i have only very shallow, general info on this, so... please excuse the errors XD
He sits in the uncomfortable chair by the bedside, next to the last survivor of WWI. His stare is absent and directed toward the window. Outside, the charcoal clouds twist and churn, darkening the world.
A feather-light touch on his hand snaps him from his reverie.
"Arthur?"
He smiles kindly. The elderly man's face lights up. "I haven't seen you in so long."
"I'm always here, friend."
"I had thought you'd forgotten about me. About us. But you really are always there, in the end." A weak chuckle escapes his lips.
Arthur encircles the hand, wrinkled and pale and gaunt, with his own, squeezing it reassuringly. "I could never forget."
"It was so long ago... The older I get, the more my mind seems to fly back." His eyelids flutter and Arthur is afraid that he's lost him, too soon, too soon. But they open again and the man frowns. "I can almost taste the blood... It's horrible. I wish I had better memories." The man sighs, a shaky, ragged escape of breath.
Arthur nods. He remembers, too. Burned into his mind, faces, young and terrified, painted with agony and fear. Every advance paid for by the blood of men who shouldn't have had to die. He can remember them all, every family he visited ("Oh, God, no, please...."), every man he stood by ("Are you ready?" "Never."), every single one since his creation (red, red, red, seeping into his lungs, drowning him with the blood of his people and, God, wasn't he supposed to protect them?).
The man's breathing grows erratic, his chest rising and falling and sounding like there's a tin can rattling in his torso.
He holds the memories of every soldier whose ever fought for him close to his heart. It hurts, shards of glass embedded in his chest, but he would rather that than let himself forget.
Arthur squeezes his hand once more, and feels a weak squeeze back, before an empty beeeep sounds throughout the room and he knows he's gone. Arthur closes his eyes but doesn't let go of his hand, not yet.
"Thank you, old friend."
I am a firm believer that heroes are people who sacrifice for a greater good and heroes should never be forgotten, and even more so that wars should never occur in the first place. Can you tell? XD
The Last Post: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_Post
I would love if someone wrote a fic that went more in depth on the Last Post
The Last Post (AKA Something that almost resembles a fill)
He sits in the uncomfortable chair by the bedside, next to the last survivor of WWI. His stare is absent and directed toward the window. Outside, the charcoal clouds twist and churn, darkening the world.
A feather-light touch on his hand snaps him from his reverie.
"Arthur?"
He smiles kindly. The elderly man's face lights up. "I haven't seen you in so long."
"I'm always here, friend."
"I had thought you'd forgotten about me. About us. But you really are always there, in the end." A weak chuckle escapes his lips.
Arthur encircles the hand, wrinkled and pale and gaunt, with his own, squeezing it reassuringly. "I could never forget."
"It was so long ago... The older I get, the more my mind seems to fly back." His eyelids flutter and Arthur is afraid that he's lost him, too soon, too soon. But they open again and the man frowns. "I can almost taste the blood... It's horrible. I wish I had better memories." The man sighs, a shaky, ragged escape of breath.
Arthur nods. He remembers, too. Burned into his mind, faces, young and terrified, painted with agony and fear. Every advance paid for by the blood of men who shouldn't have had to die. He can remember them all, every family he visited ("Oh, God, no, please...."), every man he stood by ("Are you ready?" "Never."), every single one since his creation (red, red, red, seeping into his lungs, drowning him with the blood of his people and, God, wasn't he supposed to protect them?).
The man's breathing grows erratic, his chest rising and falling and sounding like there's a tin can rattling in his torso.
He holds the memories of every soldier whose ever fought for him close to his heart. It hurts, shards of glass embedded in his chest, but he would rather that than let himself forget.
Arthur squeezes his hand once more, and feels a weak squeeze back, before an empty beeeep sounds throughout the room and he knows he's gone. Arthur closes his eyes but doesn't let go of his hand, not yet.
"Thank you, old friend."
I am a firm believer that heroes are people who sacrifice for a greater good and heroes should never be forgotten, and even more so that wars should never occur in the first place. Can you tell? XD
The Last Post: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_Post
I would love if someone wrote a fic that went more in depth on the Last Post