In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
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.

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

Remus Lupin lay awake in the dark haven of his rented room.

Pain, and vivid memory, seemed to make sleep impossible.

Muscles, stiff and sore from his recent transformation, were apt reminders of his peripatetic lifestyle in all its splendour.

His thoughts had been dark that day, as they often were after his Change, times when old and familiar feelings would swamp him. Odd that changing could actually make him feel more human. Perhaps it was a sign of how retched his life had become. He was glad to be alone. And yet....

The very darkness of the room that was supposed to give it a restful quality provided the blank backdrop for his fitful thoughts.

A limpidly green field and a sky almost devoid of its usual blue. Many large red poppies, bursting with scarlet passion and energy despite the oppressive, humid heat, dotted the landscape. Littered among these fiery reminders of life were cool, unobtrusive white granite crosses, indifferent to the sweltering day. Every now and then, a hot, heavy wind would riffle his hair. His plain white oxford shirt clung to his body. Clouds were rolling in, as if God himself could not bear the awful testimony of this forsaken site. Distant thunder was the only occasional sound to break that of heavy, buzzing silence.

He closed his eyes. The image would not leave him. Restlessly, he turned over, even that simple movement causing excruciating pain.

They had had no chance. Whatever dreams, hopes they had had for the future were clouded by mustard gas, smashed by Maxims, cut short by concertina wire, forced to move forever sideways like the incessant monotony of the trenches. They had died in awful anguish; they were buried in peace and glory. Now nothing remained of them save off-white crosses; the last remnants of a shattered generation, the unearthed bones of brave men and cowards; while everything else, including courage and pusillanimity, was interred. Everything meaningful was stripped away leaving only the misshapen suggestion of humanity.

Why?

It wasn't that he's not had his chance. He had, at some far distant time, beyond remembrance. Perhaps if he'd not been so foolhardy, if he'd not.... But that was unreachable, unalterable. Why had it been shut? Where had he gone wrong? All his life, he'd tried to be the upright man he knew that he had to be.

It was hard, when you felt alone.

His life had been full, even up to the beginning of the war. He had caring parents who sacrificed much for him and cared for nothing but his happiness. He had been blessed with a chance for a normal life, with a wonderful education, good friends, and even enemies. And he had been happy. But even in his youth, he was becoming more aware of an emptiness that had nothing to do with anyone but himself.

Always, he had been treated kindly, by everyone except those who saw what he was for who he was. Always he had been grateful for what others gave him.

He never had actually accomplished something for himself. He had never spoken for himself. Never taken a real stand for what was important to him.

It was his fault.

His damn fault.

It had been plaguing him, ceaselessly; he had caused it. He hadn't stood up. He never offered his services. He had been afraid. Afraid that somehow, he wasn't good enough. Afraid that he would have given in. Always afraid of his ability to hurt. He had spared them all of having to worry because of him.

And because of that....

He wondered what Peter had dreamt of.

He wondered, bitterly, what Sirius had dreamt of.

Sometimes he wondered if he had known any of them at all. Or if, in his mental battles between honour and confrontation, he had only seen what they wanted him to see. Caring friends. A loving, if tactless, husband, a dutiful father. A boyish bachelor. A timid misfit.

He wondered if he had known what honour meant.

Or if he had been preoccupied, always, with the semblance of peace, and found honour and duty conformed to it. Preoccupied with....

He swallowed.

Then, when the conflict reached its summit, when the suspicion was highest, no one trusted in anything but the stereotypes and the comfortable familiarity of his own self. Beneath the thin layer of cordiality was intense, tangible mistrust. Reason seemed illogical, and peace was at its most fragile.

He drifted into an uneasy, fevered sleep, subconsciously not allowing his thoughts to stray any closer to the present.

Someone -- a woman -- was looking at him, concernedly. She reached the cool back of her palm out to touch his forehead. A furrow appeared between her brows.

There was a feeling of familiarity about her -- perhaps she was his cousin, or his mother. She leaned over him her eyes full of worry. Gently, she eased him on his side and proceeded to rub circles in his back, at first lightly dusting his skin with her fingertips, then with increasing pressure until his muscles were so loose that he felt he could hardly move.

Then, somehow, she was holding him running her fingers along his jaw line. Who was she? -- neither cousin nor mother.... Kissing him lightly on the forehead, she whispered 'Sleep.'

'I can't.'

'Don't be ridiculous, of course you can.' She paused and her face blurred, and he heard only her voice:

'Don't worry. You've done the right thing, the honourable thing, and -- I respect you so much for it. You don't have to look so hard. The right course is right in front of you. You need only follow it. Sleep.'

She added tenderly, 'I will love you until the end of my days.'

He remembered none of his dreams but slept on in peace.

When he woke in the morning, he found the fickle spring weather had turned cold and dewy as his window had been thrown open in the night, most probably by a sharp wind. He rose and dressed slowly, pausing only a moment before packing his suitcase.

As he paid his bill and left the small hotel, he was submerged in thought.

Since one cold November morning seven years ago, he had been travelling, searching. For some reminder of life, for closure, for, however unlikely, a way back to the past.

For a refuge from his own cowardice.

And because of that, he had increased it.

Running away.

It was unreachable, unalterable. His subconscious had been running in circles, trying to find itself.

Perhaps if he stood still, it could. Perhaps living was more than just reacting. He had forgotten.

Trying to find a future in the past had not been wise. Perhaps it was finally time to face his past head-on and create an actual present. Possibly even a future.