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he’s surrounded by angry men in power who have always hated him. still feeling the slightly warm touch of the one he loved. but he opens his eyes. blinks a few times, disbelieving and confused. tries to stutter through an apology, an excuse to get the attention away from him but they can't hear him.
he sits up, worried he might be in a dream of some kind, unconscious maybe. or maybe they're just ignoring him. talking over him and dismissing him, which is nothing new. so he tries to get up, knees cracking as he does, sheepish and disheartened, looking for any hint of understanding in havers' eye but he finds nothing.
he finally stands, adjusts and brushes off his uniform, all of the nerves and the adrenaline and the panic and the pounding of his heart throbbing in his head he can't really hear anyone, can't understand. he turns to follow havers, who has his head down and a complicated expression on his face (he thought he knew how to read him, how to interpret his tiny eyebrow raises, his smiles, the way he tilted his head. if no one else, at least him. but this is new)
he catches a glimpse of his own body laying on the floor. eyes flicked closed (ah, havers. the only one to ever respect him), and hands grasping the exact stick that has just.. reappeared in his grip? had he dropped it? maybe he had it the whole time and he just can't remember. he's confused and he's scared and he feels so small, so young, and at the same time ancient, out of touch, every drop of usefulness (not much) squeezed from him, rung out and tossed aside.
another soldier rushes in to tell the crowd a doctor is coming. it's too late. the men murmur and hang their head. someone huffs out a small laugh at who knows what. probably him. pathetic. can't even die without causing a fuss. die. he's dead. his brain knows it but his mind won't comprehend it. seeking clarity, wisdom, comfort, any positive emotion in this world, he follows havers, unseen and unheard as he is he can't bear to be away from him. not anymore. at least death has granted him this one small freedom.
and havers walks and walks, tears only falling once he reaches the lake, away from the sharp and venomous eyes of his fellow servicemen. and the captain walks and walks with him, nothing more than a shadow. a rustle of leaves. birdsong on the wind. and they sit there for a while, on the banks of the lake, as time paints the sky amber, then bronze, then burgundy. the captain points out some reed buntings in the sticks along the shore. he swears he sees havers look up and smile.
the rest of the soldiers shuffle out in the meantime, gabbling away and elbowing ribs and making plans for the pub. and amidst all the life there is a sheet-covered gurney being ushered by two nonplussed looking men into the back of a car, and five ghosts looking on in equal parts excitement and solemnity.
and when havers’ silent tears finally run dry, he has no choice but to stand. to shiver in the early evening chill. to wipe the dirt from his slacks whisper a fond goodbye. and the captain grins, just a small one, and bows his head to hide the affection in his eyes. he follows havers, through the grounds and past the house and out to the gate. and then havers is gone. and he can’t go with him. and it’s his turn to cry.
he lets out cries and wails and heaves and screams 40 years in the making. he chokes and sobs but the tears and snot disappear too quickly to wet his face. he rips the badge off his chest, carelessly tearing holes in the uniform that had never protected nor served him any. he throws the stupid bar as hard as he can over and over and over again, tearing at the metal and fabric until his fingers bleed. but of course, they don’t.
in all of his outrage he loses track of the stick, a thought that only occurs to him as he reaches for it to knead and fiddle with. a sharp panic bursts in his chest. his breath is coming fast and hot and his throat hurts and he scrambles around on his hands and knees through the foliage. and just as he’s on the verge of howling, it’s there. in his hands again.
he looks to the sky. he looks at the tire tracks in the path just outside the gates that he can’t seem to reach. he looks down at himself, prim and proper, medals and all. as if nothing ever happened. as if something happened. as if he accomplished something. he swallows hard and closes his eyes for a moment. only a moment. for just a moment he’s flying. he’s free.
then he clears his throat and opens his eyes, tugs down on his jacket to get it just so, tucks the stick under his arm, straightens his shoulders, and marches towards the house.