10-25-2018, 02:16 AM
October 22nd, 2018
The Laeralian flag flapped in the brisk winds, almost drowning out the Minjian chaplain's words. Brandon Lau, Second Lieutenant in the LNSF, had been to several funerals before Lauchenoiria. All of them had been back home in Laeral. They had taken place at either Minjian temples, with full choirs and priests there to conduct the service, and ardents and scriveners to burn the prayer strips. The casket would be open, to display the body to the Divine, the Luminaries above, and the assembled family. Trooper He Zhen had been hit by a rocket during a battle in Ulinaria. The body had been so mutilated, the chaplains hadn't condoned sending it home to his family. The casket, rather than being elaborately carved and open in consignment to the Divine, was a plain box, sealed tight. Instead of a priest and priestess officiating, there was an LNSF chaplain. Zhen's squadmates had taken the place of the choir. "Let us consign the spirit of this man," the chaplain said, raising his voice to be heard over the brisk wind, "to be brought swiftly in the arms of the Twelve to the...". Brandon tuned him out. He had heard it all before. For the tenth time that day, Brandon checked his uniform's breast pocket, where his transit papers home were. The ticket guaranteed him a one-way flight by military aircraft to a Maximusian airbase and then to Lyrene's Jean-Paul Gauvain International Airport.
The ceremony ended in a puff of smoke, as Trooper He's white prayer armband (a scrivener had written 祺, for 'Felicity') was incinerated in a brazier, while the ashes of the armband were reverently placed into blessed water and flicked over the assembled soldiers. Brandon, and most of the others, left at this point. Zhen's closest friends would stay behind, to watch as his remains were cremated. A grave marker in that Lauchenoirian cemetery would remain, as a lasting reminder of the war. It would be the only Chinese-language grave there, and Brandon wondered for a moment if he would be lonely there.
Brandon broke into a quick walk as he left the graveyard behind him. Soldiers and military equipment clattered the roads and alleys of the tent city. Brandon patted his breast pocket again. As he walked, some of the soldiers saluted, and he returned their salutes. He'd have to get used to being one of the commissioned officers from here on out.
___________________________________________________
Matéo was alone in his cell, and had been for several weeks. H'd had a feeling about his erstwhile cellmate, "Quentin". His Kerlian interrogators had been taking him out of the cell for several weeks, into the same room, with the same interrogator waiting with the tub of water. Matéo had almost drowned more times than he could remember. He'd even blacked out during a session the day before. The Kerlian had started to beat him during interrogations as well. And every time the Kerlians had tossed him back into his cell, Quentin had been there, professing that it was hopeless to keep resisting, and that the Kerlians would break them eventually, so why not tell them everything he knew and let the torture end? Last week, Matéo had finally grown tired of his defeatist talk and so casually changed the subject to soccer and mentioned that he was a "huge fan" of 'AS Rilos'. When "Quentin" had enthusiastically agreed that he, too, was a huge fan of that fictional team, Matéo had leapt at him with all of his strength and punched him again and again. It had taken three guards to restrain Matéo and let the stool pigeon beat a hasty retreat. They'd made him pay in the next day's session- but at least that stooge Quentin was gone.
The Kerlians had told him about the Haven Accords, of course. They'd laughed at him, saying that although the other POWs would go back to Laeral, "dirty spies like you" would die in Kerlile. Matéo hadn't told them anything at all, and so he knew that they would come to kill him sooner or later.
When they barged into the cell and picked him up, he didn't resist. Why would he? He was too tired for that. He stumbled along the concrete floors of the prison-bunker, and noticed that this was they first time they hadn't blindfolded him as he walked. They walked him into the back of a military truck. Handcuffed, and with guards besides him, the truck drove off through an evergreen forest. It was a lovely day, as far as Matéo could tell through gaps in the canvas. The truck finally stopped, and the guards told him to step out. Matéo was so very tired, but he did it anyway.
They were parked in a clearing in the wood, surrounded by trees. The road they'd driven in on only entered through one side. This was the end of the road, then. On one side, the forest. On the other, a sheer drop down a cliff face to the valley below. As the Kerlians walked him over to the cliff edge, he could see how far down it extended. There were more trees at the bottom.
"Jump."
"Excuse me?"
"Jump off the cliff."
"But then I'll die," Matéo said. It seemed to him that the Kerlians must have made some mistake. "You need me."
"We're done with you," the Kerlian standing next to him said. "Jump off the cliff, or we'll shoot you. It's your choice, but I recommend the cliff. At least that way you'll get to fly before you die." Matéo looked at her, blankly. "Make your choice," she said. "It's over for you. If you try to run, we'll shoot you."
Matéo turned away from her and the other guards and walked over to the cliff edge, his shoes crunching in the gravel. It was a long way down. Matéo turned and looked back at the Kerlians. Their leader gestured, as if to say "get on with it". Matéo looked down at the endless drop by his feet. Behind him, he heard a gun cocking. He took a deep breath and stepped off into space.
Matéo fell, the wind whistling past his ears as the rock and trees of the ground below rose up to meet him. He couldn't hear anything but the wind going past him, and his heart pounding. The falling lasted one, two, three second, the treetops screaming up towards him- and then the ground hit.
Within the nondescript former courtyard house in Laeralsford that served as the headquarters for the Bureau of External Action, a clerk found the name of Matéo Labat on a list and scratched it out in pen.
The Laeralian flag flapped in the brisk winds, almost drowning out the Minjian chaplain's words. Brandon Lau, Second Lieutenant in the LNSF, had been to several funerals before Lauchenoiria. All of them had been back home in Laeral. They had taken place at either Minjian temples, with full choirs and priests there to conduct the service, and ardents and scriveners to burn the prayer strips. The casket would be open, to display the body to the Divine, the Luminaries above, and the assembled family. Trooper He Zhen had been hit by a rocket during a battle in Ulinaria. The body had been so mutilated, the chaplains hadn't condoned sending it home to his family. The casket, rather than being elaborately carved and open in consignment to the Divine, was a plain box, sealed tight. Instead of a priest and priestess officiating, there was an LNSF chaplain. Zhen's squadmates had taken the place of the choir. "Let us consign the spirit of this man," the chaplain said, raising his voice to be heard over the brisk wind, "to be brought swiftly in the arms of the Twelve to the...". Brandon tuned him out. He had heard it all before. For the tenth time that day, Brandon checked his uniform's breast pocket, where his transit papers home were. The ticket guaranteed him a one-way flight by military aircraft to a Maximusian airbase and then to Lyrene's Jean-Paul Gauvain International Airport.
The ceremony ended in a puff of smoke, as Trooper He's white prayer armband (a scrivener had written 祺, for 'Felicity') was incinerated in a brazier, while the ashes of the armband were reverently placed into blessed water and flicked over the assembled soldiers. Brandon, and most of the others, left at this point. Zhen's closest friends would stay behind, to watch as his remains were cremated. A grave marker in that Lauchenoirian cemetery would remain, as a lasting reminder of the war. It would be the only Chinese-language grave there, and Brandon wondered for a moment if he would be lonely there.
Brandon broke into a quick walk as he left the graveyard behind him. Soldiers and military equipment clattered the roads and alleys of the tent city. Brandon patted his breast pocket again. As he walked, some of the soldiers saluted, and he returned their salutes. He'd have to get used to being one of the commissioned officers from here on out.
___________________________________________________
Matéo was alone in his cell, and had been for several weeks. H'd had a feeling about his erstwhile cellmate, "Quentin". His Kerlian interrogators had been taking him out of the cell for several weeks, into the same room, with the same interrogator waiting with the tub of water. Matéo had almost drowned more times than he could remember. He'd even blacked out during a session the day before. The Kerlian had started to beat him during interrogations as well. And every time the Kerlians had tossed him back into his cell, Quentin had been there, professing that it was hopeless to keep resisting, and that the Kerlians would break them eventually, so why not tell them everything he knew and let the torture end? Last week, Matéo had finally grown tired of his defeatist talk and so casually changed the subject to soccer and mentioned that he was a "huge fan" of 'AS Rilos'. When "Quentin" had enthusiastically agreed that he, too, was a huge fan of that fictional team, Matéo had leapt at him with all of his strength and punched him again and again. It had taken three guards to restrain Matéo and let the stool pigeon beat a hasty retreat. They'd made him pay in the next day's session- but at least that stooge Quentin was gone.
The Kerlians had told him about the Haven Accords, of course. They'd laughed at him, saying that although the other POWs would go back to Laeral, "dirty spies like you" would die in Kerlile. Matéo hadn't told them anything at all, and so he knew that they would come to kill him sooner or later.
When they barged into the cell and picked him up, he didn't resist. Why would he? He was too tired for that. He stumbled along the concrete floors of the prison-bunker, and noticed that this was they first time they hadn't blindfolded him as he walked. They walked him into the back of a military truck. Handcuffed, and with guards besides him, the truck drove off through an evergreen forest. It was a lovely day, as far as Matéo could tell through gaps in the canvas. The truck finally stopped, and the guards told him to step out. Matéo was so very tired, but he did it anyway.
They were parked in a clearing in the wood, surrounded by trees. The road they'd driven in on only entered through one side. This was the end of the road, then. On one side, the forest. On the other, a sheer drop down a cliff face to the valley below. As the Kerlians walked him over to the cliff edge, he could see how far down it extended. There were more trees at the bottom.
"Jump."
"Excuse me?"
"Jump off the cliff."
"But then I'll die," Matéo said. It seemed to him that the Kerlians must have made some mistake. "You need me."
"We're done with you," the Kerlian standing next to him said. "Jump off the cliff, or we'll shoot you. It's your choice, but I recommend the cliff. At least that way you'll get to fly before you die." Matéo looked at her, blankly. "Make your choice," she said. "It's over for you. If you try to run, we'll shoot you."
Matéo turned away from her and the other guards and walked over to the cliff edge, his shoes crunching in the gravel. It was a long way down. Matéo turned and looked back at the Kerlians. Their leader gestured, as if to say "get on with it". Matéo looked down at the endless drop by his feet. Behind him, he heard a gun cocking. He took a deep breath and stepped off into space.
Matéo fell, the wind whistling past his ears as the rock and trees of the ground below rose up to meet him. He couldn't hear anything but the wind going past him, and his heart pounding. The falling lasted one, two, three second, the treetops screaming up towards him- and then the ground hit.
Within the nondescript former courtyard house in Laeralsford that served as the headquarters for the Bureau of External Action, a clerk found the name of Matéo Labat on a list and scratched it out in pen.