CountryHuman OneShots

(Modern Day AU) Fields of Poppies

Today was quiet. Not many people were out. He walks up to the monument, blind cane in one hand and the pipes in the other.

He had always done this tradition, even if he couldn't see since the end of the Second World War. It was always important to him to pay his respects to the dead - his father, Scandinavia, had taught him that - but today was specifically for the deceased soldiers who had died, believing that it truly was a war to end all wars, only for it to happen again.

And again.

And again.

At this time of year, the roads would ice and snow would occasionally fall. Snow was falling today, coating the top part of his pipes and his hat white, and no doubtedly his shoulders too. He was glad for his kilt. One that he had for centuries, going through battle after battle, war after war, and gunshot after gunshot. Many a time would a bullet go through the tartan, and many a time would have to be stitched up after a hard sword fight.

Scotland still had his sword. In fact, he had a written letter from the UN, telling any PC that stopped him that he was allowed to carry his sword. He didn't just use it for fighting, at this point it was almost an extension of his limb. It just felt weird without it.

His adoptive family's brothers and sister helped him to the memorial. Not by physically guiding him, but with small warnings of 'the steps are in front of you' or 'there's a tight corner here'. Although he fights with them a lot, he is thankful to have them by his side. Northern Ireland had always been his favourite, and Wales had always been England's favourite, but he still loved the little ones a lot. Not the same could be said for England, but he had grown to forgive him for all those years of fighting. Finally, he made it to the foot of the statue, and a small salute he would give to the statue before starting up the pipes and starting to play that song that would give any soldier chills.

Flowers o' the forest.

Now to any non-British person, this song may just seem as a slow song, one sad enough for funerals. However, it is normally reserved for people who are soldiers. It was played during the First World War, over mangled bodies when they were buried in the middle of war. When the screams and the violence still played out, the pipes and bugles still rang through, giving these soldiers one last song before they were sealed away in pitch blackness, and the fight would continue. Musicians were a big part of the army; so were the brave journalists, who would risk their own lives just to take one picture to show the world what exactly was happening in these horrible, horrible trenches.

It rang out, having the same amount of impact today as it did when those first notes rang out a long time ago. And then silence, smack bang on 11.

After 2 minutes, the pipes started up again. A slow tune but still a little faster than the lament that he had just played. An old song from his Jacobite days, one that sung through the hills whenever they had lost a battle. After his siblings had said their pieces, including his brother blowing his bugle - something that he both had heard enough and also not heard enough of at the same time - they started their trek downwards again, with sorrow hearts and heavy minds.

The 11th of November. An important day for all of us. It marks the end of the First World War, and the beginning of several reborn country's lives.

Let us remember these brave men and women, and all they sacrificed.

Apologies for this coming out late, I had forgotten the toll that this day takes on me.