DISCLAIMER: Not mine, I'm just playing in E&A's sandbox while they're out planning a billion ways to kill us each Sunday. The title comes from the breathtaking Laura Marling's What He Wrote.

For the lovely Abby (mufflednoise at tumblr) whose CSSS I've had a pleasure of being this year.

Huge thanks to the brilliant Silke (suilestrange at tumblr) for feeding my muse with Atonement soundtrack and keeping up with my freak-outs while writing this.

I suggest listening to 8tracks [slash] blowingwinds [slash] what-he-wrote while reading.

Your thoughts are more than appreciated! Thank you for reading!

And the waves came,

And stole him,

And took him to war.

Laura Marling What He Wrote

The air is crackling with the static of the radio as they stand very still, cramped in a tiny meeting room. Emma's gaze follows Mother Superior fiddling with a worn-out pamphlet, droplets of sweat trickling down her temples from the warmth of the Sunday morning and the heavy anticipation lingering around them.

Someone coughs in the back of the room just as the solemn voice of the Prime Minister looms through the speakers: "I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received and that, consequently, this country is at war with Germany."

In an instant, the fragile calm is broken.

Emma keeps still, watching the chaos erupt around her. An older nurse to her right gasps, hand coming up to cover her mouth. Someone seems to have fainted. The Superior is struggling to recite the safety measures pamphlet, her voice breaking with every other word.

It should come as no surprise. There have been talks of war for months. Instructions, evacuation plans, safety procedures, motivational posters - KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON - mocking them from the front wall…

Yet, the world is crumbling at Emma's feet. She pushes through the bodies without apology, suddenly desperate to get out.

No, no, no, no, her mind rings as she breaks into a run in fear of the harsh reality catching up with her.

She was barely a toddler when her father died on the banks of Somme.

A year later, her mother followed, killed on a night of fervent bombing.

At the age of five, they pinned the blood red poppy to the lapel of her uniform jacket and told her to be proud for her parents both fell as heroes. But even then Emma knew: if there is anything that stems from wars, it isn't pride. It's loss.

No, no, no, no.

Her breaths come out in pants and her legs threaten to give up but she refuses to stop. She doesn't have a destination in mind, just a sense, a need to run away. To find him.

Killian.

The very thought of him sends another wave of desperation through her core. They can't send him away. They won't take him away from her. Not now. Not ever.

She wanders, dazed and distressed, among the thickening crowd by the barracks. Mothers and fathers, wives and sweethearts, eager men and beardless boys all gathered there to…

Hands wrap around her sides and she's overwhelmed with the scent that's so distinctly him.

"Killian," she breathes, turning around to face him.

"I'm so sorry, Emma," he murmurs as she melts into him.

"They're not sending you away. Tell me, they're not sending you away," her voice comes out small and muffled against his chest.

"I… I have to…" his hand falls to her cheek, "Emma… Emma, look at me… Promise me… When I'm gone, promise me, you…"

"Don't," she cuts him off, fire blazing in the greens of her eyes, "Don't you dare to even think about it, Killian Jones. When you have to go, you go and once it's over, you come back to me."

He smiles, a sad smile that's not quite there, and swears he will against her lips though it's a promise he cannot keep. The warmth of him is gone the moment after and Emma shivers at the loss despite the bright afternoon sun in the sky.

Captain Liam Jones comes by the hospital the next morning and thrusts a crumpled envelope into her pocket. Emma calls after him to explain but he marches out the door without a word.

There's a letter - Killian's letter - inside, crossed out lines and spots of ink proving his haste.

Dear Emma,

I knew I will be forced to part from you, yet not even in my worst nightmares did I expect this day would come so soon. I wish had the time for a proper farewell, alas, I have to trust that my brother shall find you with this letter.

There's not a day that would go by that I won't think of you.

Yours,

Killian

"Is everything alright?" a hesitant voice comes from her side. Mary Margaret, the closest person in her life Emma has to a friend, is standing by the wall, a concern etched on her face.

"He's gone. Mary Margaret, he's gone," Emma closes her eyes to prevent the tears that are pooling underneath her eyelids.

"He'll be back before you know it," something flickers in the older woman's eyes and Emma wonders for a second if Mary Margaret needs such reassurances as much as she does.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I have hope. And hope's a very powerful thing."

Days pass, full of terrifying anticipation and false alarms, and never once does Emma ask as she comes to notice how Mary Margaret sneaks out to the postbox nearby during her breaks or how her face lights up on days when the letters come from the front.

A silent understanding grows between them and maybe, just maybe, Emma starts to let the hope in.

More often than not it's hard, almost painful to hold on the silly notion that everything will be alright as Killian's letters do not come for weeks. Yet, Emma checks for them twice a day either way.

Dearest Emma, he writes and the words blur together before her eyes.

Dearest Emma,

they say the deepest fear of a sailor is to drown. What is the deepest fear of a solder? Dying in the battlefield?

I'm no solder then, for it's the thought of losing you that haunts me in my nightmares. It's the thought of you, too, that lulls me to sleep at night - your emerald eyes, the brush of your lips against mine… You, you, you…

In my dreams I'm a drowning man, Emma, and it's you that saves me. It's because of you I refuse to lose hope. Do not despair, love, a day shall come and I will find my way back to you.

Yours,

Killian

Dearest Emma,

the days pass, yet they are all the same without you. Once, I used to find comfort in the routine of things but that was long before I met you. Now it does nothing to dull the ache in my chest.

At that, it stops abruptly. There's a good paragraph's worth missing in the middle and, in vain, she tries to decipher the cut out pieces.

My hearts grows fonder of you with each day I spend in your absence.

Yours,

Killian

Dearest Emma, his letters start every time and Yours, Killian, he signs each one of them. A promise of better days is engraved in those simple words.

Some nights, curled up on a tiny fold-out bed in the basement and waiting for the blackout to end, she lets herself believe them. Even if for a moment, she lets herself get lost in a dream of life without the war.

Most days, however, she's forced to accept that life goes on around her. She stays in the hospital well past her shift then, wandering the hallways at ungodly hours in attempt to feel useful until Mother Superior catches her on the morning rounds and ushers her to rest despite the protests.

"It's for your own good, dear," the nun claims, the motherly smile fixed on her features and though Emma's not sure she believes it, she bites back a retort and leaves with a quick nod.

A month passes, then another, his letters come too few and grow further and further apart. His words can't tell much either: there are lines, entire paragraphs crossed out by the censors and she holds them over the faint candlelight, trying to decipher the pieces hidden underneath dark ink. She starts to rely on the broadcasts for news, no matter how vague and optimistic they sound. Hitler's troops are supposedly on the move to the French border - nothing to be frightened of, they assure - and the letters cease altogether.

The gardens are in full swing when the men of BEF come home. Though they call it triumph on the radio, struggling to console a shaking form of Mary Margaret as the news break makes it feel anything but a victory to Emma.

The hospital is swarmed with solders, too. British, French, Belgians… Most deemed lucky if they make it through the night.

There is a man who smiles at her despite the ghastly wound on his head that makes her hands shake as she changes the heavy bandages.

"Can you, please, stay with me for a while?" he asks, "The name's Graham."

"Swan… Emma."

"It's a pretty name. Emma. I knew a lieutenant once. Loved a girl named Emma."

"You knew him? Knew Killian?"

"Killian, yes. Good lad he was. A shame his brother didn't make it. Was a good man, too. Both were…" His fingers wrap around hers "You're the girl? His swan, aye?"

Graham's hand is clammy in hers. Her mouth's too dry to say something, so she just watches him hum a soft melody she distinctly recognises. His expression turns tender as his fingers grow limp in hers.

"Thank you," he says. Or maybe it's just her imagination toying with her.

She doesn't cry when the Superior lays a white sheet over his eyes. It's his face that haunts her, though. Auburn hair turn raven in her dreams and his hand slips from hers over and over again.

Time goes by, unyielding.

"God save the King," she cheers among the crowd what seems centuries later.

The spring blooms around them.

It's a good day.

A day he comes back home.

Boyish naiveté is absent from his features. Jaw is set hard, eyes troubled, a bandage in place of his left hand, and she holds him as tight as she can to chase the demons away.

They move North, to a tiny village by the sea shore. There's a stony church up the hill where their vows are exchanged.

It's yet another battle to discover each other again but this one's a good one.

Their son is called Henry. A nice, old name. A name that has not been tainted by war. A name that speaks of hope.

Of home.