Entry 03: Cross the Bridges of War
Title: Cross the Bridges of War
Entry Number: 03
Author: latemarch
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Genre: Historical; Romance
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: 1292
Notes: I've been thinking about writing a WWI Historical for awhile, and since I've been watching both Birdsong and The Pacific (WWII yes, but still a war movie) recently, it was pretty much assured to happen sometime this month. Better sooner than later, right? So this is the story of two lovers on either side of the first World War, French and German, as they overcome social pressure, cultural differences, and the need to escape the war.
- - begin entry 03 - -
Somewhere in the French Countryside, 1915
One night, when all the world for two strangers changed, the land was covered in the bitterest of winters.
Evelyn stared out her window blankly, shuddering though she was wrapped in several blankets. The stones of her small home kept it cool enough in the summer, but they meant she felt only the utmost cold in the winter. Slowly, she reached her hand out from her cocoon and rubbed a circle of clarity into the frosted glass. One last glancing touch to trace the old crack in the windowpane before she withdrew again.
The world she looked out at was not at war, except maybe with the snow. The outcroppings of bald rock, the trees, the small old barn outside of her kitchen, were all blanketed by snow and buffeted by the wind. Said weather chose that moment to howl down her chimney in a screaming reminder that she was all alone.
And that the fireplace would need more wood. A glance over confirmed it. If she expected to last out the night with fire to warm her she’d need to replenish the woodpile. And this was another daily test of her will.
A time ago, that job had belonged to Jean, her brother, and then to her husband, Michel. Finally, to Jean again - but no more. Even if her land was much untouched by the Great War, brewing, rampaging across the French countryside, her countrymen and her brother were not so lucky.
Jean was just a young man, called away to the front two years ago to serve his country. Michel had tried to prepare her for the eventuality of Jean’s death in combat. Yet her brother’s uncanny luck ensured that she regularly received letters from him. And when he came home on leave it was great relief, a great gift, in that she could see him again, and he could relieve the stilted, unhappy tension between herself and her husband. Each rare visit, though greatly anticipated, came with the sadness of war that permeated her brother’s soul, and that was always dealt with. Or at least they tried.
No one had prepared her for the eventuality of Michel’s death, Evie thought bitterly, and it spurred her to wrap another scarf around her neck as she dressed for the cold. The province doctor had gone away, to the war to care for more deserving boys than her Michel. And pneumonia could be treated only so much by hot broth and folklore.
Her brother was given four days to return home and to assist her with the body. For the three mornings that he was with her, he was the one who retrieved the firewood - his most hated childhood chore returned.
But then the war had demanded his presence most adamantly, and the task fell to her. And four weeks later, when she received a condolence letter as Jean’s next of kin, it became her job permanently.
Within the span of a few months, she’d been so completely abandoned. It was a pain that drove Evie relentlessly into the cold, farther and farther way from the safety of the house. It was a practice she’d come to take up when relegated to venturing into the winter storms each night, testing her mettle against the chill. More than that, the loneliness was a bull against her back, driving her to test self-destruction in each cloudburst of snow.
‘Maybe I can do it tonight.’ Evie thought, without resistance to the idea of standing outside in the cold until all warmth left her body, permanently. ‘I am alone, and no one will know.’ The townspeople she’d known all her life in the nearby village would only assume that she lost her way in the darkness and would not inflict the shame upon her memory.
Unbidden, an image of her brother’s face come to mind as she ventured into the night in search of the woodpile. Would he be disappointed in her if she stopped trying to make some simple life in the world? Evie couldn’t say - only the unhappiest of thoughts of how bitter it must have been for Jean in his last moments penetrated.
“Marry again.” That’s what Jean would probably say, she conceded. What he had wanted to say that last evening spent together. But he couldn’t know the gaping holes left in the homes, the towns, the country. The young men were all gone, and those who did return were too broken for even her jagged edges to fit.
As if calling out to the abandoned , bitter smoke in her head that was beginning to condense in the snow and blowing wind, Evie heard a voice. Carried by the storm, it was distorted and near phantom. Unsure if what she heard was real, feet planted in the freezing snow and hands turning blue in the cold, she waited.
She waited just long enough to convince herself of the folly, feeling her head boy just a little bit more against nature’s anger; as if that briefest possibility of some temporary companion had brought up a foolish hope soon dashed. But as Evie would have given up and returned to thoughts of ending time, she heard it again. It was too far away and garbled to be understood, but it was real, it was there.
Her heartbeat plummeted in the sudden expectation that it was her brother calling for help; a great reaction she couldn’t help but feel and that left her faintly sick as it receded. The voice called to her again, renewed some misguided purpose in her chest.
“Can you hear me?” She called out, afraid that her words would be lost in the wind.
Without waiting for answer, E vie plunged forward blindly as beating heart quickened and the land mapped itself out in her ahead of her. The most likely place for someone to hold out the storm, she decided, would be the barn, and she veered right sharply in its direction.
The barn doors had just loomed into sight, a bit of golden hay peeking out from underneath. Warmer and safer inside, she could take a moment of refuge from the wind before bringing in the lost voice. As if taunting the madness of her determination, the voice sounded weaker, fainter - she’d gone in the wrong direction and had only lengthened her search.
Evie grit her teeth against the cold and turned around. Even in her most determinedly morbid moments, she had never stayed out in such weather for so long, and it was beginning to worry her. Thought of suicide had never come as close to reality as this, self-preservation having always won out.
The trek back across the small plot of land she owned was near excruciating, every step an eternity, and Evie was busy clutching her arms to her chest when she stumbled and fell. Snow stung in her mouth as she struggled to get up and see what had felled her. Unwittingly, it was the source of her search.
A man, near ice in the storm, lay at her feet. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the slight moan of his pain that was otherwise inaudible. The desperation that spurred him to call out loud enough for her to hear him must have been immense in the face of his pain.
“Are you alright?” It was an inane question coming out of her mouth - he was very obviously injured. Clothes that were near completely obfuscated by dirt and were hanging in tatters obscured but could not hide the blood seeping from him. It had long since frozen like a second skin over his body, but there were still a few sluggish trickles from the deepest cuts.
- - end entry 03 - -
So that's it! Things have been really slow at work lately, so expect more in the near future. Spoiler Alert: She's just discovered the German soldier, so things should get interesting soon. I know that this first part is pretty dark, but the tone should change soon. Even though I'm fascinated by WWI and WWII, I've never really written anything set in this time period, so I"m hoping it sounds okay? Any comments would be greatly appreciated.
Entry Number: 03
Author: latemarch
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Genre: Historical; Romance
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: 1292
Notes: I've been thinking about writing a WWI Historical for awhile, and since I've been watching both Birdsong and The Pacific (WWII yes, but still a war movie) recently, it was pretty much assured to happen sometime this month. Better sooner than later, right? So this is the story of two lovers on either side of the first World War, French and German, as they overcome social pressure, cultural differences, and the need to escape the war.
- - begin entry 03 - -
Somewhere in the French Countryside, 1915
One night, when all the world for two strangers changed, the land was covered in the bitterest of winters.
Evelyn stared out her window blankly, shuddering though she was wrapped in several blankets. The stones of her small home kept it cool enough in the summer, but they meant she felt only the utmost cold in the winter. Slowly, she reached her hand out from her cocoon and rubbed a circle of clarity into the frosted glass. One last glancing touch to trace the old crack in the windowpane before she withdrew again.
The world she looked out at was not at war, except maybe with the snow. The outcroppings of bald rock, the trees, the small old barn outside of her kitchen, were all blanketed by snow and buffeted by the wind. Said weather chose that moment to howl down her chimney in a screaming reminder that she was all alone.
And that the fireplace would need more wood. A glance over confirmed it. If she expected to last out the night with fire to warm her she’d need to replenish the woodpile. And this was another daily test of her will.
A time ago, that job had belonged to Jean, her brother, and then to her husband, Michel. Finally, to Jean again - but no more. Even if her land was much untouched by the Great War, brewing, rampaging across the French countryside, her countrymen and her brother were not so lucky.
Jean was just a young man, called away to the front two years ago to serve his country. Michel had tried to prepare her for the eventuality of Jean’s death in combat. Yet her brother’s uncanny luck ensured that she regularly received letters from him. And when he came home on leave it was great relief, a great gift, in that she could see him again, and he could relieve the stilted, unhappy tension between herself and her husband. Each rare visit, though greatly anticipated, came with the sadness of war that permeated her brother’s soul, and that was always dealt with. Or at least they tried.
No one had prepared her for the eventuality of Michel’s death, Evie thought bitterly, and it spurred her to wrap another scarf around her neck as she dressed for the cold. The province doctor had gone away, to the war to care for more deserving boys than her Michel. And pneumonia could be treated only so much by hot broth and folklore.
Her brother was given four days to return home and to assist her with the body. For the three mornings that he was with her, he was the one who retrieved the firewood - his most hated childhood chore returned.
But then the war had demanded his presence most adamantly, and the task fell to her. And four weeks later, when she received a condolence letter as Jean’s next of kin, it became her job permanently.
Within the span of a few months, she’d been so completely abandoned. It was a pain that drove Evie relentlessly into the cold, farther and farther way from the safety of the house. It was a practice she’d come to take up when relegated to venturing into the winter storms each night, testing her mettle against the chill. More than that, the loneliness was a bull against her back, driving her to test self-destruction in each cloudburst of snow.
‘Maybe I can do it tonight.’ Evie thought, without resistance to the idea of standing outside in the cold until all warmth left her body, permanently. ‘I am alone, and no one will know.’ The townspeople she’d known all her life in the nearby village would only assume that she lost her way in the darkness and would not inflict the shame upon her memory.
Unbidden, an image of her brother’s face come to mind as she ventured into the night in search of the woodpile. Would he be disappointed in her if she stopped trying to make some simple life in the world? Evie couldn’t say - only the unhappiest of thoughts of how bitter it must have been for Jean in his last moments penetrated.
“Marry again.” That’s what Jean would probably say, she conceded. What he had wanted to say that last evening spent together. But he couldn’t know the gaping holes left in the homes, the towns, the country. The young men were all gone, and those who did return were too broken for even her jagged edges to fit.
As if calling out to the abandoned , bitter smoke in her head that was beginning to condense in the snow and blowing wind, Evie heard a voice. Carried by the storm, it was distorted and near phantom. Unsure if what she heard was real, feet planted in the freezing snow and hands turning blue in the cold, she waited.
She waited just long enough to convince herself of the folly, feeling her head boy just a little bit more against nature’s anger; as if that briefest possibility of some temporary companion had brought up a foolish hope soon dashed. But as Evie would have given up and returned to thoughts of ending time, she heard it again. It was too far away and garbled to be understood, but it was real, it was there.
Her heartbeat plummeted in the sudden expectation that it was her brother calling for help; a great reaction she couldn’t help but feel and that left her faintly sick as it receded. The voice called to her again, renewed some misguided purpose in her chest.
“Can you hear me?” She called out, afraid that her words would be lost in the wind.
Without waiting for answer, E vie plunged forward blindly as beating heart quickened and the land mapped itself out in her ahead of her. The most likely place for someone to hold out the storm, she decided, would be the barn, and she veered right sharply in its direction.
The barn doors had just loomed into sight, a bit of golden hay peeking out from underneath. Warmer and safer inside, she could take a moment of refuge from the wind before bringing in the lost voice. As if taunting the madness of her determination, the voice sounded weaker, fainter - she’d gone in the wrong direction and had only lengthened her search.
Evie grit her teeth against the cold and turned around. Even in her most determinedly morbid moments, she had never stayed out in such weather for so long, and it was beginning to worry her. Thought of suicide had never come as close to reality as this, self-preservation having always won out.
The trek back across the small plot of land she owned was near excruciating, every step an eternity, and Evie was busy clutching her arms to her chest when she stumbled and fell. Snow stung in her mouth as she struggled to get up and see what had felled her. Unwittingly, it was the source of her search.
A man, near ice in the storm, lay at her feet. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the slight moan of his pain that was otherwise inaudible. The desperation that spurred him to call out loud enough for her to hear him must have been immense in the face of his pain.
“Are you alright?” It was an inane question coming out of her mouth - he was very obviously injured. Clothes that were near completely obfuscated by dirt and were hanging in tatters obscured but could not hide the blood seeping from him. It had long since frozen like a second skin over his body, but there were still a few sluggish trickles from the deepest cuts.
- - end entry 03 - -
So that's it! Things have been really slow at work lately, so expect more in the near future. Spoiler Alert: She's just discovered the German soldier, so things should get interesting soon. I know that this first part is pretty dark, but the tone should change soon. Even though I'm fascinated by WWI and WWII, I've never really written anything set in this time period, so I"m hoping it sounds okay? Any comments would be greatly appreciated.