Later On
A/N: Pre/early series. Repost.
He entered the war as a major, only twenty-two years of age. He had been training many years for this moment, walking into camp with his head held high among the group of elite. Looking out into the sea of blue-clad officers, he saw every one of them with their right hand smartly at their foreheads...saluting HIM. An impassive, emotionless expression masked the excitement that threatened to erupt. He thought it the utmost privilege to be here.
Later on, there was no time to think. Gunshots whizzed overhead. Explosions brought him to his knees every few seconds. The world was gray smoke, orange flame, white ash, red blood. The sharp scent of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. He choked. He wanted to throw up. His division was being called to move forward, however, so he forced himself to walk, closing his eyes to the lifeless faces he had to step over.
Later on, in a tiny, abandoned house, he came face to face with a young boy. He stared at the boy who gripped a large automatic in his small hands. He felt his body shaking, the sweat running down his face. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity. He watched in slow motion as a cry erupted from the boy's cracked lips, as the boy raised his weapon, as the boy lunged towards him. The boy never left that house.
He stepped outside, leaving that house engulfed in flames.
Later on, someone called his name. He turned around, instinct taking control of what his mind could not. In an instant, the entire street was ablaze, a terrible glow that lit up the smoky night sky. The cheers from his men drowned out the screams of the dying.
Later on, they hailed him as a war hero. They threw a parade for him and he marched in it, dressed once again in that cold blue uniform. A quick trip to the laundromat had washed away all physical evidence of the blood he had spilled. People cheered and threw confetti into his path. He got a promotion. He was a lieutenant colonel now.
Later on, his best friend found him standing alone in a dark, musky, littered apartment, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a gun to his own head in another. His best friend tackled him, knocking the whiskey bottle to the floor, which shattered into a million pieces. His best friend twisted his arm, wrenching the gun out of his grasp, which flew across the room and clattered onto the table.
"Wha...wha you doin'..." he muttered slowly, groggily, resignedly. His best friend responded by punching him in the face.
Later on, he would recall that as the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him.
-Fin-