Notes: Once again, I wrote this awhile back. It’s fairly angsty, but overall, I believe it’s okay. Reviews would be stupendous. Enjoy.

It is quiet in the cemetery and marble shines by the light of the sun, dull and listless and much like the bodies of heroes occupying the space beneath the arms of the crosses at the head of their graves. Grieving mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, at the foot of their graves. Souls floating on the warm golden winds of heaven, or consciences burning in the unforgiving flames of hell.

How he hates this place, how he hates the manicured lawns and the tears that run off the faces of those who have been left behind. Sobs are muffled behind the intricate folds and stitches of the flag, silky fabric dampens and darkens by the very tears he abhors. But they are not his tears; he has not shed a single physical thread of emotion on the grounds of this place since he was given an excuse to set foot on the lush, cool grass for the first time.

As he walks through the rows and rows of fallen heroes, through families trying so desperately to recall the faces of their sons, daughters, fathers, mothers. As he walks through the ache to find that moment of pure bliss and joy before the seemingly selfish demise of their loved ones. He feels the warmth of his own beloved grasp his hand as he slows to a stop before the grave of his mother.

The barrier of earth separating him from the first woman he has ever loved. And he falls to his knees and places a simple rose, where he believes her hands are crossed. Because the last memory of his mother is a beautiful woman holding a flower to her chest as she smiles through the calm silence of his thoughts.