John lay still, listening to the soft, rhythmic breathing of Eleanor beside him. He could just make out the huddled form of Mary curled on a straw-filled pallet like a stray cat, fighting for warmth. He eased himself out of bed, wincing as his joints protested the movement. The floorboards creaked softly despite his careful tread. He pulled on his breeches, the coarse wool scratching against his skin,then reached for his tunic, the familiar weight of it settling on his shoulders. The morning air was cold and damp, raising gooseflesh on his arms as he slipped out the door, careful not to wake his women.

The village was still asleep, shrouded in a thin mist that felt profound. His breath puffed out in white clouds as he made his way towards the churchyard.

St. Peter and St. Paul's loomed out of the mist, a hulking silhouette against the gradually lightening sky. Built from sturdy flint and grey stone, the church was the oldest and most imposing structure in Horndon-on-the-Hill. Its squat tower, visible for miles across the flat Essex countryside, had once been a landmark for travelers on the old Roman road that now served as Horndon's High Street, a road that had brought a trickle of prosperity to the village in better times, connecting it to the bustling markets of Brentwood and Romford, and even to the distant, teeming city of London.

John paused at the lychgate; this graveyard was a place of familiar sorrow. He knew every inch of it, every leaning headstone, every overgrown grave, every family whose history was kept here for the living to remember. But his steps led him unerringly to two small mounds, nestled side-by-side beneath the skeletal branches of an old yew tree, its dark needles giving off a faint, almost medicinal scent.

His sons.

Thomas, the eldest, had barely drawn breath before the sweating sickness had stolen him away. A tiny, perfect babe, he'd only known the warmth of his mother's arms for a few fleeting weeks. William, born three years later, had been a different sort altogether. A sturdy lad with a shock of red hair like his mother's, and a mischievous glint in his eye, he had grown into a proper boy. He would follow John everywhere, his small hand tucked trustingly into his father's larger one, peppering him with questions about everything that crossed his gaze. He'd lived long enough to chase chickens in the yard, to learn the names of the wildflowers that bloomed along the roadside, to fill John's life with a boisterous, joyful noise that he hadn't realized he'd been missing.

Then the fever came. It had swept through Horndon like a scythe, leaving a trail of grief and empty cradles in its wake. William, despite his strong start, had succumbed, his small body wracked with coughs, his bright eyes dulled with pain, his endless questions silenced forever.

John knelt beside the graves, the damp earth seeping through the worn knees of his breeches. He ran his hand over the crude crosses he'd carved for them in a grief-stricken haste. He'd buried them himself, his tears mingling with the damp soil as he'd lowered their small bodies, wrapped in swaddling clothes Eleanor had lovingly sewn, into the cold earth.

"God keep you, my lads," he whispered, the words barely audible above the rustling of the yew leaves. "Watch over your mum and your sister.”

He closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer, a jumble of pleas and supplications. He prayed for his sons' souls, he prayed for Eleanor, that her long years of burden might finally be over. He prayed for Mary, that she might grow up in a world free from hunger and fear. That he’d see her have little children she’d never have to bury.

And, as the first rays of sunlight, pale and watery, filtered through the mist and touched the top of the church spire, he prayed for strength.

Horndon-on-the-Hill was stirring, the first tendrils of smoke curling from skyward as early risers coaxed life back into hearth fires. As John emerged from the churchyard, blinking against the strengthening sunlight that had finally burned through the lingering mist, a voice, rough with disuse, cracked the morning calm. "John! By all the saints, John Kent, is that truly you?"

He squinted, his gaze sweeping across the rutted track. Two figures, bundled in worn woolens, detached themselves from the shadows of a leaning cottage and approached, their faces slowly resolving into familiar faces. "Thomas Baker?" John's voice was still shaky from choked-back tears. "And...Peter Cook? Could it be?" A grin, slow and hesitant, spread across his face.

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"Heard you were back," Thomas boomed, his voice still strong despite the advancing years. He clapped John on the shoulder, nearly staggering him. "The French didn't manage to skewer you, then?"

"Not for lack of trying. How have you both fared? It's been a lifetime."

"Long enough for you to be gone and back again," Peter Cook said, with a slight smile. "Though you've brought the war back with you, from the looks of that leg."

"Something I could have done without," John laughed as he shifted his weight. "How's the farm, Peter?"

"Could be better," He admitted, his smile fading. " Still held under the thumb of Ardern Hall, worse luck. But Baker here finally went and found himself a wife. So there are still miracles to be had, after all.”

"A man needs a bit of taming, now and then," Thomas said, but his smile was sheepish.

"Right then," Peter interrupted, his smile strained, almost too wide, as if he were trying to stretch his face into a cheerfulness he didn't feel. "Best I be getting on. Told the lady I wouldn’t be out long.

"I’ll come around soon," called John after him, but Peter was already hurrying off.

John watched him go. "He seems troubled, Thomas."

Thomas sighed, his jovial facade crumbling. We all are, John. These are hard times. Harder than you remember." He paused, then continued, his voice lower, more serious. "But you being back...it's lifted his spirits some.”

He gestured towards the village. "Come, walk with me. Horndon's still here, isn't she? Still standing. Though you’ve been gone so long, you might not recognize the place. Or us, for that matter. Look at you, a proper soldier now. What’s it been, seven years?”

"Near enough," John agreed. "It's good to be back. This is still home, no matter what."

"That it is," Thomas said, his voice softening. "So, tell me, what do you make of the old place?"

They started walking along the High Road, he eyed the whole thing at once. "A bit worse for wear, it seems," John observed, gesturing towards a particularly dilapidated cottage, its thatched roof sagging precariously. "This used to be Widow Margaret's place, didn’t it? "

"Ah, Widow Margaret. Good woman, she was," Thomas said with a fond smile, then his face sobered. "Fever took her. Two summers past. Took a few others, too. But," he hurried to add, "Agnes still makes a fine stew. Keeps the chill out.” He nudged John with his elbow. "Might even be able to tempt you to a bowl later. Unless you’ve gotten used to finer fare, in France and all that?"

"Wouldn't say no to a good stew," John laughed. "The army hasn't exactly spoiled me.”

They turned onto Mill Lane. John glanced back at St. Peter and St. Paul's, its familiar silhouette a comforting presence against the morning sky. “Even the church seems to be wanting," he said.

“Aye, well, Vicar’s trying his best," Thomas replied. "Says he’s got plans to fix that roof. Just need the funds. We’ve had a collection going, slow but steady, you know? Every little helps.” He tried to sound confident, but a hint of doubt crept into his voice. "Though whether we'll get enough before the whole thing comes down on our heads...well, that's another matter. You’d think a man of God would be able to conjure up a few miracles, wouldn't you?"

"You alright, John?" Thomas asked, his gaze searching his friend's face. "You seem a bit shaken. It’s a lot to take in, I know."

"I'm fine, Thomas," John said, forcing a smile. "Just a lot to get used to, that's all." He paused, then added, a touch wistfully, "And I'm thinking it's time I got home. Eleanor and Mary will be wondering where I've got to. Don't want them worrying too much."

"Of course," Thomas said. “Tell you what, I'll walk with you. Haven't seen young Mary in a while myself. A little firestarter, that one."

They turned their steps towards John's cottage, the familiar path winding through the village. As they walked, the wind picked up, swirling around them, carrying the scent of smoke closer now. As they rounded a bend, a flicker of orange light caught John's eye. He squinted, peering through the gathering dusk.

"What in God's name...?" John began, bewildered. "Is that...is that near my house?"

Thomas followed his gaze, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Well, I'll be..." he chuckled. "Looks like someone's having a bit of a celebration."

Then, as they drew closer, John saw him. Peter Cook, standing by the fire, holding a tankard aloft, his face split by a grin so wide it seemed to reach his ears. "Welcome home, John!" he boomed, his earlier anxiety completely vanished. "A hero's welcome, eh? We thought you deserved it!"

A cheer went up from the crowd as John approached. He recognized faces, all laughing and smiling like mad. He saw blankets spread near the fire, laden with meager offerings of food and drink. People tore into bread, nursing tankards, faces flushed from the flames. They were struggling, but they'd scraped this together to welcome him home. A lump rose in John's throat. Hands clapped him on the back, tankards were thrust his way, and a chorus of welcomes filled the air. He was right, no matter what else, he was home.