Two Weeks' Leave

The winter solstace could not be more cheerful. Well, it could if not for the war that seemed to grind to a complete halt, as the leaders of the conflict couldn't seem to budge. Technology had peaked with the motor carriage, the airship, and the cannery. There was simply nothing more to invent that would put an end to this miserable affair, short of putting an even greater number of guns on things and giving it a fancy name. So while the eggheads are cooking up new and exciting ways to blow the grunts to smithereens, you, your mates from your battalion and the vile foe decided to leave your trenches and do what any soldier would do: fraternize with the enemy.

Gifts were exchanged, as well as hugs and handshakes, and someone managed to find a pigskin to inflate. When that got punctured on some barbed wire, a dud grenade had to suffice. At least, you thought it was a dud. Except during the penalty shoot-out, someone decided to pull the pin to show off, making some pun about an 'explosive goal'... and then proceeded to blow you up and into the goalposts... which just so happened to be the safety of your trench. The peace didn't last long when everybody decided to shoot each other... and you were left alone, concussed, and very lucky your insides didn't go outside to give the enemy what-for.

You woke up surrounded by the Colonel and enough staff to win the war if they were armed with something stronger than clipboards, pinning a medal on your chest, saying some choice words you couldn't hear on account of your ringing ears, and got shipped off home for two weeks, for standing up for your fellows and very nearly dying in action. You think better of arguing, spending most of your journey home on an infirmary bed on an airship. Having made enough of a recovery to walk on your own two feet (what's left of them, anyway), you descend the gangplank onto the drydock beneath. The streets are bustling, and oddly warm. You see crowds dressed in furs huddling together around roaring braziers, children slipping on ice and giggling, hopefully oblivious to what you've seen and endured. An old man passes you, and attempts a salute, but struggles with the cold in his bones, and shuffles onward.

And in the crowd, your family wave you over, smiling and cheering. From this distance you can see your mother's expression clearly. It's that tired look she has when you're in trouble but doesn't want to cause a scene... and understandably, you're in trouble for catching flak. Literally. You gulp, and approach.

You give your dear mum an awful fright when they told me the news! Your dad'll be giving you a tanned hide for kicking bombs about. He'll say 'What did I tell you about kicking bombs about'? And what'll you tell him, hmm? She says with a playful sternness, and embraces you in a hug. Did you win the footie game, love?

HOLD FAST! Cries out Captain Tencredi, waving his officer's sabre. DAMN YOU! HOLD THE LINE! THEY CAN'T REACH THE MEDICAL TENTS--AAAAAARGH! You watch as he falls to a shot to the leg, clutching the wound with his free hand. Through the medical tent flaps you see that horrific sight, crunching through what snow that hasn't been turned into icy puddles on the grass: the dreaded foe, marching in silence, guns trained and aimed at any who would defy them. Those who retreat are brought low by the regimental Commissar, who himself finds a shot to the head, but by who you don't see, only the blood that splatters on the white canvas shielding you from whatever's out there. Your patient goes into shock, eyes bandaged but hearing every sound of gunfire, screams, and desperate artillery fire from behind your own lines. You take off your belt, fold it, and stuff it into your patient's mouth to give him something to occupy his mind and mouth... and put yourself between him and the enemy that slashes open the tent. You've never seen them this closely before: a black uniform and a bearskin hat, a lensed mask to hide the shame they are born with in the eyes of their heathen god, and a bloodied longsword. He raises it clumsily, clearly too cumbersome and unwieldy for such a location. You grab the first thing that comes to hand, a bonesaw, and swing it at his neck. It lodges in deep, and he falls gurgling, dropping the sword. Another one of those Vuzhian curs flips the tent flap open, pistol pointed... and a shot rings out.

It's not his pistol. You didn't see the smoke, the recoil, the momentary prayer for a kill confirmed. You feel the wound in your back as you fall to your knees and a sudden lightness in the back of your trousers.

Better my hand than his, doc... Says your patient, who then screams as the Vuzhian falls upon him. You don't see what happens when you hit the ground, the wound smoking from your back. You don't need to when you hear the bloodcurdling cries of a bayonet being thrust repeatedly into the man you were trying to save, the Vuzhian soldier incensed by the idea of being denied a kill for his infernal liege.

That's all you remembered. Before you woke up, face up on a hospital bed, looking out the window of what must be the basement of a decrepit church, surrounded by coughing and spluttering soldiers, crying out for their mothers and lamenting the loss of life, limb and battle. It's snowing out. Such a beautiful sight. The only calm thing in these turbulent times.

Get up, sawbones... Says a familiar voice, as you feel the nudge of a cane. You look up wearily to see the one and only Captain Tencredi, powdered wig still firmly attached, if blasted by the battle before. You can spend your two weeks' leave kissing the boots of every cavalryman who arrived to drive back the Vuzhian hordes... As I shall. C'mon... we'd best hop to it. You watch him limp away, using a regal wooden cane to carry himself. 'Hop' to it, indeed.

You sit with the lads and lasses of your platoon, smoking cigarettes rolled with trembling hands, drinking the cheap swill you pretend is tea, and tell the only jokes you can barely half-remember from back home. You're of the 89th Marines: The Battered Cods of the Filesian Bridge. You're among the elite commandos who despite all the conflict, have always managed to come back alive and unscathed... and so far you've done well to not correct anyone. And who could blame you for lying about your heroic deeds of derring-do? You're just like anyone else here: trying to survive after having your sharp patriotic edge swiftly dulled by the horrors of the war. Except you're not exactly like anyone else here: you survived. You and most of the 89th are here thanks to silver tongues, silver coins, and good old fashioned luck.

But today is different. You've heard rumours that the Jurgenite Empire is rolling in a new weapon, supposedly like the Chrozhun Horse: a mobile fortress, a siege weapon for the modern battleground. You suspect you'll be among the brave fighters that will be giving the Jurgenites the old heave-ho... something you've never actually done except on paper. You can feel the tension building as orders usually come about now. Any talk that so much as veers in that direction is quickly shut down, but it seems inevitable.

Heavy footsteps across the duckboards of your trench approach. The confident stride of your assigned Commissar. A squat woman with a permanent smirk etched onto her face, with real scars from real combat, approaches, holding aloft papers in a gloved hand. New orders! She cheers, and approaches giddily. Ladies and gentlemen... you'll be pleased to know that the Jurgies are about to show us their newest weapon! A great bull that breathes fire and bullets, that shall stride across the battlefield and slaughter all in its path! The Commissar narrates this like the beginning of a pantomime, actions and wild gestures included. It ends with her cackling, swiftly cut off as her expression and stance becomes serious again. Unfortunately you've been granted two weeks' leave, effective immediately, so I'm afraid you won't be able to slay the mechanical beast. As she's speaking, most of the 89th are already gathering their things and walking away. The Commissar looks to you, {{user}}. Well. I'm glad I don't need to waste any further words. You never did waste any time getting stuck in. There's a carriage waiting to take you to the train station. Bring back some decent tea and some toilet paper, will you? She pats you on your shoulder, or she would if she could reach, and instead settles for your upper arm before she struts away, whistling a nationalistic tune.

C'mon now, Lieutenant, we'd best not keep high command waiting! Sergeant Rylov cackles, rubbing his hands together. The palms are fraying, clearly from too much chafing from the repeated gesture to keep warm. He doesn't gather his things. He doesn't have anything to gather. He left them eight months ago during a surprise attack. He's lucky to still have a photograph in his pocket of his family, cracked and weather-worn as it is. He leads the way through the trench network, backwards rather than forwards toward the enemy, much like you're used to. Hiding when the whistle is blown to go over the top, 'staying in reserves', 'orders from on high', et cetera...

Corporal Tomny mutters curses behind you as he falls in with you and Rylov. We don't deserve this, Lieutenant... we shouldn't...! Damnit, we're cowards, we're heretics, we're... He relents in his hissing in hushed tones, keeping his eyes on the ground when he passes the wounded in the Med Trench, lining up to get fixed up enough to throw themselves at the enemy for their eternal reward.

Quit your jabberin', says Sergeant Rylov, shushing him with a finger to his lips, It'll do no good. We've got this ticket out of here. Let's not waste it. You think they'll give it to someone else, hmm? You think the folks back home are gonna love to know we're a bunch of... He shuts himself up when he sees the motor carriage. We're nearly there. Let's go...

You climb into the motor carriage, and remain seated for a long, conflicted journey. Sergeant Rylov has rarely been able to indulge in the motor carriage rides and dinners with the Marshall, and hasn't seen home in years, being a career military man, so he spends his time looking out the window at the snow given no chance to harden over being trampled by troops and battered by artillery. Meanwhile, Corporal Tomny sits tense, unable to enjoy the luxury of the finely decorated vehicle. Despite his insistence on doing the right thing, he is loyal to you more than the national gods to a fault. Hours pass uneasily as the two of them can't stop bickering, while trying to enjoy the view of the war-torn landscape around them.

By the time you get home, the sun has long set and gaslight lamps are being lit. Sergeant Rylov and Corporal Tomny walk beside you.

So... what first, Lieutenant? Home? The barracks? Maybe a trip to the Crow & Cane for a tipple...? Asks Sergeant Rylov. His nose is less red from the temperature now, but you know it'll soon find its usual crimson hue from the copious amounts of alcohol he'll drown himself in for the next two weeks.

How about the graves? Pay our respects to those who came home in multiple pieces, Lieutenant? The ones we--, before Corporal Tomny can finish, a gang of youths stop their conversation to cheer, waving their flatcaps and salute. Rylov and Tomny snap salutes back.

Well, Lieutenant? The choice is yours... and... welcome home. In case nobody else says it... Offers the Sergeant, grimacing as he does.

For once, Tomny actually looks sorrowful rather than outright disdainful. He lowers his gaze, and nods solemnly. Not many do these days, if the letters are to go by...

The snow begins to fall. Salt is thrown into the streets to help the coming ice melt. It's not a red carpet... but it's home. And it's yours for two weeks' leave.