Trumpets rang in his head.
A deep, brassy sound that filled his mind and made it spin, tumble and seem to crumble into the very ground he stood on. He fell like a ragdoll, feeling damp grass wet the knees of his jeans. A hand patted his shoulder gently, a failed attempt to bring the world back into focus. For a long while he sat there, just hovering between letting out a screech and breaking into sobs. So many raw emotions bubbled up, clogging this throat and causing him to take a few uneven breathes. It was all coming undone.
xXx
"Somebody help me…! Somebody! No, I don't want to…! I don't want to go! Please no…! Please…"
"You're all right. You'll be okay. Just…Just hang in there, please try, I promise I'll fix you…I promise…"
"…"
"See? I've stopped the bleeding now! It's going to be okay! See? Don't you see!"
"…"
xXx
"How many?"
"Hm? Casualties or survivors?"
"Casualties."
The thump of a bag hitting the table echoed through the deserted room. Metal scrapping against metal, and with a sickening sense of horror he realised what the simple cloth was filled with.
"That many..?"
He felt like he was going to be sick.
xXx
The rain pelted down onto the forest, the drops sounding too much like bullets in the dark of the night. It was getting harder and harder to distinguish the paranoia from reality these days. Matthew supposed that was normal given the circumstances. He hadn't slept in days. Who could with the bombs ringing in from the sky, the mines hidden beneath the feet and the bullets coming in from all sides? Whenever he closed his eyes, all he saw was the nearly dead. The limping and ragged bodies that had just enough life left in them to scream out for safety. But then again, maybe his nightmares would be better than the reality.
xXx
"Sometimes I wonder why we all have to fight."
"…That's a fucking stupid question. It's for everyone back home. It's for Canada."
Oh, those brave men…
…
…
It felt like seconds, like minutes and hours and days, years since Canada had come here last. It hurt as much as the first visit had.
"Matvey?" A deep voice asked, the tone worried and cautious. Matthew didn't want to turn around; he didn't want to see the caring eyes. He needed to devote this moment to the stretch of graves in front of him, the white crosses dotted with red poppies that signified little more than the death of thousands. When he finally spoke, his voice came out uneven and high-pitched.
"I'm so proud of them. So, so proud."
A head came to rest on his shoulder, and a comforting kiss was placed on his cheek.
"Don't feel guilty. It wasn't your fault. You had no control over this, just as I did not."
"I fought with them, you know. I-I tried to protect them. All of them."
"I know."
A hiccup sounded next to the Russians ear, and sobs slowly started to shake his love's body. Ivan sighed, burying his face into Matthew's neck. His eyes felt heavy, and he let the inevitable tears fall. He would only ever show this weakness around Canada.
They stayed that way until they felt it was time to go. Matthew stood, shakily and still sniffling. He reached into his pocket, shuffling around until he pulled out a worn piece of paper. Canada stared at it for a second, then looked out toward the graves and began to read with the fluidity of years of practise.
"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields"
Then, with one last glance back at the graves, they left.
xXx
Authors Note: This was a little one-shot for Remembrance Day, which is a day to honor the dead soldiers that fought in the wars, for the safety of others. I have unlimited respect for the people that could withstand such horrible conditions. I hope that wherever they are, they are peaceful and happy right now.
The poem at the end of this story is called "Flanders Fields", and it was written in 1915 by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae. He was a Canadian physician. Every year on November 11th, we present this poem in schools and on the news, basically everywhere. Felt poppies are sold, and everybody wears one to show respect for the people who have served in the army. We also have a minute of silence. I think this is very important day, and a needed one.
Lest we forget.
Now a few notes about the story: Actually not that happy with the quality of this, but…Well, it's the thought that counts. Oh, in case you're wondering what was in the bag that made Matthew feel sick, it was dogtags. I've heard that when a person died, they'd take the dogtag as ID, so that's where that came from. Thank you for reading! Have a nice day!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. I don't own Flanders Field, or poppies, or Hetalia.