Submission Name: On Wings of Angels
Author: SnowChaser
Rating: G
Note: I adore V for Vendetta. I am also, however, a huge fan of the band Shadow Gallery (obvious where they got their name). I've been tracking down their albums slowly, slipping them past my fiancé in grand fashion. My latest addition to the 'family' is an album entitled 'Room V' (any wonder why I would want this particular album?). While listening to it, my muse was at my ear, whispering that I needed to write this little one-shot. I started penning it before I realized quite what I was doing. The true inspiration for this piece is going to Shadow Gallery, specifically their piece 'Lamentia'. This takes place one year after the ending of the movie. When Evey has her voice over, I assumed it was a commemoration at a later date, this is a set-up for it.
Disclaimer: I do not own V for Vendetta, or any persons, places, events, or things that are related. Nor do I own the inspiration for this piece.
Inspiration:
'And now you've gone away,
I begged you, baby, please don't go
Away and leave me here,
I am broken, I am broken
And I know
Winter is bearing down,
On wings of angels
So your soul is in the hands of God,
My tears on the wind.'
-Lamentia, Shadow Gallery, Room V
I couldn't believe what I saw, that night. Giving me a gift; the most wonderful, and perfectly acceptable freedom of choice to accept the very thing I found myself wanting, or allowing the world to continue along its path of injustice and terror. As he was very fond of saying, it was not us, the people, who should fear those who claimed to have governing power, by divine right or no. It was those same people, with their lies behind deceptively charming faces, who should fear us. I had come to believe it, after dissecting it many times over that span of time away from the Gallery, just as I had come to believe other things he had told me.
Had V lied to me?
Not in so many words, no. Imprisoned, tortured, and broken me, yes. But his voice had never lied to me. No matter how hard the question was, he would answer, from the very first time he'd laid eyes on me, I dare say. When I questioned him, he would evade at times, but never without hinting at what he had done, be it by posture or a particular tilt of his head, if he evaded at all. As he had said, my powers of observation were never in question.
But I digress.
The past year has passed in a blur, a whirlwind of activity and rebuilding… parties. Anything to keep me from remembering that awful night in the tunnels. It usually works quite well; what those surrounding you don't know will not hurt them, and in this case it goes doubly. They know enough, certainly. It's common knowledge that V and I had a past; most believe I was simply his accomplice, a mere pawn in his arsenal. But I know better. A pawn is expendable and weak. No, I was not his pawn, but his queen. Those words, falling from his lips as he lay in my arms were perhaps the sweetest words I will ever hear. He loved me. It was because he loved me that he had given me that final freedom of choice.
Oh, how I wish he were still here, at times. I don't doubt that his spirit lives on; he was so strong-willed! His spirit was as indomitable as the man himself, refusing to yield until he had his say. But you cannot hold onto a spirit… a memory, any more than you can hold onto an idea. You cannot touch it, hold it, or kiss it. It is simply there.
It's cold tonight. I can feel it biting right through my coat, a sure sign that Winter is on its way, and perhaps sooner than we expected. But then, I've been in a constant state of detached numbness since that night, one year ago on this eve, so it may just be my imagination at work. Being numb does create the illusion of cold, does it not?
From beyond my current field of vision, I can hear a somewhat-distant bong, signifying that the eve is over, and November Fifth is at hand. Westminster, and I nod. Big Ben has been gone for a year now, exploding in a beautifully choreographed explosion to the 1812 Overture… his music. At that thought, I finally allow myself a chance to smile. Behind me, I hear the very same strains. It transports me back to that place again, as I clung to him, begging him not to die. Even then, he tried to soothe me. That man lay in my lap, dying, and his thoughts were on me! It seemed wrong, somehow. Not that he loved me, for I've no doubt of that in my mind. This was his revolution, not mine. Instead of thinking on that, he was considering me, and to this day I am eternally grateful that those last moments of his were spent as they were… as they should have been.
I turn as I hear laughter. Two young men, wearing ever-grinning Guy Fawkes masks, are laughing and joking, swaying slightly and using each other for support. It shouldn't surprise me. After all, I have been seeing doppelgangers for my beloved V for the past few hours, slowly descending on the square where they asked me to give a speech. But at every turn, every time, I study the posture, the voices, hoping against hope that he survived, somehow, and knowing that it's a cold illusion to cling to. It's an irrational way of thinking, but, really, what is rational when it comes to the one you love? Again, though, these two lowlifes are not V… not my V.
"Ms. Hammond?" I glance up to see a young man in a mask, extending his hand towards me. This, of course, is not my V either. Instead, his name is Eiran, and he is the 'Master of Ceremonies' tonight. Still, the resemblance is uncannily familiar, as I extend my hand to allow him to help me up the slightly unsteady stairs to the riser. It's time for my speech, as the last strains of music are heard.
I stare out into a crowd of people, some dressed as my love. One man, in particular, has the costume just right. I look at the tilt of the head, and it's clear I have his attention, at least. I clear my throat, using him as a focal point. And then, unwaveringly, I look away.
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot…" I glance for the man again, finding this difficult, only to find that the tall, dapper man was gone. A trick of the light? Or the spirit of my beloved V? It doesn't matter any more. I am composed, and calm, as I finish the quote… and move on to my speech.