Hey people, this is my first one-shot so try not to kill me lol and I wrote it for rememberance day so have some respect, but of course, CONSTRUCTIVE critisism is always welcome. :)
Hope you enjoy...
Fang Remembers.
My head remained bowed at the ceremony. The sound of a trumpet sounded in the distance, but around me it was completely silent. No one dared to disturb my moment of silence for the dead, for the forgotten and unrecognizable; for the soldiers.
They might not have fought the world wars but they did fight in a war and today was the day that they brought it all down. Today was the day everyone in the flock but me perished; November 11th. I wasn't just paying my respects to them though, every man, every woman, every child, brother, sister, son, daughter... they all deserved respect and honour, and I was here to give it.
Her face was the one I missed the most and I knew the pain of those families. I'd lost everyone and had walked away crippled. It wasn't something you could see though; my wings were mangled to the point that they were unusable, but it's something I'd grown to accept with time.
Laying a poppy on each and every grave in the cemetery for soldiers and a bouquet for each flock member, I turned and walked away. Once I'd reached my one bedroom apartment I went over to the violin in the corner and picked it up and looked down at the sheet music as I played. I had taken it up not long after they'd passed in our victory.
There were words to the song, but they were never meant to be sung. They were merely there for the player, to read with the music, to feel... feel as the writer felt, to see what the writer saw. To feel the echoing agony of what it is to see the girl you love fall in battle or the little boy you felt was your brother blast apart by their bombs, something that was his specialty. They were there so that when you read them, felt them, heard them... when you let them burrow into your soul... you could feel what war felt like. You could understand, you could see it all in front of you and you would put it through you into your instrument and then you wouldn't need words. You wouldn't need words of regret or war stories to say how you felt. I didn't need the words to tell you how you should feel about war; the notes did it for me.
I closed my eyes, the last note hanging in the air. I picked up a pencil and leaned down and changed the last few notes to the new one's I'd written. Setting down the violin, I walked away from it, finally feeling a little released, feeling like they were here with me, feeling like they'd heard. After all, they always knew I didn't need words to show them how I felt.
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