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The Order of Justice

Roots of Justice Arc

Chapter III  -  Hearts of Justice

Outskirts of Compiègne, The Française Republic

June 17, 1918

The countryside around Compiègne was unseasonably cold during most of June, the damp weather a constant drag on the morale of the Bloodflame Company. They had recently marched to the outskirts of the city to reinforce and replenish with newly-arrived supplies for the troops fighting nearby. In the nearly two months since the night raid, the Française Republic’s Sixth Army had regrouped and joined up with the Freesian 2nd Infantry Division, both now occupied in fearsome fighting around Belleau Wood to the Southeast. The stories of bloody hand-to-hand combat and lines of men being cut down by machine gun fire in wheat fields brought back harrowing memories of The Somme for those unfortunate souls that bore witness to that Hell and were still trudging through the mud so far away from home. Edward did his best to quell any rumors of his company joining the fray. He’d been given assurance by Colonel Dubois that no Exardian troops — whether they wore green or blue uniforms — would be called to fight at Belleau Wood unless something catastrophic happened, at which point a mad dash southward to defend Paris would be the likeliest outcome. 

Yet, for the majority of Edward’s troops, they were more preoccupied with daydreams of chocolate, biscuits, and flavorful tea, among other battlefield luxuries now that they were away from the Front. Among the biggest daydreamers was, unsurprisingly, the automaton girl with green-streaked silver hair, her blue uniform now stained and torn, these months on the battlefield having proven difficult. Though ultimately, she was in fine shape compared to the rest, no stranger to long journeys on foot while carrying a heavy pack. The old clockmaker, on the other hand, was trailing behind most of the troops, the long march having taken its toll on his joints. He was grateful, however, that several of the younger soldiers were keeping him company, slowing down for the old man they’d come to think of as a grandfather. Cecilia, naturally, had lightened her father’s load, slinging his pack over her shoulder while humming a cheerful tune as she fantasized about sipping warm mint tea. 

Choo-choo! came the whistling sound of an allied supply train pulling out of the city’s rail yard, passing several hundred feet in front of the company.

“Hear that, men? That may as well be the sound of Santa’s sleigh bells! A little further and we’ll be topped up well and good! Huzzah and tally-ho!” proclaimed Edward, leading the march with Thorn raised skyward.

“Huzzah and tally-ho!” came the chorus of voices from behind him. 

“I still don’t really get what that means, though…” murmured Cecilia to herself, even though she’d joined the chorus moments earlier.

“None of us really do,” answered a young Lance Corporal walking behind her next to Heinrich, “Hell I’ve been under Edward’s command for, what, six months now? Still couldn’t tell ya.” 

“But it feels good to say, don’t it?” snickered the even younger Private beside him. 

“That it… does…” heaved Heinrich, straightening up and taking a big stride forward, “Huzzah!” 

“Huzzah!” exclaimed the men around him, following in stride with the old man. 

Cecilia couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. She was glad her father was so loved out here. The thought itself brightened her day more than any tea could — though she was still excited for it, too. 

… 

When the Bloodflame Company had arrived in Compiègne proper around noon, they had been invited to stay in the barracks the Freesian 2nd Infantry Division had set up near the rail yard. It was a nice gesture from Major General Lejeune, though his estimation of the number of Freesian troops at Compiègne was outdated, to say the least. Only a day earlier did the 5th Marines, who had been relieved at Belleau Wood after nearly two weeks of constant fighting, arrive back in the city for rest and replenishment. Hundreds of exhausted, yet remarkably rowdy, men — the “Devil Dogs” of the 5th — were busy running amok in the city’s bars and brothels, and, now, the rail depot stocked with fresh supplies from the South. 

“Dogs” is right… thought Cecilia, staring bewildered at the chaos of the rail depot, Edward and Heinrich beside her. The majority of the Bloodflame men had rushed into the fray to claim what they could for themselves. 

“Well,” said Edward, rolling up the sleeves on his green tunic, “better hop to it, lest we get left with torn wrappers.”

Cecilia almost couldn’t believe the devious smile that formed on his face as he leaned forward in a sprinter’s stance, her mouth hanging agape with shock. But she was completely sure Edward was serious about this, his blue flame was flickering in excitement like a hound’s tail. Had it not been for the shrill scream and resulting commotion at the far end of the depot, who knows what kind of blue-lit brawls would have been witnessed by the automaton and her dear father. 

“Hmm? What’s all this, then?” pondered Edward, the excited glint in his eyes fading, his flame returning to its normal waving motion.

“It almost sounded… like a girl?” Heinrich wondered aloud. 

By the time the three had run over to the source of the commotion, a circle of Freesian and Exardian troops had formed. In the center was a wooden crate, its lid having been freshly pried open with a crowbar that was now gripped tightly in the hands of a Freesian standing near the inner edge of the circle. He was a short fellow, barely over 5’4”, but with a fiery aura about him, his toothy sneer and annoyance-filled hazel eyes pointed at the odd sight huddled against the crate. 

There, sitting on his rear, back pressed against the crate in fear, was a man clad in a forest green uniform, both a different shade and makeup compared to the Exardian’s. His strawberry blonde, almost pink, hair — though long and unkempt — was standing on end like a scared cat. Had his stubble been a little longer, it, too, would be bristling. Yet, what drew the eye most were his amber eyes, wavering with moisture, on the verge of pouring forth tears. 

Lips quivering, he said in a thick accent, “P-p-p-please! I-I didn’t m-m-mean to scare you l-l-l-like that!”

“A Romance accent?” whispered Heinrich to Edward and Cecilia, “what is he doing so far north?” 

“Y-you absotively didn’t scare me, you hear!” choked out the short Freesian in an Atlantic accent while waving the crowbar, his true feelings betrayed by his red-flushed ears, seen clear as day with his undercut.  

“Absotively?” blurted out Cecilia with a puff, overwhelmed by the odd scene unfolding in front of her. 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what seems to be the issue,” boomed Edward, pushing through the crowd, drawing wide eyes and whispering his way. 

“Dio mio!” exclaimed the Romance Empire soldier, whipping his head to the side as Edward loomed over them. 

“And who do you think you are…” trailed off the Freesian, his sneer untwisting into a curious expression as his eyes rose up to Edward’s flame, “Wow, neat!” 

Both Edward and the Romantic turned to the short man, one with a raised eyebrow and lifted mustache, the other with scrunched eyebrows and a deep frown. 

“Ah! Wait, you’re not getting out of this so easily!” snapped the crowbar-wielder, turning his attention back to the cowering man who whimpered in response. 

“Enough” came the stern warning from the Exardian, his sabre drawn so quickly, neither of the two noticed before its blade was held between them. 

The Freesian stepped back, lowering the crowbar and hanging it on the wide belt that wrapped around his waist. 

Content, Edward withdrew Thorn, but still kept it in-hand at his side. 

“From the beginning, if you’d be so kind, Mr. Crowbar.” 

“That’s Sergeant Murin, to you, uhh…”

“Captain Bloodflame. Captain Edward Rosario Bloodflame of the Exardian Fifth Army,” replied the knight, uncharacteristically putting special emphasis on his official military title.

“Oh! Uh!” exclaimed the Freesian Sergeant, obviously flustered at the rank-reversal, “m-my apologies, Captain, sir. I’m Sergeant Georgie Murin of the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines.” 

Edward’s expression softened at the genuineness of the young man. He was always fond of those that wore their hearts on their sleeves. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sergeant. I’ve heard the Marines have been giving Jerry hell down in Belleau,” said Edward, giving an approving smile before turning toward the still-cowering man, “And you, signore?” 

For the first time since they’d arrived at the scene, Edward saw relief on the Romantic’s face. 

“I-I-I’m Caporale Maggiore Romero Panthera,” stated the now-at-attention soldier, having jumped to his feet, right hand raised to his brow in salute. 

“So your legs do work, uh, C-Caporale Maj…?” struggled Edward, his Romantic language skills not having had the same constant practice on the Front as his French.

“It’s ok, Captain,” reassured Romero, trembling hands raised, “you can call me Romero. It is what my brothers in arms call me.” 

Edward smiled, “Romero it is! Now, could you explain how you even got all the way to Compiègne?” 

“Compiègne?” repeated Romero, his head tilted to the side in confusion. 

“Near Paris!” shouted Cecilia from the crowd.

“Paris?! Non ci posso credere!” he shouted, hands on his head, all color quickly draining from his face. 

“Even I understood that much,” remarked Georgie, eyebrows raised at the panicking Romantic, “you’re around 300 miles from the border, give or take, but only a few dozen from the Front. So your plan to smuggle yourself to safety kind of backfired, wouldn’t ya say!” 

A chorus of Freesian laughs came from all around the circle as Georgie raised his arms in proclamation. 

“I wasn’t trying to run away!” shouted Romero, the sudden tone shift and serious look on his face — aimed directly at Georgie — quelling the laughter. 

“Smuggle?” questioned Edward, looking over at the broken-open crate behind Romero, “were you in there, Romero?” 

“Sì… I traveled all the way here… in that…” 

“Wow…” said the Immergreens in unison, clearly audible to Edward’s discerning ear. 

“H-How did you even manage that?” asked the knight, clearly in disbelief. 

“I… was loading crates of mandarini we had received from Sicilia, and, well, how you say… made a nap?” 

“Took a nap?” corrected Edward. 

“Sì, sì, Captain, took a nap. It seems like the warm sun and scent of citrus put me to sleep, then…” he paused, the thought of what came next clearly zapping him of his energy, “then, I woke up, surrounded by mandarini and covered in hay. I thought it was nighttime, so I tried to sit up, but…” 

Thud! came the sound of Romero’s fist slamming down on the wooden box filled with mandarin oranges behind him. 

“My head still hurts…” 

“No way…” commented Georgie, “didn’t you try, y’know, screaming for help? Something to get someone’s attention?”

“I tried, I promise I did!” exclaimed Romero, “I shouted, I knocked on the wood, but nobody came to help. It was always so loud with the trains and whistles and engines, argh! I don’t even think they opened the train car I was inside of until just now, it must have been easier that way…” He looked down at the ground defeated. 

“And then…” started Edward, leaning his head to the side for a better look at Georgie’s crowbar.

“And then, I saw the light! I thought it was a dream when the lid came off and those eyes peered in, they were the most beautiful eyes I’d seen all my life, I was so happy! I pounced out and tried to hug my savior, but he… screamed, hehe…” awkwardly laughed the Romantic, scratching at the stubble on his face. 

“Can you blame me?!” barked Georgie, his face again starting to turn red as he pursed his lips. 

Laughter could be heard from all around as both the Freesian and Exardian troops joined in to laugh at the conclusion to this unfortunate odyssey. 

“So, do you have any plans as of now, Romero?” asked Edward, rubbing his chin.

“I’m… not sure, Captain. I don’t even know how I would get back to the Empire from so far away. And even if I got back, I might be in…” he gulped, the color again running from his face, “big trouble…” 

“Desertion, eh? Well, that would likely carry death by firing squad.”

So nonchalant! thought Cecilia, Heinrich, and Georgie, all wide-eyed in shock. 

“D… Death…” the words fell out of Romero’s mouth as the man leaned on the crate for support. 

“That is unless there is a credible excuse for the leave of absence,” continued Edward, resheathing Thorn, “though your commanding officer might not believe you if you sent a telegram on your own. Good thing you have a member of the Exardian Royal Family here to send one on your behalf.”

Edward’s proud grin was met with astonishment from all those around him, most of all Georgie and Romero, their jaws hanging slack. 

“W-w-what do you mean, Captain…” 

“I mean,” beamed Edward, giving the dumbstruck man a wink from behind his blue-tinted glasses, “I’ll save your tail if you lend a hand to our company. We’re a little short-staffed, and could use all the able-bodied men we can get. After all, there’s no feasible way to get you back to the Romance Empire right now, it was honestly a miracle you even made it this far north in the first place.” 

Romero couldn’t keep his tears dammed up any longer, rushing over to Edward, wrapping his arms around him, and sobbing in relief. 

“Th-thank you s-so much, C-Captain!” Romero’s words were muddied by a dribble of snot. 

Ever cool and composed, Edward chuckled and patted the crying man’s head. Maybe I really do have a soft spot for crybabies, he thought, turning his head back to those pairs of green eyes looking pridefully at him. 

“Whatever,” sighed Georgie, “save his ass or send him back, hardly matters to me anymore. I just want some of those oranges he’s got in there.”

“Oh ho ho ho!” laughed Edward, “I don’t think so, Sergeant.” 

He snapped his fingers, followed by a singular word: “Cecilia.” 

The look on all of the Freesian soldiers’ faces — and Romero’s too, had he not been blinded by tears — was an almost reality-shattering expression of disbelief in what was transpiring before their very eyes. A silver-haired girl, dressed in a blue uniform, had gracefully walked out of the crowd, bent down, and, with a single hand, picked up the entire wooden crate filled with hundreds of mandarin oranges, raising it over her head like a waitress carrying a serving tray.   

“We’ll be taking this one for the Bloodflame Company,” smirked Edward, triumphantly. “But,” he continued, “I wouldn’t be opposed to treating my new Freesian comrades to a pint or two later this evening in exchange.” 

The cheer propagating amongst the Freesians at the promise of free booze was boisterous and rowdy. Even Georgie couldn’t help but crack a cheeky smile at the towering Exardian. Nothing less than total victory, eh? he thought, those hazel eyes burning with excitement. 

… 

He gasped for air as his yellow eyes shot open, the shadowy commandeered shed easy on his dark-adjusted pupils. There he sat in the similarly-commandeered leather chair, both arms outstretched onto the wooden desk, now more neatly organized around a white circle that had been drawn onto its polished surface with chalk. Within the circle were various runes and symbols — also drawn in chalk — with the four cardinal points of the circle adorned with glittering crystals. 

“Did you see anything this time?” asked a soft, low voice from across the desk. The voice of a young woman. 

She sat in a dull wooden chair, a black hood drawn over her head, one that obscured her face. She was of a clearly short stature even when sitting, her arms just barely reaching over the desk, her petite hands grasping the yellow-eyed Oberstleutnant’s own — though his were now far clammier than when they’d started this affair. 

“No, not this time either,” he responded, out of breath, tightening his grip on her small hands, “the maelstrom of souls has only gotten denser. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack during a typhoon.” 

“Maybe it’s time to change our approach… again…” trailed off the young woman, now rising to her feet and walking to the blacked-out window. Pulling the curtain aside and flooding the room with late-afternoon light, she turned back to the yellow-eyed man, now rubbing his eyes, “you shouldn’t push yourself too hard, you’ve still got men to lead, after all.” As she said this in her nonchalant tone, she unbuttoned the cloak which the black hood was attached to, swishing it off of her shoulders, and hanging it on a tool hook near the window. 

Bathed in that golden light, she was beyond beautiful. Her long, silvery hair, tinged with an amethyst hue at the ends, ran down straight to her lower back. She wore a modest striped shawl diagonally across her chest, revealing a single bare shoulder, which contrasted against the light grey military-issue pants she had tucked into her leather boots. Her skin was flawless and smooth, the natural tan hue an uncommon sight on the Front — not to say that a woman on the Immerheim Front is any less uncommon than that of the Allied Forces. 

Yet most striking of all was her face. Small and round, her cheeks and nose were pronounced. Her eyes had the characteristic almond shape of her people, but their color was something wholly unique to her. To say they were as brilliant as cut gemstones would be an understatement. The shades of purple that danced and morphed in the waning light would bring even the most experienced jewelers to their knees in astonishment. 

“I suppose you’re right, my dear lotus. I should take an early rest tonight after supper,” groaned the much taller man, rising to his feet, his hand still placed on the large chair for support. He towered over her, her head reaching just up to his pectorals, but in spite of this she didn’t emanate “smallness.” Even while looking up at him, there was an air of confidence about her, her expression never wavering from its stoic neutrality. 

“It seems like it will be a clear night, would you be willing to dance for the men tonight?” he asked, gently caressing her cheek in his large hand.

She pressed her cheek into his palm, giving him a sly smile underneath those dazzling eyes. “Very well, I wouldn’t be opposed. It’s been a while after all, I’m sure they’ve missed my performances,” she paused, narrowing her gaze, “I know you have, Sebastian.” 

His glowing eyes narrowed in response, a similarly sly smile growing on his pale face. 

“Certainly I have, Lalita.” 

… 

“And then he said, ‘Retreat, hell! We just got here!’” 

The roaring laughter of drunken soldiers echoed through a Compiègne pub — one of many packed full this evening — as the half moon had begun its journey through the sky. The 5th Marines who had found themselves robbed of fruit earlier that day were now indulging in the beer and wine paid for by the Royal Bloodflame Treasury. To Edward’s mild dismay, the beer that had been delivered with the supply train still did not scratch the itch his homeland’s ale certainly would have. 

This accursed war… still robbing me of the taste of home…, he thought, his expression clearly conveying his disappointment. The alcohol was at the very least having some effect on the noble knight’s composure. 

“Where’d that chipper ol’ smile go, Mr. King?” came a cheeky, clearly buzzed voice from the crowd, “need to have yourself a stiff upper lip, right?” 

Georgie sat down on an empty stool across from Edward, half-drunk beer mug planted roughly on the wooden table. He had a red blush to his face, though this time not from embarrassment, as evident from his wide grin. 

“Much friendlier after a little drink, aren’t we, Sergeant Murin?” retorted Edward, smiling at the young man while fixing his glasses.

“I’m always friendly, Captain!” grinned the Freesian, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a hefty swig. “Ahhhh! Absotively hits the spot! Oh by the way, Captain, you can drop the formalities. Feel free to call me ‘Georgie,’ I’m lower-ranked than you and all…” he said, averting his gaze slightly from those scarlet eyes. Was it the alcohol or coyness that was turning Georgie’s ears red this time? 

“Rank never meant much to me to begin with,” replied Edward, taking his own hefty swig of beer, “so I’ll oblige you there, Georgie.” 

“Georgie!” came a very slurred call from the crowd as the pink-haired Romero unsteadily bounded toward the pair, assisted by Cecilia and Heinrich on either side of him.

Before Georgie could even react, he’d already been picked up off his chair and hugged by Romero, the Romantic’s face smeared with a jolly smile and a blushing red hue from the copious amount of wine he’d drank that night. 

“Not you! You still have to call me ‘Sergeant!’ And let me go, dammit!” sneered Georgie, pushing himself away from Romero, who eventually relented and put the small Freesian down. 

“Che cattivo!” exclaimed Romero, pouting while Heinrich slipped a stool under him to sit on. The drunk Romantic rested his head on the cool tabletop as he sat down.

“Now, now, you two,” interrupted Cecilia, sitting down between them and across from Edward, “no fighting in the pub!” she continued in a confident tone, the nearly-empty beer mug in her hand an obvious clue to her unusually assertive behavior.

“Great, now the machines are even better drunkards than us!” mused Georgie while giving Cecilia an exaggerated side-eye. 

“You bet we are, shorty!” she haughtily hissed back, hand over her mouth in a ladylike fashion.

“Shorty?! We’re the same height!”

“Nuh-uh! I’m definitely taller!” 

“Sure, if you count that damn key on your head! Watch this!” 

Georgie then proceeded to lick his palm and comb his short, ruffled hair into a cowlick, gaining an inch or two in height to match the automaton’s winding key.

“Gross! And cheating! Hair doesn’t count!” she barked back.

“Why shouldn’t i-” 

Slam! Before he could finish, both of their heads turned to the crimson-haired man across from them, his empty beer mug having just slammed to the table. 

“I need some more beer,” he said, effortlessly quashing the squabble. 

“Let me get you some more, Edward,” replied Heinrich, taking the mug from Edward’s hand and giving him an approving nod. 

“Thank you, Heinrich,” Edward smiled back. 

“Haha!” came a gentle laugh from behind Georgie, “I see you’ve already got a good grasp on how to quiet Georgie down, Captain Bloodflame.” 

Standing to the feisty Freesian’s side was a tall man with a slender figure, obvious even through the unbuttoned tan uniform he wore. His smooth shoulder-length raven-black hair — iridescent-looking in the lights of the pub — was tied back into a neat ponytail. The faintest pair of bumps could be noticed protruding out from underneath his locks on the sides of his head if one were to look closely enough, though nobody at the table was sober enough to notice. 

“Nelly-boy!” exclaimed Georgie, looking up at the man with a smile, “here, sit, sit!” 

“Come on now, Georgie, you have to give me a proper introduction,” groaned the man, a deep frown forming on his clean-shaven face, yet his black eyes betraying an affection for the rowdy young man pulling on his sleeve. 

“Fiiiiiiiine, then introduce yourself, why dontcha!” 

“Ope! I suppose I can do that,” the raven-haired man chuckled, rubbing his hair with one hand while putting down his mug with the other, “my name is Corporal Nelson Ravencroft of the 5th Marines, serving proudly under Sergeant Murin, here,” giving Georgie a playful nudge with his elbow. 

“Quite the regal name you’ve got there, Corporal,” remarked Edward with a grin.

“That’s quite the compliment coming from actual royalty like yourself, Captain,” replied Nelson, awkwardly smiling with delight.

“Definitely a shorty compared to him,” said Cecilia under her breath, her hand unconsciously petting Romero’s plush hair as he slept on the table. 

“What did you say, clockwoman?!” barked Georgie. 

“Can you two please knock it off!” came an annoyed shout from the direction of the beer taps. 

All eyes at the table turned toward the call, especially those of Georgie and Cecilia, who had thought it was aimed at them. 

Instead, as he was carrying two large, nearly-overflowing mugs of beer, Heinrich was being encircled by two blonde soldiers, also wearing the tan Freesian uniform but with an unusual detail — each had a white band with a red cross motif around the upper portion of their left arms. 

Medics, eh? thought Edward.

“Why are you drinking so much beer, old man, eh eh?” asked one of the medics.

“You’re dressed in blue, so you should be drinking wine, right?” asked the other in lock-step. 

“Yeah, yeah! Doesn’t wine flow like water here, eh eh?” 

“That’s what I heard, too, eh eh!” 

“Freddy, Mikey, knock it off, you’re gonna make the old man drop his beer!” shouted Georgie at the two circling medics, who immediately stood at attention for the inebriated Sergeant. 

“Understood, Georgie, eh eh!” they called in unison. 

It took the non-Freesians at the table a little too long — no doubt the result of their drinking — to realize the remarkable similarity between the medics. Both had short-cut blonde hair, similar in style to Georgie’s but without the undercut. Not even the hint of facial hair on either of them, though it would have gone unnoticed against their pale blue eyes. The Bloodflame Company all came to the same realization simultaneously.

Twins?! 

As Heinrich finally placed the mugs of beer safely down on the table with a relieved huff, he slid one over to Edward, who gave a thankful nod, and took up the other once more. 

“Cheers,” said the knight, tapping his glass to Heinrich’s.

“Prost,” replied the clockmaker in kind. 

As Edward was putting down his mug and giving a refreshed sigh, he noticed the ever-curious twins squeezing themselves between Georgie and Cecilia to get a better look at him. Or more accurately, his blue flame.

“Is that real fire?” asked the twin with subtly fluffier hair.

“Does it burn if you touch it?” continued the other twin, his fuzzier hair more apparent now that they were closer. 

“The only thing my flame burns, lads…” Edward’s voice grew faint as he lowered his head, “IS INJUSTICE! Oh ho ho ho!” 

The suddenness of Edward’s passionate proclamation sobered-up most of the table, including the napping Romero, who looked up with a dazed expression. 

“Whoa! So cool, eh eh!” cheered the twins in perfect harmony, their blue eyes sparkling. 

“Haha! Your harmonization is pretty amusing, too,” laughed Edward.

“Freddy and Mikey, right? You two really worked up my father on the way here,” giggled Cecilia.

“Father? Oh you mean the old man with the mustache?” asked the fluffy-haired one.

“I guess you are wearing blue, too, but… aren’t you that really strong automaton girl? You have a father?” questioned the fuzzy-haired one. 

“It’s a long story,” responded the Immergreens in their own perfect harmony. 

A wave of laughter swept the table. Tensions and inhibitions were melting slowly but surely. 

“I guess we should introduce ourselves, right, Mikey?” 

“I guess we should, yeah, Freddy.” 

The twins stepped back from the table and turned toward the Bloodflame Company, proud smiles mirrored upon their identical faces.

“I’m Private First Class Frederick A. Gardien, the older Gardien twin. I’ve got the fluffy hair and this blue sweetheart brooch from our mamma,” he said, pointing at the small heart-shaped pin on his chest, colored in a light blue enamel. 

“And I’m Private First Class Michael A. Gardien, the younger Gardien twin. I’ve got the fuzzy hair and this pink sweetheart brooch from our older sister,” he said, pointing at the similarly-heart-shaped pin on his chest, this one colored with a rosey pink enamel. 

“These two might be part of the 5th, but I’m still convinced they’re just two Canucks that got separated from their platoon and wound up with us!” scoffed Georgie, affectionately.

“Even if they were, you should be grateful, Georgie,” said Nelson, poking his superior on top of his head where the hair parted, “Freddy and Mikey have saved our asses more than once out there, be it sprained ankles or ghastly diarrhea."

“Don’t remind me…” trailed off Georgie, looking remarkably pale for a drunk man, the memory clearly traumatic.  

“Haha, you four seem very close. I’m surprised only Frederick and Michael are true brothers,” chuckled Heinrich, the foam from his beer coating his mustache. 

“You’re wrong there, old man,” corrected Georgie, his voice surprisingly serious, “we all are true brothers, Freddy and Mikey just also happen to be blood-brothers,” he continued, his hazel eyes stern, “In this war, this Hell, our bonds transcend family and lineage. The men we fight and die alongside are our truest brothers, nothing less.” 

The table had gone quiet within the chatter-filled pub, Georgie’s sincere words resonating in their hearts.

“Well said, Georgie,” remarked Edward with a proud smile, mug raised in a cheer, “to all our brothers — and sisters — in arms!” 

All those sat around the table stood up, mugs clattering, and voices singing in a joyous chorus.

“Cheers!” 

“And more wine!” cried out Romero to a volley of chuckles.

The night of drinking and merriment continued into the early hours of the morning. Many more laughs and drunken arguments were had, playful bickering and storytelling abounded, and slowly these families of true brothers became one. 

As the night finally came to a close, the medic twins carried Nelson back toward the barracks, his lightweightedness a surprise to most that see his tall frame. At his behest, the three of them had left Georgie to stroll through the night on his own, enjoying the cool, crisp air on his flushed red face, eyes closed to help prevent motion sickness. Suddenly, he stepped on and bumped into something. Opening his eyes, he had to crank his head up high to even see the man’s face. Ugly and disfigured, truly a thug of an ape. 

“Where do you think you’re going, short-stack?” spat the ogre of a man in a thick French accent, grabbing Georgie’s collar in his meaty fist, “you’re gonna pay for a new pair of shoes, after ruining these,” he continued, waving down at his already long-battered shoes. 

Shit… thought Georgie, I could usually take a big bastard like this, but I can hardly even stand straight… 

Just then, a shadow moved swiftly through the night toward the scene, barely lit by the nighttime light posts. Before the thug could even react, a fist flew directly into his jaw, knocking out two rotting teeth, and sending his massive body down to the ground.

Georgie was left standing there wide-eyed, hardly able to process what just happened. 

“Get your hands off Georgie, brutto bastardo!” shouted the familiar, slurred voice of the usually meek Romero. 

“Whoa… that was pretty neat…” said Georgie aloud, his thoughts and spoken words getting mixed up.

“Are you okay, Georgie?” asked Romero, turning back to the gently-swaying Freesian. 

“Y-yeah, I am, thanks,” responded Georgie, “looks like you really knocked him down…” 

They both looked down at the groaning oaf. Was he just a glass cannon? Or did Romero hit like a steam locomotive? 

Maybe Edward actually saved my ass back then… the thought chilling Georgie more than the cool night air.

“Let’s go, Geor- uhh wait, I’m sorry,” paused Romero as he turned away from the Freesian, “Sergeant Murin.” 

Georgie couldn’t help but laugh out loud as he smacked Romero on his back, the gesture sending the Romantic jumped forward in shock with a yelp. 

“‘Georgie’ is fine with me, uhh…” he paused, lowering his voice and looking away from his savior’s sincere expression, “Romero…” 

“Georgieeeeeeee!” 

Romero almost brought the both of them down to the cold cobblestone street with his hug, but Georgie managed to hold up the bawling stowaway with sheer willpower. Outwardly, he was annoyed, but on the inside he was glad to have another sincere oddball around him. 

“C’mon you crybaby, let's get back to the barracks.” 

Leaning on each other, the two newly-born brothers stumbled their way back, giggling and howling through the night. 

… 

The chirping of birds and buzzing of insects along the rice paddies was a mundane state of affairs for the villagers here. The beating sun and air thick with humidity were just as ordinary. However, for the tall, pale man with inky-black hair, this environment was nearly as inhospitable as the Sahara. No, at least when he’d traveled that expanse, sweating kept him cool. But here, in the rural fields of the Kingdom of Siam, there was no such natural reprieve. 

Yet, he still came, nearly halfway around the world, to this humid Hell, on a tip from a trusted explorer he considered a mentor. A mentor of the esoteric and mystical that had recounted to him the discovery of a fantastical jewel, “purple and deadly,” as he’d described it. 

Purple, sure, but what did he mean by “deadly,” thought the man as he trudged along the dirt path baked by the summer sun, the woven palm-straw ngob atop his head being his pale-skin’s only saving grace. The guide he’d hired was also unsure what exactly the meaning of this description was, but once Sebastian had uttered it, he knew exactly where to take him. Now these two mismatched gentlemen had been walking for nearly an hour to reach this remote, unremarkable village located at the foot of a hillside, flanked by rice paddies. 

After arriving in the village square, the guide had gone off to ask about the whereabouts of the jewel, leaving the tall, yellow-eyed oddity to be swarmed by curious children and adults alike, who marveled at his foreign appearance. The young ones were especially keen on looking at his various rings, some with large gems or intricate patterns, but one that was a single plain gold band on his left ring finger. As Sebastian was busying himself by performing sleight-of-hand magic tricks for his applauding audience, the guide had returned with assurance that the jewel was here. Taking his leave with a smile and wave, he followed the guide to the edge of the village, to a modest house built of bamboo and palm leaves, located between the forested hill and a planted paddy. 

“This is where this deadly jewel is stored?” questioned Sebastian.

“Yes, sir. It is here, sir,” replied the guide in a heavy accent.

The guide walked up the short steps to the doorway of the house and knocked on the bamboo doorframe before stepping back down to the tall man’s side. 

The creak of wooden flooring could be heard, but there were no obvious footsteps accompanying the creaking. The curtained doorway was then moved aside by a petite hand as a young woman stepped through the threshold, a sleeping infant wrapped in a light cloth in her arms. At the time, she looked too youthful to be a mother, but Sebastian would soon learn that she was at least 23 years old, only a few years his junior. 

His attention was abruptly drawn from the child in her arms to her face after she’d spoken a soft “hello” to the men. 

The tall man’s yellow eyes shot open at the sight before him, the shock causing him to step back slightly. There, staring at him in a nonchalant manner, were two purple jewels, eyes so unnaturally dazzling that even he — a man who had been stared back at by cat-like yellow eyes every morning before the mirror — was taken aback. 

Before him stood the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. This wasn’t a slight against the woman he’d vowed his life to, rather an objective truth of the world as far as he could tell. Those purple eyes just stared back in mild wonder at the sight before them. The midday light dancing off of her irises, the buzzing of cicadas becoming ever more deafening. Purple tendrils of corruption engulfing the house, engulfing the child, engulfing the woman, leaving only those purple jewels staring through him. 

He again awoke with a gasp, though this time he was laying in a bed, sweat beading up on his forehead and shirtless chest. A slender arm moved up from his waist to his smooth jaw. 

“Another nightmare?” spoke the soft voice up from the pillow next to his, tinged with a mixture of mild concern and a slight morning groginess.

“I wouldn’t call it that exactly…” he replied, putting his arm around her bare shoulders, her silvery hair smooth against his skin, “it was a pleasant dream, of when we first met…” 

“It wasn’t corrupted?”

“Not until the end,” he sighed, turning his head to look into those mesmerizing eyes. 

“Maybe it’s a good sign?” she mused, kissing him on the cheek, “they could finally be becoming more obedient, no?” 

As Lalita sat up, the light sheet over them hung gently off of her petite, bare chest. The morning light and breakfast-time chatter from outside the shed filtering in through the windows and cracks in the wooden walls. 

Sebastian followed, allowing the sheet to fall to his lap, while croaking, “I doubt it. Maybe they were just waiting for the best moment to torture my emotions…” he paused, looking down at his hands, the only ring left on them being the plain gold band. “In any case, let’s get dressed, it’s already pretty late in the morning.” 

“Felix isn’t supposed to arrive until a week from today, right?” asked Lalita, having gotten to her feet and billowed her long hair out beside the bed as she got to work getting dressed.

“That’s right. The train lines from the East have been heavily congested by the Kaiserschlacht, so he’s likely to run late.” 

“So be it, it gives me more time to prepare,” she said indifferently, grabbing a leather sash with a large sheath attached to it, the crooked dagger within being of a terrifying size. 

Walking over to the still-shirtless inky-haired man in bed, Lalita planted a gentle kiss on his lips, saying, “I’ll head out first. Get dressed quickly or else all the bratwurst will be gone.” 

Her sly smile and winking eye were the last things Sebastian saw as she danced out of the shed. He couldn’t help but crack a smile at this purple and deadly jewel in his possession. 

… 

“What?!” came the quartet of disbelief from around the cafe’s table. 

It was a little before noon the morning following the pub extravaganza. Edward, Cecilia, and Georgie were sitting around an outdoor table at a bustling cafe near the Compiègne city center, all three of them having cool, wetted towels on their foreheads to help alleviate their hangovers. Heinrich and Romero were also sitting with them, however these two champion drinkers were completely fine after the previous night. Yet, it wasn’t the revelation of Romero being hangover-free that caused the other four shock — enough for the towel trio to lurch forward, eyes-wide, heads pounding in retaliation. No, the revelation was something far more shocking. 

“Y-you’re a…” coughed out Georgie, the surprise overwhelming him.

“Pilot?!” completed Cecilia, her automaton head pounding at her own raised voice. 

“Sì, I’m a pilot,” confirmed Romero, taking a nonchalant sip of his cappuccino, “did I not mention this?” 

“I would have certainly remembered,” answered Heinrich, his wrinkled brow scrunching in thought. 

“What did you fly, Romero?” asked Edward, pulling off his towel.

“It was a fighter plane, a SPAD VII model, Française-made if I remember correctly. She flew so elegantly, mio gatto vivace…” he sighed, his expression saddening at the thought of not being able to fly his precious plane. 

“A fighter, eh?” pondered Edward, rubbing his chin as usual, “say, Romero, do you think you could fly a different model of plane?” 

“Sì, Edward,” Romero replied without hesitation, “I’m a natural. I can fly pretty much any plane you put me in.” 

The seriousness of his answer was almost unsettling to the other three observing the conversation. He really isn’t joking, is he? 

Edward smiled, his scarlet eyes gleaming behind his glasses, the flame on his chest roaring with excitement. 

“Well, have I got a Camel for you to ride!” 

“Eh? A camel?!” blurted out Romero, his head cocked to the side. 

After lunch and a short rollcall, the oddballs of the Bloodflame Company — and Georgie — followed Edward to the western outskirts of the city where the majority of the Exardian field operations had been set up. Another Captain overseeing the field office there had greeted Edward and his merry crew with a quizzical look, but nevertheless guided them to where they wanted to go: the airfield. 

To call it an “airfield” would be a generous term, though accurate in a literary sense. It was more or less a stretch of a wildflower field that had been flattened by the Française Republic troops stationed nearby during the early days of the Spring Offensive, a handful of hangars erected on the far side. Small, but large enough to support lighter aircraft takeoffs. 

As asked, the airfield technicians had uncovered and towed a single-seat fighter biplane out onto the end of the airfield. It was a beautiful machine, painted in a dull green with some exposed wood paneling, polished to a brilliant sheen. The iconic blue, white, and red bullseye insignia of the Exardian Royal Air Force plastered on the side of the fuselage. Two Vickers machine guns pointing forward behind the large wooden propeller. 

Everyone’s eyes lit up in awe of this marvel of modern engineering, but especially Romero’s. He almost began to sob at the beauty, and then did start to sob once Edward gave him permission to inspect it directly. 

“It’s like he’s meeting his newly-born kid or something,” remarked Georgie, rolling his eyes at the sight.

“You’re just jealous, Georgie,” snickered Cecilia. 

“I-I-I am not!” he stammered out, the denial clearly floundering, “besides, don’t you already have pilots for these things, Ed?” 

Ed? Cecilia and Heinrich thought in unison, caught off guard by the casualness. 

“Unfortunately, we do not, Georgie,” replied Edward coldly, his gaze still locked on the engine block of the plane, “the Spring Offensive did a number on our air power. Sopwith Camels like this one performed valiantly during ground attack operations, but were picked off like partridges,” a frown forming on his face as he stepped forward and ran his hand along the smooth, cold metal. 

“Is it another supply issue, Edward?” asked Cecilia with a concerned look on her face. 

“That’s right, Cecilia, but not one of supplies this time. One of manpower,” answered the knight, turning back to the trio.

“There aren’t enough pilots, right?” said Romero, the tears having finally dried up again. 

“Correct. At least not enough Exardian pilots this far South, ones that have been trained to fly the Camel. Pretty much all of the Française Republic’s airmen prefer to fly their own models, and I’m not certain what the Freesian’s capabilities in the air are.” 

Taking several steps toward Romero, Edward placed his hand on the young Romantic’s shoulder, asking, “Are you sure you can fly a Camel, Romero?” 

Romero broke into a wide grin as he looked into Edward’s concerned eyes, dropping the pack he had slung over his shoulder to the ground, and crouching down to rummage through it. 

With a victorious yell, Romero jumped back to his feet, an extremely flamboyant article of clothing spread open before Edward, who looked at it in surprise. It was a black leather flight jacket, padded and insulated for the high-altitude cold, thick shearling around the collar and cuffs, but with an unusual modification: pink-dyed panther fur replaced the usually white wool shearling.

“That doesn’t seem very standard-issue,” remarked Heinrich, fascinated at the brazen jacket. 

“Hehe! That is true!” chuckled Romero, putting the jacket between his legs while he removed his usual forest green tunic, “even these styles of jacket are not usual, but the Generale, how you say, look the other way for Assi.” 

“Assi…” repeated Edward, taking a moment to process what that term meant, only for him, in a rare moment of outward surprise, to shout, “an Ace?!” 

“Sì!” smiled Romero, jacket donned and goggles placed on his head, raising his hand up to his brow, he continued, “Caporale Maggiore Romero Panthera of La 91ª Squadriglia aeroplani da caccia del Corpo Aeronautico!” 

Soon after, Romero had performed the pre-flight checks and climbed into the cockpit. As the engine roared to a start, the onlookers cleared away from the plane, watching closely as Romero brought the goggles down over his eyes and leaned out over the cockpit to give a confident thumbs up. All four — even Georgie — reciprocated in kind. 

Romero’s showing in the air was magnificent. The controlled turns and low passes were executed with such grace that an uninformed passerby wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he’d been flying Camels since he was a schoolboy. The crowd of Exardian troops that had gathered around the Bloodflame Company to watch the demonstration flight cheered heartily as Romero made an upside-down pass over them. After he’d landed, the crowd and his four companions gave a round of applause to the bashful pilot, a clear blush forming around his cheeks as he replaced the goggles on his head and jumped out of the cockpit. 

“Fantastic showing, Romero!” congratulated Edward, reaching out a gloved hand toward the pilot, who took it in a proud handshake, “I’m pleased to say that the Bloodflame Company has their own dedicated airman now. I’ll be sure to give my sincerest thanks to your Squadron’s commander in my telegram,” Edward’s reassuring wink bringing a relieved smile to the Romantic’s stubbled face. 

“Say, Edward, do you have a macchina fotografica? It would be nice to commemorate this moment!” 

“A makina…? Oh! A photocamera, right?” 

“Ah- Sì!”

A quick ask around the Exardian crowd turned up a film camera from one of the field photographers stationed there, who was more than happy to oblige the ace pilot’s request. The three members of the Bloodflame Company gathered around Romero in front of his plane for the photo. After it was taken, Romero ran up to the photographer and asked for one more shot. He then pushed through the crowd of green uniforms until he’d found the lone tan uniform and grabbed it by the cuff. 

“H-hey! What’re you doi-” yelped Georgie while being dragged back to the front of the crowd. 

“Quit being bashful! It is fotografia time, Georgie! How else am I supposed to remember this moment if you’re not part of it!” 

Romero had easily pulled the small Freesian to the plane, the rest of the Bloodflame Company having cleared away, approving smiles wide on all three of their faces at the sight. 

“I, uhh… I’m sorry… for being difficult…” said Georgie in a quiet, bashful tone only audible to Romero beside him, his gaze lowered to his feet. 

A sudden smack to the back from the pilot caused Georgie to jolt upright to face the camera.

“It’s okay, Georgie, I can be difficult, too, no?” Romero said, a wide grin aimed at his companion.  

They both burst out laughing, their genuine emotions forever preserved on that roll of film. To Georgie, it was a kind gesture of a kindred soul. However, to Romero, it was a bittersweet and selfish act. Even in that joyous moment, he was keenly aware of who Georgie was — a Freesian of the 5th Marines, one that would be returning to the battlefield soon, very soon. This might be the last opportunity to record his friendship with the feisty young man. 

Romero’s informed concern turned out to be wholly accurate, when, not even two days later, the 5th Marines stationed in Compiègne had been ordered to pack their belongings and prepare for a march back to the Hell that is Belleau Wood. The entirety of the Bloodflame Company had woken up at the crack of dawn to see their brothers-in-arms off on their journey. 

“We’ll absotively see each other again, I swear to it,” proclaimed Georgie, cocking his painted steel helmet to the side and giving his newfound friends that characteristic cheeky grin. 

“Georgie’s not one to fib, I can assure you that,” chimed in Nelson from his Sergeant’s side. 

“If Georgie says so, then it’s gotta be true! Eh eh!” cheered the twin medics, Freddy and Mikey, from his other flank. 

“Then what more could we ask for?” beamed Edward, letting out a hearty laugh into the misty morning, “Until we meet again, Georgie, Nelson, Freddy, and Mikey,” giving the four armed and armored doughboys a salute, one which they returned in unison with a cheer. 

“Don’t die out there, shorty!” exclaimed Cecilia.

“Take care and don’t forget to boil your water!” shouted Heinrich.

“Make sure to come back, Georgie! I promise I’ll take you flying when you do!” exclaimed Romero in a shaky voice, trying his hardest to keep the tears back. 

“I’ll hold you to it!” yelled back Georgie as his unit began their march out of the city, flashing his wide smile at those teary eyes seeing him off. Kind souls along the banks of the River Styx, waving to them on their journey into Hell. 

… 

The clashing of metal on metal was a common occurrence within the château’s small walled courtyard. The piercing sounds typically filled the air before supper, so as to work up an appetite for those training. One was always inevitably the short young lady, her long silvery hair tied into a bun, as her dazzling purple eyes locked onto her opponent, more often than not an unenthusiastic Immerheim soldier armed with a knife or bayonet-attached rifle. 

This time, however, it wasn’t just any soldier, but the yellow-eyed Oberstleutnant himself, rifle-in-hand, polished bayonet blade slicing through the air at his dear lotus. She parried away his blade with her own, a broad kukri of terrifying length and heft, though swung elegantly and effortlessly by the slender girl. Jumping back, she swiftly reversed her grip on the intricately-carved and jewel-studded wooden handle of the kukri. She rushed forward, steps light on the smoothed ground, almost inaudible against the cutting of the blade through the air. Sebastian read her movements and thrust the bayonet downward in anticipation of an upward cut — and he was correct, though he underestimated how low Lalita could go. She slid on her knees, her woolen pants gliding against the ground, tilting her head back as the bayonet cut through the air just above her nose. Sliding right between her opponent’s legs, she swung her agile body around and rose to her feet, gently jabbing the tip of the kukri into his lower back. 

“I surrender,” he said with a sigh, lowering the rifle to the ground and raising his hands. 

“Scheiße… not even the Oberstleutnant can beat her…” came the chatter from the crowd of soldiers that came to watch the pre-dinner entertainment. 

“I think that’s enough for tonight, then,” said Lalita with a smirk, a triumphant air about her as she sheathed her blade. 

The dinner bell chimed through the evening air, calling the spectators away from the courtyard in an excited fervor. Before Sebastian and Lalita could make their way out, a whistle called their attention from behind. Turning around — Lalita instinctively grabbing the handle of her blade — they came face to face with a fearsome-looking young man. 

 He stood tall and straight, though was several inches shorter than the towering Sebastian. His unbuttoned blueish-grey uniform and polished brown boots seemed too clean for how close to the Front they were, but the light-red collar insignia of a Rittmeister explained the access to fresh clothing. His most striking feature was his fiery auburn hair, cut short on the sides, but left long on the top for a combed-back look, his deep brown eyes exuding a callous disdain for others. Though his fair, clean complexion and freshly-shaved face betrayed a respect for some kind of order. 

“That was quite the showing,” he said in a sarcastic tone with his noticeable Austrian accent, “I’m sure Ms. Lalita here has usurped you as commander, Sebastian!” 

“Felix, or should I refer to you as Rittmeister Falkner after your recent promotion? Congratulations, by the way,” retorted Sebastian, his tone measured but imposing on the lower-ranked officer. 

Tch, came the disdainful click of the auburn-haired man’s tongue as he cast his scowl toward the château. 

“Not like we’re even in the same army, Oberstleutnant.”

“Not the same army, no, but in the same organization. One where I still outrank you,” emphasized the tall man, his yellow eyes glowing in the evening light, casting an unnerving gaze at the fiery man, “so all I ask is that we all get along, Felix. You came all the way out here at my behest, did you not? The prey we all seek is too enticing to pass up, no?” 

“Prey you haven’t been able to pinpoint yet, right?” sneered Felix while narrowing his gaze on those yellow beacons.

“Correct. Which is why I would appreciate it if you gave it a try yourself, using your own flavor of sorcery.” 

While stoic in its delivery, the mere fact that Sebastian had admitted defeat prompted Felix to break out into a devious cackle, taking his hands out of his pockets and holding his stomach, the laughing was just so powerful. Lalita’s gaze had soured at this ungrateful guest, grip tightening on her kukri’s handle, to which Sebastian laid a gentle, but commanding, hand on her shoulder to stop her. 

“Fine, fine, I guess I can lend a heroic hand to save the day,” smirked the now-out-of-breath Felix, “but that can wait until later, Ich bin ur müde!” 

He turned and stomped off toward the château, no doubt planning to commandeer a luxurious bedroom for himself. 

“He’s always pissed me off,” spat Lalita, finally letting go of her blade. 

“His attitude may be abrasive, but he isn’t an amateur, we both know that. In any case, let’s go to dinner, my dear lotus. I’m sure the men have at least left you some extra buchteln.”

Lalita gently smiled up at him, taking his large hand in hers and sweetly sighing, “I suppose I can share some with you, my dear.”   

… 

With every explosion, dirt and splintered roots were thrown into the air and rained down upon the battered men of the 5th Marines, dug into the forward trenches at Belleau Wood. To even call these trenches was an overstatement, they were hardly more than hastely-dug graves connected to one another, with the excavated dirt piled high on one side, thick enough to stop bullets, but easily blown away once artillery shells hit it. 

The 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, of which Sergeant Murin and his loyal compatriots were helping spearhead, had found themselves on the northern end of the Freesian line, being bombarded with direct artillery fire from the thick woods. After nearly three days of being back in the Hell that is Belleau Wood, they had already relearned the flow of attack from their Immerheim adversaries. First came the artillery barrage to soften and shake them up. Then came the hail of grenades into their trenchline — though this was becoming less common, as seemingly both sides were running low on throwable explosives. And finally came the infiltration, the mad dash through the ravaged trees and bushes to raid the trench and finish off any survivors. 

The worst part as far as Georgie was concerned, was when the infiltration was performed with the help of a Flammenwerfer, those accursed fire-spewers. He’d been unfortunate — or fortunate, depending on perspective — enough to see several Marines burned alive by that demonic weapon, and the horror etched on his twins’ faces at the sheer helplessness of the situation. Therefore, he was extra vigilant, holding his own weapon of mass destruction, the infamous trench-sweeper, close at hand when the raid was near. That pump-action shotgun, the Winchester Model 1897, Georgie’s trusty trench gun, was feared by even the most hardened Immerheim Sturmtruppen. Truly having to fight Hell with Hell. 

A lull in the rain of dirt alerted Georgie to the incoming combat. Crouch-walking toward the end of the trench, he met up with Nelson, readying his Chauchat light machine gun by tossing the sling over his shoulder. 

“Ready, Nelly-boy?” Georgie said, lightly smacking his back. 

“As ready as the last three dozen times, Georgie,” replied Nelson, giving a tired, but hopeful smile, the bags under his eyes making his exhaustion clearly evident. 

“We’re almost through this, Nelson, my boy, keep your head up. But not too high, lest those damn sharpshooters get ya!” chuckled Georgie, playfully jabbing an elbow into Nelson’s side, riling a chuckle out of him, too. 

The sound of rapidly-breaking branches put the two men on high alert. Backs to the trench wall, they listened closely, hearing the sound of several enemies rushing to make it through the brush. When the sounds of breaking branches stopped, Georgie gave Nelson a nod, who then stood up and raised his machine gun over the trench dirt pile, sighting seven soldiers closing the distance on them.

“Seven of them, Georgie!” he yelled, holding down the trigger as his bullets cut down three of the soldiers as the others dove for cover. 

“Push out!” ordered Georgie, following Nelson to the end of the trench where the wall was far shorter. 

Nelson stood back up, the full weight of his Chauchat resting on his shoulder sling as he fired at the now-exposed soldiers. He’d taken out the two that had dove to the left, when suddenly a crack rang out. It took Georgie a moment to process what was going on, as Nelson collapsed to the trodden ground, screaming in agony. 

“AHH! OH MY GOD! MY LEG ARGHH!” 

“Nelson!” screamed the Sergeant, grabbing his friend by the back of the collar and dragging him back deeper into the trench, “Freddy! Mikey! Nelson’s hit! Get your asses over here now!” 

Another shot rang out, hitting nearby to where the two had been moments earlier, sending dirt flying. 

Can’t be a god-damn sharpshooter in the trees, they would’ve seen me moving him, thought Georgie, adrenaline flooding his brain, rage pulsing through him. 

He moved up in the shadow of the trench, his small stature allowing him to get incredibly close to the end of the trenchline. The moment after another shot passed right over him, he heard a pair of footsteps rushing along the dirt toward him. In a single swift movement, Georgie popped up over the trench, fired a round at the enemy duo, then kept his finger on the trigger and slam-fired the remaining shells in his trench gun. The rapid volley of buckshot tore the two infiltrators to shreds, nearly cutting the frontmost one in half at the waist. 

Georgie dropped down into the trench once more, and, back to the wall, closed his eyes. He listened closely for any more approaching foes, but aside from his rapid breathing, distant gunshots, and Nelson’s tortured screams, nothing caught his attention. 

Confident no others were coming, Georgie sprinted back to Nelson just as the medic twins rounded the corner, stretcher between them, and a large medical supplies satchel slung across Freddy’s chest. 

“Nelson!” they shouted in unison.

“Where’d he get hit, Georgie?” asked Freddy as he took off the satchel and opened it up.

“Looks like the upper thigh, right side. He went down fast.”

“Got it!” confirmed Mikey, cutting open Nelson’s pant leg to assess the damage. All the while Nelson has constantly been screaming in agony, his words no longer coherent, just mumbled moaning. 

“Fuck!” shouted Mikey, pressing his fingers around the downed man’s thigh, “Freddy, his femur’s shattered!” 

“Shit! Georgie, help us roll him over, we need to see if the bone’s sticking through,” ordered Freddy. 

Together the three of them rolled Nelson onto his side, who shrieked in pain, while Mikey assessed the damage. 

“No bone breakthrough, but looks like the bullet went all the way through! He’s bleeding, but it doesn’t look like his femoral’s been cut!” 

“Thank god, eh eh,” exhaled Freddy as he hurriedly rummaged through his bag, finding some gauze and handing it to Georgie, “we need to pack the wound and hold it tight while we stretcher him out of here. Can you do that, Georgie?” the older twin sternly asked, his pale blue eyes exuding the duty he had to save a life. 

“I can,” nodded the Sergeant, grabbing the gauze. 

As the medic twins raced down the winding trenchline, the stretcher holding Nelson’s moaning body between them, and Georgie matching their pace, putting as much pressure on Nelson’s bleeding leg as possible, the other soldiers of the 5th Marines looked on in shock and horror. Eventually, the four men reached the back line of the main trench system, far enough back where larger medical supplies were stored. Here, the twins had access to a Thomas splint, a life-saving device for fractured femurs. 

Laying down the stretcher, they brought Nelson’s injured leg through the splint, properly secured it, and began to pull his leg straight using the rope pulley of the splint. Nelson’s screams were visceral, bloodcurdling cries of agony as his shattered bone was being forcefully realigned. It was too much for him at one point, passing out as Freddy pulled. 

“Mikey, wake him up!” 

“Eh eh!” replied the younger twin, grabbing a cotton-wrapped glass vial from the supply stash and smashing it against the ground. After waving the smelling salts in front of Nelson’s face for a few moments, the raven-haired man shot awake with a deep inhale, followed immediately by more agonized screams. 

“We’re sorry, Nelson, but we need you conscious for this so we know you’re not dead, eh eh,” explained Mikey, holding Nelson’s head still in his lap. 

“Fuck, god, fuck! This is worse than death arghh!” screamed Nelson, now slightly more coherent. 

“Hey if you can swear like a sailor, then you’re not doing half-bad!” remarked Georgie, trying to maintain a chipper attitude to bolster his friend, but the trembling in his voice was obvious. 

Not long after had Freddy finished pulling his leg and realigning the broken femur, had the twins picked up Nelson once more on the stretcher and allowed Georgie to put further pressure on the wound with fresh gauze. Finally, they had taken off to the rear line at a more relaxed pace, Nelson’s life not in imminent danger for the moment. 

When they had arrived at the rear line, however, a wave of dread washed over the twins and Georgie. The medical trucks that had been there when they had arrived back to Belleau Wood several days ago were gone, the roads leading away from the battlefield were cratered from artillery. Having gotten a hold of the First Lieutenant in charge of this area, the grim reality set in. 

“We don’t have any trucks or cars to get him out of here,” replied the Lieutenant solemnly, “most have either been blown to Hell by shelling the other day, or have gone off to support the 3rd Battalion in their push. We’ve got nothing left.” 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” trailed off Georgie, the color leaving his face.

“Lieutenant, there has to be something we can do!” pleaded Freddy.

“That’s right, eh eh!” continued Mikey desperately, “if Corporal Ravencroft doesn’t go into surgery within the next day, he likely won’t make it…” 

Georgie was taken aback. He stared over at the twins, both of them biting their lips and clenching their fists in frustration. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, boys. Soldiers die in the line of duty constantly. What’s one more, even if it might be delayed,” the callousness of the Lieutenant’s delivery hiding a deep sorrow that he’d learned to suppress long ago, “the most you can do is load him up with morphine to numb the pain, then get yourselves back to the battle.” 

“There has to be something we can do…” mumbled the defeated Sergeant, his thoughts racing. Anything… anything at all we could do…

As Georgie paced, gaze directed down at the muddy, disturbed ground, he saw something that caught his attention — a footprint, a horse’s footprint. One, then two, then a dozen, all leading away from the encampment. Looking up, he saw a handful of horses tied to a makeshift stable near the former medical tents. His eyes grew wide with hope. 

“Freddy, Mikey…” he called, the volume of his voice rising, “hey, guys! Do you think Nelson could ride a horse?” 

“Ride a horse?! Eh eh?!” they responded together, “that’s crazy! He broke his femur!” 

“N-no! I mean, would it be safe to just attach him to the horse? And then someone else can ride it.” 

The twins paused for a second to think, their own thoughts racing to think of options to get Nelson to a medical post.

“I guess it should be fine as long as we strap him to the horse tightly…” answered Freddy, realizing the feasibility of Georgie’s idea.

“And you could even ride the horse pretty quickly with the splint holding his leg together…” added Mikey, the hopeful tone of his voice evident as tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes.

“But who’s going to ride the horse, Georgie, eh eh?” they asked in sync. 

“I will,” proclaimed the short Freesian, his eyes and heart ablaze. 

“And get both of you killed, Sergeant?” came the angered voice of the First Lieutenant as he strode over to Georgie, looking down at him with a pissed-off scowl.

“I’ll ride fast. Fast enough to outrun their sights if not their bullets.”

“Hilarious joke, Sergeant. Their machine guns and sharpshooters are itching for a slow-moving target like you on an encumbered horse, especially if you’re stupid enough to gallop parallel to the Wood southward.”

“Who said I’ll be running to the 3rd’s position? They’re just as swamped with casualties as here, Nelson’s gonna die before they can even attend to him!” 

“So? Where then?” hissed the Lieutenant, unfolding his arms, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“Compiègne. The Exardians have an entire rear command post set up there with a hospi-” 

Smack!

Before Georgie could finish his thought, the Lieutenant had slapped him across the face, sending him staggering back. The twins recoiled in shock at the sight and sound. 

“You’re gonna abandon your post, Sergeant Murin?!” he yelled, the fury in his voice sending a chill up the twins’ spines.

Georgie, however, wasn’t phased. He stepped back to where he’d stood prior and looked the Lieutenant directly in the eyes, his cheek having turned a bright red from the slap. 

“I’m going to save my subordinate, my comrade, my brother, First Lieutenant,” Georgie answered, his voice unwavering, “if you think that’s desertion, well, then you’ve got that right there to put an end to this.”

Georgie’s gaze traced the lieutenant’s Sam Browne belt to the hip where his pistol was holstered. 

The Lieutenant was taken aback by the sheer audacity of Georgie. The twins were wide-eyed in fear at the proclamation. 

Locking eyes once more with his superior, Georgie continued without releasing his stare, “Freddy, Mikey, help me get Nelson strapped to that large white horse, I’m sure it can take both our weights.”

The twins looked back and forth between the two men for a few fleeting moments, then ultimately running back to where their downed comrade was laying. 

Breathing heavily, eyes now brimming with frustration rather than vitriol, the Lieutenant’s right hand was trembling as it hovered over his holster. Georgie didn’t bother to wait for him to make up his mind, instead turning away from the conflicted man and walking calmly toward the horses. 

“Wait a god damn minute, Murin!” he shouted, aiming the shaking M1911 pistol at Georgie. 

“If you’re gonna shoot me, then do it, Lieutenant,” said Georgie calmly, stopping in his tracks but still facing the horses, “after all, ‘what’s one more,’ right?” 

Shaking even more vigorously now, the Lieutenant yelled, “FUCK!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The twin medics jumped at the sound of three shots firing in succession. Turning back toward the two men, they saw the pistol-wielding commander shouting down into the ground, his weapon aimed downward, splattering droplets of mud raining back to earth. Georgie still stood tall, facing away from his superior, the man that held both his and Nelson’s life in his conflicted, trembling hands. After a few agonizing moments, the Lieutenant reholstered his sidearm, spat into the mud, and quietly murmured, “Fine, get yourselves killed for all I care…” 

As he turned away from the resolute Sergeant, Georgie called back to him. Both men locked eyes once more, Georgie’s gaze and tone both unwavering as he proclaimed, “we’ll both make it out of this alive, I’ll make sure of it.”

The Lieutenant could do nothing more than look on in awe at this incomprehensible level of determination, the heart within this small frame burning with a blinding righteousness. Maybe he can do it…

Preparations followed quickly after this final exchange. Nelson’s leg was further immobilized with bandages and gauze, Mikey even strapping his steel helmet to the injured man’s head, with the fleeting hope that the red cross painted on it would discourage enemy fire. The three men then hoisted Nelson and his stretcher up onto the horse’s back, balancing him precariously at first, but securing him tightly to the remarkably-cooperative animal’s torso. With too little room for a saddle, Georgie merely climbed up onto the horse’s back and sat as far forward as he could manage with Nelson’s head underneath him. Trench gun strapped to his back and reins tightly clenched in his clammy hands, Georgie took a deep breath to calm himself. 

“Send out Popo as soon as I leave, he’ll make it to Compiègne before us and let the Exardians know we’re on the way,” ordered Georgie. 

“Eh eh!” exclaimed the Gardien brothers, saluting their dear Sergeant with determined looks about them. 

“Watch out for the woods about a mile north of here, Murin,” chimed in the First Lieutenant from behind the twins, now sitting on a crate looking up at the equestrian ensemble, “our supply convoys have been getting pelted with machine gun fire from there recently.”

“I’ll be quick through there,” Georgie replied, a thankful smile breaking through his stern expression, “thanks, Lieutenant, I appreciate it.”

“Georgie…” weakly mumbled Nelson, the first coherent words leaving his lips since they’d made it to the rear encampment, “you don’t need to do this… I’m not worth it…”

“Nelly-boy,” responded Georgie in a loving tone, his eyes brimming with determination, a cheeky smile spreading across his face, “shut the hell up.”

Hya! came the call as Georgie worked the reins, sending his horse into a gallop, headlong into the killing fields around Belleau Wood. As instructed, Freddy had brought out Popo the messenger pigeon, and Mikey had attached a typed note to his tiny leg, reading:

SGT. MURIN AND CPL. RAVENCROFT OF 5TH MARINES

HEADED TO COMPIEGNE NOW ON HORSEBACK 

URGENT CARE NEEDED

CPL. RAVENCROFT HAS SHATTERED FEMUR, FEMURAL

INTACT, NO SEVERE HEMORRHAGING  

SGT. MURIN LIKELY TO NEED CARE, TOO

Popo took off into the midday sky toward his roost in Compiègne, flying steadfast over the galloping mare and her two riders. 

The journey toward salvation had not been going for more than five minutes before Georgie and Nelson had encountered their first smatterings of danger. Sporadic rifle fire from the vegetation-stripped tree line had been impacting the soft ground between the racing horse and the Immerheim hunters, getting ever-closer as they began to dial in their sights. However, Georgie wasn’t about to roll over and become an easy target. He pulled the reins from side to side to make his white steed swerve back and forth through the poppy-covered field. 

Eventually, rifle fire gave way to more intense machine gun fire — as the First Lieutenant had warned — but even these rounds failed to range in the horse’s distance correctly, allowing Georgie to continue swerving and outpacing their sight lines. Once one machine gun nest had their windage and distance adjusted, the horse had already escaped their kill zone. 

However, the final wave of assaults was by far the most dangerous. Word had seemed to have gotten around the Wood in those first 30 minutes, and now mortars had begun raining down around the steadfast horse. To this, Georgie could only hope and pray the shrapnel was getting absorbed by the muddy terrain once the mortars landed. He was confident that at the sustained pace they’d been racing at, he would be clear of the enemy’s range within a few minutes, the rest being an uneventful ride toward the city. 

Boom!

Just then a new type of explosion rocked the trio of men and horse, one that detonated mid-air and rained hot shrapnel downward — airburst shells. The battle-hardened mare, still unphased by the sound of the explosions, kept galloping at full speed, but Georgie knew their perilous journey had suddenly become all the more dangerous. 

Shit! Shit! Shit! he thought, his mind racing with what to do. He could veer off westward to get out of the artillery’s range, but if he did so, he likely wouldn’t be able to find his way back to Compiègne. Or he could stay the course and hope to god that one of those shells didn’t burst overhead and kill all three of them. 

“Hold on, Nelly-boy, things are gonna get bump-”

Boom! Boom!

Suddenly two consecutive shells burst nearby, barely catching Georgie in the outermost radius of the explosion cone, showering his right arm and leg with piercing metal. He stifled his scream, the burning pain so intense he clenched his teeth so tightly they were creaking in his head. Instinctively, he turned his head back to check on Nelson, who didn’t appear to have any new tears in his clothing. At this, Georgie was relieved and energized, wielding the reins with new vigor even as blood began to trickle down onto his hand and stain his pant leg. 

In this fight or flight state, Georgie’s senses were heightened, his pupils dilated, his breathing deep, his heart racing. As they rode, he couldn’t feel the pain radiating through his injured arm and leg anymore, instead focusing his attention entirely on his hearing — he was listening for the whistling sound of a shell flying through the air. And he heard them clearly over the rhythmic galloping. 

Hya! he yelled, steering his steed hard to the right as a pair of airburst shells detonated over where they had been seconds prior. Then, he heard the next shell too late. He forced a leftward steer, but couldn’t entirely clear the blast radius quickly enough, so, in a moment guided by sheer desperation, Georgie leaned back and twisted his body to cover Nelson’s as best as he could, his back toward the sky.

Boom!

The pained neighs of the horse and agonized yelp of its jockey mixed into a horrible duet. Yet, both persisted. The mare, either out of duty or survival, kept her pace forward, blood streaking across her white body, the shrapnel from the shell having scoured her flank and back, but had luckily missed her neck and head.

Georgie wasn’t as lucky. He’d taken a shower of shrapnel across his back, his life only having been saved in the moment by his steel helmet and trusty shotgun slung across his back, both deflecting scorching shards of metal that might have pierced the young man’s brain or heart. 

“Fuuuuuuuuck!” screamed Georgie as he twisted himself back upright, the adrenaline flowing through his battered body keeping him conscious for the moment. 

He again turned his head to see that Nelson was unscathed by the rain of metal. Thank god…, he thought while grabbing the reins again.

“Come on, girl, you can do it! Just a little more!” shouted the battered jockey while working the reins. 

Soon enough, Georgie was proven correct. The sound of airburst munitions began to fade into the distance as the trio galloped further and further away from Belleau Wood. With the adrenaline finally starting to fade from his body, Georgie began to truly feel the damage he had taken. In addition, his blood loss was slowly starting to drain him of his consciousness. With whatever shreds of unclouded thought he had left, Georgie made sure his horse was aimed in the direction of Compiègne. With the reins tied around his hands, he then slouched forward and rested on the bounding animal’s large neck. Eventually, the mare slowed her pace, her own adrenaline fading as well, but Georgie made sure to keep her moving by gently tugging on the reins with whatever strength he had left.

Georgie held on for as long as he could, well over two hours in this weakened state, before he finally lost consciousness fully. However, he swore that in those last few moments of awareness he could hear the buzzing sound of a biplane passing over him and someone screaming his name from overhead.   

… 

The world was pitch black, as dark as a puddle of ink and just as smooth as its surface. Had this world been blessed with a sun or sky full of stars, the rolling hills, flowing rivers, and decaying architecture would have glistened in the light. In this world, all was ink. All was darkness. 

Then, there was light. A streaking arc of orange and red flames crossed the sky, those burning hot reflections shimmering off of the inky landscape they flew over. And flew they did, for this wasn’t a comet or meteorite, but a living being — a phoenix. 

It flapped its long, tapering wings, emanating a golden flickering light from their tips into the dark world, candles in the night. The creature’s body was a chaotic flow of flame-colored feathers dancing back and forth in the wind. Its trailing tail feathers whipping around like a pair of glowing blue serpents. 

The phoenix flew and flew, its body undulating with each flap of its majestic wings as it descended from the ink-black sky. Suddenly, its attention was drawn downward into the void below it. Something was amiss in this landscape of darkness. Something was glowing. There was more light.  

Swooping down in a spiraling descent toward the flickering light illuminating the ink around it, the phoenix flew ever faster. Soon it saw the light much more clearly, the blue flame casting it reflected in the creature’s dark pupils. It could see the inky silhouette of a human attached to the flame, a silhouette that was turning around and looking up toward the approaching intruder. In a flash, this world of ink was ignited by the righteous blue flames of the silhouette, the phoenix itself — this creature of living fire — being overcome by the heat, turning to ash blowing in the wind.

Both of the men jolted backward with a gasp. Had they not been holding each other's hands, they might have both fallen back out of their chairs. At first, their eyes were drawn to the smoldering pile of ash in the middle of the desk, surrounded by criss-crossing chalk lines, and flanked by two small jars of pen ink, both now bubbling. 

“Get us a map, little girl,” groaned the auburn-haired man first, his tone and expression showing clear signs of distress as he continued to stare at the ash. The meager light cast by it dancing on his face and illuminating the dark circles under his eyes. 

“No need,” countered Sebastian in a low voice, rubbing his eyes after having let go of Felix’s hands, “I know where that was. It was Compiègne, I’m sure of it. The phoenix didn’t fly very far.” 

“We should at least check,” said Lalita, bringing an armful of rolled up maps to the ornately-carved desk, dropping them off next to the chalk sigil. 

After a quick look through the maps detailing the cities around Amiens, the landscape witnessed by the phoenix was determined to indeed be Compiègne. 

“So? Are we going to Compiègne then? It’s just over the Front, I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to smuggle ourselves there with the fighting in Belleau Wood drawing their attention,” remarked Felix, lighting up a cigarette and kicking his feet up on the corner of the desk, “I’m volunteering you two to take that damn knight, er ist wirklich unheimlich…” trailed off the Rittmeister, blowing out a plume of smoke with an unsettled expression. 

“A snatch-and-grab in the city would actually be pretty easy. We could steal a truck to make our getaway,” concurred Lalita, her expression souring slightly at the thought of agreeing with the Austrian.

“No, we won’t be going,” stated Sebastian monotonally, looking out of the old stained window of the shed, the midday sun illuminating his yellow eyes, “they’ll be coming to us soon enough.”

This caught both Felix and Lalita off-guard, the two of them looking over at each other for clarification, but finding none. Sebastian then turned back to his compatriots, his glowing yellow eyes stern and serious. 

“The tides of war are shifting,” he paused momentarily, eyes turning down to the floor, before continuing, “the Kaiserschlacht has failed. Soon enough a critical number of Freesian troops will amass along the Front to bolster the other Allied armies. Even after being moved from the East, we were still not enough…” 

“So, will St. Quentin be a target then?” inquired Felix, stomping out his cigarette on the floor.

“Most likely.”

“And you’re sure the automaton will be sent to fight here?”

“They’ll be mustering all the men they can get for the push. If the Exardians are setting up operations in Compiègne, then they’ll likely stay there until the offensive begins.”

“Do we know when it will begin, Sebastian?” questioned Lalita softly, her fingers dancing along the gem-studded handle of her kukri. 

“Our intelligence is pointing to early August, but the higher-ups believe the fight won’t reach St. Quentin until September.” 

“Then,” exhaled the Austrian, jumping to his feet from the chair, a devious smile scrawled on his face, “we’ve got time to prepare.”

“Indeed we do,” smiled the inky-haired man while placing his hand on the purple book teetering on the edge of his desk, his eyes glowing even brighter now. 

The atmosphere within the shed began to twist and morph, from that of uncertainty and unease, to heated anticipation. These three wolves would soon begin sharpening their claws and preparing for a once-in-a-lifetime hunt.   

… 

Edward stopped in his tracks and turned back to look at the ominous presence racing toward him. Yet, when he did, all he saw was the clear blue midday sky, not even a single cloud drifting through it. The blue flame upon his chest danced slightly, but otherwise nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Must’ve been my imagination…” he muttered to himself before turning back to the entrance of the building he was walking toward. 

In his gloved hand was an unusual sight for Edward at this time of day — a bottle of whisky, half-drank. The building itself was also an unusual location for the Exardian officer — a previously-abandoned brick two-story that now served as the Freesian command post in Compiègne.  

With a determined stride, Edward walked the tiled corridors of the ground floor, drawing eyes onto him from the Freesian officers and staff chatting in the halls. By this time, Edward was quite well-known by all the troops in the city, so there was no question about whether he belonged in the building, but rather where he was going to with such vigor. That would soon become clear, however, as he came to a stop outside of the door to Colonel Edgar S. Jennings’ private office. 

After several knocks, Edward was welcomed in by the Colonel, a stern-faced man with a clean-shaved face and bushy eyebrows, who stood a little shorter than the knight, but whose campaign hat provided an extra few inches. The Colonel ushered Edward to a fine leather chair across the map-strewn desk from his own. Taking his seat, the Exardian moved aside a few of the papers and placed his liquid treasure atop the desk. 

With a quizzical expression, the Colonel looked from the bottle to his pocket watch and commented, “you do realize it’s only one in the afternoon, right, Captain Bloodflame?” 

“Will that stop you, Colonel Jennings?” replied Edward while removing his officer’s cap. 

“I suppose not,” said Edgar, dropping down in his chair and pulling open a drawer in his desk, out of which he retrieved two small whisky glasses. 

Edward poured him a glassful first, then himself. The pair clinked their glasses and took a sip of the burning liquor with a satisfied sigh.

“So, what brings you here on this fine day, Captain? And bringing an offering no less! Although, I can imagine the reason, given yesterday’s commotion.” 

“Your guess is likely correct, then.”

“Is he still not awake?” 

“Unfortunately, no. At least when I went to visit around noon, that was the case.” 

“Ain’t that the worst,” sighed the Colonel, finishing off his glass of whisky before continuing, “I heard even Corporal Ravencroft has started to come to after his surgery yesterday. The kid really pulled off a miracle there.” 

“A miracle or desertion?” retorted Edward, raising an eyebrow at the Colonel as he refilled the contemplative officer’s glass.

“Both. I’d received word from a First Lieutenant in the 2nd that he had given Sergeant Murin permission to make this suicide charge. Bullshit.”

“So, what do you plan to do with the two of them, then? Discharge? Court-martial?”

“Ravencroft is done with combat. He’ll get his wound chevron and be honorably discharged. I’ll even put in a good word to have him promoted before then. As for Murin…” Jennings trailed off, looking off to the side and out of his window, “I’m conflicted. On one hand, he deserted his post during the most important fighting in Belleau Wood, which should earn him a bullet to the chest. On the other hand, he demonstrated a level of bravery I’ve seen only a handful of times in my military career.” 

After a brief pause, during which the chirping of birds and bustling of cityfolk from outside wafted into the dusty office, Edward broke the silence. 

“Let me ask you something else then, Colonel Jennings,” said Edward, his breath burning with alcohol as he emptied the remainder of his glass, “do you anticipate Sergeant Murin will be fit for anything by the time the offensive begins?” 

Edgar snapped his head back and locked eyes with Edward, both of these hardened veterans sizing each other up with airtight gazes. Though, it was the Freesian commander that gave in first.

“I imagined you wouldn’t have been privy to those talks, Captain, but I suppose that is quite the silly thought to have regarding actual royalty.” 

“Rumors travel fast in a city, Colonel. What can I say?” replied the knight, shrugging his shoulders while pouring more whisky into his glass. 

 “Well, if I were to entertain those rumors, then no, I don’t anticipate the Sergeant will be fit to fight by the time we’re planning to move out. I’ve seen my fair share of shrapnel victims, and I know they’ll take at least a few weeks to be out of bed. Kid got it pretty bad, but my own rumor mill tells me he struck gold with his injuries, mainly muscle lacerations.” 

“Then if that’s the case, do you really still need him?” 

Edward’s eyes narrowed on the Colonel, those piercing scarlet jewels no longer muted as they peered over his blue-tinted glasses. 

“What’re you getting at, Bloodflame? Don’t tell me you want to add to your merry band of misfits.” 

“My ‘merry band of misfits,’ Colonel,” began Edward with a passionate smile spreading across his face, “are warriors with hearts of justice. If you can’t see that in them, then, respectfully, I’m glad they’re under my command and not yours.” 

“‘Respectfully,’ huh?” scoffed Jennings, tossing his head and glass back to finish off his second round of whisky, “whether he’s fit to serve or not, what makes you think I’ll surrender one of my men to you, an Exardian?” 

“That’s precisely why. I’m an Exardian,” stated the knight in a triumphant tone as he topped-up the Colonel’s glass a third time, “the Fifth Army’s high command has told our splintered forces to remain in the South until further notice. We’ll likely be pushing in after the Freesians as support, so you’ll be out of Compiègne much earlier than us. If you’re going to be leaving Sergeant Murin behind anyway, then why not leave him in my care for that supporting push?” 

The Colonel’s stern expression was beginning to crack slightly at the audacious, but not-illogical, proposal. 

“That’s all well and good as a plan of action, Captain, but,” he said, eyes narrowing under the brim of his hat, “why should I give up one of my men for nothing in return?” 

Edward gave him a wide smile before reaching behind his back and swiftly slamming down an unopened bottle of whisky onto the Colonel’s desk, rustling the papers and pencils around it. With a forceful push, he slid the bottle across the polished wood to Jennings’ quickly-reacting hand, the look of sheer astonishment on the older man’s face a clear indication that Edward had won this bout. 

“Damn royalty…” murmured the defeated Colonel, placing the bottle into his drawer. 

“It’s a deal then, Colonel Jennings?” smirked Edward, glass raised. 

“Fine, the kid’s all yours until this offensive is over,” smiled Edgar, his cold expression thawing as he met Edward’s glass with a clink. 

While the two commanding officers were busying themselves with negotiation and midday boozing, the early afternoon breeze was filtering in through the open window of the hospital room Nelson and Georgie were currently sleeping in. Both were dressed in white pajamas and covered in fresh bandages and gauze, with Nelson having the added accessory of a new Thomas splint elevating his injured leg. Sitting alone across from their beds was Heinrich, still in his blue Française uniform — though now less tattered than before due to a recent resupply shipment — cutting up several apples for these poor boys he thought of as sons. Humming a gentle tune with the sound of birds chirping beyond the window, he felt as though the world was once again at peace, that this cruel war which had hurt so many, including these two youngsters, was over. A naive thought that this experienced old man allowed himself to indulge in for the moment. 

“I thought you were Bavarian, Gramps?” came a hoarse voice from Heinrich’s front, “why are you humming lieber Augustin?” 

He almost dropped all of the apple slices to the floor when he jumped to his feet, he was so shocked. There, eyes squinting against the midday light, a cheeky smile straining to crawl its way across his stiff face, was Georgie, bandaged, bruised, and beaten, but not dead. 

“Oh, mein Gott! Georgie boy, you’re awake!” he exclaimed, rushing to his bedside after placing the cloth-wrapped apple slices on a side table. 

“Not so loud, Gramps, my head is killing me…” groaned Georgie, “i-is Nelly-boy alive?” 

“Ja, he very much is,” replied Heinrich, joyously, moving to the side to allow Georgie a look at his resting friend in the adjacent bed.   

“Hehehe… told you we’d both make it through…” trailed off the young Freesian, falling back into a slumber with a content smile. 

For a moment, Heinrich was worried Georgie had just passed away, but his tight grip on the young man’s hand and ear to his chest expelled those worries. Only enough strength for a quip, eh Georgie? 

After this, he immediately rushed out of the recovery room, alerted the attending nurse that Georgie had awoken, and ran out of the hospital to spread the good news. 

It only took a matter of hours for word to spread around the troops, both Freesian and Exardian, that Georgie was alive and awake. Some of the hospital staff had to stand at the entrances with linked-arms to stop the deluge of troops wanting to come in and drop off gifts for the heroic Sergeant, ranging from bottles of wine, to candied fruits, to postcards featuring scantily clad ladies. For those that couldn’t make it in through the barricades of nurses and doctors, they gathered on the grounds of the hospital underneath Georgie’s room’s window up on the second floor. Shouting words of admiration and praise for their wounded hero, the crowd would eventually erupt into a collective “hip-hip hooray!” for Georgie and Nelson before being dispersed by the stern hands of Colonel Jennings and Captain Bloodflame. 

“I feel sorry for the other patients trying to rest…” muttered Jennings as he and Edward walked through the hospital’s garden toward the front entrance.  

“I can understand their excitement at the very least, Colonel. Not often that you get to see an honest-to-goodness hero in your ranks.” 

Maybe won over by Edward’s perspective, or maybe limbered-up from the whisky earlier, the Colonel couldn’t help but chuckle at Edward’s conclusiveness. 

“I suppose you’re right, Captain. Give the young hero my congratulations when you see him.” 

“Oh? Aren’t you going to come inside with me?” 

“No, no, I can wait. After all, you’re his commanding officer now, it only makes sense that you see him first. I’ll keep the crowd under control out here.” 

With a firm handshake and nod, both men parted at the hospital’s entrance. As Edward walked inside — the human chain of nurses easily recognizing him and stepping aside — he noticed a change in the atmosphere of the building. What was usually a quiet place with an air of stress and melancholy that permeated the very walls, had been rejuvenated almost instantly by the news of heroism being met with salvation rather than sacrifice. The nurses had brighter smiles, some even with tears welling up in the corners of their eyes once they heard the story of the young Freesian hero and his miraculous survival. Even the hardened doctors and surgeons, who must have treated countless wounded soldiers, relaxed their shoulders at the news of Georgie’s awakening, the rare sight of heroism going unpunished in this hellish war bringing them some minute comfort. Edward couldn’t help but smile as he walked toward that bustling room. 

There, he found a sight that surprised him with how much it warmed his heart. Cecilia and Romero, both still in their blue tunic and black jacket, respectively, were on either side of Georgie’s bed. Cecilia was gripping his right hand between hers, those emerald eyes shimmering as the non-existent tears flowed. Romero was gently hugging the wounded hero around the neck on his left side — the one spared of the major shrapnel wounds — bawling his amber eyes out and soaking Georgie’s pillow. The bedridden hero could do little but accept his fate of being loved with a beaming smile and wetted eyes. 

Edward walked into the room, passing by the small hill of gifts stacked by the doorway, and came up next to Heinrich who was also watching the teary reunion from the foot of Georgie’s bed. 

“I heard he almost gave you a heart attack, Heinrich!” heartily laughed Edward, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. 

“It certainly skipped a beat!” he exclaimed, his bushy mustache rustling. 

The three crying soldiers turned their teary gazes up at Edward, a loving smile brimming out from under his crimson mustache. 

“Ed… hey, I told you… we’d absotively see each other again…” said Georgie weakly, the smile on his face only growing brighter. 

“You certainly chose an exhilarating way to keep your word, Georgie!” cackled the Captain before lowering his eyes and continuing in a soft tone, “I’m glad you made it back alive. You and Nelson, both. When word reached me earlier, I made sure to send off a pigeon to your men in Belleau Wood with the good news posthaste.” 

“I appreciate that, I… I really do, Ed,” choked Georgie, the thought of Freddy and Mikey being worried sick about them making his heart ache and tears well up. 

“I’ve also received good news from Colonel Jennings,” continued Edward, his hand reaching into his uniform’s pocket for a folded piece of paper that he read off of, “firstly, Corporal Ravencroft there, who can stop pretending to be asleep, will be honorably discharged and recommended for promotion to Sergeant.” 

Everyone looked over to Nelson’s bed to see the bandaged-up man open his eyes and give a nervous smile. 

“I didn’t want to… ruin the mood, y’know?” he said, weakly chuckling afterward. 

“Nelly-boy…” replied Georgie while looking over at his dear friend, the tears now fully streaming down his soft cheeks. 

“You shouldn’t be that way, Nelson,” stated the knight reassuredly, “we care about all of our brothers here.” 

Nelson was so taken aback that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying on the spot, instead meeting the Captain’s kind words with an acknowledging nod. 

“Good!” grinned Edward before returning to his notes, “secondly, Sergeant Murin will not be court-martialed for desertion, since his actions were approved by a commanding First Lieutenant at the medical rear of the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines. Actions which may have been approved, but are no less heroic.”

Georgie’s eyes, already wetted from the initial flow of tears, were now torrential at hearing what that stubborn Lieutenant did on his behalf. 

“Thirdly,” continued Edward, feeling his own emotions begin to put pressure on the backs of his scarlet eyes, “from today until the conclusion of the next grand offensive, Sergeant Murin will be relieved of his position within the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, and will be put under the temporary command of Captain Edward Rosario Bloodflame. Huzzah!” 

The entire room went silent, only the sporadic cheers and whistles from the lingering crowds outside penetrating the stillness. Everyone’s jaws hung open and the flood of tears paused as they stared at Edward, the smiling Exardian walking around to Georgie’s bedside and placing the paper and a rose-shaped pin on his lap. 

“Welcome to the Bloodflame Company, Georgie.” 

Cecilia and Romero broke out into tearful cheers first, dumbfounded at the proclamation, but nonetheless ecstatic that their friend wouldn’t be parting ways with them again anytime soon as they both hugged Georgie. Heinrich was teary-eyed, his aged cheeks a bright red as he walked up to the young hero and patted his head, ruffling his already messy hair. 

“But… what about my men? What about Freddy and Mikey…” softly spoke Georgie, his mind and heart at odds.

“You’ll be reunited with them again, you have my word as a Captain and as the future King of the Exardian Empire, Georgie. The tides of war are shifting, and we’ll need all the help we can get right here, right now. Can I count on you for that, Sergeant Georgie Murin?” 

Shutting his eyes briefly to take a moment to think, Georgie reopened them and met Edward’s powerful gaze, speaking a single word with a cheeky smile. 

“Absotively.” 

Both men smiled and shook hands, the newest addition to this group of warriors with hearts of justice being solidified in that hospital room brimming with happiness and warmth.  

As that fateful day became night, the news of Georgie’s recovery and addition to the Bloodflame Company became the talk of Compiègne and the Front. When the pigeon’s message was read at Belleau Wood, the men of the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines cheered with passion. Freddy and Mikey couldn’t help but give each other a bear hug and sob into their uniforms knowing that their dear friends made it through. Even the stern First Lieutenant had to turn away from the cheering crowd to wipe his eyes at the news, a relieved smile hid under the shade of his officer’s cap.

While the crowds had finally stopped trying to burst into the hospital, a stream of gifts and souvenirs had still made their way into the hero’s room, the hill now becoming more of a mountain. 

“At least you two will have plenty of time to eat and drink all that while you recover,” remarked Heinrich, again cutting up apples for the two bedridden men, but now sitting between their beds. The sounds of nighttime merriment quietly streamed into the room from the open window, accompanying the crisp slicing of metal through the fruit.

“That’s if they stop bringing in any more…” mused Nelson while biting into an apple slice. 

“Say, Gramps,” mumbled Georgie, his head turned to the side looking out into the nighttime scenery through the window, “you were humming something when I first woke up, right?” 

Taking a few moments to think, Heinrich affirmed his thought, responding, “that’s correct, Georgie boy, I think it was O du lieber Augustin, no? I was shocked you knew the tune, but more shocked you were even awake!” 

“It’s not Bavarian, right?” 

“No, no it isn’t. It’s Viennese, but it’s still a dear song to me. My mother used to sing it to me when I was sick as a young boy,” said Heinrich, those warm memories of his late mother causing his old heart to ache, “My singing isn’t nearly as lovely as hers, but I still hummed it to my dear Cecilia when she couldn’t fall asleep, too.” 

To this revelation, Georgie turned his head back to Heinrich, just as Nelson had done as well. 

“My mom used to sing it to me and my siblings, too, when we were really little,” whispered Georgie, the memories flowing back to him, “that was way before we moved out westward to California.” 

“Is that so?” said the old man, warmly, “would you like me to hum it for you?”

Georgie blushed slightly, again turning away his gaze before ultimately capitulating, “yes, please…” 

Heinrich and Nelson couldn’t help but smile at the sincerity of their dear hero. 

“Very well, my boy, I’ll do my best with lieber Augustin.” 

Thus, the quiet hospital room was filled with the gentle humming of a heartfelt tune, one whose words portray a pitiful downfall, but whose melody fills these battered souls with dear memories of love and joy. And so, this old clockmaker sits here between his beloved children, humming and slicing apples, easing their hearts of justice as the cool night air drifts in. 

To Be Continued.