Disclaimer: Not mine, really.
A/N: This is dedicated to all the veterans of the wars, especially for those of Canada, and Winged Escapist who suggested I should make a ficlet for Remembrance Day.
I am not Canadian, and my country did not have any prominent role in none of the World Wars, I however live in a country that has many conflicts and whose soldiers fight everyday for the security of us civilians. I hope I don't offend anybody with this piece.
I apologize in advance for any incongruence I have with St. John's. I do not live there.
Also.
Oz= Australia
Zea= New Zealand
Bella (Short of Isabella) = Belgium
Lars = Holland
The Eleventh Hour.
9:00 am
Contrary to common belief, Canada doesn't angst or get depressed on November the 11th. Perhaps a few decades ago that would have been him, but now, as the northern Nation makes his way through St. Jonh's -this year's City of Choice- he is anything but.
Even if three hours earlier he woke up that day with the sharp iron taste of gunpowder and blood under his tongue, and snarled at the deceivingly good flower he had to wear today. He has a love-hate relationship with poppy flowers.
At first he was wary of being in St. John's, it had belonged to Newfoundland and Labrador until recently, it still is territory truly new for him. But he could not go back. Not after asking his boss to let him stay for a day instead of going to the G-20 meeting that started today. Harper had accepted, albeit a bit exasperated - not that he minded, he knew his absence might contradict what his boss would say at the meeting today.
But the other nations wouldn't mind. Really. He had called Korea and the Asiatic nation told him -with a suspicious slur- they probably wouldn't get anything done for that day.
Thus he would spend this day at St. John's, no matter how uncomfortable it could make him. With resolve he just went out of the bed and did his daily routines. He was staying at a little apartment in downtown near the harbour, with enough outing to little green block should his bear feel a bit homesick. When he finished, he laid out a few fish carcasses on a plate next to the fridge for the bear and went out. Only wearing a pair of rabbit's gloves, jeans, a red pullover (with the poppy) and a scarf that looked a bit too much like that of a certain Russian despite -or it might be because of- the cold weather.
As he ventured into the heart of the city and greets his children and plays with the little ones he begins to list off the good and bad things that happened throughout the year.
It was an habit he had taken up from Zea once she explained the reason she did it this day instead of new year. He really should thank her (because she had told him "I feel like a woman, I don't care if I'm a male anyway"). Her and Oz, both had helped him -which was priceless since they lived almost on the other side of the world, and they had helped him more than his brother ever would, as individuals that is- to get over the war.
It wasn't easy, the wounds they all had from both wars were not completely healed -he woke up with Vimy throbbing painfully behind his left ear, and sometimes when he slept stressed out he would find himself in the middle of a carnage, with the smell of putrid flesh and other fluids surrounding him and the explosions resonating throughout the landscape-, the memory would be everlasting. That however did not mean they should bury themselves to depression with regrets and misplaced guiltiness. -Even if you really should- he would chastise himself sometimes, when Kumafu -was that the name?- asked who he was, or when he said he didn't know anyone named Canada.
"The scars will always be with us, that's the deal. We have to remember exactly for what they were made, not how" Oz had told him that, while patting his shoulder a bit uncomfortable the night of 1987 when they all spent the eleventh at Arthur's house and he broke down crying. Oz had invited him to spend the day next year, just the two of them. Zea tagged along. Canada doesn't like to hear his mind on the matter about it, doesn't want to believe in the twisted imagery where a hard-looking Australia looks at him muttering "at least one of you made it through"
After that night, he realized he should be doing something, instead of mourning the lost and the sacrifices. Furthering the work his children gave their lives for. That's why He stood behind Ludwig and offered his help to search Prussia when the wall fell.
Or why he always plays Hockey with Russia every month. (He tries to not be scared... much. It seems that after a bit more than a decade he's finally succeeding. His victory over him in WO might or might not have had something with it)
That's also part of the reason he always visits Bella and Lars on November the first and makes pancakes and Stropwaffles (he doesn't want to remember the time he Lars did Pot-waffles. He denies he liked them) and spend the whole day with each other, chatting about their countries and anything that go through their mind, updating each other with gossips and other juicy details of their lives and others. He loves November the first, especially when they decide when they would come to Canada for the tulip festival.
Matthew smiles dumbly at the memory. His cheeks flushed from the cold. The recession might be hitting him a bit hard (he still hasn't gotten over the light headache and he would cough from time to time) but the year was splendid. With the bad an the goods.
He will take up Oz's offer to stay the remembrance day at his place next year. (He doesn't realize it is not the first time he has made that promise to himself and hasn't gone accordingly).
10:00 am
As he drinks the hot cocoa on a colourful cafe in Duckworth Street Matthew muses lightly of what has happened this year. He can't stop smiling as he remembers the sweets victories at the beginning of the year. Fourteen golds on his turf. That was enough to make him smile despite England's complaints.
"Really it's not like you haven't lost on Winter Olympics before." he mutters blowing softly the heat off his cup. This year was very moving, it was almost like every big event of the year had zeroed on his territories to test him. He had never been so proud -and who was he fooling? He had been a bit ashamed too- of his people.
Canada blushed; he couldn't talk about shame himself. For one he couldn't remember his Bear's name correctly. It was not his fault, really, he honestly tried to remember his name, but since it was in Japanese something was sure to be lost in translation (and yes, Korean and Chinese were plenty different from the other language.) He would not forget the Bear's name the next time he called, and maybe that would be the day the bear...
He was fooling himself, Matthew could at least be that much honest with himself, especially since the true reason he never could say the Bear's real name was because it wasn't Japanese: It was English.
Canada ignored the shiver brought to him by remembering that name alone. It always brought him a paradox of violent feelings, and it wasn't good in the end. Instead he focused in how the scar from Juno and Passchendaele itched together cross marking the small of his back.
10:30 am
On his way home he saw a young couple walking down the street hand in hand. His stare might have lingered a bit too much, for an old lady chuckled and told him "Don't worry, a man as young as yourself will find someone soon enough"
Matthew laughed and thanked the lady. Talking with his people always cheered him up.
The cold Atlantic breeze ruffled his hair and he readjusted his scarf. Well, now that was something to think about: his non-existent love-life. It was not for the lack of trying -and suitors, Lars wasn't exactly a subtle man, and Bella had hinted more than once about the benefits of a polygamous relationship, and really, he should not begin with his brother- but for the ghost that haunted him. He tries to smile at the though -Hey Al. I'm haunted by a ghost- but he can't. Instead he tries fruitlessly to yawn, to call back his sleep. Juno and Passchendaele aren't throbbing so hard now, and Vimy and the others are burning lowly enough to be pleasantly accepted. He can't do it.
The blond looks at his wristwatch, 10:45. He has a few more hours before taking his flight to Korea, but his apprehension is for something else. There are still fifteen minutes before the eleventh hour and he still doesn't feel sleepy at all. No matter how much he's played, jogged and walked. He doesn't feel tired at all, and the hot cocoa (with an unhealthy amount of maple syrup) hasn't done the trick yet. He is running out of time to sleep, and he cannot longer stay out of the way to his apartment.
He hopes to be asleep by the start of the silence.
He knows he won't be so lucky this year.
A few decades ago, OZ had helped Matthew out of his sobbing depressed mess into a refreshing young nation that took action instead of wallow in darkness. However it does not matter, the northern nation does cry at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. He tries to not stay awake during that hour.
It is an hour in which all the wounds he received bleed and itch, though the pain pales in comparison to the first minute of silence. For it is horrible, because he knows that arises the twisted miracle that tortures him. Because the memories of the war not only take him back to square one, they bring the other back in a devious mockery of what he had and had lost. Whatever it is brings the ghost back to himself, and that might hurt the most.
-and you're on his territory- his mind supplies with vengeance.
He can't cross the garden in front of the building quickly enough when he feels it, the warm drips behind his left ear, the soaring burn on his lower back among other places on his body and for a moment he stares at the sky in dismay.
Canada closes his eyes and shakes his head as the silence engulfs him feeling snow fall softly on his cold and wounded skin. Suddenly broad arms hug him from behind, they are warm and move silently to warm his frozen extremities. The figure tugs him closer to his broad form long silver hair now obscures his vision partially. The one behind him is taller -by a head and a half- and as the scent of snow and forest -mixed with death and gunpowder and those bloodied poppies- engulfs him Matthew feels his eyes water.
Then a soft and innocent voice purrs lightly on the back of his neck, with such an easy and familiarity and intimacy only reserved to lovers "Thank you Matthew" and kisses Vimy softly.
11:00 am
Canada breaks down and cries.
Fin
Thank you for Reading. Reviews would be very welcome.