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Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me and no copyright infringement is intended. Spoilers: In Excelsus Dio Archive: Yes. This is in honour of my father, who fought in WWII and Korea, and my grandfather, who fought in WWI. Lest We Forget The day was unseasonably warm, and dry. An auspicious day for the commemorations, he thought. He glanced at the people scattered around the memorial. There were many more of them than usual. No, they had not forgotten. Further away, he saw the old men, with walkers and attendants, waiting. Wrapped up in warm coats, despite the sunshine of the day, they waited. And remembered. They had not forgetten either. Their memories were ancient now, but they still remembered what could never be forgotten. Would that be him someday? Would he become a relic of a long ago era, with his medals hanging precariously on his chest, the ribbons faded and failing with age? He selfconsciously adjusted the row of medals he had pinned to his coat that morning. His medals were not yet polished smooth with age and handling, not like the ones in museums, the ones pinned on the chest of the ancient men further along. Today always brought mixed feelings; a desire to remember the most hellish time of his life and a desire to forget. The guns and the blood. The confusion and fear. The closeness of the men he served with. The return home to find that he was, to many, not a hero, but a butcher. The honour that should have been his was gone, tossed aside in the anger that young men had been sent to fight and to die on far away shores for the ambitions of men in high offices. There were so many names on the memorial. So many names of men he could barely recall now. Yet once, they had been close. The trust that bound them together hadn't faded in the quarter century since he had last seen their faces. He was about to turn away from the memorial when he saw a couple of familiar faces. An elderly blond woman was touching the carvings halfway up the wall with gentle fingers. The fingers trembled a little, but they traced out the names with loving gestures. The woman dropped her hand, and turned to the younger man with her, burying her face in his coat. He hesitated for a moment, not wanting to intrude on her grief. The younger man with her caught his eye and he knew he was welcome to share their memories. The ceremony was not long, nor was it filled with speeches and events. As the eleventh hour approached, the small crowd fell silent. The bugle's notes began and ended, and still there was silence. There were no words to fill in the silence, only memories. Lest we forget. End -- Adrienne ar895@freenet.carleton.ca
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