A/N: I'm hoping to finish this before I go to bed tonight, so that I can post it in the morning. I wasn't really sure about writing anything for Remembrance Day, because I wasn't sure what I could write about something that honestly makes me a little emotional. I don't know why, but Remembrance Day has always gotten to me. Pretty much any day like this does.

As always, I wanted to focus on what happened, and not so much on the characters themselves. It's a sensitive subject, and I want to write something that won't bring any dishonour to our veterans. So, this is my attempt at that.

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The Armistice was signed at 5am, November 11th, 1918, in a railroad car, parked in a French forest near the front lines. The terms were that all fighting on the entire western front would cease at precisely 11am that day. The Great War, the bloody battles, the bombardment of shells and bombs, the constant knowledge that you might not be alive in two minutes, it was all over.

But some soldiers couldn't believe that. The attitude across the front lines was that this so called "treaty" was only temporary, and soon the war would continue on. Some continued fighting after 11am that morning, giving their enemy a farewell to arms. Many fell.

Of course, the reactions across the globe were just as mixed. Celebration, mourning, confusion, no one truly knew how to feel. It'd been four years, some people had just forgotten what life was like without the weight of the Great War hanging over their heads. Most could only hope that their soldiers, brothers, fathers, husbands, sons and friends would return home safely.

Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce.
Le Seigneur est avec vous.

One Francis Bonnefoy sat huddled in his dugout that morning, a rosary wrapped loosely in his fingers. The cross fell between his fingertips, his calloused hands brushing across the chipped wood. A muttered Hail Mary left his lips, the only sound filling the deathly silent shelter. He'd never heard this place silent; it was unnerving. He wanted nothing more than to smash something, make some kind of noise; to make it feel normal.

Of course, he had known about the treaty for a long time, and the discussions and events leading up to it. But he had kept himself silent in the presence of his fellow soldiers; because that's what he was here. A soldier, just like his citizens, and he wanted to be nothing more in their presence. It was an attitude adopted by most nations in time of war. Yes, it was their duty to take up leadership positions, but in the end, they were all soldiers.

Vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes,
et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni.

A soldier stood up, Andre he believed his name was, the first movement in what felt like hours. All eyes snapped up to him, but no one said a single thing. They just watched him move slowly across the room, if you could even call at that, and approach the stone and dirt wall. He took out a knife from his pocket, and began carving his name into a chosen rock.

It was a silent movement, the soldiers slowly standing up and walking toward the same wall. Nothing was spoken as they carved their names along with small messages into the stone. This would be their testament, whether these trenches and dugouts withstood the test of time, or crumbled, this was their last contribution.

Francis soon stood and approached the wall, the last of the soldiers to stand. One hand still clutching the rosary as he continued to whisper while he carved his name. "Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, Priez pour nous, pauvres pécheurs, maintenant et à l'heure de notre mort. Amen."

As he walked away, toward the exit of the dugout, his fellow soldiers frowned in slight confusion. Francis Bonnefoy was one of those leaders that slept, ate, and spoke with them as equals instead of a superior. He had never been a man of mister, no, he was far too... dramatic for that. This was completely out of character for him.

Of course, they didn't know that this was the last time they'd ever see that man. Andre looked toward the wall, his eyes looking for the stone Bonnefoy had carved into. But on the stone he stood in front, he only found one thing, and it wasn't his name.

France.

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Nowadays, The Great War seemed a distant, terrible nightmare. It was a story to tell the children, a boring history lesson, a documentary on TV. The veterans had long ago passed and now rest in peace, their tales only heard by those willing to listen, to search for them. But not today. Today was a day for remembering the bloodiest war in modern history. Honouring the brave, fallen soldiers. Realizing what human kind is capable of. Mourning the dead. Standing in solemn silence for your country.

November 11th, 2011, Matthew Williams and Arthur Kirkland walked along the streets of St. John, Newfoundland. It was just about 11am, a chilly morning in the city. The streets were busy with "Newfies" going about their daily activities. Some wore poppies pined to their coats, or a flag on their sleeves.

The two of them were heading to the airport in just half an hour, where Matthew's private jet would take them to Ottawa for the Remembrance Day ceremony. Both of them would wear their "Grandfather's" veteran pins; because of course they were both much to young to have taken part in any war of the twentieth century. They would then travel over to France for a more... personal ceremony.

As the two nations entered a busy local restaurant, Matthew glanced down at his watch. 11:02 am the hands read on the red and white maple leaf face. Arthur had already gone ahead and asked a waitress to seat them, and he was following behind the two before he realized his feet were moving. They sat down, ordering their drinks right away. Arthur picked up the menu, scanning over it absentmindedly. It was quite obvious his mind was elsewhere.

"So, have you heard from Alfred and Francis yet?" He asked. At the moment, it just didn't seem appropriate to refer to them by his usual insults.

"Yeah, Al called this morning and said his flight into Paris would be a little late, but he was still coming. Francis arranged for a car for the four of us." Matthew replied.

Arthur nodded. "Good, good..." He trailed off when a crack came over the building's speakers. Seconds later a single note rang out through the restaurant; The Last Stand. Matthew glanced down at his watch once again as the trumpet paused between the next bar.

11:11am.

Without hesitation, both nations stood, perfect military form taking over their features as they listened to the solemn song. The restaurant hushed, eyes on the two young men. Slowly, a few began standing, the rest of the citizens following suite, until every single soul stood in respect for their country. The sheer love and quiet remembrance brought a mist to Matthew's eyes; until he heard a man, and woman sitting in a booth across the room, talking loudly as if nothing was happening.

Arthur followed the young nation's eyes, brows furrowing at the disrespectful couple. But at the same time, he was astound at his composure. For this one minute, this one song, he refused to do anything but stand in respect for his comrades, his friends. And not until the last note faded out did he see that composure drop.

Before anything could be said, Matthew whirled around angrily toward the couple. "You couldn't keep quiet for one damn minute?" He nearly screamed, voice cracking in a ferocity so rare for the quiet boy. Oh, that got them to stop talking. "For one minute, for one day, it was impossible to show a little respect? You are absolutely disgusting!" There was so much he wanted to say, to shout, but the ache in his chest, the thickness in his throat, the tears in his eyes made it impossible to speak.

Suddenly Arthur was standing right behind him, his hand on his back, guiding him away from the shocked-silent couple. The Englishman glared at them over his shoulder as he guided Matthew toward the door, slapping a ten dollar bill on the table as he passed it. He had a feeling neither of them would be hungry any more.

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It never ceased to amaze him that after all this time, Flanders Fields grew the most beautiful red poppies. The battle scared land rolled endlessly, covered in bright flowers and simple white crosses; thousands of them. A misty, cool wind blew through Alfred's hair as he sighed, closing his eyes. But when they were closed, all he saw were the memories of a war he never wanted to join.

It was true, he hadn't been a direct part of the war until 1917, but the things he'd seen, felt, lived through would never lift their weight from his mind. And this for this day, he found himself just as the rest of the Entente; quiet.

Matthew, Francis, and Arthur stood with him in a line, all lost in their own thoughts, their own ghosts. All he could hear was their breaths, slow, deep, and sometimes for a moment, hitched as a phantom pain shot through their minds.

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow..." His brother began in a whisper. The other three remained silent, listening to the poem they'd had sketched into their hearts for a century.

"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."

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I realize that there were many more countries on both sides of the war, but I went with what I knew for this piece. I may go over their stories in the future, but for now, I have a religion paper to write.

And please, if it's the only thing I ever ask of you, stand in silence tomorrow at 11:11am.