November 11, 1917

Nieuwe Molen, Belgium

2 km from Passchendale

Third Battle of Ypres (Concluded)

It's been five days since I crashed somewhere in Belgium.

I lost my map when I landed, so I can't tell which direction

leads back to the Town of Passchendale. I hope my fellow

Canadians were successful in taking the town from the

German troopers.

I'm alone with my partner. Both of us are injured from both

the battle and the landing. We used up whatever rations

we had left, and are forced to 'borrow' chicken eggs or

fruit from a farmer's tree. I would like to ask for the locals

help, but I can't tell which part of Belgium is still under

German control or not.

Following my compass due north, and keep going straight.

Hopefully, my partner and I will stumbled onto an Allied Trench.

Who knows, maybe I would meet up with the 2nd Canadian

Division and get some help.

My leg's all banged up, but my partner is in worse condition

She shielded me from most of the damage during our fall.

I want to thank her, but my lungs hurt really badly.

~Collishaw

“…Hey...Ray-Ray. Wh-where are we? D-did we just enter the realm of Valhalla? L-look at all these flowers made of ruby gemstones!”

“No. Those are Poppies, so I'm pretty sure we're still in Flanders, Belgium. I wonder if we're even close to returning to the battlefield in Passchendaele."

Raymond Collishaw tried to walk on his two feet, but even with a tree branch he broke off to use as a walking stick his gait was rather clumsy. He felt guilty in having to lean all of his weight onto the Canadian Witch who was really no older than 18. However, his leg was broken and moving was almost unbearable without help. He had to use his scarf to tie up two pieces of cork bark he ripped from a tree in a wine field. The Canadian felt guilty, for wrecking private property and having to steal scraps of food from farmers, but his body got the best of him in order to survive.

He glanced at his bandaged leg. It's been a few days since he tied it, the blood that drenched through his flight scarf was now caked in both mud and his blood. It looked awful, so he tried not to look at it.

At the same time, he kept his wandering eyes on the horizon, not on his partner's legs. The Canadian Witch's magical dress made of raven feathers was torn up, exposing her mid riff that had this killer looking gash swiped across her stomach. It looked like some kind of giant prayer mantis got a good slice into her flesh.

Also, the skirt of her black feathered gown was torn up. It was mostly because she offered them as bandages to tie up Raymond Collishaw's cracked head and creating a makeshift sling for his one wounded arm. It first started with 2 inch wide strips to stop his bleeding, but every nice whenever he passed out she would secretly change most of his bandages to prevent infection.

Thus, her calves covered in mud, blood, and cuts from shrubberies painted her once fine legs from toe to above the knee. Normally, she would complain of the condition, but today she rather shut up and carry a grown man on her shoulder.

"...Ray-Ray. It's been days since we last saw anyone from the Allied Forces. Are you sure we're going the right direction."

"No. The map got burnted up when Black Maria engine's spark and exploded. I only have this compass, which now I'm starting to believe is broken as the needle hasn't moved for three days no matter where I turned. I don't want to say we're lost to cause a panic but....... yeah. We're lost."

"...It's fine... so long as I'm with you."

"Sorry? Did you say something, Sleipnir? You're mumbling."

"Just keep using my body as your crutch. But you can't take advantage of me♥."

"...Sleipnir."

"Joke joke...I heard laughter can be a medicine to dull the pain... I guess I need to work on my sense of humor."

The Canadian Witch bit her lip, hiding the fact she hadn't slept in the last two nights. Being away from the nearest Allied base or trench, no one was sure if they were behind enemy lines or even close to a neutral zone on this battlefield. They dare not come close to villages, lest they take the chance of Imperial German patrols capturing them. They would often camp at the edge of a quiet farm, either in a stable or under the family oak tree to rest up before walking on.

Even if they agreed to take turns on watch, the Witch would go overtime and let Raymond Collishaw sleep a little longer. Often times, throughout the entire night. So it would make sense why she had bags under her eyes that struggle to just keep open like a flickering lightbulb.

"...Ray-Ray. You're hands are cold... if only I have some strength left in my mana pool, I might be able to use a low setting of Burning Hands to keep you warm."

"Don't push yourself, Sleipnir. If I hadn't figure out that magic is fueled by your life force, I wouldn't have let you use your spells to cook wild game and eggs every time. If you keep exhausting your energy like that, you might die."

"... Ah. How romantic to fall into my darling's arm as I sacrificed myself for my lover's survival. The tale of a devoting housewife. Oh-ho-ho."

"Please... don't joke."

"Yes, yes, yes. I'm sorry."

Raymond Collishaw didn't want to rely on the Canadian Witch anymore as a crutch. As a man, he should be bold and brace against the pain in his broken shin and walk on with just his tree branch as a walking staff. No good, without even an injection of a proper sedative, the lightning bolt like pain would keep stabbing into his nervous system like an ice pick.

Realizing how useless he was, he decided against struggling with his inner ego. Or else the more he stumbled, he'll force both the Canadian Witch and himself to go tumbling down the steep hill.

And into a large field of bright red Poppies that waved at them in silence.

“So this is the legendary Flander’s Fields.”

“It’s not exactly legendary. I don't know if there's any other folklore behind the origin of these flowers in Belgium.”

“But it was written in that book we found, no? The one that was half buried in mud back in the empty Trench we stumbled into. At first, when you read it to me the content made no sense... but now that I've seen such a field, I am beginning to piece the puzzles the author has left behind for us..."

"Hmm. Regardless if I a Pilot, I have too many friends in both the Royal Navy and in the Trenches who have been through h*ll... Often times, they don't get to come back so conveniently for another drink at... I miss them, every now and then."

"These Poppies are beautiful in their own haunting way... so much, that it hurts my heart every time I look... yet I can't help but feel a sense of hope for the future that these flowers will bring to us."

“Like his book said: each and every one of these Poppies has a soldier buried under them. Their blood fills the earth, feeds the soil, and their hearts grow into the core of these flowers in the field of Flanders. I heard, they used to be white before the First Great War began."

"If that fact was true, Ray-Ray, then even a magician like myself would dread about how many souls would it be necessary to change the natural chroma of a plant like this into such a vivid crimson... the numbers frighten me."

The Canadian Witch and the Canadian Pilot watched over the Poppy fields. The flowers swayed quietly to the breeze of the winter, their stems and leaves already forming a thin cover of frost from the mildew. And they watched over them, like parents over their child playing in the gardens.

Unable to continue on their path, they decided to stop for a short. They had been walking for the past five days almost non-stop, marching for hours down roads, undiscovered paths, and routes that steered clear from possible German detection. To take a break, was necessary or else the muscle fiber in their legs would snap.

Raymond Collishaw bit his lip as he put the tree branch to his side. The dull pain in his shoulder hurt, it was hard to lift any higher than his collar bone. Sitting down next to him was the Canadian Witch who lost part of her skirt. Rather, she didn't sit, she just up and plopped down next to him. Her legs had passed out in the last minute, making them cramp across the front and back and in her toes.

The girl endured, only able to swallow her saliva as her own source of fluid intake to reduce the muscle contractions in her legs. As if to hide her pain, she tucked them close to her body, acting like she was on a regular Sunday outing for a picnic... albeit the lip biting.

“Hey Ray-Ray…Do you think us Witches will be remembered? For what we've done for the war?”

“What are you saying? Magic or not, you’re soldiers too. Many of your sisters are helping the troops in the trenches, and you’re with me fighting Magicians in the sky. I don't understand why won't you receive any recognition for your services?"

"We Witches and Wizards don't exist, remember? Not in your modern society. We are merely figments of your imagination that creep under your own shadow, just so we can live a peaceful life pursuing the art of magic without prejudice... We're kind of like super secret spies. Our nation will deny our existence, so why make a funeral ceremony for those who 'aren't real'?"

"But... that wouldn't be fair. I mean, about one year ago I was attending the funeral service of lads I met during my training on the HMS Niobe. They were all serving the HMHS Britannic when it was torpedoed off the coast of Greece. They received full honors as well as a small memorial engraved with their names... I...I really don't see why your organization wouldn't even give you the time of day if you fell in combat, protecting us."

"Ha-ha. It's a cruel world, darling. If the Arcana Council and the British Magic Intelligence honestly printed the names of every Witch and Magician who gave up their lives for the British Empire in the local newspapr... people would start to question who we really are, and why there is magically a large number of people that 'exceeded' the recorded Volunteer roster...It's only a matter of time before your government uncover our secret, and start a second Global Witch Hunt again."

“………………………”

Raymond Collishaw wanted to answer. He had opened his mouth, formed the right words in his mind, and even steeled himself to save what he felt with every raw emotion. It truly was unfair, to be forgotten like a piece of trash. To sacrifice one's life for the sake of a nation's future, only to have some [email protected] vandalize their grave or ruin the charity that go into remember them. He knew that was a terrible feeling, to simply be forgotten.

Yet, no matter how prepared he was... he just couldn't get the words out. He tried to cut it down, to a bare minimum, to get something spoken, to move the conversation. In the end, he would get one word that would make no sense being said on its own. [email protected] The Canadian Pilot thought about keeping that to himself, until he could come up with a better context.

"...Besides. It's not like I'm all for the whole fire three volleys into the sky or anything. I don't even like being stuffed in a coffin. It's too cramped.

“Sleipnir, don’t—”

"It's fine, Ray-Ray. I really don't mind. The moment my fellow sisters and I joined the Canadian Witch Corp, our first day was spent understanding that our loses will never be remembered. It will never be recorded. We either live to fight for those who cannot defend themselves with magic, or disappear from the face of the Earth. Ah, how well I remember. 290 of us signed up, only 58 stayed after that little lecture. And here I am, a full-fledged Magician of the Canadian Expeditionary Forces fighting the Kraut Empire from world domination......"

".............."

"...Please don't feel guilty, darling. You have your own burden to worry in this war as an airplane ace. This, is my burden as a Witch."

"I understand now. At first, I never really believed in your magic, or your world. But having fought next to you, the way you protect me from German and Austrian-Hungaria Sorcerers, or even Magis of the Ottoman Empire. I truly understand... you're no different than the lads in the Royal Naval Air Service or the Trenches. You're fighting along side us, the only difference is that your ammunitions are bolts of fire and scatter of lightning. To be honest, you and your fellow Witch sisters are really amazing."

"Oh my oh my. Is Ray-Ray praising me. Be cause how you use your honeyed words, my dear. I might just fall for you even more."

"Witch or not. You can't let the system end like this. What about your parents? Your two mothers. What do they get? For us, at least they receive a pension on our behalf and a national flag to honor our duty to our country."

"... They're Witches too, on a level greater than myself. They know the risk too well. They have been serving the Crown and British Royal Family for many years, it's in our bloodline to protect the British Empire from collapse and destruction. At least, they will be proud of what I am fighting for in the Western Front."

"We shouldn't leave it like this. I may not be a suitable person, but I am willing to speak with your superiors, or council, and advocate for you Witches to received some sort of equality. Even if you're all girls, you've showed as much courage and bravery like any other young man would in the field. Whether it be battling a mage, healing the sick, or even tossing grenads out of dug outs. We need to at least try to--"

A slender finger reached out, touching Raymond Collishaw’s lips. It was a touch that would silence a savage lion or a frighten lamb. The soothing sensation that would tell you everything was alright now, you have nothing to fear.

Like that lullaby… Hush little baby don’t you cry, Mama’s going to buy you a diamond ring.

“Sssssssh….It's alright, Ray-Ray. I really enjoy this pleasant atmosphere with you. So please, don't ruin it by dragging in unnecessary politics... alright?"

"... Yes. I understand."

"Fu-fu-fu. I have such a cute partner, eh Mr. Ace?"

"You've been improving over the last few months. Who knows, if you really devote your time into becoming a pilot, you'll become the next Canadian Ace like Billy Bishop."

"...Pass...Now, be a sweety and give me your arm to hold."

The Canadian Witch smiled and she coiled her long bruised arms around the Canadian Pilot’s arm. Even with sprained shoulder, she was willing to gnaw on the inside of her cheek to endure the pain, so she could envelop herself in a gentle warmth that she yearned deep inside. As if tired from all the evil from the world, she rested her head across Raymond Collishaw’s shoulder. Her long black hair spilled over them like a weeping willow, her frail and exposed legs covered in cuts drawing int to make her body curl up.

Like a fetus in a mother's womb.

"... Hey. Ray-Ray. If I ever become a Poppy, would you remember this cute little Witch?"

"Yes. Yes I would."

"Tee-hee. Don't ever make a girl a promise, if you know you can't keep it."

“I promise I will remember you. Even to my last breath.”

"... Ray-Ray...Could you read it again. That poem in the book you found. I... I want to hear it once more."

Raymond Collishaw was in pain himself, but he didn’t care. All he could do was slowly move his working arm to pull something out of his jacket pocket across his chest. In his fingers was this leather journal the size of his palm. The skin was so worn out, there were torn holes from prolonged use and rough handling. Not to mention multiple pages covered in both rain and mud stains.

Its leather skin was well worn, with holes ripped from prolonged use and the corner of the page stained in rain and mud water. There was a single red ribbon clipped in between a section of pages. The Canadian Pilot carefully opened it, to reveal the marked section. There was a series of hand writing, that filled exactly two pages. It looked like something a doctor would scribble when providing a medication to a patient.

Raymond Collishaw took in a small deep breath... and read the words.

In Flanders field the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid guns below. We are Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flander's Fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flander's Fields

~~Dr. John McCrae

"........Sleipnir?"

When Raymond Collishaw had completed reciting the poem inside of the tattered journal, he felt an awkward silence hang over him. This wasn't the same type of dead air his partner and himself would have if the conversation involved magic and science. Neither was it the kind of quiet tone that didn't want the conversation to run down a dangerous path.

The Canadian Pilot turned, and found the Canadian Witch slowly drifting to sleep across his shoulder. Either in her final moments of consciousness, or her subconscious surfacing as she dives into a well deserved slumber, she cried with a small faint smile.

"Promise me...Don't ever turn into a Poppy...Ray-Ray..."

"... I'll do my best, Sleipnir. Sweet dreams."

:: RAYMOND P. COLLISHAW ::

Retired from military service at age 33 in 1943 as Air Vice Marshal of the Egypt Air Command in the African Campaign (WW2). Married to Neita Trapp in 1942 England and eventually settled down and passed away in West Vancouver, British Columbia in 1976 (Age 82).

:: *ID CLASSIFIED* ::

Codename: SLEIPNIR. 10th Lv. Magician of the Canadian Witch Corp, 5th Newfoundland Wands.

M.I.A. as of August 8, 1918. Last known mission, Battle of Amiens.

Whereabouts = UNKNOWN.

'Please don't forget us.'

~~ Canadian Expeditionary Forces

Remembrance Day, 2018