Are you going to Scarborough Fair
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme?
It was never easy, going to the cottage in Scarborough. Britain hadn't been there in more than a hundred years. Not since he had lived here.

Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine.
As he pushed the door open, Britain was flooded with memories. His mother had built this house, had hung the herbs in the doorway, had sat on the bed and told wonderful stories…but the cottage was also full of memories of him.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt/On the side of a hill in the deep forest green
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme/Tracing a sparrow on snow-crested brown
The closet was empty, save a few things Britain had left when he moved back to London. A blue silk cape hanging on a hook caught his eye. He remembered that the finest tailor in Paris had been hired to make it.

Without no seam or needlework/Blankets and bedclothes, the child of the mountain
Then she'll be a true love of mine./Sleeps unaware of the clarion call
That had been long ago, when Britain had believed that all was right with the world. The cape seemed to be mocking him, a cruel joke from that innocent time. He pulled it from the hook, tore it in half from collar to hem, and left the pieces on the floor.

Tell her to find me an acre of land/On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme/Washes the grave with silvery tears
This house had been beautiful, when he was young. He had come here often, with his mother and his twin—and once or twice with him. It had been wonderful, in every season; it had been home. Now it was only a place, full of things. Britain dropped to his knees, sneezed once from the dust, and crawled under the bed.

Between the salt water and the sea strand/A soldier cleans and polishes a gun
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
There it was—the bow he'd made the year his mother had decided he needed one. He took it outside, strung it carefully with the string he had brought, and tested it, shooting an arrow at a rotted log on the shore and hitting it dead center. Pleased with himself, he closed the cottage door and went to rejoin his regiment.

Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather/War bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions
The battle was joined; Death himself waited in the wings to collect the fallen. Britain and his men hid in the trees, watching the enemy advance in their bright red and blue uniforms.

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme/Generals order their soldiers to kill
Britain raised his hand, to catch his archers' attention, and lowered it just as suddenly. Arrows flew, stopping the advancing army in its tracks.

And gather it all in a bunch of heather/And to fight for a cause they have long ago forgotten
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
Britain won the day, but as his soldiers celebrated around their fires, he could do no more than stare into the flames and pray for the ache in his bones to cease. Why must the war go on? How many more human lives would it cost?
How many of those who died even knew what they were dying for? How many had seen him there, so proud, so sure he was out of harm's way?
Goddammit, why was he so cruel? And why was he still so beautiful?

Are you going to Scarborough Fair
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme?
Remember me to one who lives there
For she once was a true love of mine.