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Chapter Text

July 23, 1805 - Hevingham

It was the time of the month of which the derelicts reap their rewards of wheats and barleys. The farmers gathered outside to the sun shining tremendously upon the golden fields of which they shall garner their harvest. Barry, a fair young lad of just octo-decennial, went with his father to reap their bountiful harvest. It has always been like this for a year or two that he helped his father tend to the farm they own, or at least that is what he believed. Besides, he is only the sole child of his father and his mother whose death was by the birth of his supposed sister, who died as well on her own birth. Tending by the farm and harvesting the fruits of the labour is an excruciating pain to him for just being a child. But with two years of tending was no pain to him now that resistance was made against that pain, therewithal he had no choice between life and starvation. 

“Barry, come here lad. Need yer work on the southern field.” His father, Josiah spoke.

“Aye, Pa, what needs to be doin’”

“Start with the eastern wedges, check for the ripen one and start harvestin for them. Work yer way until naught is left”

“Right Pa, I’ll fetch the sickle for harvestin’ quickly. Need more help pa?”

“Ye know what’s after harvestin, right?”

“Yes Pa. Tie them to knots and dry them in fields.”

“Then naught ‘twas, just that be for to-day.”

“Aye, will do that.”

So he went. He marauded through the wavy fields of shining gold to his job. The farm glazed through the wide plateau with the winds charging them with the glory of a thousand whispers. He slashed, cut, and tied the wheat into bundles, laying them in the field where he stood to dry. Slash, cut, tie, sole was the sound it rang for hours until the sun ablaze the piercing light that tells the farmers of noon. 

Barry and his father went into their shacks, abandoning their tasks momentarily for a solitude in the house and to feast on breads and potatoes that they could make. It was a mere lunch that only they can eat for they are only farmers, plebeians of the English. 

The house was silent, the father and son were focused on eating. The gusts of wind tittered more noise in the house than themselves. Even their chewing cannot be heard by the unrelenting wind bringing news from the north.

“Sunny day isn’t it, lad?” Josiah broke the silence.

“It is, Pa.” Barry replied, while still chewing on the bread.

“It’ll be like that for days.” he chuckled. Barry ate in silence, unknown what to react.

Josiah has then finished his food. He was not certain of what to say now with this awkward silence. It was always like this. A lunch filled with silence, only the whispers of the winds can be heard in the room.

“I’ve ‘eard of the news in the market ‘bout the war. Year ago they say. Maybe ‘round December? Napoleon has been king of France?! Irony isn’t it? They r’volt and killed the king jus’ to have a king again. Funny thing isn’t it?” 

Barry was silent again. He is not knowledgeable about the matters of politics. He cares more about whatever is current of him, not not of him. In defence, he was a son of a farmer, making ends to just live as much as he could.

“Yes Pa, indeed.” his only reply.

Afternoon went by, the warm cast glow now reduced to a mere shine, Barry was able to work more efficiently. His father has asked him to reap some of the other wedges of crops if he could, although he knew he cannot finish one plain in one day, but he took consideration of others as well to hasten their work together to sell it at the market. Slash, cut, tie was once again the sole cacophony as he continued his work. Slash, cut, tie, slash, cut, tie, slash, cut-

Barry yelped as a struck of sickle hit his arm, the cut slowly materialising in his skin. He watched it slowly bleed the crimson red blood from his arm. The cut was merely shallow, but enough to bleed off blood. His father heard the sudden jolt of noise, hearing it from his own son made him rush to him. He saw his son just standing, staring at his injured arm. As soon as he noticed his bleeding arm, he went to get some clothes from his shack. 

While his father hurried to get some clothes, Barry was just standing, caring not much about his wound. This is his first time to get injured from it, yet he acts like this is a norm to him. Unfazed he was until his father came back to cover the wound. This then he realised the pain of the wound. As his father covered the injury, he grunted loudly, shouting silently under his hot breath. It took some excruciating minutes to cover the wound that the clothes felt like a thorned fabric covering his arm. At least it was momentary for after that, his father had told him to go rest at the house. 

“Yes Pa, but trust me right, I can do this still.”

“No, ye must rest yourself. These wounds would bleed if ye still tended.”

“But Pa-!”

“Barry, my son. Have ye heard of self? This wound will heal not if you continue.”

Barry was silent for a moment, before reluctantly agreeing. “Alright Pa. I shall rest now.”

He went in for an embrace before proceeding to his home, where a porridge was set on the table. For a moment, he thought of it as a naught but forgotten dish, until his father shouted back from the field that it was meant for him. Josiah had prepared it before lunch, supposed for dinner, but then settled a bowl while fetching for a cloth earlier for Barry to relish on. Barry took the bowl and ate it like a rabid animal deprived of nourishment. He ate all of it, so as to not leave anything but barely a drop of liquid. He was hungry before, always has been, rarely was his stomach so full, so relishing this food was one rare time of his enjoyment for a full stomach. As he finished, the strike of tiredness took him immediately, his eyes barely making out the clarity of view. To the bed he went, sleeping as the sun rays hit the horizon plain to leave the farm in the cold night.

Chapter Text

August 2, 1805 / Thermidor 14, Year XIII - Montrouge

It is no time for a septen-decennial Jacob to be a lazy poltroon to sulk over the fresh morning rites of dawn mist. He needs to help his family sell the variety of food they set up near their house, as to support their household. Their house is near Paris, so their store would be busy today. Half asleep he stood and took some quick drink of milk before heading to their store. 

Coming into the store, he greeted his mother who was already there, placing pastries over the display. She is always the one baking the bread, while he does the bidding of selling and managing the customers, the clerk as they say. Their business was just newly opened, a year ago actually, but it doesn’t mean that they have not suffered through some difficult times. Even a year ago, Year XII (1804) was a hardship for establishing a business for them due to the economic current of the country. Wars and battles plagued around the continent, but knowing that they reside near Paris, they believe they are devoid of any soon incursion and discord near them. 

It was only his mother and Jacob that was managing the store, his father was conscripted to La Grande Armée last Ventose (sixth month of the French Republican Calendar, approx. 19 February to March 20) and hasn’t come back since. He really isn’t expecting his father to come back anytime soon, but he had wished he would make it out alive and come back at least. That’s the barest he could desire.

“Salut!” a random greeting permeated the rather silent vicinity by the bakery. The first customer it is!

“Salut mademoiselle!” Jacob replied as the lady went into the counter.

“I assume you have Fougasse?”

“We sell a lot of different bread here mademoiselle, I assure you that there will always be one!”

“Well then, I want one of them!”

He grabbed one of such and packed it in a piece of paper, gave it to the lady, and off she went. This was just the morning dawn of that day, and he expects more as the day proceeds on.

The impasse of the redundant work had him bored out of his occupation. Gladly was there some break momentarily in which he could refreshen himself. It was the sizzling noon of which barely anyone would purchase anything. His mother has already finished hours ago baking batches, and she told him that he can have some free time outside now, as she will tend now this time to the bakery.

Noon was the time he is always free of the burden of his job at their store. It’s the time he can move around and watch the windmills round his community nearby. The wind grazed his body bringing comfort to him as he walked through the road, plains covered in mills. But one mill piqued his interest greatly where he often hung around. It was not far from his house, but far enough to mute the sound of the bakery reminding him of the wreck of a job it is. Lamenting was not his ideal, but rest and entertainment was. He would watch people by the nearby road pass, the birds chirping as they glided through the clear skies, and the flowers dancing along with the winds. It is the bare nakedness of nature that entertains him. He would oftentimes walk as far as he can and see more of the outside world while also assuring that he won’t be lost in the meadow of the vast plain. He would discover houses, windmills, and trees that he marks sometimes with a sharp rock he could find nearby. This time, he found a mulberry tree. Thin trunk, but enough to make a mark. He took the sharpest stone he could find, and marked it with his initial ‘J’. 

As he sat by the tree he just marked, he watched the sky, especially the sun, and studied the shadow to know if it’s time to come back. He should be back always by afternoon as his mother would be baking another new batch of pastries and bread. Seeing the sun still at its zenith, he rests below the shade of the tree, closing his eyes and taking a nap. He would have a reverie of the plain landscape that paints his home, reminiscing of a clearen day of peace and tranquillity.

 When he awoke some minutes after, he decided to marched back to their store, so as to be late just in case. While marauding the cobbled road, he encountered people that piqued interest in him. In a variety of clothing, both workers and even farmers. But one man he noticed that looked merely the same age as him piqued him with the greatest interest. A fair muscular man with some ashes splattered across his clothing. He would assume he is a factory worker. Odd it is for him due to his belief that only the older men can do that, but then this was France, the era of great turmoil, so he would not be surprised by it if every businesses and factory maximise the manpower they can obtain. Grateful he is that he works in a patisserie that he does not need to do such heavy workloads.

As he reached their store, there were barely no customers yet, but her mother, who was just reading a book, was already greeting him.

“Son! You got to tend this time now. I need to bake some few more before we close at dawn.” Josephine, his mother said as he entered the store.

“Alright Ma, I ought to be the one now here. So… if you may excuse me here now?” 

“Oh worry not son, I’ll go now.” His mother replied as she moved back into the kitchen. Jacob took the seat by the counter and read the book his mother was just reading. Zadig by François-Marie Arouet. He has heard of this author, there was a huge procession of his burial, the second burial that is, attended by millions in Paris, where now he rests on Panthéon. Lost in the words of the work when a customer greeted him. He looked up to realise it was the boy earlier that he saw, still with the ashen clothes.

“Salut! Do you have any bread that would suffice for me?” he inquired.

“Oh yes, how about this… one?” Jacob pointed at the bread with a long and thin shape. He didn’t know the name of that specific bread, but he just hoped that the boy in front of him would realise it.

“Ah yes, please do that! How much?”

“Nine sous-”

“Oh… nevermind…” the boy paused.

“Wait, hold on. Why won’t you?”

“I… really cannot afford that much on bread. It costs a fortune. Besides, I only want just for mine, I don’t want to burden my family by just spending all my stipend on some… stupid small bread.”

Jacob was rather sympathetic but unmoved, uncertain of what to say. His family is an ordinary citizen, but not really poor. He never experienced the hardship of being a peasant.

“Hey wait!” Jacob shouted as the boy was walking away. Looking back, he stared at him for a moment.

“What is it?”

“I could give it to you for a cheaper one! Three sous? Two?”

“Two?”

“Yes! Two!”

“Well… I really cannot ignore this blessing right now so I would accept that.”

Jacob smiled at him as he walked back to their store. He gave him the bread and the boy thanked him profusely.

“I really cannot express this great gratitude that I’m owing to you. I’m really, really, thankful to you!”

“Pleasure, monsieur…” Jacob now piqued his interest in him, curious more about him with such gaiety and gratitude he was giving to him. “What is your name?” 

“Pierre monseigneur.”

“Oh don’t call me that, just a monsieur would be enough. I am just as equal as you, alright?”

“Okay, monsieur.”

“Okay Pierre, have a blessed day, and be safe.” 

“I will, and thank you.” Pierre smiled and nodded at him, before running back home. It feels gratifying to Jacob on how much he helped that person, although he is now concerned with the dust that settled in his hand due to that excessive gratitude that boy did to him. He hadn't even cleaned his hands yet, so he went to clean it momentarily before coming back to the counter.

As time passed by, the sundown already striked their store with a golden hue, signifying the closure. His mother had asked him to close the store, and as he did, watched the sun in horizon make its final wish of shine before fully enveloping itself of the darkened horizon. He went to their house to proceed with his dinner, and took the final rest for tomorrow, ready again for his work.

As he slept, his thoughts lingered around that man. His physique, his attitude, it interests him. It made him think for some time. As if he wants to meet him and know more about him. Maybe be friends with him, or be a comrade to him. Something about that boy just made him lean to him. He doesn’t know, he doesn't know yet, but he just disregards it, besides, it’ll be the last time they’ll ever meet, or at least that’s what he believes.

Chapter Text

August 5, 1805 - Hevingham

The matins sounded clearly with the rays of golden hue of rising sun as the clatter of wheels in the cobblestone road rattled around. Barry, along with his father Josiah transported their produce to the market for selling. It was an estimate of an hour-long journey with a horse carrying the produce in a wagon while they walk with it. They never had a horse, this is just of their fellow’s horse they lent to them. William was his name. Their closest friend and lad who lent them the horse. He wasn't exactly rich, but also not as poor as them. Came from a family of opulence, but he desired a peaceful retreat to farmland to live in simplicity. Came in Hevingham from London in 1798, met the other farmers including Josiah, and became close friends with him. He knew of Barry, and was actually a close companion of him even before he decided to help his father. He’s a fair laidback lad, nice to everyone. He owns three horses for the purposes of transport, but never has he even rode them. That’s why he has allowed his fellowship to borrow the horses for bringing their produce to the market centre.

In the town square were the prominent, and busiest of all parts of Hevingham. This is where trade and commerce mainly happens. Farmers within and neighbouring towns sell their produce, while the more generous one purchases. Usually farmers sell their harvest as raw or processed into other products, often into flours. Barry and Josiah were no different, but sometimes they offer more products, such as breads and packets of cereals, if they can. This often leads to more stipend so they have considered doing this for everytime they have to sell their produce for a long while, but cannot sustain it oftentimes due to scarcity of resources needed.

They set up a makeshift stall for their products to display and sell, with both of them usually guarding and being the retailer. The flow of customers is stable, not too much, not too less, besides, it was a regular sunny day of no miscreant weather. Fair only that people’s cacophony irritated Barry sometimes but paid no mind, as long as he gets some pennies from selling.

“How much for bread?” a lady customer, seeming around the same age as Barry, inquired. Barry had a faint jolt and surprise from his place as he was in a reverie for a moment, hindering the sound of the people. He also noticed his father was nowhere to be seen, so he best assumed he was supposed to be guarding their stall.

“Pard’n, what is it again?”

“How much for the bread?” 

“Oh uh… a penny and a farthing.”

“Great, well I’ll take two.” as she grabbed it and gave Barry two coins. It was two pennies that she gave, less than the true amount of product. He was about to inquire the lady of the still needed farthings, just to see the lady nowhere, gone like a gust of wind. He was mildly taken aback by the sudden disappearance of her. He darted his gaze around his vicinity, attempting to spot and make out any possible places she could have gone, but then his attention was averted by the loss of profits. A halfpenny-less would put a dent, or at least he believes, to their farm. And now he’s trying to think of what to do to gain the loss of profit.

“Son!” shouts his father, “have ye made any sales?”

“Sure pa, only…” he cuts off, looking at the amount of pence he got, lacking the true amount. “...one.”

“Lot better than no sales, no?” 

“Yes…” he whispers, looking down somewhat in shame, although Josiah never seems to notice it. “Where’d ye go?”

“Nearby store, ought to ‘ave some fabrics too, ye know?”

“Oh, right.”

Josiah has never bothered the matters regarding the money, yet at least. The day continued as normally, often customers purchasing and farmers selling. Despite the mischievous act earlier and the miscreant not showing after, the sale went on, as if he had forgotten about the loss.

August 6, 1805 - Hevingham

Yet another day in the market, a busy day of selling, trade, and commerce. Barry was obviously much more cautious now, but today his father is with him to jointly sell their produce. This adds better assurance that no miscreant will be encountered once again.

“‘Ave ye ‘eard of what Napoleon is up to? ‘Eard he’s king of Italia now. He really ought to be total emperor, no?” Josiah told Barry as they stood behind their stall, waiting for customers.

Barry turned to his father, confused. 

“I’ve ‘eard it was on May. News from London ‘ave told that he made himself king of Italia. Odd ‘cause Italia is not a thing, but I’ve ‘eard he made a new one. He’s out there making new country.”

“I care not ‘bout that pa.”

“Oh you ought to be! As farmers, we ought to know what’s happenin’ outside so we can use that for advantage.”

“How so?”

“So we can take advantage of it! Remember when I told ye ‘bout the war with France like five or six years ago? You ought to know how much pence we got in those days! Hearken me boy, ‘twas glorious days!”

“Then how come we still are peasantry?”

Josiah was silent for a moment, uncertain of any answer. It is true that they are still a peasantry in the social hierarchy. Pretentious it is but Barry desires more than to be a peasant working for the farms, bound perpetual to the shackles of sickles until the gentle kiss of death. But then he was born to a peasant, a farmer, a lower class. Unblessed be the peasantry bounded only by the whore of greed, only in quietus shall he be freed.

“How much is the flour?” a lady broke the silence.

“Three farthing,” Josiah turned to speak. Meanwhile Barry took off from the stall for a moment, looking around. 

As the exchange between the two happened, he walked off, perusing through the variegated stall displays and their products. Some have fruits, some have raw ingredients, but the commonality of each and every one’s purchasers is one that remains steadfast, making the market the most felicity and stability. 

Walking down the corridors the stalls formed until he reached the almost very end, Barry noticed a lady in familiar clothing, viewing the landscape about the centre, as if he had seen her. He had maybe considered that it was one of their customers, besides women do often saunter around the centre buying for their households. He had not thought of facing her but suspicion arose in him that inhibited the action to approach the lady.

“Madam?” he inquires as he approaches the lady. The lady in question turned to him, meeting his gaze. Barry, seeing her full facade, has now realised she was the one who stole (or that’s what he believed she did) their bread by underpaying it. Shocked and surprised, she tried to flee, but Barry, within a matter of seconds, grasped her arms so swiftly and tightly.

“Let me go!” she panted as she struggled to escape his grasps.

“Why’d ye steal from us?” Barry firmly asked as he clenched his grip around her arm.

“It was enough pennies!”

“LIAR!”

“I gave you enough money!”

“A two pence? Do you think that’s enough?”

“Yes!”

Silence ensued for a moment, Barry’s hand clenching her arm tightly as she tried to free herself. After a few seconds of the struggling silence, she finally admitted to it, giving up on trying to escape.

“Fine! I did not pay you fully. Are you satisfied now! Can you just let me go?!”

“No. naught ‘til ye paid me fully.”

“I can just pay you another time!”

“Why not to-day?”

She sighed first, before responding, “I ought to give my family some food too! I struggle having to raise my family too. My father works in a nearby town, a factory I dare say, yet his stipends are all but not worth it for it suffices not my family! So I ought to help as well, maybe cutting expenses or finding work too. But I am a mere woman, only for the pleasure of men! So now what? I ought to steal now? I ought to not pay fully? I ought to please a sire?! I rather have the bliss of death than see myself in such sins! But struggle called me in such temptations! Only by stealing or not paying fully even. Immoral it is that I did to you, but I ought to have obligations for my father, my mother, and my little sister! And pray that I ought to give it to you once I have enough treasure. Pray forgive me, and I promise I shall pay you generously with my debt, even more of what I have stolen from you, just please let me go!”

Barry was silent for a moment, pondering deep for a moment at what she just said. He felt that she might be facing the same struggle as him. Maybe her life is much worse. Deep contemplation went into him and by that time has loosened his grip on her. Maybe she was right. He ought to have mercy on her, a pity even as she is just like himself, a peasant of this hierarchical society.

“Thank you…” she muttered as she caressed the now reddened part of her arm.

“I need yer name.” Barry said nonchalantly.

“For what?”

“I need to know obviously, if yer goin’ to pay it. And it’s a debt you owe, I ought to know.”

“Right… I’m Jane.”

“Barry.”

They exchanged looks, although they felt the rather embarrassing hours of silence due to what happened. 

“What? What do you want now? Don’t you have a store to manage?”

“Right… I’ve got to go now.” Barry nodded at her before returning to his stall. Jane went off as well, deciding to retreat to her home instead.

Coming back, his father is tending to another customer, finishing their exchange. Greeting his father, he went behind the stall. 

“Where’d ye go?”

“Explorin’ and ye know.” he shrugged.

“Oh that’s good. Ye ought to know this place so ye can take o’er our store here and get more penn’s.”

“Right, Pa.”

Night has come, and the two are in their home, the interior bathed with the shine of candle and the moonlight. They have just finished dinner and are ready for their slumber. Barry was sitting in a chair, contemplating about something, while his father prepared for sleeping. Barry often always sleeps earlier than his father, so when Josiah noticed Barry still awake, seeming to muse over something, he pondered over him.

“Barry?”

“Yes Pa?” Barry replied, although he did not move his head.

“You’re thinkin’ of something. Mind tellin’ me what was it?”

Barry, dithering if he should speak of what happened yesterday and today, tried to formulate an alternative answer. Still unmoving, he asked,

“If someone stole from ye, but it ought to be for their fam’ly, would you forgive them?”

With no hesitation, he spoke, “If they ar’ just like us, they ought to survive as well. I say yes, though I shall beware them of repeatin’ it to me. Do they owe me anything? Yes, but of kindness, not pences. Unity, not enemy. They ar’ just like us, and they ought to be like us.”

Barry, perplexed rather by his answer, made him ponder more about the situation. Maybe he was right, that the girl ought to help her family just as much as he does. He was blinded by his own greed to wealth that he has forsaken his morals for his own selfishness. But he cannot blame himself even for he is also in penury, peasants of the English world.

August 9, 1805 - Hevingham

It’s been two days since Barry saw Jane, which comes as no surprise to him. Such indemnity is a shame on one’s face even to the one who you owe. But Barry has already seen his father's viewpoints about this, and has decided to forgive her debt she owes to him, if he ever meets her again.

The centre had fewer stalls and customers recently, although Barry assumes that it is yet too early. He might even expect Jane to just run up to him and present the debt she owes, but even after a few hours, still the tameness of the place is questionable. Josiah had noticed it as well.

“What with the lack of people?” Barry inquired.

“Something we ought to know, maybe? Rar’ly I’ve seen during market season when people does not flock here often. Who knows? Maybe ‘cause the war?”

“Prob’bly.”

“What ye think of it?”

“Of what? The war?”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t I told you before?”

“Ye told me only that ye care not about the war, but I ought to know yer opinion e’en for a bit.”

Barry was silent for a moment, uncertain even if he should talk about politics. His father knew more than him, so what right does he owe that puts him in leverage against his father?

“I rather not.”

“I ought to inquire you now that ye ‘ave said it, lad.”

“Trust me pa, ye won’t like my opinion.”

“Oh trust me son, I ought to know what ye think of whate’er happen’ng of the world, right? Got to ‘ave some opinions from your too! B’sides, I ‘ave ne’er even heard of yer opinions yet, not a single one e’en! I wonder if ye ar’ just stupid or not. Pardon me insult but that’s what I ought to think of yer silence o’er pressing matters.”

“Can I not just live in peace?”

“We ought to naught. Is breaking our back to tend to our farms while we ar’ peasants a ‘peace’? Ye think of it once ‘gain lad if ye intend to be silent in these matters.”

“True, Pa. Our lives are no peace, but for my mind to rest myself o’er these inane things that only those of higher class can understand, and to free myself of any thoughts o’er these hardworks we ought to do just ‘cause these lords and e’en serfs – if they e’en still exists, wants all our free labour, is I consider a ‘peace’. God forbid it call slav’ry even ‘cause these people have some sort of ‘morals’ and ought to not commit such bastardising acts, but what they ought to do is just that, literally.”

“That is why we ought to know! If anything e’er to happen outside, will affect us so! It is not their fault that they are bound of the outside world-”

“And it is not our fault that we are like this! A peasant!”

“True, but that is what God has intended us to be!”

“To be born with no treasure, with naught but a soul and a body? We ‘ave not committed a crime before we are born, yet he put me in a world full of misery? What kind of ‘god’ would allow such things?!”

“The crime of labour to yer mother! That is your crime! By bringin’ ye upon this world, your mother has endured yer sins and your pain to her. God ought to give ye the sin that yer mother must labour upon ‘til your eventual forthcoming.”

“Then how ‘bout the princes? The princesses? The lords and dukes? Are they free of those sins as much as ours? We ought to commit crimes against our mothers before we were born, but what act have I done against God that he ought to bring me into this life of struggle instead of luxury?”

“‘Cause he has the divine right to do it! They gave the kings the power to rule o’er us peasants who are brutish and savages who murder anyone not like us!”

“Isn’t that what ‘we’ did back then? To kill anyone not alike of us. To burn the people who have committed no sin but to exist. Are ‘we’ not just equally as brutish as we are?”

“No son! It is ‘cause God heralded us of that right to live and rule for them as only he knew who can rule o’er them savages. God knew we are of great race and we ought to teach them savages of civility. We ought not to question this ‘cause-”

“Then that is STUPID!” Barry stomped off angrily, away from the stall as his father shouted back at him, calling him to come back. Away from the centre he walked away, getting as far away as possible, to even find a place for peace. It took him minutes to find one clearing of grass until he sat back and pondered what he just said. He is tired, he cannot deny that, but his impulse of words had him thinking of his beliefs over the divine. Lamenting even the question of god. He ought to question God himself even on those words. Was it forgivable? Was it blasphemy? But what power does he behold in this mortal realm if he ought to give him the sufferings undeserved? He needs no validation from God as he questions his sanctity over this land. Because what else can he do here in this world other than to send his barbarian divine warriors of the kings to kill him? Without a man, then what is he? A concept of human derelict that is. Pity is only he swore solemnly to God that he still needs men to punish him.

In reverie he was, Jane came from nowhere as she approached Barry unmoved. She called him as she approached, “Barry?”

Barry turned to see her, her face with solemn expression as if she had committed a sin to him.

“Pardon me for not showing to you for days. I ought to find more pennies for you but…”

“Oh yes. Jane, regarding that…” Barry spoke as he gestured to her to sit beside him. She sat by him, still having that sorry face in her. “I ought to forgive ye.”

“What?”

“You're free of yer debt ye owe to me.”

“Are you… lying?”

“I do not lie. God forbid me to do so.”

Her face lightened up as she realised he was truthfully speaking. Smiling at him, she felt a sense of felicity. “Dear God, I thank you verily. I still ought to pay you for your kindness, Barry.”

“You don’t have to, besides, ye ‘ave the same struggles as mine.” Barry smiled at her as she enjoyed the moment. She had the face of a child who just received a toy. But he ought to ponder back for a moment, contemplating something.

“Jane?”

“Yes?”

“Can you… stay with me here yet?”

“I… sure thing.” 

“Great! Pardon me for that sudden thing. I just… I don't know what to do here. It can be boring ‘ere oftentimes when alone. Maybe except when I think of something, but you interrupted me from that so you owe me some time now.”

“That shall be my repayment from your forgiveness to me then.”

Barry smiled at her, before returning to his own reverie.

“What made you come here?” she inquired.

“Something about my father. I won’t tell, but something of an argument.”

“Oh! So must be something between you two huh?”

Both were quiet for a while, retrospective of each other. Jane spoke again, breaking the silence of the field.

“You know, my father and I never had any rivalry once, maybe only when I ought to help the family. We had a fair share of our joy with each other for he knew me very well. He might have desired a son, but he loved me like one. I rarely knew of any father who cared for their daughter just like mine. I believe he is some sort of godsent angel for me despite the odd situation of women to-day. We are less valued than men, yet my father valued us more than men. I love him, I never wish ill upon him. If even I desire his longevity, but we are all bound to death, and I shall expect it to happen soon to him. I ought to cry and weep, but it is what God would have wanted me to do. He gave me a loving father so I ought to give him the tears he bled out of his love to me. I’m not sure with you, but you two will definitely be able to forgive each other too. No father would want to see their son hate them perpetual until their death. I would pity them.”

“Not everything is bound by blood.”

“But of covenant. It is your choice to decide, but for me, you ought to give your father some forgiveness as well. If you can forgive me, then you ought to forgive him as well.”

He pondered for a moment as he was moved by her words that it made him ruminate about his feelings. It is bound to happen regardless. 

“You’re right. Maybe I ought to. Besides, he is my father and he raised me in this world.”

Jane smiled at him, and he exchanged that look to her. There was some feeling of comfort between the two’s words that made them amiable with each other. They are bound to be fellows, friends. He knew she was worthy to talk with, and by her words was her disposition towards love that made him like her. But on her side, she felt like she just wanted to teach him some lessons, and ought to learn his experience as well.

Chapter Text

August 10, 1805 / Thermidor 22, Year XIII - Montrouge

Jacob usually reads whenever the situation favours him. Oftentimes when the customers were tame he read frequently from the selections of books his mother stored. Fictions were his favourites, and have chosen Candide, ou l’Optimisme for today’s read. 

The golden sheen basked the surrounding, and the morning haze often clears out this time. While the morning rush has finally settled and a few customers only purchase, which is tended by her mother now (she is done with the batch for the morning), he decides to flip through the book he chose today. He may have bathed himself in trance due to the word he’s reading, but he is half aware of external events happening. But this wouldn’t last long until his mother apprised him of his duty. Jacob sighed for a moment, ruffled by the interrupted reading, stood and went to stand by the counter for potential customers. But still the book piqued his interest that occasionally, he would shuffle through the pages, reading excerpts infrequently. Soon enough, he was back to reading again, mindlessly perusing through the trove of words, indifferent around him.

“Monsieur?”

Jacob was startled mild by the voice and promptly looked up, to see the lad whom he saw previously. The one whom he pitied and gave a cheaper bread. 

“Pierre!”

“Salut monsieur!” Pierre spoke gleefully as he went closer by the counter. Jacob, for unknown reason, felt great felicity and excitement to him that he stood and leaned by the counter, dropping the book in disinclination. Inundated with great emotions he spoke joyously.

“You’re early to-day? Or are you just free to-day? I assume you are a worker from a nearby factory.”

“Yes indeed, monsieur! I ought to be early, very very early, but the devil must have made me slumber deep that I forgot to wake up in time! Oh dear Lord, have mercy on me, I’m going to be punished.”

“Mon Dieu! You should be going now!” Jacob told him like in a hurry, until his mother Josephine called him.

“Jacob, You can go for a while now- Oh! Salut monsieur! Need something?” she inquired Pierre as she noticed him.

“Oh nothing, just wandering around and alike…” Pierre trailed off.

“Oh alright. Anyway Jacob, it’s your free time today. I have managed to make a lot of baked goods that more won’t be needed for to-day, or at least this time’s batch. And the customers are tame, it seems so I can handle this for this hour.”

“Thanks ma, I ought to go then huh?” 

“Yes. “

“Great! Hey Pierre. Can we talk for a bit then?”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yes…?”

“Oh that’s great then I hope you two have a jolly time.”

“Thanks again ma.”

Jacob, by his tradition, went to his place, the meadow and the mill alongside Pierre. In this time, Pierre had not thought about his labour, but that he was more mindful now of Jacob that he ought not to speak of it. On his mind was only relief in freedom from that damning work that he ought to do. Only he is a mere teen that ought to enjoy his days before the (his already) impending doom of maturity.

Jacob sat under the mill and gestured to Pierre to sit beside him, and he complied. It was a rather calming experience finally to Pierre, who never saw the peace of being free. He relished that moment as the wind caressed his face and felt the reverie he ought to have while the matin grandeur sang verily to him. Jacob watched him in silence, appreciating his beauty and elegance in tranquillity.

“Have you not felt such peace?” Jacob asked, breaking the silence.

“No, I am always bound to my work.”

“Ah… right, I presume you had at least some minimal work sometimes that you can feel not tired of?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Oh…”

Silence once again pervaded, with the whispers of the wind being the sole cacophony that ringed about. Jacob felt flustered rather by his own inquiry that he ought not to speak again. Rather instead inclined himself on reverie of the surroundings, bound to rest in the waves of air.

“How does your work feel like?” Pierre aske, breaking the embarrassing silence.

“It is fine, I suppose.”

Pierre took a deep breath as he answered. “Right. Obviously it is fine for such people like you. You are bound only by a minimal and calming labour, while I have to exploit myself of dignity and strength. I mean, pity right? I am just a boy born into this so what do I have to complain about? I’m not even supposed to work as a child, I’m supposed to enjoy the world first before I ought to work! I am damned perpetual to this hellplace that I was brought into.”

Jacob hearkened his rambling, taking in his words as he ponders about it.

“Napoleon promised change to the country, or at least I’ve heard of such rumours, but emperors are a great irony sometimes. Yes, he might have brought some stability and peace, but then what, we are still subject to these shackles of eternal labour that I am bound to until death. They speak of equality of opportunity, but only on his interest. I ought to work as a painter, I am good at them. I should be painting and drawing and whatever else it is. But no, they put me in that factory, bound perpetual to that just because I fit for that place. Where is the equality of opportunity in there, huh? Such false promises exist to deceive the poor into the illusion of money. If I were living in the Reign of Terror, you definitely ought to betray me by telling them my harangue, which I mind not, for the solace of death is better than this shackled labour of hardship.” 

Pierre chuckled in irony after he spoke, careless and nonchalant of everything around him. Jacob just looked at him with such pity that a destitute man is aware of his own place. He knows how well educated this man was by his tirade on their society. He has more pronounced interest in him now with such diatribe. He ought to help him, he had to, but how?

“Pierre?”

“Yes?”

“Have you maybe… considered working for us?”

Pierre turned to him with a confused look “What?”

“Work for us, in the bakery.”

Pierre was silent, staring at Jacob still.

“You know maybe the work in the bakery is lighter than what you ought to do in your labour at least. You said that you hate working there, so maybe a lighter one would do the bid? Besides, you are not present today at the factory and you ought to be punished tomorrow. You may escape that place finally and have your talent be used to… maybe create art in bread? People ought to like those things with a grandeur design more than the plains. Maybe by cutting and drawing on it?”

“I don’t want to burden your place more by adding myself into your work. I mean look, you are free this time because there are barely any customers, and you think by adding me as a worker there would not break your money? I’m sure the stipend you make is just enough for your family.”

“Monsieur, I promise, you can work with us without burdening us. Your artistic talent may even bring greater buyers to us! If anything, you would be helping us greatly over that. Besides, my father used to work with us so you are just filling another man’s responsibility.”

Pierre thought for a while, before deciding to accept that offer. “Alright, I agree with that proposition. I would have to inform my master yet for my cessation of my labour.”

“I’m glad that you accepted it, at least you are not bound anymore of that hardship you ought to suffer.”

“Yes… Thank you really monsieur,” Pierre beamed at him with a flustered expression. “But you ought to tell me about your father now, it made me wonder what happened to him.”

“Oh… yes.” Jacob’s face turned solemnly rather as he asked.

“Oh I’m sorry monsieur If you do not feel like talking about it, then let us not. I am really sorry.”

“Worry not, Pierre, it is fine. I have mentioned my father so I ought to tell you about it now.”

Settling back in his comfortable position he spoke, “My father helped my mother establish our bakery. A year or so ago, I think. He also baked with my mom a lot, we had a lot of customers back then. He also helps me tend to the store. So yes, a double labour to him. He either helps my mom or tends with me. It was a rather great success and it brought stability in my home.

“But you know, things were bound to go into chaos. He was conscripted to La Grande Armée by lottery and had to fight. The business tamed due to that because we have less people to work with. We cannot keep up with the amount of people without him so we have to deplete our products and… the customers rather realised it and went away. Not really gone away, just that they are not going in here much.

“But at least there is less customers now so not much work I suppose?” Jacob tittered a bit. “But yes, I think you would be of great help to us if you ever decide to work with us. Might even ramp again our customers, you know?”

“I suppose so.” Pierre glanced at him with a smile before returning back to their own daydream, wallowing the quietude.

“Pierre?”

“Yes?”

“Want to… maybe explore around?”

“That’s new to me. Sure!”

Both stood up, cleaning off themselves and stretching, usual of both of them. Jacob looked at Pierre with arrant gaiety, took his hand, and led him around the plains and hills. He held tight of his hand, not letting it go. One may assume that Jacob fears he’d lose Pierre as they maraud the landscape, but the truth is he loves the touch of his hand. Those rough skin from his labour felt like the sand by the Seine he used to play back then. It reminded him somewhat of his childhood.

Around the landscape he toured Pierre of everything he knew, as Pierre listened to his narration of the story in regards to every landscape. The sagacity in Jacob’s voice was inherent to Pierre that there is no denying he truly values this place.

“And you know, whenever I find a tree, a sturdy one, I often carve my initial on it.” Jacob spoke to him in merriment.

“How? Do you have a knife?”

“No. That’s like bringing a weapon.”

“Not when you intend it for carving, right?”

“Yes, but it is still odd when you’re just casual around, holding a knife right?”

“True, so how do you carve your initial then?

Jacob stooped down, scanning around and picking up a rock. He gestured to Pierre and went to the nearest tree they could find. Jacob rapped the tree, scrutinizing it. “Chestnut tree, very common here around.” He struck the bark with the stone, carving the letter J. “Pierre, how about yours?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Oh trust me, it is fun. You will leave a mark too! I mean, you do leave marks everywhere. Your footprint, your hand, so why ought not to leave a mark here as well?”

Pierre pondered for a moment, before acquiescing. He took the stone from Jacob’s hand, and carved his initial, ‘P’. Jacob smiled at him as he looked back at him. It was a felicity between the two as the mark of their initials steeped deep into that tree. It was the first time Jacob had another bound to his initial, and first of Pierre to do such an act. Jacob looked at their shadows, seeing the zenith of the noon. They ought to be back now in the bakery.

Dawning in the night Jacob’s mother closed the bakery. A less hectic day for them today. While locking the place, Jacob asked his mother, 

“Mother, can I ask you something?”

“Oh sure Jacob, what is it?”

“Would you permit another person to work for us?”

Josephine stopped for a while, thinking, “Maybe I will consider. Why? Have you found someone to do such bidding?”

“Well… remember the boy I went to earlier? Yes, him.”

“Oh…” Josephine stared at him inquisitively, “Can we even trust him? How long have you met him?”

“Days ago…?”

“Well, he ought to gain my trust first.”

“So, yes?”

“I’d say yes, but ONLY under my watch, alright?”

Jacob nodded at her in felicity and excitement. He is ready to tell Pierre about this so he, or both of them have more time together.

Chapter Text

August 10, 1805 - Hevingham

It was midnight high when Barry bothered not to go home the previous dawn. He was with Jane yesterday until sundown when she ought to be home. One would presume that his father would search for him – which he did – but to Barry’s mind, he did not bother to find his son.

He walked his way back to the centre, the dimming lights of torches and the moonlight the only thing illuminating the vast landscape. There was nothing in the place but a few buildings with the faintest sounds. Midnight was no one’s time to commit to business, that is in the city. But there were occasional clattering from cobblestone paths when horses along with their owner travel in the midst of the vespere. 

Barry looked around the centre, nothing but the cleanest of the space where stalls usually are set. There was naught but the spectacle of the night dancing in the centre. However, one struck him with grand curiosity when a wagon of familiarity to him lay still by a house in the corner. Surprisingly, there are also two horses tied out by the house. The lights and noise inside seems more prominent than the others, as if some sort of little celebration is happening inside. But the voices are not joyous, rather of solemnity. 

He did not know what compelled him to do this, even though he knew it would be peculiar, but he approached the house and knocked on the door. A woman opened it, revealing the inside of the home, with his father Josiah and William inside sitting at the table. This is a shock to Barry, who was just curious about what is happening inside. The two gentlemen stood as they saw him with Josiah rushing to him and embraced him the moment he saw his son, not even letting a word slip out of Barry’s mouth.

“My son, I am very sorry. I ‘ave tried lookin’ for afar from ‘ere and ‘ave to close early. I was worried truly that I ‘ave to ask ev’ryone ‘ere ‘bout ye. I’m sorry my son, I am very sorry. Pray forgive me, if not t’day, then maybe in future. I ought to be free from my sins to ye! I’m sorry.” his father implored him with despair in his words. The faint mark of tears can be seen on his face, as if begging for forgiveness before the god himself. Barry saw this, his tears, his words, his pleading, to see that his father, despite his differing view of the world, despite their perspective, truly treasure him profoundly. He saw what he truly is by this moment, of his weakness, where only himself is the very core of his father’s life.

“Pa, it is fine. I forgive ye, now don’t sulk about me.” Barry responded with relief in his voice. “Although…”

Josiah backed a little, wiping some of his tears before responding, “Yes son?”

“May I ask something?”

“Yes son, anything ye ask.”

Turning to William with his sophisticated suit, he asked, “Why is William here?”

“Ah. He was ‘ere ‘cause the horse wasn’t back yet.”

William sat again, sipping water from the cup by the table. Curious to him he spoke, “If I hadn’t noticed the horse missing, then I might have not realised it. I never truly saw much of mine horses, they are never my focus but the farm. I ought to tell you that my family had sent these for the purpose only of journey, but that was never of my worry. I am just bound to these horses now despite my indifference towards them.

“I ought to give you some insight on the events at least. When I noticed that one of them had not come back, it mildly concerned me, so I asked our fellow farmers if they had lost their assigned horses. Well, when I reached your house, I saw naught but the gusts that lingered around. So I assumed it must be your father that has lost it. So with my horse I went to the centre to find Josiah, but even his stalls were seen nowhere, naught until I had to look around more closely until I found it! His wagon with the horse in this house! So I went inside but saw naught of your father. I had asked this lady about your father and why his wagon was here, and so she answered that he was looking for someone named Barry, his son. And that made me, too, to exhort my thoughts on finding you.

“So I hopped onto my horse again and rounded around the locale to find you. I have tried searching for you around the centre, just the nearer ones. Asked some folks around if they had seen you, or at least the alikes of you. I must say that you are quite known at least to some of them, assuming you used my horse for this marketplace, or just because you have been here since even before I knew you. And on my excursion of my attempts to find you I found your father searching as well. Asked him if he is interested in joining with me but refused to, he believes that by having two of us foraging, we can find you more likely. And well since this is almost by dawn, we had a difficult time finding  you so we had to lay back in here.

“Frankly, you have concerned your father grandly that I ought to search for you. I ought to be bound to that now fairly because of my history with you. And fair lad if you had seen the great destitution your father has been, youu would pity him with such magnitude.” William said as he went closer to the two. “Look, by God’s grace be grateful that you have been found although I ought to digress as you went back by yourself. If anything, you should never do that again for you are a big lad now. It is rather odd of you to do that! And have you not hearken the news folks around here speak of the others? Ah, such rumours ought not to be true but for the safety of you, you shall listen to it.”

“As if the life I ought to live isn’t hard ‘nough?” Barry replied in a caustic tone.

“Oh? That ought to mean something?”

“I know you know you do. Frankly that is funny, don’t ye think?”

“Is that an insult?”

“Take it with a pinch of salt.”

“Hey son,” Josiah interrupted, muttering under his breath. “Please don’t do this to-day. He helped me at least to find ye. I should be grateful for ‘im. Just please do not say an’thing right now. I plead ye.” 

Barry was silent for a moment, looking at William and then his father. “Fine.” 

“Let us just go ‘ome now, alright?” Josiah turned about, adjuring both men.

“Right, I believe that is the best course right now, besides, this lady have naught sufficient room for three of us. I hope just well that the road would do us some favour and not put us on the pedestal of danger.” William scornfully replied, rather annoyed now by the situation they are in.

The three men respectively went out and untied the horses. Barry brought the wagon and tied it along the horse they use before hopping into the wagon. The contents of it were less than the time they went here, and since the horse had some rest for a while, he thought of jumping into the wagon, rather too tired of incursion and events unfolded. His father Josiah meanwhile just guided the horse through the rope tied round the horse, choosing to walk. William saw this as he hopped into his horse, gesturing to him. “Josiah, why not ride the horse instead? Is that what you have been doing the entire time going here in the centre?”

“Yes? I thought of just guidin’ the ‘orse ‘stead of ridin’ it. Ye know, so I ‘ave not only some time with the ‘orse, but also of my legs.”

“Ah, you ought not to. Trust me, that horse is well disciplined enough before being sent to me. I am certain it is predisposed towards being a ride rather than a guide. Why don’t you try and hop on it? I’ll guide you with mine horse.”

“Ah… well I’m fine of jus’ walkin’.”

“Oh be shy not. Pray do it for me?”

“Well, I s’ppose tryin’ it would do no harm?” persuaded by William he climbed the horse, sitting behind. He tried balancing himself as he had not tried riding a horse before.

“That is all set. Let us go then?”

“Ah sure!”

“And Barry?”

Barry, somewhat indifferent about what was happening around, looked at William with confusion, who was staring at him with curiosity. He pondered if the wagon would be a fine place for Barry knowing the debris of their harvests scattered inside would annoy him.

“You can sleep there, I suppose.”

“Yeah..”

William then first motioned to his horse, before calling out to Josiah’s. They started their journey back to their home, the night sky falling greatly upon the road, the stars and moon guiding their path.

August 12, 1805 - Hevingham

Yet the blazing sun shined again in the centre, Barry and Josiah tending to their stall. With the cacophony blurring the landscape round the place, Barry asked his father if he can excuse himself for a rest. Josiah, with his mellow personality, allowed his son to. Despite the events that happened the past few days, he held no grudge nor contempt towards him for he is a just father bound to no evil. Besides, this is a quotidian hobby of Barry that he ought not to dispirit.

Still sun and meandering grasses flowed by the breeze, the landscape striked the day with grandest dignity. Barry watched the theatre of landscape before him. In reverie he lamented so much, he didn’t notice Jane behind him.

“Barry.” Jane spoke behind him.

Hearing those words, he looked back at her. “Hello Jane.” 

“So, how was it?”

“The what?”

“Your father and you?”

“Ah, we’re fine now.”

Jane stared at him in silence for some moment, waiting for him to continue. Barry stared back at him, baffled by her gazing.

“What?”

“That’s it?”

“Why? Ye want to know more?”

“I implore you to tell me more about it.”

“There’s naught much happened, unless you want me to tell you ‘bout William’s stupid posh talk.”

“Who is that?”

“A rich farmer , or at least what he thinks he is. He actually came from a family of wealth. Decided to live here.”

“Ah, did you understand what he said mostly?”

“Yes, at least.”

“Then tell me more about it?”

“He just spoke of how they tried to find me.”

“Sorry what? Did you not go home after I left?”

“No, just want some time for me.”

“That’s fair.”

And once again the meadow was silent again, their own reveries consuming their thoughts deeply. In the midst of it, Jane thought of Barry and his father’s relationship, and how she ought to help them at most.

“So did your father forgive you?”

“He’s the one asking for forgiveness actually.”

“How so?”

“He assumed it was his fault.”

“I wouldn’t say that should be the case, but have you apologised to him?”

“Uhhh…”

Jane sighed at his answer, rather unimpressed. “Well you have to do it. Regardless of whose fault it is, both of you must apologise. You have to understand each other and forgive to fully grasp each other’s relationship. If not, then what is it? A one-sided familial love one bound to suffer? I would pity anyone who could come upon that thing.”

“That’s true. But…”

“No buts, no ifs, you believe yourself genuine, then you must apologise too.”

“Right, I will.”

“Good. Now, tell me more about William.”

“Sorry?”

“Did I stutter?”

Flabbergasted, Barry stared at her for a good minute, curiosity and shock wandering his mind in question. 

“Why do ye want to know more ‘bout him though?”

“He interests me.”

“Weird.”

“Why? Is he an enemy or something? You two are neighbours, I doubt that’s a thing.”

“It is, unfortunately.” 

“Oh well… Mind if you tell more then?”

Barry shrugged in answer, “Sure.”

Chapter Text

August 15, 1805 / Thermidor 25, Year XIII - Montrouge

Merry was the bakery that was swarmed by the people who’s hunger can only be satiated by the holy grail of their bread. Thursday morning filled with the cacophony of people by the store, waiting for their purchase. Josephine is busy with the baking, while Jacob and Pierre are at the counter, taking the order, and packing the bread for the people. Occasionally, Josephine would help the boys sell but she tended more on the baked goods in the oven, ensuring the perfection of the product.

As the buyers gradually dwindle, they are able to move more and haste less. The pair, now being able to talk without the constant barrage of voices, spoke of anything that will initiate their palaver, while packaging and giving the orders to the buyers.

“Pierre, you have not told me yet what happened after you left your labour.” said Jacob, who was packing bread for a customer.

“Ah, have I not told you yet?”

“You only said that you are finally free from that factory when you informed me.”

“Ah true,” Pierre packed another piece of bread and gave it to the customer before speaking again. “Let us just say he did not take it kindly.”

“Pray tell?”

“Ah, that deserves an entire story of itself. How about we finish this labour first?”

“I fear he might even come for me.” chuckled Pierre, as the air tinged the place with warmth and breeze as the two sat by the windmill they frequent.

“I would not say he is that vindictive but… maybe a little too aggravated by your sudden departure from that work. He will find one to replace you eventually, that is what he ought to do as a master. Remember, there is an infinite supply of men in hunger he will exploit by the streets. If the army does not take care of the vagrants, then they will.”

“Pardon but that is a bit harsh, no?”

“Not truly. I have seen some poor people dragged in the wretched battlefield just to bleed for the country who cared not a bit to them.”

“Ah, true. No spare men were left alone in those cases. But at least we’re not all to be put in the army, right? I mean, it was nice of them to have a lottery to choose so not everyone will have to fight. Who knows, we might not get put in those bloodied lands?”

Jacob shrugged in silence. Pierre, noticing his changed expression, nudged him in concern. “Anything wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Must be your father?”

Silence permeated the surroundings, the still unease emanating from the talks.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just that I don’t really talk about it. But it’s fine for me right now.”

“Is your father married to your mother?”

Turning to him, Jacob felt weird from such a question. “Yes…? Are you suggesting something?”

“Ah no! No! No! Not really. But as much as it concerns me, the mustering of your father is what I find odd.”

“Not really, we are bound to be part of the army, perchance.”

“No, not that. He’s married, but he was conscripted. As far as I know, married men cannot be part of the lottery.”

“Huh, how do you know that?”

“A fellow back in the factory told me. I was complaining about our master, telling him that he should have been conscripted. Told me that would be funny if he was not married. Told me about the army and who cannot be conscripted. Ironically enough, you can fake your illness to avoid it!”

“That’s odd.”

“Indeed it is!”

“That my father was apprehended even to join the army that is.”

Pierre shrugged, thinking for a moment, “Maybe there was an error in the lot.”

“Whatever knowledge you possess would have been helpful back then. But oh well it happened now. I hope for the best even for my father to come back alive at least. I hope to God.”

Blankly staring into oblivion, the two lamented for a while, the deafening silence manifesting in the air with the poise noises far away. Jacob, his eyes fixated through the bright blue sky, thought of something he would have never even tried to think of. He turned to Pierre, his eyes shut in reverie of his own. Although there was hesitation in his mind, he asked him, “Do you like someone?”

Pierre turned to him, a look of confusion in his face.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean that.” Jacob flushed, his embarrassment evident in his face.

“Oh no, it’s fine. Sometimes, we’re just curious about things we ought to wonder about. Besides, we’re that age of when we will fall for someone, no?”

“Right, you’re right.”

“Going back to your question, no. I don’t have someone in mind.”

“Ah…”

“How about you though? You like someone?”

“Ah well… no, not really.” Jacob’s face flushed at the thought of it. It was rather obvious from his countenance that he does like someone.

“With that face, I sure do know you are not lying.” said Pierre sardonically, chuckling slightly from the most obvious lie he was told.

“Someone, you could say that. Although it would not hurt you if you didn’t know him, right?”

While Pierre was thinking, he noticed his choice of words. ‘him’? That is an odd word to choose. But he assumed best in his mind that maybe it was a mistake, that he meant ‘she’.

“Yes, you’re right. Maybe I don’t have to know her.”

Jacob bit his tongue, as if attempting to speak of something, but was not precarious of knowing how his word could scrutinise his life and even his future.

“So tell me more about this girl, if you may?”

Jacob looked at him, scrambling to think of an answer.

“She’s nice. Very beautiful. She’s alright.”

“That’s it?”

“What? Do you wish to probe me about her?”

“I have to at least know more about her, right?”

“I can tell you some vague things.

“I met her quite recently, I initially do not know much about her other than she does her own bidding at her house as well. I was tending to the bakery when she approached me. He was a customer, I mean, everyone I meet is. I think it was the afternoon when she came, asking for bread but she cannot afford it, a few. Told her she can have it for two- one sous and he was grateful for that. After that, we occasionally meet sometimes.”

“You say you two occasionally meet yet I haven’t seen her.”

“Well I suppose she’s getting more busy with her own things at his home. Who knows?”

“Huh, so me and that girl have something in common then, frankly how we met.”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“I wish to meet her though”

“You’ll soon once she’s not busy anymore.”

August 17, 1805 / Thermidor 27, Year XIII - Montrouge

The mild morning ravaged the town with the raspy tone of hope and joy in the air, the windmills standing proudly in the great nation of pure victory. It was often that war is natural now in the Empire, dare say a normal part of life. But when was war not part of everyday life? As Jacob, Pierre, and Josephine opened their bakery, more soldiers seemed to retreat from the city. Assuming another war is imminent, they talked about the possible things that could happen. These movements of troops did not confound them at all.

“I suppose it is Austria again this time?” said Pierre as he was helping Jacob set the pastries.

“Best believe so, they never learn a thing.” responds Jacob.

“You sure do have spite against them, no?”

“That's way too strong of a word to use. I would say indifference, but just on the good side. I have my own reasons to hate them, but not as much as I do to the British.”

“Oh? That’s new from you.”

“Not really. I’ve had reservations for the British since god knows when.”

“You strike me as someone who is well-intentioned and kind to everyone, so you coming out as some anglophobe is quite a surprise to me.”

“I am like that, am I not?” Jacob grinned at him as to elicit a sarcastic tone. They both chuckled for a good minute and waited for the customers to flow in, devoting themselves now to the purchasers.

“It would be damning rather that yet another war be waged, as if the ones in Spain aren't enough.” Pierre spoke while they both sat behind the counter, in which  barely any buyers came in. A rather solemn day between the two despite the usual previous days of industrious labour.

“It is normal I presume, Spain has been at war for like, years or so far. If anything, they are the ones condemned by the hell of war.”

“Halt, you foul mouths! You two really dare speak like that, not with the other people outside, possibly hearing you two!” Josephine from the back, approached the two.

“Ma, was he wrong though?” said Jacob.

“I wouldn’t say he isn’t, but out of respect for those who fought for their country, I find them commendable.”

“Huh, your mother seems to be a gentle soul to soldiers.”

“Appreciate that, Pierre.”

Josephine went back to the ovens, continuing her labour of baking bread and pastries.

“I’d be damned by her with her words. Didn’t know how much she defends the integrity of the soldiers.”

“In the defence of us, my father was conscripted, so we ought to protect his integrity as a fighter.”

“Indeed. That reasoning did not surprise me at all.”

The faltering customers prompted the duo to rest earlier than the convened rest time previous days. It was after dusk that the morning before the zenith basked the environ with the grandest shine of sheen canary. The duo walked through their customary road that leads to where they stay for their simple leisure. Of course, still the wind and the flowers worked like the days before, but the atmosphere tinged with the smell of gunpowder and fabric sting with the amount of soldiers and people walking by. As the duo progressed through the road, more soldiers and people began to flood the streets, prompting both to divulge from the main road off a grassy field. These people often plead to the soldiers, in which Pierre and Jacob assumed is their relative, to not go. While some gently spoke to their mothers and sister of which their tears plead with mercy to stay with them, with the words of bittersweet farewells and biddings for their family by the soldiers, some are also harsh, no empathy towards their blood relative as they implore their sons and brothers to be with them, to abandon their duty.

How heroic of them to not abjure their duty to the empire, of which have protected them from the evils of the outside world. They aspire truly to become the defender of the empire, true to their own words as their oath. Their heroism will be remembered perpetual by their ancestors, by their children and cousins pridefully lambasting their ancestor’s victory and heroism.

Yet while this heroism was something Pierre had thought, that fighting for the empire was a duty they ought to do, he himself was not willing to die for the country. Not that he fears death, nor he fears the enemy, but his frail soul might be damned into eternity of destitution and naught. Jacob, his father’s heroic action, was not zealous of anything alike. As much as he defends the army as the salvation of the empire, he did not consider them a friend. True that while his father was in the army, he was taken out of his will, by the virtues of unfortunate luck. He saw only his father as the saviour of the empire, of him, and of his mother. But such regard is unreserved towards the bastards who dare thread the fate of his father.

As the two settled under the towering windmill, the noise never halted. It was a rare time that people actually disturbed the tranquillity once pervading the landscape of Montrouge. The vast grassland and farms, accorded with the windmills, a sincere silence broken up by the terrors of hundred men’s anger to inflict suffering in lieu of prestige and valour of their own kingdoms and empires. But everyone knew that at the heart of everything this hell caused was no hope within these despots’ hunger over power, their satiation to domination, and their impunity to the blood.

The two deemed the noise rather distasteful towards their reverie that they moved somewhere farther, moving inward to the freer grassland that only the breath of the winds can only be heard.

“There has to be some sort of compromise or at least a place where we can rest peacefully, no?” said Pierre as they both marauded through the flowy grass that caressed their feet.

“Somewhere high, maybe at a hill? We can watch them there too! Even if just the faint voices would be fine to me honestly, as long as we can rest.” replied Jacob.

“How about in that one tree?” Pierre pointed to one of the trees in elevated height.

“I guess that would do.”

The two hiked the small hill, reaching the tree in mere seconds. They both sat by, leaning against the tree, the atmosphere now brighter and calmer than the earlier chaos ensued by the cacophony. They both looked down at the road, not full, yet not empty either. A plethora of people of varying wears, each having their own moments to each other as soldiers pass by, ready to serve the empire.

“Jacob?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask something?”

“Sure.”

“Is this what happened to you and your father too?”

Silence, scrambling through words to use, Jacob answered, “I guess. There were tears shed, true, but we have nothing to do. We closed the bakery that day and just assisted my father to go to the office where he’ll be conscripted. I guess it wasn’t too similar.”

“Oh well. I would hate to be conscripted. I am not eligible yet, but I have heard of people being conscripted despite being younger than the requirement.”

“There’s an age limit?”

“Haven’t I told you that already?”

“Only of the matters of health and marriage.”

“Men of 20 years and above.”

“Ah, I suppose I have more time, isn’t it?” chuckled Jacob. “I wish the best for you though.”

“Mon dieu monsieur Jacob, I would have to wait two years yet for that. And even then I might just evade that, you know?”

“Ah true. And quit that monsieur thing, you act like you haven’t been calling me by my name since days before.”

“Oh truth be told, monsieur is an honourable honorifics, isn’t it Monsieur Jacob?” teased Pierre.

“Stop that!” sarcastically shouted Jacob.

“This will be fun, Monsieur Jacob.”

The two teased each other over their names, having the best of their time despite the destitute in which the road is filled with. Their laughter and smile drowned the gloomy atmosphere in their environs, their shared joy eternal be in memories of the both. Their souls intertwined by their humour, never to be broken.

They lay down in the grassy field, their heads up staring at the cerulean sky, clouds dancing through the floor of the tinted blue heaven. Jacob and Pierre seemingly happy and content, they spoke candorly, their voice whispering like a philtatos’ grace to each. 

“The sky is beautiful, isn’t it?” said Jacob.

“Indeed.” answered Pierre. He turned to Jacob, asking, “You really like observing things, don’t you?”

“Beauty lies in the beholder.”

“What does that have to do with my question?”

Looking at Pierre, Jacob replied, “I suppose you can find beauty in everything. Despite how wretched this world is, one would see the greatest beauty for those who believe.” he smiled at him, his eyes gleaming shy only of the sunlight. 

“I have reservation towards that belief of yours. Not that I do not believe in your ideas, but I’ve experienced worse than where I am today.”

“I know. I just believe that everything will be fine. To look at the side of greatness and beauty in everything. Maybe I’m just that.”

“Right…”

Jacob saw the countenance Pierre displayed as he spoke, halting his words and reflecting to himself to wonder if anything was wrong. Such sudden change in mood affected the former joy and animate air that lingered past the time. With that change of atmosphere he implored other things, but concerned himself about the bakery.

“Pierre, do you think people would have flooded by now in the bakery?”

“What? Why do you think so?”

“Soldiers? People? They might desire nourishment for the soldiers as they go?”

“Oh… my… Yeah. We should definitely rush then.”

“Well, last person will have to close the bakery!” Jacob shouted as he stood and quickly rushed down from the hill. Pierre, realising this, stood quickly and chased Jacob. “You didn’t!” he shouted.

Scurrying through the verdant floor of grasses, leaving their prints behind, they reached the bakery, which is indeed filled with people. Not too much, but enough to occupy Josephine. The duo rushed inside, intending to help.

“I’m sorry ma, we were occupied rather with our rest. We were not expecting people will fill the store up so quickly.”

“Oh it is fine, worry not my son. It is just very recent actually. In fact you two are just in time. Quick and serve these customers as I bake more, alright?”

“We will, ma!”

As she left, the two began their labour, tending and serving the customers. Their hard work made them forget the awkwardness instilled upon earlier, only the cherished moments together of the two forever instilled upon them.

Midnight dawned upon the town, the lights of Paris shining brightly by the horizon. It was by the time everyone was sound and silent, their hallowed sleep resting the town in serenity. Yet at the house of Jacob, where his name engraved the namesake of his house he lay down in bed, untethered by the slumber forthcoming to him. Despite the air of silence and the force of Hypnos bound to him, he cannot put himself to sleep. His thoughts disquieted, putting him in the curse of being awake, staring at the ceiling in a daydream of it.

Pierre, a man, or adolescent he believes, is a fair lad whose disposition sought him in curiosity when he first met him. He saw him in the light of someone whose pity is to be given for, his beseech of nourishment made him pity, but under those thoughts were something superficial that can only develop into mere interest. As much as merciful he is to everyone, his great interest towards him made him think of his view on him. Was it his visage so youthful and alacritous that he implored himself in such reverie? Or was it truly only upon his character that heed overtook him? 

In their vivacious relationship of affection and camaraderie, he had always enjoyed Pierre's company, despite the sometimes destitution and indignity he presents in his words. But he had always excused him of such vices of verbatim as he was inflicted by the harsh society. Maybe, just maybe—he thought—that he could change his mind on such a trivial matter. That maybe, by showing him what truly the world is by the grace and luminosity of it he could change his mind. Still, he was predisposed to him, his character yields him like a magnetic force towards him.

And so he pondered too, what truly does he feel towards him? Indifference would be the greatest sarcasm, but love is a too radical word. But does he, truly? A few days have passed since he met him. From such a short time can he really develop such an affliction of love towards him? His belief, while not admirable, disposition and his visage was something amicable to him. Amicable is even the barest word to contain such force of his love, but affection of almost romantic sense would be a fit best for his feelings towards him. Yet still despite his reverence towards his friend, he concerned himself to another.

A boy loving another boy? Vile! Distasteful! How repugnant it is! That is how he thought of it. He had tried constraining such emotions, knowing this is something so sinful to him and his god. In his early days, he had a plethora of friends, many of whom were boys like him. But one such friend gave him such a great affection that he ought to think of it as love bound alike just as anyone. He once even asked him to marry him, yet as a child with inane character, he was scolded by that very same boy, their friendship ruined by only that word of love. He was stricken with grief by just a few words from him, yet it is enough to give him a thought perpetual buried in his mind. And so he promised to never do such evil in his life ever again! To love another man? Disgrace to his name! Shame, shame, shame! He promised to only love girls, women, marry one and settle until he has children with the woman he ought to love, until death do them apart.

Still, Pierre made him doubt such thoughts. Was this vice going back again? He had buried this deep in his heart, his promise he ought not to break. Yet he made such a mistake of burying it, the once raw hidden sentiment arising again from the depths of his heart. He is having a hard time accepting these feelings, to fall for someone alike of his gender. He would have trouble again in these feelings just because of a boy he pitied once in his store. Distressed, he prayed that God would not punish him. Not punish him for loving a boy. He had never been a religious person, yet he prayed for himself. He prayed, and prayed, that his malady of loving a boy would just go away so he would not be punished. His simple affliction of liking someone would have him dragged to the fiery pit. He thought, why? Why does he have to like someone of his gender? Why, of all people, him? Why was he born like this? If God made man in his own image, should God punish himself for liking man, too?

He tried to calm himself, the sky glimmered in starry night as it shone through the windows. His bed was cold, but the fire ignited within him warmed him. This was not the time to sulk about trivial things. And so he tried to sleep, forgetting his thoughts, unremembered until once again disturbed by his beloved, Pierre.

Chapter Text

August, 1799 - Hevingham

Two tell-tale people, one bound to suffering, one bound to nothing. They call upon the things that bound themselves to perpetuity. Yet neither was aware of such matters. In the history of Hevingham, he found a compeer by their farm. The compeer was not necessarily someone who is immediately his friend, he was a stranger to him first. His father – Josiah – met this person, who seems to be a new stranger to their place. He was still almost a child then, innocent of the world. Josiah brought him to meet this stranger, in the house of great magnificence. Josiah knocked on the door, greeted by a gentleman of fair visage. His clothing emanates the luxury of the gentry, his contrapuntal scent and disposition show elegance in start. His countenance offers a sense of hospitality. Josiah glanced around the interior within the constricted place he stood, as the other stared at the man in curiosity.

“Hello Mister, may I ask what brought you here?” the stranger in opulence asked.

“Hello, would it be okay for us to meet ya, maybe got t’ know ya?” Josiah replied.

“Oh that is true mister, indeed! To know my fellows here around my place would truly be nice. How about you come inside with that young fellow?”

The stranger moved out of the doorway, letting the two come in. Josiah and his son were enamoured by the inside of this stranger’s abode. The intricate designs, the opalescent colours, the house danced with marvellous life with the variegated look of everything bound to see. The stranger walked up to them and asked them to sit in one of the sofas by the hall as he fetched something in the kitchen. As the two went to sit, they scrutinised the entire hall, fascinated by the grandeur of the place. After a minute or two, the stranger went back, carrying a tray with a tea set. He laid it on the coffee table, before sitting back. Pouring one for himself and to Josiah, he grabbed his own cup before speaking, “I fancy you’d like a tea?”

“Ah sure do. I ne’er had it.”

“Oh, you haven’t? You’ll definitely like it.”

Josiah took a sip, just a little of it, before putting it down as the stranger drank his own.

“Do you like it?”

“Not rea’ly.”

“Ah I see. You’re not predisposed towards these things. Of course, what do I expect from people like you? You ought to live on a farm, not squander in such travesties of opulence.” he said, putting down his cup. “Do not take it as a form of insult, however. That is the truth, is it not?”

“Yes, yer right.”

The child took the cup from the table in which Josiah had sipped from. Curious, he reached for it, but before he could get a hold of it, the stranger spoke, “Little man, be careful of that. You don’t want your father paying for it, no?” he sneered.

The progeny hesitated for a while, and took it upon himself. He seemed to not mind the distaste his father evinced. The stranger looked at him with good regard, his disposition heed different from his father.

“Your child seems to mind not the taste. How riveting…”

“I s’ppose he’s ‘till a child. He ‘ave not yet know taste.”

“Your child is a man, no younger than year ten, no older than ten-five. I best assume maybe a twelve he is, but I could be wrong. With that said, I diverge from your opinion. I believe he very much has a different taste from you, far fetched I dare say.  Maybe he ought to be a gentry? But that is just impossible.” the stranger sniggered.

Josiah simpered as to put himself only in his good light, but inside he was upset due to the superficial slander the stranger spoke off. Half suppressed smile and a little of false contrivance can give him the favour of this gullible man.

“Have I already told you my name? I am William Cameron Hainford, Earl of Aylsham. I own a Grand Estate just up north and these lands as well – or at least the ones around it.”

“Josiah Williams, and this my child, Barry.”

“What a coincidence! We share the same name! I ought to treat you well now I suppose?” William sardonically said.

“Anyway, ignoring my words, let me show you my house, no?”

William stood up, followed by Josiah and then Barry. The three men walked through the halls, their steps deafening the silence in the house with the echo of each step they took. Yet still despite their movement, Josiah and Barry noticed how the house never lost its grandeur even from far away against the hall. Damning show of wealth it was to them. Reaching the end of one of the tails of the corridor, William turned to Josiah.

“Well since you are a farmer, it is best for me to show you first another regard about farming.”

William opened the door, revealing a miscellany of different plants. Some are within containers, some are not, some are on display, and some are used.

“My personal room for medicinal use of plants. Well, some are plants at least. I have some actual kits for medical uses, but I experiment with plants. If you interests yourself in these matters, do not hesitate to look and try around, although I’d be wary of creating poison ivy by accident.” he joked.

While the two gentlemen went their own way, Barry looked around, familiarising himself with the plants and equipment laid there. The paraphernalias does not interest him, and so do plants. But he does look for medicine, for healing. He does not have any desire to be anything, nor do anything at all as a dream, but with these matters now presented to him, he looks like he now has something to envision at. In one of the cases displayed by the edges, Barry saw an equipment that diverted him from the other. Mostly that he saw were a kit of variety. There is a gauze, a stitch, a thread, and many more. He was fascinated by it. He imagined himself trying it to himself, however it was plastered behind the glass, so he cannot get it, nevermind the possible injury he could cause. Still his eyes fixated on them, staring at it, drawn by its looks. He thought to himself, is this what the doctors do in cities? In case of such injuries, do they use this? It seems that he is already speculating and formulating his own thoughts and wisdom by deduction on how to use those. Minutes passed and the gentlemen were already done with the study of the plants, yet Barry remained, ruminating. Josiah noticed the still-faced Barry, eyes interlocked with the kit. He called out to him, trying to digress him off the cabinet.

“Barry? Son? Hello? Are you there?” he slowly approached him, “Barry let’s go now. Barry Barry? Barry!”

August 20, 1805

“Barry!”

“Sorry what?”

“The leaf.”

“Oh I’m sorry.” Barry reached for the leaf, giving it to Jane. Jane wrapped up the wounds in her father’s arm before speaking to him again.

“You must be busy thinking about something.”

“Yeah. I was just thinking of something.”

“Do tell.”

“Ah, just thought of being a medic or something alike.”

Jane looked at him after patching up the wound. “I could help you with the basics.”

“You do?”

“I guess. I know some. I mean, look how I’m helping my father, was that not enough evidence for you?” as she finished. His father stood up and embraced her before going elsewhere.

“Ah true. I suppose that’s true.”

“Come here and I’ll teach you some things.”

Jane unpacked some of the equipment, such as a knife, a thread, a needle, and a gauze. She laid it out and reached for some leaves in the kitchen and held it for him.

“Of course, we’re not rich, so we often use plants for healing. We either cover the injuries with the leaves or extract it and brush it to the wounds. We rarely use the gauze as that is truly expensive. Really, really expensive. Actually, I got this when a surgeon was travelling and unknowingly dropped it. Lucky me there was none around because I was alone in the fields back then. And even if there are people, they would have never noticed it anyway. Look, we were not even plundered at all! Which just proves that no one has seen me nor my little misdeed.”

“If you mean it a secret, then why did you tell me that?”

“Oh… I may be a little dumb on that.”

“It’s fine, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Back to these, the needle…”

Jane explained the purposes of the things she laid out, as Barry attentively listened. She talked and discussed much of everything, teaching Barry even of the procedures. She demonstrated her knowledge to him, which comes as a surprise to Barry. For such a woman like him in peasantry, she has the wisdom and intellect of a pedagogue. Her knowledge of matters like that fascinated Barry to her, interests piqued him greatly. But as she explained, Barry also took all of the information by mind, making sure he learned something from all of it.

“I think that is all I have to say. Was it fair?” asked Jane.

“It’s all good now.” smiled Barry. 

Jane took all of the equipment and stored it back where it belonged. 

“Anyway, thank you for coming with me here. I appreciate that you would care enough to visit us.”

“I intend to know more about you.”

“That is odd.” Jane chuckled. “You know, I never get why you would want to know about these anyway. With our lives in peasantry, I don’t think we would be able to work as a medic.”

“It’s for in needs only. But maybe just one day, I might actually. Join the army as surgeon and know those things.”

“That would take years to learn about it.”

“I believe they are desperate for now knowing the was in Spain.”

“Indeed, but I doubt they would just put you as in without the basic knowledge of how to do it. Besides, what I have taught you are just us peasants only know. There might be more advanced things they have that you know.”

“Then I’ll learn them quickly.”

Jane smiled at him and took her kit, reaching for the gauze and the knife. He stood, stretched for a moment before standing still again, ready to bid his farewell.

“I think I have to go now.” 

“Wait, hold on!” Jane called out, seemingly doing something in her hands. After a few moments, she gave him a portion of the gauze. “If you ever decide to actually be a surgeon.”

Barry looked at it, grinned in joy, but he held it out back to Jane. “I believe the army would supply us instead of using the spare from you.”

“If that is the case, then take it as a remembrance from me. You might forget I may be your first teacher.”

Barry chuckled, putting the gauze in his pocket. “Thank you then.”

“My pleasure,” Jane bowed. “Now go back and it seems like the sun is already setting. The market might be closing now and you still have to help your father.”

Barry nodded and sprinted through the fields, moving past through the previous route he went, going back into the market.

August 21, 1805

Magnanimous sky holding the clouds bound to rain. The rising sun basked the still sky in yellow, yet the gloomy clouds tinted in grey. Josiah saw the sky, still and dark. He thought that maybe he won’t come and sell his produce for now lest be the sky calmed still to its joy. Barry just woke up from his slumber, rising against the bed. For a moment of his grumpiness, his father asked him, “Where’d ye went yest’rday and that ye’re took time?”

“Just visited someone.”

“Someone? Ye ‘ave to tell me this pers’n then! Was it… a w’man? Oh my, ye ‘ave to tell me ‘bout her! A betrothed  ev’n?!”

“What? No! Why would you think of that, pa?”

“Ah, I ‘ad just ‘ssumed that ye would find love these ages. Ye know, young men like ye.”

“I don’t.”

“Well still ye ‘ave to tell me this someone?”

“A friend I met, helped me with healing.”

“Healing? Ar’ ye stricken by disease?”

“No. Can I explain later once I’m awake, pa?”

“Ah ‘right. Yes.”

Barry stood from the bed and headed to the table, where a simple porridge lay, waiting to be eaten. He sat down and started to gulp it, his consciousness now making more sense. While he sat and ate, he already forgot about the question earlier asked by his father, which Josiah would have been interested in, but he never probed him after. It’s after Barry finished he asked him again.

“Alright now son?”

“Yes, pa.”

“My question earlier…”

“Ah, a friend. I guided her back to home. She taught me things like the medic things and you know what. It is a short story I suppose.”

“That is fine. I guess ye two met bef’re then?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Barry, remembering how they met, came up with an excuse, as it is shameful and also knowing the nature of it, would make his father mad.

“Uh… the market! You know when people buy and I met her and we talk. You know the thing.”

“Alright then. I w’nder if she can ‘elp us?”

“She has her own thing to do?”

“Oh it’s ‘lright. I was jus’ hopin’ someone else can also ‘elp us if they’re kind ‘nough.”

“No, she has her own troubles in her life.”

“It’s fine. Anyhow, we seems not able to sell for t’day ‘cause of the possible rain, jus’ heedin’ ye know.”

Barry nodded. He ruminated for a while, thinking about her. He never thought of something that would interest him in her, although for the sake of her and her life, he burdened it deep inside of him. Still, an idea now ingrained to him by his father’s word, maybe there is a chance between them?

Chapter Text

August 25, 1805 / Fructidor 7, Year XIII - Montrogue

“In the wake of the morning in which the Parisian lights glimmered in beauty, Antoine rose up from his bed. The great city prided itself in the grandeur of its glory, unwavering in the visage of any other cities.”

“Jacob, I may not be knowledgeable of things you know, but isn’t that a little off that you started with someone waking up as your story?”

“How do you think so?”

“Boring.”

“Oh…”

“I am just being true however.”

“I know, but was that really bad?”

“Yes.” Pierre replied sternly.

Jacob dropped the paper he held, looking defeated from Pierre’s comment. He expressed not his thoughts yet for the main story, but true that he has some sensibility in his words. Bad introduction, indeed.

“What would you suggest then?”

Pierre shrugged, with naught to say. “I don’t know, it just seemed not right.”

“I cannot judge your intelligence but I believe your consideration of my story.”

“What must I say? I’m quite a good reader! Well I don’t read truthfully, I never did. It is not truly something I am predisposed with, but I’m certain I know what people want.”

“That is a lot of words for just saying ‘I don’t know things.’.”

“Oh halt now. I can think of many things right now that would implicate you of something.”

“Do not.”

“I do.”

Jacob swatted him with the papers in his hands, laughing at him with mockery. The papers burst into many, creating a rain of prose and papers. Pierre grabbed some of it and threw it to Jacob back, vengeance against the hit, but only it flew more, making a mess of dilapidated papers around them under the tree.

“Now your story is destroyed, how about that?” Pierre scornfully said.

“I have a copy.”

“Well then, a mess this place will be!”

The two crumpled the papers they managed to grab and threw it against each other. They besmirched the place around them, making a mess of the shadow they stayed in. Yet in these small friendly scuffle were the rays of memories, their small war igniting the joy and august of bittersweet yearning to each other, their camaraderie never to be vitiated.

A time passed by, the two in peace, sat by the tree where the mess scattered round them. In musing both they are still, pondering things about their matters. 

“Pierre?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to see the East with me?”

“Paris?”

“No… Maybe.”

“I would if you want, but do not expect me to protect you from everything.”

“I won’t, and why would you think of that?”

“Friends, remember? And the place I used to labour, the master might see me and berate me, even dare do something to me.”

“Right, but I doubt they will meet you in such a huge city. Am I right?”

“Right.”

“So do you want to?”

“Sure.”

They stood from the tree and prepared to leave. While Pierre seemed to be nonchalant about his own act, Jacob saw the mess they made, probing Pierre a question. “I think we should clean this place?”

“No need, it’ll just go away soon by the wind.”

“Ah… right…”

As Pierre sauntered, his back turned to from Jacob, he took a chance to clean some of the mess before he caught up with Pierre, not realising what he did. Together they walked through the road that connects Paris to Montrouge.

“Panthéon, grandeur, prideful, intimidating. The highest of them all, disparaging everything around. A church and a mausoleum, a temple and a monument. The greatest of anything in Paris. They house the dead we worship, their glory perpetual remembered. An irony that it became the very thing itself.”

“What?” said Pierre, as Jacob stared at front of the building, mesmerised by the beauty of it. It seemed that he was put in the trance of the glorious structure that stood before him. A Medusa at work, Jacob never moved from his admiration, notwithstanding the words uttered by his friend.

“JACOB!”

“Wha- what?!” Jacob, startled, he turned to Pierre, his face engraved with both concern and curiosity.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I am fine. I just think that is beautiful.”

“This is your first time seeing this?”

“No. But I am mesmerised by its beauty. I mean, look at it!”

“That is true, I must say,” he nodded. “But I am used to seeing that because of my labour, so I eventually became tired of it.”

“That is fair, I cannot blame you. But I interest myself in these grandest beauty that exists in the city. And that should give you an idea of what I like.”

“I know…” 

The two looked upon the front of the structure, Jacob unmoving, Pierre stultified. There was never any intention to talk to people, despite the plethora of such around, the cacophony drowning the calmness of the Parisian society. Yet a moment later, an illustrious looking lady, with a fair regality dress that exudes the air of the British elite approached them. She spoke to them in her native language.

“Salutations sir. Do you understand me?”

Pierre was baffled and confused, Jacob however was indifferent. Pierre remembered about his general hatred against the British, and seeing the woman’s dress exhibiting such features, would have assumed something about Jacob’s outward disposition right now changed, yet his countenance showed no sense of hatred against the woman, even if he faced her.

“Sorry, sorry madame, but we do not seem to understand you.” said Pierre awkwardly as he gestured to her, trying to at least make his words understandable to her despite the difference in language.. He might consider attempting to give distance between the woman and Jacob despite the hindrances of difference in language just for the requisite of not having Jacob to feel the certain prejudice he feels.

“Oh it is fine, Pierre. Let me talk to her.” Jacob replied.

Pierre felt a tense feeling and nervousness for what Jacob might say, or even do. He looked at him, sweat dripping from his face as he anticipated him to speak.

“Salut madame! Fortunately for you I do!”

The lady grinned, seemingly out of joy. Pierre noticed this, as the two continued to talk. The expression both exhibited seems amicable to him, which saw no trouble in between the two. He questioned this rather due to the indifference, or at least the reservation of Jacob towards these people.The woman and Jacob continued to talk, with Pierre only watching as he did not understand the medium of language they spoke. Weariness setting over him, he looked over the place, even studying if there had been any change to the place or see the world in a much more detailed way, the colloquy of the two fading into mere sound of the cacophonous crowd.

“Pierre.” Jacob prodded him while still looking around. Pierre noticed that the lady was gone.

“I assume you are done?”

“Yes.”

“Odd, you did not get mad.”

“True, I have said that I feel a certain prejudice towards those people, but would it be appropriate of me to exhibit such destitution of morals?”

“What?”

“I mean, I think it is not kind of me if I just showed my hatred towards them, especially to a woman with a selfless manner. I would say she’s really fun to talk with, despite that I cannot fully speak English. I mean I do know English, but not wholly. I can speak with someone in English and understand them, but I cannot assure that what I said is correct so I was just hoping she got my message right.”

“What did you two talk about anyway?”

“France? She just asked about what is happening in France now. Society and life, how it has been, was there any change before and after the revolution. I don’t know why she asked me out of all the people here. I am just 17! How am I supposed to know how society was back then? When I already gained my consciousness, I only know that Napoleon is the consul! Wait no, it was some year before he was the consul. I think 1897? 1896? I’m not sure, but it was years before he became the consul. And also as I remember, I do not remember actually, I am just a child then, how am I supposed to know what is happening when I am sheltered by my parents? Although I would say there was occasional chaos back then, much more peaceful today than yesterday I guess?”

“I cannot speak for that, we have different lives. Also, you know English?”

“Yes. Have I told you that?’

“No. Only that you hate the British.”

“Oh, uh… I learned it from my father?”

“And how exactly?”

“Things I cannot say because it would ruin the story because I haven’t thought of it.”

“Right. I guess a person like your father doesn’t seem like someone who would know English.”

“He is an occasional educator, that is why he knows English, sometimes. Not knowledgeable, but enough to teach me to understand what these British folks are saying. I might be a snitch to all of these people even.” Jacob chuckles, “Do you think the government would hire me as a secret police against the British?’

“I doubt. Maybe in a conscription, but no.”

“Oh…”

Pierre turned to look at the Panthéon, his attention shifting back around. Jacob did so as well, again mesmerised by the architecture of the building. There is a plethora of people still around, talking and chattering, some going in the Panthéon, but Pierre noticed the amount of British elite, especially women. He also noticed the lack of these elite men, questioning such oddity.

“Jacob, you do realise there’s barely any British men in here, but a lot of women?”

“I did notice it too.”

“Do you think that woman you talked to has any idea why?”

“I think so, I did not ask her that because I have not thought of it while we were talking. Maybe I’ll ask another woman?”

Pierre shrugs. Jacob saw it as a shrug of approval and went to the nearest British lady he saw. Pierre did not expect him to do that literally so when Jacob approached the lady, he tried to stop him. However he was late enough that Jacob talked with the lady so all he did was just to stand beside him in embarrassment as Jacob talked with the lady. Their conversation was blurred to him due to language used, of course, but it also took some minutes to conclude their dialogue, again boring Pierre.

“Thank you sir! I really appreciate your help with that. I ought to know what mere transgression even we deserved of such chastisement.”

“Is no problem, madame! Am happy for help!”

“I bid my farewell now young man, my gratitude is greatly indebted to you.”

The lady went so, seeming to join the other elites with almost the same mien, and Jacob turned to Pierre.

“Done yet?”

“Yes.”

“So what was that about?”

“The government apparently jailed almost all British men within the empire, just leaving the women. And even then they are stuck here because they cannot leave. They cannot leave that is why. I told her as much as I could to maybe help her but almost none can I say.”

“That’s tough.”

“I know. Made me wonder what happened to the men in exile though.”

“You want to find out?”

“No.”

“You know, that would be nice?”

“I think, I do appreciate that. That you thought of me about it but I don’t think I would do that. I would not mess with the government, let alone the entire military.”

“Just once?”

“No.”

“See, maybe you are not used to it, but a little trouble is what makes life fun, at least.”

“But was it worth the punishment?”

“Uhhhh…”

“See? You are speechless on that matter. I believe you have done this many times during your previous labour, and the masters must have really punished you much. For me I am not, so I hope you know my disposition towards fear and obedience because I may be the opposite of what you lament to yourself or to me.”

“Too much talk, not enough walk, how about instead of talking about your entire ‘being a slave to the government’ words, you have something else more than that?”

“Isn’t literally going here already bad?”

“No, actually. We’re just going here because we-”

“You.”

“Right. I want to visit. Isn’t that enough that you would trust me on anything?”

Jacob pondered for a moment. It is true, he is willing to do anything for him, for his yearning and affection would do him the service of pleasing him. But is the penance for a misdemeanour a worthwhile endeavour to partake himself in just to satisfy the feeling of affection towards him? He thought, maybe, maybe it is worthy. Anything to complete the desolate feeling of what a forbidden love to him. Yet still his brain halted his feeling of acting out on such a huge decision. To partake in such iniquity would be damning. Lest he see it as such of a peccadillo would be a satisfaction, yet it still would be hard to remove from his thought the severity of such transgression. In the fight between his feelings and mind, he had a conclusion to one.

“Yes, you’re right.”

“So, you would go with me to find these prisoners then?”

“I would have to think about it for some days.”

Pierre shrugs. “Fair enough, at least I would have time to formulate plans. Also, where? Where do these prisoners hide? Taken I mean.”

“Prison, of course?”

“Right, but what if-”

“I am certain they are in prisons.”

“Right, whatever. Let us just go back. Your mother is probably waiting for us. We have been gone long enough, a scolding from your mother would be so damningly stern.”

“I hate you right now.”

“And I love you.” Pierre chuckled, looking at Jacob. Jacob’s expression was indifferent, yet hearing those words made his cheeks red. He tried to hide it, turning away his face from Pierre, who is now sauntering back with his arm around his shoulder. Pierre didn’t notice it, fortunately for him, but Jacob’s heart felt so light, that solemn carefree moment in which he felt a great sense of serenity. Those words felt like a calming song sung upon by his lover, knowing that he cannot even tell him of such feelings. For the entirety of their walk back home, he tried to hide that fleeting emotion of genuine joy he cannot contain from the dulcet words he spoke of. Still he had to think about what Pierre wanted from him, to commit such a crime, but that was set aside for now, from the loving words he heard from him.

Chapter Text

September 2, 1805 - Hevingham

Days numbered as the harvest season reaches its climax. Josiah and Barry, their egregious (archaically) harvest needed to be sold while still garnering some of their yields. Of course, as their usual means, they went to the market along with the ripped harvest to be bought by the masses. There were many as usual, like the orthodox of those always redundant days of what an average life of the Britons in the countryside. Briskly and lively were the people, despite the approaching end of the harvest season. It is well known even after a few days that the marketplace is still open. It would take time for the produce to eventually dwindle until only those provided by the government will be left to suffice the populace.

“I still ‘ave the interes’ of meetin’ ye comrade.”

“Probably.” shrugged Barry.

Josiah looked at him, his looks of probing and curiosity evident in his face. He may be wondering, even a little worry of what is inside of his son’s mind. “Everythin’ alright?”

“Yes pa. Everything is alright. Why’d have to ask suddenly?”

“Ah, ye seemed not to be bother’d by athyin’ at all. I might ‘s well swear ye’r sick with the way ye speak!”

“Was I not like this always?”

His father shrugged, “True. I guess ye could say that.”

While waiting for customers, as both two were behind their stalls guarding it, Josiah pondered how, or for what matter about his son’s friend, even drew them both together. It wasn’t odd to think of him, knowing that for the entirety of his son’s life, he made no companion for himself. If anything, such impossibility would bound him to naught in his death but William, Earl of Aylsham — who so happened to be of the gentries that he knew naught of the farm life. It would be either nothing or so of opulence to him. Either Barry would be a mistake to such a connection, failing to provide for him, leading to destitution, or be a good acquaintance, perpetually being a puppet of the duke. Either way would be parlous, as he would be a slave to the hierarchy. In defence however, do they even have the prerogative to be free and equal to their masters from the start? There is still naught to even worry if his fate is sealed by his house, bound eternal to suffering.

“Pa.” 

Josiah, snapped back to reality, replied, “Yes?”

“Would you really intend to visit my friend?”

“Of course! Why should I not?”

“I think it’s odd.”

“I don’t see why? How’d it’s odd to ye? That I’m meetin’ her? ‘nless there somethin’ ye ‘ave to say to me.”

“No, there’s nothing. I assume that’s just… odd.”

“Maybe to ye, but not mine. Think of it as somethin’ generational. I guess I ne’er told ye that before, but somethin’ ‘bout culture or alike. I think it’s not anymore the norm of ye people. I cannot blame ye on that, as I am gettin’ old for these old traditions.”

“Oh no, no, pa. I just don’t find any reason why you should see her, but I cannot blame you if you want to see her. We should set a date, overmorrow or anytime soon we both plan. I would have to ask her first before you however.”

“It’s fine, I jus’ want to meet yer friend. I suppose it’s good that ye have someone now?” chuckles he, as to tease Barry.

Barry shrugs, knowing his father does have a point. He was never the person who is gregarious to anyone as he was rather aloof. Reservation towards anyone is his sole demeanour preoccupation.

Meeting by the hill close to the marketplace, Barry and Jane sat together, facing to see the entire village. Jane watched the tiny people from the distance, dancing around like a play in the theatre. Barry meanwhile sat still, his body unmoving as he pondered something. Both stayed still, not speaking nor talking as if the two were just a scarecrow on top of the hill. After a while of stillness, Barry turned to Jane, and asked her, “Jane, my father would want to meet you.”

Jane pivoted on him, inquisitive of what he said.

“What?”

“My father…”

“I know, just… why?”

“It’s because you’re my first companion he said, that’s why.”

“Does he even know how we first met?”

“No, he did ask, I made a story.”

“That’s just funny.” chuckles she, “but I cannot heed to your father’s request if that is just the reason. Unless of course, if it is an important matter or otherwise.”

“He did asked me once if you could help us in our stall”

“Like your harvesting?”

“No, not harvesting! I mean selling.”

“I know you meant selling. Why would I squander my time on literally helping you on harvesting an entire field?! That is not a woman’s job.”

“You sound cruel with that talk.”

“It is true though, is it not?”

Barry shrugged.

“See? Besides, I still have my own matters in my home so I don’t see myself harvesting your produce.”

“I told you, you would of help only for selling, not harvesting.”

“Indeed, right, right. A clerk basically, but what would I get in return?”

“A stipend, of course.”

Jane shrugged, “I’m not surprised, at least I got something.”

For a moment, Jane was silent, thinking of the offer, while Barry sweats in trepidation on her answer. He never was keen on hiring others, for their destitution is a hindrance to add another one to pay for. Yet he did it just for his father’s sake. Ironically, he also disliked all of his father’s propositions, not even hiding this fact to Jane or his father. 

“I could accept that, but I do want to meet your father first as he requests.”

“Alright, day and time?”

“I could do even tomorrow! Or maybe a day or two. I guess my safest assurance when I’m free is two days soon. We could meet each other’s family if you want? I do want to, so if they want me to work for you two, it is better to meet you two first. And they would greatly be joyous to meet your father too. Besides, they know you already, and since… wait, is your family–”

“It’s just me and my father.”

“Oh…” Jane was silent. She didn’t know this fact. “I suppose you two could… or at least our family be close? A close acquaintance, I guess that’s much better for both of us?”

“That sounds like a marriage proposal if you think of it.”

“We are just on amicable terms, Barry.”

“True. I just thought of this proposition as funny.”

“You never laughed, I find that unbelievable.”

“Indeed.” shrugs he.

So agreed upon by the two companions their meeting time. They both went back to their usual talks (it shall be noted that it was not discussed anywhere previous in this story, but by assumption we make that these two talk of the usual countryside matters). To assuage or not these conversations are their matter, fickle was the topic, and so often changed. Until their time being together has fleeted, and each went back to their own businesses, meeting again tomorrow and overmorrow.

September 2, 1805 - Hevingham

Day of the meeting, in Jane’s house they resided. It was noon still, the two are supposed to be in the marketplace during this, but were here to meet Jane’s. Inside were just Jane, one of her brothers, and the matriarch. She went to serve some water for the two, sitting by the edge of the wall. 

“I’m Mary, mother of Jane.” introduced she to Josiah.

“Josiah.” replied he gladly.

“Ah, my husband is not here yet. He is still in factory.”

“A factory?”

“Yes, I know that is unbelievable! But he does work in one!”

“But I ‘ave not seen one anywhere?”

“It is quite far, an hour walk or maybe more. That’s why he mostly comes home at night. In fact he rarely has time with us. He would have gone by before sunrise, and come back after sundown. A tiny time, but anything for the family. I cannot blame it upon me or him, we have these children to feed.”

“I know, I know, ye ‘ave to, ever’one of course! We need somethin’ to do jus’ to live.”

Mary gave an acknowledged smile and went back to fetch her own doings. Jane came from a separate room to welcome them. Josiah saw her, and greeted her.

“Oh yer the one my son is talkin’ ‘bout?”

“I suppose so.” smiled she.

“I’m surprised even he found a girl like ye. I don’t know if he told ye ‘bout his reclusive act.”

“Pa!” cried Barry.

“It is true!”

“I didn’t know about that.” Jane interjected, “I’m under impression he is quite amiable. He never told be about it, I mean, who would want themselves to be told how reclusive they are, no?”

“Indeed, I s’ppose that’s normal.” Josiah shrugs. Barry sulked at their talks, silent as to not expound more of his disposition. Mary returned, with a convivial expression. They sat opposite of the two, facing each other.

“My son does not want to meet new people. He is like that, not that he hates you so worry not about it.” Mary announced.

“It’s no problem to me.” replied Barry.

“So… why? Why would you want to meet us?” asked Mary to Josiah.

“I would want for her to work with us.” replied he.

“That sounds like selling my daughter to slavery.”

“Oh no no, I don’t do that. I would ‘ave no money for that. And I don’t do slav’ry. It’s jus’ farm works.”

“Farm works? So harvesting–”

“Selling.”

“Selling what?”

“Our produce. We don’t want her for harvestin’. Me and my lad here could work with harvestin’ alone. I don’t need more for me harvest. I jus’ want her for sellin’ my crops, helpin’ an’ such.”

“Ah, you’re a vendor in the marketplace?”

“Yes.”

“And you want her help selling?”

“Yes.”

“Ah… I might approve that, but you would have to ask my husband first if he would allow it.”

“It’s fine to me.”

“But it’ll take time! At dawn he will arrive and it’s the midst of the sun right now!”

“True indeed. We can’t stay for that long. Maybe ye could ask for us?”

“I will.”

“And jus’ tell it to yer daughter an’ meet Barry so he can tell me.”

“I will.”

“So that settles it then?”

“It does! I do want our family to get closer, if you would? But it is fine under me if you don’t want to.”

“Oh no, no. It’s fine t’ me! I would love us be closer! Although… William might not take kindly of this.”

“William?”

“A rich neighbour.” Barry interjected, “forgive me pa for the slander but I don’t like him that much.”

“No, no. It’s fine, ‘gain. I jus’ stay close for him so he won’t speak ‘gainst us. Ye know how scary those rich people ar’.”

“Indeed pa, but that is just my thought.”

The two families conversed through, continuing until they ran out of things to talk about. After that, they fetched each other, and bid their goodbyes. It was the afternoon of almost three when they went back to their home. Josiah was delighted to meet the family of his son’s friend. A good impression, he must say. It struck him no oddity nor weirdness as they are just as equal as they are. Peasants to peasants, their connection bound together. Barry was also merry of it, as to settle what his father desired. And for once, he felt that he had someone else now, other than his father and the irascible, dyspeptic, opulent duke by their farm. Three people in his life, a new one bound his fate to be changed (or not, which would soon manifest in its own way).

Chapter Text

Jacob has been repeatedly vexed by Pierre with his constant request despite the fact that he knew he needed time for it. Out of annoyance and for the health of his ear, he acquiesced withal. This decision was hasty however, as he just decided to agree solely for the purpose of stopping him from speaking or annoying him again on the topic. The consequence of agreeing is that unfortunately, he has to do what he agreed upon. He had a morsel of patience towards any indignation or such idiocy Pierre perpetuated, but it is equal to his benignity and magnanimity for him. His toleration however made him much more perturbed as his decision turned from a taciturn choice to an exacted delinquency. He had no plan whatsoever for what he was going to do, only upon the subservience of Pierre and his words. Pierre told him the settings of their crime, a prison in Paris. Not truly a prison as the people held within are no prisoners but of common people, elites of the British.

September 8, 1805 / Fructidor 21, Year XIII - Montrogue

It was the midnight morning vigil of Jacob, to help his companion Pierre in his intrusion to this ‘prison’. He had to think twice of this decision as he still lays in bed, knowing such misdemeanour would lead him to the very thing he will ‘visit’. Such irony presents themself in this scenario. Yet he also cannot wage his friendship with him if he wanted to stay close with him, if he let his mind control him. It was the struggle of the two components of what makes him himself. The greatest pleasure of the heart, and the greatest suffering of the mind, is the crusade of feelings. To an unfortunate circumstance at this point he had let his brain control his aspect of life, his feelings never being acknowledged by his decision, so he let go of his reasoned judgement and allowed himself to be consumed by the guilty feelings of his desire to deepen their connection.

He threw himself off the bed and looked around to assure his mother was fast asleep. He silently crept to the front door, which is fortunately just nearby his room. He went outside, and went to their meeting place by the garden nearest to their bakery, where Pierre had been waiting.

“Took you long time, huh?”

“Have you been waiting here for a long time really?”

“No, it has been minutes actually before you came, but it’s for telling you how slow you are.”

“Was that your gratitude for agreeing to come with you?”

“Maybe.” Pierre chuckles, “besides, the excitement is the gratitude you’d have once we’re done with this.”

“Doesn’t sound like one when I’m not disposed to this.”

“You agreed to join me.”

“I did it so you won’t annoy me.”

“You agreed nonetheless.”

“Fine, whatever.”

Pierre laughed and hugged him tightly after. “I love you mate, can’t believe you’d agree to join me. I never had someone so close to me as much as you do, and now I finally have someone like you! So I’m thankful for that. Although, I would admit this is an odd request.”

“Let’s just do this quickly, alright?” Jacob sternly replied. His countenance shows no emotion, but deep inside of him he was ablaze with feelings from Pierre’s dulcet declamation. He had to have that look as to show his annoyance to him with their delinquency, but he had that deep hidden emotions of pure ardour and passion to him. He looked at him, scrutinising his visage to see if he really had that feeling of love for him. He thought that such a man would never make him that pure emotion of love, that such a rascal would never make him fall in love. He thought that this is a different person from who he first met. Yet still despite these changes in disposition and his forbearance to commit no mistake, he fell harder. He questioned himself in what world would he be damned by a mischief-maker to  be bound to love? Such folly would be perpetuated in his mind and feelings.

The two dashed through the vespertine city, every faint light shining through the windows of the darkened roads served as their guiding light. They also avoided places with significant noises and of possible places where the watchmen were stationed. Their knavery did not let anyone or anything hinder their quest for curiosity with what this prison held beyond, but their fascination of what is hidden within this bastion of penance. 

It was around three in the morning when they reached the building, just some earlier an hour since they left the garden. The structure, which stood pridefully in its hedonistic ego, where it looked nothing like a prison they colloquially know. Grandest building, yet subpar in design. It looked no different than a regular bastion but with a lesser degree of grandeur by its design, made to mimic the regularity of the society’s life. The two hid behind one of the few close buildings, sometimes sneaking a sight of watchmen guarding the grand gate before going back behind. 

“What is your plan here?” Jacob asked.

“There must be a way in. They will probably leave.” 

“Guards? Leaving? Have you thought that these were prisoners they were holding and so they cannot just let themselves be down?” 

“Right, you’re right. There should be another way.”

“Or have you considered this as a bad idea? I am sure there would be no good result rega–”

“Oh hey look!” Pierre pointed. The two guards, which were previously seen earlier, are now gone.

“What.” Jacob turned to look to see it was truly gone. What a bad timing, he thought. He is screaming internally, with just how much arrogance these guards showed, not from just leaving their post, as the prisoners might escape, but that now Pierre has a reason to continue with their delinquency. Pierre looked around, with no resounding specks of people. He then grabbed Jacob’s hand and dashed straight to the gate, which was unlocked by (mis)fortune’s grace. They went in, slowly moving the gate open, and then closed it. In front of them was the courtyard, silent as ever with its few gardens and swaying trees giving life to a rather bleak surrounding. The building inside looked like a giant hall, with the courtyard serving as the grand floor that housed these derelict remains of what would become the grandest in the building. The side walls that wedged the courtyard are rooms with small windows, lightened only by a dim shine of the torches inside. The north side, which faces them, along the south where the gate is, are empty corridors that overlook the courtyard. In the ground, what was the place of these supposed rooms and corridors is the gallery, supported by pillars and columns with stairs on three different sides, placed in the centre of these walls. They immediately hid in one of the pillars to hinder themselves from any suspecting eyes above. 

“What now?” asked Jacob.

Pointing at the nearest stair, Pierre replied, “We go there, of course.”

“Right.”

They sneaked their way to the stairs, their steps the only one echoing through the silence. Reaching the second floor, they noticed the lack of guards patrolling the premises. Such an odd thing knowing the essence of this particular place. Walking around the dark hall, with the torches only serving them the light that guides them. They looked around while sauntering through the hall. The wall right of them has occasional windows that overlook the city, while on the left were metal doors lined perfectly with no windows. 

“These must be where they house.” suggests Jacob.

“Probably. They don’t even have a small opening. How can we even see what is inside of these rooms!”

“I think that is just how prison works.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes.”

Pierre shrugs. They continued to walk along the corridor, sometimes reaching the balcony that oversees the courtyard. As the two continued to saunter, Jacob had a curious thought.

“I find it weird there is almost no guard here, a single one even!”

“Maybe on rest? Besides, it is almost morning, they probably will rest.”

“Yes, but would it make more sense if they are all alert for the entire day?”

“They are guards, humans too! They probably are resting right now, a short one probably.”

“And that doesn’t answer how odd this ‘prison’ looks. Not a single tower out here, just almost a square building.”

“Maybe because they aren’t actual criminals? You remember that lady told you of things? I’m sure you mentioned to me that they just detained those ordinary men, the ones they say are elite. It is probably better if they made those– these people feel like home instead like a prison. But I think these doors would not make it look congenial and look like home though.”

“True, I suppose you can say that. Also, how do you even know where this prison is anyway?”

“I told you I know Paris more than you because I’ve been here before, always.”

“Oh yes, I remember. You said you saw Panthéon so many times you eventually became tired of it, no?”

“Yes, I said that.”

“I do remember now. It is still odd you know where a prison is.”

“I don’t really think it was even a prison at all when this was built. You said it has no towers, right? I am sure every prison I know or at least has been in my mind has towers.”

“Huh, your premise does make sense.”

“It partly came from you, but also because this place looks odd. No guard, no tower, it looks like it was built as a residence. Something feels wrong about this.”

“Well, we do know it housed these British ‘prisoners’ which are actually just foreigners so that’s one reason why this is odd.”

“Indeed.”

“So what now?”

“Uhh… I don’t know?”

“You invited me here to join you but you have no plan what to do here?”

“I just want to know if that lady is telling the truth. I also want to see the inside too I guess.”

“That… is pathetic.”

The two explored the structure, visiting every floor and doors. To their dismay they never found anything interesting in this bleak environment, yet still an air of peculiarity lingered as they reconnoitre the place. Occasional sounds and faint voices can be heard, leading them to slink through the olden passages. Yet there were never true people in their premises, let alone a vision of one. Such eccentricity made them suspicious of the building. They are not even certain if there are people inside these doors plastered in the walls, as they have seen no silhouette through the windows of any rooms at all. In defence of these chambers however is that it was before dawn that their excursion started. 

 As the sun slowly hovered the horizon, peeking its aurum lights to the sky, the duo went down to the ground floor. They had supposed that by the absence of any human within the building, and so is the outside. Walking to the gate still talking, a shout came from the gate. The two looked at the source of the sound, seeing guards wielding their muskets pointing at them. They questioned the presence of the two boys, their identity and such. As they struggled to answer, Pierre took Jacob’s hand and sprinted throughout the maze of the building. The guards, calling others to help him, followed. 

It should be known that no one shall escape the law, its words, nor its way. Law punishes everyone with no certain prejudice. However, there is greater prejudice than the prejudice of the law. 

Chapter Text

One may ponder the grand city that lies just north of Barry’s hometown, Norwich. Never had he gone there nor anyone he knows, for the obvious reason of their penury. What is it to do up there in that city where the opulence lay in peace with their wealth undisturbed by any peasants or farmers like him. However let it be known that while these people’s hierarchies were lower than those who live in conformity of the gentry, they still divide the class between them. Peasants are lower than the farmers, lowest of the lower class. This makes them – the farmers – more august to the eyes of these nobles. Of course because they also provide the nourishment of the country, so to a certain threshold these respect were often given to them. But that does not mean they are equal to them as they do the dirty work of plundering every crop of their yield, the slaying of the clementine animals, and the bathing of their own drenched sweat. But if a noble were to thole enough of these indignation towards the mess of their work, they might consider them as more equal like humans. William, the Lord-Duke that lived near them with his grandeur house, was one of them. He had the initial disposition of that disgust regarding the farmers nearby. These seeped through the derision he spoke of when he met Josiah and his son. And while these mockery percolate through the mind of Josiah, he had a well too kind heart to retaliate these aggressions towards them. By the eventual passing of boredom that permeated William’s life in the countryside led him to tolerance with these farmers, his trust to them embedded perpetual with the utmost respect.

September 8, 1805 - Hevingham

The morning casts aglow through the golden sheen of fields. The rooster far ahead, their matin song harmonious. William, from his veranda, called upon the father and son. Rarely he summons farmers to his home lest be something worthy – to a greatest extent of worth –  be enunciated upon. It shall be known that any casual palavers (that William often does) are done outside by the courtyard of his house. A few moments were given through the interlude between the act and the summoning. The two, now in the parlour of the house, along with William sitting on the settee. Barry and Josiah joined him, settling themselves on the chesterfield. 

“I would have preferred if I met only Barry, but we know that he is your son so it also concerns you.” William said.

“It is fine to me, ‘ndeed that ye ‘ave not invited me.” chuckles Josiah.

“Well it would be rude of me to tell you to move out now since I've invited you here so why not have some coffee here? Or tea is still not to your taste, no?”

“Appar’ntly still not.”

“It has been months that you haven’t had tea. May I offer yet another one? Maybe just this time again? You might quite enjoy it now.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try t’ me.”

“Very well. But fret not if ever you did not desire it, I would still offer a coffee for you.”

William stood and went to grab a tea set, along with raw grinded beans for coffee. Barry would have been riveted by the tea as he had desired it then, but unsure with such geniality and the prejudice he holds against the opulent man. Still he would have to accept it if he did not want to show his reservation against him. 

William settled into his seat with the tea set, pouring themselves with tea while preparing the grounded beans for safety’s sake. The three took their own sip, Josiah, a little winced from the tea however. 

“Must still not be to your taste, no?”

“Improv’d a bit t’ me, I guess.”

“That must be a coffee then for you.” chuckled William. Josiah prepared for himself, mixing according to his taste. After taking a sip, he asked, “So why brought us here?”

“Ah yes, I would love to ask Barry if he can deliver something for me in Norwich. A lightweight package I suppose.”

“Sorry?” questioned Barry.

“I only have one houseman, and I cannot expect to send my only one to deliver a package in Norwich.”

“But I know nothing about the city.”

“Ah true, but I shall provide you a map. I just need you to deliver my package to the Parcel Post in Norwich. It should not be a difficult task as it is marked in the local map. I shall get it for you if you decide to agree.”

“And by that what should I get in return?”

“Money. Call it a service you provide for me once, or many soon.”

Barry turned to his father, who was watching them both. He stared at him expecting a comment, but shrugged only. He did say something, “I wouldn’t stop him from askin’ ye to do service for him. It is to ye to decide. Think of all poss’bilities, son, that ye woul’ enjoy in either yer choice.”

Barry pondered for a moment, thinking of what would be of greatest benefit of choice. He could refuse, which would tie him still to his land and would restrain himself to his usual practice of everyday life, but doing so would be rejecting fortunes to be beholden upon them. Besides, he never saw a city yet, so that would be a great expedition for him.

“Then I should.” he nodded.

“Ah that’s great! I shall be providing you a horse to help with travelling as well. Of course that is always necessary. I am certain you know how to do so with all the things we used to do back then? Teaching you and all those things?”

“I know, I know sir.”

“Great! Then I shall see you outside as I arrange for you. Please prepare yourself first before we meet.” William stood and went to get all things done as the two were left alone. Barry turned to his father, still savouring the coffee.

“Is that right that I chose it?”

“It is a great help, son, that we would ‘ave some more money in that case. Besides, I wouldn’t mind if ye chose the other.”

Barry smiled at him, and hugged him. His father returned the favour, and speaking, “Now go ‘ave a bath while we wait.” They took off to their house for cleaning. 

William came out from his house with the package, along with a bag and a map. The two meanwhile stood near the front porch. William fetched a horse, attaching the package to the saddle. He then went to Barry, handing him the bag and the horse. “That haversack contains some food and drinks that you and the horse might need while travelling. I assure you that the journey shall be short, but still would require nourishment. You can keep it if there still remains after your journey. And I have attached the package here to the horse so you would not have to carry it while still travelling. The package can be detached here. Do consider that there is also a letter fastened with the package with the instructions for the postal service to do. Just tell them my name, and they will know what to do. I doubt it will get lost, but still look out for it.” He showed the map to Barry pointing the directions. “If you follow the road, you will emerge here. Once you’re here, you can figure out the roads that lead you to the Parcel Post. If you are lost, just ask people around, they should be of help, I hope. Oh, and do leave the horse near the livery stable by the Parcel Post. I am certain you can find it easily once you reach the Post.”

Barry nodded as he took the items from him. Before proceeding, William stopped him, giving him some money. 

“What is this for?”

“If you want to purchase in the city you are interested in. Be it food or trinkets, if you want it, take it.” William smiled at him.

Barry saw that he was genuine with his action, and smiled back. He hiked to the horse, readied himself, and took position. He smiled at both of them, especially to his father, who watched him with joy. He bid his farewell to the two, and the two bid their best wishes for him. The horse started trotting, leading away from the village, with Barry ardent discovery of the land far beyond. 

He never pried into asking if he should bring an item from him, as he assumes best that he can bring anything, besides, he will be back soon enough with this short ride after. Yet still for the assurance of his mind, he brought the gauze that Jane had given him. If injuries arose from the accident he would expect, that gauze would help him somehow. He knew it was not possible, but it has been months since he tried riding a horse. So if the horse he is riding right now would act crazed impulsively or by accident, that sure would save him some death from wounds.

After h0urs of the horse trotting through the country roads, he reached the city, filled with life and glamour his hometown can never be. Here blends the aggregate of all classes that imbues British society. Proprietors and peasants, aristocrats and farmers, merchants and workers, and all of everything that convolutes this city into a blooming cacophony. The buildings that stood proudly had the intricacy of beauties alike of William’s house. It is under his impression that this city must be the abode of many wealthy men by the virtues it exudes. Looking at the map he was holding, he mapped out his destination and the route he was going to take. While letting the horse do its job and promenading pensively, he looked around, taking in the splendour of this opalescent city. He noticed that some people looked at him, their countenance showing a mix of emotions. Many seem to view him in suspicion, some with wonder, and others in surprise. As he ruminated on the people staring at him, he noticed a lack of other fellow auburn. It seems that he might be alone of his kind. He would have assumed that they already saw some at least in the past, but with such mien these people show, he thought of otherwise. 

After more minutes of the horse prowling through the mess of roads and broadways, they found the Parcel Post, strategically located on the main thoroughfare where many are beguiled by their own matters. He found the entrance to the livery stable beside the Post, entered, and left the horse behind. He detached the parcel and went inside the building through the backdoor that connects the stable to the office. 

The inside looked cosy, an air of coldness and opulence wafted through his nose and eyes. The wooden veneer of the interior, kept alight by the candles, felt like an entrance already to the grandeur of the nobilities’ estates. The daedalian designs and the smell of papers and wood permeates the surrounding. Barry went to a clerk, asking for assistance regarding the delivery of the package he held. The clerk greeted him before explaining to wait as they are still busy. The clerk’s voice displayed no sign of aggression nor contempt against Barry despite his clothing and looks suggesting him of a lower class. Of course, Barry still viewed this with suspicion that it is under the prejudice of class that the clerk spoke this statement. So while still the clerk tries to preoccupy himself (which it fails to burlesque itself through its obvious ridiculing way), he invokes the name of Duke William. The clerk stared at him with suspicion. Upon Barry mentioning the paper attached to the package – realising that it was indeed real – got to work immediately. His suspicion truly is real.

After dealing with the labour he had to do, in which the service is now processing the matter, he went to a nearby bakery. With the money William gave him, he purchased two pieces of bread, one for himself, and another for the horse. While walking back to the stable, he was interrupted by a gentleman. A fine man dressed as though he belonged to an army., asked him many questions. He inquires about his notably masculine physiques, his current activities, and his reason for being here, often trying to diverge him from his route. With the brute strength this man shows, he cannot elude his way out of this interaction. He seemingly led him out to a more discreet, darkened area until into an alleyway with other men who dressed like him. Here he was, standing before a circle of men who are part of the military with the way of their clothing. He did not know their intentions, but he thought that he did something to offend the law. Finally, one of them spoke.

“Join us.”

“What?”

“Join us in the navy.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, but I still have a farm to tend to.”

“Did I care about that?”

“But I really need to-”

“Well you can just be silent and follow us, or be one of those noisy ones and forcefully drag you to the navy. Either way is fine, the choice is upon yours.”

“What!?!?”

“Sorry young lad, war and stuff. We’re desperate.” said another.

“But still-”

Some of the soldiers wielded their sabres to him, holding him at swordpoint. With such a scenario, he was trepidated by such an act that he has no choice but to acquiesce. The soldiers returned their swords into their sheath and with such an act of barbarity, they sang of glory as they invited yet another to join their ranks. Regardless of how unethical it would be, this impressment would still continue for years to come, with Barry – a random son of a farmer with no previous experience in warfare – had fallen victim to.

Little to the knowledge of his companions and relatives back in Hevingham that he had been coerced to join the military. It would be soon found out by William, Josiah, and Jane that their interaction earlier shall now be their last.

Chapter Text

September 8, 1805 / Fructidor 21, Year XIII - Montrogue

It is the time of the wrath by the laws that founded the empire. There shall be no man immune to the invocation of the laws that governed the land of the greatest nation in Europe but the Emperor. Jacob and Pierre, with their delinquency committed in a place of damnation, has been implicated by such a treasonous crime by the virtue of their actions. Thrown in a gaol the both of them, they sat in the corner of their room.  The small chamber lacks anything remarkable but the two pairs of beds on opposite sides. It has a window that overlooks the outside, which barely has any vista on. Pierre stood and leaned on the craggy texture of the bricks that laid the foundation of the wall. His countenance showed shame, but no regrets. A facade with only his silence and the gallantry of being reserved etched Jacob’s face on the other hand. This act had given him more justification to dislike Pierre with his troubles afflicting him. The two stayed silent for the whole ordeal from when they got caught until this very moment. They were interrogated for a while as the soldiers were transporting them to prison. They were certain – or at least they hoped – that after this, they would be sent to a reformatory.

It has been hours since their imprisonment, the two silent against each other. Neither showed any signs to speak. But after a moment, Pierre spoke, his tone neutral, “At least we discovered something new, right?” he nervously chuckled. Jacob remained silent. He was not too pliant on his words. Pierre sat on the left bed, facing him. “Just talk to me if you want to.” he said sombrely, before lying in the bed, facing the ceiling.

“I don’t like you.” Jacob finally spoke.

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“...”

“You had always wanted to be with me.”

“Because you are a friend.”

“I know that. Friends often are together. But you always, always , want yourself to be with me. You tied yourself to me. You are there wherever I am. Going to places I’ve always used to go, going to places you want to go, we’re always together. And I cannot even hate you on that because we’re friends right? Together? Of course that is obvious, friends always stay together. But sometimes, I yearn that I may be alone sometimes. I wish to have some time for myself, even a day. But you work for us, work with me. I cannot even blame you because I did the one for your bidding. You do all these cuts and arts that I asked you to do, the clerks and selling. It is upon myself to bring this misfortune to me, am I right?”

“I’ve never seen you speak like that.”

Jacob stared at him with an impassive look. This settled Pierre back into reclusion. For those times they were silent, the stillness of the air even with the winds that sang a chanson through the cell window.

“I had a friend once,” Pierre spoke, breaking the silence, “he was my first friend of anything. I like him. I used to be with him back home a lot when I was still labouring through that factory. He gave me some closeness, friendship, I don’t know. It’s like he is guiding me sometimes. Of course he does, he is a priest besides. I was surprised when I met him first because my father told me all friars and priests are dead. I don’t know, that’s what I think he said. A young priest, I can tell by his face. He speaks like an aristocrat. He smells like one. I think he is probably a nobility, but maybe because priests were high rank back then. My father told me how when the revolution happened, a lot of the aristocrats and clergiesleft, died, killed, guillotined. Oh now that I think of it, he isn’t a nobility because clergy are higher than nobility.

“His name was Louis. He told me there are a lot of Louis too in the church. I’m not surprised. My mother used to go to church a lot back then and many are named Louis. He was a good fellow, offering me some food and money whenever he could. I remember him telling me to not tell anyone who is giving me food. I told you now so I suppose I violated his words. My mother thought I got them from a store that sells foods cheaply. She didn’t know my friend gave it to me. Louis told me that many of his fellow priests hated the poor. They said the revolution took all their powers from them and now they are powerless. They resent us. Louis didn’t. He helped me a lot. He said he often gets reprimanded for slipping out often and bringing food out because some ‘peasant’ might steal it from him. Maybe not, but he did give it to me.

“I asked him if I could meet his fellows, or even friends in the church but he refused. Of course it’s because they hated us, but he also said that priests who give to the poor would be punished. It made me realise how much the church hated me, hated us. It made me hate them too. But not Louis.”

“What happened to him?” asked Jacob.

“He was gone. Not dead, maybe. But gone. Suddenly one day just never visited me. I thought that he was sick. He always shows every day or two. If more than that, I suppose he was busy or sick. He told me that if he didn’t show up for some time, he might be busy or sick. Maybe he’s travelling or in some cathedral away. Of course I believed him because if he does not show up, he will be back by some time. When he disappeared, I  thought he’s just sick, or maybe somewhere. For an entire week I waited for him where we often meet. Somewhere in the neighbourhood or elsewhere. After a week, I thought that maybe he is really really occupied. I still waited. After a week, I stopped. I would hope that he would just maybe visit me in my house? But after weeks and months, he never showed up. It made me wonder if he just left me? Or maybe that the hate they preach to him eventually got to him? Or maybe he became very ill and died? I don’t know. He’s gone now, and I was alone again.”

Jacob inclined his head to acknowledge. 

“And I suppose, maybe that is the reason I became close with you. I never had for a long time someone like you. Louis is the only time I felt a great sense of fraternity, but to you now also I did. I like you, and I became too focused on our friendship that I stupidly ignored your words just to satisfy my own desires.”

“I’m glad that you know it, at least just now. But what now? What do we need to do now that all is late?”

“I’m sure this is just temporary. I hope best that we will be sent back to our parents after this. A reprimand after maybe, and that is all.”

“And the punishments by our parents.”

“Yea.”

Jacob stood and laid on the other bed opposite of Pierre. Jacob reclined to nap, rather forgetting the unfolded events that happened, besides it already happened. He would expect soon that the guard would let both of them out given enough time. Closing his eyes as the sun rose to its zenith, he took a nap.

The blend of all everything that came upon this very existence invoked the landscape. The night’s gleaming darkness casts an unsympathetic air to anyone in presence. The piercing cold blizzard blinded anyone to see even the closest. Jacob, his arms embosomed around him, stood by the withered tree where he used to frequent before. He looked around, but the haze of the blizzard trammelled his vision. The ground piled with thick snow, his footprint visible if daylight would give view to it. 

His panic sets in as he realised the solitude in which he is upon. He called out many names, his mother, Pierre, even his father, but only the hurdles of the shouting winds of the oppressive blizzard came echoing back. He walked through nowhere, meandering the place, bumping to multiple wilted trees covered with snow. It seems that this landscape was filled only by these dying trees and layers of snow. He shrivelled, continuing to roam the dilapidated terrain. Despite the extreme darkness that consumes all light and vision, he continued, hoping that he’ll impact on something else but a dead tree.

As he trudged, he saw a faint glimmer in the distance. A silhouette of a man seemed visible near that light. He went closer to inspect it, the haze slowly fading despite the inhumane blizzard still happening. The man, his figure slowly revealing itself as the haze subsides. A soldier in a red coat with a knapsack, holding a torch in his right hand, while resting the other on an upright barrel by his side. He seemed foreign as Jacob knew no army in France wears a red coat – or at least that is what he knew.

“Monsieur!” he cried out. The soldier’s countenance remained the same. Jacob ran to him in enervation. Despite the cruel weather, the torch remains persistent, the haze almost disappearing, yet the barbarous inclement still occurs outside of what the light can only reach. Like an extramundane phenomenon the light protects the soldier and him from the extremities outside. Jacob probed the soldier of many questions like his whereabouts, who he is, what he is doing, and many pondering thoughts. The soldier remained stern, ignoring him, unmoveable. After many attempts of prying him questions, Jacob halted, relenting to his silence. After he stopped, the soldier leaned to carry the barrel, turning around and marching to that direction. Jacob watched and followed him, the torch paving their way. The soldier walked in a fixed straight direction, never stopping as Jacob followed him. For many minutes – 13 according to Jacob’s assumption – they walked straight, the soldier not stopping. Jacob was just glad that he didn't have to suffer the dictatorship of the cold outside of the light so he questioned him no further as they marched on. 

There was no end. That is what the landscape presents itself. Until the way of the two suddenly became a thoroughfare, with walls slowly appearing on two sides of them. Bricks and concrete, the foundation of a house. Roofs also started to appear on top of these walls, appearing themselves as houses. The setting slowly materialises, that the land they are walking on is a road. The harsh blizzard now calmed down, yet still rages on. The road continued and had a steep way down, leading them to the end of it, a gate. The soldier put down the barrel, turned to Jacob, and gave him the torch. He stepped past the soldier to the barrel, staring down at it. He noticed a short fuse to it, unknown earlier as he had not seen. He didn’t know what to do, but assumed best from the fire of the torch and the barrel that he had to light it. But citing the scanty length of the fuse, he turned to the soldier to ask him.

“Est-ce que j’allume ce tonne—” but there was nothing. Only the gusts of blizzard responded to him. Vestiges of the soldier are gone, even the footprint now became one, only tracing to him. He turned to the barrel. Scared and not knowing what to do, he retreated, but there was only a huge building hindering the road, earlier non-existent. He had nowhere to go but the gate. He checked the gate, hoping it would open, but it was locked. There is no hope beyond him. As he floundered, battlecries could be heard at a distance. Many voices, shouting words of drivel. He can barely understand any but it was certain those voices are of soldiers. As the voices slowly got louder, the words became more lucid. Chargez, en avant, en joue, feu. Battlecries of the soldiers. But in this cacophony he heard what seemed to be his name. “Jacob!” some of them shouted. He is not sure if it is his name truly is said, but the shouts are too audible to be mistaken as not his name. He got closer to the gate, trying his best to know if it was truly his name being called. There was a mass noise, the cries, the words, stacking each other, almost unintelligible. Jacob tried to press further, and attempted to shout back for help. He continued to shout, some soldiers seemingly replying to him. They continued their exchanges, until a thunderous explosion interrupted them, throwing Jacob off the gate and casting him into a state of unconsciousness.

A faint voice of someone calling him can be heard barely from his state of darkness. He cannot see anything but the dimness of his consciousness. Trying to awake himself from the explosion, he attempted to bring himself up. But the weight of his body and the weakness he had failed him, slumping himself to the ground, still blinded by the darkness consuming his vision. The voices got louder, calling out his name. Until a hand yanked him off and carried him by his arms. His vision slowly materialised. He is back again to the prison where he was detained, but now two soldiers are carrying him in his arms. The voice calling out to him was Pierre as he was being carried out on the opposite side. Still grumpy from the nightmare he had, he can barely shout, a mere whisper he can only say. The voice gets fainter as the two were separated until it eventually silenced, only the murkiness of the prison walls can be heard.

The soldier brought him to a separate room, much more expansive than the previous one. Inside were two soldiers guarding the door, a table in the centre, and two chairs on opposite sides. The soldier who brought him commanded him to sit at the chair before leaving. He looked around first, scrutinising the room and sitting on one of the seats. In due course another soldier, dressed the same but in a different manner entered, along with two other soldiers. He assumed that he was an officer, or the overseer of the prison. It did not matter as the officer sat on the other chair, opposite of him. He stared at Jacob for an uncomfortably long time before speaking.

“Jacob, 17, intrusion illégale. You do know that an unauthorised entry into a prison would almost be a treason?”

“No.”

“I had hoped that you know, entry into a private place is illegal, or bad, for the sake of your vocabulary.”

“Yes.”

“Then why break in?”

“My friend wants me to join him.”

“Pierre?”

“Yes.”

“Ah… So he should be the one heavily punished then?”

Jacob was silent. His close friendship, and even his admiration to him wouldn’t let him agree to such.

“No…”

“Why not? He invited you to break the law with him, you related as you would to a friend, and then you’re here now. Of course I cannot blame you if you would want to be with him, but at least have some sense of thinking that doing so would land you here. It would be nice rather that you urged him to stop instead of going with him, or even refuse.”

“He’s… a friend. A friend I value greatly.”

“As I said, stopping him or refusing to join him would have been better for you.”

Silence once again as Jacob pondered about the officer’s words.

“Now the thing is… what you committed is quite a huge deal legally speaking. I cannot just let you go off after some days and then come back to your home, same to Pierre. Such treasonous acts can land you a hefty corporal punishment, even a capital. You’re young and if you wasted these succeeding years rotting in these old, sulky cells, that won’t be a good time.

“I have an offer however. You can exchange these long years of confinement for a service in the army. Your choice which branch to join. You just have to serve the army until the war is over, or when you are dismissed. I do want to remind you that war lasts less than ten years, but being in jail with your crime could be longer. Your choice.”

Jacob, just wanting off the constraint of this wretched building, decided to accept the offer. The officer nodded and stood from the seat.

“Very well. You will be sent to the nearest training unit. Your service shall be effective immediately.”

“Wait! But how about Pierre?”

“I would have the same offer as him, but it is upon his choice. I won’t spare him the details of our talk. Just hope for the best that you two have an unconscious understanding so you’ll end up in the same branch, or even join the army rather than being here.”

“At least I can still talk to him after right?!”

“... 

No.”

Chapter Text

Years acrimonious that these two men we have explored for the previous chapters have their lives changed due to the scorned war happening. Both by unfortunate incidence by the thread of fate sealed upon by Clotho, who sang once were. But heed no attention to these origins of their arming for we care only what happened to the years trifling of these men.

Barry, the British lad forced upon by the navy, now serves in the infantry unit of 5th Regiment of Foot. Initially was forced to the navy, his incompetence in the sea transferred him to the infantry. His disposition in navigating the terrains and familiarising with it in which he learned from his years of being bound to the farm, and his endeavour for exploration made him ideal in his unit. It shall also be noted that this regiment was originally an Irish legion, in which Barry – a ruddy-haired lad – was put on. His auburn hair had the impression of everyone that he is Irish, which is partly true as his father is one. He was not remarkable, but he is known by some of his peers. While initially reserved, his character evolved to be more genial yet serious. Jonathan Baker, one of his companions, became relatively close with him. Of course there is no denying that while the friendship is bound by their strength against a common enemy, there still exists reservation between them. Irony is that while fraternity is valued between men as much as the French do, it is the hatred against the forced levy that sever this friendship to be genuine. Still as both of them are of the same men of the same country, they shall be bound perpetual until Atropos cut both their threads with her abhorred shear.

Jacob, intellectual if not, unfortunate. Confined for the sins of his friend, or now forlorn beloved. His interests in structures and buildings that decorate the Parisian night had him bewitched to become an engineer of 2e Régiment du Génie. For his time in the army, he learned of his role as the structure-bearer, the one to assist canons, and to dig battle sites. This is far from what he had supposed with the work, that turns out to beguile him. Boring, he would think of it that he would not concern himself much more than that of what he can only do and what his officers would order him to do. But one must ask about his relationship. Is he social? Is he cordial? Does he have some connections between some of his fellow soldiers? Unfortunately, he is not of all aspects. He had one the joy of a teen who savoured the life of a city dweller. But once the penance of his action came upon him, as the wretched life of being in an army, the defilement of his weird from the instigation of conscription, the joy drained out of him, slowly, hauntingly, unforgivingly.

Now let us introduce the reader to the settings of this drama. Battle of Vittoria, 21 June 1813. A heavy fighting between the coalition armies of British, Spanish, and Portuguese forces against the French forces. Barry and Jacob are both in this scene, fighting and helping their respective countries. The battle was intense as to deliver a huge blow of morale against the two, but still the two persisted. Desertion was of no choice to them as they have ingrained themselves to the matters of the military despite the forceful induction of them. It would be a matter of time before the comedy of Moirai play upon them, their lives destined to be changed.

But one may ask about their former relations. How are they doing? Are they aware of what happened to them? What happened to them? Unfortunately, they are but a vestige of the epics of these soldiers, their valiance forever etched to the hearts of many; their relatives and companions now but an insignificant part of their life – at least on the concurrent event. They still would often think of them, but we care about the legacy of life these two soldiers would commit themselves in war.

Chapter Text

21 June 1813 - Vittoria-Gasteiz, Spain

The sun is shining, the earth is singing, and the sea is nothing. But the air burned with the crisp of smoke as the noise of the battle between the coalition armies against the French diluted the serene atmosphere with the terror of all encompassing hell. In the rugged terrains the two armies met in the brutal light of the sun. Blood and gunpowder also filled these terrains. Barry went along with his men to fight the French. He, persistent of the patriotism he commits, fought valiantly with great fervour. As the allies got closer to the enemy lines, more pellets and shots rang through the area.

Eventually with the great combined forces of the British, Portuguese, and Spanish, the morale of the Grande Armée collapsed, setting them back, and retreating from the battlefield. Barry, along with his fellow men, celebrated. These efforts were not in vain too as the Marquis of Wellington noticed their effort in fighting against the enemy. There will be peace for now as they still have to pursue the retreating French to Pamplona. For now a rest to them.

“Good work, lads!” shouts one of the soldiers. Barry sat by a plinth of a house. He rested there, closing his eyes to savour the hell he went through. Still he has to get ready as they will chase the remaining army.

“Barry.” a voice from his besides he recognised from his fellow Jonathan Baker.

“Hello Jon.” replied Barry. He calls him Jon as he thinks calling him by his full first name would be tiring.

“How’d you think you fared with the battle?”

“Good, I suppose best.”

“Ah, I can tell. A many of that gunpowder in your hand does not mean you have many of a shot.”

“Better than having none, which means you shoot not a single pellet.” he looked at Jonathan’s hands.

“What?! You have the guts to speak like a god who saw everything! Besides, I have cleaned by hand from the fabric!”

“Your clothes?”

“I mean not that. I got it from a wagon.”

“You stole it?”

“Of course I did! Others too in Vittoria. Gold, jewellery, loot, clothes, and many of it from what the French left.”

“I’m not surprised by that.”

“Do you want me to get some for you?”

“I’d pardon me not if you do.”

“It is your choice, not mine.” he shrugged. Jonathan went away, seemingly with an intent to plunder more of that loot. Barry went back to resting, laying his body to the veranda of the house. It didn’t take long for the lassitude to beset him. He stood from his place and went away from civilization and into the hillside.

The base of the hillside is mildly bosky, inhabited by the green verdant nature. However it was not dense, but rather a freely open forest, with trees having gaps wider than a wagon. The sun barely illuminates the ground, with the leaves sheltering the earthy land. It was still bright, just enough for Barry’s clear eyes to see far enough of the slope. The sound of the crisps leaves he stepped on and the wind disturbing the branches of the trees are the only colloquy heard inside, free from the noise of the battlecries of soldiers and guns. Barry sat and leaned on one of the trees, enjoying the warmth of the air that these trees shelter from the fervid heat of the sun. He closed his eyes again, his body weak from the walk, fully absorbing all tiredness and strain and let him once have the languor he truly deserved.

Hevingham was a delight of all peace and tranquillity of a man’s psyche. That is by all means only true if you are of the noble man (in literal sense). There are still people living removed from the conformity of these men lucky enough to be born off their oppressive parents. Barry is one of them. There is no mistaking that he is a farmer, devalued from the hierarchy of the British class. 

Barry stood inside of a house, a huge one enough to be called a mansion even. The inside is filled with the most expensive furniture, of many jewels, and of many intricate designs. This house was not familiar to him. He knew this wasn't even from William, who despite that he had not seen for years, is still familiar with the layout. He marched around, scrutinising every furniture displayed in the house. All of them have serpentine details that make an average table a bland aggregate of wood. He walked to a mirror and saw his attire, the common wear of any aristocrats he saw once in Norwich. He did not even realise the change as his body is numb from the battle he had won. 

He went out of the house to see a deserted landscape. No human present, just the staid plain filled with the golden leaves of wheat dancing like a reed as the wind guides them. There were birds flying occasionally, their sounds the only song in the theatre of this landscape. He walked out of the house, the afternoon light almost warm but not to give him heat. He went to the fields of wheat, sliding into the rows of planted crops. He brushed his hand through the reeds, the gentle breeze of the wind and the texture of the seeds woke his nostalgia of being a farmer, harvesting crops, and planting seeds. Of course he cannot do this anymore, not yet, until he is done serving. He missed his homeland, the smell of the grains, and the noise of the marketplace. His father and Jane too. He wondered how they are doing now. Have they found peace in his whereabouts?

As he sauntered through the meadow, he heard a weak whimpering, a seemingly injured person. He opened his eyes, the reality striking him harshly back leaning from a tree. The whimper still can be heard from a distance. He looked around from his position but saw no one. He stood and wielded his sword from his scabbard and put himself in position. He traced the sound of the voice, going deeper in the forest. As he closed from the source, he saw an axe, and some littered woods, and then a knapsack. He picked up the knapsack, heavy still. He brought it with him as he slowly walked to the source of the sound. And just behind a tree is a soldier, a French one. His uniform was the darkest blue with some crimson red staining it. The soldier laying in the stillness of the land is gasping for air, his voice hoarse, barely able to speak, and injured from some wood and injuries that seeped through his clothes. His eyes, barely open, had pity in them that only mercy can save him. Barry went immediately to check on him. He undressed him, his body fully exposed. First he noticed there was a bruise in his neck. He determined it to be an impact or a blunt hit. He then saw some blood and splinters in his body and arms, injuries not extreme but enough to give discomfort to the soldier. He went to grab the knapsack he brought and try to find something to alleviate the injury of the soldier but saw no such equipment. Just tools for building and some clothing. He dismounted his and rummaged through his materials to see if anything would help the soldier in pain. He found the gauze, the one given to him by Jane. He remembered vividly the time she gave it to him, and told him that to use it for his use only needed. He had not forgotten about this reminder nor even the gauze as that is the only memory of a sentimental past that he had never seen for years. He greatly valued this material, yet he knew that if he did not use it on the soldier, his pain would be of great malaise. With no doubt he wrapped the soldier’s injured arm, torse, neck, and all bloodied areas of him. He made sure that the soldier would feel comfortable. He had some knowledge of helping a person as it had been his interest back then, besides Jane once taught him how to help an injured person. He tried to ease him up, telling him with encouraging words, that he won’t hurt him even if he’s the enemy. The soldier relaxed a bit, the patched wounds slowly making him less tormented. Barry hoisted his back to make him lean on the nearest tree. He brought the other knapsack and asked him if it was his. The soldier nodded. He made it as some sort of a pillow, setting it aside to the soldier. He sat next to him, intending to guard and help him.

“I’m Barry,” he said to the soldier. There was no reaction from the other as the soldier closed his eyes to rest.

“I won’t hurt you. I just want you to be safe. I don’t know if someone else finds you, they’ll kill you,” he continued, “besides, I want to look after you, just to be safe.”

The soldier doesn’t seem to have a reaction.

“I’d be here if you need me.”

As they settled, the two sat by the tree, the tranquil air lingered around them. For once Barry knew of peace again after those years of damning wars, and the soldier knew of company again after years of being in the army. The afternoon sets slowly as the two rests in silence in the forest. The matins of the bird sing the lullaby as the sun sets. The serene winds breathing them the air of home. It would be hours before any of the two shall speak again.

Jacob had worse injuries than what he had sustained in previous battles he’d gone to. However today was the worst he had come upon. Being an engineer, he was responsible for setting the warfare in land and structure. He manoeuvres in many buildings within Vittoria and uses these houses to take advantage of his position. He can be cunning, like Hermes in dodging and hiding. There even was trickery in his devices that in combat, he was invincible. In one of the houses, as he was setting his defence, a cannon hit a nearby building, throwing him off in his work. He ran to another building to fortify this one for defence, but another bombardment of the coalition hit a nearby house. The surrounding rang of the men’s shoutings and cries, their words blurring through the cacophony of war. Jacob focused on his task, ramparting and building structures that helped defend his army. He brought some woods and logs for reinforcing barriers. He also put some barricades and caltrops along the roads of Vittoria. 

He didn’t have to bring his shovel however, for the roads are tough and the city is untrenchable. He moved through places to places, hiding in each house, setting barricades to hinder enemies. Eventually he would end up in the concejo of Margarita, the gate that leads to Vittoria. It would be expected that the adversary armies would congregate here soon enough. So he greatly fortified this hamlet, every building and even roads he could block he made. He was constructing a continuous barricade in the road and ran along the sequential house when a cannon hit one of the houses so close to him that materials threw themselves towards him, pushing him to his barricade barely even finished. Another hit his structure, flying woods hitting him, with such force that it injures him. One such wood hit him in the neck that he felt choked even for just a speck of that second. More cannon flew over him, hitting various places. He knew that the enemy was closing so he went to grab his axe, his knapsack, and went away despite his injuries. He limped in his walk, yet he still persisted. He focused on surviving rather than dying. He went away, as far as possible from any civilization. Going into the verdant forest, there was naught, not a single soul anywhere near. There he dropped his axe, his knapsack, and laid rest in the sheet of dry leaves as the trees shelter him from the hot scorching midday sun.  His body bloodied from the battle, he lay rest there, enervation taking over him. The injuries he sustained from the explosion had his body so frail he can barely move, added with his work of having to walk so far. His breath so hoarse, his voice so decrepit, death is certainly waiving his right to life. He closed his eyes, accepting his (un)sealed fate.

Jacob heard some rustles, one so heavy he can easily determine it is from a soldier. Out of the edge of the tree he can see the faint silhouette of a man, his clothes red and wielding a sword. He knew that is a British soldier. As the soldier went closer, he braced himself, certain that his thread of life shall be cut now. His gaze softened as he closed his eyes, awaiting for his eventual execution. Yet nothing came for some while, still he’d prefer he saw naught of his own death so his eyes remained shut. He remained unmoved until he felt his clothes being removed by the soldier. He was treating him. He patched his wounds, his injuries. He brought him to a nearest tree to rest and gave him his knapsack full of his equipment. Made it as a form of pillow to support him. But he was fully focused on the soldier, as if he reminded him of something. The world blurred as he tried to recollect something that reminds him of the soldier, his clothes, his face, everything about the soldier have reminded him of a forlorn memory long past it happened. He cannot think straight of anything due to this, and just laid there, trying his hardest. He eventually surrendered against his urge, letting go of that possible memory he cannot even recall. But as he turned back to the soldier who succoured him, he was now resting beside him. It might as well be his time to rest, for he needs one due to his injuries he sustained, and if he wants to invigorate for a new battle. But that would be a problem however knowing that his enemy is someone who helped him. He now has a dilemma, if to kill this person who aided him, took care of him as he was bleeding, certain that none of these help would call upon death of his soul, or let him be.

Chapter Text

22 June 1813 - Vittoria-Gasteiz, Spain

A time after the bloodbath of Ares invoked upon these unfortunate men, the moon rose ruefully, its sardonic moonlight casting over the wretched – almost derisive – terrain. The trees, their canción winded the barren forest devoid of any human shade but the two soldiers. The night is terrific and the air is wintry. Nor were the birds and the deers sang heavy but the crisps of every dead leaf had the piercing babel. Barry woke up from his rest, the cold night gruelling air seeping into his uniform confining him in the frigidity. He trembled and wrapped his arms around himself, fighting the cold. He looked over where would have been the soldier he helped earlier, but there was naught. Only a vestige of his gauze and the languor of the air remained. He stood quickly, suddenly roused by the lost man, peered around the premises he was in to find any traces of the man. There exists none, unfortunately. He quickly picked his equipment and hastened himself back to his camp, whilst glancing around to see any marks that the soldier left.

Fortune favours him as some soldiers stationed at Margarita, earlier where he rested. He called out to them, alerting them of his presence so as to mistake him not for the enemy. A guard replied back to him, marching to his direction to meet him.

“Lad, what by the grace of Jove are you doing there!”

“I was making sure there was no one hiding in the trees.”

“There is nothing in those trees, lad. This place is but a lively terrain of red sands like your hair with the warm autumn night. I believe not that there would be an enemy hiding in those trees for they have probably left. And even if there is, they would just surrender for their sake of requisite.”

“Yea. But it’s better if I had my lookout?”

“Do not attempt to do so. We still have to chase the French to Pamplona later by the morning. So if you have not yet had your rest, do so. I’ll guide you back to the camp for some rest for you. We cannot be having the distress of all ailments by tardiness. Let yourself be rested, young man.”

Barry nodded. He marched back with the soldier, through the rough houses, destroyed by the cannons and pellets. In the camp was a fire pit, illuminating the surroundings. There was no tent to be seen anywhere. This made Barry curious, as he had assumed best that temporary tents would be set up. He turned to the soldier and inquired him of the lack of tents. He replied that since they sat in a deserted town, they might as well use them. The soldier patted his shoulder and went away to guard. There were some soldiers patrolling the houses, some going out, coming in, it seemed like the town had become a military base by the amount of soldiers in there. He had doubts on such propositions that they present to use the houses as he knew how many savages exist that litter within the ranks. He went inside of a house and the place seemed dilapidated, like a wolf ransacked the place. Only within the centre was the most organised place as where the cots are placed. There are some fellows inside, sleeping, while some are empty. He went to one and sank himself to the (dis)comfort of the bed. Lying there, he tried to sleep, or nap, as he knew that he had already rested much earlier on. But not only that that kept him awake in the midst of the night and the preponderance of thoughts due to the effects of war, he cerebrate about the man he tended to earlier. Just some afternoon shine ago he was there, injured, frail, from the injuries he sustained. Gone by the time he woke up. ‘For what reason would he leave?’ He thought to himself. Was it because he is English that he thought he would capture him once he was healed? He is his enemy for a reason. Maybe. That is possible. There are certainly no remnants or marks the soldier left to trace him where he went. He could have run to Pamplona too, or to somewhere far away where he cannot catch him. Regardless, it would be futile for him to even think more about his whereabouts, he will die either way by war or injuries.

Despite the requisite of healing and rest, Jacob ran away from the soldier, silently creeping away, minimising the sounds of crunching every step he made in the plains flooded by dried leaves and sand. He brought him his knapsack and axe despite the weight it tolled upon him. He is intent to leave with no marks nor anything that the British soldier might use in advantage against him. He silently sneaked his steps, the crisps crackling so silent and murmuring the warning of his walk. As soon as he was far from being heard, he ran, although slowed by his injuries and equipment, he ran away from the soldier. He doesn't know where he is going, but assumes where the flight of his earlier army’s direction is. He ran to the place where he thought the rest of his armies were, marauding through the vast muddled terrain of nothingness and lushes simultaneously. He ran and ran until he was stopped by a narrow river. Thin that could be crossed easily under a minute, but with his injuries and weakness, the river would bring him to his coffin. He sat by the bay of the river and rested there, putting his belongings down. The river flowed in tranquillity in limpid water, the surrounding still, devoid of anything but sand. The breeze of the night air seethed his skin under the turmoil of the Peninsular War. He went closer to the river, intent to wash his injuries. He undressed himself, his coat and the upper part of his undergarment, exposing his banded wounds. He removed each gauze, the crimson blood seeped through each wrapped gauze in his wounds. The wound tinged with a light itch, begging to be scratched despite the consequences of such action. He dipped himself in the flowing water, its surge strong but not to push him to his death. Soaking himself until the surface reached his neck, Jacob let the rush of the clear water do the work of brushing the vestige of blood still bleeding. Once his body was free of the carmine stain that corrupts the water, he slowly reached for his injuries and cleaned it. There was the sting and the smarting as he washed his wounds. Through his cleaning, he felt some debris remaining in torso and removed them. Succinctly until no pain of those thousand cuts of thorns remained. With his injuries and debris now cleaned, he let himself be rested upon the cold rushing water, the scorn of the blue surging river passing him, the brush of the soft azure wave cleaning his body. He obscured himself from all things that matters, his form disappearing from anything that no more of his presence can be seen from afar. Yet he stood there, savouring the biting water that shivers the densest of the sand. 

The night was hot, the day was cold, the water was burned and the fire was scorned. The seething rage of the war has never prefaced itself again from the nocturnal place. But the cries of great disaster tolls still afar from the land of peace. From the ground that trembled upon Gaia, to the sky the ever vengeful Ouranos, no man gave offer to the both, for the war clanged gave the hatred to both. A punishment upon Ares, the great disaster of war. Jacob had not seen the day yet, but he walked slowly away from the river. He continued to where there was nothing, but only the hope of an army. The forest was dry, humid, wet, the moon shines brightly casting him the bless of her light. The sky filled with the stars of the galaxy, the night ever joyful of the Earth's fire destitute. His countenance was stiff, no emotion nor care. His body trembled from the oppressive breeze, biting his skin with ever thorning wind. He had walked upon yards of trees, the red land bleeds the cries of the damned. His soul felt numb, naught that saw him alive. Such destitution can be blamed from the injuries he suffered, but he was no other man to feel pain. His breath heavy, his throat defaced, his voice devoid of anything coherent. There was the struggle of his silence that now he cannot escape. Once he had been silenced by the word of war, now he has been silenced by the act of war.

The golden light freed itself from the constraint of dawn, the everlasting glory of the thousand splendid sun casting his pride over the tellurian men. Bound to them all are the greatest sky eternal of the sounds of  birds. The leaves dried with ease, the air smelled so sweet, the sky tinged so auburn. Barry was in the esplanade of the house where he previously rested. He had been awake since earlier for the march they ought to do. He went out to the road where the shining gaze of the morning sun casted its light to him, his hair illuminated with the strong russet colour. A soldier called out to him, “Hey carroty! You got that hair too shiny for us, mind telling us which fox you got that from?”

“I would not expose myself to those things, rather get some fire and burn yourself.” replied he.

“I warrant you laughter only, silly matters even.” the soldier responded, running to him.

“Well it is not funny.”

“To you only.”

“What made you call me otherwise?”

“Take the French by and by, chase them and capture them, you know it. Just call the others inside still, it would be much better to immediately let everyone know.”

“Very well.”

The soldier nodded and sprinted to other directions. Barry went to the previous house he rested on and called out to the soldiers. He went door to door even, knocking each and every one until upon his assumption that all soldiers in his vicinity were out. These soldiers grouped themselves immediately upon call duly requisite along Barry. After a few minutes, many more joined the ranks, the pile getting larger. Led by the Duke of Wellington they marched to chase the French out of Spain. Through the dry land and brisk sun they marched continually, dense was the land and fervid fiery orb upon them. 

Barry held his container of water and drank from it, the shade of the tree over him protecting him over the contumely sunshine. It was the zenith of the day, the soldiers halting to take a short break before continuing.

“Must have been a hasty work upon us, no?” said Jonathan Baker to the resting Barry.

“Not much to me, I suppose you have to truly be with the army so that you will never get tired of these matters.”

“I could not be damned by God for these things again.”

“We have done this before, you think you’d just give up now? How insolent.”

Jonathan shrugged. Barry looked at him nonchalantly and stood, walking back to the formation. Jonathan did the same too. Not long enough they are back marching to Pamplona.

The breadth of Thanatos blew his face cold with the sweltering heat he had to suffer. It is only a flick of his finger his shade will be taken from his body. Jacob had been walking for who knew how long. There is only the senseless direction that guides him, no star to be used, no river that flows. He occasionally stops to energise himself through the remaining water he had, the food provided to him, but only the ticking time would foretell his death. The exhaustion had been derisive, the day had been oppressive. 

It is by fortunate luck that there ahead was a civilisation, seemingly devoid of any fire and hell that burned the Vittoria earlier. He walked faster, suddenly his body galvanised from the sight of civilization that now someone would help him. He walked faster despite his equipment slowing him. The gates of the fortress are getting closer to him. There is the wall, the house, the soldiers alike. He tried to scream to them, his sight slowly blurring into darkness, until naught can be seen. The last memory of the city is the hazy movement of soldiers startled by his presence.

Jacob woke from his unconsciousness, the air so cold but dry. He observed his surroundings, the bed he lays on so comfortable for him, the walls that enclose him are neat, the room that houses him a serene place. He propped himself from the wall adjacent to the bed, clearing his vision nigh misty, but clear to distinguish objects close to him. There is a window to the wall he was facing, the dark flickering night seeping through that hole. His throat felt dry, the thorn of thousand sands pricking it. He tried to call for someone, but only his breath came out. He cannot speak. He tried to sound himself, but there was a pain in his throat that he cannot try it again. He slammed his palm to the wall, to the bed, attempting to get the attention of someone at least outside. The cacophony filled the room, seemingly only him can hear the sounds. After a few moments of clanging sound, someone came in. Another French soldier in uniform, different regiment. He greeted him and offered him water he brought entering his room. Jacob took the water and drank from it, the sharpness in his dry throat slowly relieving as he drank. There was silence in the room, everything unmoveable even with the other soldier’s presence. For a while the room stopped the time, the oppressive stillness of everything around so vengeful for a voice to speak.

“Monsieur,” spoke the soldier. Jacob turned to him and gave him the emptied pewter. 

“I’m Louis,” said the soldier. Jacob nodded and smiled at him. “I’ll be around if you need help, do you require one now?”

Jacob shook his head. Louis understood his gesture and left the room, closing the door behind him. Jacob turned to the window, standing from the bed and overlooking the vista. There was the light of torches, soldiers, and civilians alike in the view. In the distance there is a silhouette of a mountain, with houses and roads that lead to the top, a fortress dimly lit. The vespertine wind touched his face, the biting darkness ever so oppressive still like the night before he had experienced. Luckily for him that he was saved, lived through another day to witness the horrors of hell, scorned by god upon the wretched men. There was that night, sleeping calmly, and sky the magnanimous dome. He returned to the cot, laying there contemplating himself and the war. He cannot sleep as he had rested just right now. Such musing led him to the thought of what or why he would be here. As he had remembered, it was the prison that coerced him to do so. Pierre, how about him? The sense of sentimentality of nostalgia to someone so special to him had broken him for so long one would be numb to remembrance. But for what now, he had chosen his destiny to be bound to this carnage until the end. He hoped best for himself or even Pierre memoriam of these dulcet days, where the tocsins tolled so saccharine. Yearning for someone, something past beyond is so pathetic of him that one who shed a tear is a Huguenots among the French. But for what purpose should a tear evoke other than his weakness of nostalgia? He scorned himself for his resolve, now his penalty has arrived. He silently weeps, the tears hazing his eyes shutting them, forgetting these days forlorn he cannot come back.

There is no denying that no matter how much civility a human has, they still are animals, born of the wild as the bears.

We have all become like one who is unclean,

    and all our righteous deeds are like a polluted garment.

We all fade like a leaf,

    and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away

Isaiah 64:6