《A Tale of Two Soldiers》


 Prologue

    PROLOGUE


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    The Empire of Patria was on its last legs. Once the beacon of civilization and technological prowess, it now suffered the ravages of war and destruction as the rest of the world worked to dismantle their prey bit by city-sized bit. The empire and its people awoke to a bleak, new day, a shell of their former prideful selves, pushed back to their capital with the shattered remnants of their military in a desperate fight for a dying nation.


    Far away from the front lines, however, two soldiers hobbled their way over to a quaint little farmhouse atop a gently-sloped hill, an injured man resting an arm across the shoulders of a uniformed young woman, both wearing the telltale shades of grey so favoured by the Patrian Ground Forces. They were filthy, exhausted, with blank looks in their hazel eyes as they stopped before the rotting corpses of a small family a few metres away from their home.


    The frazzled black hair on their heads was enough to tell them that these people were Vardian, so they did not turn the bodies over to check for the blue irises so common to their enemies¡¯ people. Besides, decay had probably gotten to the poor family¡¯s eyes by now, and the two did not intend to expose themselves to horrible sights any more than they already had.


    ¡°We didn¡¯t do this, did we?¡± asked the woman, the insignia on her clothing marking her a junior officer in the ground forces. She grimaced at the sight of flies buzzing around the bodies, which she tried to swat away in futility.


    ¡°We¡­ we likely did, ma¡¯am,¡± replied the man ¡ª tall, worn, and unhealthy as only an experienced grunt would be. He had on his clothing nothing to betray his rank, wearing only a loose-fitting pair of trousers, a stained white undershirt, and a leather belt strapped around one leg like a tourniquet. His gaze refused to settle on the lifeless family, instead looking to the farmhouse beyond. ¡°We can bury them. Just¡­ just put me down at that porch there, I¡¯ll patch myself up.¡±


    The woman flashed him a weak and weathered smile before they resumed their ungainly march. He knew she would want to give these people an honourable burial, their Vardian heritage notwithstanding. That was reflective of the reason he made the irrational choice to try and protect her in the first place, and it was all he could do to enable her naive kindness even amidst the darkness of this gods-forsaken war.


    He clutched his rifle until his knuckles turned white as he thought back on all that he had lost in vain. He thought about the horrible decisions he had been forced to make, the terrible atrocities he had become a part of. His nation¡¯s crimes were many and inexcusable, with untold millions lost, ruined, and forever changed. The brotherhood that had once given him a sense of identity, a sense of purpose, was miles away in a siege that they could never break, one they could only lose. There was no hope to be had for his fatherland nor his comrades, but he found himself hoping for something, anything, anyway.


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    The woman, however, was a different case. As she set him down on the floor of the farmhouse¡¯s wooden porch, tending to him with every fibre of her attention she could muster, he could not find a trace of detachment in her eyes. There, he found nothing but her presence in the here and now, none of the meandering regrets that so pervasively plagued his own thoughts. It was puzzling, and he could not tell whether that meant that she was strong or that he was weak. He did not want to be weak, to lag behind his fellows in any sense of the phrase, for it went against everything he had ever known. Such was the dedication to unity and fellowship fostered amongst the Patrian people, and its excess became their undoing in a world of factional infighting.


    He shrugged to himself as he unfastened the makeshift tourniquet tightly bound to his upper knee, causing a trickle of blood to exit the piercing wounds in the muscle of his calf. It hurt, a lot, but his pride would never let it show as anything more than a pained grunt. He nodded to the woman, guiding her attention back to the corpses they¡¯d left behind before fastening new bandages onto his injuries. She gave him another weak smile before walking off to give the dead family their last rites.


    She buried their bodies as close as she could to their home, her face scrunching up every time she had to place their bloated corpses into the graves. They were stiff and cold where the rot had yet to run its course, soft and mushy where wounds and scrapes still festered. She tried to avoid looking too closely at their faces, never quite managing to become accustomed to the depressing visages of the dead. After fashioning simple gravestones out of large rocks and pebbles she could find nearby, she muttered a silent prayer wishing them peace in their next lives.


    The injured man watched on from the porch as he tightened the leather belt above his knee. The sun was rising now, bathing the fields in warm, orange light. He¡¯d grown used to hearing the voices of those who died beside him, their shrill cries still haunting his every thought. Faint sounds of gunfire would still echo from battles raging near and far. In this moment, though, there was none of that.


    There was only silence, and there was only her, praying over the bodies of a people she should have considered her enemy, in an expansive field of grain far, far away from home. The sun bathed the scene in the light of dawn, its warmth seeping through the cracks of even his cold, jaded heart. He watched on in horror at the depravity of everything he had ever done, as if a veil of resignation had been lifted from his eyes, giving way to a sickening acceptance of all that ever was. The world and everything in it just seemed so ugly in comparison.


    For the first time in his life, he let tears fall from his eyes without restraint.


    For the first time in his life, he would allow himself to be weak.

 1 - Not Their Home, Not Their Peace

    CHAPTER ONE - Not Their Home, Not Their Peace


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    As the pair entered the quiet home, they found the process to be quite the strange experience. Settling into the farmhouse would have been simple enough were it left barren and lifeless, but everywhere they looked, there was always some framed picture or abandoned personal effect that added to the sense of revulsion that came with their perceived trespass. The woman sat her companion down on the couch of a dusty living room, leaving him to tend his own injuries at his repeated request, before deciding to have a look around.


    It was a modest but cozy space, she mused. The space would¡¯ve been just right for the small family of three buried just outside, but to the two soldiers it seemed like luxury compared to their usual spartan accommodations. There were plenty of drawers, cabinets, rugs, and shelves ¡ª all filled with reminders of whatever memories were made here. She had to ignore them as she passed, of course, though it was still painfully obvious this place would never be truly theirs. Her companion thought that served them right, though she wasn¡¯t as inclined to shoulder the weight of her country¡¯s sins as he was.


    A visit to the kitchen revealed an empty pantry, pilfered free of all foodstuffs save for some dried meat, with freshly-rotten scraps and dirty utensils lazily strewn across stoves and countertops, betraying their recent use. The dried meat wasn¡¯t something her people were very fond of, either, and the small pouches of forgotten ammunition in their service rifles¡¯ calibre left little doubt as to the identities of this family¡¯s killers. She felt a pang of shame at this, but it wouldn¡¯t do her any good to dwell on it.


    The memory would be filed away in a seldom-used recess of her mind, and she would face everything ahead the way she always had ¡ª with her head held high and a smile on her face, her heart forever unchanging.


    The bedrooms weren¡¯t in much better condition, drawers tossed aside as their contents were left sprawled atop hastily-vacated beds. As always, there was the seemingly permanent layer of dust covering almost everything up, eliciting from her an inward groan as she imagined all the cleaning she would probably have to do to make the place livable.


    As she made her way into what she assumed was a child¡¯s room, she was greeted by the sight of a small yellow sundress on the floor, with thick hems of a lighter shade where the collarbones would be. Her mind flashed an image of the dead girl¡¯s corpse as she laid her to rest next to her parents ¡ª bloated, rigid, and putrid. Every second she saw the yellow dress her mind would show her that visage, and in her efforts to steer her thoughts away she would find herself lost in the memories of the family she had left behind.


    Memories of her older brothers, the eternally-bickering trio of hardened but reliable soldiers, most of whom were probably dead by now. Of her parents and the joyful pride in their eyes when she finally got that admission letter from the academy. Of her little sister, ten years old this year, and the radiant little ray of sunshine she always was.


    A tear escaped the corner of her eye as she forced a pained smile, biting down on her chapped lips as she closed the gates on the dam of her emotions just enough to keep them flowing in a steady, controlled stream. Though she was alone in the room, and she probably wouldn¡¯t lose face if she started sobbing on the spot, there was a sense of pride she felt she had to live up to after having come this far. ¡®It would do neither her nor her companion any good to break now,¡¯ it said, so she strained to keep herself composed.


    After all, what more harm could some sadness do that all this hadn¡¯t already done?


    She took some time to breathe, to return to her usual self as she turned to leave. She could hear a muffled radio switching between channels from the direction of the living room, patchy voices and the occasional burst of propagandised music fading into and out of garbled static. She tried to make out whatever was being said as she made her way over, grateful for the momentary distraction that the man¡¯s initiative provided.


    ¡°Sergeant,¡± she said, addressing the half-naked man across from her who was using a broom he¡¯d withdrawn from a cabinet as a makeshift crutch. He was fiddling with the dials on a small radio atop the brick, now-lit hearth, his focus narrowed sharply on the task he¡¯d given himself. This came as something of a pleasant surprise to the woman, seeing the man so eager to be up and about ¡ª she had honestly expected him to be out of commission, leaving her to do the chores alone for at least a few days.


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    He seemed not to notice her for a time, listening intently to whatever the dusty can picked up before turning to face her with a curt nod.


    ¡°Ma¡¯am.¡±


    She leaned a shoulder on the wall, looking him and his work over with a questioning gaze. The man gestured to his head with a raised eyebrow of his own, chiding her with an irritating grin.


    ¡°Your cap, ma¡¯am.¡±


    The woman returned his remark with an annoyed glare, setting her peaked cap down next to the radio whose dials the sergeant was still fiddling with, though the volume was a bit lower now. Her expression softened, a faint but genuine smile forming at the corners of her lips.


    ¡°Got anything?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Usual frequencies are fucked. They¡¯ve been repeating the same bullshit message for some time now,¡± said the man, his face returning to his usual frown as he returned to the radio¡¯s controls, turning the volume slider all the way up. ¡°Signal¡¯s real good, prolley the fucking Vardians broadcasting on captured equipment somewhere nearby.¡±


    The looping audio seemed crisp and clear, attenuated only by the crackling of the fire from under the radio. An announcer dubbed over the harsh, guttural sound of Vardian speech, his heavy accent bleeding into a half-baked rendition of the Patrian dialect.


    ¡°A temporary ceasefire was agreed upon today between our great Allied Coalition and the Patrian Empire, allowing for the recovery of dead and wounded on both sides as delegations are sent to negotiate on neutral ground. The dastardly Patrian imperialists thought they would win, but they find themselves on the backfoot as the armies of our coalition, led by the righteous fury of our Vardian peoples, pushed their armies all the way back to Civitas, their capital and the seat of their Premier.¡±


    That much they both already knew, but the ceasefire didn¡¯t bode very well for their fatherland¡¯s chances. It was the only choice left, though ¡ª and neither could fault their brothers-in-arms for making the choice to live another day.


    ¡°You¡¯ll allow me to go off-script for this particular ¡®dedication,¡¯ though ¡ª If the scraps of the Patrian military can hear this broadcast, let it be known that your days are numbered. We agreed to this ceasefire and the negotiations to follow out of respect for our fellow man, though we won¡¯t hesitate to spend the cost in lives necessary to see your complete and utter destruction to the end, if necessary.¡±


    Senseless Vardian drivel, the sergeant thought. Their petty taunts only proved how lax the standards for the enemy¡¯s psy-ops[1] equivalents were, causing the man to roll his eyes in exasperation. His companion¡¯s faint smile warped into a look of worry, staring holes into the metal can through squinted eyes.


    ¡°Your comrades¡¯ surrender is inevitable. They will all fall in line, serving due sentences for their crimes. Whichever of you are still out there will do so as well ¡ª and we WILL find you. The way I see it, there are only three outcomes: one, you surrender, we toss you into a concrete box, then throw away the key. Two, you resist and we capture you all the same. Three, you resist, and though you die a free Patrian ¡ª you die for fuck all.¡±


    The announcer paused to let his message sink in.


    ¡°We don¡¯t care which outcome you choose. Only that you are found and brought to justice for your sins against the world. Surrender or die.¡±


    The broadcast cut off abruptly with an audible click before looping again, leaving the two to stare at the radio in thought. Though the gruff old sergeant took the message with a heaping jarful of salt, there was still some truth to be found beneath the Vardian¡¯s babbling. Foremost of those truths was the fact that they were being hunted now, by an indeterminate number of Vardians fueled by barely-restrained hatred and contempt, well within the bounds of the enemy¡¯s territory.


    No other war had seen the kind of hatred the world now harboured for their fatherland¡¯s people, so it was hard to tell how much it would affect their punishment. It was a terrifying thought, knowing they both only had a few weeks at most before they were made subject to a fate they could only imagine was worse than death.


    Their days were numbered, though ¡ª that much they both knew for certain.