Take Me Home

1. Mourning

(Hey! This Is my first story that I've done on here, so please be respectful with comments and all that. I really hope y'all like it and if you have any suggestions or tips I'm open to hear them! I may not be able to update as much as I and you all would like, because of school/Air Force/Life. But I'll try my best. Hope y'all enjoy.)

The sky was dark overhead as a group of people slowly headed toward the church, all dressed in black. Black hats, black dresses, black coats, black shoes. Some expensive, some cheap. Some even painted black. The small village of Swingate, in Dover, U.K, was quiet today. Walking toward the local church, small and muffled sobs could be heard. The crowd reached the steps, and the pastor opened the Church doors, allowing the mourning crowd inside. Thunder rumbled across the land, and the sky darkened more. Closing the doors behind him, the pastor looked around the village, in case there was another poor soul that had been left out.

Walking in, he was greeted by warmer air, and lights that hung from the side of the old, steady brick building painted white. He helped fix people into seats, and then walked between the rows of chairs up to the stage. People murmured quietly, some crying, others just silent. He cleared his throat, running a hand through his auburn hair. His hand ran down his face, covering his bold, normally bright blue eyes, then continued down to his small goatee. He sighed deeply, focusing on the devastated faces before him. He knew what they all wanted him to do. He needed to talk to them. Reassure them. That this would all get better.

All of these people before him had lost a family member or friend, whether it was a son, father, brother. World War 2 was claiming lives, and they were losing to Germany. The soldiers who bravely gave their lives for England we're now being mourned at home. Most people were just now receiving letters that their loved one had died in action, or some, missing in action. The letter were written months ago. Only just now being delivered. He was the one to give out some of them. He didn't have a choice, but because he had witnessed so much loss and pain, he had set up a meeting at the Church to mourn and comfort people, and he hoped it would make a small difference and help ease pain.

"My family...Friends...Civilians...And, and more..." People stopped murmuring at the sound of his voice, turning to him and giving him their attention. "You all have lost someone important to you recently... and that's not something you can easily get over." He paused, allowing a young girl to once again burst into tears.

"But that doesn't mean that we can give up. There are still some of us out there, fighting for us. We need to stay strong and keep hope in our hearts that the good Lord will fight alongside them and keep them safe...and return them to us." His eyes scanned over every broken face as his strong, british accent smoothed over the words he let travel from his mind to his mouth.

He let his eyes meet the eyes of a teenage girl wearing a black dress in the crowd. She stared back, her eyes brimming with tears. The pastor looked down at the wooden floor, eyes clouding with sorrow for her. She had lost her father to the hands of the German Soldiers who were trying to get into England. Her mother had also passed recently, due to sickness. Having just turned 17, the girl was living alone with her grandparents now, on the farm that they owned.

They had lost much in this war. So had a ton of other people in their village. Being one of the frontline states of the war had consequences. He sighed, stepping down from the stage and toward a few families who were making their way toward him.

"Pastor Evan...Thank you." One woman said, he simply nodded and continued making his way through the crowd of people.

Evan stopped in front of the teenager, who had stood up and had her gaze fixed on the ground. Freya Carter, an only child, was here by herself tonight. Her wavy brown hair was fixed back into a bun, and she wore a cheap, handmade black dress that reached her knees.

"How are you?" Evan asked her quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

He had been a very close friend to her father, and that meant he was close to her. He felt the same heartache she felt.

Raising her chin, she met his gaze and slowly nodded, lips trembling slightly. "I'll be okay." She whispered, her light, british voice trying to stay strong but her voice cracked in the middle of 'okay' and she broke into a painful sob, the tears spilling onto her cheeks and running down her face.

Evan stared for a moment, before taking her into a hug. "It'll be okay. He died in service of his country. He's in a better place now, Freya. He's still with you, he..." Evan looked down and she backed away.

"No. It's not fair. Germany has no reason to be doing this to our home. We-We did nothing to them, and, and.." She shook her head, turning away.

Evan followed. "It'll get better. I promise." He said softly.

"No. I'm leaving." She cried, walking toward the doors. Swinging them open, the two were greeted by a flash of lightning and rain, pouring down heavily. He watched her walk down the church steps, into the brick streets, toward the stables near the back of the church. He walked after Freya, afraid the horse wouldn't be steady in this storm. Evan watched her mount it, and turn it out of the stables into the rain. She looked down at Evan, who was in the open downpour.

"I appreciate your support. But it won't ever be the same without him." She sniffed, the rain that was quickly soaking her covering her tears.

Then, she rode off, putting the horse into a trot, leaving Evan standing alone. He cleared the rain from his eyes and turned away, making his way back inside the church to comfort the others to had been equally hurt. It would get better...

At least, that's what he hoped.