Work Text:
Blood pounding in his ears-
His shout cut short by a echoing gunshot that rips through his soul-
The world spins for him as he takes dazed steps forward-
He smiles at him, eyes unfocused and this was wrong-
Wrong-
---
The funeral service is short. He says a few words about his best friend, but words could not describe how every day he would wake up next to him and see the light catching in his black hair and how when he opened a bleary blue eye he'd smile like there was no where else he'd rather be and how he'd pick up a gun with a cold hard look, knowing exactly how to hold it and fire it and how his shoulder would jerk with the recoil and how now he was gone the light was gone from the world, something they saw together-
William Lowes, was killed in action on the 24th of November, 2012 at age 26.
Outside the church - god, Will would hate this whole affair - an officer comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder. Silence echoes through him.
"You two were close, weren't you?"
He gives a noncommittal hum. He wishes the officer would leave.
"Well. I expect you at work again, on Wednesday. He was a soldier at heart, it's how he woulda wanted to go. You know that."
He wishes that were true. He wishes he had a gun. He wishes the pain to stop. He wishes he could forget the last three years. He wishes he never met Will.
(Almost)
The officer leaves with a last pat on his back. Snow flurries around him in a mundane , but it's not cold enough to settle. It was snowing when he died- was shot. Was murdered.
He stands after a while. Everyone has left now. He looks to where the grave is, shiny black marble with his name engraved into it.
He always said that the soldiers were already six feet under. They just hadn't died yet; living on borrowed time.
He takes three steps over to where the soft soil was being laden in flecks of white which dissipated quickly. He crouches.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" He asks. He thinks that, for a moment, he can hear his snarky reply.
For a moment.
---
He takes the well worn steps up to the grave, footsteps crunching in a snow that reached his ankles. The dawn light was cool and the sky a colourful mix of blue and pink.
When he reaches the grave, a year since it was created, he looks up to see a wolf with a black streaked with silver and cold grey eyes looking up at him. His breath catches. He stops.
The wolf regards him in a way he finds familiar. Wolves weren't common around here, but not unheard of. He crouches. They wait.
The wolf bows his head, and then tilts it. Your move, he is saying.
He extends a shaking hand to the wolf. He waits - then nudges his hand to the red fingered palm. He exhales, hot breath clouding as the wolf goes back to its original stance.
He looks like he is guarding it.
---
Rowan Jameson was killed in action on the 12th of July, 2016 at age 29.
---
The black furred wolf still stands by the grave today, or so it is said. It waits, and growls by anyone who goes near it.
Once, a young boy who everyone in the village knew by face clambered up to the graveyard. He opens a creaking oak door to the church, and peers inside the cool interior. He does not know what he was looking for.
He pulls out, and closes the door. He looks towards the graves.
A wolf is standing there, poised at him, hackles raised. The boy shudders in fear.
The wolfs ears prick up, then he turns towards other graves. Weaving in and out of them is a red fox, it's tail between its legs.
The boy waits for a fight. The wolf waits for the fox. The fox waits for the wolf.
They bow their heads at each other, and the wolf leaves the grave behind.