If Mahan Could See Us Now

[4WheelSword]

The January Rebellion, also known as the Kevian War of Betrayal or the Young Officers War, has been the source of much argument since it's end. Perhaps the first example of what we would come to call 'modern' urban warfare, the January Rebellion is also considered one of the points of conflagration that would grow to consume Europa over the coming years. But what of the nation of Varnmark itself in the days that followed the two to three weeks of vicious fighting between amatuer revolutionaries and brutal state forces.

Kevia saw herself decimated. In the wake of the assassination of the king which had nearly taken his wife and young sons lives there was a spate of killings. Parliamentarians, Admirals and Generals died to the guns of the revolutionaries, many of them butchered in their beds. Some of the worst atrocities of the January Rebellion and afterwards occurred because of this disruption of both civil and military command structures where previously they kept relatively tight control on their juniors.

The Stolrussian regular soldiery who had been instrumental in the defeat of the rebellion did not immediately return home across the border into their own nation. In Gelsingfors, in the Northern port of Dvina and the Southern port of Polyapavlosk they were invited to become an occupying force by the surviving members of the Parliamentary body and the senior military officers. These cities, where the most intense fighting had occurred, were ruined and their own soldiery and police forces were a ruin of their former standing. In Polyapavlosk especially there was a noted lack of numbers amongst the surviving marines and even the sailors who had fought so valiantly were much reduced.

Thus it was Stolrussian officers who imposed curfews, it was Stolrussian men and women who carried out the cities absolution decided upon by their superiors and the Stolrussians who received most of the glory for the maintenance of Varnmark unity in the wake of such a horrific conflict.

Yet there were many amongst the Kevian contingents who had fought for Varnmark. They had their villains and those who were found wanting in the face of battle, but there were also many young officers who could be labelled heroes for their actions in a battle for their nations soul against their fellow citizenry.
- From 'An Analysis of the post-union history of Varnmark' part 4

But which are you?
[ ] I butchered my own. I am no better than a villain.
[ ] I failed to keep my men alive. I was found wanting.
[ ] We survived. I am no hero, but I did my duty.

 

[4WheelSword]

"It's a beautiful day. Would you like to come for a walk with me?"

"No. Thank you."

"Then we'll talk here. How are you doing today?" The doctor asks for the third time in three days.

The sheets of the hospital bed which has been your home for the last few nights are rough and scratch painfully at the tender skin where the surgeons had carefully taken your right foot. You'd tried to avoid looking at the stump that had been left behind but sometimes it was unavoidable. You want to be upset and to complain about how unfair it is that you'll forever be one-legged but every time you consider it you remember the faces of the dead. You could be one of them, lying in a grave or in some shell of a building with only the rats for company. You reach up and unconsciously touch the missing part of your right ear, just one of the scars that you will carry from your experience.

You shrug in reply to the doctors question.

"I'd be better if I wasn't still on bed rest."

"Ah, you're too active for your own good Valentina," He has been calling you by your first name ever since you first met him and it has yet to make you feel any more at ease. "And the pain?"

It has been demonic. Troubling at almost all hours and soul rending at the worst of times. Every time you move it sends a bolt of pain through you that sets your nerves on fire. Even worse, you can sometimes still feel your now missing toes.

"It's okay. The morphine helps at night." It does, a little. It calms and soothes and means you can close your eyes for at least a little while.

"I'm sure it does. Are you sleeping any better now? You spoke before of nightmares."

You've only managed to sleep a few hours at a time since you first woke up in the hospital with Sasha beside you and the things you see in your sleep are why. Horrific visions mixed with memories from a fortnight of unceasing violence could hardly be considered conducive to good rest.

You put your hands between your legs to stop them shaking.

"Um. They're getting easier. I still wake up a lot. The screaming has mostly stopped."

Nothing is more embarrassing than waking up, screaming and sweating, broken from your sleep by the horrors your own mind inflicts on you. Nothing perhaps other than the tears and the shakes that come when it decides to visit those same visions on you during the day.

"Good, good, that's very encouraging. Tell me, how are you feeling about the last few weeks now?"

He means the fighting but he won't say it, too polite or too nervous to ask it of a woman. The smoke and the blood and the hell on earth that you had faced for a solid two weeks. The reason for your nightmares. The reason you haven't looked another person on your ward in the eyes. You don't want them to see how empty they are.

"I feel… I feel like I had the honour to lead some very brave, very young men and women and fight alongside some very fine officers."

"Of course, I'd hardly expect any less answer from someone of your apparent calibre. But what of your personal feelings? There are those that are calling the loyalist officers heroes."

The faces of the dead rise to the surface in your mind's eye. Anton, Lily and so many others. The memory of that last charge is vivid in your imagination and it makes you want to retch. The sailors you had asked so much of had needed to rest and you'd forced them to charge headlong into the guns of the enemy. The enemy, hah! It was already being reported that the rebels had been radicalist students and old patriots. Grandparents who should have known better and children who would never get a chance to learn. These were the people you had killed.

"I did my duty both to the country and the King. It was barbaric, brutal. Nothing of it was heroic."

"Well, that may be." He made a few notes in his book. "Duty means a lot to you?"

It takes a moment for you to realise he's asking a question. The importance of doing your duty has been impressed upon you since you were young and that impression only grew when you decided to join the Navy.

"Of course it does. I gave an oath and I stand by it."

He nods as if you've just said something wholly more momentous that you feel it was.

"So what about after you leave here? Have you considered the future?"

It would have been hard not to have, the way that the newspapers were crowing about what this short, desultory rebellion meant for the future of Varnmark. Rumours were flying of Europan powers taking advantage of Varnmark's weakness, of retaliatory violence by the Stolrussian forces currently occupying parts of Kevia and, less violent in nature, of a coming further unification of the unified states militaries.

But what about your future?
[ ] My nation needs me, but not here. I will seek a posting out of this city.
[ ] My nation needs me, and so does my city. I will continue to do my duty.
[ ] I don't think I can serve anymore. I will find another way to do my duty.
[ ] Write-in

 

[4WheelSword]

It was not so easy to consider your own future in the midst of all of that nor in the aftermath of everything that had come before. With faces haunting your dreams what hope was there for you here. You have not yet stepped outside and yet you know that returning to your old duties, returning to your office and the streets which you saw run red with blood, it would bring fresh terrors to the forefront and wrench fresh screams from your lips.

You don't even need to experience it to know. You can feel it in your bones. Though there's less of them now than there were before, you think with grim humour.

"I… I am uncertain of what a return to the port will mean for me. I do not fear it and I will follow my orders to the letter, of course." you say, already feeling the tremors spreading from your hands up your arms. "But I think I may have to leave the service if I'm going to have any sort of life at all."

"You think you should resign?" He asks, not quite managing to keep the surprise out of his voice. You know he has been trying to get you to open up so that you can return to service. But what good will you be if you cannot see your desk for the tears.

"I dreamed of being in the Navy since my Mother told me stories of her time. A month ago I would have bitten your hand off just to get aboard a battleship, let alone to serve aboard one. But now…" Now, after the deaths by your hand and the deaths by your side and the deaths by your orders. Now there is a different feeling entirely. "I'm not so sure I can trust myself to take the risks my country requires of me."

"Do you believe you did the right thing?"

The shakes are in your chest now, shoulders quivering. Breathing is difficult, talking even more so.

"I a-am-am not…" you take a breath, controlling the onset of a stutter, "I don't know. I lead my m-m-m… my sailors." your hands go to your head. You want to pull your knees up to your chest but the pain would be too much. You want to cry but you can't find that dull sting of tears forming.

Nothing is more vivid than the memories of something you simply wish to forget.

"Valentina, Valentina, it's okay." The doctor says, though his voice seems very distant. You rock in your bed, holding yourself, "I'm going to get the nurse and we'll give you something that will help. I'll come back tomorrow okay?"

It feels like an hour before the door opens again and the needle prick finds some small crack in the darkness and the tremors. The shadows retreat and are replaced by blinding white light. Everything goes missing and the day slides away.

---

Sitting outside the hospital the next day, you take a long drag on a cigarette. The air is biting, cold, and the thing civilian clothes you've been give as a replacement for your ruined uniform are not as thick as you are used to. The bench is hard against your back but at least it's not the scratch of the hospital bed.

After a minute the doctor appears, coming to sit next to you. You finish your cigarette and flick the butt away, fishing another from your pocket and lighting a match off of the bench's armrest before he's even gotten settled.

"Are you looking forward to going home?" He asks, gazing out across the city that has clear skies above it for the first time in weeks.

"Are you ever going to stop asking me questions?" You ask back, sniping. He laughs good naturedly.

"No, but then asking questions is my job."

"Isn't that usually the Zaschita's line?"

"Yes, well, sometimes doctors and the secret police have thing in common." he pauses, breathing slowly, quietly, "I'd like you to come and see me, once a week if you will. I believe that with a properly provided course of therapy and psychoanalysis we can work through some of your problems together."

"Think you can stop the nightmares?" You ask. You will never forget the look on Sasha's face when you asked her a very similar question.

"In time, perhaps. But first, the shaking and the screaming. After that we work on the lesser things."

"There's not much less about it." You say, stubbing out your second cigarette and flicking it away into the gras. For a moment you consider starting another, but it's quite enough. You have been allowed to leave the hospital. It is time for home.

"Then you'll come?"

"I'll come, Doctor." You stand with only a little difficulty, the doctor helping you with your crutches. You've gotten awfully good at managing with just one leg. "I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye, Valentina, and be well." He says with a wave as you set off down the path to the street. Trucks, cars, even carriages are rolling around the city at all hours. It will not take long to flag down a Navy vehicle and get them to give you a lift.

The journey through the city is short but brutally eye-opening. Everywhere you look there are shattered homes, burned out shops, even craters in the street. A few hastily constructed barricades are still in place where nobody has bothered to take them down yet. You pass the Zashchita's headquarters and find it a burned out husk. Perhaps it should be less surprising that the building was the focus of some poor citizens wrath, but nonetheless it's a reminder of how badly things have gone wrong.

You are lucky in some ways though. The building you live in has been scarcely touched by the fighting with only a few small craters in one wall where a line of bullets has stitched across it.

The stairs are difficult, to say the least. More than once you almost trip and have to drop to your knees to avoid falling. The pain is indescribable. You can only count yourself fortunate that no stitches split and you manage to reach your apartments front door without fainting dead away. You stand in front of it, hesitating and, without really thinking, your hobble the extra few steps to the door of Sasha's instead. It only takes a moment to bang on it with a crutch. Your heart hammers away in your chest and you can feel perspiration on your forehead. For the first time in days, you feel scared in the way that she made you feel before all of this started. Scare not of her, but of the way she makes you feel. Scared of what it means. Fearful of what the future might hold, especially now. But there's also hope in there as well. Hope for the possibilities especially.

After a minute or two of standing silently at her door you known again, louder this time. If you've managed to return home in some brief span of time where she's out. Or if something has happened to her. Or worse, if she's left and run, fearing the same things you do.

You'd understand. But you wish she would have said something.

The opening of a door knocks you out of your catastrophizing, but it isn't the one you're standing in front of. A head, a very familiar face, leans out.

"Koshka!" She might as well shout, bursting out and taking hold of you, wrapping her arms around and lifting you six inches clear off of the floor. "Valentina, dear heart, why didn't you say you were getting out today?"

You kiss her cheek, holding her face close to yours. She smells so good it's unbelievable, like pine wood and fresh bread. It takes a moment to realise that there are tears on her face and suddenly there are on yours as well. You haven't seen her since that first day in the hospital, she's been too busy trying to help out with rebuilding wherever she can. But they're not sad tears, not angry tears, but toys of joy and the first that have yet your face in longer than you can remember.

"I missed you, Koshka." She manages to say before your lips are on hers and she's kissing you back and it's a long minute before you break to breath.

"We should probably go inside." you say under heavy breaths. She nods and takes you by the hand before realising that that is going to make things much more difficult. She frowns, takes your crutches and leans them against the wall. One moment you're on your feet, the next, somehow, she has swept you up into her arms and is carrying you into your apartment. You laugh, wrapping your arms around her neck. Oh how good it feels to laugh.

You land on the sofa but a moment later, your crutches retrieved and leant against the wall, and she lowers herself in behind you, an arm around your waist and your back against her side.

"It is good to be home, Sasha." you whisper, then squeak as a cat leaps into your lap. "And yes, you too, Moskya."

"You should have said you were coming. I'd have come to get you." her voice wavers a little.

"And miss the chance to surprise you? No, I wouldn't have missed that for the world." You pauses, pressing against her, "I needed to see the city at peace anyhow."

"I understand that." She kisses just behind your ear, making you shiver gently. "How long do I have you for."

"At least a week. After that… well, I'm not sure I'll be gone for that long."

Her lips stop their featherlight touches.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't face that again. I'm going to resign."

There is silence from behind you. Her arm squeezes you tighter and her head presses against the back of yours. She sighs, long and low.

"I told you, sweet one, that I knew war was no place for you. If you make that decision, I stand with you. We all make our own paths eventually. What will you do instead?"

I will
[ ] Travel for a while. I could see Europa on my savings.
[ ] Join the civil service. I still owe this nation my service.
[ ] Join the foreign service. I can do good work overseas.
[ ] Campaign against war. Killing must never come to Europa again.
[ ] Go into business. Something inventive and exciting.
[ ] Write in (gm veto applies)

Please rank these options from best to worst with 1 being best and the highest number being worst.

 

[4WheelSword]

"I'm not certain. Travel? I have some savings and I've heard that southern Europa in the summer is particularly beautiful. But not for good. I owe too much to this country to give up on it, I just know that I cannot be a sailor anymore. I don't want to do anymore fighting. So perhaps the civil service." You scratch at your hip, aware of one of the dozens of still healing scars that now mark your body. Then you laugh, "Perhaps if I'm lucky they'll let me join the foreign service and I'll be able to do both at once."

But Sasha isn't laughing. Instead she looks pensive, her full lips pressed tight in worry, her strong brow furrowed by concern.

"Will you leave me?" She asks, staring at the floor just beyond her feet, her voice so quiet you have to strain to hear her.

"Oh!" An exclamation of surprise and shock. You lean back, catch her face in your hands, pull her down to look at you. "Oh, dearest, no I will not leave you unless you ask it of me and then I will protest and wail at the injustice."

She gives a small, sad laugh. You can see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

"I was hoping you would agree to come with me." You say and it's the truth. Ever since the idea of travelling, of stepping from the borders of Kevia for the first time in your life (other than a few brief jaunts aboard a training steamer during your academy days), had popped into your head you knew that you wanted her by your side, just as she had been through the entire rebellion.

You shake your head, dismissing the memories that threaten the edges of your mind. They retreat, for now.

She looks at you for a long moment. Considering. Thinking. You can see somewhere behind her sharp, wet eyes that she is turning the idea over and over in her head, looking for some problem or criticism or dismissal laced into it like poison.

"What do you want from me?" She finally asks.

Now it is your turn to frown. You take a long hard minute to think, rolling the question around your head like it is a particularly curiously scented wine, uncomfortable despite the comfort of lying in her lap. She holds your gaze, eyes fixed on yours.

"I want you by my side." You see no reason to be dishonest. The thought has floated around your mind for a long time.

"I am not looking to be friend or confidant. Or, hell, anyones bodyguard for that matter." She replies with no anger but an intensity which is almost overwhelming. You suddenly feel almost childlike next to her, as if she has seen so much more of the world and come back weary but alive from it all.

"I'm not looking for any of those things either." You reconsider for a moment, "Or perhaps I'm looking for all of them, but not just those. More, as well."

"What more could I give you that I haven't yet?" She asks, perhaps even more confused than she was a moment before, "I've fought for you, I've bled for you. I carried you when I thought you were dead. What else can you ask of me?"

"Can I ask for your love?" Suddenly you are on your elbows and your lips are on hers and her eyes are wide in shock before they flutter close as she melts into you. It only lasts a moment but it feels a lifetime. A perfect moment then. When it breaks your heart pines for that contact once more. "Can I ask you to come with me and care for me as I care for you?"

"I'm not…" She seems hesitant, not wanting to say anything out loud, "I didn't think… with me…"

"I love women, Sasha." You kiss her again, quicker this time, "I love you," A peck as punctuation, darting, light, "I love you."

---

Of course, resigning from the Navy is not so simple as resigning from any civilian job. Eventually it is resolved, but it takes months of meetings, negotiations, conversations with medical practitioners and such to prove that you are not simply listless and attempting to resign out of cowardice but because you cannot face a return to Duty. You are lucky. There are officers who know you or know of your actions during the rebellion. Even the Major of the Marines from the armoury agrees to speak on your behalf.

In the meantime, you find yourself strangely busy despite not being on active service. You have weekly sessions with the doctor, some of them harder, some of them less so. You write your reports of the rebellion, in the process compiling some four hundred pages of what are essentially memoirs. You write them on the doctor's recommendation but by the end of them you find them relatively interesting to put down and it feels if not good, then at least like some small palliative.

And then there are the press visits. You're a hero, or so the papers say and they all want a bite of the action. You're not the only one, but you're one of the only surviving wounded officers and that makes you interesting. It's hell, but the Navy keep trotting you out while they've got you at seemingly every opportunity.

It all culminates in what seems like one last gasp of the military trying to get you to stay. You receive a letter stating that you are to be awarded the Medal of Military Valour, the third you will have received for the January Rebellion since an award for the wounded and a medal of gallantry have already been pinned to your jacket. Nonetheless, it is your duty still for a little while longer to follow your orders.

Thus you find yourself standing on an ad-hoc stage in the centre of Polyapavlosk's central square, a public display for the population that the government knows who stands by it in times of crisis and that it pays to be one of them. It is as obvious a piece of propaganda as your cynical mind has seen since before the fighting.

It's almost healed, you think as a junior General drones about the heroism and sacrifice that you and the other three young officers you're standing alongside displayed. The city has almost been born again from the fires of civil war, the only remaining evidence being the bullet craters in some walls, the missing houses on the skyline in others. Nothing burns any longer. Nothing is just waiting to explode, even if the occasional dud shell is found buried in rubble.

The other three are called up one by one. You know why you have been kept till last. In your fastidiously clean uniform, the dark wood prosthetic that has replaced almost half of one of your legs is even less subtle that it is as the best of times. The skirt you were does little to cover the sins that a pair of trousers does wonders for. You are an example of sacrifice. That is all you are.

Finally you are called forward and a slight hush descends and all you can hear in your ears is the strange step-clump-step-clump of your footsteps on wooden boards. It is painful on the ear. You wonder if anyone else finds it as frustrating as you do that your gait is slightly lopsided as you compensate for the prosthetic.

You barely concentrate on what the General is saying. Your stump itches. Hell, half your skin itches. You're not used to the rough wool of your uniform anymore and if that isn't strange enough the warmer summer weather has made your wounds play up.

You smile widely as a picture is taken, the flashbulb almost blinding. A few more follow as the medal is pinned on and his hand catches yours for a shake. Before you can salute and turn away to return to your spot, there is shouting from the audience.

"Oh, well, I suppose we shall have to ask the Leytenant." You realise the general is talking about you in a more specific way suddenly, "Well, Leytenant? Will you take a few questions?"

Oh. There are reporters. Of course there are reports and of course they want a piece of you. They are like ravenous wolves and view you like a sheep. They are often surprised to find the sheep has teeth.

Will you take questions?
[ ] Of course, with pleasure
[ ] I am tired, my wound takes its toll
[ ] I would like to make a statement about the inglorious nature of war.
[ ] Yes, though I will lace every answer with criticism.

 

[4WheelSword]

Dear god does this sheep have teeth. A vicious idea creeps its way into your head, skulking like an intruder in the night who wishes nought but ill for the occupants of a sleeping house. All of these people want to hear of the glory of combat, the rush of victory, the true appreciation of the world that comes from having been blooded. The Generals want you to tell your story with a somber joy, sad for the dead but happy to have been in the thick of things with a weapon in your hand fighting for the truth and the unity of Varnmark.

You decide in but a matter of seconds that instead you will tell them the truth. You hold your hands up for quiet, waiting for silence to fall, an expectant hush that makes the anxiety over what you're about to do only redouble.

You can't imagine your senior officers being happy with what you plan to say.

"I'm afraid I will not be answering any questions. I am still recovering from the wound I suffered in defence of this port and it leaves me quite tired." You can actually feel the wave of disappointment that washes across the gathered crowd at your words, like the air has been let out of a balloon. "But I do have something I'd like to say."

Another flashbulb goes off as you pause for breath, making you blink hard. You'd never realised quite how bright they are from the times you've seen them turned at other people. It takes a moment for your vision to clear. Hopefully they'll choose to believe you are simply putting your thoughts in order, not waiting for the white spots to fade.

"It is not often that a person gets the opportunity to learn of what they are made. Rarely are we tested in the way that war tests us. We are not asked to take up arms against our fellow man, and even less often are we asked to carry our rifles against the men and women amongst who we live every day. That is what was asked of me, of my fellow officers, of the marines and sailors alongside who i fought and of the civilians who chose to fight for their homes with only the duty that they carried in their hearts in that grim month of January earlier this year."

Start them off nicely, you think, build them up to think you'll be making some speech of the grandiose nature of battle. It will only make what comes later more striking.

"Every single one of those men and women who fought, who bled and who died for Varnmark proved what they are made of. They are men of iron and women of steel, courageous and bold. They charged alongside me with heads held hire and their weapons in their hands into the furious guns of the rebels."

You pause, taking another deep breath. You can feel their eyes on you, hear the scratching of pens on paper. Your legs are trembling, your hands shaking just enough for you to notice. Hopefully nobody else does.

"And they died in their hundreds, even their thousands. You will never know many of their names. Even I only know three of the dozens that fought alongside me in those two weeks of hell where we bled for every street and every house that we took back from the rebels who would have taken everything from us. Lily Antonov died in the night without a murmur, bleeding into her own lungs, and she never got to go home to her parents. I did though, when I took her identification papers back to them. Kapitan Larsen, whose first name I was never given, lead a charge with all the bravery our service asks for through an artillery bombardment. He was cut down by shrapnel without making it five yards."

The shakes are worse. You weren't lying to them when you said that standing makes you tired, but this is necessary.

"Anton Medyedev, Starshi-Leytenant of the Marines, honoured me by fighting by my side through much of the January Rebellion. He, like me, was a young officer who only wanted to do his best by his nation and by his service. He, like me, fought through some of the most brutal engagements of those two weeks. Unlike me, he was killed in the closing hours of the conflict as we made our last pushes to take the enemy guns. Since then I have met his wife, and I have met his daughter who, it transpires, took her first steps while he was fighting for this city. He will never see her walk."

"The war I saw in those two weeks was not glorious. It was not heroism, though there were heroes, and it was not valour, though there was that too. It was dirty and it was bloody and the things I saw and did will not leave my dreams. I am not a hero for killing men and boys alike in the name of a united Varnmark."

You reach up and gently pull the medal from your breast, sliding it into a pocket instead.

"I am not a hero. War does not make heroes. It only fills graves."

You turn in the following silence and walk slowly from the stage with that same step-clump that bothered you so. Now it was simply punctuation to the end of a speech. Sasha holds out a hand to help you down the stairs and offers you your cane. You slip your other arm through hers and walk away with your back to the now babbling crowd and the red-faced General.

---

You leave the next day. Sitting in a modern motor-carriage with a travelling case each, you talk quietly with Sasha. On your lap is a copy of a morning paper, your picture on the front with the headline 'OFFICER DENIES HEROISM". It could have been worse. There had been a rag in the corner shop, a sensationalist thing printed by socialists which had no picture (fortunately) but which headlined with "COWARDLY SAILOR SAYS DEAD UNHEROIC". Maybe some of your message would get through to the moderates. With Europa simmering it is the least you can do to perhaps change the course of things.

The Admiralty was furious of course. If you hadn't already resigned with their grace they would surely have discharged you forthwith. But they had no such power anymore. It was liberating, a freedom from responsibility and the servility that came with a commission. It was the end of a dream, but perhaps it was time to find a new dream.

You look at the woman beside you and smile, squeezing her hand gently.

How will you travel?
[ ] By Sea
[ ] By Land
[ ] By Air

 

[4WheelSword]

You crouch behind the inside wall of a warehouse, breathing in dry brick dust. Valentina crouches across from you, her eyes wides, pupils dilated. You can see the fear in them.

"Sasha." She calls to you, though she is barely audible above the crump of the rebels heavy guns just beyond, "Are you ready?"

"Are you?" You find yourself asking. The handful of men and women around you are all exhausted, dirty, bloody and worn. Most are almost out of ammunition. Half are already wounded, some badly.

She gives a sharp nod. There is something inspiring about the messy, sweaty woman crouched in the dirty corner of a warehouse. You've never fallen so quickly for a woman and you doubt she even knows anything about it. You'd just wanted to take care of a vulnerable young woman and now… now there is something remarkably engulfing about the feelings that have birthed themselves in your chest. In your heart.

"Listen up!" Valentina shouts above the sound of the enemy guns, "This is the last push. Who's got grenades left?"

You touch your belt, feeling the cold metal of an explosive hanging there. A few other sailors nod.

"They go first, then we charge. Load your rifles, finish your canteens. Fix bayonets if you've got 'em."

There is a mass swish-and-clacking as the few remaining lengths of steel are fixed to rifles and carbines.

Then you all explode into action. The metal orb goes overarm and explodes amongst the others, blowing up a cloud of smoke between your charge and the enemy position. Then you're running, boots thumping on the rain slick cobbles. You burst through the cloud kicked up by grenades and see the line of rebel riflemen, the machine gun they have set up. All you're focused on is running, firing your carbine from hip-level in the vague hope that you'll force even one of them to keep their heads down until you're amongst them.

And then you are and you're firing and swinging and your knife is in your hand and it's slick with blood. Your boot connects with one woman's jaw and you feel the sharp crack of a breaking bone. The rebel line crumples under the slightest of pressures and in only a minute you have a gun crew at the end of your weapon and their hands are on their heads.

You look around, aware of your own hard breathing and the sweat running from the back of your neck down your back. There's so few of you left, so many gone from those who set out this morning. Even so you grin. You've won. The guns are taken and their vicious butchery is done with. A few sailors laugh and cheer, but it's ragged and there are so, so few.

Where's Valentina?

The thought strikes you like a hammerblow, like the bullets that you'd so narrowly avoided just moments ago. You look around for the distinct uniform colour, visible even under the dust and the dirt.

It's there. She's there. Lying in the dust in the street, thick red blood mixing with the rain and running between the cobbles. Your carbine clatters to the floor as you race to her side.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Someone's screaming. You are screaming. She is lying face down, bleeding. Her leg is a mess of blood and flesh, a ruin from ankle down. The worst goes through your head. She's dead. Dying. You hadn't cared for her, hadn't protected her, hadn't stepped between her and harm.

The pain in your chest tightens, breathing hurts. It's like you've broken every rib it hurts so much. The tears running down your cheeks flow fast, mixing with the rain.

She hacks out a bloody cough. She's alive! Her breathing comes ragged but at least she's breathing.

"Hold your positions, hold these guns!" You shout, "I'll be back!" You pull her into your arms and set off at a run. There must be a medic nearby. There must be.

 

[4WheelSword]

It is impossible to think that for the time being this is your life. You and a beautiful woman, an entire continent at your feet and the opportunity to do what you will. Nikita was kinda enough to take in two of your cats and promise to look after Marina, the other two going to Elena and Yakatarina. None of the three are pleased to hear you are leaving the city, but just as equally, none of them can blame you. They could not be there to see you off, and for that you are sad, but it would look overly suspicious. Hell, you won't even be able to hold Sasha's hand anywhere but ensconced in the back of this carriage where not even the driver can see you. To do otherwise would be to risk everything.

The carriage pulls to a halt outside the only aerodrome in Southern Kevia, and the only one equipped to handle the massive airships of the von Zeppelin company. Though the airships themselves are a rare sight in Varnmark, what with the civil war and the few travellers heading south before that who weren't simply willing to travel across the Dakazyn Sea by ferry, they are making increasingly common visits as people discover the luxuries associated with the comfort of flight hundreds of feet above the ground.

That luxury is something you are keen to experience for yourself and, given your collected backpay and the retirement promotion you were handed, thus you've booked a place for the pair of you on a flight to central Europa. From there, who knows. Dyskelande is the centre of everything, geographically. You could see the music halls of Gallia, the great capital of Albia or the massive palace-churches of Otrusia.

No matter what you decide, you will get to share it with the woman sitting quietly next to you. That, more than anything else, matters the most.

You pay the carriages driver and carry your bags the short distance to the aerodromes domed entrance way. You are careful to keep a reasonable distance from Sasha despite the pang in your chest at the seperation. But you know it is for the best. You both know it.

The terminal is bustling, filled with tens, possibly even a hundred people. Most of them will not be flying, of course. The airship only has space for twenty-four passengers and it was worth every krone to be two of them. Taking Sasha by the hand, you give her a grin and run towards the ticket desk.

Anyone looking will just take you for sisters, you're certain.

---

The airship lifts off so smoothly you can't even feel it, though the thrumm of the engines gives away that there is more to it than just floating away with the wind. You laugh and grip Sasha's arm as your stomach turns over with the sudden rise, and her grin makes your heart melt along with it.

"Look," She says, leaning back so you can look out the window. Far below you is the Kevian South coast and the port of Polyapavlosk along with it. It looks tiny from up here despite how massive it is from ground level. It is incredible to see the city you've lived in your entire life laid out below you as if they are on a map. From here you cannot see the individual houses or the people moving amongst them. From here you cannot see the wounds of war that are still healing.

The city slips behind a cloud and you fall back into your chair, conscious of your hand still resting on her arm.

"It's incredible." you say, shaking you head.

"Truly. You know this sort of thing didn't exist when I was a child." Her voice is quiet, but not sad, "The world is changing very quickly. We will have to be careful that we do not get too caught up in it."

"I won't get lost with you at my side." You reply, your fingers brushing the tops of hers for just the slightest of moments.

The flight is a long one, even going just from Southern Varnmark to Northern Dyskelande it will take about fourteen hours. But the firm that runs the line, the Zeppelin company, knows how to take care of it's guests. Lunch is served sharply as the clock strikes one, a fine meal of smoked fish and beautifully seasoned potatoes with wine that was light and crisp and went down a little too early. When you head back to your seat you are giggly and a little more intimate with Sasha than you should be. You draw a few dirty looks. They make her blush. It makes her glow. You make a mental note to try to make it happen more often.

"Your cheeks are red." You say, whispering in her ear as you take your seats again, comfortable in the plush upholstery and capacious leg room, "Did you know?"

"I had realised." She says, clearing her through self-consciously and her cheeks burn even brighter.

"It's very attractive."

You sit back, watching her squirm in her chair and can't help but smile to yourself. Fishing your book out of the daybag resting by your feet you settle in to read for a few hours, kept comfortable by the subtle vibration of the airships progress. It was a real page turner, a schlocky romp across Europa and Lydia with an adventrix and her string of male lovers across every nation and empire. Sasha had done nothing but mock the series ever since you had bought it. You had told her she was lucky she is so pretty.

You fall asleep without even noticing that you're tired. When you come too you're covered by a thin blanket, your book is folded neatly in your lap and Sasha is nudging you gently with an elbow.

"Huh?"

"It's time for dinner. Come on, Koshka."

You follow her towards the rear of the airship, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your stomach growls. You hope it's not loud enough for the other passengers to hear. You already seem to be unpopular enough with the older, clearly more conservative passengers, your manners should not be one of the things they have the opportunity to criticise.

You excuse yourself before the meal, turning towards the head such that you can freshen up. You can't bear the thought of eating while your mouth tastes somewhere between cat-fur and cat-food. It feels good to find a mirror, to brush your hair and wash your mouth out, even if it is only in the cramped head of an airship.

The door handle rattles sharply.

"Occupied!" You call out. You'll only be a minute. Whoever it is would just have to wait.

It rattles again. You huff and unlock the door, ready to give whoever it is a piece of your mind. Standing opposite as it swings open is a smiling man in a three piece suit who has a strange look in his eye. You stop short, all the words you had ready floating away like so many leaves on the wind.

"Can I help you?" You ask instead, lost for anything more impressive to spit.

"Madame Beresev sends her regards."

You heart stills in your chest. The Zaschita officer who'd intimidated you so much almost a year ago was, apparently, going to insert herself back into your life, apparently via the medium of this young man.

"I'd really rather she didn't."

"And yet here I am." He touches the brim of his hat, "You're in a unique position, Valentina. Disgraced by your words and yet a hero by your actions."

"Are you here to insult me?"

"I'm here to offer you an opportunity. A hero attracts many ears. A disgraced one attracts the right ears. In a Europa that looks to war to solve its issues, you may be of use to us."

What are you asking?
[ ] I'm trying to get away from all this.
[ ] I wouldn't say no to a little spy work.
[ ] If it's an opportunity to avoid war..

 

[4WheelSword]

"The only opportunity I'm looking for is the chance to find peace. I doubt I'm going to find that doing any favours for Major Beresev." You snap, emphasising her rank as if it's some protection. It's not like there's anyone around to hear you anyway, even the crew are busy serving dinner or eating their own.

You can't help but feel nervous. You're alone, confronted by a stranger and he seems more than a little confident. Your fingers itch. You look him in the eye and try to project a little more presence than you're feeling.

"I'm not a hero by any stripe or measure. All I did was my duty."

"Well, wouldn't you like the opportunity to serve your nation again? You've been so dutiful before, it would be a shame to see such loyalty wasted." His smile has gone from pleasant to threatening seemingly without moving at all.

You wonder, almost idly though not so idly at all, whether he is carrying a weapon. He would be a fool to on an airship, surely. Surely he must know the dangers of carrying a firearm, what with the thin skin of the ship and all the gasses. It's not like a ship at sea. No armour this high in the air.

He could be carrying a knife though, some small traitorous part of your brain whispers, an ice pick that could punch through your ribs without much force behind it. And he can definitely put some force behind it. If you refuse, will he pull some wicked blade and leave you bleeding in the bathroom? You draw yourself up to your full height and glare. You will not be intimidated if that's his game.

"I have served my country and I have given more than you can imagine for it." You step towards him, finger coming up to jab him in the chest. The clunk of your prosthetic against the deck is the perfect punctuation, "I should be able to travel without interference, especially from a group which I had done nothing but prove myself loyal too."

He actually has the gall to laugh directly in your face. It is neither long nor loud, but it is infuriating and you feel the hot burn of anger in your chest. If you weren't so terrified that he might have orders to remove you, you'd be tempted to swing for him.

"Is that so, little bird?" His grin is sickly sweet as your stomach drops through the floor. You can't see it but you know all the colour has just drained from your face. They can't know. They can't possibly know. He reaches into a pocket and you freeze just long enough for him to pull a small square of cardboard from it, offering it forwards. "Well, you and your… companion, you enjoy your trip. And if you do happen to discover anything that could be considered important to the welfare of our great nation, well. Now you have my address. Don't forget to write."

With that, he pushes past you and into the bathroom, the door shutting and locking with a sharp click., leaving you, sweating and shaking, alone in the corridor.

It takes a few minutes for you to collect yourself and, fortunately, the man does not emerge in that time. You look at the card he's handed you. The address is some nondescript location in the capital with nothing to mark it out as anything special, even the area code that it's in. It's probably some abandoned flat with a letterbox that gets checked every couple of weeks.

The dining section of the airship is as opulent as the rest of the vehicle, all thick carpets and sharply pressed linen tablecloths. It is certainly the most comfortably you've ever sat down to eat in your entire life and you can't help but smile as you slide into your seat opposite Sasha. She smiles back, the pair of you only looking a little out of place in your inexpensive civilian clothes. It is still almost strange seeing her without a weapon in hand and dirt on your face. A distinct memory of a night shared in a dark bunker makes you wish you had a cigarette to light. But, sadly, you'd had to surrender your lighter for the duration of the flight and what use is a cigarette without one.

"You were gone a long time, dear one." Sasha asks, affectionate tone covered by the buzz of other languages present in the dining room. "I was beginning to worry you'd never join me." Her smile is demure, elegant. You wonder how she so effortlessly seems to have managed to slide herself into this world of grace and style without seeming out of place as you do. You may be - have been, you correct yourself - an officer of His Majesties Navy but you never really grew used to the silverware and small talk that came with attending the dinner parties. And for all that you were some several thousand feet in the air, this definitely felt like a dinner party even if most of the attendee's were ensconced in their own conversations, their own worlds.

You take a sip of deep red wine before answering, allowing the rich fruits to roll across your tongue.

"I just had to freshen up." You keep your language light, carefree, careful not to look around for the man who'd confronted you. Do they truly know something or was he just being suggestive? But that phrase he'd used, it meant so much more.

It is still illegal to be a woman of your sort both in Varnmark and Europa and that went doubly so for Sasha, not just a tribade but a woman who had chosen womanhood as well. If either of you were found out, you could face arrest and imprisonment and no medal on your jacket nor history of service would save you from the harsh judgement of your peers. You've wondered before how Nikita has managed to survive so long, how he hasn't fled for some distant land that finds your kind more agreeable. There are books you've read in the backs of public libraries that speak well of furthest Lydia and North Ophirius and even a poor Europan can be rich in those places.

But it wouldn't be home, would it. That's the thing that almost kept you in Polyapavlosk when every other bone in your body wanted to force you to leave, to run for the hills and never look back.

Fortunately, you'd listened to every instinct except for that one.

"Do you know, I was certain I would be ill the whole way there." She says, making idle smalltalk as the main course is served. Beautifully cooked steak and steamed vegetables in a rich sauce you can't identify. You have no idea how they've manage to fit what must be a relatively capable little galley aboard ship but nonetheless, here is the evidence in front of you.

You hum in agreement, barely looking at her, concentrating on your food. You chew slowly, enjoying the delectable taste. When you look up, she is not chewing. She is looking at you with a worried expression.

"What is wrong, Koshka?" she asks, cutlery held gently in motionless hands.

"Nothing." You say, waving her away, "Perhaps I have not been so lucky with the illness, my stomach is a little unsettled, that's all."

She looks very pointedly at the piece of steak speared on the end of your fork and then back to you, an eyebrow raised delicately.

"Are you sure?" She asks, her tone as questioning as the look on her face. You blanche, red rising in your cheeks without there being anything you can do to help it. In the six months in which she has made herself part of your life, or rather, in which you have welcomed her into it, you have yet to be able to withhold anything but the simplest of things from her sharp eyes and quick tongue.

"I'm certain, Liybimaya." My love. My heart. She smiles and you pray that others conversations cover your words. You mean every syllable, rolling it across your tongue as the wine had but… you would be lying if you didn't admit that it also served a useful distraction.

You go to say more but the soft chime of a knife on glass interrupts you. An old man with an extremely fine moustache dressed in what must be an exceedingly expensive suit stands, holding the crystal wine glass and silver knife he tapped it with, with an air of expectation as the conversation and the sound of clinking cutlery dies.

He begins to speak, but you cannot understand a word. You realise after a moment that he is speaking Dyske and, although they're your homelands closest neighbour other than Caspia, you've never picked up any of the language and little is shared between that and Kevian. Sasha, though, seems enraptured. You nudge her with a foot under the table and she holds up a finger, listening closely.

The man seems exuberant, ruddy in the cheek and his laughter is infectious to the point that you almost chuckle despite knowing nothing of what is going on. Eventually, he bows to a few tables, surveilling the room as if it is his own kingdom.

That is until his eyes reach your table and you in particular. His smile widens even more and he points at you.

"Oh! Miss Mikhailova." He says in passable Kevian though his accent is atrocious. "You speak Dyske?"

You shake your head, blushing again. All the eyes in the room seem to be on you.

"A shame." He babbles something in his own language to the room at large and they chuckle before he turns back to you. "I was saying that we have a fine patriot amongst us and I was ignorant enough to speak a language she cannot understand."

"I, um." You wring your hands, suddenly nervous, "I hadn't imagined I was recognisable, Sir."

"Your picture was on your homelands papers, how could I forget!" He gestures for you to join him, "Come, come. You are a brave woman, Miss Mikhailova. A hero, I understand they call you?"

You look at the diners from your suddenly lofty position standing by a man who you have no idea who is but who seems to have their attention. You look to Sasha who smiles so effortlessly from her seat. You look at the man who looks back, expectantly.

I… I…
[ ] I am a patriot, sir, yes, but not a hero.
[ ] I mean no disrespect, sir, but who are you?
[ ] There are no heroes in war, sir, and I hope the people of Dyskeland know that.
[ ] I wouldn't be a hero if I didn't introduce Sasha...

 

[4WheelSword]

"I have yet to accept the accolade of hero." You say, aiming not to cross the very thin line between reserved and rude, "War does not make heroes, Sir, especially not a war between brothers and sisters. All it makes are bodies."

"Oh my dear, you are far too modest. I have heard of your accomplishments. You were even awarded medals! Damned impressive. If your nation considers you a hero then who am I to argue." He turns and speaks to the audience again. There is another small laugh. You can only imagine he is translating what he believes to be your modesty to the rest of the audience.

"Tell me, Sir, does the rest of Dyskelande consider men broken in battle to be heroes?" You ask, blunter than you had intended. You are not meaning to be rude - the very opposite - but it has yet to sit well that ever since the rebellion ended there have been none who seem to consider the costs of the war before they simply look to the survivors for validation of their ignorance. The price has been to high for that to sit comfortably with you.

"Well, of course! I would not be so bold as to label myself as such, but certainly I and many of my dearest friends earned our medals on the field as you did."

Ah. Of course. The old man might not have the bearing or the stature of a military officer anymore but he certainly has the ruddy hue and brusque demeanor of an old soldier turned out to civilian life. No wonder then that he would be one of those poor, noble souls with a belief in the majesty of battle.

Your mind goes back to the blood and the dirt. The screaming. The shells whistling overhead and the bullets whickering through the night. It is terrible. Your leg itches. Your missing foot aches to twitch in sympathy, its ghost shooting pain up through your nerves.

"My dear girl, you've paid dearly for your reputation. Do not give it away so easily." he says, gesturing in such a way that he is not simply pointing at your prosthetic and the missing half-ear. "I am throwing a party tonight. A ball, as it were. You must come, as my guest. It is the five hundredth flight of this grand airship." Again he pauses to translate that last to the audience and they is a round of applause and quiet cheers, "Bring your travelling companion as well, you are both most welcome. Most welcome. I'll have my man give you the address."

He does not appear to be asking, instead directing. You doubt there is any way you're really going to be able to get away from the suggestion and, anyway, isn't this what you came to Europa for? To experience everything it had to offer? Why not go to a rich man's party and enjoy yourself.

He says something else in Dyske and there is another round of applause and while it takes a moment for you to realise you go bright red when it becomes apparent that the applause is for you and not for him. You give the short bow expected of a woman officer and return to your seat to finish the meal.

More eyes are on you after that but they do not rest on you in judgement but in admiration this time. In some ways it is worse. You can sense the pity that comes with the recognition of your lost limb and apparent heroism, and the unknowing aggrandizement of your new status. If only they knew the truth. If only they knew what it felt like to be out and amongst it all. You would not wish it upon anyone and yet, for them to know the reality would perhaps change perceptions.

"We are invited to a party." You say to Sasha as you sit back down.

"So I hear," She says, a thin smile on her face, "You realise who you've just become friends with, yes?"

You shake your head. He is clearly important, but beyond that you have no clue. You've never been very good at keeping track of the high and mighty of Europa, even those of Varnmark itself.

"Oh, Koshka, your naivety is so endearing and yet so dangerous. You will have to stay close by my side at this party so that you don't end up causing some sort of pan-Europan ruckus." She says and laugh. You pout, annoyed at her tone and she laughs harder. "I'm sorry, dear one, I'm sorry. But that is Count von Zeppelin, one of the most influential men in Europa and a war hero in his own right."

Oh. Oh no. You look over at the old man who smiles with a twinkle in his eye as the colour drains entirely from your face. You hadn't recognised the man on his own damn airship and now you are going to his party, apparently. Thank the heavens you'd brought evening wear. You'd just have to try your best not to embarrass yourself too much. Perhaps Sasha was right to be nervous. You hope she'd never heard the story of how you got thrown out of a ball as a cadet. Hell, you'd pray for her to forget if she had.

---

The rest of the flight passes in relative peace other than the gentle ribbing of a beautiful woman who will not let you forget that you did not recognise one of the most famous men of Europa. It is not your fault that international news is low on your list of priorities, especially when recovering from war with the spectre hanging so clearly over the rest of the continent and even the world beyond it.

As you are disembarking from the great flying ship, the count pulls you and Sasha aside to shake your hands and bow and have one of his men offer you an envelope. Inside is an address - a second man's card in one flight, fast work your mother would have said - and two gilt-edged tickets with your names hand written on the thick paper. Valentina Mikhailov and Alexandra Ivanov in the neat, tight script of a secretaries hand. You almost start, forgetting for a moment that Sasha actually has a longer name than she uses. It makes you smile. Then it makes you remember the night of Vasily's confrontation. You want so badly to reach for her hand but you cannot.

You leave with promises that you will arrive on time trailing in your wake, rushing into Albrechtburg to find a hotel. The one available, and within your price bracket, is a little less luxurious than the airship had been, but it offers a bed and a communal bath and frankly that is enough for the pair of you. You - via Sasha who actually speaks the local language and isn't struggling with a phrasebook and a prayer - book two rooms, so as not to arouse suspicion, and head upstairs to find them. The mattresses are thin, the carpets threadbare and the rooms cold, but you can't help but be excited. You are in another country, in a brand new city, and you have the freedom to make whatever choices you want.

Well, perhaps not tonight. Tonight you have a party to attend, and it is all you can do to lay out your smartest clothes and rush through an uncomfortably cold round of ablutions as Sasha disappears into her own room to change.

But of course, nothing is simple. As you unpack, you pull the three small cases that contain your awards from the Navy in them. You are well within your rights to wear them in civilian dress, indeed had you been attending a party in Varnmark it would be remiss to go without them. But here, in Dyskelande, it is a different matter. The customs are different, but so are the expectations. The host, at least, considers you a hero. To go without your decorations, would he see it as an insult? Or would he understand your hesitation.

You run your thumb across the rough leather of one of the cases, wondering. You doubt a man with medals of his own would understand.

Do you:
[ ] Wear the medals, a reminder of your actions.
[ ] Leave them behind, a protest almost.
[ ] Write in.

 

[4WheelSword]

You open one case, the smallest of them, the least of them and the most important to you. It is the small round medal with a deep blue and pale white ribbon and the face of the King - the dead King - in profile on it. It is the reward you were given for sacrificing an ear and a foot in the service of your country, a wound medal the veterans had called it. It suggested no bravery or particular act, just that you had bled for Varnmark.

By god had you bled for Varnmark.

You pin it carefully to your lapel, smoothing it with one hand, and consider yourself in the mirror. The suit was wool, a deep brown that the medal stands out against and which you look even more pale in than you usually do. A little rouge goes some way to fixing that, but the well defined cheekbones and the faint darkness under your eyes isn't so easily hidden with the little travel makeup box that you've brought with you.

You frown at the trousers. The affectation of service and combat is not so easily left behind, especially when it is so much easier to make nothing of the false foot you have to wear in them. But you are not at home, where you are more confident in making nothing of the social faux pas. Here, in a strange country as another's guest, it is a different matter entirely.

You shrug to yourself. It's not like you have many options. The skirt that originally went with this jacket is currently in the bottom of a drawer somewhere back in Varnmark. The good Count will just have to suffer the ignominy of having a woman in trousers at his party.

You take a minute to consider the entire image in a small mirror. The well cut suit, the singular, lonely medal, the pale skin. It wasn't a bad look. Fortunately the mirror was too small for detail and you could see neither of you lasting wounds. It would only ruin the whole experience, after all.

You step out of your room, aware of the time and how long it will likely take for the two of you to reach the address the Count had given you. You knock on Sasha's, suddenly nervous. What if you're late. What if you're early? What if a thousand things you can't control but you're going to worry about them anyway because what else is there to do but suffer from the depredation of your brain and its anxiety.

Of course, all of that is forgotten the moment she opens the door. Hair pinned up, kohl applied so delicately, and a dress you had no idea she even owned but which makes her look like gossamer and silk blended into a fae creature who could whisper away your heart as soon as look at you. And oh is she looking at you, with those deep eyes that you feel yourself falling into every time you look into them.

"You look delightful." She finally says, breaking the spell she's cast without a word.

"So do you." You murmur back. You have half a mind to drag her into your room with everything that that entails. But a combination of nervousness and fear of being late cajoles you into simply taking her hand instead.

You consider the dress as you lead her from the hotel and onto the chill street to hail a motor-carriage and give the man the address. Light blue, almost sheer. It was provocative despite not showing a damn thing. You breathed a long sigh as you settled into the back of the motor and puttered off down wide boulevards towards what can only be described as the more expensive end of town. Eventually it pulls up to a gated house. Well, house would be underselling it. It is quite assuredly a mansion built in the most modern of styles and despite the gloom you can just about make out what can only be the shape of an airship mooring mast reaching into the sky behind it.

At least there's no mistaking whose house it must be. It could only be more distinctive if he had one of his 'zeppelins' actually tied up for the evening like anyone else would tie up a horse.

You step out as the carriage comes to a halt, hopping to the hard ground and wincing as it drives the plate of your prosthetic into your stump. It's still sore a lot of the time. Fishing a few notes out of your pocket, you pay the driver with what you hope is the right money and a fair tip, before offering your hand to the fair lady who has agreed to be your companion for the evening and so much more.

The front path is a driveway, all done in white gravel with low hedges lining it. Once more you descend into the lap of luxury and blink, uncertain if you're gazing upon reality or trickery. A fountain marks the stone staircase up to a raised entrance way and it is only there that you are challenged for your invitations. You fish them out of an inside pocket and hand the pair to the well dressed footman. He takes in your mode of dress, frowns, looks at the invitation, frowns again.

"Miss?" He hangs off the question, waiting for some sort of explanation.

"Mikhailova." You finish, intending to give him no more than he deserves, "And Miss Ivanova."

"Very well. Someone will take your coats inside. Please, go ahead Ladies."

You step into an entrance hall that can only be described as palatial, marble floors leading to beautifully adorned walls with simply magical art hung up and down them. Someone takes your coats and another footman hands you a drink each. Whatever it is, it's cold and it's sharp and it has bubbles and it makes you smile. You giggle, nervous as a schoolgirl and itch to reach out and take Sasha's hand. The alcohol, and it is certainly that, goes down easily and there is only half a glass left in your hand by the time you reach the main hall.

"Careful, Koshka. Do not get so bold from drinking that you may do anything you regret." Sasha warns playfully.

"Oh please, Sasha," You fire back, teasing, "I would not be the one with regrets."

If you had thought that the entrance hall was palace like, then it is no surprise then that you are without words to describe the main room. Half of it is glass facing out into the dark gardens behind the house. The ceiling, domed, is painted with scenes of myth and legend, mostly centering around flight. The damned lovers who flew too close to the sun, Ethirene and Tulio. A circle of ancient winged gods. The flying chariots of the Cathayan Emperors of a thousands years hence. All were painted in such glorious detail, complementing the busy walls and shining hardwood floors.

Not that there is much floor to see, between the bodies and the dresses and the uniforms that crowd the entirety of the packed ballroom. You had worried about getting here too early. Perhaps you should have been more worried about being late, given the numbers that are already here.

You are motionless, uncertain of how to act and when you look to Sasha, who is usually so composed and self-assured, you realise that she is so tense that she is barely breathing. You reach out and touch her lower back, innocent contact but contact nonetheless and she starts, turning with a smile that couldn't be less real.

"Are you okay?" You ask. All you truly want to do is wrap her in your arms and hold her tight. Instead you have to… socialise.

"Yes," She says unconvincingly before repeating it more firmly, "Yes, fine. I've done this before, I can do it again."

She shakes herself, You store a question away for later. She offers you her arm.

"Sasha, no. We're in public." You hiss.

"What, can a lady not offer a war hero her arm? I mean, we have such a grand staircase to descend, I wouldn't like you to trip and make a fool of yourself."

Her grin can only be described as cocky. You roll your eyes at her before slipping your arm into hers. Then, linked as a couple if only for a moment, you walk slowly down the stairs. You see uniforms, fashions, styles, people even from all across Europa and even beyond. You hear the faint tones of a Gallian accent, hear the tinkling laughter of an Albian, see the officers pins - the senior officers pins - of a Dyskelande staff officer. Oho, this is a very well connected party. No wonder, given who is throwing it.

You make the bottom of the stairs and Sasha's free arm is immediately occupied by a fabulously dressed, fabulously made up woman. Shining blue eyes peek out from beneath the blondest of curls. Her smiles is as wide as her face and the only feature that would mar anyone else's looks - a thing line of a scar on each cheek - somehow only enhances her beauty and emphasises her already high cheekbones.

"I'm glad to see our guests of honour have finally arrived." She laughs and it sounds music, "So we have…" She pauses, looking you both up and down, "Valentina and Sasha." She says, extending a hand for each of you to shake, somehow getting it right despite the fact that you've never met her.

"Impressive. And you are?"

"Oh!" She squeaks. Actually squeaks. "Countessa Hilda Maria Antoinetta Magdeburg-von Zeppelin. Sorry, it's quite the mouthful."

"And yet you seem to manage so adroitly," Sasha responds. You find yourself managing to roll your eyes for the second time in a night. You know the woman is a sucker for a pretty smile but you'd rather hoped that it was your pretty smile which she would be concentrating on tonight.

So this is the sort of woman that a man like the Count marries, is it? Thirty at the most, bright eyes and oh so pretty while he's in his seventies. Typical, you think, but you smile politely nonetheless.

"What can we do for you, um - Countess."

"Please, Hilda is more than fine, don't you dare stand on manners for me." She says and her laugh truly seems genuine. She wraps her fingers around Sasha's arm even tighter "I was wondering if I could borrow your companion for a moment, I have a question for her that simply cannot wait."

"I'm afraid I was intending to spend the entire night in her company." You hadn't realised how defensive you were going to sound until it came tumbling out of your mouth.

"Well of course you are." It is as if she is about about tell you to stop being so silly, "And I promise i won't keep her for a moment longer than is absolutely necessary. Anyway, you have business of your own to attend to." She raises a finger and points it out, long, dainty and straight, over your shoulder. You turn and, standing behind the pair of you, is the old man himself.

"Count von Zeppelin!" You bite your tongue and give a slight bow. He is every inch a wealthy Europan man, even more so when his young bride stands on tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek while he whispers in her ear something that makes her flush red.

Sasha casts you a backwards glance as she is pulled off into the crowd, the expression on her face only one of vague concern, rather than alarm or fear. That, then, is that.

"As much as I appreciate the invitation to party, I do rather hope you have a good reason for dragging me away from her. We have become somewhat inseparable as of late."

"I can well imagine." The look in his eye is rather more knowing than you would like it to be. "Yes, I have good reason, but no here. Will you join me in my study? For a brandy, perhaps?"

You hesitate, more on edge than you expected to be and consider it. You are young and fit even with only one leg and he is one old man. He's not about to throw himself at you, that's for sure. "Will you not be missed from your own party?"

"Have you seen how many people are here? Damned impressive. They'll all assume im being anti-social in some different quadrant of the room and fantasise about the greek nudes that their partners will never compare to. Trust me, I've watched plenty of other people try." He chuckles, giving off that sort of deep, belly rumbling laugh that is so satisfying to listen to.

"Then lead on, dear host, lead on," You gesture to the stairs and the corridor beyond and hope for a moment that Sasha is going to be okay.

---

It turns out that, perhaps unsurprisingly, that the Count's taste for expensive decor extended to his study as well. Dark red mahogany panelling, oak floors, a desk the size of your office back in Polyapavlosk. A cabinet hidden in a wall reveals an intriguingly large collection of bottles, most of them half full or half empty, however you look at it. He pours two glasses of caramel liquid and walks back over, handing you one of them.

He stands, very close to you. The hairs on the back of your arms stand on end. He might be old but he is very tall and he is very close to you. His hand comes up - and touches the medal pinned to your lapel. Very, very quietly, he speaks.

"The navy did not let you go with only one piece of tin pinned to your chest." It isn't a question.

"No, sir, they did not. There are two others."

"And yet you don't wear them."

"I do not."

He nods, slowly, and let's go. Walking behind his desk he pulls open a drawer and pulls out a cigar. Offers one to you without a word.

"No, sir, thank you." You'd never been able to acquire the taste. But then you'd said that about cigarettes. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"By all means." He lights his cigar and hands a lighter over. Once you're both lit, he continues. "And stop calling me Sir. It makes me feel old. I'm Ferdinand. May I call you Valentina?"

"Of course, yes."

"Hmm. Good." He sits for a long, quiet minute, puffing gently on his cigar as the end glows cherry red. "Do you know, I believe that you and I are cut from the same cloth. I have gone through war as well, and seen my fair share of the blood and guts of it. I have my own medals which do not get pinned on except when I absolutely must, when it is required of me. I had a feeling aboard ship and it is even more of a feeling now that you are much the same"

"I believe so." You say, taking a sip of the fiery brandy and let it wash through your core, "But I-"

"I will explain, I promise. Please hold your questions." He takes another few puffs, blowing a cloud of strangely scented smoke about the room. "You see, I was a balloonist in the Teutonic army. Not the Airships I build today, but the old static things that just did up and down. I served in the Gallo-Teuton war and I was the first man to ever go up in one of those things in combat."

"I was a spotter, you see. Damned impressive, I thought, when I first climbed into the thing… And then all of a sudden I was looking down upon this battle from a few hundred feet up. They said that I was the first man to see a whole war, all at once. That I should be excited to see something never seen before." He sighs. It is the sigh of a man who has seen much and forgotten even more. It is the sigh of a man who knows he is with those who will understand. You are sure you will understand.

"All I saw was death. Destruction. Mud and blood and flesh rent asunder. We had our first machine-guns and they were brutal, vicious things. Men and women fell like corn before a scythe and lay twitching in the torn up ground and I saw every moment. Every detail. I would not have been able to go up in the balloon if I had not been able to do that. I was useful, you see."

"Is that all we're good for? To be useful?" You ask. The Cigarette is burning low in your hands, unsmoked for some time. You stub it out in a tray and lean back, sipping at your brandy.

"As young men? Young women? As officers?" He asks in reply, "Why Yes. What is a Leutnant but another cog in the machine the same as their soldiers? Valentina, I am a man who has experienced war, just as you are a woman who has experienced it. But I am not a man of war. I am not built for it and neither are my machines. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I believe I do, yes." You are following certainly. But you recognise the presence of layers of thought and meaning even if you cannot quite follow them.

"I am scared, my girl. Scared. And I hate to say it but these days that's damned impressive. I am an old man, I do not scare easily. But I see war coming to Europa and from there to the rest of the world and when the world is burning, where is there space for the meek and the tired? We must always make space for them. We must."

I…
[ ] I have questions (write in)
[ ] I would do anything I can to stop a war.
[ ] I will not be someone else's cog.
[ ] What can I do?