Forgotten Soldier
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Title: Forgotten Soldier
Author: Genji
Warnings: tiny language...
Category: ficlet
Pairing: none, heck it doesn't even mention the g-boys
Notes: This is another of my weird ficlets...from the POV of someone
who has lost both her brothers in wars...pointless wars in my mind,
and in hers, it seems.
More Notes: The song lyrics in the [ ] are from "Turn" in Les
Miserables
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[Did you see them
Going off to fight?
Children of the barricade
Who didn't last the night?
Did you see them
Lying where they died?
Someone used to cradle them
And kiss them when they cried.
Did you see them lying side by side?]
My brother left home at an early age, but such were the times.
Younger and younger the leave, most of the men that would have gone
off to fight had already died serving the Alliance. Oz, the Earth's
Sphere Alliance, they're both the same. They both stole my family
from me. My older brother died wearing brown, my younger, the child
that he was, died in navy. I never saw either of theirs graves,
they're buried with the masses, forgotten by the masses. But I
remember them; I remember when they were both here, Allister ragging
on Evan, when he couldn't keep up with us. Then the war came, and
Allister left us. We survived, helping the war effort when we could.
I didn't even get a note when Allister died, just found his name up
on a list. Evan grew up the moment I told him of the news. He made
fists with his tiny hands and then threw his arms around me and
mumbled, "Don't worry, Ena, I'll protect you." He was eight years
old
and already fighting.
I watched him grow, and he grew up strong and tall, seemingly
unaffected by the grief both of us bore. My little baby brother who
cried tears at night, but put a bright face on for me, my brother
that
tried to convince me not to work when times got tough. The boy that
got pneumonia at age ten and still went out to shovel walks so that
there would be enough money to buy food and gas for the small stove
we
had, but no one cares. No one gives a damn about those that died,
and
those that survived, they are blissfully ignorant of the pain that is
left, left for the survivors, left for the relatives of the dead.
They claim that this peace is a miracle brought about by smart
politics. There is no peace. Not for those left behind, not for
those that died, not for the children that grew up too fast.
I was lucky enough to have Allister. He preserved the little
childhood I had, and I saw what missing it did for Evan. You could
see it in his eyes. Perhaps if he had returned from the front then
we
could get on with our lives. But who is we? We, meaning me and the
corpses beneath the sands? I'm told by some of the survivors, the
survivors of the OZ forces that hunker down in the sewers next to me,
that the war wasn't that bad, but they lie. You can tell by the
looks
they shoot each other when they think no one's looking, you can tell
by the way they scream at night, and then try to blame it on some
childhood fear. Someone said, ages and ages ago, "War is hell." I
couldn't agree more.
Most of my companions are survivors of the war, unneeded after their
loyal service to a government that no longer exists. This is what
they get for their bravery. This is how the government treats its
warriors. How greatly does she value their sacrifices! Would
Allister and Evan be treated this way if they were still here? I
wish
I knew, but I must survive, I must live until tomorrow. I wish it
were that easy.
Evan died, barely a teen, not even a man, but he had more courage
than
all those whiny diplomats that talk and talk and talk and absolutely
accomplish nothing. What good are words when you are starving? What
good are words when your entire family lies beneath the loam? What
good are philosophies to me? They won't bring back the dead. They
won't turn back time to happier days. They're words, forgotten once
uttered, and it's useless for the forgotten warriors to demand for
better treatment. They'd be accused of disrupting the peace.
Peace. I hate the word. It's just a word to me; peace has yet to
arrive. There will never be peace for us in the gutters. One
government or another, they're all the same. War brings about only
sorrow, and little change. So why even bother to fight when all
you're fighting for is power and greed and corruption? Is it worth
it? Is it worth all the carnage? All that lost childhood?
Evan's friends came back, and they are no longer children, but they
are no longer humans, either. Pale and deathly, haunted by things no
child, no adult for that matter, should bear witness to. And I think
that that could be Evan, and those are the times I thank God for
whatever kind of cruel mercy he shows to the dead. And those are the
times that I curse myself for letting him go.
~OWARI~
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© 2001 by Genji. Please do not remove without permission.
