November 11: In Remembrance
Nov. 11th, 2011 01:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
loaded_marchNovember 11: In Remembrance
600 words
It's the distant cannon blast that tenses the muscles and sends the adrenaline pumping, that triggers memories of being under fire, explosions blasting in the air, bullets whizzing past, thunking on the ground around them, to please, God, never hitting a fellow soldier. As one, the members of Excalibur stand at attention and salute those who had come before, for those who would follow them on the battlefield, for all those who fight with whatever was at hand, keeping on the battle, never giving up, not even in the end.
The barrel blast echo fades, and for two minutes, a silence falls in this corner of London. Even the sounds of traffic are subdued, muffled by the moment.
There are rows upon rows of white crosses in the lawn, standing stark against the green, the names of the fallen in small, black script. Some crosses bear no names, only a date, a place, and unknown, each as powerful and poignant a reminder as the red poppies that are scattered upon the field.
This isn't Whitehall, where dignitaries have come for the full-blown ceremonies delivered with all the pomp and circumstance of government to-dos. From here, they couldn't hear the buglers blowing the Last Post. They couldn't hear the trumpeters sounding The Rouse. They couldn't see the march as the Royal Family laid down the wreaths at the Cenotaph. It didn't matter.
They are here, together, remembering.
The small crowd around them drifts to the services at the nearby Church, but Excalibur remains where they are, standing firm, right hands raised, fingers barely touching their eye. They stand out from the rest of the crowd, trim in their regimental uniforms, and remain as they are as the last of the stragglers move away. Arthur lowers his arm slowly and is conscious of the others doing the same, and they stand for a moment more in silence.
The wind blows in a soft breeze. The plastic poppies flutter. The petals of the live flowers twined around the wreaths bristle.
Arthur takes a step forward, turns on his heels, and faces his men. He meets Leon's calm gaze, stoic and unflappable. Lance, who sacrifices of himself to save others. Gwaine nods faintly, affirming a private promise. Perceval stares straight ahead, unwavering as always. Owain's chin dips a little, and Arthur knows that Owain is not only thinking of their fallen comrades, but those who have died in the line of duty, whatever their service.
He is lucky, he knows. Arthur lost men before, and the ache in his chest is never less. But these men, his team, they persevere with him despite the odds. He loves these men, his friends, his soldiers.
Arthur's eyes find Merlin's, catches them, holds them. There are wet lines of tears down Merlin's cheeks, and Arthur can't help thinking with a swell of affection, such a girl. He feels grateful, too, because Merlin gave freely of his tears when they didn't come so easy to Arthur anymore.
He pulls his eyes from Merlin to look at his men again. He nods, once, sharp and sure, in acknowledgement, in thanks.
"Carry on," he says.
They turn and leave the memorial site, one by one, in pairs, in groups, but Merlin waits for him. They head down the road, walking side by side, the backs of their hands brushing together. Arthur entwines his fingers through Merlin's, and squeezes.
600 words
It's the distant cannon blast that tenses the muscles and sends the adrenaline pumping, that triggers memories of being under fire, explosions blasting in the air, bullets whizzing past, thunking on the ground around them, to please, God, never hitting a fellow soldier. As one, the members of Excalibur stand at attention and salute those who had come before, for those who would follow them on the battlefield, for all those who fight with whatever was at hand, keeping on the battle, never giving up, not even in the end.
The barrel blast echo fades, and for two minutes, a silence falls in this corner of London. Even the sounds of traffic are subdued, muffled by the moment.
There are rows upon rows of white crosses in the lawn, standing stark against the green, the names of the fallen in small, black script. Some crosses bear no names, only a date, a place, and unknown, each as powerful and poignant a reminder as the red poppies that are scattered upon the field.
This isn't Whitehall, where dignitaries have come for the full-blown ceremonies delivered with all the pomp and circumstance of government to-dos. From here, they couldn't hear the buglers blowing the Last Post. They couldn't hear the trumpeters sounding The Rouse. They couldn't see the march as the Royal Family laid down the wreaths at the Cenotaph. It didn't matter.
They are here, together, remembering.
The small crowd around them drifts to the services at the nearby Church, but Excalibur remains where they are, standing firm, right hands raised, fingers barely touching their eye. They stand out from the rest of the crowd, trim in their regimental uniforms, and remain as they are as the last of the stragglers move away. Arthur lowers his arm slowly and is conscious of the others doing the same, and they stand for a moment more in silence.
The wind blows in a soft breeze. The plastic poppies flutter. The petals of the live flowers twined around the wreaths bristle.
Arthur takes a step forward, turns on his heels, and faces his men. He meets Leon's calm gaze, stoic and unflappable. Lance, who sacrifices of himself to save others. Gwaine nods faintly, affirming a private promise. Perceval stares straight ahead, unwavering as always. Owain's chin dips a little, and Arthur knows that Owain is not only thinking of their fallen comrades, but those who have died in the line of duty, whatever their service.
He is lucky, he knows. Arthur lost men before, and the ache in his chest is never less. But these men, his team, they persevere with him despite the odds. He loves these men, his friends, his soldiers.
Arthur's eyes find Merlin's, catches them, holds them. There are wet lines of tears down Merlin's cheeks, and Arthur can't help thinking with a swell of affection, such a girl. He feels grateful, too, because Merlin gave freely of his tears when they didn't come so easy to Arthur anymore.
He pulls his eyes from Merlin to look at his men again. He nods, once, sharp and sure, in acknowledgement, in thanks.
"Carry on," he says.
They turn and leave the memorial site, one by one, in pairs, in groups, but Merlin waits for him. They head down the road, walking side by side, the backs of their hands brushing together. Arthur entwines his fingers through Merlin's, and squeezes.
