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The smooth, rolling hills and fields of Bihain, occasionally broken by ancient wood or rushing stream, were idyllic and beautiful – and [i]perfect[/i] for fox hunts.  The equestrian legacy of the family that would become the de Bihains was strong in those lands and the stock of their horses equally vital, and so hunting was a regular pastime that they hosted for the well-to-do of the region, leisure over which connections might be forged with one’s guests, of higher or lower status.  Alexandre had ridden since he was a boy and, as the first son of his family, had been obligated to participate in many such events – and yet he was not a keen hunter.  He adored the dogs, of course (and so hadn’t been entirely terrified when he finally caught sight of Alex’s new hulking mass of muscle that he hadn’t noticed standing [i]right there the whole time[/i]), and the horses were beyond glorious, but the act itself felt meaningless to him.  What chance did the foxes have?  There was no contest in it, no honour or glory at stake, only an opponent that couldn’t hope to fight back and an act of meaningless death.  When he…  [i]Before[/i], it had been better – still compelled to plan to take an opponent off guard when one blazed forth against a foe, yes, but an opponent who would have stood a meaningful chance otherwise and could still rally after the moment of the charge.

The shadowy forms of those thoughts passed through Alexandre’s mind as the soldiers of the 15th Atlantic Rifles stormed the trench.  The imperials died in an instant, bullet and bayonet ripping at their flesh like metal teeth.  With it, what small fire he had stoked through the approach amongst the chilling frost that he had gathered around himself for months was snuffed out.  Even as he dropped into the imperial trench and saw the – [i]flesh twisted, crushed, blood seeping into the ground and crows drinking from[/i] – he swallowed down the nausea, armouring himself with frigid pragmatism.

[i]Shots taken – there will be reinforcements shortly.[/i]  Alexandre scanned the field – the Darscen woman leading the path down into the dugout and most of the others piling in.  [i]If we all go, we will be pinned down, without question…[/i]  They would need a rearguard to keep the way back secure – one more sizeable than a single…  [i]Marks[/i]man [i]or woman?  Difficult to tell…[/i]  Regardless, they had the numbers to use; thus, with a strength belying his wiry form, he crouched down and pulled the body closest to whence they’d come back behind the wall of the trench, out of sight.  Sparing a moment to trace the Valkyrur spiral over the man’s chest, he turned to the black-haired…  [i]Individual.  And that is an Edinburgh accent, no?[/i]  “I have the right – keep…  If you keep the left secure,” he intoned in their native tongue, his mind registering only after a moment that this was an equal rather than inferior.  Energy was, after all, racing through long-untrodden paths in his mind, carved at Lanseal in what little they had taught of the actions of individual infantry sections.

He could not see a great deal of the left, admittedly, but it seemed the trench ran straight for a stretch, ideal for a sharpshooter to lock down and pick off their targets at will.  The right, on the other hand?  Enclosed, the approach defined by a single, short passage.  It almost brought back memories.

Alexandre stood, his hand going to his hip.  In one motion, the blade was drawn, brought above his head to be blessed by the aurora, then to his lips before coming close to his side as he put the other against the same wall he’d placed the body behind.  A single lunging cut would reach the other side of the trench, he knew, before anyone in between had a chance to act.  The other hand reached down with it…

The [i]weight[/i].

…and drew his revolver.

And Alexandre centred himself and listened.  And his heart quickened in his chest, for his opponents now would be more than foxes.

[@Hawthorne]