Harry comes bounding into my quarters the next evening, bright eyed and cheerful.

"I apologized to Draco Malfoy," he says to me, clearly glad to have it over with.

"Good," I say. "How did he react?"

Harry frowns. "Well, I think he said something about how his father was going to hear about it."

I hold back a smirk, secretly feeling rather pleased that my son gave Lucius' a black eye. I should not have been gleeful over this, but my days spying as a Death Eater coloured my views of Lucius Malfoy just a little bit. Well, a lot. It did not help that Draco was far too much his father's son.

"I am proud of you for apologizing," I say. "It was the right thing to do."

"Minerva's going to make Malfoy and I scrub the trophy room," Harry says with a scowl, clearly not looking forward.

"That's Professor McGonagall to you now that you're a student," I add. "And I was aware of what you two would be getting to do. Minerva and I discussed it, seeing as Mr. Malfoy is in my house."

I fall silent as I make an after school snack for him.

"So, Dad, are you gonna tell me the rest, like, how you got your medal?" Harry asks eagerly when I sit down at the table. He reaches for an apple slice.

I do not understand how he can be so excited. Does he not realize that this is not just a story? That this actually happened? I try to remember that it is not his fault, for he is a young boy, and loves an adventure, just as all young boys do. It does not seem to me like an adventure. All I see is the pain.

"Finish your snack first," I say quietly.

When Harry is ready, I sit down on the sofa, and he comes to sits down beside me. He pulls his feet up onto the cushions so they are folded underneath him. His attention is on me, and I begin where I left off.

"After I had been in the recovery wing for about a day I was to be shipped off with a few others who were ready to go to one of the hospital ships," I say. "There was an area in the ocean a ways off the Falklands that had been declared a safe zone for both British and Argentinian hospital ships. I was to recover there for a little while, until I was strong enough to be sent home. A few of the more critical cases were taken by helicopter, but I was not that lucky. I was doing well enough to go by boat out to the hospital, as they had to find other means to get us all there due to the fact that a great number of our helicopters had been destroyed. The Argentinian army was making a point of getting rid of every helicopter possible to minimize our movement capabilities. We had originally been told that we would be taken across the Falklands in groups, by helicopter, as they had a great number brought out to the island, but we ended up having to walk to Stanley because the Argentinians destroyed the transport ships with bombs. Naturally, that gave them vital time to prepare for us. Even after that, they were still targeting ships with helicopters, as that made it all the harder for us to get supplies to the battle sites. There were very few left for transport."

"So it was good you didn't go by helicopter?" Harry asks me.

"Not exactly," I say with a heavy sigh. "We ended up going by boat. It was an old one at that. There had been a fair few casualties in the Navy, and so the men who were originally in charge of the transport ship were assigned to different ships. The Captain was sent somewhere else, and so it was up to one of the few crew members to take turns navigate and steer it, which was not a problem because it was a smaller vessel, and was not considered a threat to the enemy."

***

I lie on a stretcher, my knee in a brace as I watch men carry stretchers with other wounded men onto the ship. A fair few have similar injuries, and most can walk fairly well, but no risks are to be taken in ascending the gang plank. It is a small vessel, perhaps Eighty feet long. It is one of the civilian vessels that had gone toward the war effort, and I find it looks rather strange with its fishing gear and boxes of army crates just visible over the deck railing. As a few men come back down to lift my stretcher up I wish that they had given me crutches. I have a restless desire to do something, and I find myself almost wishing to go back to the battlefield, for a fire has started in my stomach, replacing grief.

The last twenty four hours have been hell, and some time ago I started to feel less despair over Lily's death, and more anger. I want to do something, but I lie still on the stretcher as I am told, and it is placed down in rows with the other men sandwiched between empty crates to refill with supplies, all of us waiting to be shunted off to somewhere just as crowded as the surgical hospital that we all left behind. A few I can see have sat up, their arms in slings or their legs bandaged like me. One lights a cigarette. I wonder why there are so few passengers, until I see a helicopter on the ship, taking up most of the deck room, and I wonder why it is there. It looks like it's taken some damage, with the tail end mostly missing. I understand when I hear one of the crew members of the ship say that it is being taken to Ascension Island for repair, as it needs new parts. The man seems nervous when he says it.

I do not care though, and I stare up at the orange skies, the sun falling fast as the other men are loaded up onto the ship. The clouds are stained brilliant reds and oranges, and the misty air catches the light so it looks like the whole earth is aflame.

There are eleven injured men, including myself. We are the ones who have recovered fairly well. Those who have more serious injuries, but are ready to be moved are being flown to the hospital ship. I would rather go by air. Maybe it's because I'm a paratrooper, or because being up in the air makes me think of my father, as he too was a paratrooper in his day. He was the reason why I went into that area anyway. He had a few old friends that directed the training courses, and at least he was there to give me advice if I needed. I could sure use some of his calming words right now.

Little droplets of rain fall, like mist, and I lie still as the ship begins to move. A few of the crew members can be seen. There aren't that many of them. In total, between men and injured, I think there are fifteen people at the most, yet I wish there were less injured men, for the crates and equipment - much of it sent for repair - take up a lot of room.

"Why so few men?" a soldier beside me asks one of the members of the crew. The soldier's head is bandaged and has his arm in a splint.

"Majority of our crew were taken out to another ship," says the crew member. He has bright blue eyes, and looks to be the calmest of everyone on board. "They need men to man guns. There have been a fair few air raids lately, and our ship isn't much help in that. The Atlantis isn't made for war, so with no proper guns to man, our men are of more use elsewhere. It is mostly for small cargo and transport now, but nothing too important, so it's up to who's still in the crew to take turns steering the ship because our Captain's been sent elsewhere. Navy's taken a little bit of a pounding, what with some of the larger vessels being hit the last while."

"Think there's much chance of us getting hit?" asks the injured soldier.

"Not much," says the crew man with a shrug. "We should be fine. We have made this trip a few times, and the Atlantis may be old, but she's reliable."

"Good, I'm looking forward to a stay somewhere we won't be bombed out," says the soldier cheerfully.

I want to stand up. I am sick of lying down, and so I sit up and edge toward a broom with a long, sturdy handle. I grab it and use it to lean on as I stand against the railing, wobbling slightly, but upright. I hear the soldier who was talking earlier speaking of his family back home. I try not to listen, but I think of Lily anyway, and I feel my throat constrict.

I watch as the beach drifts away from us, and we are out to sea. It looks so big, and endless. It makes me wonder where Ben is right now, and I hope that wherever he is he is alright. A flash of red crosses my vision as I remember Joey. I fight the pressure in my chest and focus instead on the misty rain, which continues to chill me to the bone. I do not know how long I stand here, but the horizon darkens as time goes on. Despair washes over me in great waves, and I have no energy to stop it.

We are slowly making our way out to sea, but the islands are still in sight. I am sitting down again, on an upturned crate. That's when the water erupts some twenty feet from the ship. I feel my heart jump out of my chest, and the other men around me give cries of shock.

"Shit!" says the crew man with the blue eyes, fear blossoming in them for the first time. "They've sighted the helicopter! I told them we needed some camouflage for it! God, don't they know it's practically a write-off?"

I think my lungs are going to burst with panic, and the ship is veered off to the right. I hope we can get out of range. It appeared as though it was a missile, fired from shore. It will take them a while to reload, thankfully.

A few other ships are too far away to fire anything at the source of the missile, or at least that's what I'm hearing the few crew members shout back and forth. I look around, and I do not see any in sight.

I cannot stand to sit, and so I grab the broom, thrust the straw bristled side under one of my armpits. It crunches as lean on it and hobble toward the front of the deck, slowly but surely. There is not much hope for us outrunning the missiles. They are firing to demolish us, all because of one stupid, broken helicopter. Before I know it I have wobbled my way to the control room. The ship is very much a fishing boat, and nobody is there but the man at the wheel. He looks young, and he has the panicked look of someone who has had minimal experience with steering a ship.

"Sir, you have to get these men off of this ship," I say without knowing what I am doing, because I have an awful feeling. My head is going in circles, and I know that we will be hit if they want us to go down, especially given the lack of gun support. There are no other ships in sight, and if there are any, they might be out of range.

"What, you have some suggestion?" says the man at the wheel, hurriedly cranking the wheel as another missile comes rushing through the air. He's pale, and sickly looking, his words coming fast and gasping. "God, I never signed up for this. Used to work on a towing rig ... bloody hell. Said we weren't  in any danger ... shit, shit, shit!"

The rev of the engine fills my ears, and when I speak I almost have to shout. He's looking paler by the moment.

"The enemy only want the helicopter gone, right?" I say as quickly as I can, not sure where my words are coming from, but I feel the beating of my heart and the metal of my tags against my chest as I think frantically, swaying with the broom under my arm. "This ship is old; there are barely any men on it. There is little on this thing worth saving besides them - and it isn't like the helicopter will make it. They're not gunning for the wounded, so get them off onto a lifeboat - they are mostly just the ones with broken bones so they'll be fine for a while. Another ship will be able to pick them up if you send out a call. Then steer the Atlantis away, far from the lifeboat. Speed is something this junker seems to have, and at least if something goes wrong then the men will be alright, because if this small boat gets hit, almost nobody's going to survive."

"That is a huge risk -"

"It is one you do not have to take," I tell him as I think of empty beds and lonely rooms, of red hair and marble headstones. "I'll steer the ship away, and you get your fellow crew members and passengers to safety. I am injured already, and you will need as many strong members of your crew as possible to lower that old wood lifeboat off the ship and row, yourself included. I can't move too fast, but I can steer."

"But what about you?" he says, bewildered, sweat running down the side of his face as he awaits another missile, which could come at any moment. I am just glad it takes them time to reload and aim.

"What about me?" I bark. "I will be fine. I'm just one man. All the enemy wants in the water is the helicopter. They sunk as many on ships as they could before, and they seem to want to do it again."

"That is true," mutters the man.

"Just go, I can do it!" I snap, my words spilling forth faster than I can pause to think. "At least I have a chance of getting out of range - the rest of the crew needs your help to get the injured off the ship. I am only one man. Surely you must have a family that needs you as well?" It is with recklessness that I add the last part, and all I can think of is that note. I do not think of Harry. I do not think of my mother, or my father. I only think of Lily, cold in the ground, and the world that condemned me to die in the Falklands, just like all the men I watched perish before me on the mountainside, their faces burned in my mind, men from both sides. I am determined to take action somehow, and for a moment I feel more alive than I ever have before.

He looks at me, calculating, and I know that I have hit home with the comment of his family. He does not seem to realize that I can easily see the edge of a picture tucked into his shirt pocket. I close my eyes for a second. I open them as another missile lands only feet to the port side of the ship. It rocks the boat dangerously and water sloshes over the sides, but we are not hit. I hear shouting and panic on the deck. The man lets go of the wheel when he sees the expression on my face.

"Fine," he says quickly, "if you want to do it, then you can."

I hobble over to the wheel as he shouts instructions down deck, staring out at the misty sea, the sun having gone down completely now. Darkness has begun to descend, and I hear shouts from outside as they try to shift the lifeboats. Judging by the time they took to aim again between the shots, we only have five minutes at the very most.

"What's your name?" asks the man hoarsely as he grabs the emergency radio.

"Severus Snape," I say simply, a little confused.

I can tell he's trying to find the words to thank me, but I just tell him that there is no time, and to go.

"Wait to hear two gunshots before going forward," he says as fast as he can. "We only need one lifeboat, and we'll signal for you when we're in."

I just nod, and then he is gone, and I hear the splash of a lifeboat a few moments after he arrives to give it one final heave. I hear cheers, and after two minutes or so, I hear the gunshots. So I shove the throttle forward, and with my heart pounding in my chest the ship is moving as fast as I can get it. I am steering the Atlantis as far from shore as I can. It is not hard, and I simply go in a straight line. My leg throbs beneath me, and the broom wedged under my arm is making my shoulder go numb. Then the adrenaline takes over, and I stop feeling the pain for the minute I am speeding away. The shadow of the inevitable hangs over me. Yet, I feel so alive, and for a second I think I hear Lily's voice calling my name. And then the missile hits.

There is an awful tearing sound in the ship, and I am blown forward into the wheel. The vessel lurches, and I feel the heat and fire as pieces of it are torn apart. It is a small ship, and one missile is enough to send her quickly to her grave. The Atlantis lists to the right side, and in a world of torn metal and terror I slide across the floor, away from the wheel. I hit my head on something, and then all I know is blackness.

I do not know how long after this that I feel the cold water licking my legs. It is darker than it was before. My head pounds, and sluggishly I sit up. In the dimly lit ship I see a pool of water coming from the door. The front end of the ship appears to be bobbing on its own. I find no trace of the back of the vessel. I can see the dark water reaching toward me, and in a fuzzy haze I cannot believe that I survived the hit. I have to get out of this space, away from the wheel. In a wave of panic I wade through the water to the door, and I make my way to the bow of the ship, which is sloping down toward where the centre of the vessel was. Only a few crates remain from the back end, and the metal along the remaining bits of the ship is split like kindling where it broke apart. It is a good thing the other men are some distance away, for they would have been torn to pieces by that shot, or at least hurt by the shrapnel. The remaining lifeboat has been blown to smithereens too, for it was one of two along the back.

I stumble up to the bow of the ship, hanging on tightly. What can I do? What have I done? I see no ship in sight. Maybe it is the mist, maybe it is the darkness, but there is nobody. The ocean is quiet but for the creak of the ship, sinking quickly.

For some reason, I don't even panic. Instead, a strange sort of calm settles over me, and I reach down my shirt and grab a hold of my tags. I hold them up to my vision, but I cannot see Lily's writing very well in the dim light. I let the tears pour down my face, because there is nobody to see.

"See you s-soon, Love," I mutter hoarsely to myself, shaking from cold as I press the tag with Lily's note against my cheek. A small part of me is afraid to die, but then my fear increases when I realize that a larger part of me is glad to be going down with this ship.

And then I understand it was my intention all along.

It's harder to hang on now. My hands are cramping up, and the slant of the deck is getting greater. I hook my arms into the railing, and then swing over to the other side as it bobs nose up. She'll go any moment, and I hear the creaking as the water gets closer, and then there is a rushing noise, and the darkness pulls me under. I have no life jacket, and swimming isn't easy with my leg. I reach the surface, but the water chills me to the bone. There is a piece of floating debris bobbing by my head, and I grab hold of it because it is either that or the darkness below. I want to let the cold take me slowly, rather than take my last breath from the dark water. I hoist myself onto the wood, and lie half out of the water, my head resting on it. The smell of smoke still lingers in the air, and I think of the ship, now fathoms below me.

The cold starts to take over me, so very different from the cold I have felt inside for so long, and I do not feel the pain in my leg anymore. It is a blessed relief. The tears have stopped, and the dark ripples of water before me beckon. I feel my stomach contract as I think of Lily, for she is the only one I want right now. I hunger for her warmth, and I cannot believe she is gone. But there are still no tears, and after some time I find myself dazedly humming a melody of a favourite song we used to sing together. So suddenly the memory takes over me, and before I know it my voice rises above the slapping sound of the waves, shaking and tuneless, but I sing anyway, maybe because I hope she'll hear.

"Midnight, on the water," my cold lips mumble, forming the words beneath my breath, my teeth chattering.

"I saw the ocean's daughter

"Walking on a wave she came,

"Staring as she called my name

"And I can't get it out of my head

"No, I can't get it out of my head.

"Now my old world is gone for dead,

"'cause I can't get it out of my head."

I cough a bit as I complete the verse, the taste of the ocean in my mouth. There is no answer to my song, but I keep singing anyway, the words second nature to my lips, for this was one that Lily and I used to sing a long ago, years before we started dating. It was the summer of 1974, and we were going to be going into our fifth years in September. Lily had always loved music (she had been playing the piano since age six) so her parents usually got her a new record as a coming home present for her to listen to while she was there, and that summer it was an album by Electric Light Orchestra, which a muggle neighbour Lily's age had suggested. That was all we listened to all summer. I still remember her carefully bringing up the record player into her room on rainy days, during rare moments when her parents were out and Petunia was gone. We would sing until the cat was so mad it would run off for the day, and eat peanut butter out of the jar with spoons, although it was tricky to sing and eat peanut butter at the same time, we learned.

As I bob up and down on the piece of wood I try and remember her the way she was when she was fourteen, with her hair down to her waist and the freckles on her arms. I cannot see her, and now I'm shaking again, but not from cold. Why can't I picture her? I keep singing, trying to snatch up the image of her long ago, but it is like trying to keep ocean water in my hands.

"Breakdown on the shoreline.

"Can't move, it's an ebb tide.

"Morning don't get here tonight,

"searching for her silver light."

Then I begin to see her again, for as the words come back to me, so does she, taking my hands and dancing with me across the room, her sweet laughter rising above the music. I am momentarily calmed, and my voice fades to a whisper as I sing the chorus one last time, my halting words cradled between gasps of air as the chill waves wash over me.

"And I can't get it out of my head.

"No, I can't get it out of my head.

"Now my old world is gone for dead,

"'cause I can't get it out of my head ..."

Then I am silent, for suddenly fatigue is rolling over me, and I am colder than I have ever been in my life. I close my eyes, resting on the wood. Oh, how I wish for her warmth. My knee gives a sudden throb before going numb again, and I feel darkness gathering at the edge of my mind.

It could be minutes later, or hours when I hear voices through the fog, and I see the bright light. I feel the splash of something in the water nearby. I think it is a life ring, but I am too cold to move or care. There is more shouting, and then there is a splash in the water a ways behind me.

"Lily?" I ask hoarsely, barely able to speak, my lips numb. Yet I am no longer cold. A strange kind of warmth is washing over me, and I struggle to keep my eyes open.

"No, mate, the name's Jeremy," says a voice, out of breath. A man swims by me, and the light from behind us illuminates the face of a member of the Royal Navy. I see him in a haze, and I think he's speaking to me again as he drags a buoyant stretcher, or something, toward me. He drags me onto it, and I feel stiff and frozen in the cold water. I do not realize my hand is still gripping my dog tags still. The stretcher is hoisted up onto the deck of a ship. The man who pulled me onto the stretcher is hauled up too, and what looks like a medic is kneeling by me.

"Lily," I mutter dazedly.

"You'll get to go home to her soon, I'm sure," he says as he throws a blanket over me.

If they only knew.

My chest feels tight. I fight to take in air, but it does not seem to be there, and then comes blackness. The deck of the ship fades from view, as well as the faces above me.

I'm coming home, Lily.

It feels like a second later when I take a heaving gasp of breath, and lights pop behind my eyes. I am coughing violently and retching, and the medic's hands are on my chest. I hear sighs of relief as the momentary warmth I had felt dissipates, and I feel once more the icy cold of the ship deck.

"We need to get him warm!" calls the medic. I look up at him, dazed. He looks into my eyes and calmly says, "It is good to have you back. You weren't breathing for a minute or two."

I close my eyes, but they tell me to stay awake. Do they not understand that I can go home to her no other way?

The medic keeps talking to me so I cannot slip off, and I am brought into the cabin of the ship. Someone donates a spare uniform, and I start to shiver uncontrollably as he removes my wet clothing and replaces it with the dry uniform. I am piled high with blankets and hot water bottles, and there is a woolly hat on my head. The weird warmth I had felt is gone now, and for a long time I shiver and my teeth chatter, and he sits by my bedside, talking me through it. I pay hardly any attention to what he is doing. I do not know how long it is that I lie here. Later on, for a couple of minutes the medic leaves to talk with someone outside. He comes back looking thoughtful, but does not speak.

"Are you Severus Snape?" the medic asks me a long time later. I am warm now, and a crowd seem to be hovering now that I appear to be out of the danger zone. I think it is a larger ship. They all are looking at me in awe, like I've done something amazing.

I just nod, but I think my look of confusion shows.

"We got a radio call," explains the medic. "A group of wounded men were picked up in a life boat a ways from here. The crew had been left to man the ship alone, and one of the men sent out a distress call from there, saying that a ship was likely down and someone may still be alive. He told the story of how one of the wounded soldiers had ordered everyone get off the ship quite forcefully, and then steered it away from them, because the enemy was aiming for the helicopter, and it was only a matter of time before they were hit. Apparently he saved the lives of sixteen men, who were able to row out of danger in a life boat. That was you, wasn't it?"

"I guess," I mutter hoarsely.

Then suddenly, there is clapping, and the medic smiles.

"My friend's brother was on that ship," he says to me, choking up slightly. "It was a pleasure to help you tonight. You did a very brave thing, and for that, I am truly thankful."

"It wasn't bravery," I mutter, suddenly needing to tell the truth, to make them understand the moment of complete reckless abandon I had felt when I did what I did. "I wasn't trying to be a hero."

"Well, hero or not, you did a hell of a thing out there," says the medic. "Crazy, damn near impossible, but you did it."

"My wife was killed last night," I try to say, but the words don't come out. I want to tell them that it wasn't me being noble. It was me being selfish. I wish they had just let me be.

"Do you have a family?" the medic asks after asking people to clear out and go back to work.

"A son," I mutter mechanically, surprising myself.

A son. I have a son. For a moment, I am amazed. Had I forgotten? How could I have forgotten? Lily's baby, my baby. And suddenly I am asking myself, what did I do? How could I have done that, with him waiting for me? A wave of shame washes over me, and ever so slowly it begins to penetrate the cold pain I feel from Lily's death.

"Well, you should get to see him soon, after a stay on the hospital ship, of course," says the medic with a grin. "You'll get there in good time too. See, ordinarily doing what you just did, you would have been in a world of trouble, taking charge of a ship like that, but you saved a lot of lives tonight. So they've issued orders for us to make a special stop by the hospital ship for you, even though there are other things to be done. You'll get there tonight, and you'll get to rest up for a time before going home."

"They didn't have to do that," I say, my words barely audible, because I do not care where I go and my voice is still hoarse from being in the cold.

"And you didn't have to risk your life tonight, but you did," he tells me gravely.

I sigh, and he gets up from the bunk across from the one I am lying in. He tells me he'll be back to check on me, but that I will be alright now that my body temperature is back to normal. I am allowed to sleep now. But I can't, because all I can think of what might have happened if my plan had went the way I intended it to - the way a part of my mind still wants it to have gone. I put the pillow over my head, trying to drown out my thoughts, for in my mind I hear the cries of an orphaned baby whose father deliberately sailed off into the night, his intention to die.

***

Harry looks at me, holding the Victoria Cross in his hand. I clear my throat, forcing my emotions under control.

"It is all a lie," I say hoarsely. "It was selfishness that got me that cross. Not valour. I am nothing but a coward. I tried to tell them, but they would not believe me. The thought I was being modest. The medic and his friend's brother put my name forward for the medal. I never wanted them to."

"But you still saved their lives," says Harry, sounding as though he hardly dares to speak.

I just shake my head, and Harry does not seem to know what to say.

"I tried to leave you ... I wanted death," I say, unable to stop a tear or two from escaping, hating myself for looking weak in front of Harry. This is why I never told him. This is why I didn't talk of the war. "I never even considered that I had a son at home. I was prepared to die, simply because I wanted out! I came up with that plan because I wanted to go down with that ship. There is no way I can ever repay that; don't you see? Had my plan succeeded, you would not have a father ..."

"I'm not angry," Harry says, eyes wide with worry at the sight of me so unhinged.

"But the guilt has never left," I mutter, barely able to speak, my voice breaking. "Every day I wake up ... and I wonder what would have happened. I had no right to risk my neck like that, not with you at home. Not with a little boy who needed me. It was selfish, so selfish." I pause for a moment, shaking, and Harry does not speak, but seems to be holding his breath. I am calmer when I continue. "Sometimes ... sometimes I dream that I did die, that you were left alone. It's awful."

"Dad?"

I look up in surprise, for his voice is quiet, worried.

"Yes?" I ask, my voice as soft as his.

"If ... if you had died on that ship," Harry begins, blinking, "and I had never known you ... well, I would have been proud to know that sixteen men owed you their lives." His voice grows stronger, and as he continues he has that same blazing look in his eyes I remember Lily always had. "And I'm proud of you now. You still saved them. You still gave sixteen families a reason to be thankful, even if you didn't mean to."

I look into my sons' eyes, Lily's eyes, astounded.

"Do you really think that?" I say, hardly able to digest this piece of information, hardly daring to believe those words have just come from the lips of an eleven year old boy.

"I do," Harry says. "It did take some bravery, still. You could have just waited for the ship to get hit, but instead you got everyone off it and tried to go out in a way that you thought was worth dying for."

I frown for a moment. Why had I not simply waited until we were sent to the bottom of the ocean? It had been inevitable, and it would have been easier, in some ways. Maybe I did want to go out in a good way. Maybe I did want something worth dying for. Those injured men and the worn down crew on that ship had been worth it. I had realized that helicopter was a ticket to the bottom of the ocean - not just mine, but theirs too. I had seen the fear in their eyes. It was the same fear that had been in mine, only I was hardened enough by pain to do the unthinkable. Besides, what is a hero, anyway? It is then that it occurs to me that maybe a hero is just someone who is cold enough, tired enough and hurting enough to do anything to put an end to the root of all the suffering. I wanted to end my suffering, but I also wanted more than that to end.

For a moment I remember that hazy helicopter ride from the battle field to the surgical unit, where in a pained stupor I had seen once more in my mind all of the men who had fallen before me, all the while asking a hundred questions of whether or not it was worth it. I still lie awake at night and wonder if so many lives were worth that island, and the some eighteen hundred people that had resided there at the time. And at that moment, when I took that ship wheel in some sort of haze of insanity, I had wanted everything to just stop - my pain, the fighting, the senseless death - and I knew it had come to the point where I didn't care what I had to give for it.

All these thoughts swirl in my head, and a thousand questions sit silent upon my lips as I wonder if some of what I did was courage after all. Maybe I never knew what courage was, or maybe it is the world that doesn't. I see no glory in it, though. Not like those who give medals away do.

I look at my son, with his determined look, my black hair, and all the stubbornness of his mother.

"You're too hard on yourself, Dad," he tells me plainly. "Granddad always spoke about you like you were a hero, and Grandma and I agree with him. It's time you see it too."

There he is with my no bones about it attitude, using that tone of voice that sounds so much like Lily that I have to clasp my hands tightly under the table to keep from shaking. It's like she's here, scolding me for not seeing the world the way it is, like she did so many times when she was alive. And all I can do is reach forward and pull my son into my arms and bury my face in his hair, because there is no way for me to find the words to say just how precious he is to me. His arms wrap tightly around me too, and I know that I do not need to speak such things aloud, because he knows already. I don't know if what he says is true, but maybe one day I will.