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( again, an old piece rewritten. please excuse random tense changing. n w n ; )
012. Broken
He'd gone off to war, thinking he could return with a few scars and a lot of stories to tell- and, after all, what kind of girl wouldn’t love a war hero? He'd slipped on his uniform, tied his boots and kissed his slip of a lover with no real passion- he'd survive. The list of casualties would list men he didn't know, or perhaps a few buddies, some people whose names he'd learned over dinner, had shared moments of comradire with in the lulls of battle. He'd honor them and mourn for them, but he wouldn't be among them.
And yet, lying in the snow, the steady, deep throb of a wound in his side, watching his blood stain the snow that cushions him, he realizes- it's over. He knows he'll never have to see her get over him and fall for another, not have to see his mother visit his grave. The grief won't touch him- he'll be the source of it but he'll be gone, long gone.
How stupid he was, and so wrong, so confident and so foolish. He closes his eyes and waits to fall asleep, he hopes he'll never wake up, and waits for the calming numbness of death and cold to blanket him forever.
It is a shock when he feels his eyes lift open, and he feels much like one does after waking from a bad dream, the morphine of relief causing his heart to thud when he realizes it's all a dream, he can see her face again and kiss her, feel and smell and taste her. He glances around and his relief is gone- it's snowing and silent, the snow is an undisturbed blank that reaches much further than it had when he was last conscious of it, and he is dying.
It's a moment before he shifts his gaze upwards and notices someone- a man in age but boyish in his features, his eyes are closed and his head is hooded (and his hair is likely discolored from grease and dirt anyway), so his features are unrecognizable to him.
The man is leaning above him, sort of, and is wearing the typical shapeless gray cloak with the hood pulled up. There is no weapon with him, but what does the solider care? He's dying anyway, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and makes him want to retch up this fantastic nightmare. It's all too real, and he almost doesn't believe the dollop of remorse that hits his cheek and falls as if it is his own.
The man is crying, unbridled, and the solider barely believes it. For one, it's such a sight, this man so blatantly revealing his humanity, in an environment where doing so is the worst thing you can do. You can only cry when it's all over.
And yet... There is the unmistakable sound of a choked-back sob from the strange man above him. The solider makes no moves to console or ask the man anything- he only watches, his own vision blurring.
"I'm so sorry." The man's voice is a little feminine, soft, and ridden with so much remorse ... If the solider could cry, could sob like a child again, he would have... he feels tiny tears gather in the edges of his eyes, for no particular reason. He quirks his lips and swallows.
"...For what?" his voice comes out croaky, as if he hasn't had a drink in a long time, or had been talking nonstop for a while. The latter, though, would be impossible. He couldn't know how long he'd been lying here, but he was definitely without a companion.
As if they'd be talking anyway... What would they say? Would they talk of the dreams they'd never see through, the children they'd never have, the lovers they'd never know? Would they consider their lives as they'd been lived up until their current moments, or might they consider the world beyond? The possibilities are endless, and also painful to think about. It’s a relief when he hears the man’s voice again.
"This wouldn't have happened ... You're so young and-" the young man's voice is lost to another sob- this time he covers his mouth and attempts to wipe the tears that glitter down his face, only to leave streaks of mud and dirt and blood in the glove’s wake.
"You didn't have to die like this ... If I could repay you, if there was anything ...” The regret, the remorse, and the sadness in the strange man's voice is so unmasked, it makes the solider cry. He can feel the tears soaking into his ash blonde hair, can feel them pool in his ears. It's very uncomfortable, but that'll be alleviated soon.
The solider is about to ask who his mourner is when he sees the stranger’s eyes open- and suddenly, he knows. In those eyes, those violet eyes, he sees his homeland, the many thousands of lakes and open expanses, can see men rising early to fish for their families, the color of the wine shared during Vappu, the thick billowing clouds of steam in the familiar sauna environment. He sees children whispering among the birches, snow falling from the dead gray of the sky, all of the people who have died and are living and will be born. He sees an eternity of pain, joy, love, and loss in those eyes.
He understands.
"Don't be sorry..." He doesn't know what to call him, this man who is his country, his homeland and his blood-brother, so he lets him fill the blanks for himself. His words are intended to comfort the man, maybe to alleviate his tears a little, but they only make him sob harder. The solider realizes this must be the first and only time the nation will let himself cry like this- it's okay.
"It's okay. It's ... its okay.” He manages a small smile, and there is warmth on his cheek. He realizes it's his nation's hand, not moving, just there, and his violet eyes have closed. He might be thinking of all the men before him who have died and who will die, or maybe he is thinking of his own home. Maybe he is thinking of a lover too, or his own demise, or a fresh hot meal, or camp. Perhaps he is thinking of all the other men just like the one before him, in the snow, dead and dying, their final pleas bubbling in the blood at their lips. It's impossible to guess, and the solider wishes dearly that they could talk more. But he doesn't know what to say, nor does he feel obligated to say anything at all anyway.
“All of the men ... All of the men born in my country ... All of those who are shedding blood in my sake ... Your blood, is mine too.”
The solider smiles a little. His chest feels light and his whole body is airy- soon, he knows, his eyes will close for the last time. It’s a feeling of immense peace, unlike what he'd thought before. There is no terror, or fright of the unknown. There was only the hand on his cheek and the snow beneath him. But he'd like to stay a little longer, to listen to this strange man. Only a moment more, and he'll be happy.
"Y-you're not going in vain ... I'll honor you and our comrades. We are honoring you. You'll never be forgotten...” He trails off, and the solider recognizes that he should fill the silence with his name. It's a strangely normal thing to recognize, as he waltzes up to death's door.
"Paavo.” His last name is too much effort to pronounce- his first is enough. He wonders what his nation's given name is, if he has one. The blonde recognizes his wonder and gives and empty smile, speaking.
"Tino." The solider nodded and as he did so he felt the airy feeling take him away, lift him up, and he's suddenly soaring, the dark is suddenly the purest light and he's flying, and there's nothing but wind in his face and freedom and liberation from pain and ugliness and-
Finland recognizes the shudder of the final breath leaving this solider, this mysterious Paavo, who he'd never know. He slips a glove off and brushes his comrade's eyes closed, for the final time. He'll never see children with those eyes, his own household. He was so truly sorry...
But words were never good healers. Finland holds back another wave of tears and stands, not looking back as he marches steadily towards the makeshift camp set up a few miles from the deathbed of some of his men. They will return, the survivors, and will attempt to recover their fallen comrades, will try to give them a proper burial, and at least grant their survivors some peace.
But now, what Finland can do is survive, and thrive. Not only to set an example for his soldiers, but to truly make good his promise to the dying Paavo. He can protect his future people, make life good for them, remember the fallen and protect the standing.
He will make sure that no death be in vain- it is the least he can do.
 men getting pregnant · Sun Jan 17, 2010 @ 09:29am · 0 Comments |
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