Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori

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I never wanted this.

Neville Longbottom had this thought minutes before his sight turned to the dark void of nothingness, barely processing, in his mind, that he had just been run through by an enormous icicle through the stomach.

This life…I never desired it…

In that one opportunity we mortals get to review our entire life, Neville observed himself, dispassionately, as he grew from a frightened eleven-year-old, to a confident, heroic, and brave colonel.

He watched as, in his first year, he was shunned by his classmates for his shyness and general clumsiness.

He watched as he first noticed Ginevra Weasley, the future Ginevra Potter, be sorted into Gryffindor. He had been thrilled when the younger girl had offered a kind hand in friendship which, being starved of such connections, he eagerly took.

He watched as, later in that year, Ginny had mysteriously disappeared, only to return hours later, battered, bruised, and shaken, telling an awesome tale of a boy who'd single-handedly slew a basilisk.

He watched as, slowly but surely, Ginny had become more and more enthralled in a pen pal she'd gotten shortly after the basilisk incident, and had even managed to lure Neville into a similar friendship with her mysterious saviour.

He remembered the thrill of having such a friend, of being part of something so…amazing, which was opposed to all his other activities in Hogwarts.

Why did I do it?

Belonging.

That single word resonated throughout Neville's spirit more than anything else.

For years, the shunned, chubby, brown-haired boy had felt out of place in the den of lions. He had never understood why he was Sorted into Gryffindor, when his impulses tended to dictate "run" more often than "stand." At best, he saw himself a Hufflepuff. At worst—a cowardly Slytherin, cursed by his pureblooded background.

People had never realized it, but the lack of social acceptance had gradually taken its toll on the poor boy during his first year. Hardly a shining example of Gryffindor bravery, Neville had been seen as a disgrace to the House of Gryffindor, and what was worse, Neville knew it.

So when Ginny Weasley had offered her hand in friendship, he had avidly accepted it, his new friend unaware just how close to the edge he had been. And then, with her disappearance, every black emotion he'd ever felt came rushing back, intensified even more when she reappeared, claiming to have been saved by a mysterious boy wearing a military uniform.

Jealousy.

Neville had always felt longing for the friendships around him, but never jealousy. But now, knowing that his only friend had been saved by someone other than him—her only (to his mind) friend, had driven him to enormous jealousy.

It hadn't been until later, when she convinced him to start his own correspondence with Harry, that he'd let go of his jealousy.

Belonging.

Neville had been amazed with Harry's world. The sense of belonging that this boy, no older than he, conveyed through his writing struck a chord within the young pureblood. Where he was considered the next best thing to a Squib in the Magical world, Harry was offering him the chance to enter a world where, not only would he be accepted, but he could rise by merit in any form alone, not simply due to magical ability or family connections.

Finally, he could belong.

And so he joined in Ginny and Harry's little conspiracy, blindly at first, willingly later on.

Willingly…?

The question floated in his mind for but a second, before he admitted to himself that he had willingly given himself up to the Cause. Though blinded at first by his thirst for friendship, he had nonetheless grown to understand what he was getting into, and by mid-third year, he had embraced his decision. He gave himself up for the Imperial Cause—mind, body, and soul.

Damned for eternity, if need be. That was the measure of his loyalty.

Why…?

Because now he had friends.

Now he was respected.

Finally, he was not alone.

Finally, he had something to fight for. Something to believe in. Something to die for. A reason to live, even, when all that had previously occupied that space had been a simple willingness to one day simply stay asleep for eternity.

His depression left almost as soon as he willingly embraced his path. His thoughts turned away from death and loneliness and towards a brighter, shining future instead.

Where he had once seen a bleak, unforgiving future awaiting for him, he now saw hope, and a desire to make this hopeful future a reality.

And so he'd grabbed his wand, slung a rifle onto his shoulders, practiced his skills, and when the Royal Proclamation was given in 1998, he had marched out of Hogwarts with the rest of the Loyalists.

For that was what he was. A loyalist.

Someone who is loyal to the rightful government. The only government.

The Crown.

The Crown…?

By gods, Neville had been surprised at the reception he and his fellow students had received when they'd reached the RNA camp. Thunderous applause and cheering had followed, as well as numerous slaps on the back. The students were treated as heroes, and all because they were loyal, because they refused to be intimidated by the lies and promises of a disloyal government.

And then, when they'd reached the English border, the reception had been even grander. A local Loyalist magical town had come out onto its streets to celebrate their arrival, with fireworks, dancing, and music filling the area. Like liberators of a conquered area, they were received as heroes.

And all because hey had been loyal.

But I never desired this…

This wasn't true. He knew it not to be true. He had loved the way the people had looked up to him as he shyly walked down the streets of that particular town.

He had loved the cheering and applauding when he had later on been granted his commission.

He had loved the way Susan, in particular, had always seemed proud of him for standing up for what he believed in.

Susan…

Even on the border of death, the pretty red-headed girl wasn't far from the core of his thoughts. Hair like a wildfire; temper to match—the exiled Hufflepuff had been his devoted companion since Hogwarts; his perfect equal. She matched him in devotion and loyalty, and was vivacious enough to keep him from retreating back into his anti-social shell.

Their first night together, spent in secret in their seventh year, had been…well…magical, he supposed. Fantastic would be another way to describe it.

Their first kiss, too, had been quite a fireworks show. And yet, Neville doubted she would have so much as looked at him had it not been for his decision to turn to the Imperial cause—for that decision had transformed him from a shy, nearly-friendless person into a confident, quiet young man who never flinched from a fight he believed in.

Susan…

Neville gritted his teeth as his eyes snapped open, showing two, raging brown orbs that seemed to defy death itself as the handsome Imperial officer grabbed the icicle impaling him and slowly pulled it out of him. His enemy was nowhere to be seen—undoubtedly leaving him for dead. That was their first mistake.

Their second was leaving Neville, an expert at duelling and healing, his wand.

"Wait for me, Susan…I'm coming!"

Weakly grabbing for it, the brown-haired young officer turned the wooden instrument on the icicle, banishing it with one swift jab. That left the problem of the now gaping hole in his stomach. Grimacing at the pain, he quickly set to work, racing against the blood loss in an attempt to repair the damage to a point where he wouldn't necessarily bleed to death.

It took some quick thinking, and not a small amount of repeats before Neville managed to heal himself out of an imminent death. But then, this hadn't been his first such serious wound. In one particularly nasty engagement against the Death Eaters in South Africa, he had been run through with a poisoned spear, and it had taken all his willpower to prevent himself from fainting into the eternal abyss of death.

"Come on, Longbottom…" he hissed at himself, slowly using his arms to lift himself into a seating position against the wall. He winced in pain as his stomach flared up, but managed to contain the scream of pain that so wanted release. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand.

"Okay…so now what?" he asked himself softly. It was obvious not much, if any, of his men had survived the battle. After all, Neville had been the final line. Odds were, every single man of the Third Legion had been killed in this godforsaken place.

"Sir!"

Neville was snapped out of his musings by the call. Could it be?

Sure enough, a couple of bedraggled soldiers crossed through the broken in doorway Neville had crashed through. "Sir?" asked one of them. A long, bloody scar seemed to make its way across his right cheek. "Are you ok?"

Neville snorted. "…Been better, corporal," he said with a weak grin, causing the men to chuckle appreciatively. "Help me up"

The soldiers complied and lifted their wounded commander on his feet. Neville stumbled a bit, but the men's tough grips kept him up. Giving them a thankful nod, Neville asked the question he'd been wanting to since he'd seen them. "How much?"

"Fifty, sir," replied the corporal who'd helped him up. "None of the sergeants or officers survived, though, sir—except you, of course," hastily added the man at Neville's ironic look.

Neville nodded. "Fifty…it'll have to do," he mused out loud.

"Sir?" asked the other soldier, a private. Neville turned his eyes on him. The poor man was pale and his hands were shaking. "What the hell was that?"

Neville shook his head. "Don't know, private. But whatever it is, we need to get the hell out of here before it decides to check its handiwork."

The two soldiers nodded at their commander's observation. "Where to, colonel?" asked the corporal.

Neville gave a tight smile. Colonel. That was his life. The life he had chosen. And by gods, he would live by that choice. It was time to implement his friend's plan.

"Get the men together, corporal. We're heading south. To the Appalachians."

"Yes, sir!"