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“It hadn’t been long since our venture into Russia. Apparently, some disease had erupted within the Czardom.
People turn to cannibals, their skin rotten, and they’re as ferocious as rabid dogs.
Apparently, anyway—”
“ATTEEEENN—SHON!!”
Fabien scrambled up to his feet while fumbling with the tiny diary before shoving it into his pocket with the pencil stuck between two pages, the swab for his blunderbuss still in his mouth. He spat it out on the cobblestone streets next to Lechosław’s feet as the trooper stepped away in disgust, and positioned his weapon properly behind his back.
Their commander wandered down the confused but alert rows of men, his boots thumping against the dirty ground. This village had been ravaged by war, expensive buildings all deserted, murky and crumbled from cannonballs and flame.
Tea and dessert wilt away on dinner tables inside. Candles keep burning until they collapse. It is all frozen in time inside those rooms, and dust collects.
The French are close to the Russian capital and the fighting has been bloody and fierce, however, lately they have seen less and less of the Russian soldiers. Thanks to that, Napoleon’s advances were much, much quicker.
Fabien, and everyone else, had been marching for days without firing a shot.
A cuirassier on horseback followed after the commander with three others, his chin held high and face shadowed by the shiny helmet on his head— though, he did glance towards Fabien and Lechosław.
The commander stopped pacing, and adjusted his saber. “Things have… changed.” He rests a wrist over the handle. “A lengthy speech will do us no good, so I will keep this simple.”
Fabien raised a brow and cocked his lips up in a grin. He wonders if word of the blight has reached him, and more than likely, it must’ve.
“The invasion will halt, and the French shall maintain a new truce with the Russians.” Before anyone could turn to a friend or a comrade and whisper in exasperation, the commander puts up a hand to halt them. “There’s something greater to quell, one that threatens all of Europe. We will unite our forces, and you WILL NOT FIRE UPON THE RUSSIANS!!”
There was a pause, and the commander lowered his voice. “Let us put that into practice.”
Out from the back of a crumbling brick wall came an entire battalion of Russian soldiers donning greenish uniforms, their guns placed at their shoulder passively, eyes wide and curious, and some looking begrudgingly hateful. No shots were fired.
They must have been hiding there a while, waiting for a cue. Well, no wonder the commander took half of their entire army and disappeared for brief moments. Negotiations can be risky, but it seems that everyone simply wants to throw down their rifles and be done with constant stress and fighting.
Three officers stepped forward in unison, with two greater commanders coming out to shake hands with the French commander. Soldiers of both sides stayed still, neither drawing weapons but some gripping it in anxiety.
Two armies were then united, halting their ongoing war which was the cause of Napoleon’s ambition and Europe’s hostility.
Everyday activities caused mild conflicts, which usually began with the spooking of a younger soldier upon seeing an enemy’s uniform, or seasoned troops tearing up their guns briefly trying to shoot down a Russian only to realize it was peace time.
They kept advancing into the motherland, where still-functioning cities gradually became estranged from their usual glorious form(even in war). It wasn’t unusual for infantrymen to gossip among themselves, wondering if this was a Russian trap all along as they headed into territories that were more rubbles than towns.
City gutters had the pungent smell of rotten meat and dead cattle. Corpses are littered along narrow alleyways with missing chunks of flesh. Flies were everywhere, maggots too, and Fabien wished he had the privilege of being safe and clean up on a horse.
Just then a boy soldier screamed. He ran into his officer, who caught him by the back of his uniform collar. “YOU WILL APOLOGIZE FOR THAT, BOY.” The officer hissed into his face, large eyes narrowing into mean slits, before shoving the boy out into the open somewhere. “What spooked him?” That officer asked in Russian.
“What’s he saying?” Fabien nudged Lechosław.
“Officer Raskolnikov asked what scared him.” The pole shrugged, and went back to inhaling whatever addictive substance was left in that beat-up cigar between his teeth.
“No. What did he say before that?”
Lechosław gave him that empty stare, and chewed on his cigar. “Raskolnikov said he’s a teary-eyed harlot.”
Fabien laughed. “That’s not it, I know that’s not it. You’re a lying little—”
“SHUT YOUR MOUTHS!” Fyodor Raskolnikov’s voice boomed in the quiet muttering of troops, and Fabien hadn’t noticed it was them that the officer was screaming at.
Lechosław bowed his head.
A Russian soldier stammered on, continuing his explanation. “Ivan said a corpse had moved.”
“Ivan said a corpse moved.” The pole translates quietly for Fabien.
Silence.
Then,
“Repeat that.” Fyodor shifted his weight to another leg. He spoke quieter with a seething edge.
“Ivan said… a corpse moved.” The soldier continued, and Lechosław translated.
“A corpse moved? Is that right?” Fyodor presses.
“Yes, a corpse moved. Yes.”
It seemed that Fyodor was denying the truth of that claim, and perhaps rejecting the sanity of the young soldier. He grabbed that boy’s face and inspected his expressions, turning his face this way and that.
Their cuirassier friend rode over with his heavy saber over his shoulder. The war steed whinnied when Barnabé pulled her bit too roughly. “Comrade Raskolnikov, we have a village of rabid cannibals to battle,” He said in Russian with a noticeable accent, and paused when the officer gave him a sour stare.
“You don’t speak very well, do you?” Fyodor was evidently displeased, his eyes were narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. Suddenly, the air felt more palpable. Barnabé gripped the reins tighter, his palms felt sweatier. The French soldiers glanced among themselves.
“Respectfully, sir, that does not matter. We have to go.” Barnabé dipped his head, speaking slowly and keeping his expression neutral. This officer had the most unapproachable complexion of any soldier, surely. Not that he was deranged, or dirty, no. He was unapproachable in the way that a haughty, arrogant prince is. Then again, they haven’t been allies long.
Fyodor opened his mouth to retort, but out of his better judgment, he shut his mouth to walk away.
Both armies’ men lowered their arms and let out a breath. They continued on their journey through the town.
Lechosław trots after Barnabé with his lance reached out harmlessly to tap him on his steel helmet, the clanking echoing. The cuirassier turned with a scowl, but the lancer disregarded the look.
“You compromise Russo-Franco relations.” Lechosław stated, and Barnabé rolled his eyes.
He leaned over on his steed. “Raskolnikov is the one compromising with his exciting hollering.” He retorts. “Besides, our alliance has not taken effect on a continental scale.”
“He’s obviously fiery. Plus, you know he's an officer.” Lechosław shrugs.
“I can’t tell him the truths, then? Because he’s an officer?”
“No, so you might as well— euhhh…— keep tension low. We’ve only been acquainted a day.”
Barnabé did not argue then.
The two armies kept marching till tall buildings gradually vanished and were replaced by low wooden houses. Paved cobblestone and brick roads turned to dirt and frozen earth. The sky is a heavy gray and blotted by thick clouds.
Down a narrow, winding, starving road was a field of muddy tundra and dead, naked trees. Barely a hut in sight as they went farther and farther from civilization, at least, that was what it felt like.
There were farmlands and fences on either side of this road. Barns had their gates wide open, lanterns shattered or snuffed out.
There are pens with no animals, fields with no farmers, carriages with no drivers.
A murder of crows circled in the sky like swarms of fish in the sea, spiraling and diving down while letting out their cries of hunger. Barnabé gripped his saber tighter as he rode ahead with most other cuirassiers and some foot soldiers running behind them.
They sped into the heart of the village, hooves and boots bounding across dirty snow.
There was silence, unusual for a town untouched by warfare yet, and the smell— dear god, “It’s horrible.” Fyodor wrinkled his nose and clamped a hand over his face, to which his fellow commanders groaned in agreement.
Barnabé had his head on a swivel, eyes wide with anxious awe. Dead horses and overturned carriages, crates of supplies and food crashed in the bog. Riding up to that carriage, he spotted the driver slumped over in his seat, utterly lifeless and blue.
Barnabé grits his teeth and nudges the corpse with his saber, feeling the tense flesh yield under the edge. No movement. He turned to ride to the front of the fallen vehicle, and stabbed his sword in the driver’s chest to push him upright.
Bodily fluids gushed as he was pushed back. The driver’s front side was an unidentifiable mess of gore with threads of torn cloth clinging to the sticky flesh. The cuirassier almost screamed but only jolted the reins so his steed flinched back. Barnabé quickly rode away while his grip faltered in disgust as he contemplated between sheathing the saber and throwing it away. He felt ill. And afraid.
There were strings of bloody intestines hanging from a body hanging on the roof of a house, and movement at the base of the organ which touched the floor. Some doors were barricaded and the rooms dark, and up ahead in the heart of the village was a church, its doors nailed shut.
There were footsteps quickly approaching in a rabid sprint, and all of the scouting troops ran to regroup.
A French soldier fell to the ground with a shrill yell as something gangling and rotten pounced on him, gurgling and growling with the sound of a human mimicking a dog.
“FREDERICK!” Barnabé screamed. He kicked the flank of the horse, not caring if it hurt as she galloped forward. The cuirassier impaled the creature with his saber, driving it into the mud some feet away as his mare trampled it with sickening crunches of breaking bones and whinnying.
The soldier, Frederick, got up with shaking hands and a rush of adrenaline before running back to the safety of numbers.
It seems the noise had broken the peace. Hordes of the undead began to charge from every crook of all narrow alleys, there were even children who stumbled with the snarling, drooling crowd.
“BEHEAD THE CANNIBALS!” Fyodor drew his saber with a yell. He was an arse, an influential one. Russian infantry charged with their bayonets pointed out, and at that point, French commanders began to do the same.
Lechosław sprinted with his lance in front while Fabien and the seamen opened fire on tighter clusters of the undead. Pieces of flesh exploded into the air after the trigger had been pulled. The Polish man felt the tip of the lance go through five rotten heads and eyes devoid of sentience. A soldier slammed his saber into the impaler zombies, and they slid off of the pike. It freed him, and Lechosław could back up and regroup.
Cavalry and Barnabé had skewered many, many of the undead on their sabers till the corpses became a trail wherever in town he rode. The slaughter was triumphant, and the town square hushed once more.
A French commander raised their tricolor flag as he ran for the church. “Find survivors and bring them here!” He handed the flag to another man, then pounded on the barricaded door.
There was no answer. The commander fiddled with his sash and beckoned for a Russian soldier to come over, and made mildly confusing hand gestures to try and get him to talk to whoever’s inside.
The Russian soldier cleared his throat and knocked. “Russian army.”
“Louder.” The commander muttered in French, and when the boy didn’t understand, he made raising gestures with his hands.
“RUSSIAN ARMY. OPEN THE DOOR, WE ARE SHORT ON TIME AND WILL LEAVE IN APPROXIMately…” The Russian soldier trailed off as the nails on wooden barricades started to wobble, someone on the other side was hammering it out. “Half an hour.” He finished.
Barnabé and his two friends teamed up in the search for civilians, prodding at barricades or shut doors and shouting the same thing: “Come out quickly, we are evacuating you”. Except Fabien had a worse accent and missed several prepositional phrases and vowels.
They ran up and down the streets, bayonets and pikes scraping against the floor. One house after the next they’ve knocked and shouted in front of, and only a few came out, mostly teenagers. They were dirty, having tangled hair, skin blackened by soot, coal, and dried blood. They did not smell any nicer.
Fabien pointed to the church. The kids looked reluctant and they didn’t speak a word, but waddled their way to the gate which had opened, and a priest came out looking disheveled but happy. With him were three children wrapped in blankets and injured villagers.
The traveling surgeons with their infantry filed into the cathedral with their supplies. Though the bandages and procedure equipment were exclusively meant for soldiers, they had a reputation to keep as an army. Plus, they needed to prevent panic.
Soldiers are beginning to fan out more, and at a second glance, they’re followed by musicians. The commanders can breathe a sigh of relief. They won’t be lost, then.
Lechosław gestured hastily for Fabien to come with him with a jerk of his head as well. He presented them with a house still sealed shut, its doors secured by fabric and splattered with fluids which smelt like either blood or vomit. Perhaps both.
Fabien hesitantly followed his lead while Barnabé rode away with the refugees.
“Is this a good idea?” The seaman scratched his facial hair with a cocked brow. This was a rare instance where he felt— and is— more rational than the pole.
“I’ll cover you. Just shoot the door.” Lechosław prepped his lance and stepped behind Fabien. It made him feel extra unsafe, somehow.
He pulled the blunderbuss out from behind his back, fumbling with the straps and tapping it a tad bit to see if it was loaded or not.
Fabien aimed quickly at the doorknob, skipped back a few steps, and pulled the trigger on it. The door swung open from the impact, the knob shattering and the fabric holding it had torn into charred pieces.
The little village house was dark, and once more, had the murky yet pungent smell of rotting corpses and death. Fabien abandoned any hopes of reloading the weapon safely to draw his saber while tiptoeing inside.
Immediately he stepped on something soft under the carpet.
First, though, he saw two corpses. A man and a woman lay in strangled positions, tense and coiled up like dead bugs with expressions of horror, as if their facial muscles have gone rigid and were frozen in time.
Then, he peered over his shoulder to see a girl whose arm he had stepped on, who—
Before he could process what had happened, that girl had lunged onto him, screeching and frantically moving like a wild animal before letting out another blood curtling shriek as Lechosław’s lance punctured through her neck with pinpoint accuracy. No blood spilled, but a shaken Fabien backed up, appearing calm. Her teeth never got anywhere near his flesh.
He whipped out his blunderbuss and shot the writhing, gurgling undead in her head, right between the eyes. Her head nearly shattered entirely, and from the outside, her skull looked crooked and jagging out of her skin.
The two pushed her down as she fell limp and covered her head with the carpet. It was horrid.
Fabien did not know who they were, and he tried not to care. He continued to look around while scouting the house, opening some drawers and taking some valuables, just in case…
“Fabien. That cellar.” Lechosław pointed to a contraption in the floor, and it seemed to have a table pulled over it, a piece of rope tied to a leg which was clamped down by the trapdoor. “Didn’t know Russians had wine cellars beneath their floors.” It must’ve sounded stupid to Lechosław. Either way, he began reloading his blunderbuss.
It was a sign of life, or death. It was a gamble. If the undead rushed out, they would have a hard time escaping through one narrow door. Their earlier encounter had shaken them up.
At that thought, Fabien backed out of the house. He began to reload the blunderbuss. “You have a lance. This isn’t fair. You—” With a ‘gentle’ kick at Lechosław’s back, the lancer stumbled into the house. “—get in there.”
That Polish man sneered unpleasantly, but got to work. He first cut the rope and pushed the table off of the trapdoor— and by the time it was hauled away somewhere, Fabien had finished reloading— then, Lechosław flipped his lance so the steel tip rested on the middle edge of the trapdoor. He raised it, and—
“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”
Lechosław scrambled away from the trapdoor just as the wood around its lock exploded into splinters and the door itself flew open onto the floor behind the hinges.
“YOU MADMAN!” He shouted, baffled. “I COULD HAVE BEEN SHOT!” However, Fabien ignored him with a smile and began the long process of reloading his weapon once more.
Lechosław could do nothing but grit his teeth with a huff. If that was an attempt to lighten the mood and remind him of Fabien’s foolish shenanigans and bring a smile to his face, it… worked. Mildly.
He stepped around to the front of the blasted-open trapdoor and lowered himself to a squat to peer inside the cellar. There was practically no light inside except for the already dim glow inside the house. It illuminated the silhouette of a fallen ladder, and some other object in the far back. It wasn’t too deep of a cellar, and had no wine, unsurprisingly. Still, it was a bad idea to hop into the dark.
Seeing that Fabien was busy, he went and took a candle from a household altar. It was no longer lit, but Lechosław had a lighter. Though, it is a precious one that he never touched at time of war, instead placed in his pocket. It was given to him by…
“Something’s moving in there!” Fabien helpfully pointed out with a jesting laugh. He had finished reloading, the blunderbuss now held in his hands like a branch. “It breathes!”
“That is not funny, LaRue.” Lechosław, in a panic, ignited the intricate machine and pressed the flaming nozzle to the snuffed candle. He then grabbed the rod of wax itself and threw it down the cellar.
The shape revealed vaguely in the corner was a woman. She had her knees huddled to her chest, and her hand clenched around the rope that had been cut from the table’s leg. She flinched away, but did not move. Her eyes were wide, dark, and her expression was haunting. She looked gaunt, like a ghost, or a shell of her former self.
Fabien stammered. He did not know Russian, but Lechosław did.
“Hey, girl, can you hear us?”
The woman did not move, but there was an emotion crossing her deadpan, or rather, horrified face.
Fabien shrugged to his friend. “I can get her out. One moment.” Before finishing his sentence, he had swung the blunderbuss around his torso and jumped down into the shallow cellar. He straightened the ladder up to the floorboard while Lechosław caught the end and hooked its convenient shape against the wood.
Maria could not, in fact, hear a single thing. All she could see was her silhouette. Her silhouette. So beautiful. Such a beautiful silhouette. Such a terrifying silhouette. Like a beautiful, vengeful goddess. Oh, how it hurt. This must be punishment. Divine punishment. Maria clutched the knitting needles, her breathing speeding up as she curled into a defensive position.
It was not Fabien who stood before her, but Anastasia. Her fair skin now devoid of life while spots of blackened fleshed covered her arms, her gorgeous white nightgown stained with vomit. And yet the way her hair.... Oh God, her hair, how it fell and draped itself over her veiny lifeless face... Tears began to well up in her eyes, her entire body beginning to shake violently.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm so, so, so sorry.
"Мне жаль." Just as Fabien turned his head towards the sound Maria pushed herself off of the wall and came charging, knitting needles in hand as she let out a visceral scream. No, less of a scream, and more of a battle cry.
“SACRE BLEAU—“
Fabien spun around to brace for impact, his fists clenched tight and his foothold stable.
Lechosław picked up his lance as he knelt by the edge, his teeth showing as his lips curl back and eyes widening in shock. “FABIEN, FABIEN!!”
The needles pierced his shoulder, barely missing the flat top connecting to his neck. He groaned in pain as a hand shot out to grip the woman’s wrist tightly. His other hand went out to punch her in the cheek, hard, before Fabien scrambled away, clutching the aching part of his torso in pain. The needles were sharp, but dull enough that her weakened state caused no deep punctures.
“Ahh… that hurt like a bitch..” Fabien cursed as he backed up to sit on the ladder, the Polish man’s lance pointed at the feral woman above from his head.
“DON’T MOVE.” Lechosław commanded in Russian.
Pain exploded through Maria's body as she collapsed onto the ground, dropping her needles and spitting out a tooth as her hands fell out at her sides. She stared at Fabien, her eyes wide as she slowly began to realize that he was not, in fact Anastasia. She didn't know who he was at all. And what was he WEARING??...
"Клоун?" She muttered under her breath as she stared at Fabien, wide eyed and wondering.
Lechosław lowered his lance with a quiet hiss of relief. He grabbed Fabien by the back of his uniform and yanked him back up the ladder.
The pole waved to Maria with no friendliness. “No, we are not jesters. We are French infantry. We are temporarily allied with your fellow Russians.”
Fabien rubbed at his shoulder, still tense in agony.
Lechosław gestured aggressively for Maria to come to them. “We will take survivors and go. Come out, you have been rescued.”
Fabien reached out with an able arm and grabbed her by the shoulder to guide her outside. No matter how forcefully he had to be, they needed to go.
"Нет!!" Maria inhaled sharply, crying out in protest as Fabien pulled her outside, squeezing her eyes shut as soon as she was outside. "Не смотри. Не смотри. Не смотри. Не смотри. Не смотри. Не смотри." Maria whispered repeatedly as the stench filled her nose, clinging to Fabien as he guided her outside.
She must have been down here long. Her dress was dusty and torn, her legs shook when she climbed, and her fingertips had charcoal and blood staining the skin and underneath her nails.
By the door, there laid Anastasia’s dead body still, a horrendous gunshot wound in her stiff corpse and the stab of a lance through her neck.
Outside, through the house’s open door, Fyodor came by riding a brown stallion and another colleague on horseback with a musician blowing the life out of a bugle right in the saddle.
“OUT, OUT! WE CANNOT TAKE EVERYONE!” He shouted while waving his saber in the air. The colleague rode away with the musician in a canter.
“Officer Raskolnikov, could you take her on your horse? We must search her neighbor’s house.” Lechosław spoke in Russian while ushering the woman out of the house with a hand on her shoulder blade.
Fyodor had a flash of contempt on his face, but he only nodded with neutrality. He scooted back in the saddle after stopping the horse and gestured impatiently with a hand.
As soon as the sunlight hit her eyelids she opened her eyes to see the street. The streets were filled with living people once again, being guided out of their houses by soldiers and taken away from this horrible place.
Fabien hesitantly reached out to help hoist her up, though she didn’t seem to be in a welcoming state…
She let Fabien hoist her up without resistance, but still didn't let her body relax. All she could do was stare at the back of the faceless soldier, her breathing remaining light and quick.
No.
No, no.
Maria looked up at the dim sun hidden by the clouds before turning back to look at the scene before her.
The streets were alive again.
They were safe.
She was safe.
A single tear rolled down her bruised cheek as her shoulders finally relaxed.
“Au revoir, mademoiselle.” The seaman dipped his head with a curt smile, and Lechosław quickly grabbed him by the arm to drag him away towards another barred house down the street.
Fyodor sat up straight so the lady did not obscure his vision ahead of the horse’s head. He reached around her to grab the reins, kicked the animal’s flank once, twice, and they went into a trot back into the center of town.
“Keep your head down. You’re not exactly stubby for a lady.” Fyodor stated roughly.
On his way there, there were hundreds of troopers with about a few dozen survivors, all shaken up as they gazed at the carnage outside. There was no time to mourn for lost ones, and no time to bury them.
Fyodor kicked the flank of the steed one more time to speed them up to the opened gates of the orthodox cathedral there. The stallion whinnied as he burst into crowd, soldiers parted for him. Fyodor swung a leg over and hopped off from the stirrup, keeping a hand on the horse’s reins after landing in case he spooks.
He leaned on the shoulder of the steed to look up at Maria, tilting his head as the feather on his shako twitched from the movement. “We have some time to burn. Go join them at the cathedral, they won’t make you walk on an empty stomach.”
The stench of this place is horrible.
Maria stumbled through the cathedral blindly, blood dripping from her forearm and mind trapped in a haze.
"JE M'EN FICHE, POSEZ-LES PAR TERRE!!"
Maria jumped, stumbling slightly as she halted in surprise and fear. She took a deep breath, not caring to look behind her as the aggravated chatter continued. Though before she could take another step, a firm hand grabbed her shoulder and stopped her in her tracks. Maria's eyes went wide with visceral fear, breaking away from the hand as she turned around to face them. Behind her was a middle aged woman, her gloved hands on her hips and her apron stained with dirt and blood. She had coily red hair, tanned skin, and two birthmarks underneath her left eye and on her chin. "Où vas-tu??" Maria stared at the woman. The woman clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Merde..." She took a breath. "Don't go. I must help." She commanded Maria in an incredibly stilted accent. She gently grabbed her by the forearm, which led to the strange woman bouncing her from nurse to nurse, each of which was busy until they were by the entrance. She put her hand on her hip, the other resting on Maria's shoulder. She gave her a long, concerned stare before sitting down on the ground and motioning for her to do the same. She carefully pulled back the sleeve on Maria's dress, unflinching at the gash as she pulled out a pair of rudimentary scissors. Maria flinched at the sight of the scissors, which the nurse noticed immediately. "It's okay. It's okay. I help. Be still."
After she was treated, the nurse tossed a pair of trousers and a shirt to Maria, as it was all they had. She gave Maria a firm, sympathetic smile before waving her off. "Go on. Find family."
Maria stared at the bundle of clothes blankly, in which she noticed something sharp within the bundle.
She sorted through the clothes, and that's when she found it.
A dagger.
The nurse had most likely slipped it in for self defense in the future, but all Maria could think about was one thing.
The boys clothes, the dagger, it all made sense.
This must be fate. Divine intervention.
…
Fyodor and the other commanders stood with the priest by the gates, chattering away and discussing.
The army cannot take absolutely everyone in the village. They were running low on horses, food, water, and apparently medical supplies, too. You cannot save a butterfly from a starving spider without killing the other. Sacrifices must be made. It’s either the infantry, or the damaged population.
“I am sorry, Father, but we can only take the able-bodied.” Fyodor’s commander sympathized with the priest, who scratched at his large black beard with some distraught in his eyes. “If they cannot march… I am sorry, we do not have the proper equipment for the injured.”
Fyodor tapped his boot against the stone floor, their conversation fading out as he peered into the cathedral. There were people missing limbs and features, many wrapped in bandages and some, on the verge of death. They were living, they did not have the grayish skin of a cannibal. He tuned back into the conversation.
“…the curse will not reach them here.” The priest said, lowering his head in defeat but also determination.
“I can leave thirty soldiers with you and send word to the marshal. Would that be alright?” The commander spoke while gesturing with his hand. He always did this, and Fyodor can’t help but be reminded of an old man.
The priest nods, though still hesitant. Either way, he did not say much more.
Fyodor took this as his cue to leave, though he did not take many steps away from the crowded town center before a civilian, a man, fell at his feet in gratitude. It startled the officer, and he took a step back while gripping the pistol in its holster.
“Thank you sir, thank you, thank you.” The man said. He must’ve been in his fourties, Fyodor observed, noticing his thinning hair and rough hands of a farmer. The officer preened, basking in the warmth of gratitude. “Thank you and your fellow commanders for coming to save us!”
Others came to thank him as well, mostly men and boys. It was not just Fyodor, as other soldiers and commanders were facing a similar rise in conversation with these people.
“Let us enlist, let us enlist!” They pleaded. Their village was gone, families torn apart, and all they had was a burning need for revenge against this plague.
Fyodor stopped his sequence of narcissism and looked, really looked at the civilians. They are farmers! Many had never held a gun or a weapon in their lives, and Fyodor only mustered up a smile that resembled more of a sneer. He would turn them down, however…
“We do not have spare uniforms at the moment, however, we welcome you as soldiers.” Fyodor opened his arms in acceptance, though, he still had the complexion of a man basking in power that these men do not see. “Take up your weapons, whatever’s around you. We will purge our motherland of her parasites!”
Pieces of reddish brown hair lay strewn around Maria as she buttoned her dusty wool sorochka, her fingers trembling. This was utterly stupid. So stupid. Disgustingly stupid. She had bound her chest so tight she could barely breathe, and it wasn't doing any good for her nerves. Not to mention her face was wrapped in bandages like a mask, almost suffocating her. Her hands were trembling so much that she could barely button her collar, and simply gave up. Her hair probably looked god awful, but she could care less as long as it hid her face. She looked over at the roll of bandages, staring for a moment before grabbing at them like a wild animal grabbing a prey animal and tearing it apart, throwing it across the dirt path. She sobbed, clutching her head in her hands and grabbing fistfuls of her hair and cried. Her entire body was burning with helplessness as she growled, her voice shrill and pained. Tears soaked through her bandages.
"WE WILL PURGE THE MOTHERLAND OF HER PARASITES!!"
It was not, indeed the roaring rallying cry that came after that caught Maria's attention, but Fyodor's words.
The parasites.
The parasites that took her village.
The parasites that took her family, her life....
The parasites that took her away.
She could....
She could make a difference.
There was no need to cry.
Maria shot up from her spot on the ground with the massive cathedral walk behind her, and entered the crowd.
François listened to the sounds of the rallying cries of the broken townspeople outside, exhaling bitterly. "To glory, I suppose..." She muttered underneath her breath. At least she wouldn't have to worry about treating that frail little girl again.
She was safe from that path.