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st_aurafinaTitle: We Travelled Miles Today
Fandom: Wonder Woman
Rating: G
Words: 1229
Characters/Pairings: Diana, Etta, Etta's family
Warnings/Content: Post-war, home visit, family
Notes: For![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomgiftbox 2017
Summary: After the battle, Diana finds herself surrounded by ordinary grief and a rebuilding of the world.
Also at the Archive
Diana didn't remember much of the journey back to England; she simply followed where Etta said to go, slept when Etta slept, ate what Etta passed her. She let her grief wash over her like a wave. Diana knew it was normal to enter a phase of mourning when a great battle had passed, even if one hadn't lost loved ones. Her aunt had said as much, in a time that felt so long distant.
"It is not simply sorrow for lives lost; it is the ripping away of possible futures, of being forced onto paths that you would not choose for yourself or your people. It is vast, and it weighs upon your shoulders." Antiope looked off at the waves breaking on the sand, and young Diana wondered what loss she had known that had carved such an expression on her face. "The personal loss becomes almost intimate in comparison. Do not make the mistake of cleaving to it like a lover." She took Diana's chin and turned it to face her. "Grieve and release," she said. "And when you cannot see a better world, remember that life goes on. It always will, whether you wish it or not."
"Life goes on," Diana said, as she and Etta stepped off the underground at Marble Arch.
"So it does," said Etta with a relieved sigh. "Good for you, darling. Come on, we've a connection to make, if we're to be in Surrey by dinner time."
Etta's family lived in a big square house with five chimneys and a large garden. Diana followed Etta in through the front door, and was immediately swamped in children and dogs: boys and girls with round faces and curly hair, equally round and happy dogs that jumped and barked at the new arrivals.
"Clear off, clear off," said Etta, and pushed them all down the hallway, poking the dogs along with her toe. "Do you want Diana to think you're a herd of elephants and Visigoths?"
"You know they were a pretty cultured lot, the Visigoths," said the oldest boy, standing the furthest back. He had spectacles on the end of his nose. and a book tucked under his arm. "I wouldn't compare them to these infants." He blinked as Diana stepped into the kitchen and took off her hat, then he blushed a violent red and vanished up the stairs.
"Edward," said Etta, unpinning her own hat. "He's at that difficult age, you know how it is."
"Not really," said Diana. She bent to pat one of the eager dogs – a spaniel with a curly coat and long floppy ears – and it licked her hand all over, its tail wagging ferociously.
Etta peered down at the dog lavishing attention on Diana's hand. "Well, it's pretty much like that, really. Hilary, make us some tea, will you? I'm going to take Diana out in the garden; we've been cooped up in trains for what feels like a year."
They sat on wrought iron chairs at a neat little table, surrounded by lavender and daisy bushes that hummed with bees industriously hovering. Hilary brought the tea tray out very carefully, stepping down the crazy paving and over dogs. She was almost as tall as Etta, but her hair was bright red.
"Thank you, sweetheart." Etta picked up the pot and gave it a swirl. "What time is Mother home? I assume she's at the church hall." She leaned over to Diana to whisper conspiratorially. "President of the Auxiliary Committee. They're putting together packages for the boys coming home, to help them settle in."
Hilary was staring at Diana with wide eyes, and Etta had to give her a poke. "Oh, um. She's usually home by four, but Mrs Carson has been and put a joint on. I only have to check it." She frowned and looked at her watch as if she'd just discovered she was wearing one, then sprinted back to the kitchen.
Etta shook her head as she poured the tea. "She's a dreamer, that one. Once, she went missing, and we thought she'd fallen in the river. Found her up a tree, at seven in the evening. Said she'd been thinking important thoughts."
"Are they all your brothers and sisters?" Diana had seen at least seven children.
Etta snapped a biscuit and popped half in her mouth. "No, we're three families rolled into one right now: Mother's sister is staying with us until she gets back on her feet; she lost Uncle George and my cousin Alfred early on. Hers are the little ones, all three of them under eight. And on the other side, Aunt Caroline sent hers so she can be with Uncle John at the convalescent hospital. That's Hilary, Jane and Alexander. And then there's us: Eddie should be at school except it's closed until they have staff again so he helps at the village school with the little ones. Eric read German at Oxford, so he was scooped up by the War Office to work with Father. And we're all still waiting for Esmond to be demobbed from France." Etta sipped her tea. "It's a bit of a squash, so we'll probably be in the attic with the girls, I hope you don't mind."
Dinner was a rowdy affair, all crowded around one table with knees touching, dishes passed down the line laden with simple but plentiful food. Mrs Candy was short and round, and drove the children along in their chores with firm admonition and gentle praise. Somehow Diana became included in that group, carrying warm plates to the table, helping Etta to slice and butter bread, and using her warrior's arms (as described by Etta) to whip the cream for the pudding.
Having been the only child born on Themyscira, Diana had little experience with young people, but she found it was instinctive: helping five-year-old Anna cut up her meat into manageable pieces, and catching six-year-old John's glass when he knocked it over trying to describe the size of the fish he had seen in the stream.
That night, she shared a bed with Etta, while Hilary, Jane and Anna squashed into another in the attic. Diana heard Jane crying in the night for her mother but Hilary sang softly to her, and the two of them were soon asleep again.
Diana lay awake with Etta's body a warm curve against her back, and she listened to the sounds of an unknown countryside while the house creaked and settled. The window was wide open; with five bodies in a small space, it would be airless and overheated in no time, but for now, a cool breeze drifted in, bringing the smell of wet grass and jasmine.
This was a family that had suffered great loss and was still labouring under that loss even though the war was over. Things would not be the same for the children whose fathers had been killed or injured, but there was no doubt that they were loved and treasured, and that when they couldn't be strong, there would be someone to hold their hand.
An owl called in the night, and another, further away answered. Athena's bird, Diana thought, even here in this strange place of trenches and war and patchwork families. Grieve and release, she told herself. Heal and grow, and know there is always someone at your back.
Fandom: Wonder Woman
Rating: G
Words: 1229
Characters/Pairings: Diana, Etta, Etta's family
Warnings/Content: Post-war, home visit, family
Notes: For
fandomgiftbox 2017Summary: After the battle, Diana finds herself surrounded by ordinary grief and a rebuilding of the world.
Also at the Archive
Diana didn't remember much of the journey back to England; she simply followed where Etta said to go, slept when Etta slept, ate what Etta passed her. She let her grief wash over her like a wave. Diana knew it was normal to enter a phase of mourning when a great battle had passed, even if one hadn't lost loved ones. Her aunt had said as much, in a time that felt so long distant.
"It is not simply sorrow for lives lost; it is the ripping away of possible futures, of being forced onto paths that you would not choose for yourself or your people. It is vast, and it weighs upon your shoulders." Antiope looked off at the waves breaking on the sand, and young Diana wondered what loss she had known that had carved such an expression on her face. "The personal loss becomes almost intimate in comparison. Do not make the mistake of cleaving to it like a lover." She took Diana's chin and turned it to face her. "Grieve and release," she said. "And when you cannot see a better world, remember that life goes on. It always will, whether you wish it or not."
"Life goes on," Diana said, as she and Etta stepped off the underground at Marble Arch.
"So it does," said Etta with a relieved sigh. "Good for you, darling. Come on, we've a connection to make, if we're to be in Surrey by dinner time."
Etta's family lived in a big square house with five chimneys and a large garden. Diana followed Etta in through the front door, and was immediately swamped in children and dogs: boys and girls with round faces and curly hair, equally round and happy dogs that jumped and barked at the new arrivals.
"Clear off, clear off," said Etta, and pushed them all down the hallway, poking the dogs along with her toe. "Do you want Diana to think you're a herd of elephants and Visigoths?"
"You know they were a pretty cultured lot, the Visigoths," said the oldest boy, standing the furthest back. He had spectacles on the end of his nose. and a book tucked under his arm. "I wouldn't compare them to these infants." He blinked as Diana stepped into the kitchen and took off her hat, then he blushed a violent red and vanished up the stairs.
"Edward," said Etta, unpinning her own hat. "He's at that difficult age, you know how it is."
"Not really," said Diana. She bent to pat one of the eager dogs – a spaniel with a curly coat and long floppy ears – and it licked her hand all over, its tail wagging ferociously.
Etta peered down at the dog lavishing attention on Diana's hand. "Well, it's pretty much like that, really. Hilary, make us some tea, will you? I'm going to take Diana out in the garden; we've been cooped up in trains for what feels like a year."
They sat on wrought iron chairs at a neat little table, surrounded by lavender and daisy bushes that hummed with bees industriously hovering. Hilary brought the tea tray out very carefully, stepping down the crazy paving and over dogs. She was almost as tall as Etta, but her hair was bright red.
"Thank you, sweetheart." Etta picked up the pot and gave it a swirl. "What time is Mother home? I assume she's at the church hall." She leaned over to Diana to whisper conspiratorially. "President of the Auxiliary Committee. They're putting together packages for the boys coming home, to help them settle in."
Hilary was staring at Diana with wide eyes, and Etta had to give her a poke. "Oh, um. She's usually home by four, but Mrs Carson has been and put a joint on. I only have to check it." She frowned and looked at her watch as if she'd just discovered she was wearing one, then sprinted back to the kitchen.
Etta shook her head as she poured the tea. "She's a dreamer, that one. Once, she went missing, and we thought she'd fallen in the river. Found her up a tree, at seven in the evening. Said she'd been thinking important thoughts."
"Are they all your brothers and sisters?" Diana had seen at least seven children.
Etta snapped a biscuit and popped half in her mouth. "No, we're three families rolled into one right now: Mother's sister is staying with us until she gets back on her feet; she lost Uncle George and my cousin Alfred early on. Hers are the little ones, all three of them under eight. And on the other side, Aunt Caroline sent hers so she can be with Uncle John at the convalescent hospital. That's Hilary, Jane and Alexander. And then there's us: Eddie should be at school except it's closed until they have staff again so he helps at the village school with the little ones. Eric read German at Oxford, so he was scooped up by the War Office to work with Father. And we're all still waiting for Esmond to be demobbed from France." Etta sipped her tea. "It's a bit of a squash, so we'll probably be in the attic with the girls, I hope you don't mind."
Dinner was a rowdy affair, all crowded around one table with knees touching, dishes passed down the line laden with simple but plentiful food. Mrs Candy was short and round, and drove the children along in their chores with firm admonition and gentle praise. Somehow Diana became included in that group, carrying warm plates to the table, helping Etta to slice and butter bread, and using her warrior's arms (as described by Etta) to whip the cream for the pudding.
Having been the only child born on Themyscira, Diana had little experience with young people, but she found it was instinctive: helping five-year-old Anna cut up her meat into manageable pieces, and catching six-year-old John's glass when he knocked it over trying to describe the size of the fish he had seen in the stream.
That night, she shared a bed with Etta, while Hilary, Jane and Anna squashed into another in the attic. Diana heard Jane crying in the night for her mother but Hilary sang softly to her, and the two of them were soon asleep again.
Diana lay awake with Etta's body a warm curve against her back, and she listened to the sounds of an unknown countryside while the house creaked and settled. The window was wide open; with five bodies in a small space, it would be airless and overheated in no time, but for now, a cool breeze drifted in, bringing the smell of wet grass and jasmine.
This was a family that had suffered great loss and was still labouring under that loss even though the war was over. Things would not be the same for the children whose fathers had been killed or injured, but there was no doubt that they were loved and treasured, and that when they couldn't be strong, there would be someone to hold their hand.
An owl called in the night, and another, further away answered. Athena's bird, Diana thought, even here in this strange place of trenches and war and patchwork families. Grieve and release, she told herself. Heal and grow, and know there is always someone at your back.