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“It is strange. We’re sacrificing ourselves for men we would’ve shot instantly two years ago.”
Barry did not look up at once. The nib of his pen hovered indecisively above a requisition form already smeared with mud and ash and something else he didn’t dare identify.
“Strange is one word for it,” Barry said at last, as he flicked a blot of ink from the paper with a sharp movement of his wrist. “I’d have chosen absurd, or even criminal. But strange will do, if you were being charitable.”
Moritz’s mouth twitched—something close to a smile.
The Prussian was sitting opposite of Barry, on the second floor of Hougoumont’s entrance building. The fireplace next to them together with the lit candles provided enough light for them to work. In the centre of the table was a detailed map of Waterloo weighed down by Moritz’s kettle. Steam curled from it faintly in upward ribbons, carrying the grassy yet bitter scent of the leaves inside.
Outside, the other soldiers were preparing for the incoming waves; orders were being yelled in French, Prussian and English, creating a twisted symphony, and the persistent rhythms of Sappers hammering down barricades were starting to annoy Barry (though he had to be grateful it was at least a consistent tempo).
Moritz held his teacup in both hands as if it was fragile and rare rather than dented tin. The tea inside was dark enough to be nearly black; over-steeped to a point of bitterness. Much to the Englishman’s dissatisfaction, Moritz preferred it that way.
“They will say later,” Moritz continued, “that it was a noble gesture. Former enemies standing together.” He took a measured sip. “I suspect they will omit the part where we had no other choice.”
Barry let out a half-laugh. “The word ‘nobility’ only comes from the mouths of historians an’ journalists.”
He used the toe of his boot to locate a pile of newspapers from the Britannia Herald he tossed onto the ground earlier to make room on the table. Then, he bent down and picked a copy up. He laid it squarely atop Moritz’s neat stack of correspondence, which were all written in his precise hand, for him to read; Barry’s own paperwork in contrast looked as though it had survived a skirmish of its own.
“That reminds me—have ya read this yet?” Barry gestured to the newspaper as he took a sip from his own cup (of course after grimacing when the steam reached him). The article was about a British soldier talking about a clash with cannibals at San Sebastián.
(Despite his strong dislike for the tea, a part of him couldn’t let go of this odd ritual between the two. Maybe it was due to Moritz pouring the tea for him with such solemnness each time. Or perhaps because once he witnessed him offer another officer tea, who unfortunately scoffed aloud at the smell. Moritz stared at him with a perpetual scowl for so long the officer flushed, stammered an apology and drank it in the end.)
Moritz set his cup down carefully next to his pile of paperwork, and took the newspaper.
“You should sign that,” Moritz added, nodding towards the paper beneath the Englishman’s pen as he began reading the article, “before another courier is killed trying to carry it.”
The paperwork Barry had yet to sign slipped his mind. He grumbled before scrawling his name with much more force than necessary.
“Happy?” he muttered.
“Marginally,” Moritz replied dryly.
Silence settled between them, punctuated only by the crackle of fire and the distant hammering below. Moritz read the newspaper to the best of his abilities with furrowed brows—to him, the vernacular and careless grammar made it more difficult to read, but he persisted.
Barry returned to his remaining documents, though his attention was starting to waver again. He found his eyes drifting towards Moritz without quite intending it. He watched his eyes move lower and lower, noting where they lingered and where they slowed. He was the one who insisted upon the Prussian to read it. Yet now his leg bounced restlessly beneath the table. However, he had to make a point.
The words echoed in his head.
‘…Not before the blast attracted all those man-eatin’ cannibals. While an officer was lowerin’ us down, lad was attacked by a sneaky one. I climbed back up an’ managed to get it off ‘im an’ took over from there…’
A lad.
Reduced to a line or two, he thought bitterly. An inconvenience briefly noted before the tale returned to its hero.
If he had looked behind him sooner, perhaps he wouldn’t have been scarred and he’d get his rightful recognition. Or if he’d die, he’d earn a paragraph with his rank and name in the title. Possibly then they’d write about how he led the way, how he stayed at the winch until the last man was clear.
He only caught himself when he heard Moritz place down the newspaper with a decisive thud. Barry, realising he was frowning, gave a smug smile before leaning back in his chair until it creaked in protest.
“Y’see what I said about ‘nobility’? They’ll be singin’ ‘bout how this Robert man was so terribly brave for decades an’ nothin’ ‘bout my-“
He was surprised when he looked back to Moritz, only to find his normally stoic look replaced with something softer; almost gentle. It unsettled Barry more than a scowl ever could.
“… Own, uh… efforts.”
Moritz did not respond at once. Barry felt him studying his face. His gaze lingered on the runner scar raking across his cheek. Then, to his eyes.
“Does it still trouble you?”
“What?”
“Your scar.”
Barry scoffed, because that was easier.
“Trouble me?” Barry echoed, as he lifted his hand to gesture at his scar in a lazy, dismissive manner. “It was two years ago, and it’s not like it’s still bleedin’. I manage.”
Moritz’s gaze stayed fixed and steady.
“You wince when you smile too broadly,” he said.
Barry’s hand fell away from his face as his smile faltered. His chair creaked again as he sat upright once more.
“Well, you seemed to have studied me the past few days. Should I be flattered?” Barry asked lightly.
“…”
“… I don’t need to tell you anything.”
The Prussian looked down at his hands, folded neatly near his teacup, and for a moment Barry thought he might let the matter drop. That would have been most preferable.
But Moritz instead exhaled through his nose, a slow, controlled breath. He spoke in a softer tone.
“Mine still aches.”
Before Barry could register what that statement meant, Moritz’s fingers moved with deliberate care to the high collar of his own uniform. He tugged the fabric aside and turned his head slightly, exposing the right side of his neck.
There, from beneath his jaw towards his throat, was a dull pink, jagged scar.
“Kaub,” Moritz stated, “Last winter, while we were securing Pfalzgrafenstein.“
Barry stared despite himself. The scar had missed the artery by a margin so small Barry felt a chill along his own neck just by looking at it.
“That was when… Blücher-“
“Turned,” Moritz finished.
“You nearly-“
“Yes.”
The Englishman let out a low whistle. “Hell of a thing, that. Didn’t think you were that close to him.”
“I was his adjutant,” the Prussian replied. “Close enough to hear his breathing grow ragged. He collapsed. I went closer to check him over.”
He let the collar fall back into place with care, his fingers lingering a fraction longer than required. The motion was precise, but something in his eyes betrayed tension.
“It aches in the cold and when I turn my head too sharply.”
“Oh,” Barry said, eloquently.
He glanced away first, his gaze skidding towards the fireplace. He swept the few loose strands of his curls aside his face (more out of nervousness), only for them to bounce back in rebellion.
“That’s… unfortunate,” he muttered.
“Mhm.”
“And you just—what? Carried on as if your field marshal didn’t try to take your throat out like a rabid dog?”
Moritz’s brow creased faintly. “He was ill.”
Barry barked out a humourless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
Silence fell once more, now heavier. Barry drummed his fingers against the table before reaching for his cup once more, finishing the tea in a large gulp. Moritz rested his hands on the table again, as his gaze landed at Barry’s scar. He looked away when Barry set his cup back down.
“Sometimes,” Barry said, slowly, “it feels like it hasn’t healed proper. Like it’s still opened, jus’ under the skin. When I’m tired or when I’ve had a drink.” He frowned. “Or when I smile too much, apparently.”
Moritz listened with the same attention he brought to maps and orders, as if Barry’s words were something to be carefully accounted for.
“The surgeons said it’d settle,” he went on, his eyes on the fire again. “Said I was lucky. Missed the eye an’ the bone an’ all that rot. They didn’t say anythin’ ‘bout how it’d feel when you wake up an’ remember how close it got.”
Moritz’s fingers curled slightly against the tabletop.
“And you’ve never told anyone,” he noted.
“No point in doin’ so,” Barry replied. “Doesn’t change anything, does it?”
Moritz considered this, then spoke quietly, “It might.”
Barry snorted. “You volunteering?”
“If necessary.”
Barry’s chest felt strangely tight.
“Well,” he stated, after a moment, “you’ve got your wish then. Congratulations.”
Moritz inclined his head a fraction, allowing himself the faintest of smiles.
“Don’t get used to it though,” Barry added, with a crooked yet sincere smile, “I’m not one for… confessionals.”
Moritz’s brow lifted slightly. “I would have been alarmed, had you been.”
That earned a short huff of laughter from Barry, a sound softer than his usual bark.
Barry did not look at Moritz again. He feared that if he did, he might find that same warmth waiting for him—and he was not certain he would know how to withstand it twice in one evening.
Instead, he reached for his pen once more and pretended to read a line on the next piece of correspondence, though the ink blurred.
And when Moritz poured the next cup of tea, he set it a little closer to Barry’s hand.