AN: Both the title and the inspiration for this story comes from "Tri-Colour" by Robert Service which follows. This poem is one of many of Service's WWI poems from his collection Rhymes of a Red Cross Man.
Little will be the Loss
They say soldiering and disillusionment go hand and hand, but in my youth I had never believed it. Now it is different, things have changed, changed for the better they say. I can agree on some fronts of that argument, we have a king now; the war is over, and for most things look brighter than they have in years. Not for me, no, not for me. The future is a mass of dark clouds on the horizon, and there is nothing I can do to halt their arrival. With this king comes a promise for everlasting peace, and all the darkness in our lives has disappeared so suddenly, we hardly know where to begin. So why do I long for the old times?
A soldier's life is simple, if not easy, and in the old days we had one clear purpose: protect the city and fight off the darkness best we could. We all hated the darkness, and wished for it to be forever gone, but none of us saw its importance. In our years fighting, we had become bound to our enemy, and when it went, so did our sense of purpose. Gondor had no need for soldiers now, and a proud military tradition of hundreds of years went to naught. Some say I am simply bitter from too many years of battle and strife, but I know better. I know that things will never be the same.
Victory is a funny thing, for how can a battle be a victory when so many died? So many, so many good soldiers, soldiers with wives and children at home, good men who should be living now, not buried in the ground. I have no family dependant on me, I should have died, it should have been me. I it fair that I, an old man should be alive? Why not one of the young ones? So much life they had! So eager and willing! They were a model for us all, but they are dead! Dead! Never will they look out over the WhiteCity and see the banners fluttering in the breeze! Never again.
The light is waning now, and I fear the coming night. With the night come the dreams that haunt, whispers and lights and movements in the still darkness. The dreams have a tangible presence that hangs like a curtain over my thoughts. I look out over the field of the battle, once a land of horror and death, now a field of waving grass and flowers. But I see that they aren't flowers at all. No, it is the dead. My dead comrades lay there on their field of fallen glory. Their red blood glimmers in the grass, catching the last of the light from the sinking sun. You may tell me it is only flowers, but I know the truth.
As the light fades, I hear whispers, whispers of the dead. This time the whispers are different, no more the haunting cries and death agonies of broken men. My dead friends beckon me to join them, the time has come for me to leave here. Am I afraid? No, a new life awaits me. When you look for me tomorrow, you will not find me, and little will be the loss.
END
Tri-Colour
Poppies, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat;
Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood.
It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat;
It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood;
It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries
With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade.
See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies,
And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid!
Cornflowers, you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain;
Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes?
Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain,
All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies.
Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat.
See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white!
Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . .
Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night!
Lillies (the light is waning), only lilies you say,
Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves.
No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day:
It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves.
Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown.
Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . .
Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . .
God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win -- my Cross.