In an old poppy field, two men sat happily together. They spoke of their days at the Hall, where friendships were born and drinking habits began.

"Friedman really chugged that whiskey, didn't he?"

"Aye, he did! The bugger drank it like it was his last!"

They laughed heartily. The memory of Friedman, a man much younger than they, chugged many of those blasted pints.

"He fell straight on his buttocks!"

Another hearty laugh.

"That he did, Alfie!"

Alfie had seen Friedman’s fall from a distance. The youngin’ hit the ground hard with a first-time drinker's grin on his face. He hadn't thrown up his hefty dinner, nor did he throw up his dignity.

"The look on Lady Anne's face! She couldn't contain herself!"

More like beside herself. After all, the pained grimace for that split second made her seem more worried than of glee.

"Maybe she was!"

Alfie's face bugged out. "Maybe? Mate, you saw her laughing like a hyena after he fell! She thought it was priceless!"

"And how do you know, mate?"

Alfie paused momentarily, and raised an eyebrow. "You… saw somethin' different, didn't ye?"

The other man nodded. "She was in pain when his head barely nicked the bench. Grimacin' and such."

"Why?" Alfie asked, distraught as can be. "Why didn't she say a'thing?"

"Because you were too focused on the pint in front of ye'."

Alfie growled. "Now listen here Wilson, I was not —"

"Bollocks!" He only said 'Wilson' when he tried to be serious. "You were chattin’ and drinkin’ while Anne looked like she was about to cry for a dead man! Her world was just—"

"Don't you dare—"

Wilson did dare. "You remember," Wilson muttered, before raising his voice, "when she was cryin' after nearly losing him the first time!"

Lady Anne received word that Friedman had perished near the trenches. However, the letter was proven to be a lie written by someone in the village. That lie was said by Alfie’s best friend, who hated Anne with a passion.

Alfie burrowed his hands into Wilson’s shoulders. "I told ye to not—"

"Don't."

The word echoed in the dark.

Alfie released his grip.

"Pardon?"

"I’m sorry. We shouldn’t fight," Wilson said, his sights focused on the tree’s peaceful sway. “Not when we’re here.”

Silence ruled the world. For minutes — which felt like hours to Alfie — not a single peep was uttered. Until Wilson opened his mouth.

“This is a welcome change of pace, ain’t it?”

Alfie watched the trees sway too. “Yeah…”

"We fight over other people’s problems too much."

Alfie stifled a chuckle. "That we do."

"Lady Anne is fine, and so is Friedman!" Wilson shouted happily.

Alfie's eyebrows lowered slightly. There was still a twinge of anger in that voice. He wanted to say something to counter, but Wilson beat him to the punch.

"They're all fine in the Hall! We'll just go back and see them all smilin', won't we?" His voice cracked at the end of his declaration.

Alfie smelled a ruse, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "Ye, we will," Alfie replied, before standing in full. Lending a hand, he pulled Wilson to his feet.

"Thanks mate," Wilson said as he dusted himself off. "Let's get goin'! Maybe there's a lass or two we can still snatch!"

Alfie nodded and followed his friend home, their rifles slung on their backs.

---

The Hall was a mess. The lights were low and flickering, drinks were everywhere, and bodies were simply anchored puppets mumbling nothing but incoherent gibberish.

"Shit, everyone is knocked off their bloody rockers…" Alfie said in disbelief.

In hindsight this would be the perfect party, that is, if everyone was happy and not appearing so dead.

The two men scanned the room. It would've taken longer if Wilson hadn't found her within mere seconds. Her luscious green gown was stained, while her hair laid lifelessly limp.

Lady Anne was alone, crying loudly to the sounds of a sad viola.

"Mate, there's Anne! Come on!"

They rushed to the table, dodging Hall-goers, spilt whiskey, and shards of glass. After reaching the damsel in distress, the two men stood in front of her as frozen as Stonehenge. What could they say? They were not here to see what had happened.

Until Wilson opened his mouth.

"What's wrong, Anne?"

She snapped her gaze to ours and shouted through a fit of anguish the words these two men never wanted to hear:

"Friedman is dead!"