When the Saints go Marching In

Seemingly everyone has turned up to watch the parade. It's too crowded. But despite the sheer number of people, it's still easy to see them: the soldiers, marching together in unison down the street.

Trapped on either side by barriers and solemn faces, the Ulfaschester Army parade marched on. One group after another, lined up neatly twelve to a row, each soldier’s vacant expression only complimenting the stiff, practised movements of their marching. The thuds of their synchronised steps a dull metronome resounding down the street.

Blake Lyons watched on, his aged heart breaking with every body that passed before him. They were a blur; entirely unrecognisable in their spotless uniforms, all sharp edges, shined buttons and shoes so polished the early morning sun flashed off them with every step. Leading the parade, having long since passed Blake’s spot in the crowd, the Officers’ medals had glinted from their proud positions above their left breast pockets. As they had walked with their heads held high, a trail of bodies had followed shortly after, and Blake couldn’t help but huff a humourless laugh at the irony of that: what was one body trail to another, after all. The only difference was that the one marching before him now was still living. 

Out of all the marches that Blake had witnessed in his lifetime - too many. Far, far too many - the Ulfaschester Parade wasn’t anything special. That was because for once in decades it wasn’t for ceremonial purposes. It wasn’t even a show of propaganda. No, this parade was purely a sendoff; a final chance to say goodbye. Officially it was a sign of unity and support, but Blake knew better.

His gnarled knuckles tightened around his walking stick and he had to look away from the seemingly endless parade. He could still picture the day that the news of the call for War had reached him in excruciating detail. Evidently his failing memory could not spare him one moment of peace, since why else could he not forget it if not to prolong his suffering. 

Blake had once been a soldier himself, though back in those times he had been called a warrior, or a knight - a title his wife had fondly given him before time had taken her too. He had witnessed first hand the brutality of war, and had at the time cursed the elders for so readily sending the tribe’s men off to their deaths. Centuries had passed and it was clear that nothing had changed. Oh Blake knew that some things had changed, such as the reasons behind the senseless violence, and the fact that women were sacrificing themselves now too; but the fact that those who started the wars weren’t the ones actively fighting hadn’t changed. 

Many countless years ago, back when the world still had a semblance of order - twisted and fragile, yes, but still present - there had been one country whose armies had sung songs of praise to their sovereign. It hadn’t taken long before the death toll had tainted the song into one of condemnation as the war continued to rage on, building on the corpses of the battlefields. 

It was an endless, gory cycle and it sickened Blake. The old would start a war and the young would die for its bloody completion, and then after the remaining young grew up missing parents, aunts, uncles, they would start a war from their hatred and grief and the cycle would begin anew. 

Blake had lived through it enough times to be able to see the signs of when the cycle was about to repeat, but after decades of peace he had allowed himself to be lulled into a soothing false sense of security. He’d chosen to be wilfully blind of the signs and then before he knew it the earth was once more at war with itself and he could do nothing but watch as another generation marched swiftly to their deaths while the government officials watched on from their sheltered platforms. He was so sick of it he could scream if his body’s vocal chords would’ve allowed it.

He withdrew from his melancholic thoughts, and looked up to find that the parade had ended and the barriers had almost been completely removed. It would be many months, possibly even years, before the current war drew to a close, but for every minute of that time Blake will spend it mourning. And then after another remembrance day is added to the year he will continue to mourn until inevitably the pendulum swings and the cycle begins again. It was a process he was regrettably familiar with, and it would be a long, long time before he would finally be able to see its end. Whether that end will come with his unlikely death or the settling of humanity’s morals, he didn’t know, but as he lumbered away from the empty street he yearned for that end till his heart ached.

Until then, there was nothing he could do, but watch.

Author's Note

There are two elements which I've been told I've probably been too subtle about, despite my intention of wanting them to be subtle in the first place. If you have an idea of what I'm talking about and agree that I could make it more obvious, feel free to tell me!

Reviews

[olla]

so.. first of all I enjoyed your story... it is descriptive enough to catch my attention and hold it to the end.. the first paragraph made me want to read on and that is the real battle.. to entice the reader to turn the page.. I wondered if the character was a ghost.. you used TRIBE and ELDERS is a way that made me think he had actually been there.. I didn't find any thing else that made me think it was a subtle reference.. I do have to disagree on one thing.. if you love to write and you are this good at it then you are an writer..

[sir_burnsalot]

He was actually there, yes, but I decided in my head halfway through writing that he was actually immortal. Thank you so much for your kind words! They mean a lot 😁

[olla]

I did get that from your story.. I hadn't thought of an immortal but a spirit clinging to the life he had known none the less.. where ever you made the transition in your mind it was well done in the story.. as seamless as any I've come across before..