Work Text:
There's cheer in the infantry.
Pilfered spirits and good humour, the joyful songs of those who hope still, almost forgetting what awaits them.
(For the common Tommy, there is no difference between a drinking song and a prayer.)
They have all ceased to pay attention to the smells, the mud, the rats that scurry by now and again, curious of their strange display. The trenches are cold and open, but a cloud of dust hides the clear skies above, spreading far across the no man's land.
He hears Ron open another bottle stolen from Major Snape's secret stash, leading the merry band into an umpteenth song. Traps have been set, the day's duties done, and it's not long before they will receive the next orders from the higher ups. In time, their lives will all be in General Dumbledore's hands.
But for now, warm voices ring in the silence between the blows, filling the void that stretches in the moments between, and Harry takes Colin aside for a short moment.
The messenger boy understands : the line of Harry's mouth, the jitter behind his words. Of course he does. He's always been quick.
And after all, it's only a small request.
Colin looks at him with shining eyes as he agrees, and Harry can only smile back.
A flower vase stands on the coffee table.
The day is morose, rain falling like a veil on the eastern side of London, throwing the world into monochromatic grays.
Outside, the smell of smoke, a diluted scent of destruction. The home front stands still in the early dawn, mourning and mirroring its counterpart in the lands far beyond, over where a single shooting star becomes a meteor shower.
The vase is a simple thing. White, smooth and unremarkable but for a chip on the rim. It stands there, peacefully, and holds a few blooms inside. Such brightness in a world that seems to have lost all colour.
On each flower and herb is a number, attached to the stem with a small bit of twine. A ribbon lays on the table with the crumpled brown paper packaging, and a square card indicating its provenance. Beltane Blooms, 6 Ash Grove, St Margaret's at Cliffe, Dover.
A book sits next to it, open somewhere around its middle section. The pages are yellowed and the illustrations slightly faded. He knows it by heart, of course, but he wants to make sure. There's no room for mistakes here.
Each line is checked twice, carefully, and his hands are gloved as he handles the blooms. A necessary precaution.
A piece of paper, an old fountain pen.
Alas ! For my poor heart, (Deep Red Carnation)
My best days are past : (Colchicum)
Fame speaks him great and good- (Apple Blossom)
I shall die to-morrow. (Gum Citrus)
Cheerfulness under adversity, (Chinese Chrysanthemum)
There is no unalloyed good : (Lapageria Rosea)
I surmount difficulties- (Mistletoe)
I shall not survive you. (Black Mulberry)
Bury me among Nature's beauties, (Persimmon)
I feel my obligations : (Lint)
A deadly foe is near- (Monkshood)
I shall not survive you. (Black Mulberry)
For once may pride befriend me, (Tiger Flower)
The colour of my fate : (Coral Honeysuckle)
YouThis will be my death- (Hemlock)Success crowns your wishes. (Coronella)
Alas ! For my poor heart, (Deep Red Carnation)
My best days are past : (Colchicum)
Fame speaks him great and good- (Apple Blossom)
I shall die to-morrow. (Gum Citrus)
Tom's eyes stare narrowly at the piece of paper. He studies the words silently, intently, fixedly until they yield their meaning.
Outside, the smell of smoke, a diluted scent of destruction. The day is morose, and tears roll down the window pane as the London sky cries for all those who were lost.
(Alas ! For my poor heart,)
Inside, a floral fragrance, a lightness that permeates the air. A small request : a warm voice trying to fill the void that stretches there.
Gazing at the blooms, Tom guesses there isn't much to do, in the moments between, than to write poems on flower petals.
Mrs Cole stands somberly to the side of the room. She was the one to open the door for the usually chipper courier- the boy’s eyes seemed older now as he handed her the package, hollowed perhaps, just as his cheeks, but looking still so very young.
“A strange day,” she remarks as she passes the bouquet over to Tom, wiping her hands on her skirt from an invisible itch, “For a soldier to try to poison you.”
(Stranger still, Tom thinks as he accepts it, for a flower shop to be open in these times.)
“The request was probably sent out a month ago,” he deftly waves off, already looking for a vase in the storage cupboard.
Mrs Cole had left the room while Tom worked the riddle out, bent over his book, checking numbers and definitions- almost like a boy in another life, hands smudged with ink, fussing for hours over an anagram.
(He finds only the hemlocks remain unnumbered, all but for one sprout.)
Now, as she stands vigil over the flower vase, an austere angel watching over a grave, Tom figures she must have taken a look at his notes while he went upstairs to change into his outerwear.
Unbothered, he slips into his coat under her silent gaze, reproachful at his perceived callousness. Setting his hat atop his head, Tom grabs both his cane and umbrella from the coathanger, leaving without another word.
As always, a morning prayer : he curses the London rain and mourns the state of his shoes.
As he walks through the grey streets, he passes a few oddly decorated shops. Under the morning shower, a cheery tune floats over from a far away radio. A joyful song, a bloom of hope.
When he picks up the paper at the newsstand on the way, he notices the date. His smile holds a peculiar mix of both irony and fondness.
(But enough of that ! He must hurry ! There is no time to contemplate.)
After all, he has a train to take.
Alas ! For my poor heart,
My best days are past :
Fame speaks him great and good-
I shall die to-morrow.
Cheerfulness under adversity,
There is no unalloyed good :
I surmount difficulties-
I shall not survive you.
Bury me among Nature's beauties,
I feel my obligations :
A deadly foe is near-
I shall not survive you.
For once may pride befriend me,
The colour of my fate :
This will be my death-
Success crowns your wishes.
Alas ! For my poor heart,
My best days are past.
Fame speaks him great and good-
I shall die to-morrow.
Hemlock. You, only you will be my death.
Find us here at : Beltane Blooms, 6 Ash Grove, St Margaret's at Cliffe, Dover.
The engine stops at Dover Harbour.
The day is bright, the light scent of the sea salt permeates the air- one may already hear the dull hum of the ships and the joyous cries of freedom of seagulls above. Here is the lively sound of chatter, of luggage being handled as the passengers bustle out of the train.
Among them, a young man steps out, a single sprout of hemlock peeking out of his front pocket.