Chapter Text
It could have been a pastoral painting.
There was a lot of green from the hills and the trees, and also a few golden strokes from the afternoon.
The children had just come out of their shelter and were now scampering about, laughing and welcoming the first rainless day of summer with open arms. They were all relatively young, ranging from seven to nine years old and therefore prone to mischief, but mostly sweet-tempered.
Only one particular boy was perhaps a little too assertive for what could be tolerated, and had naturally become some sort of prominent figure within the group as a result. So prominent that even an outsider would have identified him on the spot by just listening to him, to the way his voice was effortlessly drowning out everybody else's.
“Alright, Henry, you can be human! Come here!”
And, judging by the cheeky grin he was sporting, he liked that. He liked to stand out, he liked to be the leader of the playground. He could have been the centrepiece of that pastoral painting, leading a game of tag or hide and seek as any peacefully painted child would have done.
But, unfortunately, he seemed to be fonder of military art.
“Alright, ready? Charge!” he exclaimed, and that was all he needed to do.
As if following a legitimate order from a ten-year-old commanding officer, his suddenly frenzied playmates promptly began to ‘attack’ each other with a varied array of imaginary weapons and ungodly sounds, putting together a freshly recreated Battle of Weybridge. Even though the Human side was indeed more appealing for obvious reasons, the Martian side did have its perks. The ‘fighting machines’ were clearly enjoying themselves while stomping through the field, howling like animals and ‘firing’ in every direction, making some ‘soldiers’ throw themselves to the ground as they shrieked in agony.
It didn't really feel like these children were having fun, but they certainly were, they just happened to be disturbingly committed actors. The now frightened outsider would have wondered what kind of pandemonium was brewing at the All Saints Church.
And the mortified vicar would have probably stated that it was a mere display of childhood unruliness that had to be rebuked.
“Good Lord…” muttered a softer voice from under a nearby tree, to then outright speak up, “Would you please keep your hair on!”
It was the single spectator that had been enduring the massacre in lenient silence, but couldn't restrain herself anymore. The other prominent figure of the group, by virtue of being fourteen years old and therefore the eldest.
“If you must burn and die like the damned,” she continued, upon successfully stopping the battle in its tracks, “you could at least do it more mildly while in a house of God.”
And despite not being as charismatic as her militaristic rival, this seemingly timid girl was actually capable of mustering the stern tone of a governess if she had to.
The children fidgeted and fumbled for a response, a specific handful even hanging their heads in shame. Only one particular boy stepped forward, to nobody's surprise.
“Blasted church bell!” jeered the ten-year-old commanding officer, igniting some muffled chuckles in the process, “Go back inside if we're ruining your stitches that much.”
“I don't think so.” she replied, putting her needle down to cross her arms, “I would rather ensure that you learn some manners, Jacob.”
“Jack! It's Jack, woman!” he snapped, and she frowned.
“Never mind what it is!” she said, raising a hand towards her neck, “I fail to see the merriment in pantomiming such a tragedy…”
An observant outsider would have noticed the shabby rosary she was clutching.
“I'm sorry, Flora!” chimed Henry, the boy that had been addressed earlier, “I didn't want to make you sad!”
“Jack was telling us a story about the Martians, but it isn't his fault either…” added another boy next to him.
“It isn't anybody's fault.” interjected Jack, the now named commanding officer, “We're just mummering, you know? Have you ever seen Saint George slaying the Dragon at Christmas?”
Some children replied that they had indeed seen the play, some others didn't reply, but nodded. Flora herself, the now named sad girl, hadn't seen it, but she was acquainted with the seasonal mummers.
“I suppose it's not too different from making believe.” she admitted, somewhat resignedly.
“And that's why we're so full of ‘merriment’, sister.” concluded Jack, flaunting a renewed cheeky grin, “We already know the happy ending, we can't wait until that happy ending, and there's much merriment. Saint George slays the Dragon, the Humans defeat the Martians, and there's much merriment!”
His little troupe then burst into both laughter and applause, much to Flora's dismay.
They hadn't been there. She couldn't really blame them, because they hadn't been there. They were all young, born after the war. Reared amongst possibly sanitised and glamorised accounts from unreliable narrators. It was a justifiable, yet grievous situation that her weary heart could barely allow.
“Now come on, swaddies! Let's finish this off!” called Jack, making his sprinting way back to the middle of the churchyard, “And let's do it mildly, or we'll go to hell!”
As the children followed him without the slightest hesitation, Flora simply let out a forlorn sigh and retrieved her needle to also finish her embroidery work. It was teeming with gentle pinks and yellows, from elegant carnations and solemn marigolds.