"An assegai has been thrust into the belly of the nation. There are not enough tears to mourn for the dead." – King Cetewayo, Battle of Isandlwana. January 22, 1879.
Rat. Tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat. Tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat.
The drums sounded somberly as the parade of red-coated instrument players filed down the main road of Harrisburg, the population of the island nation lining on the side of the streets as the somber procession made its way towards Coronation Hill, where the event of the day was to occur.
Behind the drummers came the fifes, all of whom had their instruments under their arms, not wishing to break the somber mood with their dulcet tones. Behind them came the brass, then the bagpipes—all silent.
A fitting mood for a burial.
The people on the sides wept as a carriage passed them by, holding a single black coffin. Most were silent, but a sob could be heard here and there as members of the dead man's crew's families were forced to remember the events that had led to this procession.
Today, they celebrated the greatest naval hero of their time, Jeremy Hawke.
Flowers were silently tossed at the feet of the carriage as it moved passed in homage to the man that had saved countless lives by sacrificing his own, and had performed a monumental part in restoring the Throne. Lilacs, daisies, and roses all fell softly onto the ground as the guards on either side of the carriage did their best not to trod on them.
The crying and heartache reached its highest level, however, when they reached the area populated mainly by the Air Fleet Academy cadets. All of the young men and women on the sidelines began weeping openly as their hero, the brilliant Jeremy Hawke, was towed, in absentia, towards his final resting place.
Where the Armed Forces had the Iron Duke; the Army, Sulu; and the Navy, Staples, Hawke had been the iconic hero of the Imperial Air Fleet. An excellent tactician with undying devotion to the Empire, he had given himself a grand ending, worthy of the legends of old.
In the distance, the rest of the onlookers could even make out the faint tones of "Amazing Grace" being played at the Air Fleet Academy, where the rest of the students had to remain, simply because they would have jammed the streets with their full numbers.
And then, on top of Coronation Hill, in front of the massive, gothic Cathedral, stood the final delegation that would carry the defunct Admiral's coffin to its final resting place inside the church. Of them, only one was a world-wide hero—Harry James Potter, the Duke of Halifax. The other three pall bearers were Colonels Richard Sharpe and John Wolfe (both of whom had participated in the rescue that had culminated with Hawke's imbedding into the Northern Loyalist British Forces), and Admiral Alexander Wolf, who had been in command of the Purity (then refitted into the HMIS Redemption, which was to be Hawke's flagship thereafter) at the time of the rescue. All four men had been Hawke's contemporaries—his comrades since practically the beginning of the post-coup war.
Harry, in particular, had counted Hawke as amongst his closest confidantes. Of the four men waiting for the jet-black coffin, he was perhaps the most troubled and distraught of them. He had now lost his wife, his family, and one of his best friends. Yet still he ploughed on, determined to finish his mission before resting himself.
Fondly, he could still remember how he had met Hawke, during the man's rescue.
Five years ago…
The bridge of the Retaliation was alit with activity as the alarm klaxons were ringing loudly. Men and women were running to and fro, gathering and delivering documents, or consulting with other technicians as the three-ship Imperial fleet received communications from around the western hemisphere, most of them distress calls. Even now, they had confirmed at least 50 different hidden British military enclaves, all of whom had attempted to hail the Retaliation for a good few weeks, but to no avail.
At the center of the bridge, Harry was currently trying to direct the madness around him in an orderly fashion. Even so, it was a trying task, as the organization of relief efforts also had to be slowed down due in part to the heavy necessity of repairing the Retaliation and the newly-christened Redemption, under Alexander Wolf's command.
Two weeks had passed since the ambush over Canada, and the fall of Britain. The crew of all three ships was tired, demoralized, and struggling, and yet they did their best to keep themselves as ready for action as they could—only hanging on by a bare thread.
That thread, of course, was their commander, Harry James Potter. After nearly a month of isolation, the dark-haired prodigy had stepped out of his bunk and had begun taking active control again. Captain Wolf had been more than glad to hand over command to Harry again.
Thus far, however, the small enclaves they had found were rather small—some of them holding no more than 50 men and women. However, occasionally, they would stumble across a big one, and thus acquired about 100 to 200 crewmen in one go, which they all considered a good day, even if the refugees brought on board were mere civilians—the fleet needed their labour, after all. There were ships to repair.
However, today the situation was a bit different. The latest transmission had gotten the bridge of the Retaliation into a frenzy.
"Five thousand?" asked Wolf, jaw slackened by his surprise. The highest-ranking officers of the fleet had all met on board the Retaliation in the conference room, and had just been informed by Harry of their discovery.
"Only two thousand are servicemen, however," noted Harry.
Wolfe, for his part, whistled appreciatively, as Sharpe nodded. "We could field a small army with that," noted the Scotsman.
"Or crew our fleet more adequately," interjected Matthew Pollick, the captain of the Assaye. "We're still woefully short of manpower to crew the three ships at full efficiency," he reminded the group.
"We are running out of space, however," interjected Wolf, who had, by now, regained his senses. At his side, his XO, a woman who looked to be in her 40s, nodded. "Once the Redemption becomes fully manned, we will have nowhere to hold any more refugees."
"The Captain is correct," added the XO. "Storage capacity in all three ships is near seventy-five percent. If the Redemption becomes fully manned, that will increase into a general ninety-seven percent storage capacity filled. The remaining three percent we need for ammunition and spare parts."
"Well, we can't just leave our comrades!" protested Sharpe. "We need to help whoever we can find that's left of the Empire!"
"And keep them where, Richard? Feed them what?" challenged Wolf. "Our own supplies and living space are shrinking exponentially! This mission was supposed to be a test run, not a bloody campaign!"
At the head of the long table, Harry was sighing in frustration as his subordinates kept arguing amongst themselves. He, too, was feeling unnerved by how thin the string they held onto was. Their supplies, as they stood, would hold out for no more than a week or two (if rationed), and they needed to land somewhere to finish up the repairs on all three ships.
His chair looking to the left of the table, he tapped his fingers absently on the table to his right, his eyes on the glass pane window in front of him, his thoughts on the situation at hand. He had to come up with a solution. Quickly. Or else suffer a massive defeat the moment the Death Eaters rebuilt their fleet (which they no doubt would, once they heard of Harry's victory).
Five minutes after he began his contemplation, his subordinates were still going at it, arguing back and forth on logistics.
"We simply cannot afford to keep picking up refugees indiscriminately!" argued Wolf as he slammed his open palm on the ebony table. "We risk starving our own selves into submission!"
"They are our compatriots!" countered Sharpe fiercely. "Abandoning them—all that's left of Britain—is treason!"
"What of feeding them?"
"So we raid some more farms, government depots!"
"You think those won't be protected?"
"Well, if you've a better idea, I'd love to hear it!"
"Now listen here—"
"Enough"
The whole officer corps turned their heads to see Harry still looking out the window, but his tapping had stopped. Instead, he looked resignedly resolute.
"We will be rescuing the garrison," he declared quietly, eliciting sighs of relief from Sharpe and Wolfe. "However, we cannot allow this situation to repeat itself," he then added. "So we will be putting finding a new base at the top of our priorities once the rescue is complete. Look for small, easily overlooked tracts of lands or islands. Anywhere where we could hide a small base."
"Sir, our fleet itself will require at least twenty times the size of land that you're requesting," noted Wolf.
Harry nodded. "Indeed. Which is why I want you to look for small places. We will be making them bigger artificially, and we can use what Shielders we have left to help increase the size of the total area through magical means," explained the 18-year old as he steepled his hands in front of him. "You have your orders, gentlemen. Get to them."
A muted mass click of the heels and a prim salute was the answer Harry got before the officers lined out of the room, leaving Harry alone. To himself, he wondered if he'd made the right choice, which annoyed him greatly. Before the coup, he was used to carrying out his plans without second thought, but now that they stood on the brink of oblivion, he couldn't help it but question himself at every turn, each time unleashing upon himself a torrent of self-hatred for having left his family behind.
And yet, he never once cried.
He couldn't understand it himself, but Harry had not cried once in the near-month he had isolated himself from his fleet. All he had done was stare blankly at the pictures on his wall of his family, or at the picture of his wife on his nightstand, her carefree smile as she silently yelled "I love you!" being all the comfort he received every night as he went to bed. He'd come close, however, but the tears never really reached his eyes.
To him, it was worse than crying. To him, it meant he had died inside.
Present Day
Harry sighed as he watched the coffin be rolled up the hill towards him and his fellow pallbearers. All four of them had grim looks on their faces, but none matched the sheer heartbreak reflected in Harry's eyes. Not even Wolf, who had come to respect the man above all else thanks to Hawke's actions during the rescue.
Five Years Ago
"Incoming transmission from the base, Captain!" declared one of the crewmen. "They have come under siege, and are experiencing heavy enemy assaults on all fronts!"
"Damnit!" Wolf cursed loudly, Harry standing nearby, an amused look on his face at the man's reaction. "This was supposed to be quick and easy!"
"It's never quick and easy, Wolf—you know that," chided Harry as he kept his eyes on the map before him. Pointing at the centre of the base, Harry spoke up. "We need to launch all available ground forces to this point here. Have the transports drop our men, ferry the refugees on board, then come back for our lads."
Sharpe and Wolfe nodded before quickly leaving the bridge, as they were supposed to lead the assault. Harry then turned to Wolf. "I'll be heading down as well. It's your fleet for now, Captain," he said before leaving, leaving no time for Wolf to argue.
Minutes later, Wolf was given a report that the transports had left, Harry on board, much to the captain's chagrin. His superior officer sadly had all the impetuousness of a typical teenager, but also all the brilliance of a man twice Wolf's age. As such, the older man had little choice but to listen to his intellectual superior.
In the transport itself, Harry was at the fore front of the group, right by the boarding ramp, which made his group quite nervous, as they feared being "the guys who let the CO die." Harry, however, seemed untroubled as he waited patiently for the notice to arrive that they were ready to disembark.
The ride itself was smooth, as the Death Eaters failed to expect the arrival of the massive Airships, or the deployment of reinforcements. As such, when they touched base in the middle of the Imperial base, they had their transports and reinforcements intact.
Being the first off the ship, Harry calmly descended onto firm ground as an aide, dressed in an Imperial soldier's redcoat, ran up to him and shook his hand energetically.
"Oh, thank the Lord!" exclaimed the relieved man. "We never thought anyone would hear our call!"
Harry smiled at the man but quickly put a soothing hand on the man's shoulder. "Easy, man, easy. Quickly now, tell me what's going on," he urged the soldier as the rest of his men disembarked.
The man gulped and nodded frantically. "Y-Yes, sir! The northern gate," he pointed, "is holding on, but we're quickly running out of ammunition, sir!"
Harry nodded and signaled for a company of his men to reinforce the north gate, which a quick shout and response dispatched forthwith. "And?" he then asked.
"Well, the Eastern and Western gates are holding out well enough, sir, but the Southern one is getting the bigger part of the beating, if you don't mind me saying, sir," commented the soldier.
Harry once again nodded and sent the majority of his remaining men towards the southern gate. "Excellent, soldier. Now listen to me, " he urged the man intently. Once he was sure he had the man's unwavering attention, Harry continued. "I want you to round up the civilian refugees who aren't fighting and get them onto the transports immediately. My men and I will cover your retreat."
A shaking nod was all the reply that Harry got before the man hugged Harry for all he was worth and wept in relief. "T-Thank you, sir!"
Harry chuckled slightly, but patted the man on the back nonetheless. "Don't mention it, soldier. Now, quickly then. Off with you!"
Harry shook his head in amusement as the man ran off, leaving him alone with his personal detachment of a single company.
"Right then," he told his men as he put on his white gloves. "To the North Gate, men," he ordered them. One sergeant looked confused at this.
"But…sir," he protested weakly, catching Harry's attention, while his men's breath hitched sharply. "Isn't the main brunt on the South Gate?"
Harry smiled a bit patronizingly at the man. "It's a distraction, lads," he told them calmly as he unsheathed his sword—a splendid cavalry saber. "They've given the South the apparent brunt of the attack, but the North fares worse than the South? They're distracting the forces while the main element of the attack moves under the cover of the enemy army towards the North. Probably in groups of no more than ten, in order to not raise suspicions."
Harry took a few practice swings and spun his blade easily in both hands, astounding his men with his level of skill. Harry, however, seemed highly amused by their reaction. "I'm not the best, lads," he told them jocularly. "So don't think I am."
Taking one last swing, Harry nodded firmly at his men, his expression suddenly serious. "Right then. Let's go, lads!" he told them before taking off at a run. His men right behind him, Harry gave them one look before letting an excited look creep onto his face.
This was his darkness. His evil side.
Harry loved to fight. He relished the adrenaline one got from combat.
Killing was not part of it. It was the simple contest of skill between two persons that got Harry off. He loved to cross blades with people potentially superior to him, if only because the challenge made it even more worth it.
So it was with great confusion, then, when he found a kindred soul leading the fighting at the North Gate.
Dressed in a tattered Imperial Navy blue coat, the leader of the Gate's defenders was practically at the front of the fighting, his blood-soaked saber high in the air as he urged his men on against the rapidly mounting attack. A serious, encouraging look on his face was quickly betrayed by the sheer ecstasy that was glimmering through his eyes at the fighting he was in.
A swing here, a slash there, and two more of the man's opponents fell to the ground, dead. One had been a werewolf, and the other was a troll. The man then pulled out a pistol and fired off a shot into the forehead of an incoming Death Eater. All around him, the men cheered at the display of skill.
"Come on, lads!" he shouted. "Come on! Show these feculent codpieces what a real soldier can do!"
Grabbing a fallen Imperial standard, the Union Jack hanging down limply, the man waved it in the air encouragingly, even as the enemy tried to charge him down once again.
"To the Colours, men!" cried out the officer. "Rally to the Colours!"
With a deafening cheer, Harry saw the defenders become reinvigorated and charge to their officer's defense, even as the Death Eaters and their allies reached him. Yet, the Union Jack never fell down, even as the officer fought off his enemies with a single saber.
Liking the man already, Harry grinned and nodded to his own men, who had similarly stopped in gobsmacked awe. "Well then, lads, come on!" he urged them. "Can't let them have all the fun, eh?"
Aboard the Retaliation, Wolf was staring incredulously at the crewman who had just reported to him the vicious defense being led at the North Gate. He could not believe the sheer courage displayed by both the garrison commander and his own superior officer, both of whom were reported to have delved nearly head first into the enemy throngs, weapons high in the air, the British Colours billowing in the wind behind them.
Wolf felt a measure of shame at the realization that he could never do the same, too afraid for his own life as he was. When on board a ship, sacrifice was fine, but face-to-face…no, he could never deal with that kind of danger.
Yet, at the same time as the captain felt the shame of not possessing equal courage, he also felt his own spine harden as he stood a little taller, his disposition a bit more official, more energized as he heard of the exploits of two brave men who were willing to brave the deepest pits of Hell for their country.
It was true, he realized. When a brave man takes a stand, the spines of those around him stiffen.
Present Day
The ebony coffin had finally reached the hill top, where Harry and the three other pallbearers waited. Behind him, Harry could hear the suppressed sob of Wolf, who had no doubt clenched his teeth to avoid crying out in despair.
Sneaking a glance to his right, where Sharpe and Wolfe were, Harry could see that both men had blank looks on their faces—and Harry had no doubt that they were equally blank inside. They seemed to be going about the motions more than anything, and even as the four men stepped forward to get to the coffin, Harry could tell that their movements were more mechanical than natural.
Above them, Harry could hear the bells tolling, their somber tones filling the day's sky with the grief felt by the nation. At the same time, however, Harry could still hear the tune of Amazing Grace eliciting from the grounds of the Air Fleet Academy, whose entire student body seemed to still be standing in the courtyard, in formation. Such was the respect that Hawke had inspired in other people.
Five Years Ago…
Harry ducked as a Killing Curse flew overhead, just barely catching the sight of Hawke gutting his would-be killer in revenge.
"Much obliged!" called Harry. The Navy officer, for his part, merely grinned and moved on to the next target, which Harry imitated by sweeping the floor with his leg, causing many a Death Eater to tumble—Harry gutted one and shot the other.
Taking a split second to notice his surroundings, Harry saw Hawke, still with the Colours in one hand, single-handedly cut his way through the enemy.
Grunting in exertion, the Navy officer sliced through one Death Eater after another, always expertly dodging the curses that flew at them; letting the weaker ones hit home, which barely got him grunting in pain.
Still, even Harry was forced to admit that a few more such blows would bring the tenacious officer to his knees, and so quickly made his way over to him, bringing up a sword to slice a Death Eater's arm from the elbow down. As the man screamed, grasping onto his stump of an arm, Harry grabbed the Navy officer and hauled him back to the British lines.
"A bit bullheaded, aren't you?" chided Harry with a grin. "That sort of attitude'll get you killed, one of these days!"
The officer merely grinned back, shaking his hand that held the Colours. "Nah. As long as I've got the Colours, nothing can kill me!" exerted the man, causing Harry to laugh.
The dark-haired youth then extended a hand, as his men surrounded him and pushed back against the Death Eaters. The Navy officer looked at Harry curiously. "Then…will you help me raise them once again from the highest pole?" he asked. "Will you aid me in restoring the Throne?"
The officer gave Harry a searching look. "You can't be more than eighteen, friend. Why should I?"
Harry grinned. "Because we're too alike for you not to. Because with me, you'll have all the battles you can have, and all the fights you can imagine."
"But most importantly…" Harry stated as the officer reached forward to shake his hand.
"Vengeance."
Present Day
Harry had secured the man's loyalty there and then. Though no formal hand-over of authority had been performed, the officer listened to Harry from then on, up until the they had to be evacuated from the base.
The four men had now grabbed the handles of the coffin and lifted it to shoulder height, the coffin slightly light, due to the fact that there was no body inside.
As they made their way into the Cathedral, and down the aisle, Harry was stunned to realize that he could hear Wolf humming a song under his breath. It was quiet, and low, but Harry's ears could hear it clearly, and what was more, he could recognize it.
Hawke had sung it on that day.
Five Years Ago…
"Come on!" urged Harry as the transport loomed right over the edge of the building where the last holdouts of the base were being evacuated.
The North Gate, as well as the other three Gates, had finally been overrun, but not before the entirety of the garrison had been evacuated. Harry and the officer, being the noble fools they were, had opted to stay behind and cover the retreat until the last of their men, both dead and alive, were safely in their transports.
As such, they had fought their way into the main building, their backs to the wall as they slowly made their way up the stairs towards the ceiling. Only five more men to go and they could leave, and those five were running up the stairs at full speed, only one of them opting to help his superiors fight off the onslaught of Death Eaters.
Finally, they had reached the roof, and, just as they expected, the final transport was hovering right over the edge, its ramp lowered and several soldiers lying down on it, firing down into the crowd of Death Eaters, who in turn tried to bring down the transport, with little luck. At the ramp were Sharpe and Wolfe, both of whom looked battered, but still alive. Both men were holding out their hands and gave a boost to the retreating soldiers.
Now only Harry and the Navy officer, still brandishing the Colours in one hand, were left.
"Harry, come on!" shouted Sharpe over the roar of the transport's engines. "Move it! We've got to go!"
Harry nodded and, bringing down his saber, bashed in one Werewolf's skull as he and the officer ran towards the ledge. Harry reached it first, unencumbered as he was, and reached the ramp with no problems.
Unfortunately, just as he turned around to help the officer onto the ramp, a Reductor curse hit the bottom of the transport and made it move a good half meter away from the ledge.
Undeterred, the officer jumped off the ledge towards the transport, and Harry had to fling himself onto the floor of the ramp to grab the man's hand, which had been formerly occupied by his sword. The Colours, for their part, still lay tightly in his grip.
Grinning in exasperation, even as the transport moved away from the building and into the air, Harry shook his head in wonderment. "You stupid bastard!" he shouted with a smile. "You could have died!"
The officer laughed at that. "Oh, shut up and pull me up, will you?" The officer grinned as he was pulled up by Harry, Sharpe, and Wolfe.
Eventually, the four men were inside the transport, and cheering broke out throughout the transport as the news filtered through that Harry and the officer had survived. Harry hauled the battered Navy officer into a seat before doing so himself as well on the opposite side.
Both men took heavy breaths as the adrenaline wore off, and yet both almost immediately began laughing, just as Sharpe and Wolfe shook their heads in exasperation.
Leaning forward, Harry brought up a fist, and the officer obliged by bumping it with his own. "We make a good team," observed Harry with a grin.
"Indeed we do," affirmed the man. "Not bad for a kid."
Both men laughed again before settling down, just as Wolfe and Sharpe moved further into the transport, having decided on going to the cockpit to deliver the news to Wolf through the intercom.
As the two men rested, Harry saw the officer looking out the port hole window next to him at the base on the ground, which was now dark with black-coated Death Eaters. To Harry's surprise, the man began singing under his breath. It wasn't a tune he was familiar with, though, and he guessed his faced showed it, as the officer ended up smiling at him.
"It's a Gaelic tune. My grandmum was Irish," he explained. "She taught it to me when I was five. Before the war, I sung it every night to my children."
The man laughed now. "They never understood a word I was saying, but they said it sounded 'pretty,' so I kept singing it."
Harry was silent for a moment before finally speaking up. "Teach it to me," he asked, softly.
The officer looked at him from the corner of his eye before nodding. He silently extended a hand, which confused Harry.
"Jeremy William Hawke. Commodore in the British Imperial Navy."
Harry smiled his first true smile in a month as he shook the man's hand. "Harry James Potter. Brigadier General in the British Imperial Army. What is it with my friends being named after animals?"
Both men roared in laughter at that.
Present Day
Harry remembered sadly how Hawke had teased him about his age that day, exclaiming in mock outrage how unfair it was that such youngsters as Harry had been promoted to Brigadier General, whereas he himself was only a mere Commodore. Both had laughed practically all the way to the transport, and the laughter had quickly become contagious as the whole transport had begun sharing in the fun.
As the procession finally rested the coffin at the forefront of the Cathedral, the four men stood to the side as the Archbishop came forward and delivered his service in memory of Jeremy William Hawke, Air Admiral of the British Imperial Air Fleet.
Harry remembered how it wasn't until they had turned less and less towards fighting the Death Eaters and more towards self-indulgence when Hawke had lost much of his humour. It had taken debauchery for Hawke to lose his approachability. And yet, in his final moments, he had still come through for his friend, his colleague. Even knowing the depths to which they had fallen, he had chosen to carry out his duty, and had granted Harry the responsibility of carrying out his dying dream—the restoration of the British Imperial Throne. To see another sit on the sacred Throne of Saint Edward the Confessor.
And he had done it. Harry had done it.
Though Harry was unsure as to whether or not Hawke would be proud of him, proud of the way he had taken the splintered factions and brought them back together, he dearly hoped he had.
Even so, the dark-haired Field Marshall now joined Wolf in humming the tune that Hawke had taught them. Eventually, the song spread to the four pallbearers, even as the Archbishop wrapped up his eulogy and Harry was called up to the stand. Looking briefly at his fellow pallbearers for a moment, Harry received a single nod before the Field Marshall went to the stand, ready to give his farewell speech.
Clearing his throat, Harry began. "Five years ago, I met Jeremy Hawke when I participated in the rescue of his garrison, which had been left behind by the elements of the Royal Navy that had been stationed there," he informed his audience.
"Now, there is no way for me to adequately describe what Jeremy meant to me, or to my fellow pallbearers, all of whom spent as much time with him as I did, and perhaps more, as I was the superior officer of the lot," he continued. "But Jeremy only ever paid attention to rank when orders had to be given; when discipline was to be enforced. Otherwise, he was a man of the common soldier. He was loved throughout his fleet. Even now, I dare say, if you were to strain your ears, you would hear the pipes of the Air Fleet Academy blaring out a series of different musical homage to our fallen friend."
"For that was what he was: a friend. Before a comrade, before a superior; before a subordinate, Jeremy Hawke was a friend. He carried out his duty to his friends with the same ferocity he became a legend for in carrying out his duty for his country. And who of us can say the same? Who among us can say that we devote such times to the roses around us, as opposed to the big picture?"
Pausing now, Harry paused himself as he felt something rise within him. Taking a deep breath, however, he ploughed on. "Jeremy, the day before the battle, told me something I will never forget. He told me, 'Harry, don't ever forget why we do what we do; why we spill the blood we spill.' I, being the thickheaded idiot you see before you, couldn't understand, of course." A subdued wave of laughter went through his audience. "But he was kind enough to explain. He told me, 'Harry, the Empire isn't all about fighting to keep it. We need to want it to stay for it to survive. Although steel and shot carved a place in the sun for us, the Empire only ever rose to such heights on the wings of liberty and justice.'"
Harry paused as he saw the contemplative looks in his audience. "That was Jeremy Hawke for you," noted Harry. "He never looked it, but he was a contemplative man to the bone. Perhaps even to the point where he could drive a philosopher up the wall." Again, subdued laughter. "But when he voiced such thoughts, he made all others stop. He made people listen. He upheld the virtues we needed, and shunned and scorned the vices that afflict us."
"Even at our darkest moment; even as the Empire seemingly collapsed around us; even as the battle seemed to turn against out—Jeremy always stood defiant, Colours in his left hand, saber in his right. He never quit, he never faltered. These words did not exist within the mind of the man that was Jeremy Hawke. A bred Irishman, a born soldier, a devoted Loyalist, and a tortured widower—he was the epitome of the common Loyalist during the war. His grief was a grief felt throughout our meager numbers. But, like him, we rose to the challenge. We defied what historians claimed would happen. We spat in the face of the overwhelming odds and we did what the world said could not be done!" he asserted now, stiffening the spines of those who listened in the same manner as Hawke had done.
"We survived! We lived on!" he declared. "Like Hawke's dream of a lasting Empire, we are here! Defiant! Ready to brave the odds again and again, until our enemies tremble in terror at our wrath!" Harry was really getting into the speech now, and people still listened. For Sharpe and Wolfe, it was like seeing a superimposed image of the 17-year old Harry they had followed in the Royal Northern Army, and for Wolf, it was like watching Hawke rally his men.
"With every breath we take, we honour the name of Jeremy Hawke!" continued Harry. "With every day we live, we stand against our enemies with our heads raised! With every such act, we tell them, we will not go quietly into the night!"
"No!" agreed the crowd around him.
"We will not die without a fight!"
"No!"
Raising a fist into the air, as if grabbing onto an imaginary rope, Harry looked towards the Cathedral ceilings, imagining Hawke bumping his fist with his own. A smile crept up onto Harry's face.
"Today, we celebrate Jeremy Hawke's sacrifice," he announced. "We celebrate the magnificent gift he gave us—our dignity! Our pride!"
Cheering swept through the Cathedral, and Harry was certain this was how Hawke would have wanted it—with the Empire invigorated, returned, powerful.
"Our Empire!"
AN: I hope everyone enjoyed the first of these many interludes. They aren't actual fillers, mind you, just the scenes that I never had the time to flesh out in the story, so I cut them out and re-wrote them separately to give them the depth they deserved. There'll be more of these, though not on a regular basis (sometimes we'll go five chapters without another such interlude).
Also, to be clear on a few questions posed: Hawke's full name is Jeremy William Hawke. Secondly, Elizabeth III is indeed 15 (my bad if you read any differently). Thirdly, the reunion amongst the Potters will occur in a few more chapters. Please be patient.
The following is the lyrics to the song that Sharpe, Wolf, Wolfe, and Harry were humming as they carried the coffin down the aisle. It's titled "Wander My Friends," by Bear McCreary. For any who wonder, it's in Irish Gaelic. For a good idea of how they sound as they hum it, though, please refer to "Reuniting the Fleet," also by Bear McCreary (both found on youtube).
Siúlaigí a chairde, siúlaidh liom
Mar cheo an tsléibhe uaine ag
imeacht go deo
D'ainneoin ár dtuirse leanfam an tslí
Thar chnoic is thar ghleannta
go deireadh na scríbi
Seo libh a chairde is canaidh liom
Líonaigí'n oíche le greann is le spórt
Seo sláinte na gcarad atá imithe uainn
Mar cheo an tsléibhe uaine,
iad imithe go deo