Blood of the Martyrs (6)
It was the dead of night.
“Hngh…!”
I jolted awake in the throes of a convulsion. A chill wind licked at my skin, thoroughly unpleasant.
“W-where….”
Cracks in the hardened earth between the logs. The wailful wall so familiar to me loomed right before my eyes.
I was in the trench. All around was silence. No chirping of grasshoppers, the usual nighttime chorus back home. There was a forest nearby, but on a battlefield reduced to ashes, that was only natural.
To my left and right lay soldiers with eyes shut like the dead. Cautiously, I raised my arm and checked my wristwatch.
Three a.m. on the dot. A time that felt strangely familiar.
Squelch.Squelch.
That sound….
The sucking noise of mud. Careful footsteps pushing through the mire. A valiant effort to stay quiet, but pointless in this pit worse than a doghouse.
It was barely dawn, yet my mind was razor-sharp, hypersensitive. The edge honed by utter exhaustion picked up things I'd normally miss.
I strained my ears again. The faint noise from before resumed.
Squelch.Squelch.Squelch.
Mud. Puddles. Trench. And boots.
It all clicked in my head, forming one clear picture.
The enemy. And very close.
I could even hear muffled whispers. No doubt about it.
Enemy troops. They'd infiltrated our trench.
That meant… that meant….
“……”
A night raid. They'd struck under cover of darkness.
No idea what happened to the watch. Maybe they'd already gotten him. One thing was certain: the enemy had slipped into our trench undetected.
I rose silently, slowly lifting the rifle beside me. My trigger finger trembled violently from the extreme tension.
For a moment, I thought I might just pull it. I yanked my finger away. My sweat-slick palm slipped.
The footsteps grew closer. I considered shouting.
Yelling on the battlefield was suicide. Instead of panicking like an idiot, I nudged the two soldiers sleeping next to me.
“Urgh…! What is it, Chaplain….” “Ahh, I was sleeping so well, why wake me…. What's going on?” “Shh…! Shhh…!”
I pressed a finger to my lips urgently. Their faces hardened instantly. Without a word, they shouldered their rifles and sidled up to me.
“What? Enemy?” “Yeah. Listen close.”
Squelch.Squelch.Squelch.
The footsteps, now unmistakably near, thudded heavily. The soldiers' faces stiffened too—they'd heard it.
“Damn…. What crazy bastards sneaked in here?” “Dwarves, maybe? Heavy steps like that—not those pointy-eared shits.” “Shh…! Keep praying silently, fix bayonets everyone. If they spot us, we're done.”
The soldiers shut up. I gripped my rifle tight.
Tension coiled like a spring. My heart felt ready to burst. Fear gnawed at me. An indescribable terror wrapped my body. I was scared they'd hear my heartbeat.
Squelch.Squelch.
Now too close to turn back. I knew it. Their steps were right there.
The three of us pressed against the trench wall. Round that corner, and they'd be in our faces. The thought made my breath quicken.
I clenched my teeth, held my breath. Not a sound could escape. The soldiers beside me whispered frantically, faces taut.
“Fuck…! Chaplain, stab 'em with bayonets? Rush out and kill the bastards now?” “What happened to Anderson? He was on watch…!” “Those fuckers…! If they killed Anderson…. I'll beat 'em till they beg for mercy…!” “Shh! They're coming…!”
Squelch.Squelch.
Squelch!
A pitch-black shape emerged. It came up to my chest—definitely a dwarf patrol. I was sure.
“Now! Kill it!” “Raaagh!” “You fucking dwarf scum!”
Thud! Thud! Stab! Crunch!
Bayonets tore into flesh with a sickening sound. We stabbed wildly at the dark thing.
Thrusting mercilessly, kicking, slamming elbows into what felt like vitals—how long? Finally, a bayonet plunged into what seemed the neck. The black shape staggered without a scream and collapsed.
We panted raggedly, eyes bloodshot, staring at it.
“Hah… hah….” “F-fuck…! It dead?” “Hoo…. Damn, too dark to see shit….”
I hesitated. Use divine power to light it up? But clouds parted, moonlight spilling through.
And we saw.
“No, what….” “What the….”
A mangled, bleeding red deer, sprawled in the dirt.
Our nerves frayed to the limit, we'd mistaken a beast's shadow for the enemy.
The deer's bloodied eyes rolled, probably wandered in from the nearby woods. Those eyes fixed on me.
Yes. Those blood-soaked eyes stared right at me. The red deer. At me….
“Hah…!”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The clock's hands filled the room. I gasped, wiping my face.
Familiar surroundings. My room. The cozy faculty dorm room.
“A dream….”
Just a dream. I stared blankly at the blanket, then touched my clammy forehead.
Cold sweat. I hurled the soaked pillow aside and ruffled my hair roughly.
“Haa….”
I glanced at the wall clock.
The hands pointed exactly to three a.m.
I left the dorm. Needed to cool my head with a dawn walk.
The dorm felt stifling too. My room, usually too spacious, now oppressively so.
Stepping out, a strange thrill hit me—like a kid sneaking out for mischief.
I took a deep breath. Crisp dawn air filled my lungs. Inhaling deeply, I stepped forward.
“…Maybe head to the cathedral.”
Better than wandering aimlessly. I turned toward the cathedral.
Not far from faculty dorms—I arrived quickly.
The cathedral at dawn looked even more majestic. Stained glass glowed softly in the moonlight. Beautiful.
Last time, Giovanni's finger fiasco had me visiting late. If nothing like that happened, nighttime visits like this weren't bad.
At the doors, I realized.
“Ah, the key….”
Forgot it. What an idiot.
Didn't want to go back. But no key, no entry.
As I dithered there.
“Chaplain Antonelli?”
A familiar voice. I turned.
Peter Priest, smiling kindly as always, approached slowly.
“Fancy meeting you here. Surely the Lord's guidance.” “…I suppose.”
I wasn't thrilled. Wanted solitude for my walk, not chit-chat.
Whether he sensed it or not, he was soon beside me.
“What brings you here at this hour, Chaplain?” “Couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd stroll.” “What a coincidence. Same here.” “Ah, yes.” “If it's not a bother, care to walk together?”
It was a bother. But you can't spit in a smiling face. Hard to refuse Peter.
Last time, I'd bolted mid-talk for the bathroom—rude. This time, I'd play along.
“Sure.”
We strolled around the cathedral. The academy paths were well-kept, perfect for mulling thoughts.
We walked in silence. Five minutes, ten. The quiet stretched.
“Chaplain Antonelli.”
Peter broke it. I turned.
“Yes, Priest Peter.” “Did Camilla offend you in any way?” “……”
He knew already. How? Did she tell him?
Reading my mind, he shook his head slowly.
“She followed you out right after you left. Her fierce expression worried me….” “…A minor unpleasantness. Nothing to worry about.” “I see. Glad to hear it, but….”
We walked on silently. Moonlight lit the grounds—no tripping in the dark.
“About Camilla.”
Peter spoke again, piercing the quiet. I listened.
“Poor girl. Manners aside, she'll improve.” “I see.” “For any offense to you, I apologize on her behalf. But….” “Priest Peter.”
I cut him off. He looked at me.
“Maybe I'm wrong, but you and Camilla don't seem close.” “…That obvious? Not wrong, perhaps.” “Then why defend her?”
Peter fell silent. I waited.
After a pause, he spoke.
“I don't hate Camilla, Chaplain.” “Doesn't add up.” “I just resent her original sin.”
Original sin.
I knew instantly. His bitter eyes met mine.
“The Great War?” “You served too. Guessed it from your reaction that day.” “……” “I don't hate those who fought. Just their sins.” “Hate the sin, not the sinner….” “Antica Testament, chapter 17 verse 3.”
I stopped—I noticed my fists trembling. I glared accusingly.
“What's the point? Sin is committed by people, isn't it?”
Sounded like wordplay from narrow-minded folk.
“I can't agree. Sin's essence is the person, Priest Peter. Can't separate them.” “Chaplain Antonelli.” “We live with our sins. Especially people like me and Camilla—inescapably intertwined.”
Peter, a few steps ahead, stopped and turned.
“That sounds like admitting you're a sinner too.” “Aren't I? Don't you think so? You're from the Holy Nation!”
I yelled. Chest tight, suffocating. Drowning in ghostly memories.
“Holy Nation folk all said it! Murderers! Pay for your crimes! I felt that baseless hate with my whole body!”
Peter just watched. I screamed louder, furious.
“And now you say don't hate the person? Sin and man are separate?! Now?!”
My clenched fists shook. Nails dug into palms, stinging.
“If you're gonna say that, then from the start….” “……” “You should've said it from the beginning….”
I turned from him, stomping back to the dorm.
If not for his next words.
“So you'll keep flailing in the pit of original sin?”
“Noble to bear your own sin. But if it blocks your path…. I can't agree with that.” “…What do you know to say that.” “At least, I know it wasn't your fault, Chaplain Antonelli.” “……!”
I stared blankly. My half-turned body faced him again.
“Chaplain Antonelli. Don't you see the dead-end wall ahead? How long will you backtrack that thorny path just because you hit it?” “…I.” “It's a maze with no exit. So leap the wall. Press forward somehow!”
Peter approached slowly. Tears streamed from his wrinkled eyes.
I looked away. Couldn't face him.
“…Can I be forgiven?”
The murmur slipped out. His reply followed.
“Judging sin is the Lord's alone.” “……” “As His servants…. We must move forward.”
I mulled his words silently.
Slowly. Very slowly.
Dissecting each one, I finally nodded heavily.
“…Let's head back. It's late.”
I walked to the dorm. Peter muttered behind me.
“When sin enters the world, if man is not wicked, behold sin beneath man….”
Revelation, chapter 2 verse 4.
Why did those words stab my heart like a dagger?