Inked In Crimson #1 (He)

It’s fascinating how the sun rises in the morning, looks up over the entire world, and sets in peace - becalmed, content and pacified.

But the sun does not know of our sufferings.

It is two years since my recruitment, and the dust hasn’t settled yet. Friends keep on dying, families keep on breaking, and tears keep weeping and falling on our blue trousers. There is no sign of truce between us; us who lead the same lives in the same country, us who love the nation as much as our lives, and us who long for peace as much as a family.

The only difference that sets us apart is that they support slavery, and we don’t.

So we fight, and fight we will, till the end.

But today, my friend, I’m not going to discuss what happened at the war zone.

Today, I shall tell you about a girl.

She is twentyish with flaxen hair in a tight wad at the back of her head. She seems to be working as a medical supplier at our regiment. I do not say she’s beautiful, because she is even prettier. She does not have blue eyes, glossy cheeks or a thin monobrow.

But she’s beautiful because her beauty is so much more to what she is.

I wonder why I didn’t see her before. Maybe it was my job that stood before me. Maybe I wasn’t as immature as I am now. Maybe she wasn’t a medicine supplier before that day.

It was a yet another check-up session at our camp when I met her. She had entered in my quarters to supply fluid injections. I was on my bed, ready for another two-hour round of ‘medically prescribed’ rest.

She entered in and gave some syringes to the head nurse.

I decided to begin a conversation.

“You’re new here?”

“No. I come here from time to time.”

She sounded nervous.

I gathered some courage, and asked her what her name was.

To my surprise, she froze.

“Katherine,” she finally replied.

That night, Katherine was the only word jerking back and forth in my mind.

I met her again yesterday, at the check-up session.

This time, she herself was in charge of giving injections. She sat beside me, took out the syringe, and injected the contents through my left arm, holding it with hers. She asked me about my life in and out of the war field, presumably to keep me out of pain.

“So, Second Lieutenant who?”

“Adams. Daniel Adams.”

“Okay, so Second Lieutenant Daniel Adams, how did you end up here - I mean, what made you join the Union?”

“I was born in Illinois, which very well makes me a part of the Union.”

“Do you mean you are here, in this suit, because of your birth?

“Not exactly. After all, when you choose a side, it takes time to actually realize why you chose it at the first place. It was after I joined the army that I found I was on the right side.”

“So how’s your gun?”

She sounded confident.

“It’s still young. It’s not gonna retire early. It’s going to end its life only after shooting the hell out of those Confeds.”

“You sound quite optimistic about your win. Do you enjoy this war business?”

“I do.”

I know I lied. But she went on to clarify her question.

“No, what I’m saying is – do you like people getting killed? Do you think that’s right?”

“Yes I do. But only if the bodies are not ours. The Confeds can be silenced only by gunshots. But if our men die, it’s a great loss. We lose one man, and we lose one supporter of putting a stop to slavery, one supporter of humanity.”

“Well,” she said, as she pressed some cotton onto my skin, “Will you mind if I were to ask you about your family?”

It was considered a nursing etiquette to ask such questions.


“Not at all,” her hand was still on mine, and it felt soothing to have someone sitting by my side, “I don’t have one.”

“What? You don’t have a family?”

I did not reply.

That was her last question. Maybe she found it best not to ask any further.

“Okay, so Second Lieutenant Daniel Adams, two hours rest and you’re free. Take care of yourself.”

She took her hand away, packed up and went out for the next soldier.

And I, like a loner, continued to look at the tent exit from where she departed.

I really want to see her again. I do wish to know more of her.

It may sound childish, but I really do.

Inked In Crimson #2 (She)

The night is chilling, and the lamps in houses outside are being swallowed by the darkness, one by one. I have finished my job for today. I find myself dwelling on where this week has taken me.

The memory of that first evening sets my heart into a flutter of excited thumps for more than one reason.

It was a bold adventure. Perhaps you won't think it requires courage to venture into a Union camp in Union territory, carrying some harmless medicine. However, this is wartime- when there is scarcely action without carefully deliberated intention. How easily I chanced upon the conversation between two gruff, cardboard-stiff voices who did not care to lower their tones behind a flimsy wooden door! I did not understand much, but I now know how I can help bring down the Union. The enemy is like a tower stacked too high, and the Confederacy needs information to topple it. The Confederacy needs women who rise to their duty.

I was shy and uninvolved as all the other young ladies, embroidering quilts and meeting young men, until I got talking with a bold Confederate spy. We grew to trust each other, and it was a long while before she decided to trust me with details, or even mentions, of her work. It did not take much longer for me to realize that it was the path for me. Our status, our way of life is at stake. You may not agree with me- you may call me an enemy of humanity. Blame my upbringing, a childhood spent mostly in one room of one sprawling manor- but I believe that there is no way the Union can force us into conforming to their laws. No risk is too great for me now- it serves only as a little excitement, a little satisfaction.

However, I can't say my daring endeavor was the only time my pulse quickened and breath froze that evening. The second moment it happened was when you stopped me and, in a voice that made me think of an ax slicing through smooth, strong wood, asked me my name.

I knew right then, Daniel Adams, that it would not be our only meeting. I returned the next day- you were waiting for a nurse, and I asked a woman nearby whether I could not help out. She said she didn't mind- the more helping hands, the better. It was a busy day. I'm not keen on treating the enemy, but humanity beckons at times. I was oddly satisfied that day- besides, one of your men let slip words that I committed to memory- 'Over the bridge, when they are least expecting it, and cannons just across the river,'- just what I needed.

Yet that was not all. I think back to the dinner last night- soldiers, locals, all celebrating a battle your side won. It was anything but a celebration to me, but my duty, my charade, and perhaps something else drew me to the event. The recognition in your eyes was evident. I spoke to you perhaps more than any of the other young men present. You seemed innocent as a child, but were vigilant as a hawk, rarely letting anything of importance escape your lips. It does not deter me. It is not difficult to get soldiers to talk. Men get drunk on conversation when their only companions are battlefields and muskets. Even the best sometimes let down their guard.

Being a spy requires patience until the right opportunity arrives.

I will wait any span of time for the right moment with you.

Inked In Crimson #3 (He)

Dear Katherine,

As a cold flutter of wind strikes my left arm with a delicate force, I realise it is the same arm that was cushioned on your hands the second time you met me. And today, your presence around me leaves this arm with a sense of relief, aware of the fact that it rests in the hands of a soothingly wondrous self.

I watch the narrow slit of sunlight that enters my tent room every now and then, and welcomes your arrival to my quarters with a sense of pride. It is as if the coast of distress welcomes the heralding of the much-needed waves of positivity.

We have so much in familiarity with each other. The first time we met, you seemed to me an anxious, inexperienced girl. But now, as the ravages of time go on sweeping past the realms of reality, I am beginning to realize that I was wrong, very wrong. Today, it is not the same simple girl who injects tetanus medicines into my body. Rather, it is an intellectual yet emotional woman who does so.

And this fact becomes evident when I think of the dinner gathering. Even before I discovered your presence at the occasion, you were standing beside me, talking about the dire living conditions in the army camp. You made a great companion to all soldiers around, and this in itself shows the development in your confidence.

You’ve been so much more than a medicine supplier to me. The other day, we talked about the need of peace and humanity, and it was so comforting when you opened up your mind about where the world is leading to.

“I am finding things distressing, Lieutenant Adams. The world’s becoming more lopsided every single day. People are searching for solace, instead they find violence. The law of nature just isn’t working. The world’s becoming more a ‘man’s haven’ than ‘life’s haven’.”

“To tell you the truth, Miss Katherine, bloodshed is spreading like wildfire, and not just in the States. Even Germany has gone berserk, England has its own problems – I mean it’s not just us, but the entire mankind who’s responsible for this crisis. Violence is now something mundane, so much mundane that women do nothing but smile when they see their babies quartered.”

“That’s Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“You seem quite poetic.”

“Everyone in distress seems quite poetic.”

And then I went away.

Every short talk with you seems ages long. I feel as if I’m talking to someone of my competence; of my intellect. You really seem to me as someone who is given charm and charisma in the right amounts. At some times, you seem quite chatty, at others, introvert.
Thus, I sometimes find you uncannily different from all others.

On Sunday, at the Easter fest, when I talked about human nature, you seemed quite distracted, and after the conversation, I was left thinking about what the reason was.

“You know, Miss Katherine, what is the biggest sin committed by man?”

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“It’s betrayal.”

“It is what?”

“Betrayal.”

“Oh, betrayal. Right. Nothing’s more heinous than betraying your society, your nation.”

“Or betraying someone close to you.”

“Right. --So Lieutenant, what’s your thought about Easter?”

But then Miss Collins called you and you went away.

I sometimes find you quite preoccupied in your own thoughts. Of course, I may be mistaken, because I pay a lot of attention to you. But that’s solely because I can relate to your opinions and your perceptions. I sometimes find it difficult to come to terms with the blind reality that I am a soldier of immense competence, yet falling for a girl with whom my contact is extended just to talks that bring emotional pleasure.

I’m like that fallen leaf from a withered maple tree, only waiting for some sweet, soothing breeze to lift me up from the dirt that borders my saddened life. You are that string of emotions, to which my kite of feelings is tied. The bond is thin, so very thin. And yet so essential, so indispensable.

But I shall not be influenced. I am that one being who longs for truce and tranquillity and love, but knows by his circumstances, that for him, such ideal facilities only extend to imagination and faithless, fallacious dreams; who realizes that for him, war is the marriage and gun the spouse, even if he does not love this bitter truth.

And so, I pick up my spouse and head for another round of training.

Yours truly
Daniel

Inked In Crimson #4 (She)

Dear Daniel,

As I write to you, the clouds paint streaks of gray turmoil across the heavens and the nightingale hesitates in her song. The cautionary whistling of the wind seems to warn me that I have stepped aboard a ship that may go below water any moment. Yet I don't step off.

Visiting weary Yankees has barely taken my fancy. I come, however, to see you whenever time permits it of me. I know I was nervous and even afraid the first time I visited. A week of thought left me calmer and miraculously free of fears. I saw you more frequently after then. I cannot say that the reason for my visits is the same each time. Some reasons ought not to be mentioned, lest I put your life and mine into jeopardy with my carelessness. I think I know what I am doing, but I wonder at times whether I am not deceiving myself. I doubt I know of my own intents!

What a sly creature this mind is, Daniel! When it knows the task ahead is sprinting, like an unbroken colt, out of its control, it hands the reins to the heart without a warning. Now my heart steers me in a direction which might lead me nowhere at all.

Already I long to see you again. I wish to gaze into those eyes which remind me of voyages on turbulent green seas. I shall let those eyes speak to me 'till the waters calm, reading every story they may narrate. For time undefined I might gladly listen to the comforting hum of your voice, which drowns out and softens the thudding of cannons in an ill-fated field killing the men too far for us to save. Each conversation makes me wonder at how much there is to your character I am yet to understand!

You intrigue me sometimes. I can't forget our conversation on Thursday. Betraying a loved one, you said, was a sin unforgivable of man. For a moment, your words filled me with dread, but I now convince myself that your statement showed only that you are a loyal and just person. I hope you thought over my opinion as well. Betraying your society, your nation- how can there be a crime as unforgivable as that? You seem an intelligent and dedicated soldier, so you would without a doubt understand what I mean.

We all want the fight to end, Lieutenant Adams. Yet suffice it to say that the ends we desire are not the same.

That is why I am certain I'll never let you read this letter. It is of importance to be cautious. In this caution I must accept that you will never know I am enamored of you.

Yours truly,
Katherine

Inked In Crimson #5 (He)

Dear Katherine

My longing for your words has now intensified to such an immeasurable extent, that your absence has become my thirst, your presence my salvation. Day and night in this glum, melancholy place, I find in my heart a solitary, secluded corner only reserved for your voice, for the sweetness of your voice is so pure, so virtuous that it cannot be accepted by the heart that is full to brim with pain and sorrow.

Every night, I reminisce about the first time you called me by name, albeit unknowingly. It was on a blazing day, when we were strolling around the camp site. The atmosphere was quiet, barring the sound of the subtle wind blowing the sands away from our feet, making way for our next step. You were so cheerful, so chirpy that day. And I, like a faithful listener, listened to every single syllable that emerged out free from your mouth. Eventually, at one moment, it gave way to my name, my first name.

Daniel. How graceful, how ravishing it sounded. The ‘Da-’ that emerged like a stream descending from a lush green hilltop, the twist in ‘-niel’ that signified the twist of the stream as it descended.

And you didn’t even know it.

At that time, I had momentarily forgotten that I was a soldier.

Gone are the days when I looked for life starving like the sun,
Gone are the days when I searched for love, but couldn’t find one.

So my dearest, as the bells of the church chime twelve times, I return to my bed, which has now become the shrine of my religion, the abode of my peace. It is this place where I find myself delved into the thoughts of your existence.

As all four directions make way for a sound, silent slumber, and the cloudless night lends its hand to blow the barren, dusty sands, I discover that my restlessness has overcome this span of immovable stillness. I find that deep below this benumbed, bewitching piece of flesh lies a smitten portion of my life, stabbed by the dagger of your name, longing to be stabbed again and again, as these stabs are the stabs that relieve me from my pain.

Don’t let these wounds heal, Oh Almighty!
For they are wounds to my pains, and not to my happiness.
They are but the ultimate cure to all my grief,
That has conquered my emotions and made them its slaves.
So when I hold my gun, my heart swells up in violence,
When I march forward, my soul gives way to fury,
When I see friends kiss their wounds for one last time, my blood boils up,
But when I am stabb’d by this dagger of love, I surrender to my assassin.
So don’t let these wounds heal, Oh Almighty!
For they are wounds to my pains, but life to my life…

As I now stand up to put out the lantern light, I’m tugged by an anonymous force that resists me from doing so. It seems to say, “Wait. Sit down. You have so much more to write.” And I am compelled. Compelled by this piece of paper, that begs and pleads to be written on. Compelled by this pen, that considers it an honor to be used to write what I’m writing.

My mind’s beyond my control, my heart beyond repair,
My soul’s left waiting for you, beyond all gloom and despair.

Therefore I shall declare today, with this letter, this pen, this lantern, this endless stretch of sand, the stars and the moonless sky being testimony to my declaration, that you and only you are my love, my platonic love. You are irreplaceable in form and unparalleled in existence. You are the thought of my mind, the emotion of my heart, and the utterance of my mouth. You are the spell that has left me spellbound. You have given wings to my words, waves to my senses, and companionship to my isolation.

You have given meaning to my life, and that’s what I desired all my life.

I know not if you think of me in your dreams as I do,
I know not whether your worries go in exile when you talk to me, as mine do,
I know not if your eyes are elated when they see me approaching, but mine are,
I know not whether you spend sleepless nights thinking about me, but I do,
I know not if you sit alone at midnight and write long letters to me, as I do,
All I know is that you are the sigh of my every breath, the blood of my every bruise, and the sound of my every expression…

With love, and much more
Daniel

Inked In Crimson #6 (She)

Dear Daniel,

Winter is nothing but a prelude to spring. The hard, bloodstained earth seems to give way to shoots of green, life instilled in them by the hope in your voice. I take your arm in my hands and the sour smell of wounds fades. The battle has receded into a backdrop which hardly suits the romance being played out on the stage.

Beacons in black silk
beckon me close
Past eons of darkness
I now see a star.
It illuminates
the darkest night.
I can see the stars.

I know I am looking in the right direction when I gaze into my own memory and see splinters of joy. Amidst all the destruction, joy! I am leading two lives, and one is blissfully sheltered from the horrors we are growing accustomed to. I wish at times I could sever all ties with the person I am and lose myself in that web of purity and indifference. What is loyalty? I barely know. The heart races and every nerve blossoms. Did ever my loyalty afford me this pleasure? No, some feelings are chanced upon only once. Pearls are found nowhere but in the sea.

I gaze at the ocean
Is it only the sunset
That paints the sea red?
Listen to the water
Your words crash onto the shore
Your words flow through my veins
I am lost in the waves

I look forward to our meetings with anticipation I seldom showed before. I wait for your eyes to hold mine as you gently slide open the gates to your mind. I pause and wonder at that mind, that character, all hidden inside one person- one gun in the Union, one man in a unit, one speck of the whole. There is a universe behind that one speck, and I could explore it all my life. I am riveted to you by the mysteries left unsolved by bits of conversation.

Never was I so lost in speculation
Never more afraid
Night turns into day
I shall face my fears again
For one more meeting
One more sentence from your lips
What is risk to me
When everything is already at stake?

There are so many letters I write. My other correspondents are grim reminders of the tumultuous times. I cannot turn away from those who need me. I pick up fragments of conversation. I observe the surroundings, survey the land. It is a curiosity that in spite of this, only one face appears and one voice reverberates in my mind at the end of the day. I close my eyes and let the feeling wash over me. I stand at the point of a mountain that slopes neither towards the sky nor the earth. There is one patch of stability in this life and I have found it. Keep me enveloped within your gaze, lest I slip. It would certainly be a downward journey from here.

Roses wilt, pianos burn
Beauty spirals around until it suffocates us
Is it a deception?
Betrayal?

Nothing is what it seems, yet there is a hint of comfort left. Astonished at myself, I kindle a fire of hope. My heart has begun a wondrous journey through creeks and over cliffs, across the borders of a broken country.

Protect this love
from fate.

Yours,
Katherine

Inked In Crimson #7 (He)

Dear Katherine,

I am owned.
Owned by a damsel in distress,
Whose frown is as beauteous as the laughter of the Atlantic;
Owned by a figure in meditation,
Whose eyes have a brightness as profound as the Midnight Moon;
Owned by an image of charm,
Whose charisma in unmatchable even for the Niagara;
I am owned.

I sometimes find my life funny. At one moment, I rue my shattered family. The next moment, I rejoice the fact that I met you. And then things look so much in place, that I always end up thinking my life has been a success. Slow, gradual success, that comes only to the favored.

I did not get time to see you before going to the field yesterday; action had to be taken immediately. One of the Union support bases was recklessly chased through the streets of Hanover by the Confeds, and we were chosen for some counter-attack reinforcement. It really needed some nerves to pick up the rifle, load it, and then fire mercilessly at the swarm of soldiers in front of me, especially after such a long break from war.

Yesterday, we killed not one, not two, but hundreds of soldiers who had wives and children; who yearned for love and family reunion more than gunshots and cannon attacks. For the first time in my life as a Union fighter, I felt guilty. Guilty of the unavoidable truth that those men whom I had killed too were sons and fathers. Guilty of the fact that I made some women widows, some children orphans.

I do not know when that bullet was shot and by whom. It emerged from nowhere and found just the right piece of flesh to bury itself into – my left arm.

I faltered, then collapsed. I tried to keep my eyes open, but they just did not. All I remember now is the voice of Henry – “Who’s gonna carry him back?”

Even before I opened my eyes, I realized it was you. And when I did open them, I found you sitting on the same chair beside me, dressing the torn and tattered portion of my skin.

I did not feel the pain of the wound. Maybe because the bullet wasn’t too deep-seeded. Maybe because I was out of senses when the wound was dressed. Maybe because I was treated early.

Maybe because you were sitting beside me.

There is a heart waiting to be knocked,
So that it may open to welcome a new guest,
A guest who had never visited this ruined place before;
And let the guest settle in the soul,
Where she is fed with morsels of adoration,
So that she visits the heart every time she comes in life.

****************************************************************

In the evening, the wind had finally come to a standstill. The dust had settled. Silence had taken its toll everywhere around, and nothing was able to calm the stillness that persisted in the army camp.

You finally rose up from your seat, took the dressing equipment, but spilled the packet of syringes that rested on your lap. You quickly gathered the syringes and left the quarters.

But you missed to pick up one.

I noticed the syringe under my bed after you were gone. But I found something weird with it.
I found it did not look transparent.

There was a note, a written note, rolled up inside the barrel.

I pulled out the plunger, then removed the note from the barrel.

I unrolled the note.

Daniel

Inked In Crimson #8 (She)

Dear Daniel,

Every moment is an explosion of color. Deep, cloudy shades of blue, soft pink of warm breath, flashes of violent orange. I am a landslide of emotions, each battling to bury the others. What my mind constantly brings forth is the image of you biting your lip, fighting back pain, while an ugly smear of the darkest red spread across lightly tanned skin the color of a fresh loaf of bread. The muscular arm my touch has grown so acquainted with lay tenderly on a white sheet, staining it crimson. In spite of the evident pain, you nearly never ceased to smile as I spoke to you.

The moment I heard you were shot, I rushed to your side. Miss Collins seemed glad to have one less injured man to worry about. Even as I dressed the wound, I regretted not being able to provide you with better care or even cleaner bandages. The pain of injury may be momentary to you, but the risk of disease is tremendous. Many have been lost to illness. Pain shoots sharply through me if I so much as think of losing you.

While I may acknowledge that I am worrying for no good reason, separation from you is always a fear haunting me. Today it has been reinforced.

I have lost something of importance and as long as I do not know of its whereabouts, I am in danger. Control seems to be slipping away from me and my hands shake with sudden spasms of uncertainty. If the note I have misplaced ends up in Union hands, life as I know it shall be mine no longer.

The punishment for espionage is imprisonment or deportation.

I always knew I had to tread carefully. Every action and every word in these few months has been a risk. Yet I never felt as I do today- dreading tomorrow's dawn. Doubts crash onto me like blinding rain. I cannot see three feet ahead of me, and I cannot make it stop. I only hear the pounding. The summer air turns chillingly cold. Yet I try to dissuade myself from imagining what may happen. I shall take on anything for the people to whom I pledge loyalty.

When you stand in the middle of a war zone, you have to be prepared for bullets.

Yours,
Katherine

Inked In Crimson #9 (He)

Dear Katherine,

I am numb. As numb as the dried tree outside. As numb as the body of a soldier lying in the cold territory. As numb as the clogged blood in my wound.

As numb as the piece of paper clutched with the tightest of grips in my hand.

There is a certain extent to which man can be shocked. Crossing that extent is when he feels betrayed.

I’m feeling betrayed. By you.

Now I know why you sounded so nervous the first time you met me. Now I know why you made your presence felt at the dinner gathering. Now I know why you stiffened at the word ‘betrayal’ at the Easter fest. And now I know why you ‘come here from time to time’ at the first place.

I reopen the crumpled note and read the contents for the fourth time –

Report (K. Mc. to Confederate F. L.) – Talk between Brig. Farnsworth and Meade - “…troops sent to Richmond and Baltimore. Only abt. 3000 barrels of g. powder left. More arriving from Virginia.” Mentioned something like ‘Southern Frontier occupancy plan’ and ‘SPAC’. Approach Maj.R. Confed. Clear.

This cannot be true. Not at all. How can it be? It’s so, so unnatural. This must be a nightmare. A horrendous, forgettable nightmare. This is for the first time that I am shuddering not because of the cold, but because of a reality that has left me aghast.

I do not have a shield
To protect myself from this shower of attacks,
I do not have any armor
To screen me from this deluge of trauma,

This unforeseen truth has left me naked against circumstances. Yet, all I can do is stand in anticipation, and accept the cannons that demolish my building of trust.

I pick the syringe from where I had kept it – on the blood-stained mattress. How iconic this placement is. The syringe that concealed from me the cruel actuality lies upon the bed of my love, on the portion stained with the blood of betrayal. How gruesome, cold-hearted and brutal does this image look now.

I am in a state of pitiless dilemma. My good mind says that your betrayal must not be at the cost of my love. My accursed mind says that your betrayal suggests that my love was farce. And between these two minds is me, crammed in a congestion that may cost me my fate.

Shall I or shall I not inform this to the General? If I do not, I betray my side. In such circumstances I shall commit the heinous sin of treachery. And if I do, I betray my love. In that case, what is the difference between you and I? Both of us are disloyal to each other.

On one side lies the trench of treason,
And on the other, the cliff of compassion;
And then there is the mirage of mayhem,
Trapped in the desert of dilemma.

But I must listen to my instincts. I always have, for they are my right senses. I heeded them when they said you were a trustworthy companion. And now they say that I shall not arrive to conclusions so early. Maybe this note isn’t yours at all. Maybe it wasn’t you who had concealed the note in the syringe.

Maybe you aren’t a Confederate spy.

No, I shouldn’t be doing things quickly without giving a second thought. I shall approach you first, before going to the general. I must ensure whether or not it was you who had written this note. I shall first make sure whether my suspicion of your identity is in any way right.

I hope it isn’t.

Daniel

Inked In Crimson #10 (She)

Dear Daniel,

If I said I saw pain yesterday evening, I’d be mistaken.

Every speck of summer light
Is overshadowed by the darkness
Wrought by storms within your eyes.

Today's meeting was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. You had rarely visited my house before. I was not unaccustomed to visiting soldiers, and I let you in. It took only one glance at you before a terrible knot began to form in my stomach. All of a sudden, I realized precisely where I had lost the confidential note. I knew in that single glimpse that you had read it. My heart raced and in a moment of uninhibited panic, I wanted to tell you to leave, so that I might shut the door and disappear to some haven where you could never see me again.

I calmed myself. "Good morning, Daniel," I said, trying to seem genuinely happy to see you. "Have a seat. What brings you here?"

Your eyes were dark with the rain of doubt that had pounded on me all through the sleepless night. I feared the sloshing water may cascade over the rims when your eyes could no longer contain the storm. To think that my actions had done this to you- had I the experience of using it, I would have picked up your gun and taken a bullet to my brain.

You did not sit. I remember you saying my name with one part disappointment and one part anger- yes, anger- in your voice.

"Yes?"

"I don't ever want to doubt you, Miss Katherine, after all you've done for me, but-" You looked at me with a fixed gaze as you got straight to the point. "But yesterday night you forgot a note in my quarters which had a rather odd message on it." You were trying to hide the anger, but your voice was grave. Steady. Beautiful.

I prayed you would not be able to hear the nervous beating of my heart. How would I ever explain my actions? What was duty from my perspective was a serious offence from yours. That is the curious thing about the minds and lives of humans.

I knew that confessing would hurt me. I was prepared for punishment. As I looked at you, however, I caught a glimpse of how much my confession might hurt you, as well. I could not bring myself to give you the truth. "What note, Daniel?" I asked.

You explained how I had dropped a syringe in your quarters yesterday and how you had found a note inside.

"A note in a syringe?" I was presenting my best charade, although I was unsure of whether it was working on you. "Why would anyone do that? What did it say?"

"Something important," you said, dismissively. "Its contents are not significant right now, Katherine. You must tell me the truth- did you write any note and hide in in a syringe?"

You must tell me the truth. I couldn't. "I don't know what you are talking about," I insisted. "I was carrying a load of syringes some girl handed to me. They looked empty to me!"

You didn't seem very convinced, but I sensed you were backing down. Perhaps you wanted to talk about it no more than I did. One last time, you asked softly, "You know nothing about a note, Miss Katherine?"

"Nothing, Daniel."

Your lips eased into a ghost of a smile. I could not tell whether it was genuine. "Ah," you said. "It must have been a misunderstanding."

The storm had stopped, but the clouds were yet to clear. I changed the subject and we spoke awhile before you got up and said you must be going.

Now that you have left, I am in an even worse state than yesterday night. I challenge my own morals and actions. I am not the only person in risk! I shudder when I think of how many deaths I may have caused- then I push the doubt to a faraway corner of my mind. Getting rid of one doubt does little to quieten the chatter of my conscience and the voice of uncertainty. What if the information I supply the Confederacy costs me a greater price- you?

There is more than one battle here.
Mind against heart
Thought against emotion
Loyalty against love
I am torn to shreds
But the weapons of destruction are my own creations
Whatever I choose is betrayal.

Is it right to keep doing this? Is it correct to stop? I don't know. I cannot think straight. The whole day lies before me, yet I want to close my eyes without the worry of having to open them again.

The most frightening thing in the world is not punishment or death- it is a decision you know you cannot make.

Yours,
Katherine

Inked In Crimson #11 (He)

Dear Katherine
My head was overflowing with doubts and suspicions, and I thought it was best to decide things once and for all.
I felt it wasn’t appropriate to press you too much during my visit today. Noticing your perspiration when I asked you about the note made me realize that the problem is way more significant than I had assumed. On the other hand, I didn’t want to pressurize or blackmail you into forcibly accepting the truth - which apparently isn’t yet justified as the truth - and rather wanted to handle the issue with my own hands.
I wanted to search your house.
I managed to steal your key from the table, away from your eyes, while I was leaving.
I began my descent from the army camp on the way to your house. I waited behind a bush expecting you to come out so that I may break in. Eventually, you did emerge out and made way towards the public church. I found this the right moment to enter inside.
Although I did visit this house before then, it was then that I realized how small and unnoticeable it is. Interestingly, it lies all in anonymity, away from the rubble and commotion of the army camp.
I unlocked the door and went inside, and was welcomed by a creak of the hinges and a pair of cobwebs. I scampered towards the cupboard and opened it to discover a few clothes. I searched through the entire piece of furniture only to find it devoid of any written notes.
Maybe I was wronged by my intuition. Maybe my suspicion was incorrect. Maybe I was too muddle-headed to doubt you of all other women to be a spy from the enemy base.
And then I noticed a pair of drawers.
They did not have handles; or rather their handles were removed. They bore the same color as of the cupboard, which made it difficult to recognize them. I tried to open the bottom one with my free hands, but eventually had to use the key to hook its curvature in the inner side, and then pull the drawer out.
All I could see was a bunch of letters.
Since the bottom drawer was open, it was relatively easy to open the top one. And all I could find was more letters.
Maybe these were the letters which had to be sent to the Confederate army.
I opened one of the letters kept in the bottom drawer.
It was addressed to a nonentity named Daniel.
I gasped for breath.
Then something caught my eye –
“I have been writing to the Confederate officials for a while, but control now seems to be slipping away from me and my hands shake with sudden spasms of uncertainty.”
And then you described how you chanced upon a secretive conversation in the Union quarters.
For me, the sky fell crashing onto my shoulders.
Why did you do this to me?
I opened another letter kept in the same drawer.
It began – “Dear Daniel”.
I rose and settled myself on the cot beside me. I continued reading -
“Winter is nothing but a prelude to spring. The hard, bloodstained earth seems to give way to shoots of green, life instilled in them by the hope in your voice. I take your arm in my hands and the sour smell of wounds fades. The battle has receded into a backdrop which hardly suits the romance being played out on the stage…”
This was followed by a poem.
I was flabbergasted.
I fervently caught hold of another letter, this time from the top drawer.
“Dear Daniel
As I write to you, the clouds paint streaks of gray turmoil across the heavens and the nightingale hesitates in her song…”
All of a sudden, I fixed my gaze to something –
“Already I long to see you again. I wish to gaze into those eyes which remind me of voyages on turbulent green seas...”
And then there were many other snippets, from different letters –

“We all want the fight to end, Lieutenant Adams. Yet suffice it to say that the ends we desire are not the same…”

“I wait for your eyes to hold mine as you gently slide open the gates to your mind...”

“The enemy is like a tower stacked too high, and the Confederacy needs information to topple it. The Confederacy needs women who rise to their duty…”

“Keep me enveloped within your gaze, lest I slip…”

By this time, my eyes were red with tears. These were the tears of Second Lieutenant Daniel Adams, fighter of the Union army, whose motto is that toughness precedes family and emotions. But these tears were not of weakness. These tears were of the bittersweet realization that the simple lady whom I had fallen for is an enemy across borders, and that my love, after all, wasn’t just my own.
Why didn’t you tell me, Katherine? Why didn’t you?
But even I didn’t tell you. Even I didn’t have the courage to come forward and accept my infatuation. Both of us were muted by speech, yet had a lot to say from inside. Perhaps that’s why it was only our hearts who talked, and these talks of love didn’t reach our mouths. We knew that our words flowed from soul to soul, but what we did not know was that those words were not combinations of syllables; they were combinations of emotions – emotions that redefined relationships.

I shall be a blind less
Than watch my eyes dilate with affection;
I shall be a stone less
Than watch my body benumbed at your voice;
I shall be a slave less
Than watch myself enslaved by your thoughts;
I shall be a life less
Than watch my image carved in your letters.

And presently, the image of a Union soldier is carved in the letters of a Confederate spy. This is the image of the Union soldier who believes in service before self, fight before heal. This is the image of a partisan who shall always side with his duty, even if it requires sacrificing his love.
And today, his duty is to report a spy to the General…
I rose up slowly, very slowly, from the cot, and gradually made my way to the door with your letters in my hand. My legs were reluctant to let me out of your home, and I had to force them to move forward. I had to command them to move directly towards the camp site.
Love has its conditions, but so does loyalty. So it hurts me to the core when I tell you that I am in deep love, yet am compelled to shove it aside to fulfil my commitment. I may be condemned in the eyes of love, but if the turn of events force me to watch my love go against my duty, I am coerced to support the latter.
I know Katherine, that this may be hurtful. You may think I have stabbed you in the back. But it is my job to tell you this – my love and my objective are two different worlds. In the world of love, I see none but you. But when it comes to my objective, you are but a Confederate spy. And every Confederate spy is an enemy. Yet, you must not forget that for me, you are that same simple girl sitting beside me, holding my left arm with her soft, delicate hands.
If you have a heart as great as your love, forgive me and my stone heart for whatever I’ve done…
Yours, and yours forever
Daniel

Inked In Crimson #12 (She)

Daniel,

After all that happened yesterday, I find it a marvel that I am still writing this down and addressing it to you. Yet as soon as my pen touches a scrap of paper, the first thing it writes is your name.

I blew my cover yesterday. 'Safe' is a word I no longer know. I stepped out in the evening, well after our ill-fated conversation in the morning. I needed quiet and calm to regain my lost peace of mind and intended to go to church for no longer than fifteen minutes. The evening air was buzzing with tension, and before I stepped out I ensured that all the unsent letters I had written were hidden with care. Yet when I returned, the door to my three-room dwelling was ajar. I ran into my bedroom to find blank pieces of paper strewn across the floor and drawers shut halfway in haste.

My letters were nowhere to be seen.

Of course, you now possess them. I'd realized you hadn't quite believed me when I denied being a spy. Now you had everything I'd ever wanted to say to you, as proof. Although I addressed everything to you, I feel sick when I think of you reading it. The morning is beginning to warm into afternoon, but I am chilled to the bone. Pages are turning before I can read and absorb what they say. Does this mean you will not visit me again?
I lied to you and deceived you. The only truth I could give you was my love. Every word and every smile was true. Every glance was the most sincere glance of the heart. I might be loyal to your enemies, but I had no hidden motives where you were concerned, none at all. I simply fell in love with you.

I do not know why fate chose this setting to bring us together. All I can say is that this is not a deception as terrible as you may be thinking, or at least, it was never intended to be.

I wish I could turn back time. It has become one of my most fervent desires. I know, however, that what has been done has been done. My letters are with a Union soldier. I have readied myself for whatever awaits me.

What is fear?

Yours truly and sincerely,
Katherine

Inked In Crimson #13 (He)

The rumble around me is growing every single moment, and my ears cannot take the beating that they are getting exposed to. But it is not the violence that is making me fatigued.
The musket is still intact within the folds of my right fives. He is fully loaded, and raring to be fired at the enemy. But it is his deranged owner who is hesitant.
He knows that he is not going to be fired again. At least not by him.
And when a gun realizes that his master is lost in thoughts other than his target, he shall accept the reason to be bondage.
A gust of sand-filled wind allows me to shut my eyes for a moment. And I take this opportunity to close my view of the war zone and open one of bliss.
I am transported back to my quarters.
I realise that all the while, it has been an enemy who has treated me with utmost care. It has been an enemy who has filled the void of a friend in my life.
All of a sudden, my mind holds me by the scruff of my neck and takes me to today’s morning.
I can feel my legs walking – no, running – towards the General. I hear the Major at a distance, but continue my steps. Eventually, it is the First Lieutenant who catches sight of me. He runs, holds my hand, hands me the musket, and drags me to the troop assembled for the battle.
I can still recall what he said –
“Hey, Second! Where have you been? Here, take this. It’s fully loaded. Your arm’s okay, right? Yes it is. Now listen. We’ve terribly fallen short of troops, and Meade has ordered to recall soldiers with minor injuries. I know it’s monstrous of him, but you are healthy, right? Yes, you are. And you have to fight today. For the good of the Union. Now come on, everyone’s assembled…”
“…But where’s the General?”
I took off my hand from his in haste.
“He’s lickin’ sand at Culp’s, waitin’ for us. Now don’t be a hot-headed jerk. They need you and many more like you, who are fit to battle. Come on, there’s no time. You do not want the Confeds to win again. Quick, the troop’s gettin’ ready.”
And I was dragged along the uneven stretch to the assembly of soldiers.
My task was left incomplete. My duty of reporting an enemy infiltrator to the Union General was left unfinished.
****************************************************************
I manage to lift my hand and wipe off the dirt from my face. I squeeze my eyes and open them after blinking thrice. But another streak of red sand finds me unguarded.
This time, my closed eyes recall my life and times with an enemy eavesdropper.
And out of nowhere, your arm lifts my tired elbow and rests it on its warm surface. Just then I notice your dove eyes that have in them a startling naivety. And then my focus shifts to your voice, which is even more poetic than my letters.
Why did I not let you read my letters?
I did not have time, Katherine. I’ve never had time. I did not have time to find a family. I did not have time to report to the General. I did not have time to tell you how much I cherished every single moment with you. I did not have time to tell you that your love is complete; that it is bound from both sides; that your letters do have a meaning. I did not have time to tell you that even I write letters to you without thinking whether or not they shall reach you.
But I did have time to discover the Daniel of your life.
Words longed for falling from my mouth, but tripped and stumbled when they reached my lips. And when I found your words timidly hidden in inked letters, I was astonished at how timid I was for being unable to express my adoration that till today remains concealed and suppressed under bits and pieces of paper.
What worth is love,
If its freedom limits only to ink splashed on whiteness?
What worth is relationship,
If relatives do not proclaim what their relation is?
What worth is voice,
If it hesitates to burst before someone close to your heart?
What worth is soul,
If it does not understand that there is a soulmate close by?

The sun tries to emerge out from the clouds, but it just cannot.
I gather courage to lift my right hand and caress that part of my chest that screens the heart. I touch the breast pocket of my uniform. But it’s no good. I place my right palm back to its initial position, knowing that it is stained with a dark red color that will eventually dry up. The bullet is still inside, sheepishly smiling at the fact that it had found the right man at the right place.
Yet, the bullet has not achieved anything great. What worse can a bullet do to a heart that is already punctured with innumerable wounds?
But don’t you worry, Katherine. Your portion of the heart is as safe as before. It is still thumping with full pomp. I did not allow the bullet to hit your region. Why should I? I do not want to lose your memories and your remembrances. I do not want to lose whatever is preserved in that ‘secluded corner’ of my heart.
Nothing shall be more painful
Than losing your presence in me;
Nothing shall be more disillusioning
Than disregarding your presence in me;
Nothing shall be more catastrophic
Than forgetting your presence in me;
Nothing shall be more lifeless
Than killing your presence in me.
The only mistake that we committed was that I was a Union, and you, a Confederate.
We are star-crossed.
Therefore, the time has come to tell you that although we were torn by the ruins of war, our love wasn’t. For years, I yearned for a companion that would walk with me on the path of roses. But God gave me so much more than I desired.
He gave a companion that would teach me to walk on the path of thorns – transcending all borders, barriers and showers of gunfire…
Time, for me, is short, but life has paved its way to unification, and unify we will, be it in afterlife. For me, you were born as my platonic love, and for you, I shall die as your platonic love. But you shall live on as the legacy of my existence. You shall be the memoir of our love that will long be revered by every element of romance. You shall represent the force of compassion, and the will of love.
I know that this letter will never reach to you, for it is not ink that says what is written in it, but the thoughts of a dying soldier that paint it with emotions. This letter is unharmed, and will always be unharmed in my mind, protected from the cruelties of the blood-stained battlefield. This letter is written in my psyche, and shall be destroyed only when nothing of me remains but a piece of flesh.
Let the heavens hear what I’ve written hence,
Let them know how I defied their laws,
Let them understand how I went against their dimensions of Destiny,
Let them realise how I changed the road of Fate.
We may succumb to the ravages of time,
Which viciously wipe away our existence from mankind;
But survive our love will, till time immemorial,
Braving the wrath of circumstances, day by day…
****************************************************************
The sun finally finds its way out of the clouds, as I close my eyes for one last time…

Inked In Crimson #14 (She)

Daniel.

The letters are soaked.

They arrived in a simple, white envelope addressed to me, brought by a soldier in Union uniform. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him at the door and I steeled myself for arrest. That, however, was not his purpose. His voice is thundering in my ears. 'This was in the possession of Daniel Adams. He would have wanted you to have it.' Gently spoken. Cruel words.

When nightmares were no longer frightening
Reality chokes me
I speak
Silence responds
The explosions I hear are not your voice
My hands
Brush thin air
Maybe it's myself I cannot heal
I poured all my emotion
Into an apparition
I am empty.
You are gone.

Why could the universe not sentence me to a punishment less agonizing? I was prepared for anything but this, Daniel. I chose my loyalty over my love, and here I sob on the floor, both shattered. The Confederacy lost the battle. Your eyes closed forever.

I wish time had stopped when your heart did, but I seem to be the only one frozen while the universe is still in motion and the battle outside rages on.

Visiting army camp again would be akin to willfully tearing myself into shreds. Would I do so, for nothing more than information? I do not know- that is a question from another life.

Right now, all that exists is you and I. I am broken, damaged, exhibiting the kind of weakness I would never have expected of myself. Shattered, free for now but caged within memories. As for you- you may not be here in form, but your words are still speaking to me. Your letters weave up a presence in this room, so that there are not one but two souls here tonight, mutely watching an ill-fated love slip back into the nonexistence from which it arose.

I can't stop the tears as I write this last letter, which your eyes shall never glimpse. The mental image of your body, the light of life snuffed out by merciless pieces of metal, makes me want to cry out. Yet I cannot make a sound and my screams are soundless exhalations, my face contorted into a picture of helpless disbelief. Streams of tears run down my cheeks and drip onto the paper; my mouth tastes of salt. There are pages and pages written in your hand. My gaze runs blindly across the lines and the print is sharp and clear one moment, hopelessly blurred the next.

'I’m like that fallen leaf from a withered maple tree, only waiting for some sweet, soothing breeze to lift me up from the dirt that borders my saddened life. You are that string of emotions, to which my kite of feelings is tied.'

Day has darkened into night as I read these for the thousandth time since morning, yet all my shattered soul can make out is a few fragments of sense.

'I'm feeling betrayed. By you.'

'If you have a heart as great as your love, forgive me and my stone heart for whatever I’ve done...'

I want to rip the letters into tiny pieces, just as the memory of your smile rips my heart brutally into two, so that I may never know the physical pain of reading these words again.

'You are the thought of my mind, the emotion of my heart, and the utterance of my mouth. You are the spell that has left me spellbound. You have given wings to my words, waves to my senses, and companionship to my isolation.'

The very next moment I clasp the bundle of sheets to my chest, running my fingers over the words you wrote. Your thoughts are enshrined in those lines. I hold the letters gingerly in my hands- a glimpse into the life we were not destined to know. They are all that is left of you.

I realize that I was not the only one who embarked on a doomed voyage to find love.

I sat by the ocean
I braved the storms
Waded into the waves
Drowned in the waters
Sank to the bottom
Of a sea of bliss-
I opened my eyes
There was only
A dry, parched, gaping pit
Where I lay
There I still, lifeless, stay.

It was nothing more than a momentary spark, yet it seems to me like a connection that endures, joining me to you, wherever you are now. The wind whispers in your voice but when I look around, I am alone. I plead with the wind to bring you back. It scatters the letters around me, where I lay on the cold gray floor.

'Dear Katherine...'

It is surreal to think that you wrote these to me. You, who were a constant of stability and joy in a life full of rapid changes and betrayal, you who were a beacon of hope for people lost on dark seas, the face of optimism, so innocent yet so wise with experience- you wrote these to me, a faltering, disloyal, girl who did nothing to deserve you. Yet you penned these words, and they are addressed to me. It is unbelievable. A part of me surges with ecstasy, then plummets into an unending pit when reality comes rushing back.

'Yours, and yours forever,
Daniel'

It's not just tears, all my emotions are pouring out of my eyes in a stream that I will never be able to stop. Alone without comfort, I weep into a worn blanket. I pull myself together, only to break down again. There is a cold chill in my stomach and I feel like someone is punching me in the ribs. "Daniel," I whisper in an exhausted, broken voice, hesitantly touching the line where you have signed the letter. Your name sounds foreign in my voice. I am not fit to pronounce it, but it is so beautiful. As I train myself to forget your face, that name will be all I own. "Daniel," I repeat, staring with an empty gaze at the letters on the floor. "Please... give me one more chance."

I would sacrifice anything right now for one more moment with you.

Yet, no matter how much I repent, the breath of life does not flow through your body. Your eyes cannot see my tears. The mysteries deep within them are locked forever to the world. The warmth of your skin has disappeared from your lifeless hands. Your voice will never again fill up a melancholy afternoon.

Memories are all that remain. My own actions, perhaps, have cursed me to spend my days with only solitude for company and my nights in dreams, which seem so real that waking up each morning will be akin to losing you all over again.

Those memories are the only places worth living in now. I know not what shall happen to me henceforth, yet I know that you gave me the most beautiful days of my life, and blissful golden moments to cherish.

Whatever befalls me, one thing is for sure.

I shall remember you, Second Lieutenant Daniel Adams, until my soul is reunited with yours.

Yours forever,
Katherine