Summary: Heroes aren't always remembered. Sometimes they were never known at all.

Warnings: Oops, looks like I wrote a drabble-ish piece! lol.

Rating: T, for character dead.

Word Count: 325

Status: Complete


I’ve seen the way they look at you. I’ve heard what they say about you.

They say that you’re in a gang, that you’re a druggie. Pretty unimaginative, if that’s all they can come up with to explain when you’re gone, and the injuries you come back with.

They’ll never know who you are, or what you’ve done. What you’ve done for them.

They don’t know anything about you. They never will. They’ll never understand.

But I do. I know what you’ve had to do to help them. I know what you’ve done to help me.


They called me. The cold bastards called and told me in their cold-bastardly way that you’d died.

I wish now that I hadn’t asked for the detail. I wish that they hadn’t told me that you died from the bad guys torturing you, because now I dream your death over and over again every night.

But sometimes I don’t regret asking them. Dreams are the only way that I can see you now. I miss you so much.

You were so brave. I’m so proud of you. All those millions of people are still alive because you wouldn’t give in to the pain, because you were you, the whole world’s hero.

My little hero.


It’s Veterans Day back here in the States. Everywhere I go, whatever I watch on TV or listen to on the radio, they’re remembering American military heroes. Everyone’s remembering the sacrifices that their soldiers made and make.

But I’m the only one remembering a young British teenager with fair hair and beautiful, warm brown eyes that slowly turned jaded, then cold, as he was forced to give up everything.

They’d never understand you, even if they knew what you’ve done, even if they knew how many people you’ve saved.

Everyone is remembering the “Fallen, not forgotten.”

I’m just remembering the fallen that no one knew had fallen.

I’m just remembering the unknown fallen.


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