Francis took a swig from the water bottle in his hand, the contents of which had long since gone warm. With an exhausted sigh, he sank to the ground, right next to a small marble gravestone. On it was engraved:
"Paul Mauck
19 August 1900
7 June 1915
A Brave German Boy."
Francis smiled idly at the stone. "Do you mind if I sit for a while, Paul? You probably would, me being French and all."
The gravestone gave no reply to the smiling Frenchman.
He took another sip of tepid water. "You're only fourteen, I see. You've been fourteen for a very long time, haven't you? Almost a hundred years…" he trailed off, staring up into the idyllic summer sky.
"You must have felt so grown up. I forget how long fourteen years is for humans. To us, it seems like the blink of an eye."
Another lazy silence in which Francis' choice of conversation partner could reply, if he so desired. But the dead boy did not answer.
"That war you died in was horrendous, though I'm sure you know that already. Over two million Germans died, including yourself, Paul. Over two million British and French dead. One million Russians. I can say these numbers now, but then, it was terrible. One million of my citizens signed away their lives when they received their uniforms, and that isn't including the wounded, or the ones who lost their sanity. I nearly lost mine, feeling all of those deaths, having all of those battles within my borders."
The graveyard was seated on a rolling hill. The green field on western border of France stretched out like a cat in a patch of warm sun. If someone were to look very closely, they could see two trenches embedded into the earth, only about a half-mile from each other.
"Germany was worse off than I was. And then England and I made him pay all those war debts. I can't blame him for allowing Hitler to take power. But he invaded my borders again and he turned a blind eye to the terrible things that Adolf was doing." Francis shuddered, trying to shake off the memory of the genocide.
"Would you have agreed with Hitler, Paul? You were only fourteen, you probably would have. The young are so easily swayed.
"What happened to you, Paul? How did you die? A shell? I think that even the most hardened soldier would never shoot a young boy, but you never know. Perhaps I have too much faith in people, even after all of this time. Did you have a mother and a father? Or were you all alone in this world?"
Francis drained the last of his water. "I wonder if Germany knows about you. A young boy who loved his country so much that he would die sixty-five years early for it. You had so much ahead of you, a sweetheart, a child, maybe two, maybe three. So why did you do it?"
Again, no response came. The lifeless grave did not speak a word to the near-immortal being. Said being stood gracelessly and continued his walk on the warm day, making a note to never talk to Germany about the boy who had died for him before his fifteenth birthday. The boy was buried within France's borders, and as far as France was concerned, that meant that Paul would always be there if France needed a companion while on a lazy summer walk, both of them immortal in a sense. Forever frozen at fourteen, or unable to ever die, really, what was the difference?
Author's Note: This is just a one-shot I had the idea for while listening to Celtic Thunder sing the song The Green Fields of France. (If you've never heard the song, or have never heard Celtic Thunder sing, I highly suggest rectifying both of those situations) I took some liberties with the plotline, the main one being that the boy in the song is nineteen and has an entirely different name. While researching graveyards on the western front of France, I came across the story of Paul Mauck, a fourteen-year-old boy who died for Germany. I don't know much about him, if anyone could tell me more, that would be amazing.
I'm thinking about having different one-shots about different songs off of the Celtic Thunder albums I regularly listen to. I believe the next one will also be Hetalia, and based on the song Isle of Hope, Isle of Tears.
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