Chapter Text
It is the 19th year of the Eternal War.
The official count of the dead ceased seven years ago, though many stopped caring even sooner than that.
What good would it be, to know the scale of the fallen? What good could be had in knowing the sheer enormity of the lost? Would it make them any more alive?
What good would it do to recruitment numbers, were they to know in truth what fate should await them and all of their comrades?
These are all explanations that have been given at one point or another for the cessation of the toll.
What is rarely said, is the truth.
That it simply became impossible to keep track.
Varicose veins of trench-work litter the land, with scarcely a field of dirt unturned or a tree left standing on much of the world anymore. What sounds mother nature may have once sang so proudly have now fallen quiet, either for respect of the fallen, or for fear of the sound of the guns.
The heartbeat of artillery now is all that most will hear for the rest of their lives. There is no intentional rhythm to the guns, no strict schedule for which any given section might fire off a barrage, and yet a rhythm emerged all the same. A ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump, every one and one quarter seconds. A dozen or so kilometers away, each one of those colossal guns makes its mark loudly and proudly known, and another hundred lay in the dirt to never again be counted.
The fighting has been a stand-still for so long now, that many have forgotten why it even occurs. It is simply the life of those damned to endure it. Those who were unlucky enough to be born into the first year of war, when optimism and hope for a swift victory still ran high, are now themselves old enough to die in the stalemate their parents construed.
Every year or so there is a new invention, every year or so there is the promise that this will be the tool that turns the tide towards the side of the righteous.
Every year or so the invention appears so swiftly in the hands of the enemies all the same.
It was the portable machine-gun, the promise that it would see the stagnation of trenches collapse under its rate of fire.
It was the bomber aircraft, with the idea that it could level the artillery which struck fear into the hearts of all the world, and allow a push to manifest.
It was the motorization of the logistics, that vowed to ensure none would starve or go without ammo at the front, and that offensive momentum would be preserved.
It was the entrenching vehicle, which allegedly would prevent the enemy from winning another inch of land. That promise rang true for both sides, at the least.
It was most recently the Behemoth. A thing of brass, steel and iron on four legs. A beast of man's own creation. A construct of violence manifest so profoundly that the enemy would have no choice but to plead for surrender.
It is the 19th year of the Eternal War.
The guns beat on all the same.
'Frieda, dearest, are you almost ready?'
Frieda von Scheer takes a moment to adjust her particularly-fussy corset, and gives herself one last look up and down in the mirror. With a fine and puffy brush she gently dusts off the slightest mark on her cheek, and smiles contentedly at herself.
It's a big day today, and she must look her best — even if such attire is rather uncomfortable...
The young princess pulls the door open, and slowly descends the stairs. She nearly trips on them in her high heels, for their new home in the country-side differs ever so slightly to the one she grew up in.
Her Mother stares at her attentively, the Queen always one to fuss over the slightest matter. She prepares herself for a chastising, or at the very least for her to stiffly go over her entire attire to check for imperfections, yet today no such accosting descends upon her.
Instead, the Queen only looks at her with a gaze of uncertainty and anxiety.
'Now, Frieda. You remember what we talked about, yes? Stay within sight of Fran at all times, and—'
'Yes, yes, mother. I know. I'm not a child anymore, right?'
The princess normally knows better than to interrupt her Mother, but today is a rare occasion, and she really cannot stand to listen to the Queen ramble on and on about the risks for the millionth time.
Queen Maria III looks offended at first by the interruption, yet her expression softens up after a moment of contemplation.
'I know, sweetie. I just want you to be safe.'
The Queen takes a moment away from the conversation, striding across the slightly-too-small living room to gaze out the window. It's a beautiful day today, the sun streaking through scarce clouds across the vast greenery of the vineyards outside.
Frieda still isn't quite sure why they saw it necessary to evacuate from the capital. They're winning the war, are they not?
'I know your Father and I don't say it particularly often, but… We do love you, Frieda.'
Maria continues gazing out the window, a sigh escaping the monarch's tired lips.
The statement invokes a myriad of opposing feelings within Frieda. She knows the Queen is not lying, at least not intentionally. Yet at the same time…
Well, there's a reason she's so eager to leave home, and it isn't just to raise morale.
She can't help but feel that something lay unsaid on her Mother's lips.
Frieda contemplates uttering a retort to challenge her Mother's alleged affection, but she instead only lets an awkward and hollow silence fill the villa.
The stillness lingers in the air for some time, uninterrupted by wind, birds, or anything at all. It's almost as if the world itself has given pause, as if it has created an instant of total tranquility for Frieda to question her actions.
Yes, her parents have decreed that she should go through with this, and she does want to very much so, but it's not too late to reconsider. She hasn't an idea of why the thought passes through her mind, yet it still does, akin to a stray mote of dust landing most impolitely on a freshly cleaned surface.
The knock at the door crushes the tranquility and contemplation almost as swiftly as it had arrived, however.
'We are ready for you now, Mademoiselle Scheer.' Announces Fran, her trusted assistant.
Frieda takes a sharp inhale, and turns toward the door, resting a hand gently upon the fine woodwork of the exit.
It will be a week — perhaps more — until she may stand here again. By far the longest time she's ever been away from home, since it's not as if she had all the opportunities to travel abroad, growing up under the looming gaze of the war.
Worse than the war was the paranoia. Her parents insist that they must take every precaution, and yet she never quite understood for why.
Yes, they are the royal family, but from what she has garnered from her history lessons, they hold hardly any power at all anymore. The reigns of the nation lie solely in the hands of the Chancellor and Her army in this day and age, so whoever would wish to harm them, the disenfranchised and oft-forgotten monarchs?
Frieda von Scheer swings the door open to their villa, and departs for the last time.
Ta-thunk, ta-thunk, ta-thunk.
The combination passenger and freight train hurdles down a rural road, bearing supplies and troops for the front. In one very special car, clad in ornate blacks and golds right near the front of the engine, sits heir to the throne, Frieda von Scheer.
She has a room all to herself — and she would expect absolutely no less. Although her family may not hold as much sway as they once might of, she knows they deserve some degree of respect and dignity, at the least.
The princess thumbs through her notepad for a while, skimming over loose sketches and the occasional scribble of unfinished prose and the odd spots of attempted poetry, before finally landing on a blank page. Now is a time better than any other for her to pick up the pen again, so to speak.
She rolls the ornate pen around in her hand for a second, stuck in contemplation. There are a million and one things she might wish to write about, and yet none of them quite jump out at her as being the one.
Perhaps she simply needs a warmup, a little something to shake the cobwebs out.
Yes, yes, that would be a good idea indeed.
She takes a hearty sip of her fresh tea, and seeing no better topic than that itself, begins to scrawl.
Bitter, Brown, Biting.
The faintest parts of the herbs still linger in the drink. Who soever had been responsible for its procurement had no doubt erred in some way.
Fleeting is the taste, as unpleasant to the lips as it is swift to depart them.
It's quite unlike that of home, but for ineptitude of preparation or a shortage of adequate material, I do not know. Perhaps one day I will, yet that day is not today.
I swirl it with a spoon, and the sunlight dances across the spiral. It is tantalizing, affectionate in appearance.
The faintest wisps of steam escape from the vessel, still primed and hot.
Never should the liquid go still entirely, for the train continues to hurdle along to something I have long anticipated, yet still feel most uncertain towards.
I have no memory devoid of this part of the world, so it simply makes the most sense that I should familiarize myself with it, for all it may involve.
Yet it is not fair for me to fixate upon myself solely. The good women and men of our nation have given so much, and they are in dire need of recognition for their efforts. I believe it will do them some good to see a face such as mine alongside their own, to remind them of their bravery and valor, and of what they must fight for.
Perhaps, that reassurance will finally be what might free us from this turmoil, and—
A horrid screeching fills the air, and the train throws Frieda around in her seat, spilling tea all over that which she had just written.
Some seconds pass, and the screeching subsides — as does the movement of the locomotive.
The princess takes a moment to remove her beloved notebook from the spilled drink — several pages no doubt soaked through and ruined — and rises to her feet in inquiry of the cause.
'Why did we stop?' she bitterly asks to the first person she sees outside of her room, a young fellow dressed in the navy blues of the railway.
'I'm not quite sure, I think the line must be out ahead?' The individual looks most concerned, but for why? A delay is inconvenient, but really not of any major concern.
The worker takes off running just before their sentence had concluded, rushing towards the cabin at the front to figure out what is going on.
With the sound of the engine and tracks now gone, Frieda takes note of the eerie silence that falls around them. They lay in the midst of what was only kilometers prior a lush forest. Now, the land is marked and littered with death. Trees lay toppled, burnt, or simply depleted of will to live. The dirt of the land itself looks gray and devoid of life, and a thick cloud-cover has rolled in.
She believes it might rain later.
What is most striking is the noise, or lack thereof. She hears not a bird through the open window of her train car, nor the trickle of any nearby stream, and not even the distant sounds of people or the howling of any wind. The world itself sounds akin to a photograph.
When at home this silence lent itself to tranquility and contemplation, here Frieda cannot help but see it as unmistakably eerie. The quiet of the day forces her to stare out at the grey and devoid landscape, a thing she really wishes not to do.
She's almost praying for something to interrupt the silence.
And her wish is soon granted.
The nothingness is perforated by the unmistakable note of a quarrel developing in the car behind her — the one bearing soldiers for the frontline.
She can't quite parse the words — and truthfully, she isn't sure if she wants to — but the discontent makes itself obvious enough. Peering through the door window to the car behind her, she sees just enough to witness several of the soldiery clad in uniform getting into an argument of some form.
They begin with the mild calling of names and insults. One of the people puts a hand on the other, and then there is a shove.
It escalates so very fast, she hasn't even the time needed to understand. A shove turns into a push, a push into a punch, a punch into a brawl. A click of a switchblade pierces the air,
and blood spills onto the train floor.
One of the women goes still.
The day is once again silent.
Every last person in the car does not dare move a muscle, they hardly even twitch an eye to look anywhere but the body.
Frieda has the perfect view into the cab to see the dead.
She's a girl no older than Frieda. Even slightly younger, perhaps.
Her eyes lay glassy and unfocused, the faintest, sweetest blue within visible even from where Frieda stands.
'Mademoiselle?'
The attendant taps her on the shoulder gently, and she springs around where she stands, startled.
'Y-yes?'
The servant who greets her seems to know not of what sight lay just a few feet away from them — or perhaps they simply don't care.
She doesn't know which is worse.
'The bridge ahead is… out of commission. I'm afraid we must continue our journey by truck, but it may be some time before a convoy arrives. So please, make yourself comfortable for now.'
Frieda gives a gentle nod, and wordlessly turns back to gaze through the window. She knows she ought not to look, but something just pulls her gaze towards the body all the same.
The princess doesn't move an inch for the next four hours.
Frieda blinks for what feels to be the first time in hours. Still, preciously few people in the other train-car have shifted from their spot at all. Everyone is staring in one of two places — the body of the girl, or the grizzled, elder woman soaked in blood and still clutching the knife.
Not a word has been said. Not a word needs saying.
As the sun has now fully passed beneath the endless horizon, the first dialogue of the evening is the conversation waged between the gravel of the train tracks and the tires of an approaching truck.
The sound gently slows to a halt, and the eerie screech of brakes engaging terminates the rest of the noise. A door thuds outside, and the attendant departs to greet the fellows of the convoy.
Frieda von Scheer still has not yet moved from her place next to the train door. She watches through her peripheral as the others file out of the train one by one, the knife-bearer departing last, now leaving only the body alone in the car, and Frieda alone to gaze into the girl's lifeless eyes.
The blood has dried onto the cab floor now, and nobody pays it any mind as they leave.
Frieda has her eyes.
'Madame Scheer?'
The attendant has been calling her for who-knows how many minutes, now.
'We're leaving now, please come with me.'
No words of acceptance are uttered, because they do not need to be. There is no alternative now but to forge ahead, no option to simply turn back. She cannot just lay alone in the now deserted train car, and it's not as if there's another ride coming to take her home any time soon.
Descending the steps, she witnesses the convoy with her eyes for the first time, rather than simply passively listening to the noises it beckoned. It's a line of no more than four small trucks, each with a large flat bed covered by a shabby and hole-riddled tarp, and each loaded with soldiers.
Frieda tries to climb aboard with her suitcase of luggage, but is swiftly corrected otherwise by one of the truck drivers with a voice most hoarse.
'No cargo I'm afraid, ma'am.'
She turns around to regard the line of suitcases left abandoned by the side of the train, perhaps in the hope that another convoy might find them and carry them along at a later date.
That won't happen. She's not sure how she knows this to be true, and yet she still does indeed.
She lays her suitcase with the rest all the same.
Satisfied, the driver allows her to clamber into the back of the only truck left with a space. She pays no mind to any of the soldiers as the princess gently stumbles through the stench-riddled bed of the truck, before finally coming to rest on the awkward bench-end near the cab.
The princess crams herself in to the tiny space left for her, rubbing shoulders most uncomfortably with some unwashed conscript to her right.
Frieda looks up from her feet for a moment, and is met face to face with her.
Her fatigues, drenched in a now drying blood, the drab olive-greys swiftly staining a dark black from the ichor of the felled girl.
Her face, basked in a bland stare that bears no concern at all.
Her body, toned and worn in parts, as if she's been to and from the front countless times.
Her eyes, meeting directly with Frieda's own.
Her mouth, twisting into the subtlest of smiles.
Her smile, dreadfully wrong in both intent and detail.
Inhuman, to an extent.
Yet tantalizing all the same.
Frieda does not dare separate their gaze for some time.
It is proudly midnight by the time their truck arrives to the front, the full moon doing its better impersonation of the sun, leaving the cloud-smeared night lit up rather well.
The transition towards the front has been one most gradual. The lifeless and dull land of before has slowly given way to cracks and scrapes through the flesh of the earth, abandoned and partially filled in trenches littering the skin.
As the trench-work circulatory system grows denser and more clustered closer to the heart of the war, the drumbeat of its core makes itself known. Frieda hardly recognizes the first heartbeat of the artillery, with it being so distant and quiet that she thought it no more than a thump from the truck's rickety suspension.
But the repetition and rhythm of the pounding became impossible to ignore.
A ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump, every one and one quarter seconds. Three strokes to the sound, most alien to the heart's typical paired pounding, yet it bore the same intent — the sound seeking to carry blood all across the land.
Once Frieda had recognized the timbre of the beating for the sound of those massive guns, she had already grown accustomed to it. Now, the pounding was no more strange than the howling wind or pitter-patter of rain on the truck's canvas covering.
Slowly, the trenches began to join the moon in giving light to the world, the dancing of oil lamps now visible as the truck continues hurdling past. From a distance one could mistake it for the lights of a city, for that was how grand and sprawling the network was. Frieda could not see in front of the truck from her position, but she feels that even if she could, it would be much the same in that direction too.
Truthfully, she has only been paying so much care and attention to the outside for the sake of occupying her mind, and to look at anything but the woman sat across from her. The smile has not left her lips since the very beginning of the drive, and once she had gotten her fill of savoring its many details, she began to grow increasingly weary of it.
Now, she looks anywhere but the woman, anywhere but that perverse grin. She knows it is there all the same, as she can feel its wicked presence on her. Does it judge her? Mock her?
She doesn't know.
She can't know.
She doesn't want to.
Finally after what has felt to be an eternity, the truck begins shuddering to a halt, its narrow wheels threatening to dig into the rain-soaked mud.
The engine is shut down, and for a split second there is silence once more.
It lasts just as long as it possibly can in this world, for but one and one quarter seconds.
Frieda, the woman across from her, and all the other soldiery seem to be in unison for the second and a quarter. An understanding unspoken, as they savor in the tranquility of the moment of nothing at all.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
They ought to disembark.
The war is a fickle thing.
It is patient, patient to a degree I do not yet understand.
I have been here now for some time, I believe three or four days. It has grown hard to keep count, in truth. The night is basked in a light artificial, and the day swamped with a darkness far too natural. Yet in all my time, there has not been any fighting. The artillery keeps falling, but no attack has come, nor have we issued one.
I wonder how it must feel, to be the ones holding the rifles in their hands. Are they filled with proud patriotic fervor? A dread for the weight of what they hold? A fear to what might befall them or their comrades?
Are they simply numb?
I have taken to people-watching from the safety of the rear trench, simply observing as troops are shuffled to and fro the front. Their faces are puzzling, never one is the same, and yet when I see them in groups, there is a shared togetherness that they wear.
I am never privy to that sense of unison. They see me a stranger, and I find it hard to fault them.
I do not belong here.
The woman who stabbed that girl has not made herself known since we arrived. Nobody seemed to pay her any mind, and so neither did I. I understand that amidst all this violence, it must be hard to remain conscious of the sanctity of a life, yet even still… I cannot say that I am not troubled by what I have borne witness to.
Perhaps that woman lay in the dirt by now. Would it be a justice, or another page of a tragedy?
A question I will no doubt ponder for some time.
I have heard murmurs from the higher ups. A push is to happen soon. The soldiery will need their spirits high, and I should endeavor to provide that. It is the least I can do, for my country, for my countrywomen.
Frieda puts the pen to the page once more to start a new line, only to find the marks faint and dry. She's run out of ink.
It's hardly a surprise — she's done basically nothing but write and sketch for the past few days. How ever could she not? There's been an awful lot going on even in spite of the stagnation, and only so much paper to put it all upon.
She should go fetch Fran, she would probably be able to source her some more ink.
…But at the same time, she does have a duty to fulfill here, does she not? The only reason that she was even allowed to see the frontline was because of a drummed-up a story about keeping up spirits, for whatever that means.
Frieda sets the pen down, and gently steps outside of her personal bunker.
The rain is heavily coming down now, just as it had been for the past few days. Her fine dress is immediately soaked before she can even unfurl her umbrella, and she sets off on a stroll towards the front trench.
It's not long before the umbrella seems an utter folly, for the trench itself is bathed in a rising layer of water. Her formal shoes are soaked through with mud and ruined in a matter of seconds — yet she doesn't really care all too much. This is what she came to see, is it not? To see the gritty reality of it all, to endure in the war's every discomfort? To understand?
She'll have Fran find her a new pair of boots by the morn, but on she must go.
By the five thousandth stride or so she truly begins to appreciate the scale — and age — of the trenches. In-between the soldiers frantically trying to bail water out from the bottom, Frieda takes note of tiny little engravings made into the wood. A name here, a pledge there, all of them signed with a date. Some were left weeks ago, others are almost as old as she is.
Have they really been fighting from this one location all this time?
Though if the trench has not moved, it has undeniably grown. What was once a mere seed in the dirt nearly two decades ago has now thoroughly sprouted into a vast, creeping root network through the land. It's a miracle how anyone can make heads or tails of any of it, though Frieda considers that that might be the point. It's no doubt harder to invade and capture it if you'd just get turned around on yourself, and those foolish and selfish enough to try deserting would likely never find their way out anyways.
Were it not for the distant rippling of gunfire guiding her hand, she'd probably get lost in much the same way.
The rain does not relent. The downpour from the heavens above only grows larger, the dirt loosening and the trench's water-level growing higher and higher. Perhaps she ought to turn back — but at the same time, perhaps not. With every laboured step through the rising muddy water, Frieda feels an ever growing need to carry on. To bear witness.
The soldiers take little notice of her, so fixated they are on trying to bail the trench out with their helmets.
Save for one young girl — a fresh recruit, no doubt. Her uniform has been spared of much of the grime, wear and bloodshed, her face still unmarked and brimming with trepidation. Her eyes dart up from the water, and lock with Frieda's as she nears.
The girl stutters, and stops in her weary task. Her lips part for a moment, hesitant.
'Hello?' is all the girl can muster.
Frieda gives her a nod and a smile in return.
'You're very brave, you know.'
The soldier trips over her words, trying to usher out some gesture of thanks. Whatever words might slip from her trembling mouth are lost amidst the cacophony of noise that is the trench.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
An explosion shakes the world a few hundred feet away, closer to the frontline. A distant choir of screams erupts.
One and one quarter of a second later a second explosion lands closer. Frieda's ears ring as the blast hits, sending her staggering as the waters all around her rage up in recourse, spraying mud and filth all around her attire.
And one and one quarter seconds of frustration follows, before the last round of the salvo arrives.
This one is not nearby. It is not a glancing blow. It is front and center, taking up all of Frieda's world. Sound itself is plucked from her existence as her eardrums rupture from the blast, but she's hardly concerned about that. The sheer force of the explosion has thrown her against the wall of the trench, and pain shoots all through her. She's probably broken something.
Frieda isn't worried about herself, though.
The girl she was talking to has been thrown against her chest, the two of them pinned against the rough wooden trench wall. She's soaked through, wet all over. Not the cold, mud-riddled wetness of the flooding hellhole they find themselves in, but a sickly, oozing warmth.
A substantial chunk of wood has been thrust straight through the girl's abdomen, with blood spluttering and oozing from the wound. Based on where she was stood before the blast, had she not been there, the shrapnel would have hit Frieda.
Her arms are wrapped tight around the princess, tightly as the girl can possibly hold on given her current state.
Frieda doesn't understand. Just five seconds ago, she was fondly smiling at this girl. She doesn't understand. How?
The warmth of the girl is already starting to fade.
Her ears slowly return to life, the sound of chaos in the trench filling her mind. The screaming of the wounded subsumes her entire reality, and yet one sound pierces through it all.
The girl.
She's crying.
A faint, muffled, gentle cry.
A cry that doesn't sound pained.
A cry that doesn't even sound upset.
A cry that only asks for comfort.
A cry that
grows fainter
and fainter,
with her warmth too,
fading
away
to
naught.
The girl goes limp in Frieda's arms.
Her eyes, glassed over.
Her cry, silent.
Her skin, dreadfully cold.
She can't dare to let go of her.
There's a knock at her door.
Frieda makes no response, but Fran enters all the same.
Her ever trusted assistant, Fran is the only one allowed such brazenness around the princess.
'Regrettably your highness, we still haven't received your luggage from the train yet.'
Frieda's gaze does not turn to meet the assistant. She stares blankly at the walls of the bunker, unfocused and uncaring. Her ruined garments still drip with fresh blood onto the floor, and her body is as unmoving and lifeless as the cadaver she was holding mere hours ago.
'I was able to source a uniform that should fit to your form, however. I understand it is no replacement, but—'
'That's perfectly alright, Fran. Thank you.'
Her voice is flat. Dull as the wall she cannot help but stare into, devoid of any characteristic or emotion. She feels much the same.
From the corner of her vision, she watches as Fran places a folded uniform on a chair, and closes the door.
An oil lamp gently dances in the corner, giving the faintest of movement to the now otherwise lifeless bunker room.
She can still hear the heartbeat, even in the bowels of the earth.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
It echoes through the dirt, spoken proudly by the very planet itself.
Every beat of the heart, every pound of that drum, she knows another one just like that girl has fallen elsewhere. Perhaps many more than just one.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
Will she be next?
The uniform doesn't feel right.
Every bit about it is wrong. Too tight in some places, and much, much too loose in others. It's decidedly not feminine — a field shirt, pants and an optionally thrown atop wool coat. The familiar colours of her regal dress are gone, replaced now by a dull olive-beige that will no doubt soon be matted with mud and blood alike.
But it is warm, and it is clean, and it is free from the ichor of the fallen girl. The same cannot be said about Frieda's proper attire.
Her shoes, too, were destroyed by the flood water and the debris. Perhaps they can be repaired, but she needed desperately to have a replacement, and so one was fetched for her. A set of brown lace up leather-boots, one half-size too small for her. They pinch at the toe and they go far too high up her ankle to what she's used to, but they will keep her warm, and they will keep her safe.
At least, that is all she can hope for.
Frieda sits down at the desk once more, and grabs her pen off the desk.
She dips it into the ink cartridge, and allows it to hover above the page.
A gentle drip oozes from the pen-tip.
The ink drops onto the page, a dark splotch forming as it seeps through the paper, twisting lines of purple spreading their way as far as they can reach — until finally, they go dry, still and dead.
Another drip, another splotch, and she watches the ink seep its way through as far as it can muster.
Another.
Another.
Another.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
It's a tantalizing sight.
She can't even imagine disrupting it to try putting any actual words in its place.
The pen runs dry enough to cease dripping, and she fills it up once more.
Drip, drip, drip.
She could get lost in watching the ink spread. It's comforting. It's something. It's anything other than what she knows waits for her outside.
Frieda isn't sure how long she spends simply watching the ink drip, but it's long enough for her mouth to go dry and needy.
She really doesn't want to step outside again.
What choice does she have, though? Even just to go home, she must leave the bunker.
…She really should see about going home. She'll go find Fran, and organize a transport back to the capital. She's seen enough. She just wants to be safe. None of this is for her, none of this is right.
If she simply leaves now, perhaps she can leave it all behind, perhaps it won't follow her.
Frieda strides out into the trench again, her uniform now matching much more closely with that of the soldiery — yet not quite. She doesn't seem to wear the same apparel as the regular infantry, nor does she bear their equipment. She holds no rifle, she wears no helmet, and should she fall, no identification tag either — though it's not like they bother collecting those anymore.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
The heartbeat is loud as ever, the trench as miserable to match.
The rain has subsided for now, at the very least.
Now, wherever could Fran be…
Her aimless wandering through the sprawling network of trenches is interrupted by a sound, a new sound.
The call of a whistle.
It stabs through the gunfire, through even the heartbeat.
And all hell breaks loose.
The charge of footsteps tears throughout the land, the subtle murmur of gunfire which had lay nearly dormant before erupts into a screaming chorus of violence. Machine guns empty their magazines, soldiers run their rifles dry in a matter of seconds. All around her, people go charging and running to the front of the trench.
That's when she sees them.
The enemy.
She can hardly distinguish their uniforms amidst it all, the murky grey-brown reality rendering what dyes they may have employed more or less obsolete. Frieda knows at once that they are indeed the enemy, however, for they come running over the top of the trench bearing rifle and bayonet.
A bloody skirmish erupts. People struggle to run the bolts on their rifles in the cramped trench, and when their magazine dies, they dive into the ever growing fray of twisting bodies, bayonets, sabres, shovels, knives and fists.
She can't even tell any one person apart from another, only that the writhing mass of violence grows every second.
That it's approaching her.
Frieda can't bear to move. It's a horrible sight, one that no person should ever witness, much less her.
Yet she can't look away, either. For want or physical inability, nothing in her body will allow her to break her gaze from the swelling tumor of flesh, gunpowder, and blood.
Someone throws a grenade. Bodies go tumbling, viscera decorates the trench, yet nobody cares to even pause for a moment. The people exist as the violence, they embody it, and they shan't dare depart from it for even a second.
She struggles even, to truly see them as people. A person would not do such a thing so terrible. A person couldn't. A person would have care for life, of their own and of others. These things of meat cannot really be people, then, because—
A stray bullet whizzes past her head, just barely skimming her hair, and the princess is snapped out of her momentary stupor.
The chaos is just a few paces from her now, and growing as more and more infantry rush past her to join in. If she doesn't run away right this instant, she will soon be consumed by it entirely.
So she runs.
She runs, and she runs, and she runs. What else can she do but run?
More and more soldiers charge past her in the opposite direction, eagerly heading for the violence. She has only the faintest split second to catch their faces amidst her teary eyed sprint, but what she sees is wholly incorrect.
They look happy.
Relieved, even.
She doesn't understand. She doesn't want to understand.
Every way she turns, there's more of them, more soldiers making a mad dash for the death. They all bear perverse smiles, manic grins, or at the very least some harbor nothing much at all. She can't stand to see them. Somehow, the sight of all these eager bodies running to join into the chaos is worse than watching the violence itself.
A door opens up in the side of the trench, a sign hanging from it denotes the purpose of the room, but she cares not to read it. She just has to get out, to get away from the bodies, from the noise, from the smiles.
Frieda runs inside, the room is darkly lit by the last dying embers of a single oil lamp. Small cots litter the room every which way, with posters loosely strung up on the timbers of the wall showcasing the Behemoths, the newest implement of violence. All Frieda wants is to get away from all of it, as she throws herself into the corner and starts to sob.
She doesn't know how long she sits there, crying. It could be a week, a month, a minute. She just wants to go home.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
Even here, the heartbeat does not escape her. Even with the deafening gunfire just outside, the heartbeat remains victorious.
It's maddening. Sickening. Every beat reverberates through flesh and bone, she hears it in her body, in her very being. She throws her hands up to her head, hastily covering her ears — yet the heartbeat does not dull. It is loud as it ever has been, perhaps even louder. She needs it to quiet. She needs it to leave her alone.
She needs it to shut up.
She needs it to shut up.
She needs it to shut up.
She needs it to shut up.
She needs it to shut up.
She needs it to shut up.
She needs it to shut up.
Anger, a wretched, boiling anger starts to fill the princess. Why won't it be quiet? Why won't it be quiet for one insular moment? Why can she not find even a second of silence, a second to let her simply be? Why must it keep pounding, pounding, POUNDING?
In a fury, she starts to lash out. Her hands form a whirlwind, she rips a cot off of its rope, she tears the propaganda down from the wall. She punches and writhes and lashes out at even the wood of the walls, splinters and scrapes and bloodied bruises forming on her every bit of exposed skin. The heartbeat doesn't stutter, for it doesn't care.
Yet still it feels good. It feels good to lash out, to release some part of what's within her. She knows it's useless. She knows it doesn't achieve anything, but it feels good all the same. Maybe she understands a part of why they smile, now.
In the dying ragged breaths of her exhausted temper tantrum, she hears the gentle tapping of boots at the entrance to her room.
She spins around in a panic, freezing stiff at the sight of the woman standing in the doorway.
She's an older woman, wearing a subtle smile, and it's only now that Frieda realizes they are in the same uniform — the same one that doesn't quite match with the rest of the soldiers. For their uniform is lighter, it has no pouches for ammunition, nor need for the attachment of grenades. They don't even have helmets.
The woman has a knowing look to her eyes, and gently strides across the now terrifyingly silent bunker room, only the heartbeat and the gentle sound of her footsteps disrupting the emptiness.
As she approaches, Frieda takes note of her every detail. She's tall, considerably taller than the princess. Her hair is short and oily, a burnt brown cut just above the shoulder. The woman's skin and face are weathered, marked with small wounds, burns and scars, and the tell-tale signs of a person aging faster than they ought to.
What stands out most about her though is the smell. Even in the putrescence of the trenches, her aroma of gun-oil, sweat and diesel cuts through everything.
She grabs the princess, and pulls her into a gentle hug.
Frieda doesn't know how to respond. A gasp escapes her lips, and she considers squirming away for a moment…
…But thinks better of it. The woman is warm, a tender and caring warmth that reminds her of home for even a moment.
Her body relaxes, as she eases into the embrace. Tears still flow from her eyes, but they are dried against the uniform of the taller woman, stifled by her presence.
Maybe, she could stay like this a little longer.
It's not to be, however. The elder girl pulls away from her after a few seconds, and gently looks her up and down.
'What's your name, lass?'
She speaks with a thick accent, but her voice is decidedly dead, stripped of intonation. She doesn't seem to recognize Frieda as anyone of any note.
'Frieda von Scheer…' She answers, voice trailing off to nowhere in particular.
The woman doesn't even recognize the name as being the heir to the throne. Does she not know, or not care?
'Good. I'm Klara.'
Klara lets out an exasperated sigh, and turns her head to gaze out the door back at the rest of the trench.
'We ought to go, now. They're waiting on us, on you.'
What? Who's waiting on her?
Are they bringing her home? Have Mother and Father come to save her, maybe?
If so, she wouldn't dare to spend a second more in this room.
Klara leads Frieda out of the bunker, and down a long winding path of the trench. Soldiers still flow past them in the opposite direction, but in a more relaxed stride. It seems the chaos has subsided, the battle ended with no real victor.
By the third or fourth corner they turn, Frieda is lost entirely. Even if they aren't heading to leave, she couldn't find her way back anymore. That being said, she hasn't an idea of where Klara is taking her to begin with. The only thing she knows for sure is that it seems to be away from the frontline, away from the cacophony and away from the bodies.
That is most welcome, at the least.
'Here we are.' Klara states blankly, and gently clambers up the parapet. The trench is much shallower here, further from the active fighting, and evidently it's reasonably safe to go up above. Frieda hesitates for a moment, but follows soon after.
The sight that awaits her is one most confusing. There's a handful of people standing around, some in the same uniforms of Klara and Frieda's, some more formal. Amongst them is what seems to be nothing more than a giant mound of dirt.
One of the other people — an officer, perhaps? — lets out a sharp, brief whistle with her hands. Frieda fears for a moment that it's to signal another attack — but a good few seconds pass with no charge, with no violence.
Only the distant heartbeat.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
But something's wrong.
The heartbeat sounds different.
They have a metal timbre to them that the normal pounding of the guns does not quite produce. Not just that, she can hear it changing. The thumps are growing tighter together, faster, louder.
That's when she realizes that the sound is coming from the mound of dirt.
And that the dirt has begun to move.
Slowly but surely, the mound of earth — which in fact seems to be little more than a camouflage tarp — shudders and slides off of a rising silhouette underneath. The thing underneath is quite large, a little shorter than the train-car Frieda rode here, but a good bit wider, too.
Yet unlike the train car, this thing has legs.
The tarp gradually reveals more and more as it tumbles to the ground below, now hoisted a good dozen feet off the pit which previously held the beast. Steel, brass and iron make themselves known as the tell-tale glint of metal catches the dying evening sun, all four legs holding the quadrupedal beast high and proud in the air.
It bears no head, the rectangular box of metal simply terminating in a port for a massive gun at the front, perhaps one even larger than the artillery which gave the earth a pulse.
On the sides of the emerging beast which slowly rises and shudders, there are a litter of smaller machine guns dotting the side.
Finally, atop the rear protrudes two massive metal pipes, which gurgle and sputter a vile black tar into the sky, the beast come alive.
She was not hearing the corruption of the heartbeat, but the startup of an engine most terrible.
Klara turns to look at her, and immediately clocks Frieda's astonishment.
'First time seeing a Behemoth up close?'
Frieda has no words. Her mouth simply hangs agape, silently.
She doesn't know whether to be amazed or mortified.
The Behemoth shudders, and the engine groans. The rear legs slowly fold in on themselves as it squats down. A small hatch on the side — minuscule in comparison to the sheer heft of the rest of it — pops open, revealing a younger girl in soot-riddled overalls. She waves excitedly to the two of them, and tries to utter a word of beckoning which is suffocated by the idle roar of the beast's engine.
Klara strides towards the Behemoth, before stopping a few paces shy of the entry, and turns around.
'Oh, Frieda. Here!'
The older woman tosses something for the princess, which she catches without any particular grace.
It's quite the strange sight, a mask of some sorts no doubt, but not like one Frieda's ever seen. It's made of a thick and heavy leather, with two cut-outs for the eyes interrupted by metal bars running horizontally. It only serves to cover the front of the face, the rear comprised of two simple straps to be tied together. The leather ends just at the base of the nose, instead continuing on with a series of ominous hanging strands of chain that droop to where her chin would be.
Confused, Frieda looks back up at Klara, who has already fashioned an identical mask to her face.
'Trust me, you'll need it.'
With that, she leaps into the Behemoth, leaving Frieda behind.
She's confused beyond belief, but sees no other option. The others standing around are looking on at her expectantly, some of them starting to don their own masks and head for the vehicle.
Maybe this is her way out? Certainly a strange choice for a transport though…
Seeing little else to do, Frieda dons her mask and follows Klara into the sarcophagus of metal. Her vision is disrupted by the bars, and her every motion causes the chains to shake and rattle. It's horribly uncomfortable, but she doesn't know what else to do.
Immediately upon entering the Behemoth, the very air bites at her every organ. Her lungs choke and cough, her throat burns with a sickly acrid tinge, and her eyes start to water behind the mask. The internals of the thing of metal are clogged with a pungent black smoke, pierced only by the smallest slits in the armor for drips of sunlight to illuminate the faintest sections of the walls. Pipes litter every corner, carrying steam, fuel, coolant or god-knows what. Frieda makes the mistake of bumping into one, and her body recoils in agony from the sheer heat of the metal — her hand, burned most gravely. A stench of charred flesh rises into the air, before being quashed by the smell of the engine which bore the heat to begin with.
Over the next few minutes, a good few more people pile into the Behemoth. Frieda attempts to talk to them, but either they cannot hear her over the deafening pounding of the engine, or they do not care. She's already lost Klara in the sea of identical masks and uniforms.
The hatch — previously the main source of light within the beast — is suddenly slammed shut, and she can hear the cranking of a wrench, twisting bolts into place so that it stays as such.
The light is suffocated, the outside driven from them.
For once since arriving, Frieda cannot hear the heartbeat.
She almost takes solace in it.
Almost.
'GUNNER! LEFT, 15! FIRE!' Cries out the Commander.
'ON THE WAY!' Replies the higher-pitched gunner in a similarly shrill scream.
Frieda's ears ring with deafness as the gun is fired.
The entirety of the Behemoth shudders and groans, metal struggling not to twist and tear from the recoil. The legs shake and the entire vehicle is thrown around from the sheer force behind the firing.
Her eyes are so blocked with both mask and smog alike that she can barely see her own hands. Her every muscle is sore past the point of exhaustion, but she knows better than to fall, for there's hardly any room to even stand.
'TARGET HIT!' Screeches the Commander, just barely managing to be heard over the deafening roar of the engine. Frieda hasn't an idea what they're firing at, or why.
All she knows is that it's time for her to act, again.
'LOADER! HIGH-EXPLOSIVE!'
Immediately following the call, she feels as her body is poked by the other loader, ready to pass her a new round.
The round comes in three stages.
First the Projectile. It's heavy, a good dozen kilogrammes or so, a thin metal casing serving as a skin to an ungodly amount of explosive filler. Were the round to go off in Frieda's hands — or really, anywhere in the Behemoth — she knows that there would be nothing left of any of them.
Her body moves without even thinking. She was told to help load the gun, that's all she knows. That's all she has to do. Just load the gun. Just load the gun. Just load the gun, and it'll be okay. Load the gun, and she'll get to go home, right?
The gun's breech hangs open like an eager, waiting maw. She slams the projectile deep inside, barely even able to see the outline of the breech amidst the billowing smoke from the last round. She turns around, and grabs the next part from the other loader.
The propellant. The round is so large that were the two halves combined, there's no chance Frieda — or really, anyone — could quickly load the weapon, if at all. If the projectile was unwieldy and menacing, this is somehow worse. A gigantic tubular drum of explosive, enough to send that massive warhead a good few kilometers off in the distance. Should it detonate prematurely, it might even be worse than the payload itself.
She just has to load the gun.
Grab it, turn, put it in the breech.
The last part. The primer. Stored separately not as a concern of weight, but for the sake of safety. The firing cap is delicate, the slightest bump could set it off. On its own, not that much of a concern, but were it joined to the propellant charge…
She slots it into the gun, and a split second after her arms are clear from the breech, it slams shut, the hearty block of metal just barely avoiding crushing her hands.
'ON THE WAY!'
Again, the gun rocks the Behemoth around, the metallic animal struggling to stay upright as the pilot wrestles with the controls. Everyone inside just barely maintains their footing, and the commander calls to load the gun again.
Grab it, turn, put it in the breech.
Projectile.
Propellant.
Primer.
Grab it, turn, put it in the breech.
She can't spare a second to think, and truthfully Frieda is grateful. If she took the time to think about what's going on, about how badly her body itself wishes to be anywhere but here, about the unimaginable violence being inflicted from every shell slotted into the gun, about what might be outside the Behemoth…
She doesn't know what would happen to her.
She doesn't want to.
Just next to her, one of the machine gunners lets out a ripple of shots to the outside of the Behemoth at some unseen assailant. Klara's handiwork, probably. Even though she's only a few inches to the side of Frieda, the smoke, noise and chaos means that there's a world of a rift between the two. She hasn't even seen her face — or mask — since they set off, because she hasn't even had the time to turn around.
A dulled gunfire from outside the vehicle responds in time to the volley loosed by Klara. Shots ping off the metal, sending free little slivers of spall every which way. A few bits of the metal shrapnel dig into her horribly uncomfortable mask, stopped thankfully by the solid leather. Some of the other slivers tunnel their way into the pipes and lines which carry the vitals of the Behemoth, and she begins to bleed.
The blood is a sickly thing. A deep, tarry black, the diesel fuel which the engine needs to run starts to seep from the pierced lines. It pools at their feet, slowly starting to slosh around and stain every which way, the fumes already giving Frieda a horrible headache.
'PILOT, RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT!!' cries out the Commander with an urgency Frieda has not yet heard in her voice. She hasn't the faintest idea what might have startled the Commander quite so badly, but—
A horrible blast throws the Behemoth around, this time not from their own gun. The beast's metal form screams as it desperately tries to stay upright against whatever exploded outside. Another bestial thing of steel, firing back at them? Artillery? A landmine? Frieda doesn't know.
She doesn't have time to know. As the Behemoth jostles and staggers, she slips on the pooling fuel at her feet. Reaching out desperately to hold on, she only manages to catch one of the pipes carrying hot steam, scorching her arm and forcing her to let go.
The pain shoots through her, her skin almost wanting to leap free from her body just to escape the agony. It does her no good in the fight to stay upright, and she tumbles hopelessly to the other side of the Behemoth, with a heavy smack against the metal wall.
Dazed and in pain, she tries limply to stand. Just at the worst possible moment, the commander screeches an order through her deafened ears, and the gun discharges again. The recoil throws her back onto her ass, and she slumps helplessly against the wall.
She's going to die here.
She can't even see anything through the slits in her mask. She could have tumbled back to the engine, she could be nestled right under one of the machine guns, or she could have fallen into any number of weird maintenance compartments that she doesn't even know about. All she feels is sweat-laden metal around her, the stiflingly hot air, and the gradually rising pool of diesel.
'LOADER! ARMOR PIERCING!'
The words fall on her to carry out their will, but she can't. She's not meant to be here, she's not made for this. She's scared, she can't even stand.
'LOADER!'
They need her, and she's failing them.
'LOADER! AP!'
She just wants to go home, or truthfully, to be anywhere but here. Even the void itself seems more desirable than this.
Maybe she really will die here. Maybe they'll be hit by a shell, and she won't have to endure another second of this. She'd take that end eagerly, at this rate.
'LOADER!!!'
An arm hastily wraps itself around her shoulder, and she's pulled to her feet by someone. She can't quite tell who, as they bear the same identical mask as her. Yet even through the unfeeling leather and steel of their mask, she can sense their boiling anger at her.
She has a job to do.
Projectile,
Propellant,
Primer.
'ON THE WAY!'
The sounds of twisting metal heralds Frieda's approaching freedom, as someone outside slowly undoes the bolts holding the main hatch shut. Out of ammo, low on fuel, and having taken on substantial damage, they had no choice but to turn the Behemoth around and live to fight another day.
Frieda almost wishes they hadn't.
Then, the choking fumes and the eye-watering smoke, the rattling of the engine and the horrible strain of the loading — then, it would all have been over.
Yet she had to endure much of the same all the way back to the trench. Even once they were out of the actual fighting, the sheer nauseating nature of the Behemoth slowly trundling over the abandoned trenches, the artillery craters, and the fortifications is enough to make her hurl.
She did, several times, infact. It's quite the grace that the mask only encapsulates the top half of her face, with the chains easily pulled away for the brief moment needed to expel what little she's had to eat.
Every bolt is a torture. Every second spent waiting for them to be undone is a second spent huffing the wisps of exhaust, a second spent standing in agony in the sloshing fuel, a second spent watching the uncomfortably still faces of her masked crew-mates, all stood in eager silence.
A second that she'll never get back, a second that keeps her away from home.
After god-knows how many minutes, the last one is finally undone and the hatch swings open.
Even through the slotted tank-mask, the sunlight blinds her at once. She staggers drunkenly through the fumes, smoke and scorching white-light until she tumbles out of the Behemoth. She's followed and preceded by the rest of the crew, birthed from the hatch as the spilled diesel pours out with them, poisoning the earth itself where it lands.
Frieda stumbles and drops to the dirt below, collapsing onto her back in the muddy ground. Her uniform is already as close to ruined as it can possibly be, so she hardly cares.
Lazily, she undoes the strap on her mask and lets it flop to the side with an exasperated breath.
She's free. Even just the simple nature of clean air is a miraculous grace to her, now.
All around her, the rest of the crew — carrying rifle, tools, or whatnot — start to head back towards the trench for debrief. Klara lingers around for a second longer, not even having taken her mask off quite yet.
Were it not for her stature and the faintest bits of hair dangling beyond the mask, Frieda wouldn't have any idea who she was.
'You okay?' She asks with a voice bereft of interest.
Frieda cannot even manage to make words, for she only greedily gasps at the fresh air, but the once-princess does give a nod.
'Good. I'd like to talk to you later.'
Yeah. Okay.
She's exhausted. She doesn't have the faintest idea why Klara would like to talk, or what about. All that she knows is that her body, mind, and soul are drained of all the energy they once might have held, and even the simple instruction of having to go meet her to talk is a lovely grace. That way, she doesn't have to worry about even deciding what to do next.
She'll lay here a while longer.
Amidst the gentle silence of the open dirt, she finally starts to hear again properly, the deafening roar of the engine now long gone.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
The pulse has not softened even a notch.
Finally with belly full of ration, and clothes washed haphazardly, Frieda stumbles into the bunker room that she calls her own. She would have previously appalled at the conditions of the food, and of much else in the trench — but truly after surviving the Behemoth, every small gesture seems a miracle to her.
She hadn't even noticed just how hungry she was until she reached the mess hall.
But now, she is finally able to relax.
Frieda collapses into her chair, and picks up the pen.
…No.
She doesn't even have the energy for this, truly.
The bed is calling to her. Some rest would do her—
There's a knock at the door.
Oh, right. Klara.
'Come in.' she sighs, exhausted.
The door is swung open gently, and Klara strides in — still in her full uniform, boots clacking against the wooden-floored bunker room. She bears with her a bayoneted rifle slung over her arm, which she only discards for a moment to hang up her coat on the wall.
Frieda rises to her feet. She might not really have the energy for much other than sleeping, but she can at least stand to hold a brief conversation. Maybe, Klara will help figure out how to get her out of this nightmare of a situation.
Taking a firm breath in, Frieda is interrupted by the sound of a bolt action being chambered.
She turns around to face Klara, the source of the noise, when with a hearty CRUNCH, Klara bashes the butt-stock of her rifle straight into Frieda's face.
She's sent spinning, her nose surely broken as blood flows down her face. The princess collapses backwards against the bed-frame, clutching at her wounded head as pain wraps its embrace around her.
Before she even has time to question the action, Klara already has the gun turned around, barrel pointed straight at Frieda's head, the bayonet tip gently pricking her cheek.
'Now, what the hell was all that today!?'
Klara's voice is pure venom. She's practically boiling over with rage, her every muscle twitching and shaking uncontrollably.
Frieda would be horrified that she'd be accidentally stabbed with the bayonet, were she not more preoccupied with staring in horror at Klara's twitching finger, rested right on the trigger.
'I— I don't—'
She doesn't understand. Just earlier Klara was helping her, consoling her, but now? What the hell has she done? She's so scared. The slightest motion of Klara's already unsteady finger, and it's all over.
She didn't go through hell just to die here.
'Klara—' she chokes. 'Why?'
Tears are flowing down Frieda's face, blending with the blood draining from her shattered nose, and the vestiges of diesel still soaked into her flesh.
She doesn't want to die. Not like this, not like this at all. What has gotten into her?!
'You know damn well why, girl!' Klara's voice is laden with more emotion than she's heard in her before. A wretched, awful anger staining every word.
She was sloppy with the loading, yes, but surely that can't be it, right? She made a mistake. She cracked under the pressure. Anyone would. She wasn't even meant to be there.
'I'm sorry— I'm sorry!! I've— I'm not a soldier I—'
Klara's face contorts in fury as she swipes the bayonet down across Frieda's torso, cutting her uniform open. The blade stings, gently gliding through flesh as if it wasn't even there, drawing a thin line of blood between her now exposed breasts.
'WELL THAT'S YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM!!'
Klara's screaming at the top of her lungs now, spittle flying all over Frieda's bloodied face. Were it not for the hell that is the war outside, surely everyone would hear her. But now, the voice is just another scream amongst a choir.
Klara lets out a weary breath, exhausted, her voice calms down just a notch.
'None of us were soldiers before. It doesn't matter. You don't fucking matter.'
Klara throws the rifle to the side, and pulls a trench knife from her pocket, pinning Frieda against the leg of the bed with an arm, and holding the knife to her neck with the other.
'I don't give a shit about who you are, or who you were. In there, you're nobody. In there, I'm nobody. We can't have anyone making slip-ups like that. Didn't they fucking tell you?!' Of course they didn't. She doesn't know who they are, she's scared. She just wants to go home.
The older woman's voice is ragged with anger, yes, but with something else too — desperation?
'We're part of the machine, now. One and the same. If a component falls, we all do.' There's almost a reverence to her voice.
Klara slowly shudders and grinds to a stop, the anger beginning to dissipate. Her breathing, however, remains ragged and tense as ever. She's sweating.
It's at that moment that Frieda notices where Klara's rabid, unfocused gaze lay.
On her exposed breasts.
'We're… we…' her assailant stumbles in her words, losing her train of thought.
Frieda motions to hide them, but Klara only presses the knife into her neck more firmly, drawing the slightest hint of blood. Her eyes say all that she needs to, and Frieda retracts her arm away, terrified.
Klara's jaw twinges for a second, as if contemplating saying something — but she doesn't bother. She pulls her free arm away, and only hastily undoes the belt around her waist, dropping her uniformed pants to the floor and pulling her underwear down with them.
Without another word, the older woman swiftly rises up to sit on the edge of the bed, and pulls Frieda effortlessly with her. For just a second, the princess has a moment to think, to contemplate what's going to happen.
She sees Klara's exposed cunt, dripping and eager.
She sees her rough and unshaven bush all around it, sees the sweat drooling from her skin.
She smells the horrible stench of diesel which has been steeped into both their bodies, mixing with the abhorrent stench of the trench.
She never knew what her first time was going to be like, and she certainly never expected it to be this.
It doesn't seem like she's got much of a choice, though.
Somehow, she's almost numb to it. After all Frieda has seen in the past week, she finds it difficult to even care. Klara is right, in a sense. She's nothing.
Klara shoves the girl down, planting her head firmly between her glistening thighs as the princess' mouth is forced right into her needy cunt.
Frieda can't see anything from her position, and honestly she doesn't know if she even wants to. Her eyes go lazy and unfocused, her mind shuddering and grinding to a halt. If she doesn't think about it, it's easier. If she doesn't think about it, maybe it's not even happening.
If she doesn't think about it, maybe she isn't being raped.
Klara digs the knife into the small of Frieda's back, the blade stinging her aching muscles as yet more blood starts to flow bitterly from her skin.
Frieda starts to lick at her assailant's cunt. She wants to say that it's out of compulsion, out of being threatened and forced to, but as she moves her tongue around she starts to think that that isn't the case.
Frieda von Scheer hasn't the faintest idea why, but some part of her is enjoying this.
It's a small bit of her, truly minuscule and suffocated under the weight of dissociation, yet it is there all the same. The fact that even the tiniest fragment of her could be enjoying any second of this is horrible. It's almost worse than the rape itself.
Is it even rape, if she's enjoying it?
Maybe it really is all just her fault. Maybe she deserved this. Maybe Klara will see to reason. Maybe she'll be able to go home. Maybe she just has to do a good job and it'll all be over.
Through sound and sensation alone, Frieda can tell that Klara is enjoying this. More than just enjoyment, but that she's desperate for it. She needs it more than she needs anything in this moment.
The knife is drawn along her back again, and Frieda shivers with that gentle pain that reminds her that this is real, that she is alive and very much conscious for all of this.
And that she's definitely enjoying it.
The sounds that Klara makes, how the ragged moans bounce around the bunker.
The smell of them entwined together, both drenched in the same shared suffering.
The thrill of it, of not knowing what's going to happen to her, if she'll even survive this.
The fact that it seems she's doing a good job.
It could just be that it's an escape from the war. It could just be that for this one subtle moment, she can't even care to hear the heartbeat of the guns anymore. It could be that if she enjoys it, it's less horrifying.
Or it could just be that she's a hopeless dyke.
She never thought much of it before, never really cared to. Intimacy was not something she was particularly interested in — but then again, neither was war.
Yet here she is all the same.
Klara's body tenses, shuddering and exhausted. Frieda feels the wetness of her cum starting to pour into and around her mouth, and she's almost drowning in the taste.
It's not bad, not at all. Even with the overwhelmingly saccharine tinge of diesel on Klara's flesh, Frieda still can't help but revel in it.
Down below, Frieda's even sporting a tent. It's the first time that such a thing has happened to her in ages.
Klara drops the knife with a distinct clatter, and simply grabs onto the back of Frieda's head with both hands, ramming her mouth as far as it'll go right into the depths of her pussy. She screams out with a horrid moan, and shudders heavily against the princess as orgasm claims her.
They stay there for a few moments, before Klara finally lets go and collapses onto her back, with Frieda slowly pulling off to get some fresh air — her mouth still seeped in the taste of Klara's womanhood.
Both of them are ragged, panting and out of both breath and energy. The two women in similarly mixed states of undress, with Frieda now starting to feel so uncomfortably hot in her uniform jacket.
Seeing as her tits are already exposed, she simply lets the shirt slide off of her, leaving her upper half bare for Klara to see every little injury, mark, and contour.
Klara lets out a gentle chuckle in response.
'Sorry, lass. Been a damn while since we've had fresh meat, here.'
The older woman stares lazily, a creepy half-smile flickering on her face as she delights in the sight, of Frieda's exposed body, before something catches her eye.
Klara springs upright, and grabs the princess once more. This time, the hold is not out of violence or rage. Her hands are decidedly more gentle, but still she pulls Frieda over, examining the girl's right upper-arm. She looks it over every which way, but Frieda knows not what she is looking for. Her arm is fine, devoid of marks, scars or anything at all. It's one of the few parts of her that hasn't been so grievously battered in the few days since arriving here.
'Oh, sssshit.' drawls out Klara.
She lets go of Frieda, and recoils back, slightly exasperated.
'You really are fresh, huh?'
Frieda only looks at her confused. What the hell is she talking about?
As if reading her mind, Klara hikes up her right shirt sleeve, and reveals what Frieda at first thinks to be a tattoo.
Yet upon closer inspection, no tattoo is it at all. Instead, it's a burn. A square, uniform brand, bearing some sort of insignia within. It seems to be the caduceus, the winged staff encircled with twin snakes, a symbol of medicine. But rather than the normal symbol, the serpents extend and twist back around unto themselves, swallowing their own tails to form a double-ouroboros.
The symbol is burned into Klara's flesh right where she was examining Frieda.
'You haven't seen the General yet?' There's a subtle undertone to the title which Klara utters. It bears a certain worship to it, in a way that simply referring to a superior normally doesn't — yet equally is it drenched in fear.
Frieda simply shakes her head no. She doesn't even have the effort left to talk right now, still catching her breath from… whatever that was. She didn't reach quite the same climax as Klara, but that's alright. She's already so horribly overwhelmed from everything else, and just wants to rest, now.
Klara lets out another sigh, and holds her head in her hands.
'You'll have to pay Her a visit first thing next light. She'll help.'
Klara's lips tremble again, and she hesitates before speaking again.
'I'm sorry.'
Frieda isn't sure if the apology is for what just happened, or for what is to come next.