They were everywhere that November the fourth. Everywhere that Evey went; everywhere that Evey looked. Black cloaked figures ... weaving through the flow of street pedestrians ... darkening taxicab windows and shoppe doorways ... gathering in special meeting places to form pockets of history -- both history past and history in the making. Average, anonymous Londoners, wearing the cloaks, hats, wigs, and yes, masks, from exactly one year ago.
Many of them had marched on Trafalgar to witness the fall of Parliament firsthand. Others had not found the courage back then, but wore the costume today in remembrance and support. And still others had not been lucky enough to receive an original copy from the original masked man himself, and thus borrowed, bought, or cobbled together their own. There were even a few old-fashioned Guy Fawkes costumes walking about, after probably decades spent in storage. By Evey's estimate, at least a fifth of the population was dressed in some way to immortalize the great revolutionary, V.
It was the rebirth of a holiday in a way none alive had ever seen. By the old traditions, memorable only from Evey's youngest childhood, people would have been working on their bonfire pyres this night, and prepping poor old caricatures of Fawkes to roast in effigy the next. Norsefire had thought they'd put an end to all that, squelching such things with laws, curfews, and oppression. But now it was back ... with a twist.
Now England looked toward midnight, when the stroke of the clock would mark one year of a people's freedom. Fawkes was the sage and would be honoured as such. But V ... he was the new, true hero. The unexpected leader that no one knew, but all revered. ... Midnight's martyr.
Of course, this new government now had the task of properly marking the occasion, in a dignified, public manner. For this first year, dedications, memorials, and ceremonies were the obvious answer, spread throughout London and scheduled for both the fourth and the fifth. -- -- Events honouring those who had lost their lives to Norsefire; those who had fallen in the violence of revolution; and those who still fell now, to insurgent and rebel attacks -- the old guard having been merely repackaged and relabeled as the new 'terrorists'. And at midnight, there would be a special celebration of fireworks to mark that moment's declaration of independence.
Then there was Evey ... who was just trying to decide how and where she fit into all of this.
As the official Director of the Cultural Preservation Department, it was her duty to be heavily involved in the planning. As the *un*-official 'princess of the revolution', she needed to be seen at as many of the events as possible. But as the woman in whose arms V had died, she only wanted to hide away and weep.
Every hour -- every time she looked at her watch -- she was thrown right back to where she'd been a year ago. -- -- The moment she'd crossed the threshold of the Shadow Gallery, prepared to face down the man who had both hurt her terribly, and saved her life in almost every way possible. Their first dance, when she'd finally admitted to herself just how deep her feelings had grown during their time of separation. ... ... Now evening had fallen, and soon there would be no escape from the worst of the memories. ... Trails of rose red blood. ... Panic. ... Last wishes.
... ...
At the back of a small, hastily built stage, on the site where London's Old Bailey was slowly being reconstructed, Evey Hammond closed her eyes and fought hard against the tears. By midnight they would overwhelm her -- -- she'd felt the torrent approaching all day. This was her last appearance for the evening. Thank God. And then she would return to her flat ... away from the grinning, Fawkesian masks ... and allow herself the breakdown that was already shaking raw every nerve inside her body.
This was the Memorial to the People, conceived by the new government not long after it had taken over the famous landmark's reconstruction. In an area where Sutler had once housed his most vicious barristers and corrupt judges, a large, open space room had recently been completed. And inside, mourners would create the first memorial 'by the people, for the people'.
