Chapter Text
Green and blueish-grey uniforms, papers in folders and the air, the ever-shifting spots of cold and warmth that accompany a many-bodied location experiencing early winter.
This is normal, all things considered. Is that a good thing?
The normal hustle and bustle around and inside Strategic HQ can easily overwhelm anyone not familiar with it. It’s easy to get lost in it all.
Unfortunately, you’re in a bit of an in-between spot on that end. Two weeks in Berun, two weeks being run ragged between departments trying to manage at least a partially cohesive timeline of the war effort through countless status reports, supply requests, geographical data, and more.
Two weeks as an aide to the General Staff, or more specifically, to General Hans von Zettour. New enough still to be slightly overwhelmed, yet experienced enough that you really should be past that already. In a normal work environment, perhaps this would be a reasonable expectation to have.
But then again, the Empire is at war. Extremely at war. And your current place of work isn’t exactly removed from the conflict.
Notice the “the” in "the conflict". There’s no lack of conflict here. Just a lack of guns and artillery and spells.
Oh, certainly, you’re not fighting on the frontlines or anything. But anyone who says the war only exists between soldiers is wrong. There’s plenty of horrible, irritating shit to go around back home.
Certainly, however, it’s deadlier to be out in the mud and blood, among the grit and crust of the Rhine or Norden, and knowing this, you wouldn’t give up this job for anything. Sleepless nights are a lot easier to manage in an office next to a coffee shop, rather than a tent next to an artillery line.
At times, you curse and bless your impromptu transfer to the capital in back-to-back breaths. It’s not like you’d chosen to be here, but being here is better than being elsewhere. Generally.
Usually.
Managing the logistics of this nightmare is a war in its own right. And really, between you and the Empire, neither are exactly winning. More like, maintaining some form of status quo.
When was the last time you heard someone claim that “the war will be over by Christmas”?
Back to the point.
As the capital of the Empire, Berun sits as the hub of the current war effort, and Strategic HQ as the hub within the hub. And as such, the hustle and bustle of countless staff officers, aides, and reporting soldiers rushing in and out of the building and the various buildings connected and around it would give those with even the strongest wills pause.
You don’t really have a choice, though, and you don’t have the strongest will. About the willpower of a normal person, honestly. There’s no need for delusions, after all. You’re you.
Simple, no?
But, even without the strongest will like the hero in some myth, you do need money and stability. And honestly, people would kill for less than that.
Hm, no. That sounds a bit improper.
Your superiors wouldn’t exactly be pleased to hear of motivations beyond “standing in service to the Fatherland”. The fact that most of them have guaranteed pensions and retirement homes lined up is totally not a hypocrisy, you’re sure.
But you’re just a simple staff officer, acting as an aide to the General Staff aka General Zettour, so what does your opinion mean anyway?
As is typical for normal people, you are but a cog in the wheel of a great machine known as the Empire. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Not at all.
-=-
Before you know it, it’s officially been a month since your transfer. Or rather, since you were transferred over with very little notice or reason.
But there’s no time to be bitter, nor is there much of a reason for bitterness anyway. Your pay is better now, and admittedly, Berun is probably safer than the southern coastline.
Honestly, you barely even realize that a month has passed.
There’s no fanfare. The only reason you know is because there’s a calendar resting over the little desk at your bedside. And to be honest, a one-month anniversary is hardly relevant for a job. It’s barely relevant for anything other than a romantic relationship, or a period of time spent sober.
Beyond that, it’s just proof that you’ve outlasted most of the others brought in at the same time as you.
…which, naturally, means your workload has effectively doubled. Joy.
Again, at least the pay increase is nice. Just nice.
“Shit!”
The papercuts? Not so much. You wince, spare a half second to glare at the offending document, and move on with your day.
Your day, today, is a blur of the same hallways, the same papers. You rush from one desk to the next, from one building to those nearby housing other departments, delivering documents to equally stressed officers of higher ranks.
They don’t thank you, and honestly, that’s fair. You’re delivering paperwork, after all. They’d probably hate your guts if you didn’t look just as harried as they do.
Dark curves just under your eyes are permanent fixtures at this point. There are small bandages wrapped around half your fingers. One of your fingers – on your dominant hand, unfortunately – is actually bruised around the base, having been dislocated and popped back into place in short order.
Honestly, picking up the scattered stack of documents after that particular tumble down the stairs had been far worse than the injury itself. And hey, the freezing wind provides some relief to the aching, at least. It’d be a greater relief to have healed already, but you’re not that lucky.
Oh, what you wouldn’t give to have mana, just to avoid those sorts of situations. To have tripped and caught yourself with a bit of hovering, or otherwise to heal from the injury much faster than ordinary folk.
Awfully convenient, that. Having mana, access to…
…
…well, it’d be nice to fly, at least.
You’ve always been interested in the sky, and in what’s above the sky. And, if we’re being realistic, being an aerial mage is likely the closest anyone will ever get to really reaching for the literal Heavens. After all, they can be there themselves, by themselves. Airplanes just don’t compare.
Can you imagine it? You should.
Soaring through the air under your own power, reaching out with your fingertips to brush against the clouds. The frozen, breathless air, raw against flesh and blood that was never made to leave the Earth but chooses to do so anyway. Liquid sky scalding your fingertips cold.
And, the endless expanse of the horizon all around. Everything you know, your life your struggles, your worries, all appearing so very, very small. Escaping it all, if for a short time, if you really wanted to.
Then, at night, seeing those twinkling stars up close, almost as if you reach up, just stretch your hand out, and touch them. As if you could cup your hands around them, reach for the stars and pretend it doesn’t burn.
It’d be nice to fly.
It’s nice to dream, even if pretending to fulfill those dreams is nothing more than delusion.
The frozen, breathless air nips at the exposed skin between your gloves and your coat sleeves. You shiver, tucking your gloved hands further into your pockets. The morning chill of early winter snatches warmth from the back of your neck, too, and you huff, a small puff of fog drifting from your mouth.
Suddenly, you’re back on solid ground, and the world is loud around you. The folder under your arm is thick, and a corner of it digs into your side. You readjust your hold without taking your hands out of your coat pockets.
Time to wake up. You can’t fly.
Soaring through the air is a mere dream, or again, a delusion. You’re not meant for it, even if it’s what you may have been made for.
Not every bird can fly, you know well enough.
You know, though… at least in the sky, you could be cold and enjoy it.
Down here, it’s just cold and cold. Miserable, since instead you’re stuck in and around Strategic HQ filling out and delivering paperwork and reports. Oh well.
Time to move on. It’s getting worse outside now, and you doubt the General will appreciate tardiness on important documents. You doubt he’ll appreciate the documents, either, but it’s the lesser of two evils.
Around the corner of the street, up the stairs, then around the building. Looming stonework and glass and, despite yourself, it’s a nice sight. Aesthetically pleasing, at least, and a sign that you’ll soon be out of the cold.
For a little while, as soon as- ah, there. You found it.
A rush of warmth and relative quiet greets you as you open a side door and step back inside Strategic HQ itself.
As much as you’d like to stand there for a minute or ten and enjoy it – maybe catch your breath a bit too – the Imperial Army waits for no one. You’re off without pause, trudging with dignity down this side hallway which leads into a much larger one perpendicular to it.
Here is where the noise picks up once again. You quickly wipe all thoughts of magic and flying from your expression, easing into the cool efficiency-focused mask that’s kept you in this job for this long.
Down the hallway, past other officers, you go. A fellow officer, who’d been relocated at the same time as you, walks in the opposite direction. You nod at them, and they briefly spare a nod back, looking awfully exhausted and somewhat sloppy despite the early hour.
Or perhaps it’s because of the early hour. Regardless, you don’t expect to see them next week. They look dead in the water, and getting dragged down in their wake is far from ideal.
It isn’t really your business what happens to them. You’re not friends. So, you say nothing. Everyone needs to look out for themselves at this point; the war demands nothing other than one’s best at all times. Even if you have to fake it until it hurts.
It could be worse.
It could always be worse.
Conversation draws your eye. Two figures walking your way, the latter more familiar than the other. Though you’ve not had the quote unquote “pleasure” of speaking with either of them just yet.
A relatively tall man, with blue hair and a haircut that screams of “my stylist hates me, and I don’t even realize it”. And a blonde girl, who honestly looks too young to be here, and whose image as such is exactly contrary to her actual identity.
Also known as, Brigadier General… um.
Lergen…? No, wait… Raregen?
And of course, the White Silver, Argent, Colonel Tanya von Degurechaff. Because everyone and their mother who is even tangentially connected to the General Staff has seen the photos from that one propaganda photoshoot.
It’s obvious, even to someone that’s never met her, that she seems remarkably more comfortable in a military uniform than in a dress. Something that should probably worry someone, given that she is like, 12. But hey, she shoots people better than everyone else, so who cares, right?
…
Anyways.
You see, when you think “It could be worse”, the White Silver is one such reason. Not because of her, but because imagine being her. Something like 12 years old and constantly in the most death-defying, mud-and-blood stirring scenarios imaginable. Uh, no thanks.
As much as you’d like mana and flying, the accompanying stunts and extremely high death toll that awaits do not really make the whole thing worth it.
Probably. In the Empire, at least.
Which is a thought you will definitely keep to yourself, for obvious reasons.
In any case, you keep quiet and do your best to appear confident as you walk closer and closer to the duo. Try to appear casual, and important but not too important, because that’s one way to survive a job like this. Be needed, but not too needed.
Except, as you approach and prepare yourself to keep your gaze firmly forward as you walk past, the White Silver actually deigns to glance at you, and further, she halts her conversation with the General.
“Ah, Lieutenant-” And then she says your name, and you pause for two reasons. One, because when someone as decorated as this particular Colonel wants to speak with you, you stop and listen, and two, because you’re surprised. “It’s good you’re here now. A moment, if you would.”
She knows your name? Why does she know your name?
Why does she want to speak with you?
You blink, then turn to face her, standing at attention.
“Ma’am.” You say. Then, to the General. “Sir.”
He looks a bit sickly, up close. And tired, in an odd way such that it cloaks his shoulders.
Given it’s your first time actually seeing him up close, him being out of the city for most of your time here and your paths never really coinciding once he’d returned, you finally understand why some of your fellow officers mentioned wanting to “bundle him up and feed him hot soup to show that someone cares for him”, if only because a healthy man of his stature certainly should not carry the energy of a waifish street child fresh off a lecture from the local nunnery’s head matron.
The nod he gives you in response is a bit dismissive, honestly. You try not to feel insulted, and mostly succeed. Mostly.
After all, it’s not like he’s really any different from you, besides a higher rank. You’d think he’d have a bit more sympathy in his eyes for a fellow “bring these documents here and go do this and that and oh it’s for the sake of the war effort of course” comrade under General Zettour’s general umbrella of authority.
And wow, did you just make yourself irritated with him despite explicitly trying to not do that? For shame.
Your attention shifts smoothly back and down to the Colonel, as if your thoughts hadn’t gotten sidetracked at all. The glint of… something, perhaps amusement, in her eyes tells you she’s not fooled, but she doesn’t say anything about it.
Instead, she says, “General Zettour is out, at the moment, and will be for an indeterminable amount of time.”
She tilts her head ever so slightly, and you hold back your surprise as the oddly shaped strand of hair sticking up from the top of her head sways in an unnatural manner. Almost like it had a mind of its own.
What the fuck? For the sake of your own sanity, you elect to completely ignore that and pretend it never happened.
“We will be handling the General’s duties in his absence,” The White Silver continues, “And as such, you are to report to Brigadier General von Rerugen, or if he is otherwise occupied, myself. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”
…huh?
“Crystal, ma’am.”
You salute, and, glancing again at the Brigadier General, noting his somewhat displeased look, and recalling the harried look of your fellow officer and aide from a few moments ago, wonder if this is the beginning of your last few days working at Strategic HQ.
It was a good run, all things considered.