Vigil

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I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade,

When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath—

It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year

And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.

-Alan Seeger, 1888–1916

Downpour
The gate creaked open, inaudible over the sounds of the storm. It wasn't particularly bad by the region's standards, but it was enough to drive anyone indoors for the night. Almost anyone. Most of the day had been spent in preparation for the yearly service.

The gate to the New Manassas Memorial plaza closed again, and latched properly. It's design had been inspired by that of the Museum of Humanity on Earth. Most of the indoor museum had already been closed off for the night. The lone figure walked calmly down the steps, unaffected by the rain that fell all around. The outdoor portion, the plaza, was available for access at any time. On a nearby wall, a security camera tracked the lone visitor.

It had been 74 years since the planet had been turned to a ball of glass by the Covenant. In that time, billions more had died, wars had been fought, great victories and losses. It had been called 'A Time of Heroes' by some. Currently, one such hero was entering the most popular part of the two mile-long plaza, the 'Spartan Army' exhibit.

The collection of statues in the plaza had been painstakingly constructed, by human sculptors, over the last decade. Those who fought valiantly during the planet's final month before it was put to flame were immortalised in stone, while hundreds of thousands of others had their names and if applicable, ranks, added to a large wall, carved from onyx, inside the museum.

Statues of Marines, Army Troopers, ODST's, Emergency Servicemen adorned nearly two thirds of the area. The lone visitor stopped before one. He read the plaque:

SERGEANT MAJOR T. DUVALL, 2529-2552

A jar of flowers lay at it's feet. Someone had placed them here recently. He stooped, and placed the fallen jar properly, taking care to put the flowers back in before standing up again and continuing towards his destination.

It was this section of the plaza that attracted the most visitors, and the statues here gained the most attention from the media. There were over a thousand statues here. Reach had been where the SPARTAN program has been initiated, and although in all, only a small portion of the immortalised super-soldiers had been trained here.

The SPARTAN-II section came first. Many looked identical, standing over two meters tall in their MJOLNIR Mark V Armour. Many Spartans had died during the Fall of Reach. A few wore the older Mark IV armour, and fewer still wore Mark VI. The rain had let up slightly, but in the pitch blackness of the early morning, no one would have been able to see a thing. Not that it mattered. Through augmented eyes, the names on the plaques nearest were easily visible. JOSHUA-029, KEIICHI-047, VINH-030. The list went on.

Some among the SPARTAN-II's were not wearing the iconic armour, the suits that defined the warriors for nearly a century. Some were only children, dressed in plain clothes, standing apart from the warriors. They were the dropouts. The rejects. The failures. He moved away from them quickly.

Then came the largest section: SPARTAN-III. It was here that the stark difference in survivors became apparent. Most were no bigger than the SPARTAN-II children, thee only notable difference being that they were depicted in the cheaper, weaker Semi Powered Infiltration armour. Alpha Company had been active for less than a year before they had been wiped out in a single operation. Well, almost wiped out.

Standing over six feet tall, clad in heavily used MJOLNIR Powered Assault armour, was a single living SPARTAN, in a graveyard of stone. His armour, a light blue, with golden stripes along the shoulders and legs, shone, the brightest thing in the plaza. The rain bounced harmlessly off the energy shields as he looked at the plaques, each adorned with the name of an Alpha Company member. Records from decades back had been declassified, and the names of each and every member from Alpha's roster had been pulled up. When and where they were born, and their date of death.

For all but just under two dozen members, the date of death remained the same: August 2nd, 2537. Commander Martin-A136 stood before the memorial to his fallen brothers and sisters, glancing to the silent armies of Beta and Gamma companies, as well as the titans of SPARTAN-II. He checked the local time on his HUD, and removed the helmet, exposing himself to the cold wind and rain.

The storm had calmed down through the Spartan's walk through Memorial Plaza. Possessing augmented night vision, the Spartan could see everything clear as day. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, now a very light grey colour. The bright blue eyes on his heavily lined face surveyed the scene, years of harsh military training keeping him from shuddering at the chill in the air.

He breathed in deeply, and let out a long sigh. He had been holding that one in for over half a century, keeping his thoughts mainly to himself for all these many, many years of war. His shoulders sagged, a little. He shook his head, as if dispelling a thought, and put his helmet back on. The familiar heads up display greeted him. He checked the time again: 4:30am. According to the information he had been given, the ceremony would begin at 7am, August 30th, 2626.

Martin looked around in the darkness. He had wanted to arrive early. Pay his respects. He was feeling pretty good. How many others could say that at a hundred years old? The Spartan took out his rifle. It was heavily customised after a good few decades of usage. He placed the butt on the ground, and both hands on the barrel, leaning on it like a walking stick. He had a few hours of spare time, his time.

Martin was going to remember everything.