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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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