A glorious battle took place that night. Sabres and guns emptied of all their bullets littered the battlefield, their users recently deceased. It had been a landslide victory for the side of surmounting hope, and a crushing defeat for evil. Any bystander would have been able to tell that much from the thousands of blue and white uniforms stained red that laid strewn across the field. In comparison, a few dozen glorious warriors of gold and silver lay gracefully amongst the fallen. A glorious battle indeed.
A man too used to this scene picked up a fallen warrior’s sword, inspecting its bloodstained surface carefully. A magnificent blade. Just as he looked upon the sword’s elaborate handle, something brushed against his leg. The fallen warrior of gold and silver looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. He wheezed painfully, blood leaving a thin trail from his mouth. In the center of his chest was a large bloodstain. With all his strength, the warrior grabbed the sturdy man’s pant leg. “This yours?” The man showed the warrior the blade. The warrior managed a nod, but didn’t speak. His breaths came in sudden and short bursts. “Must have taken down many enemies with this.” He traced his fingers along the blade’s edge. “I’m guessing you want this back. Sorry, no can do. A warrior’s blade will fetch a nice price on the market.” The man weighed the blade in his hand. It was heavy, the handle especially. The handle must be encrusted in gold. What a waste, thought the man. He tested his grip around the hand and raised the blade above the fallen warrior, its tip pointing down at his chest. The warrior’s eyes widened. “Sorry,” the man said emotionlessly as he plunged the sword into the warrior’s heart. The warrior gasped before his breathing gradually stopped and his eyes became lifeless.
The man removed the blade and stuck it in the ground briefly. He turned to look at the cart behind him, stacked with bodies. With minimal effort, he grabbed the warrior’s legs and slung him over his shoulder before depositing him onto the cart among the other fallen men from both sides.
“That’s a mighty fine sword,” a gruff voice approached alongside the sound of hooves against the cold ground. The man looked up to see who looked to be a soldier of the Glorious army. His uniform did not have the same gold and silver sheen of the warriors of the battlefield, but it was littered with insignia and medals he’d sometimes see on warriors. His helmet also bore the unmistakable Horn of the Glorious. “You should keep it. It's practically a national treasure,” the soldier suggested.
“I’ve got no need for a sword,” the man replied. The soldier laughed deeply.
“Well surely you aren’t going to return it to its owner?” the soldier jokingly asked. Bodysweepers weren’t exactly known to care for honor or respect. Their job was to clean up the dead. All honor and respect can take place during the battle.
“It's not mine. Here,” the man extended the handle towards the soldier atop the horse.
“When I said keep it, I meant it. Property of the Glorious or not, I’ve always lived by the saying ‘finders keepers’,” the soldier pushed his hand away. “I don’t care what you do with it. The Glorious has enough metal to make another.” The man stared at the soldier for a while, trying to detect any hint of ingenuity, before retracting his hand. “Think of it as a reward for this spectacular victory.”
“Thank you, sir,” the man said as he bowed slightly. He didn’t care much for manners, but he had seen others so and be greatly rewarded.
“That’s Lientanant to you,” the soldier corrected. “Lieutenant Raff Wolfdietrich.” Wolfdiedrich retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his brow. No matter how cold it got, he sweated like a pig. “It was truly a magnificent battle today. A mere handful of Glorious warriors against a brigade of savage Carceauites. Our artillery blasted them to pieces! Good luck finding all their parts as you collect them!” Wolfdietrich laughed aloud. As he noticed the uninterested look on the face of the man before him, he settled down. “Have you ever witnessed a battle, young man?”
“No Lieutenant,” the man responded.
“What a pity,” Wolfdietrich sighed apologetically.
“If I may ask, why are you here Lieutenant? There is no more fighting here. Only corpses. I can’t imagine you fancy the dead.”
“Ah, you take me for a man that only cares about the action. While that may be true for many officers, I myself like to take the time to appreciate the battle. One cannot simply watch the battle commence and leave right after the final sword strikes and the smoke clears. There is much to be done after the battle concludes. One must survey the battlefield. Look for survivors. Count the caustalities—I know the Glorious tend to exaggerate numbers—and find treasures like you’ve got there. I take my job very seriously.” Wolfdietrich gazed upon the field. The artillery had already been pulled off the battlefield, leaving only an array of bodies. The stench of smoke and blood hung in the air. In a few short weeks, this field would be transformed into a grassy plain, clear of any violence. As if no battle had taken place at all. Wolfdietrich often wondered how many times he had set foot upon an ancient battlefield. Just what stunning combat took place there?
“I can see that. You're the only other officer in this field.”
“Indeed. That is a flaw I’m willing to admit about our nation,” Wolfdietrich sighed, shaking his head. “There is no more passion. The officers now all expect to win. As if it's their divine fortune. Nonsense if you ask me! Look at all these fallen warriors. They run into battle expecting their enemy to lie down before them and they end up looking like scared children when a sword is plunged into their chests. My platoon, fresh out of the military academy, did not ask me what the chances of them dying was, they asked me what the chances of the enemy losing. Consider that! A man rushing into battle and they are not even afraid for their own life! That is until they come face to face with death. Men don’t die because of honor here, they die because they’re too stupid to think of a plan when things don’t go they’re way.”
“Where is your platoon?”
“Dead. Might as well count for half the casualties here. Pray I’m not out of the job.”
“Sounds like it was they’re own fault,” the man sighed before picking up the nearest body and slinging it onto the cart of dead.
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“You should know well that my superiors will not take that answer kindly. ‘Lieutenant Wolfdeitrich, you are responsible for your men. I refuse to send more good, young men to die at your hands. You are reckless and dishonorable.’ That is what my superior told me last time. What does he know? These new recruits, if he saw them, he would surely take my side! These old commanders haven’t seen a real battle in years. They are poisoned by their past perceptions of glory. Can’t even see what’s right in front of them,” Wolfdietrich scoffed at the thought. The man glanced up, but ultimately didn’t question how the Lieutenant managed to get another platoon after his superior’s supposed disapproving remarks. “Young man, the work you do here is far more than any of those old men have done. You, unlike my platoon, have earned my respect.” The man continued to drag bodies across the field. He was only partly listening to the rambles of the Lieutenant beside him. The Lieutenant's horse neighed restlessly. Wolfdietrich tugged on the reins to get the beast to settle down. He looked down upon the disgruntled man, altered by years of work carrying bodies back and forth. However, disgusting the work, one could not deny the skill it required. It was not simply mindless. If one was not careful, they could be easily killed by half-dead soldier. Not only that, the bodies themselves were like anvils.
“Lieutenant, my work is anything but respectable.”
“Maybe not to a commoner, but it is absolutely necessary. Too much glory is bestowed upon people like me. It is people that are not afraid to get their hands dirty I find most commendable.”
“You flatter me,” the man said sarcastically. The Lieutenant looked away. Seemingly done with the conversation, but he did not leave. He turned his eyes back to the man.
“I never caught your name, young man.” The man stopped what he was doing. He chuckled silently.
“I don’t have one.”
“No name? Then what am I supposed to call you by?” Lieutenant Wolfdietrich found the idea absolutely preposterous.
“‘You there’, ‘young man’, ‘bodysweeper’. There are plenty of things to call me by.”
“But those are just terms! How am I supposed to refer to you in my journal? There must be something I can call you.”
“Well, I was never given a name. Parents died when I was young. Some riot. Guess they never thought a name was necessary, or I was too young to remember it,” the man explained, shrugging his shoulders. “Anyway, no need to mention me specifically in your journal. ‘Bodysweeper’ will suffice.”
“I have met many bodysweepers. They all had names. If you do not have a name, pick one. Then make a name for yourself.” The Lieutenant chuckled at his own play on words. The man stood still as a statue. He had never thought to pick a name before. He never had to. As minutes passed with no answer, Wolfdietrich took it upon himself to jumpstart things.
“Look upon that sword then. That warrior carried a noble’s sword. It was uniquely crafted. Those often carry engravings. Read the engraving on it for me.” The man obliged, wiping the blood from the flat part of the sword. Just the Lieutenant said, an engraving revealed itself.
“Where light fails to shine, I will go. Pytor Roshnya,” the man finished reading.
“How about it? It’s a strong name.”
“I’d be a stolen name.”
“I don’t think the real Pytor much minds anymore. Anyhow, just like that sword, it is not yours. But I gave you that sword, and thus now it is no one else’s but yours. Allow me to give you this name as well.”
“Pytor Roshnya,” the man repeated the name, mulling over its syllables.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Pytor Roshnya,” he said confidently.
“Fantastic, Pytor!” Wolfdietrich cheered. “Tell me, have you ever considered being a soldier? I admire your work as a bodysweeper, but an accoutrement would suit you far better.”
“I appreciate the offer, but am well as is.”
“That’s not true Pytor! You cannot simply take the name of a dead man and go on ‘as is’. With this new name, you are reborn! Seek something different. Didn’t I tell you to make a name for yourself? How can I leave here, having bestowed a name, only for it to dissipate into nothingness with the rest of this world’s nobodies?”
“You make too much of me.”
“Pytor? Do you know who the Roshnya family is? They are illustrious nobles. Great swaths of people have flocked to their lands, and it is no mistake that they did. The Roshnyas are truly magnificent.”
“You sound like those superiors you hate.”
“Do not mock me! The Roshnyas are glorious! Passionate! They have earned their noble title.”
“I don’t seek to continue any legacy.”
“You do not need to continue no legacy. You only need to seek a purpose.”
“Why must I seek a purpose?”
“Because that is the burden of name-bearers.”
“Do you believe in fate, Lieutenant?”
“Heavens no! Do you think that is what I am pushing upon you, Pytor?” The Lieutenant steadied his horse. “It is quite the opposite I am asking of you. Do you continue this work because you think you are fated to? ‘One a bodysweeper, always a bodysweeper’? Pytor, if you truly despise fate as much as I do, seek a path you stumbled upon by pure coincidence. If any other bodysweeper stumbled upon this sword, they’d have the same opportunity you have now. It is quite an easy thing to do, switch out a name that is. People do it all the time. It is not fate that brought you here, to me. It is simply a matter of chance, and your decision to talk to me.”
“It sounds like you need something to offer after you lost all your soldiers,” Pytor caught on. Lieutenant Wolfdiedrich’s face scrunched up in offense.
“Why-that’s preposterous! I am offering you a great thing! With my recommendation, you won’t even need a certificate from the military academy. You’d be far better than those snobbish fools anyways.”
“Like I said, you make too much of me.”
“Pytor, you're a hard one to crack. Stubborn, like me. How about this, accompany to base, and anything you want, I will do my best to grant,” Wolfdietrich offered.
“Lets see,” Pytor thought aloud.
“Better not ask for a castle or something like that,” Wolfdietrich grumbled under his breath.
“A warm bed to sleep at night. Three meals a day, and an education.”
“Is that all?” Wolfdietrich was practically in shock. “That is but basic-” he stopped himself before Pytor could get the idea to ask for more. “Yes, I can do that for you.”
“Good. I’d be concerned if an officer of the Glorious couldn’t grant me that much.”
“So simple-minded you are. So what of it? Will you come with me?”
“Sure. I was waiting for you to bribe me, but this’ll do.”
“Was that it? You were waiting for a bribe?” Wolfdietrich chuckled. “Pytor, you're defiling that name already. Let’s go.” The Lieutenant helped Pytor climb onto his horse before kicking it firmly. The horse, at the signal, began to gallop away from the cart of bodies. The bodies waited patiently to be picked up, but for many of them, it would be a while before someone got to them. It had been a bloody battle.