Fog: the Followup

Here is the followup to my previous post, "Fog". It's basically back-story that the main character remembers:

The sun that day was such that you could stretch out on the grass, and the warmth of the sun would make you drowsy as a cat beside a hearth fire. I was engaged in exactly that occupation when Gwenny ran up with the news. Arthur had had a letter from the king's First-in-Command. He was called to fight in the new war against the Cravish. Father had been drafted as well, but we all knew he could not answer the call. When he was a young man - newly married- he'd fought in the last war and an unlucky cannon shot had taken away one of his legs. He was lucky there had been a good doctor on hand to treat him or he may have become infected and lost his life, as well as his leg.

When Gwenny had finished giving her news, she gave a hiccuping sob, but stood still, waiting for my response. Until that moment, I'd been in a daze, trying to process what I'd just been told. I hadn't even gotten up. But when Gwenny started to sniffle, I pushed myself up from the grassy imprint I'd made and wrapped my arms about her. Neither of us said a word as we made through the field of knee-high grass back to the house.

Arthur had been born first of all of us. When I came along, three years later, he wasn't jealous of the attention I received. In fact, he was the giver of most the attention. We grew up living a free, wild life and had always been best friends. We knew each other inside and out and always made up after quarrels. He had always been there for me and I had done my best to do the same for him, so fierce was my devotion to him. Now, I wondered how I could be there for him when he was far away fighting a war. As I came in the house I saw mother sitting at the table with tears streaming down her face, a sheet of parchment in her hands. Father was embracing the tall figure whose back I faced.

Arthur had always been tall for his age. Father said it was from his Northerly ancestry. Mother said it was because of all the fruits and vegetables she made us eat. Right there as I watched my father and brother, two men with fiery tempers and hearts of pure gold, an ache began in my chest which came back with force many times in the years to come.

Arthur turned as the door creaked back into place. I met his eyes and began simultaneously to cry, reality striking me like a hammer slamming the last nail into the lid of a coffin. "Oh, Art," I choked, and found myself hugging him tightly, as if he would disappear as soon as I let go. My blue-eyed, blonde haired brother! I saw him for the first time as the man he was becoming instead of the boyish older brother I'd always seen.

"It'll be alright, Lainey. I won't be gone long, you'll see." Arthur was trying to be strong for me, but his voice was husky. He was hiding his uncertainty for my sake, when I should be the one comforting him! I pulled myself away and wiped my streaming eyes, willing my chin not to tremble.

When I could finally get myself to speak, my voice came out wobbly and wet, like a newborn foal. "When do you have to..." The foal's legs gave out, and I stopped, unable to continue.

Mother spoke from the table with the weary and resigned voice one has been through all stages of grieving and has finally come to the last one, acceptance. "Tomorrow," she said, "at first light."