So, i wrote a bit of fiction about my New Antioch warband. I know it is not the usual tone for the setting, but i like the small, human, tender moments in the middle of hell.
I hope you enjoy it.
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The characteristic pop of the cork and the bottle parting ways punctuated the laughter on the ruins of Saint Justino’s church on the southern frontier of the Iberian Peninsula. The Gonzalez brothers had managed to smuggle a case of acceptably decent wine from up north, and Father Anselmo was slowly roasting a lamb they had found wandering no man's land over a slow fire. Morale was good, and the thought of drilling the troop about the origin of the drinks felt cruel.
Especially knowing the bad news he had to deliver.
Lieutenant Giacommo Ferrera took a deep breath and absentmindedly rubbed the spot on his shoulder where he had taken a piece of shrapnel last week. The wound had barely healed and still hurt when it got cold at night, and he knew many of his men were in similar positions. As grateful as he was for Puenteviejo’s devotion to jumping into the fray to patch them up, you could not compare a field treatment with actual rest on civilized lands.
Ferrera decided to let his men enjoy their night; he would share the details of their deployment the next morning during breakfast. Anselmo knew, of course; he was present at the briefing where they were informed they were to hunt down an undetonated infernal bomb that fell somewhere in no man's land during the battle of Cordoba. But the blind priest was a man of few words and devout focus. He was not going to spoil the mood of the men.
As he was about to join in, he noticed an absence in the small party. Fatima wasn't there. He looked around and noticed her sitting alone on top of half a tumbled crucifix outside of the church.
Giacommo cleared his throat behind the yeomen, alerting her to his presence—"I can understand not wanting to hear one of Tristan’s stories once again, but I doubt you’ll get a drop of wine if you don't join them soon," he said only half jokingly.
— “Oh, hello, Sir." — Her words implied surprise, but her demeanor didn't change a bit, her dark eyes still drifting into the night sky. — "It's ok. You know me. “Halfpint Exposito” is better if I don't have any; I can't hold the drink anyway.
Every yeoman in the squad had a nickname. He was pretty sure the officials had them too, but no one was reckless enough to use them in front of the lieutenant. "Cejas," "Blacktooth," "Huevoduro," “Halfpint”... Odd little badges of honor and ridicule that the men gave each other, meant to bolster camaraderie, or maybe to help forget that the man next to you in the trench had parents, a family, a life outside this piece of hell on earth.
Giacommo made a point of never using them, referring to everyone by their god-given names. He considered it a mark of respect and dignity. But he was not about to encourage one of his best soldiers to go get wasted. — “Wise decision, Exposito," he said, pointing with his hand to the half-demolished stone crucifix that had found new purpose as a bench. — “Mind if I join you?” —
Fatima nodded, and both sat in silence, listening in to the symphony of laughter and bad jokes coming from inside the abandoned church. The bright orange glow of an artillery round hitting a target on the horizon illuminated the young woman's face for an instant before she asked the question that had been plaguing her. — “They are sending us out again, right?” —
— “Wha.. How?” — The question caught Giacomo lost in the sight of her long dark hair and her tan skin illuminated by the distant explosions.
She smiled with a sadness often reserved for those whose worst fears just got confirmed—"You always are more formal when there's bad news, Sir." She hesitated when adding the honorific, like trying to soften the implication that he normally didn't display the proper manners for a man of his station.
The lieutenant's shoulders sank as he rested his back on the bullet-ridden church wall, both impressed by her insight and flustered by his inability to hide his mood. — "Don't worry, Sir, I won't tell anyone. They deserve to enjoy the night… Her soft voice was almost intelligible as her fellow soldiers erupted into song.
As they sat in silence listening to one of the Gonzalez brothers butcher a popular song about being buried with a grape on his mouth to never forget the taste of wine, the lieutenant felt her hand gently brush against his on top of the destroyed cross, just between the two of them. Her fingers softly ran along an old scar just as someone in the command center ordered an intense barrage of artillery on a position on the horizon.
Distant pops and bright lights reminded Fatima of fireworks she had seen at a small regional festival when she was just a kid, and she felt as if war itself were lighting up the night for her and this moment. —”No reason for us not to enjoy the night too. "Giacomo's mouth felt dry, for war had been his reality for as long as he could shave, and love and relationships always seemed a luxury reserved for those who lived more peaceful lives, far away from the trenches.
Part of him instantly regretted the proposition. It was not propper for an officer to entangle himself with a rank-and-file soldier; it could lead to favoritism, to lapses in judgment… He was about to try and find out a way out of the situation when his eyes locked with her beautiful green eyes, and as she kissed him, all doubts dissipated.
As Lieutenant Giacommo Ferrera kissed her back, illuminated by a distant artillery barrage that almost felt celebratory, he simply thought to himself, “Thank God for small mercies."