The night sky was cool, as though autumn had arrived early. The deep green canopy rustled, its colour barely visible. The stars were bright, with red and blue spots that looked like magic dust on pitch. Not a single speck of light was particularly luminous, not even the crescent moon, usually bold. She was only a white strand that night, far away and offering little to brighten the sky. The surrounding forest drowned out the distant noise, leaving life still and quiet. Without the crackle of fire and the light it provided, it was more difficult to see far, but their eyes had adapted to the dark, relying on whatever reflection they could find and the echoes of the slightest sounds, but they were at ease, believing that whoever they were guarding against would not come.
Sitting on a log which had splintered, an archer had lowered his head, wiping down a bow with a ragged cloth, as he had been doing so for the past half hour. He gave its silver body a shine that glowed brighter than the moon, but it was only out of boredom that he even cared to clean his bow. Otherwise, he would have done nothing but wait for dawn to come. Deprived of sleep, the boy did not utter a single word, which was odd even to himself. His hands continued to work, but his body slumped over every minute. Woken by the rustling of his clothes, he would tip into a state of sleep again. In cycles, this pattern would repeat, but unlike him, his comrade kept a watchful eye, somehow withstanding the hardship of being on sentry. The blonde-haired lancer, a rifle in his hand, remained prone, maintaining his form. He occasionally glanced back, noticing his comrade’s drooping eyes. Stepping back and forth between wake and sleep, there was going to be an instance when the archer would simply give in to his body’s demands and doze off.
It was strange to the lancer to think that a soldier whose rank exceeded his, whose experience far outmatched his, could not bear even a night on guard duty. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Károly, but…” Julien spoke to him, softly though not a whisper. “Why did you choose to fight?” Convinced that being a soldier was not his calling, he asked out of innocent curiosity.
Károly’s eyes widened, and he paused his hands over his bowstring when he turned to Julien, who remained focused on the shadows. Even so, he could see that his comrade never questioned his orders, despite believing it to be pointless duty. The archer understood what he meant and why he had asked him. Despite his background, Julien’s fortitude remained untarnished by an easy life, unlike his own, which wavered at the thought of patience.
With an awkward smile that quickly faded, the corporal ran his hand through his hair. “I dunno… I’d be lying if I said it weren’t for fame…” Károly admitted, adjusting himself in his seat for a more comfortable position. “I’ve heard stories of how Grandpa fought when he was my age, and I wanted to be like him…” He pushed his knees inward, which made his hands clamp tightly together and fidget as he spoke.
Julien looked over his shoulder, but when he did, Károly avoided his gaze, embarrassed from revealing his childish motives, which stirred the lancer’s curiosity even more. Restlessly, the archer bounced his leg and anxiously squeezed his hands as he tried to bring himself to lessen his panic and trust that Julien’s look was not that of someone who judged him but one who reassured him.
Károly lifted his head and decided to tell him, knowing Julien would never loosen his tongue in front of their comrades, even if forced to. “I admit, I was never the soldiering type.” He said with a light-hearted chuckle, his body slouching and his grip on his bow loosening. “I went on hunts, picked up a bow for fun, and shot a few arrows at the range. That’s all I ever did.” Knowing that Julien would understand him, he listed the little common things that blue-blooded boys do.
The bow eventually slipped from his hands, but he caught it before its new coat of polish could be soiled, and he set his prized companion against the log. Károly slumped down onto the ground, his back resting against the rough, unshaven bark, so Julien would not strain his neck whenever he turned around to face him. There was a feeling of nakedness without his bow in hand, and he unsheathed his hunting knife as a substitute, the blade ringing as it slid out of its sheath. The archer placed a finger on its tip and another on its pommel, holding the knife over his legs as he stared at the metalwork that was gifted to him on some birthday he had forgotten about. Its steel was almost pristine, untainted by the scent of what it was designed to shed. Its edges were unused, and the hilt was engraved with complicated words of a near-extinct language that no one expected Károly to understand.
Running his eyes along the length of the blade, he shook his head in remorse. “I didn’t think that it’d come to this.” The child in him could not comprehend the reality that he had signed himself up for, yet he had fought for far longer than any of his squad’s comrades. “But, I can’t bring myself to sit back and watch everything unfold from afar.” The orange-haired boy explained to Julien.
His familiar words struck Julien, who was too ashamed to admit that he understood him, knowing that alone, without the voice of another, he would have done less, perhaps worse, than Károly ever did. He would have hidden himself away in his house, hoping that the conflict’s end would come one day on the front page of the paper. Alas, his prayers did nothing, like most times, tricking him into believing that peace would happen if he simply burrowed his head in his pillows.
“Before I went on campaign, Grandpa told me that I have a little sister, but I don’t even know what she looks like.” Károly confessed his true drive, wiping the dirt from his blade. “Yet, when I fight, all I ever wish for is that she’s living her life without a single worry, far away from all of this.” He sheathed his knife and clung to his bow as he quietened.
The night approached the moment of twilight, and the skies turned a dark pastel cyan. A gradient of light expanded out of the horizon, and a chilling breeze flowed into the woodlands as the warmth of the early morning sun began to chase the cold away. Resting his face on the stock of his rifle, staring down its sight and blackened steel barrel, Julien watched the darkness fade as day slowly trickled into life. His night’s watch was soon at an end, and he sighed, reminded by a heavy feeling that burdened him. The lancer brought his hands away from his trigger and the forestock and stared at his palms, greased, wondering how it must be to fight for someone. He moved his mouth, but no words came, his mind steering into blankness.
“What ‘bout you?” Károly suddenly asked him in return. “Why do you fight?” The archer repeated his question, curious as to what spurred on his thoughts.
Julien had no answer as he peered through the canopy, searching for a reason, but the heavens were not yet awake to assist him. If only it could have been as simple as Károly’s had been. “I’m not sure… Maybe I was convinced that somehow, I could bring peace to this world.” He mumbled, his eyes drawing downward from the leaves of the tree to its trunk before him. “But I realise now that it was impossible from the beginning.” The lancer revealed his discovery, tightly squeezing his rifle, as his words left a bitter taste on his tongue.
He retrieved his rifle and rose from his prone position, sure that the enemy would not attack at first light. Dirt and leaves trickled from his chest as he brushed down his uniform and knelt, his rifle by his side. His limbs were slightly numb, but the static-like sensation faded when the warming yellowish glow of the sky yolk rose over the earth. It caressed his face before meeting Károly’s when they heard a twig snap behind them. When they turned around, they were relieved to see two allied soldiers marching quickly to replace their posts. Unless they had forgotten the concept of time, the youth were confused as to why rotation had come sooner than anticipated when another lancer their age appeared. However, with half-rested eyes and a morning gloom on his face, the boy appeared to have fared no better than his comrades that night.
With a rifle slung over his shoulder and a sword holstered on his belt, he placed his hand on his hip. “You two, it’s dawn.” Arminius greeted them, cold from his deliriousness, reminding them of the obvious order they had forgotten about.
Károly and Julien looked at each other, and it took them a while to remember what he referred to. Their replacements comfortably settled themselves and opened tin boxes of breakfast before scoffing down their meal in preparation for a nightmarish twelve-hour shift. Something was telling that they had experienced such torture before, not complaining nor appearing at the least bothered by their orders. The archer and the lancer rose, taking what little equipment they had, and leapt over the log. Hurrying, they followed Arminius’s steps, striding across the forest floor as he alternated between a jog and a brisk walk across the treacherously exposed roots hidden beneath the vegetation, their backs against the light. The clouds were stagnant and thin, permeated by the awakening sun that cast long shadows over them. Like knives, they pointed in one direction to where battle awaited and bloodshed showered.452Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdRhM26dip1
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