Siegfried Farnon

Excalibur (1981) - King Arthur

Wicked - Jeff Goldblum Wizard ONLY. I detested him in the book and he is only redeemed by being played by Jeff Goldblum.

The Fly - Seth Brundle (in the first half at least)

Tenspeed and Brown Shoe - Lionel Whitney

[keeponquinning]

spark of color amongst the grey — multi-chaptered masterlist

Leonard Bast x Nanny / Teacher Apprentice fem!Reader. 18+

Summary — You hope to be an educator, having always been a wonder to children, and wanting a better life for yourself and your family. Though your mother would wish you would show such passion in finding a husband, she is proud of you, nonetheless, at least earning yourself an apprenticeship. A much easier go at life than she had, doing odd jobs to support the family, to support you, one of the recent ones is taking care of little Robert Bast, son of Leonard Bast, who gained full custody of his son, an amicable arrangement with the boy's mother who provides financial support for the care of the boy and the occasional visit. The circumstances of the arrangement, of the child is an open secret and gossip, though according to your mother, he is a good man. Everything is well, until your mother grows ill and cannot fulfill her duties, forced into bed rest. But your family needs the financial help, and so, as the eldest of your family, you soon take over the job, taking care of little Bobby Bast and in that, get to know more of the boy's father as well.

Notes — Leonard Lives AU, and that baby boy is dark haired and brown eyed just like his daddy. Thank you to @quinnsmunson for helping to flesh this out, my own version of giving Lenny the happy ending he deserves, though he won't be getting it quite that easy. I'm excited for this! It's going to be multi-chaptered, and everything you'd expect from a period piece, longing, withering looks and gentle touch.

Warnings — slow burn, angst, fluff, things you would expect from a period piece, honestly. I did not research teaching apprenticeships much so use all your imagination folks.

Like this to be added to the tag list for future chapters!

M A S T E R L I S T ! Part One | Part Two

TAGLIST : @quinnsmunson , @etherealglimmer , @munsonology , @imaslutforcuddles , @mythicalea , @queengirl56 , @pollenallergie , @180presolutiondignity , @go-off-to-sleep-in-the-sunshine , @nightonblogmountain , @fxirybubble , @lunaapis , @bit-of-a-timelord , @electrolyteerien , @tussenmens , @angietherose , @missonlypost, @mythicalea , @originalstar1 , @quinnkeerys , @helloxoctober28, @winchester-angel , @bexreadstoomuch , @joesquinns , @slasherflickchick , @anaofthebarricade, @watercolourpainter , @harley1608 , @ladybug0095 , @joeqnz , @sosawmeinhalf , @chickensinrainboots , @boltonbritreads , @veuvemami , @daleyeahson , @aysheashea , @abigailelevier , @92keery , @rata-quinn , @manonluzon , @thirddeadlysin , @wakeupcocksuckers , @ladybug0095

[urhoneycombwitch]

lulu I hope you don't mind if I ramble in your inbox

but something I've been kind of mulling over is Eddie's face and like... time accuracy and jq as his face claim (is that the right word? maybe not but I mean like... his face is eddies face but kind of not but yes it is?? forgive me it's 2am)

but I was thinking like jq does pass for about a 20/21 year old boy playing Eddie even though he was in his late 20s playing Eddie but then I was thinking that if we're going with more accurate face claim we would use what jq looked like at 21 ish and that (I think) would be his roles in 2017/2018 so Leonard bast and Arthur (I THINK I'm going off of gifs and notes and stuff I've seen around I really don't know much about the actor himself)

but from seeing gifs of those characters, he had like such a smooth baby face. like there isn't much change tbh I think facially between Eddie and those characters except Eddie has more lines in his face like around his eyes and his forehead and also deeper smile lines (and that can be attributes to jq being older) so then I think like... actual Eddie in s4 would facially look like those characters and probably 90s Eddie would look like S4 Eddie.

anyways this was all to say that if we imagine Eddie with baby faced jq face like it would probably more accurately be I feel like that just makes everything like way more upsetting because he literally looks like a boy 😭😭😭 like oh my godddd... someone needs to slap an Eddie wig edit on Leonard bast or something so we can see but just in my imagination like how would y'all think that boy is satantic?? he's just a little guy! God like baby faced Eddie going through all that shit and wearing all his leather and gear and doing the horns and shit on the table to be all scary and rocking but then he just looks like a baby...

I hope you see the vision of what I'm trying to convey here this was just serious ramble but I was just thinking about it and how like, when actors are older than the character they're playing (especially with teens and young adults) you forget how old the character is really supposed to be and perceive them differently but like really, he'd be really young and like the kids would more accurately look like they did in season 2 ish and it's like 😭😭😭😭 my babies!!

my love you are ALWAYS allowed to ramble in my inbox!! i see the vision for sure.

I think that when I write for Eddie, I tend to think of him older (late twenties, early adult years) just by nature of my own age. He feels very departed from show canon- obviously, I use JQ as my jumping off point, but in my mind, Eddie looks very different from even s4 era JQ!

which just goes to show how young he probably ACTUALLY looked when they put his face on wanted posters :’( god.

[wheels-of-despair]

We Wheels You A Merry Christmas

Behold! A compilation of Christmas Fics by Wheels!

(Under the cut made of emojis, 'cause it's kind of a lot.)

🎄🎅🎄🤶🎄💍🎄🐧🎄🩰🎄🍪🎄☕🎄📕🎄

🎅Eddie Munson🤶

Wrapping Paper Eddie thinks he's here to hang out while you wrap presents, but you have something else in mind.

The Family Holiday It's December of 1985, and Evil Woman is ready to spend her first real Christmas with Eddie… why is he being weird about it?

I Promise Eddie gives Evil Woman something special during a quiet moment together on Christmas Morning '85.

It's a Wonderful Life (Even in Hawkins) What would the lives of Eddie Munson's loved ones look like if he didn't exist? (Inspired by It's a Wonderful Life. It gets a little dark.)

🐧Billy Knight🐧

Damn Those Penguins You impulsively buy matching pajamas and overreact at the thought of becoming One of Those People.

All I Want for Christmas Is You 'Twas only the night before Christmas, but you already have everything you want.

Christmas Treats Billy's doing a little Christmas baking, but not the kind you'd expect.

🎄Ralph Penbury🎄

The Other Dance A flashback to Ralph and the future Mrs. Penbury's first kiss at the Christmas Ball.

Christmas in July Mr. and Mrs. Penbury get another chance at a perfect kiss under the mistletoe at an unexpected time of the year.

Keeping Us Awake You and Ralph receive a pair of tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet as a Christmas gift, an event neither of you really wants to attend… how ever will you stay awake?

Home Alone Together Ralph made his family disappear! (A long one-shot set in Penbury Manor at Christmastime, inspired by Home Alone.)

🍪Michael🍪

Get the Fuck Out of My Kitchen Michael's being a pain in the ass while you attempt to make Christmas cookies. You decide to return the favor.

I Care Enough You give Michael the best Christmas present ever.

☕Tom Grant☕

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry It's been a year since the events of Enough, and you and Tom have an office Christmas party to attend.

📕Leonard Bast📗

What You Deserve Once upon a time, a boy walked into a bookshop... and the girl who worked there fell in love with him. A Christmas fix-it in four parts.

[freckledjoes]

Leonard Bast gifs 3/?

[indelibletraces]

Film Ask. Howards End

I have to apologize because I don’t have notifications turned on and I just discovered this ask today! So sorry, and thanks for the ask.

Note: Spoilers ahead

As to Howards End, I think it is excellent. Not one of the choices but I feel the film is better than great but not a masterpiece as a whole. While I do think it is a masterpiece in acting and style, personally, it’s not a film that I can watch over and over in its entirety because the characters actions frustrate me. Even though I know it will happen, I just can’t watch Margaret choose and continue to support Mr. Wilcox over and over. Especially in the face of all the evidence Helen keeps presenting to her about his character.

I do however love Helen and Mr. Bast’s story arc, with the exception of the ending of course, not least because I am a huge fan of both Helena Bonham Carter and Samuel West. A part of me would love to have Helen’s fiery spirit and her tenacity to stand by her convictions. And how can a person not relate to Mr. Bast as he toils away at his dull and thankless job, dreaming all the while not of a more prosperous life but a more intellectually fulfilled life. He doesn’t just dream but actually works toward it. All the while he sticks by Jackie simply because he gave his word.

The scene in the boat breaks my heart every time because you want these two characters to be together but you know they never can be. Both actors convey so many emotions with just their facial expressions.

Lastly, even though Leonard’s death is attributed to his weak heart, the image of him falling into the bookcase and him essentially being smothered by the weight of all this knowledge he desperately sought is poetically tragic and has always stuck with me.

Sorry for the long-winded answer.

[foundtherightwords]

Through the World's Far Ends

Pairing: Leonard Bast x Helen Schlegel (Howards End)

Summary: Several years after his ill-fated affair with Helen, Leonard enlists to fight in World War I, hoping it would put an end to his miserable life. However, when he runs into Helen again in the trenches of Passchendaele, Leonard discovers that life may still be worth living after all.

Warnings: angst, mentions of war, violence, and injuries, implied infidelity, suicide ideations

Word count: 7.2k

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

Those lines echoed in Leonard's ears as he looked over the mud-churned fields of Passchendaele that rainy October day of 1917. Had he read them ten years ago, back when he was still a boy of barely twenty-one with a head full of dreams and a heart full of poetry, he would have marveled at their beautiful ideal, their quiet exultation. Now, he couldn't help but snicker at them for their hopeless sentimentality. If there was anything of England in these foreign fields at all, it probably wouldn't be the England that pretty, posh Rupert Brooke was thinking about. No, it would be the England that Leonard himself was familiar with, the England of damp basement dwellings, of grimy streets, of cold and hunger, and long, tedious nights.

And if he should die, there would be no one to think of him. Not his brother and his two sisters, who had long ago given up on him. Certainly not Jacky, who would never have let him enlist had she still been alive. Poor Jacky. She had been rather excited when the war first broke out. To be honest, so had he. There had been a fevered exhilaration in the air, a sense of purpose in everything and everyone, hectic but thrilling at the same time, which had distracted the two of them, for a moment, from the miserable humdrum of their existence.

Still, for all that excitement, Jacky wouldn't hear of him enlisting, even though it would've at least solved their immediate financial problem—the Army pay wasn't much, but it would be something for her to live on. But she had burst into tears whenever he mentioned it. "No, Len!" she'd kept saying, clinging to him as if afraid Lord Kitchener would come to personally snatch him away. "If something happened to you, how would I live?"

Leonard had been tempted to say that if he should be killed, she could count on a war widow's pension, but Jacky had become so hysterical that he'd only given her a clumsy hug and said, "All right, Jacky, I won't go," while trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.

When she succumbed to the consumption that had been slowly eating away at her, a little over a year later, Leonard had sincerely mourned her. She had been his constant companion, for better or worse, for nearly ten years, and when she was gone, she left a void, if not in his heart then at least in his life. While she was alive, he had to find ways to provide for her, to take care of her. Without her, he was without a purpose.

After Jacky died, he'd thought that he would simply flicker out and die too. But he found that it was not so simple. Living had become a habit, and like any habit, it was difficult to shake off. And so he had enlisted, only waiting a decent period after Jacky's funeral so it wouldn't seem he was defying her memories. He didn't much care about the war. He only thought that if he couldn't give up his life on his own, he would let others snuff it out. He completed his training and was sent to Belgium just before conscription was introduced, in January 1916.

But even in the war, death eluded him. His health, which had suffered from malnourishment and the smog and grimes of London, actually improved thanks to Army food and regular, if strenuous, exercises. He didn't mind the cold and the wet and the mud of the trenches. And though he had seen men die in front of him, men blown to bits by shells, men cut to ribbons by barbed wires, men blistered and blinded and cooked inside out by mustard gas, and men who drowned in the mud because their friends were forbidden to pull them out, though death was all around him, he remained more or less untouched.

To be fair, he didn't exactly go looking for death. He thought that before he died, he should make himself useful and do what he could to help others, so he did. He followed orders without asking questions, bent his head under the explosions and the gas and the horrible weather and did as he was told. He tried not to shoot when he could help it, and when he did shoot, tried not to aim at anyone in particular. He didn't want that on his conscience as well. He preferred the menial work, never shying from digging and repairing the trenches, acting as a stretcher bearer, and carrying supplies to the front.

What he really wanted was to stop thinking. Once, a long time ago, during the darkest time of his life, and also the best time of his life, he'd wished for something to do, to stop him from thinking. Now he believed that if he toiled hard enough, made himself tired enough, he would be able to stop thinking. It didn't quite work yet. Even on days when he'd only had an hour or two of sleep, the thoughts kept coming, slowly but inexorably—about death, about Jacky, about things he'd done and hadn't done, about things he had buried deep in his mind—all rattling inside his skull like lunatics rattling the bars of their cages. The one thing he didn't think about was the future, for there was no future. The war may never end, and for some people, it would never end. Leonard had seen enough wounded men and shell-shocked men and men with scars deep within them, where nobody could see except for those who knew where to look, and he understood that those men would never come back from the war, regardless of what happened to them. Sometimes he wondered if he would be one of them.

Such thoughts were presently crowding his head as he turned over in the dugout, trying to find a comfortable position. There was a lull in the racket of gunfire and shellfire and rain, and he wanted to get some rest—not sleep, he had forgotten what it was like to really sleep for months now—before nightfall. A new shipment of supplies had just been brought in that day on mules and wagons, and Leonard's infantry unit would be assigned to haul these to the front after dusk fell.

The other men in the dugout were squabbling. Leonard didn't mind the bickering. In fact, he welcomed their voices to drown out the thoughts in his head. It appeared Percy Armitage had received some gramophone records in the post that had come with the supplies, but due to some accident or carelessness, the sleeves had been misplaced, and now they were arguing which was which and which to play first. The men were often sent little gifts like that from home, and these were freely shared amongst them all—it was how Leonard became acquainted with the works of Rupert Brooke and other war poets. Though books these days no longer held the allure and enchantment they once had for him, they were something to relieve the boredom in the trenches. All his life, Leonard had wished he could discuss books and music and culture with easiness, an easiness that did not come easily for men of his class. He thought, with a grim sense of smugness, that he could do so now, provided that the books were about the horrors of war.

"Lads, lads," Percy, a veteran of the Boer War and therefore older than most of them, was saying, like a stern but benevolent father to his children. "You shall all get a turn. But these are my records, and I'm going to choose first."

There was a scratching sound of the needle being lowered onto the record. The first soft notes floated out, and as if by magic, all the men fell silent, enraptured by the unimaginably normal, everyday sound of music.

But Leonard was mistaken—the music wasn't soft, not at all. For a moment, it seemed the shellfire and the thunder were coming in the middle of the day instead of at night as usual, as the first notes did not float but boomed from the gramophone, followed by bursts of what sounded like rapid gunfire that chased each other around the cramped dugout. While the music built and built, Leonard could almost hear the chill wind that blew across the battlefield, feel the drumming of the rain on his skin, and see, under his closed eyelids, the men jumping up from the trenches during a raid or slinking across No Man's Land for a reconnaissance in a moonless night. Herr Beethoven had never been to the trenches of Belgium, so how the devil did he capture it so well in his music? For it was, indeed, Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, such as Leonard hadn't heard in years and years.

And, as though stirred by the music, memories surfaced—the gallery at Covent Garden, the music halls, the evenings he could get away from his desk at Porphyrion early enough to lose himself for a few hours in music and culture, but he never quite managed to lose himself in it, not really, no matter how diligently he attended the operas and the concerts, no matter how many books he read, he knew all the names but could never form his own opinion about them. And another memory, one of those he had buried away—a girl, her hair coming loose under her hat, her eyes, so bright they lit up the dreary interior of the Prince Regent's Hall, transfixed on the orchestra while she swayed slightly to the music, her elbow almost touching his a few times.

For the first time in seven years, Leonard allowed himself to think of her a little.

Helen. Miss Schlegel. His Miss Schlegel. No, not his. Never his.

He'd looked at her with wonder and envy then, in the gloom of the Prince Regent's Hall, like a failed artist looking at a painting in the National Gallery. Why did the music move her so? What was she hearing that he wasn't? What did one have to do to acquire such passion? Even back then he'd known, this was something he could never attain, something he could never be, and that was what had drawn him to her. He'd always tried to pursue beauty, always on some hopeless quest for it, but only ended up getting sucked down into the mud—not that different from where he was now, really.

In the past seven years, he had become quite adept at not thinking about her. Whenever he saw something that reminded him of her—and a lot of things reminded him of her—he would immediately find something else to think of, was there anything left in the cupboard for supper, whether he could persuade the landlord to hold off the rent collection for another week, whether it was too soon to write to one of his sisters, Blanche or Laura, again, to ask for money. He'd think and think furiously until all thoughts of Helen were pushed from his mind. He did it almost automatically now. It had turned into a habit, like everything else. 

But here, in this cramped and clammy dugout, that habit had deserted him. Even some hours later, when he lifted the heavy pack full of hot rations on his back and walked out into the rain and the cold, she still occupied his thoughts, slow and dull as they were from lack of sleep. He stepped on the duckboards that crisscrossed the muddy landscape, one small figure in a long snaking line of similar figures, while shells and bullets whizzed by him, while the sweet stink of rot and the acrid smell of mustard gas assaulted his nostrils, while rain drummed on his tin hat, but he hardly noticed any of them. His mind was filled with Helen, Helen when he'd first seen her at the Prince Regent's Hall, Helen in her bright dining room at Wickham Place, her head tipped to the side as she urged him to talk about his walking, enthusiasm aflame in her eyes. And most of all, Helen when he'd last seen her. He heard her gently chiding voice, saw her face full of sympathy when she discovered the squalor in which he and Jacky had been living, felt the force of her righteous fury as she tried to help them, dragging them to confront the man she believed had been responsible for their misfortune—Henry Wilcox, the then-fiancé of Helen's sister, Margaret.

He thought of other things as well, things buried even deeper. He remembered the fire-lit room in the hotel in Oniton, the utter shame and despair he'd felt when he revealed the truth about Mr. Wilcox and Jacky to Helen, the tears in Helen's eyes as she drew him to her, her arms around him, comforting and seeking comfort at the same time, her mouth trembling under his, their bodies finding each other like two magnets, or perhaps two drowning victims in a heaving sea.

He wondered if she ever thought of him.

Probably not.

He wondered if she was still living in Germany. Margaret, Mrs. Wilcox, had told him so, on that freezing spring day seven years ago, when he trudged to the Wilcoxes' residence on Ducie Street in the hope of finding someone, anyone, to whom to confess his sin. Upon finding out from Mrs. Wilcox that Helen had been traveling in Germany and perhaps planning to stay there indefinitely, the confession died on his lips. He'd thought he knew her reason for staying away. Helen had asked her brother to send him a check of five thousand pounds, but the sight of it, with his guilt still so fresh in his mind, had burned Leonard so much that he'd returned it. At Ducie Street, he'd looked into Mrs. Wilcox's sharp and sad eyes, wondering what she knew, how much Helen had told her. Fear and shame had choked his voice, and he had gone back to his basement, unabsolved.

He had been so desperate, the remorse corroding him so relentlessly that he'd almost confessed to Jacky. But he'd held himself back. If he hadn't managed to control himself with Helen, then at least he had to control himself with Jacky. Telling her would have achieved nothing except to selfishly force her to bear the pain with him, and Jacky wouldn't have been able to bear it. Leonard had argued with himself that Jacky's affair with Mr. Wilcox might have driven him and Helen into each other's arms, but it didn't change the fact that Jacky had been the innocent party in his affair with Helen. It would have been cruel to deprive her of that innocence. And so Leonard had kept quiet and was determined never to think of Helen again, until now.

The irons of guilt were still there, but time and the horrors he'd witnessed in the war had blunted the edges, leaving only a kind of bittersweet nostalgia. Yes, he had done wrong and lost control of himself. But he had also gotten an adventure out of it, had seen and touched and tasted something of beauty. And hadn't he paid enough for his crime in the seven years since? So perhaps that was all right. He only wished Helen didn't have to pay as well.

Lost in his memories, Leonard didn't notice a shell exploding right next to him. He didn't feel the shrapnel hit him. He was only momentarily confused when the world went mute and turned sideways, but even that confusion didn't last long, for he soon had his answer when he fell off the duckboards and sank into the mud.

His last thought was, I hope they don't pull me out.

And then, the mud came over his head, and finally, mercifully, he stopped thinking.

***

In the field ambulance of the Women's Hospital Corps, Helen Schlegel was sitting down with a cigarette. What she really wanted was some hot cocoa, to have the thick sweet taste of it remind her of lazy evenings at Wickham Place, curled up on the bed with Meg and Tibby, talking about their day, laughing over nothing at all, in those carefree years that seemed a lifetime ago. But the supplies had run out, so she had to make do with a cigarette. She had been on her feet for nearly fourteen hours, and had only had about three hours of sleep before that, though she hardly felt tired anymore. Exhaustion was now a state of being, and she had gotten used to it, just as she had gotten used to a lot of things since joining the Corps two years ago. Even after the main Women's Hospital closed in Paris in 1915 and a new one opened in London, she had elected to stay with the field hospital, despite Meg's pleas for her to come home.

If Helen was honest with herself, she would admit that she was rather apprehensive about returning home. She hadn't stepped foot on English soil in seven years. When the war broke out, she had decided to stay in Munich, where she had been living at the time—after all, she was half-German, and she felt that to turn her back on Germany would equal turning her back on her own late father. Besides, there was a huge upsurge of anti-German hatred in England, as Meg had written to her. Tibby had had some trouble when enlisting due to his German last name. But it soon became clear that she could no longer go on living in Germany, if for nothing else than the simple reason of food shortage. Her German cousins were struggling themselves and could not help. So Helen had gotten on a train with every intention of returning to England, when her route brought her to Paris and the Women's Hospital there. Suddenly she'd found a place where she could be of use, since she spoke French and German and could help both patients and doctors. When Helen wrote to tell her sister she was staying, Meg had come to Paris herself, looking thin and worn-out, with gray in her hair. Her husband, Henry, had recently died. Henry's children, who had never quite accepted their father's second marriage, had kept their distance, and Meg had been living by herself in Howards End. Helen had briefly considered coming home to keep her sister company, but she'd decided she could do more good on the battlefield. So she'd told Meg to take care, and stayed.

When asked about her family, Helen always said that she'd lost her husband in the Somme. It was easier than the truth, though she believed that her fellow nurses and the doctors would not care or judge her if they knew. They were all women, most of them her age or older than her, but not by much, some younger, eager-eyed graduates from Oxford and Cambridge, and had seen a lot in their training. Looking at them, Helen wished she had gone to college, had done something more worthwhile with her youth. Oh, she had filled her days with plenty of pursuits, certainly, but what good had those done her, or anybody else, for that matter? Quite the opposite, in fact. It had all been frivolous, the meetings, the causes, the anger, and had led only to heartache and tragedy, not only for herself but for her family and for others as well. Yes, one good and beautiful thing had come from all that, but it was a miracle that it had existed at all, and Helen had to remind herself that the result of beauty did not absolve her of the sin she'd committed in creating it. She supposed it was why she had been so keen on staying at the front to help the wounded. She wished to atone.

And here was another chance for atonement—some stretcher-bearers were trudging toward the ambulance tent, their gait heavy and plodding. Helen sighed. She wasn't expecting to get any sleep—nighttime at the front was rarely quiet—but she'd had a letter from Meg and had been hoping to read it. Well, it could wait. She took one last drag of her cigarette, stubbed it out, and went out to meet the men.

When she first laid eyes on the form lying on the stretcher, in the gloom at the entrance of the tent, Helen thought the bearers were playing a practical joke and bringing them a load of sandbags. As they walked further into the light, she saw that it was not sandbags but a man, a man almost completely encased in mud. There were orders not to stop for anyone who fell off the duckboards, since doing so would hold up the line, but the stretcher-bearers explained that this man had been carrying hot rations, and the others, wanting to save his pack, had pulled him out along with it. The hot food had been recovered, so now here was the man—saved almost as an afterthought. Lucky bastard.

The women of the Corps didn't care who the wounded were, British or French or German, or why they were saved. So the mud-cased man was rolled off the stretcher onto a temporary bed. Helen and another nurse, Vera, who had left her history study at Queen's College in Cambridge to train with the Voluntary Aid Detachment, started picking off the mud in bloody chunks, dropping them into a bucket by the bed, and wiping off the residue with damp sponges. The man was still breathing, his chest moving up and down rapidly.

Vera removed the man's clothes with scissors and sucked in a breath. "He's got a lot of shrapnel in his legs, Helen," she said.

Helen continued to wash the man. "There's a lot on his back as well. I think he's going to need some morphine."

"I'll get it," Vera said and walked briskly off.

Under the sponge, the man shivered. "You seem to have a knack for finding me at my worst, Miss Schlegel," he said.

His voice was hoarse, clogged with mud, but it rang a bell in Helen's mind, a bell from far away and a long time ago, a time when she'd cared about music and art and social justice and fighting against the likes of Henry Wilcox. It had nothing to do with this world of mud and blood, when all she cared about was to help these men—boys, really—and to give them a little comfort while it still mattered. The war had simplified a lot of things for her. But apparently not enough, for here was the past, coming back for her in the form of—

"Mister Bast?" she asked, not quite believing it. "Leonard Bast?"

With trembling hands, she picked off the clay that had dried on his face like a death mask and gave him a quick wipe of the sponge. A pair of brown eyes, gentle and patient like those of a cocker spaniel's, blinked at her from under long lashes clumped together with mud.

"Good evening, Miss Schlegel," he said, with great difficulty.

Helen bolted up from the bed, heart hammering as if someone had trapped a machine gun in her chest.

Vera brought the morphine. "Are you all right, Helen?" she asked. "You're looking quite pale."

"I need some air," Helen managed to reply, before walking away, ignoring the bewildered look tinged with hurt in the brown eyes of the wounded man.

She ran out of the tent, into the cold and rain outside. The sky was a faded, patchy black cloth, lit up by the shells that flew and fell and exploded like fireworks. She couldn't tell if those shells came from the German side or the British side. She could only pray they didn't find their targets. A horrible smell hung in the air, the same smell that clung to her clothes and her hair and her sleep, the battlefield smell of death and gunpowder and mustard gas, but she breathed it in anyway, trying to clear her head and her heart.

Her first instinct was to weep, weep for the broken body covered in mud and the ruined, wheezing voice. Occasionally, she did weep over the wounded boys that came through the hospital, wept at the look in their eyes, sometimes imploring, sometimes reproachful, and at her own helplessness. But then came a burst of absurd joy, brighter than the shells exploding over her head. What did she have to be joyful about in this world, where boys were sent to die senselessly, meaninglessly? For a moment, she didn't care. He's here! Alive and—perhaps not well, exactly, but as well as could be! For a moment, she was that carefree girl again, curled up in bed with her brother and sister, comforted in the certainty that tomorrow would be exactly the same as today.

In the past seven years, if she thought about Leonard at all, it was often with regret and remorse. It was not that she wished she had behaved differently or things had turned out another way—no, never that. But she wished she could have given him some peace and let him know she never blamed him, so he mustn't blame himself. For she knew now what agony he'd lived through in all those years. One look at those eyes, so timid and frightened as they settled on her, and she knew. Yet there had been joy in those eyes as well, the same joy coursing through her that made her want to both laugh and cry.

Well, he was here now. If she wanted to let him know all that, she could. And she was finished with running away.

She went back inside. Vera was still washing Leonard's back, wiping away the seemingly inexhaustible mud. Helen took the sponge from her. "Let me do it," she said.

"Are you sure?" Vera asked. "You were very pale back there."

"I'm fine now. Go on, take your break." She handed Vera her pack of cigarettes.

With one last quizzical look at Helen, Vera pocketed the cigarettes and went out.

Leonard's eyes lit up as Helen sat down by the bed, and she felt her heart constrict, sweetly, painfully, in her chest.

"I thought you were a dream," he croaked.

"Don't try to talk," she said. It came out harsher than she'd intended. She asked him to move his fingers—good—move his toes—not good—turn his head—not so far, good—and told him she was going to remove the shrapnel now, short, business-like instructions and explanations, same as she did with all the wounded men.

"Have you been here all this time?" asked Leonard.

"We've been in Flanders since last year, yes."

He let out a small exhale, like a sigh, or perhaps a little laugh, amused at the twist of fate that had brought them together yet again.

"You're not pleased to see me," he said.

Helen reached for the tweezers, steadied her hand, and delicately picked a scrap of metal out of his flesh. "Don't be silly. I was shocked, that's all. It's not every day one finds a friend in a cake of mud."

"Is that what we are—friends?"

Were they? She didn't know what else to call him, what name she could give to the connection between them, fragile and near invisible yet indestructible as a strand of spider web. Henry Wilcox used to call Leonard her protégé, but she'd always hated how condescending that sounded. What then? Her lover? She didn't love him. What had happened between them that agonizing, intoxicating, magical night seven years ago was fueled by many things—pity, loneliness, even anger and a thirst for revenge—but not love. When she thought she'd fallen in love with Paul, Mr. Wilcox's youngest son, it had been madness. With Leonard, it had been madness as well, though a very different kind. She wasn't even sure if she was capable of loving someone in that way. Now, though, with her heart in turmoil and her hands shaking so much she was afraid she couldn't remove the shrapnel from his flesh without hurting him, Helen was no longer so sure.

So—a friend, then. It was inadequate, but it would have to do. She forced herself to say, as cheerfully as she could, "Yes, of course."

"I thought you'd be in England."

"I decided I would be more useful here."

They spoke politely, expressionlessly, like two passing acquaintances chatting at a train station's waiting room over cups of tea.

"How is—how's your family? Your brother and sister?"

"Tibby was wounded in Thiepval and was sent home last year. Meg is well. Her husband died, so she and—and Tibby are living at Howards End now. It's the Wilcoxes' country home, in Hertfordshire," she added, remembering that Leonard had never heard of Howards End.

Leonard was silent, then—"I'm sorry about Mr. Wilcox."

"I'm sorry for Meg. I've never liked him." Though she had come to understand Meg's love for Mr. Wilcox and no longer blamed the man for what happened with the Basts, Helen could never like him, personally. "How is Mrs. Bast?"

"She died, too," he said, his voice muted. "Consumption. Two years ago."

The tweezers froze between Helen's fingers. "Oh, Mr. Bast. I'm dreadfully sorry."

Leonard tried to shrug, but couldn't. They both fell quiet for a while. Helen thought about those who had gone and those who remained, like themselves, and how tangled their lives were, still. She also thought that Leonard had changed. Gone were his easily wounded pride, the bristling armor he clutched close to his person to protect himself from the world, and his desperate attempt at dignity. Now he gazed upon the world with more confidence, or perhaps simply with indifference, less troubled about what others thought of him. But he was sadder as well—indefinitely sadder, with that same faraway look in his eyes that she had seen in all of the wounded men that had gone through the hospital. She bent over his muddy body again.

"This large bit of shrapnel will have to come out under anesthetics," she said. "It can wait until the morning."

She finished getting out all the pieces of shrapnel she could, and slathered some antiseptic paste on the wounds. His body had changed as well. He was still thin and pale, but there was strength and a certain wiriness in him, and his paleness was simply due to the lack of sun, not from ill health. Muscles that she hadn't noticed before stood out in his back and shoulders. Then she realized she was caressing his back, blushed—and here she thought she'd forgotten how to blush—and pulled her hand away.

Leonard trembled again and grimaced. "I think—I think I'm getting my feelings back."

"Oh dear, how careless of me!" cried Helen. "I forgot—I'll give you some morphine for the pain." She injected the morphine, chattering inanely all the while, "It's good that you're feeling pain, you know. That means no nerves are damaged. But your leg is broken. I think you have a blighty one here. You'll have to go back to England." He looked away with a deep sigh, his eyes darkening, and didn't answer her. "You're not pleased about going home, Mr. Bast?"

"There's nothing for me to come home to."

If she wished to atone, then here was her chance. Yet for all her remorse, Helen had never once imagined what the scene of confession would look like, what she would say, what he would say. She took a deep breath, steeling herself.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bast—Leonard," she said.

Some light came back to his eyes when she called his name. "Sorry for what?"

"For running off that day—that morning—after—after—Oniton. For not explaining things afterward."

"There is nothing to explain." The light in his eyes dimmed again.

"Yes, there is. There is a lot to explain. Such as why I sent you that check—which, by the way, why did you send it back?"

"I told you, I didn't want your charity," he said through gritted teeth.

Helen smiled inwardly. Still that pride. So he hadn't changed after all, not that much. "It wasn't charity, you silly boy," she said, the term of endearment coming to her naturally. "I was—I was trying to right a wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes, I did. I ruined your life."

"And I ruined yours," he said. "So I suppose we're even."

Helen gazed at him for a long, long time. He looked back straight at her. He had only done so once before, and when she caught the blaze in his eyes, the memory of their night came back, giving her strength. Eventually, she said, "You didn't ruin my life, Leonard. You have given me the best thing I could ever hope for."

And while Leonard looked on, puzzled, she retreated to the nurses' station in a corner of the tent, in search of Meg's letter.

***

Leonard watched her go. He'd considered refusing the morphine. The pain didn't bother him much. It was like the little irons, the ones that used to scorch his insides whenever he thought of Helen, had returned, only they were on the outside of his body now. Outside pain was much easier to bear. But while his mind was shrugging off the pain, his body couldn't, and his flesh jumped and writhed where the shrapnel had cut it, which was everywhere, inhibiting his breath, his speech. The morphine relaxed him, but it washed over his mind like the waves of some dark sea, making his head swim, making him afraid this had all been a dream.

It had been like a dream, when her voice came to him through the thick mud clogging his ears and the deafening ringing left by the explosion. If he hadn't been thinking of her just a moment before, he wouldn't have recognized that voice. It had seemed so impossible, so implausible, that she should be here. Even when darkness was lifted from his eyes and he saw her face bending over him in the lamplight, he still couldn't believe it.

He'd been anxious that she would not want to see him. When she ran off, leaving him with the other nurse, the one with the blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun under her white cap, he'd wanted to cry out, to stop her from leaving. She had left him once before, and he felt he would die if he let her leave again. But he couldn't find his voice, couldn't move. And when she came back, she remained brusque, as though she was angry. He couldn't blame her. She probably wanted nothing to do with him. But her hands were gentle as they moved over his wounds, and Leonard had allowed himself a sliver of hope.

His cheeks burned when he realized he was lying bare in front of her, with only a blanket covering his middle. If it didn't hurt so much, he would have laughed, too, laughed at himself for still feeling shy with her, after all that they had been through together.

She was coming back now, holding a small photograph, which she gave to Leonard. The photograph showed a child, a boy, about six or seven, wearing a sailor suit, with soft dark curls falling over his forehead. There was something vaguely familiar in the serious expression with which he was looking at the camera. Leonard thought perhaps it resembled Helen's, but he couldn't be sure.

"I should've stayed with him," Helen said, "but I couldn't stand by and do nothing while all this war effort is going on, so he's with Meg and Tibby at Howards End. His name is Leopold," she added, her voice slightly breathless. "I call him Leo."

"I don't understand," Leonard said. Was she trying to tell her that she was married? He glanced at her empty fingers, which told him nothing—nurses probably had to keep their hands empty and clean at all times. He tried handing the photograph back to her. She didn't take it.

"He's your son, Leonard," she said. "Our son."

Leonard lifted startled eyes to her face. She nodded, once. He looked at the photograph again. Yes, he saw it now. The familiar expression, which he'd thought to be Helen's, was his own. Those rounded, solemn eyes were his own.

Suddenly the irons came back, all sharp-edged and burning, as though Oniton had only been the night before. In the child, he saw all the pains, the fears she had gone through—that he had put her through. This was the real reason she stayed away, the reason she couldn't come home. His fault, his, his. The blanket, the lamp, the tent, Helen's eyes, they were all bearing down on him, crushing him. He couldn't breathe. He struggled weakly against the bedclothes, trying to get away from Helen, but his treacherous body refused to move.

Then he felt her hands on his shoulders, gently but firmly pushing him back down, and heard her voice by his ear. "Leonard, calm yourself," she was saying. "You didn't do anything wrong. I do not blame you. I am not angry. Please, calm down before you tear open these wounds again."

His desperate eyes searched for Helen's face. She was smiling at him, a small, tentative smile, fighting off the tears that were threatening to fall down her cheeks. At that smile, the scorching inside him cooled, and he breathed again, slowly.

"Miss Schlegel—" he began, once the thudding of his heart subsided.

"Helen, please," she said, her hands moving down his shoulders to clasp around his wrists.  

"Helen." He savored her name on his tongue, and it was so sweet that he had to say it again. "I looked for you, Helen. After—Oniton. I looked for you. I wanted to—to apologize—"

"There was nothing to apologize for."

"I went to Wickham Place, but you were gone. I was afraid you had to move because of me. Then I found your sister, and she told me you were in Germany. And I believed that I drove you away, that you didn't want to see me again—" He was rambling now, his tongue and mind and heart loosened by the morphine, or perhaps by Helen's smile and the solemn eyes of the boy in the photograph, and all the memories he'd buried away came rushing forth like a flood.

"There was a time when I never wanted to see you again," she said. "I know it sounds appalling, but for the longest time, I didn't want to see you. I just wanted to put the whole thing behind me." She looked away for a moment. Leonard thought he could see the pain of those early days in her eyes, but what he felt now wasn't guilt. For the first time since arriving in Belgium, he wished to live. To live, so he could make it up for her, for their son, and perhaps for himself as well. Helen was looking at him again, her eyes brightening. "But then Leo was born," she said. "And from the moment I held him, I've loved him so much that nothing else mattered anymore."

He wanted to ask if she ever loved him. No, now was not the time.

"What is he like?" He couldn't speak the boy's name, not yet.

A tender smile crossed Helen's face. "He's the sweetest. Rather serious for his age. Meg calls him an old soul. He reminds me of you sometimes." She squeezed his hand. "You'll see for yourself, when you go back to England."

England. It had seemed so inconceivable just that morning, yet it was frightfully tangible now. Hope pierced Leonard's heart like barbed wire. "But—"

"I'm not asking anything of you, Leonard. Just that you meet him. If you want."

"I do." As he said it, Leonard knew it was true. He'd thought he had no one, nothing left in England. But now he had something. And when he saw Helen's smile and the tears in her eyes as she looked at him, and felt her hand in his, he realized he had something here as well, a spot of light in this place of mud and death and madness.

Another wave of morphine crashed over him, but Leonard fought against it, not wanting to drown in it just yet. This miracle, this blessing was too precious, he didn't want to waste it in sleep.

 "I still don't believe you're really here," he murmured. "I was just thinking about you, right before I went under."

"Were you?"

"They were playing Beethoven's Fifth in the dugout. It reminded me of Prince Regent's Hall, of the day we met. Do you remember?"

A shy smile tugged at the corner of Helen's lips. "You still have some mud on your face," she said. She took the sponge and wiped away the mud. Her hand, whether by accident or on purpose, brushed across Leonard's lips. He managed to raise his arm, took that hand, and pressed her palm to his mouth. She didn't pull away.

The blonde nurse came back. A part of Leonard wished she would go away, and another part wished he could share their joy with her, with anyone. "You should get some rest, Helen," she said. "I can stay with him if necessary."

Helen squeezed Leonard's hand more tightly. "No, I'm all right," she answered, without taking her eyes off him.

The other nurse retreated. Helen lifted Leonard's hand, the one still holding on to hers, and kissed his knuckles. There was a moment of hesitation, and then, leaning down, she kissed his lips as well, tender and careful, so different from her fumbling, frenzied kisses that night so long ago.

"Sleep now," she whispered.

"Stay with me?" he asked, though he was already drifting off.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, and, like a gesture of promise, took his hand again and laced her fingers through his.

Holding on to that hand, Leonard let out a deep sigh, and slept. While the rain and the thunder of shellfire continued outside, he slept and dreamed of their son, of England, and of home. Helen he didn't have to dream about, for she was there with him, and was going to be there when he woke up.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

THE END

A/N: Leonard is probably my favorite JQ character (after Eddie), and yet I struggled for the longest time to write something for him, probably because a) I'm too familiar with the source material and its other adaptation (the 1992 movie) and b) Leonard's story is rather finite and I couldn't figure out how to fix it in a way that makes sense to me. It wasn't until I reread "A Room with a View" and learned that Forster had written an epilogue/alternate ending that took place during World War I and II that I came up with the idea of doing something similar for poor Leonard. I totally ripped off a scene in A.S. Byatt's "The Children's Book" for this, btw.

The title is taken from Rupert Brooke's "The Beginning". The poem quoted in the opening and the end is "The Soldier", also by Rupert Brooke.

Thank you for reading!

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 3.30

Holidays

Benediction de Los Animales (Blessing of the Animals; Mexico)

Check For Change In Every Coin Return You Pass Day

Demilitarization Day of Åland (Finland)

Festival of Reality Fabrication

Golf Course Day

Grass Is Always Browner on the Other Side of the Fence Day

"I Am In Control" Day

International Laundry Folding Day

Jeopardy Day

Land Day (Palestine)

Limited Liability Day

National Badminton Day [also 3.22]

National Becca Day

National Dining Car Day

National Doctors’ Day

National Fitness Recovery Day

National Julia Day

National Pencil Day

National Victoria Day

National Virtual Vacation Day

National Wendy Day

School Day of Non-Violence and Peace (Spain)

Semana Santa begins (until 4.1; Nicaragua)

Shab e-Barat (Night of Records; Bangladesh)

Smoking Ban Day (NYC; 2003)

Spiritual Baptist/Shouter Liberation Day (Trinidad and Tobago)

Take A Walk In the Park Day

Torrents Day

Welcome Home Vietnam Veterans Day

World Bipolar Day

World Marbles Day

World Own Nothing Day

World Perspective Day

World TB-303 Appreciation Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

National Hot Chicken Day

National Hot Dog Day [also 3rd Wednesday of July & 9.10]

Turkey Neck Soup Day

World Idli Day (India; UK)

5th & Last Thursday in March

National Medical Biller’s Day [Last Thursday]

Feast Days

Aequinoctium Vernum, Day 4 (Pagan)

Amadeus IX, Duke of Savoy (Christian; Saint)

Celebration of the Marriage of Inanna and Dumuzi (Mesopotamian; Day 10 of Akitu)

Dabucuri Mirtis, (Initiation Rites of the Young Men; to Jurupari, South American Guarani/Tupi God)

Dana Plato Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Day of Bau (Goddes of Healing; Mesopotamian, Sumerian)

Feast of Janus and Concordia (Ancient Rome)

Festival of Bast (Cat Goddess; Ancient Egypt)

Festival of Renenutet (Ancient Egyptian Harvest Festival)

Festival of Salus (Roman goddess of health & prosperity)

Francisco Goya (Artology; Saint)

Galen (Positivist; Saint)

John Climacus, the Scholastic (Christian; Saint)

Magha Puja Day (Buddhism)

Mamertinus of Auxerre (Christian; Saint)

Maria Restituta Kafka (Christian; Saint)

Pagerwesi (Festival to San Hyang Pramesti Guru, god of teachers and creator of the universe; Bali)

Poke Things with a Pencil Day (Pastafarian)

Poke Things with a Stick Day (Pastafarian)

Quirinus of Neuss (Christian; Saint)

Ram Navami (Rama’s Birthday; Hinduism)

Regulus (or Rieul), Bishop of Sculls (Christian; Saint)

Thomas Son Chasuhn, Marie-Nicolas-Antoine Daveluy (part of The Korean Martyrs)

Tola of Clonard (Christian; Saint)

Vincent Van Gogh (Artology; Saint)

Zak (Muppetism)

Zozimus, Bishop of Syracuse (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Lucky Day (Philippines) [37 of 71]

Prime Number Day: 89 [24 of 72]

Premieres

Beetlejuice (Film; 1988)

Bitches Brew, by Miles Davis (Album; 1970)

Blades of Glory (Film; 2007)

Chariots of Fire (Film; 1981)

Everybody Wants Some! (Film; 2016)

The Eyes Have It (Disney Cartoon; 1945)

The Fairly OddParents (Animated TV Series; 2001)

Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes (Film; 1984)

It’s My Party, recorded by Lesley Gore (Song; 1963)

Jeopardy (TV game Show; 1964)

Meet the Robinsons (Animated Film; 2007)

Moon Knight (TV Series; 2022)

Orphan Black (TV Series; 2013)

Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd Edition (Dictionary; 1989)

Romancing the Stone (Film; 1984)

Sign o’ the Times, by Prince (Album; 1987)

Spitfire (Film; 1934)

Spy Kids (Film; 2001)

TableTop (Web Series; 2012)

Today’s Name Days

Amadeus, Dodo (Austria)

Amadeus, Bogoljub, Leonard, Zosim (Croatia)

Arnošt (Czech Republic)

Quirinus (Denmark)

Pille, Sibülle (Estonia)

Usko (Finland)

Amédée (France)

Amadeus, Diemut (Germany)

Zalán (Hungary)

Amedeo (Italy)

Ilgmaris, Ilgmars, Larisa, Nanija (Latvia)

Ferdinandas, Gvidonas, Meda, Rusnė, Virmantas (Lithuania)

Holger, Olga (Norway)

Amelia, Aniela, Częstobor, Jan, Kwiryn, Kwiryna (Poland)

Ioan (Romania)

Vieroslava (Slovakia)

Juan, Zósimo (Spain)

Holger, Holmfrid (Sweden)

Adin, Adon, Adonia, Adonis, Amada, Amadea, Amadeus (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 89 of 2024; 276 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 4 of week 13 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Fearn (Alder) [Day 12 of 28]

Chinese: Second Month 2 (Gui-Mao), Day 9 (Ding-Hai)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 8 Nisan 5783

Islamic: 8 Ramadan 1444

J Cal: 28 Ver; Sevenday [28 of 30]

Julian: 17 March 2023

Moon: 66%: Waxing Gibbous

Positivist: 5 Archimedes (4th Month) [Galen]

Runic Half Month: Ehwaz (Horse) [Day 5 of 15]

Season: Spring (Day 11 of 90)

Zodiac: Aries (Day 10 of 30)

[brookston]

Holidays 3.30

Holidays

Benediction de Los Animales (Blessing of the Animals; Mexico)

Check For Change In Every Coin Return You Pass Day

Demilitarization Day of Åland (Finland)

Festival of Reality Fabrication

Golf Course Day

Grass Is Always Browner on the Other Side of the Fence Day

"I Am In Control" Day

International Laundry Folding Day

Jeopardy Day

Land Day (Palestine)

Limited Liability Day

National Badminton Day [also 3.22]

National Becca Day

National Dining Car Day

National Doctors’ Day

National Fitness Recovery Day

National Julia Day

National Pencil Day

National Victoria Day

National Virtual Vacation Day

National Wendy Day

School Day of Non-Violence and Peace (Spain)

Semana Santa begins (until 4.1; Nicaragua)

Shab e-Barat (Night of Records; Bangladesh)

Smoking Ban Day (NYC; 2003)

Spiritual Baptist/Shouter Liberation Day (Trinidad and Tobago)

Take A Walk In the Park Day

Torrents Day

Welcome Home Vietnam Veterans Day

World Bipolar Day

World Marbles Day

World Own Nothing Day

World Perspective Day

World TB-303 Appreciation Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

National Hot Chicken Day

National Hot Dog Day [also 3rd Wednesday of July & 9.10]

Turkey Neck Soup Day

World Idli Day (India; UK)

5th & Last Thursday in March

National Medical Biller’s Day [Last Thursday]

Feast Days

Aequinoctium Vernum, Day 4 (Pagan)

Amadeus IX, Duke of Savoy (Christian; Saint)

Celebration of the Marriage of Inanna and Dumuzi (Mesopotamian; Day 10 of Akitu)

Dabucuri Mirtis, (Initiation Rites of the Young Men; to Jurupari, South American Guarani/Tupi God)

Dana Plato Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Day of Bau (Goddes of Healing; Mesopotamian, Sumerian)

Feast of Janus and Concordia (Ancient Rome)

Festival of Bast (Cat Goddess; Ancient Egypt)

Festival of Renenutet (Ancient Egyptian Harvest Festival)

Festival of Salus (Roman goddess of health & prosperity)

Francisco Goya (Artology; Saint)

Galen (Positivist; Saint)

John Climacus, the Scholastic (Christian; Saint)

Magha Puja Day (Buddhism)

Mamertinus of Auxerre (Christian; Saint)

Maria Restituta Kafka (Christian; Saint)

Pagerwesi (Festival to San Hyang Pramesti Guru, god of teachers and creator of the universe; Bali)

Poke Things with a Pencil Day (Pastafarian)

Poke Things with a Stick Day (Pastafarian)

Quirinus of Neuss (Christian; Saint)

Ram Navami (Rama’s Birthday; Hinduism)

Regulus (or Rieul), Bishop of Sculls (Christian; Saint)

Thomas Son Chasuhn, Marie-Nicolas-Antoine Daveluy (part of The Korean Martyrs)

Tola of Clonard (Christian; Saint)

Vincent Van Gogh (Artology; Saint)

Zak (Muppetism)

Zozimus, Bishop of Syracuse (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Lucky Day (Philippines) [37 of 71]

Prime Number Day: 89 [24 of 72]

Premieres

Beetlejuice (Film; 1988)

Bitches Brew, by Miles Davis (Album; 1970)

Blades of Glory (Film; 2007)

Chariots of Fire (Film; 1981)

Everybody Wants Some! (Film; 2016)

The Eyes Have It (Disney Cartoon; 1945)

The Fairly OddParents (Animated TV Series; 2001)

Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes (Film; 1984)

It’s My Party, recorded by Lesley Gore (Song; 1963)

Jeopardy (TV game Show; 1964)

Meet the Robinsons (Animated Film; 2007)

Moon Knight (TV Series; 2022)

Orphan Black (TV Series; 2013)

Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd Edition (Dictionary; 1989)

Romancing the Stone (Film; 1984)

Sign o’ the Times, by Prince (Album; 1987)

Spitfire (Film; 1934)

Spy Kids (Film; 2001)

TableTop (Web Series; 2012)

Today’s Name Days

Amadeus, Dodo (Austria)

Amadeus, Bogoljub, Leonard, Zosim (Croatia)

Arnošt (Czech Republic)

Quirinus (Denmark)

Pille, Sibülle (Estonia)

Usko (Finland)

Amédée (France)

Amadeus, Diemut (Germany)

Zalán (Hungary)

Amedeo (Italy)

Ilgmaris, Ilgmars, Larisa, Nanija (Latvia)

Ferdinandas, Gvidonas, Meda, Rusnė, Virmantas (Lithuania)

Holger, Olga (Norway)

Amelia, Aniela, Częstobor, Jan, Kwiryn, Kwiryna (Poland)

Ioan (Romania)

Vieroslava (Slovakia)

Juan, Zósimo (Spain)

Holger, Holmfrid (Sweden)

Adin, Adon, Adonia, Adonis, Amada, Amadea, Amadeus (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 89 of 2024; 276 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 4 of week 13 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Fearn (Alder) [Day 12 of 28]

Chinese: Second Month 2 (Gui-Mao), Day 9 (Ding-Hai)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 8 Nisan 5783

Islamic: 8 Ramadan 1444

J Cal: 28 Ver; Sevenday [28 of 30]

Julian: 17 March 2023

Moon: 66%: Waxing Gibbous

Positivist: 5 Archimedes (4th Month) [Galen]

Runic Half Month: Ehwaz (Horse) [Day 5 of 15]

Season: Spring (Day 11 of 90)

Zodiac: Aries (Day 10 of 30)

[ryan-waddell11]

thank you so much for the tag @munsonsbaby ily and this really hurt my brain (I just love them all) 🖤

pick 2 Joe characters that you’d have a threesome with (and you can’t say Joe)!

1) Eddie (DUH, that’s my baby)

2) Enjolras

(but tbh Tom Grant, Leonard Bast, and Jamie are honorable mentions 🫢)

no pressure tags: @mcbeanzontoast @moonchildquinn @munsons-mayhem28 @muuuuuuuunsons @edsforehead @heydreamchild @whoahoney 🩵

WAIT OKAY SO IT JUST CAME TO ME ON FT WITH @lovejosephquinn

2 Joe characters that you’d have a threesome with (and you can’t say Joe) 🫣🫣

For me it’s gotta be:

1. Eddie

2. Enjolras

And I’ll be having an absolute blast

Imma tag:

@quinnypixie @thepastdied @seatnights @joehhy @joejoequinnquinn @lovejosephquinn @choke-me-eddie @bimbobaggins69 @icallhimjoey

(You don’t have to but wouldn’t it be AMAZING to dream about 🥲)

[parkermunson]

lads, i NEED joe headcannons dropped in my asks for his bday <3 i am on my knees begging

smutty or not, i'll take em all

any character or rp