After Robert [Melantha Hastings - History Pt 3]

Posted on Thu Aug 6th, 2026 @ 12:30am by Ensign Melantha Hastings

1,448 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Younger Years
Location: Hastings Estate
Timeline: Summer 1995

Hastings Estate — Summer, 1995 After Robert

Summer had always belonged to the Hastings family. It was an unspoken truth that stretched back generations. For centuries the estate had transformed itself during the warmer months into the center of family life. Long afternoons on the southern lawns. Garden parties that spilled late into the evening beneath lantern light. Horses moving lazily through the paddocks beyond the orchard. Staff crossing the grounds with silver trays and polished crystal while laughter drifted through open windows from rooms that had known the same rituals for longer than anyone could properly remember. Summer had always meant life.

This year…

Summer felt like an insult. Twenty-two-year-old Melantha stood motionless beneath the stone archway overlooking the western gardens and stared out across grounds that looked exactly as they always had.

That somehow made everything worse. The roses had bloomed early this year, climbing in thick brilliant clusters along the southern terrace walls. The gardeners had done their work as they always did, pruning hedges into perfect symmetry despite staffing shortages that had steadily worsened over the previous year. The fountain near the lower gardens still flowed quietly, catching the late afternoon sunlight in fractured diamonds of moving gold. Birdsong still drifted softly through the trees. The estate was beautiful. Perfect. Untouched. And all Melantha could think was—Robert should have been standing here.

The thought came uninvited. Sharp enough that she closed her eyes against it. Her youngest brother had always loved summer more than anyone else in the family. Robert had belonged outdoors in a way the rest of them never quite managed. At seventeen he had been the reckless one. At twenty-six… He had died in a transport convoy somewhere in northern Europe, caught in fighting that official reports still insisted was “contained regional conflict.” Contained. The word had become almost laughable. No one believed the news anymore. Governments issued reassuring statements while cities burned. Markets collapsed in waves across Europe and Asia. Borders tightened. Supply chains fractured.

Entire sections of the BBC evening broadcasts now consisted solely of casualty reports and official ministry briefings delivered by politicians who all looked equally exhausted. And three weeks ago— A Royal Navy liaison officer had arrived at Hastings Manor carrying a sealed letter. No one had spoken properly since. A warm August wind moved softly across the terrace. Mel gripped the stone balustrade harder. Below her, the western lawns rolled outward toward the old oak tree where Robert had broken his arm falling from a homemade rope swing when he was twelve. She could still remember James shouting that he had told him not to climb it. Oliver laughing even while helping carry him back toward the house.

Robert screaming loud enough to terrify the horses. Their Father taking him in his arms to get him back to the house. She could remember every detail. And now he was gone. Inside the house, the old grandfather clock began striking six. The sound rolled softly through the open French doors behind her. She did not turn. She already knew who approached. Her father’s footsteps had always been unmistakable. Measured. Precise. Purposeful.

Edward Hastings stepped onto the terrace carrying a crystal tumbler half-filled with amber scotch. Mel stared at it. Her father drank occasionally. Always socially. Always carefully. Never alone. Over the last month…That had changed. He moved beside her without speaking. For several long moments father and daughter simply stared out across the estate. The silence between them no longer felt comfortable. It felt exhausted. Finally Edward spoke. “The roses are doing well.”

Mel almost laughed. It was such a profoundly English thing to say. The world was collapsing. Their son was dead. And her father had opened with gardening. “Yes.”

Another silence stretched. Then quietly— “I went into his room today.” Edward’s hand tightened slightly around the glass. He did not look at her. “It remains untouched.”

“Yes.”

Neither moved. Somewhere beyond the orchard, distant thunder rolled across the Berkshire countryside. Summer storms had been frequent lately. Or perhaps she simply noticed weather more now. Her father finally exhaled. And suddenly— For the first time in twenty-two years— He looked old. Not physically.

Something deeper. As though grief had reached inside him and quietly rearranged fundamental parts of who he was. “We were not supposed to bury our children.” The words were spoken so softly she nearly missed them. Mel turned sharply.

Edward stared forward. His voice had changed. Smaller somehow. “I spent my entire life believing family legacy meant protection.” The scotch glass remained motionless in his hand. “The title.” A pause. “The estate.” Another. “Our connections.” His jaw tightened visibly. “The Crown.” His voice hardened suddenly. “All of it means absolutely nothing.”

Mel had never heard bitterness in her father before. Never. It frightened her more than the war itself. She looked back toward the gardens. “The official report said he died quickly.”

Edward laughed once. The sound was humorless. “Yes.” He finally took a sip. Then stared into the glass as though he no longer trusted its contents. “They always say that.”

The late afternoon sunlight had begun shifting lower now, casting long shadows across the estate lawns. Beyond the terrace windows, the house itself felt different. Quieter. One less presence. One less voice. Robert’s laugh no longer echoing through the east hallway. No muddy boots abandoned near the kitchen entrance. No Robert spinning her around in the silly dresses their mother insisted on for parties and calling her Fancy Pants. No arguments over borrowing the Land Rover. The absence had become physical. Heavy. Permanent. Mel folded her arms tightly. “I do not understand how everyone keeps pretending everything is normal.”

Edward was quiet. Then finally— “Because if we stop pretending…” He looked toward the horizon where distant storm clouds were gathering. “…then we must admit civilization is far more fragile than we ever believed.” The words settled heavily between them. A low mechanical hum suddenly cut through the air.
Both turned instinctively. Far beyond the estate grounds, barely visible above distant tree lines— Two military aircraft moved across the evening sky heading south. Royal Air Force. Low altitude. Fast. The sight would have been impossible to imagine five years ago. Now— No one questioned it.

Mel watched them disappear. Then quietly asked— “Are we safe here?” The question surprised her. She had not meant to say it aloud.

Edward stared toward the horizon for so long she thought he would refuse to answer. When he finally spoke— It was the first time in her life her father had ever sounded uncertain. “I do not know.” Three words. Nothing more.

And somehow those three words terrified her more than anything she had seen on the evening news. Because Edward Hastings had always known. Always. He knew politics. He knew people. He knew systems. He knew history. And standing here now— Watching military aircraft crossing summer skies over Berkshire while thunder rolled beyond the estate. He had just admitted history was moving beyond anyone’s control. The world was breaking. And old families with old names and old titles were breaking with it. Her father set the empty glass carefully upon the terrace railing. Without warning— He reached over and rested one hand lightly against her shoulder. A gesture so familiar it nearly undid her. “Promise me something.”

She looked at him. “What?”

His expression softened. Pain flickering behind eyes that had not properly slept in weeks. “Do not allow grief to make you hard.”

She stared.

He continued quietly. “You have always carried the pain of others too easily.” A pause. “It is a gift.” Then— “It can also destroy you.”

The summer wind moved softly through the gardens. Thunder rolled again. Inside the house, somewhere deep in the east wing, her mother was crying. Quietly. Trying not to let anyone hear. Oliver had taken to disappearing for hours at a time, returning angry and refusing conversation. James was already becoming heir in ways none of them had expected this soon. And Robert— Robert was gone. The youngest Hastings son. Twenty-six years old. Dead in a war that should never have existed. Melantha stood very still beside her father as evening settled slowly across the estate. And for the first time in her life…She understood something terrible. No title was permanent. No institution unbreakable. No family immune. And history…Did not care who you were. Above Hastings Manor, summer remained warm and beautiful and golden. The roses still bloomed. The fountain still flowed. Birdsong still drifted through ancient trees. The world looked exactly the same. And yet—Everything had already changed forever.

==

Ensign Melantha Hastings
Counselor
USS Tokyo

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