September 12th, 1797

After so many days of walking, screaming and fighting, Francis's bones were starting to weight him down. Every single part of his body ached, and any sleep he got was restless. His ears, constantly ringing from the booming sounds of the crossfire he was daily thrown into, were already losing some sensitivity. His hands hadn't stopped shaking since he first killed another man. Still, he was expected to be cold, quiet and professional, and that was exactly how he behaved, in a desensitized and taciturn manner. That was the only thing that mattered to his superiors, after all.

Since the Battle of Mosella, Laura had written him a couple of times, but her letters got stuck at the city of Lavern, where all of the mail sent to the soldiers was being sorted and examined by the republican gendarmerie, as ordered by the national "directory" —a committee of public safety that wished to someday overthrow the King—.

Apparently, the members of the latter were fearful that the monarchs from the neighboring kingdoms had successfully integrated spies in the ranks of the republican army, and decided to investigate any and every correspondence sent and received by their men.

Laura had worried about this topic long before it even became a real thing, and instead of signing off her last letters with her actual name, simply signed with her initials, protecting her privacy without falling into anonymity —which would also make the prosecutors raise their brows—.

This meant that Francis was safe from the inquisitive questions of the directory, the possibility of going to jail, or even being executed... for now.

But, while he felt tremendous relief in knowing he was relatively safe because of this strategy, and was also extremely happy that she'd saved his neck from a bloody blade, he missed her dearly, and longed for her comforting words more than ever.

He wanted, needed to read her letters before he was sent to his next location, but —besides the ongoing investigation by the directory— communication between Mosella and the rest of the country was... nearly non-existent.

The army had secured the latter city, sure, but moving the rest of their troops over there was hard, because of the weather conditions and the characteristics of the terrain, and it took them a lot of time to settle down and protect their position. This meant that their mail system wasn't yet stablished, and that the few messenger boys that travelled from there to the capital were mostly sent by the highest ranking officers, for urgent business only.

The same thing could be said about their supply line. Enough food, weapons and ammunition were getting through for them to live, but since the sappers hadn't yet finished building a new bridge over the river —the old one days been destroyed in a small battle, weeks ago—, they weren't fully stocked either.

But although all of this was bad, the worst was yet to come.

One day, captain Laupin emerged from his tent carrying an open letter, and with it, terrible news. He had gotten direct orders from general Étienne Obermann to move his forces back to Roman, once the 2nd and 3rd regiments of the republican army arrived at Mosella.

And without a choice, this they did.

They pulled back. 

After restocking their supplies and resting their sore feet there, he received further instructions as to what to do: Travel to the city of Canclaux, and join captain Arquette's forces immediately. The battalion would support said officer on his new attempt of finally taking over Anjou —known by most of the soldiers as "The Field of Death" or "The human slaughterhouse"—.

Francis and his colleagues had precisely three days of rest in Roman before they were on their way to said hellscape. And it took them another three to get to Canclaux, by foot. By the time they reached the city, they were exhausted, bruised, and soaked in mud. A storm had surprised them as they marched through the Forest of Souls, wetting their uniforms, gunpowder, and ruining a significant amount of their muskets.

Laupin —hoping to improve the moral of his men— had at some point stepped down from his horse and joined them on their walk as the animal followed him close behind. He was the first officer from their battalion to set a foot on the fortified city, where the weakened soldiers of Arquette were recovering from yet another brutal royalist attack.

Francis had to give it to his captain, he was tough as nails. Laupin's old white uniform, now stained a shitty brown, didn't damage his integrity. His reddened cheeks and tousled hair didn't fracture his posture. He kept his chin up, back straight, and marched through the sea of wounded and desperate cadets with bravery, bringing them hope with his mere presence.

As the recently arrived soldiers settled down, Francis saw him approach Arquette from a distance. The younger captain was slouched on top of a barrel, with his head hanging forwards, face hidden between his fingers. Laupin laid a hand over his shoulder and said a few words of encouragement to him, before taking a seat to his left, on the floor. In any other circumstances, the sight would have been scandalous. A renowned captain, with medals and ribbons to prove his honour, slouched on the ground like a drunken sailor? Absurd... But after so many days of physical exertion, no one seemed to care about etiquette or good manners anymore. Good rest was found wherever you could lay down in peace, it didn't matter where or how.

With a heavy sigh, Francis spun his head towards his fellow soldiers, who were shouting his name from the doorway of a tiny shack. Inside, a few boys were laying down on the floor, passed out cold. Pierre and Séverin were amongst them.

—Let's sit down, Forestier —Charlie said to him, as Jacques tumbled down on the corner of the room, desperate for a four hours long nap—. We have to sleep as much as we can before we head down to Anjou.

—I don't think I can sleep... Even though I'm exhausted, I can't.

—Why?

—I'm drenched. I'm itchy... I mean, I'm used to working in the mud, but this... is ridiculous —Francis set his belongings down before dropping next to them.

He then removed his gaiters and boots, letting his sore feet meet the cold air for the first time in days. His fingers were paler than the roses he used to care for in his hometown. His skin, more tender than its petals. There were open wounds on his soles —but none infected yet, thank heavens—.

Charlie copied his movements, and then relaxed against the wall behind them, dropping his footwear to the side.

—It will only get worse the further south we go. I've been to Anjou before. It was years ago, but, from what I remember, the weather is despicable... Very rainy. Very cold.

A few minutes passed in silence. Francis decided to keep the conversation going, to pass the time:

—How was life in the royal army?

—Boring, to be honest. My captain was from the nobility and was terrified of death, so we ever really left our homeland to fight the other Kingdoms... He didn't want to. Which meant we were sent on a thousand useless tours across our own land, to do nothing of real importance... We only patrolled whatever town we were stationed at, and built houses and roads —Charlie turned his head towards Francis—. And you? You haven't really told me what you did before all of this started.

—Take a guess.

—Well... you can read and write, which means you're well educated. You have a basic knowledge of military strategy and logistics; a lot of people around here don't. But your hands...

—What about them?

—They are calloused... Thick skinned. And your face has always been tanned, since I met you. Which means you've done some hard work in your life —the man pointed towards Séverin—.  Look at his fingers, for example... They're rounded, soft... The hands of a well accommodated student. Now look at yours.

—They're pretty fucked up, alright —Francis showcased his hands with a smile and the older soldier laughed—. But you're not wrong. I have worked hard for years... My parents died when I was young, I had no other choice but to.

—I'm sorry.

—It's fine... I don't really remember them that well —the former gardener said, to save himself from having to discuss the circumstances of their passing.

—I get it... my mother died when I was eight, and my father was a scoundrel. He left me to rot and sailed away from the kingdom, quite literally. Joined the navy to escape his responsibilities... Thank heavens the Holy Father ain't blind. From what I've learned, his ship sank two weeks later. That for me was a blessing —Charlie confessed with a content smile—.  From then on, I was on my own... I lived on the streets till I was about fourteen, which was the required age to join the Royal Army... I didn't really care about the monarchs, or protecting their legacy, or whatever. I just needed food and money, and the bastards gave it to me, so that was that. I also was able to learn how to read and write while I was fighting for the Baron of Maugent. So... yeah. It was a good decision. 

—I thought of doing the same as you, for a while. But a friend of my mother took me in. Madame Suzannet is her name. Her husband is the owner of a mill outside of Alvern. They aren't rich, and never were, but they could afford feeding another mouth, so it was no problem for them keeping me around... I also worked on their mills for a while, to pay for my expenses, but I did it out of my own desire, they never pushed me to.

—For a while?

—Yeah...

—What did you do later?

—Well... I accepted a few other jobs, trying to earn more money, and I ended up finding the perfect one for me —Charlie raised a brow. Francis closed his eyes, growing more tired by the second—. I became a gardener for the Duke and the Duchess of Alvern.

—A gardener? —the soldier laughed.

—It was a lot of work, but it was peaceful, and it paid me well.

—I'm sorry man, but I can't really see you planting orchids when your vest in quite literally red with blood and mud —Charlie said, also getting sleepy—. If you liked peace so much, why'd you join the army? You seem like you had your life together... Why'd you want to be here?

Francis sighed.

Revenge? A need to repair his family's honor? A need to care for Laura? Of making himself feel worthy of her love and admiration?...

—I'll answer that later —he dodged the question, crossing his arms and resting his chin over his chest—. I need to rest first.

---

Their nap must have lasted three hours or so. Once they were all up and awake, the group walked away from the shack, letting another small group of soldiers in.

Outside, they were met with the strong voice of their lieutenant, who told them to head towards the bathing hut —a small tent provided with a few wooden bathtubs and heated water— and get themselves cleaned up. They followed his request without any complaints, since they all needed a wash.

Having reached the place, the group was forced to push their embarrassment and modesty aside. They got undressed in front of each other and shook under the chilly air together. The camp didn't provide them with any soap, but thankfully, Séverin had saved one amongst his belongings. They shared the bar and washed their body as quickly as they could, putting on the spare set of clothes they all carried on their backpacks in record speed.

In the meanwhile, their dirty uniforms were taken outside by the launderer  —a job taken by either non-commissioned officers, orphaned underage kids that wished to join the army later in life, or widowed women that wanted to contribute to the war efforts— and thrown into huge iron cauldrons, filled to the brim with boiling water and lye soap. They were swirled around in the container with the help of a large wooden spoon and then left to dry on the washing lines.

Francis walked out of the tent as they were being hung on the twines. Him and his colleagues sat down for an hour near the bathing hut, and waited for their clothes to dry. And once the sun begun to descend on the horizon, finally retrieved their belongings and walked to the center of the city, to look for something to eat.

As Canclaux was a fairly big city, captain Arquette decided to make good use of the space available. The church of Saint-Just, built on its center, was used to store ammunition, barrels of gunpowder, explosives, guns and sabers. The town hall became his headquarters. The mills and bakery, turned into the communal kitchen. The textile factory, a makeshift hospital. And the remaining buildings and houses were used by soldiers as welcoming resting spot.

Since the previous inhabitants of the city were long gone —either killed by the revolutionary forces or on the run from it—, the only living souls around were the men from Arquette and Laupin's battalion. Their blank and tired faces haunted the windows of the poorly lit houses; their sunken silhouettes, the small bridges that crossed the Tolken river; their feet moved around aimlessly, checking the vast and empty streets for any signs of enemy activity. A few also stood on top of the stone walls that surrounded Canclaux, looking towards the foggy field that separated it from Anjou with fearful eyes, knowing that beyond these white clouds of mystery and wonder, a path of death and devastation awaited them.

Those who had dared step on that cursed grass and returned, did so with entirely different souls inhabiting their bodies. Blessed by God's mercy, they refused to go back, and chose the loneliness of a cell or the sharp edge of a saber, over the option of doing it all again.

The infinite piles of corpses, of decaying flesh, of lonely limbs sunk on pools of blood, of lines of abandoned cannons and their harrowing silence, of bayonets found meters apart from their muskets, of lost shoes, and hats, and bags, was sure to make an impression any soldier, old or young, naïve or experienced. And the long rows of perplexed and catatonic men Francis encountered while walking around Canclaux was proof of it.

—It's battle exhaustion, for sure —Charlie said as they discreetly watched their jaded colleagues from the corner of their eyes—. Look at them, they can barely move.

—It's like they've seen the reaper up close —Pierre commented.

—We'll be like that after tomorrow.

—If we survive tomorrow, that is —Francis followed Séverin's dark joke with one of his own, as they kept moving toward the center of the city.

Once they reached the bakery, they got in line outside, and retrieved their metal cups from their bags. Apparently, potato soup would be the meal of the day.

—At least is better than the fried onions they gave us in Roman.

—Anything is better than that crap —the gardener agreed, as they kept moving.

Once they were served their small ration of food —and safely stored the bread that came along with it in their pockets, for later— they strolled towards the southern wall, just in time to witness the arrival of captain Luckner and his infamous cavalry squadron, "The Black Skulls".

Although mostly composed of Cuirassiers, the unit also counted with the help of a small platoon Hussars and a few orphaned Dragoons they had found along the way. These rescued soldiers were differenced from their saviors by the bright colors of their uniforms, that clashed with the dark jackets and vests of the skulls, and also by their feisty demeanor. The Skulls were serious, stern, and very much quiet. Even when drunk, their behavior was exceptional. Because if Luckner discovered a single case of misdemeanor from one of his officers, that man was as good as dead.

—Shit... if the Skulls are here, something really terrible is about to happen. Luckner's only called into action when all options have been crossed out, and the situation isn't looking good at all... —Charlie commented, after swallowing a bit of his soup.

—How are you so sure about that? —Séverin asked.

—Because the Skulls are Obermann's special forces. He wouldn't send them to the front lines without a reason. I think he needs us to take over Anjou as soon as possible, for some reason, and he'll use all of our forces to conquer it... Our next battle will be bloody, boys.

The group observed the galloping horses as they passed by, eyes blackened by the shadow of their fear, face drained of all energy and vigor. Silently, they kept eating their dinner, now knowing all too well that it could be their last.

—If anything goes wrong and we have to retreat, we should run towards the forest —Francis said in a low voice—. The open field is so uneven that we might get stuck between mounds whilst trying to run away... The trees would at least grant us some protection from the enemy fire as we flee.

—Yes, but we can't get too far into the forest, or we'll get lost on enemy grounds, which is way worse.

—Indeed —he agreed with Séverin.

—But wouldn't it be an act of cowardice? If we leave the field? —Pierre asked.

—If cowardice makes me see the other side of the war, then I'll gladly be a coward —Charlie laughed, dryly—. I'm no general, and I'll never be one. I'm a simple soldier, and I've been for years... I don't wish honor, glory, or fame upon myself. All I long for is a good pay, good health, and the chance of returning home to my kids. You're no great general either... So you should hope for the same.

—Yeah... —the kid sighed—. I think you might be right.

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