Tis my first V for Vendetta fic that I wrote in the car on the way back from seeing it at the cinema. To my new obssession!
To V
72 people came to the funeral. They stood twitchily, in a not-quite silence, gathered around a small, temporary grave that held no body.
A month after parliament had been blown up, the story of V's dramatic death had been widely circulated and widely embellished. What people did not know of the story they simply made up. The 10 policemen V had faced became 20, then 40, then 80, until he was made out to be no less than a superhero; a God. But Evey knew Gods did not die from bullet wounds.
She watched each person give their details to Finch, some with conviction, others hesitatingly. The old Evey could understand their hesitation. The new Evey knew only strength, and a burning sense of justice.
The Shadow Gallery was not meant for such a large gathering. Thousands of people had been turned away on the grounds that this was a covert operation, and it would not do to be caught by the government and expose V's home. They paid their respects from afar.
They'd asked Evey to give the eulogy but she feared they'd asked too much. She barely knew how to say goodbye to the man behind the mask, now the people demanded a leader who would rally the troops behind the idea of V. That was why all those people were there; for the idea. They hadn't known V personally, but his idea had united them together in this sense of familiarity, and brought thousands flocking to his funeral despite the risks.
The last few weeks had been treacherous to those who dared to call themselves 'V.' The masks and costumes prevailed, worn in raids, worn after curfews, and above all, worn in sheer bloody-minded defiance.
Evey stepped up to the small raised podium and watched as every person turned to look at her with V's face. Tchaikovsky blared from the jukebox and Evey knew she had to speak. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. There, at the back, for just one second, she thought she had seen the flash of a scratched and dirty mask amongst the gleaming dozens, the torn and bloody suit, and a gloveless, burnt hand salute her. She blinked, and the battle scars disappeared on just another costumed man in the crowd.
"V saved me, in every sense of the word. He showed me what life meant to him, and awakened a new meaning in my own. You are here because he too, has saved your lives through his words and actions, just as you will…"
---
405,372 people came to the memorial. They filed through the cemetery gates in respectful silence, clutching their black capes to their torso's with leather-clad hands. V's gravestone had been updated, now a grinning stone mask stood atop a large, square headstone on which words to remember him by were carved.
A year after V's death and the world had changed. His valiant attack on parliament was too fresh to be passed into legend, the details too accurate. Evey made sure of that. Every man, woman and child in the country knew of the events of the 5th of November. No information was omitted, no digression withheld, no conspiracy left buried. Finch made sure of that.
This time there was ample space for everyone to pay their respects. The government had graciously set aside a space for the annual memorial service as a peace offering. V would have been disgusted at the location, but since his death the reforms had been great. It hadn't been easy, and there was still along way to go, but Evey knew that someday soon she would be proud to say she was born and raised in England.
The Shadow Gallery had been discovered months ago and the innards pillaged by government officials. Since then Evey had led groups to steal the forbidden art and music back, and now Tchaikovsky's Overture blared from V's old jukebox once more.
Up on the podium, Evey paused in her speech for a second, knowing the rehearsed words but searching for ones that could convey the furious pride she felt on V's behalf.
"… Continue to demonstrate your veracity, your values and your vigilance, and I know we can succeed, just as we have started to make a difference in the past year. V was the spark of revolutionary thinking, the inspiration for us all. But he was not just an idea to be utilised. He was a human, like everyone here, a human who could see past the veil drawn over our eyes. To V."
A man at the back of the crowd raised his glass, but did not remove his mask to put it to his lips as all the other costumed mourners did. "No, Evey," he murmured, "To you."
Fin
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