Sephiroth stared across the vast plots of land covered with stone. To be honest, he never did get used to walking in graveyards, but to get where he needed to be, he would have to pass through. Walking among the field of granite and marble, he stopped to rest by a lone marker.
Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride,
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside,
And rest for a while 'neath the warm summer sun,
I've been walkin' all day and I'm nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen,
When you joined the great fallen in nineteen sixteen,
I hope you died well and I hope you died clean,
Or young Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?
He stared at the white marble stone etched with the boy's name and dates of birth and death. Below it, lay the inscription, lovingly carved into the tombstone; "Son, lover, and hero."
"What did you do to die so young? And to gain such a position..." the silver haired man asked to no one in particular, eyeing the stone and shaking his head in remorse. "Did you die in some war a while back? Or perhaps a scuffle of some sort?"
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
And did the band play The Last Post and Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
"Pity," he replied softly. "For your sake, I hope you died well. I've seen so many like you go to the grave too soon. Damned shame is what it is."
Silence. He went on, regardless in his musings to the dead man.
Did you leave a wife, or a sweetheart behind,
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
Although you died back in nineteen sixteen,
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Enclosed then forever behind a glass pane
In an old photograph, torn, battered, and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.
"It never changes. I see various things… so many people grieving… Parents, lovers, children. The last two are the worst, save for no one grieving for you. I have no one. I often wonder if anyone who truly knows me will be there when I die…
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post and Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
The sun now it shines on the green fields of France,
There's a warm summer breeze, makes the red poppies dance.
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds
There's no gas, no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
He turned his gaze away from the marker and out to the fields ahead of the graveyard. The grass danced in the wind merrily, oblivious to whatever had come to pass there. Whatever battle this boy died in, had passed in the memory of the earth. He watched the flowers dance with the grass on the wind and sighed. At one point, a generation saw the ground saturated in blood for a cause that was probably now long forgotten.
"It's just like Wutai," he mumbled, placing his head in his hands. "It's that damned war all over again…"
The memories flooded his mind without mercy; the countless lives lost, the grave markers, the grief, and the pain… All for a worthless corporate cause.. Only the few souls that survived remember it…
Probably not fondly, Sephiroth thought. The whole thing had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Shin-ra was never much when it came to providing a comfort for the people who lost their family members either. But then again, he held little love for the company he worked for.
But here in this graveyard, it's still no man's land.
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand,
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man,
To a whole generation that were butchered and damned.
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march when they lowered you down?
And did the band play The Last Post and Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
The moment of pain passed as quickly as it started, leaving him hollow inside for a brief moment. The gravestone sat mute, as they always do. Markers such as that have little to say. They simply sit and do their job, and listen to those who pass by.
Ah, Willie McBride, I can't help wonder why,
Do those that lie here know why did they die
And did they believe when they answered the call,
Did they really believe that this war would end war.
For the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain,
The killing, and the dying, was all done in vain…
For young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.
Rising silently, he stepped out into the field and clipped a tiny flower from the green for lack of anything else proper to be laid bare on the mound of earth, then returned and placed it on the ground near the gravestone. Picking up his things, he nodded in respect to the deceased.
"Thank you for your ear, friend," he said. "I hope you rest in peace."
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
And did the band play The Last Post and Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
With that, he turned his back to the marker and began walking down the path again.