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Why can’t they just leave him alone and get on with their work? He passed through the door and on to the rear entrance. He was hit by the bright sunlight and blinked several times before becoming accustomed to it. He rested his hands on the railings at the top of the steps and took several deep breathes then reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve his tobacco pouch. Taking his pipe from his top pocket he loaded the pipe, lit it and contentedly took a few puffs. A movement caught his eye and he looked over towards the path leading into the glade. Yes, a figure hurrying between the trees. “A young filly, I’ll be bound,” he said to himself. “Now I wonder where she’s going to in such a rush?” Jonathan let curiosity get the better of him. He walked down the steps and strode across to the path leading into the small wood taking off his heavy tweed jacket to reveal his braces. On the other side were wheat fields. They would be almost ready for harvest now, the golden grain standing. His lungs had been slightly seared by the dragon-flame during his last famous cavalry charge, and they never entirely healed, leaving him with a constant rasping cough that only got worse over the years. When he passed, he was perhaps one of the very last and final victims of the great war, dying from those slow internal wounds at long last, but Rowan and Gwenda knew better. Their friend, acutely missing his heart-song, had quite lost his will to live without her.Rowan saw that his tomb was laid right next to hers, and he commissioned a carved white marble statue of the two lovers, depicted holding hands together, set above their grave. On every free-day since, they and their many grandchildren would picnic there on the grass of the island, under the carved smiling faces of their old and very dearest friends, and while the children played on the soft and thick green grass nearby, Rowan and Gwenda would somberly relate to their departed friends the latest news. It was usually bad.
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