Title: War Is Kind
Author: booknerdguru
Topic: Musings about Death
Rating: PG-13
Character or pairing: Minerva McGonagall
Rough word count: 2,614 words
Warnings. refers to death and the effects of war.
Summary: This is my entry for the ficathon. Prompt 2: Character A looks back on the anniversary of a death of a spouse or child. The poem is by Stephen Crane and the one quote in there, well it's been accredited to many people- I used the name they gave me at the site I found it on.

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.

Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky

And the affrighted steed ran on alone,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

She had had many experiences with the ephemeral spirit called Death during her long lifetime.

She, who had begun life growing up during the dark period shortly before the rising of the Dark Lord Grindelwald and his long reign of terror, she'd been born of a good family, strong and true. But blood and politics aside, she'd come to know Death at an early age.

She met him first while riding in the woods on her family's modest Highland estate with a distant cousin of hers. True to tradition and ancient practices, she and he were bound together, having been betrothed at an early age to cement the alliances between their two clans. This was even more important now that it had been, because with the beginnings of war stirring, they needed all the allies they could get to ensure their survival and the survival of the Highland clans. This had been explained to them and both of them accepted it as fact, in truth, both were glad that they were being bound to someone that they could actually stand and eventually grow to love, like so many had before them. It was a well-known fact that there was nothing more important to a Scot and even more specifically, a Highlander than that that of kith and kin. The clan was paramount in all things.

They'd been racing through the woods, weaving in and out of the trees, laughing, playing, exalting in being young, carefree, and happy, until that one fateful day when that carefree happy world came crashing down around her. The instrument of his their destruction hadn't been a Dark Wizard or someone from one of the rival clans trying to make a statement to one of their fathers. No, it had been something as simple as a snake unexpectedly spooking their horses. They had this custom of admiring the view from their 'secret spot,' a small grove that ended with this rocky outcropping; one had to be careful here at night because without prior knowledge of the ledge, it was quite possible to ride right off the side of the mountain and never know it until it was too late. For all of its potential danger though, the view here was unparalleled, nowhere else in all of the Highlands in all of the world she oftentimes thought could you see such a sight as this.

But that day, their horses has been frightened and her cousin, in an effort to try to calm them, but above all else, trying to keep her from getting trampled by them, had taken one step too far back and…fallen. Her cousin, her brave, braw, beautiful cousin had, in sparing her life, fallen to his death. Magic, that great and glorious thing could do wonders, it was true, and it had the capacity to heal many injuries that would have ordinarily killed a lesser man. However, for all of its strong points, its miraculous achievements, there were indeed things that magic could not cure; instant death by way of a broken neck was one of them.

That was her first brush with Death.

That was when she first started to see the Thestrals.

To this day, she still remembered the earth-shattering silence, the way that Time itself seemed to slow as he fell. How she'd been so paralyzed with fear that it'd been almost as if someone had hexed her with 'Stupefy.' Couldn't move, couldn't talk, couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't look away, all she was capable of doing watching in horrified silence as he fell. It took longer than she'd thought it would, she remembered thinking through her numb, dispassionate haze. It wasn't until the last second before he hit that sound, speech, feeling, and smell all returned to her in a rush that completely overwhelmed her.

When the reality of what had happened sunk in later on, once her father and brothers had found them the horses had freed themselves and galloped home. Her parents had worried when they saw them come in with no riders and had begun searching for them immediately, her, silent and motionless peering down at the body so many leagues below her, she'd cried and screamed until she was absolutely spent. She'd passed through the next score of days, like a specter, a ghost, completely emotionless, disassociated from her world and all that was in it. The nights she spent, tossing and turning, silently screaming as she relived it over and over again in her dreams. She stayed like this, despite all pleadings and threatening from kith and kin alike, for the better part of the year. The same monotonous routine, day in and day out; it wasn't until the day that her Hogwarts letter arrived that her parents and kin were treated to the first glimpse of the girl they'd all known and loved.

Going to Hogwarts and all that that implied reawakened that fiery stubborn spirit of hers and she threw everything she had into her studies. Determined beyond all shadow of a doubt that she'd never be caught so unprepared, so helpless ever again.

It was all she lived for.

Her professors and classmates often remarked on the passion, the fire, that stubborn driving force that she threw behind everything that she attempted. Little did they know or even suspect that that driving force, that fire was the only thing that kept her going most days. That and the cherished memory of a beloved cousin long dead.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment

Little souls who thirst for fight,

These men were born to drill and die

The unexplained glory flies above them

Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom--

A field where a thousand corpses lie.

The smoke of the fires burned her nose and her throat was already red and raw from all of the curses she'd cast. In addition to making the nose burn and eyes itch, the smoke also made it exceedingly difficult to distinguish who was who here on this field of death. That is unless you had done as Mr. Potter had insisted and pinned on a small reflective insignia that identified you as a member of the Order to any of the other members.

It was an excellent field tactic and one that Declan would have approved of, the thought passed through her mind. He'd had an excellent mind for strategy and tactics, her Declan had had. A sharp pang hit her heart at the thought of him, her big braw Scotsman with a smile on his lips and bonny laughing blue eyes. She'd hadn't thought it was possible that she would come to love anyone else after the way that Eamon had died, but Declan was if nothing else, persistent and with time and the patience of a saint, he'd managed to win over the hard battered heart of young Minerva Scott. She shook her head to clear it of these idle thoughts, focusing her attention on the here and now. Drifting off in the middle of a battle only made you dead. Declan would have reamed her well and good for a slight like that and she'd have deserved every scathing word. Letting one's mind focus on anything but the objective at hand, anything except getting the job done was a surefire way to get yourself listed among the other poor sods on the casualty list. Ducking a stupefy and casting her own dehabilitating hex, she once more delved into the thick mire that was this battlefield.

True to her bloodline and her House, she'd immediately thrown herself into the thick of the mêlée. Cutting a swath through the Death Eaters left and right, stunning/dehabilitating when she could, and killing when she couldn't. Unlike some of her compatriots, she had no qualms about killing when it was necessary. Coming of age and fighting in the ranks against Grindelwald had clearly showed her what was what. Like what the Muggle General Patterson had reportedly said, "The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other sod die for his."

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.

Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,

Raged at his breast, gulped and died,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

If there was anything more horrific than the thick of battle, it would be the aftermath of said battle, when what was left of the two sides called it a day and the sorting of the dead began. Then it would be the time of weeping and wailing, of waiting with baited breath for news of kith and kin, of knowing that no news was good news at this point.

Many witches and more than a few wizards would be receiving the Ministry ravens telling them that their loved one, their spouse, son or daughter, or other relative was killed in the line of duty. If they did indeed still have a Ministry when the day was out; there'd also be a surplus of war orphans coming to Hogwarts this next year, that is if there was even a Hogwarts for them to come to. Much rested on the outcome of this day.

Everything rested on this day.

Swift, blazing flag of the regiment

Eagle with crest of red and gold,

These men were born to drill and die

Point for them the virtue of slaughter

Make plain to them the excellence of killing

And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

They'd fought throughout the night, bit by bit slowly advancing forward. Dealing with Voldemort was not like dealing with Grindelwald, she reflected briefly. Voldemort's followers were much slyer, preferring quick raids and brief skirmishes to full outright battles. Grindelwald had favored this tactic some, but he'd much been a student of the older, more traditional ways, preferring to do war in the old 'civilized' manner and this in turn, made him somewhat predictable. Voldemort was the opposite, preferring the quick and dirty fights to the long, drawn out ones. He too had his moments of predictability, but they were erratic at best. Only Mr. Potter and Albus, she supposed, Morrigan keep his soul, could really understand and therefore predict Voldemort with any certain success.

Dawn approached and in the twilight shadows, a quick aborted movement caught her eye, and she cautiously turned to see what it was. As she stood there and searched for what it had been, a great roar surged up from the ranks of the Light side. Swiftly making her way to a better vantage point, she met up with Severus Snape, who'd turned out to be truly loyal after all. He turned to her and mutely pointed to the middle of the battlefield. There as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, she saw the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff divisions break through and seize the field, the brilliant red and gold standard complete with Hogwarts crest in the forefront, bourn by Seamus Finnegan, streaming gaily in the wind.

"He did it, Minerva," the quiet voice next to her stated, now devoid of any bite or distain.

"Yes, he did." She replied, as the sun shone down upon the (now) mortal remains of what had been Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort. Death Eaters were madly fleeing the field, chased by the Aurors and Order members, as the thrill of victory set in and the cheers began. She looked down upon the exultant mass below and she couldn't help but feel a strange sort of sad pride at the sight of those that had been formerly been her students.

Most of who had only just reached their majority.

They should have been celebrating the end of their schooling, been readying themselves for the new challenges ahead of them, and not standing in the midst of a bloody field of battle. There was a part of her that wailed and wept for the sad loss of innocence at so young an age. Wept for the smiling happy children she'd known, loved, and taught; no longer were they children, no children did not do or see the things that these few had. Slowly she made her way down to the celebration that was currently going on, carefully stepping here and there, and avoiding the numerous bodies strewn across the field. She saw Luna Lovegood hurling herself at Neville, both hugging and holding each other like there was no tomorrow. Thanks to them and to their own dear Mr. Potter, that was no longer a major worry for them. She watched as Padma Patil was being gaily twirled around by Theodore Nott, and as Seamus planted a deep passionate kiss on Miss Granger of all people. She saw all of their happy, smiling, laughing faces and knew that neither she nor any of the other adults would dare intrude on this joy, dare dampen their happy spirits.

They were young and today was for them.

After all, the victory could not have happened without them.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button

On the bright splendid shroud of your son,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

Further on, as she walked, a ways away from the massive Gyffindorian celebration being held in the middle of the field, she saw as those Aurors and Order personnel began to take stock of the situation, to begin tallying the losses on both sides. She watched as Naveena Zabini collapsed weeping over her son's body; as the Healers had had to physically pull a wildly hysterical Molly Weasley away from the bodies of her son and husband; as Susan Bones had crumbled at the sight of her boyfriend, Justin Finch-Fletchley's corpse. She watched as Healers and family members now swarmed the field, some celebrating, and some grieving.

But such was war.

It took and it gave back indiscriminately. It had taken so many, Albus, Ron and Arthur, and so many others just as it had done in another war long gone by. Declan had been slain in a conflict much like this one had been and she knew all too well what those who had lost loved ones today would be going through. The excruciating pain, the overwhelming grief, and the devastating impact that this loss would have on their lives; once you'd been touched by Death, it left its mark on you, its imprint on your life. She stopped for a minute, waiting for the magical stretcher and the harried Healers to pass and then it hit her. The significance of today and more than likely why her late husband had been on her mind so recently. Today was the day that she'd gotten that horrid black raven so many years ago, where she'd been informed that her husband had been killed in an ambush, while trying to defend this family that had been targeted. Today, Victory Day (as she had no doubt some officious Ministry lackey would term it) was also the anniversary of Declan's death.

He'd have been 76 this year, she mused silently as she continued walking through the field, through the willow trees waving gently in the light breeze and the first hints of wildflowers slowly emerging from their long seasonal sleep. A stark contrast to the patches of mud and scorched earth, to the grassy field run red with blood and strewn with corpses.

Do not weep.

War is kind.