Come Marching Home

By Hazel B. West

“It’s like, for them, life just went on, and then we drop back into it and we don’t fit anymore. Like they’ve already figured out how to survive without us and we’re just here, in the way, until we can figure out how to get our old lives back. But we’re not the same people, and probably never will be.”

After being away for over a year, Alfonse Keller has returned from the trenches on Teuton’s western front, fighting in the war that’s broken out against the Steppes. He should feel relieved now that’s he’s back in his own village in the care of his brother Ernst, but he’s not. It seems like nothing has changed except for him, like he’s a traveler from a different world.

When Alfonse left to join the army, he was a natural magician making a name for himself, but after a tragic incident resulting in the death of his friend, and his own crippling injury, he no longer has the ability to use magic.

Suffering from constant nightmares and revisited trauma, Alfonse can’t get the trenches out of his head. Ernst tries to help, but he doesn’t really understand either. How can he, when Alfonse doesn’t really understand himself? He feels like a phantom, standing on the outskirts of a life he’ll never live again.

As Ernst tries to do everything he can for his brother, he can’t help but feel like Alfonse is slipping away, that maybe part of him never left the trenches at all. But how can he save his brother when Alf refuses to let anyone in?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hazel B. West
• Release date: Oct 13, 2020

Hazel B. West

I spend a good bit of my time writing historical fiction about brave men and women who have graced the pages of history, trying to bring more light to their legacies so readers of all ages will enjoy them.My favorite things/hobbies: Writing obviously, listening to and playing Irish and Scottish folk music, practicing with all eras and types of historical weaponry, GOOD COFFEE, reading of course, dark (dark) chocolate, sketching/painting, hats and boots, collecting little old-fashioned things of all kinds, buying books, and don't forget dressing in period clothing!My favorite kinds of books: Good adventure (sometimes with a little romance), Epic historical series, anything having to do with brotherhood or camaraderie--I'll read anything if it has a strong brotherly bond between two or more guys, time travel novels as long as they are traveling back in time (and not in their own lifetime), good steampunk novels (heavy on the clankers and none of the weird things), military adventure, historical fiction that's either well-written or has unique twists, meaningful or bittersweet war novels, occasionally a good funny book especially ones that are spoofs off old stories or fairy tales, and classics--always the classics!

Book preview

Prologue

It was all darkness, close and pressing. Heady dirt mixing with the coppery scent of blood, but breath was hard to find. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t…

The echoes of pained screams pounded in his ears and his breath came faster and faster, lungs spasming, panic setting in.

Then something grabbed his ankle and pulled. Light spilled through the darkness, piercing his aching head…

"Alfonse!"

Alfonse!

He woke with a sharp gasp and pushed himself up before he remembered his head and sank back onto the cot, dizzy. He was soaked in sweat, the thin blanket suffocating to him, his clothing soaked and clinging like a second skin. He wrenched the blanket from around him and gasped for breath as he watched it tumble off the side of the cot, pooling on the floor, his head pounding. He reached up and touched the tender line of stitches there in the shorn spot behind his ear, closing his eyes again as he waited for the panic to subside. The memory that would not let him go.

Alf, you’re out.

He finally managed to look over to the cot beside him where Franz sat up against the wall. A look on his face that was both concerned and just as haunted as Alfonse’s probably was.

He raised a shaky hand—they hadn’t really stopped shaking since the tunnel—and pushed his hair back out of his eyes before rubbing his hand over his face.

We’ll never really be out, he said, voice a hoarse whisper.

Franz swallowed hard and looked down at his lap, unable to deny the truth behind that statement.

Alfonse slowly lay back down on the cot and stared up at the rough ceiling of the sheltered infirmary. He felt suffocated in here, knowing he was under the ground. What he wouldn’t give for the clear, starry skies back home in the village. Instead all he had was mud, and death, and memories that wouldn’t let him sleep.

It seemed he would get his wish sooner than he expected.

The medic came to assess him on the General’s request the next day, and though the head wound and the bullet hole in his leg were healing well enough, both were debilitating in their own way. He couldn’t go an hour at a time without pounding headaches and his leg made it impossible for him to walk unaided. A solder, especially a Sergeant Major and a magician, had no place hobbling around on a walking stick.

There was also another factor he had tried not to think too much about.

Alfonse couldn’t use magic anymore.

Just try something easy, the medic, a gruff yet kindly older man, urged him during the assessment, placing a candle in front of him. Light this.

It should have been easier than breathing—though, Alfonse knew how hard that could be under certain circumstances now as well. But this task proved to be even harder than finding a breath in the collapsed tunnel, and only a little over a week ago he had been throwing heavy duty fireballs at the enemy with barely a whisper of thought.

He could not light the candle. The only thing that happened was that he got an even worse headache than he’d had before.

Never mind, we’ll try again when you’re healed a little more, the medic said, though in a way that Alfonse could tell he wasn’t too confident.

He’d heard about head injuries disabling magical abilities for natural magicians like himself, but it was a rare occurrence.

It looked like he might be one of the unlucky few.

He waited three days to try again, but still couldn’t do anything, not even the slightest bit of magic. Part of him felt a great loss, as if some vital part of his body had been taken away. He’d been born with the power and felt empty without the knowledge that he could use it at will.

And yet, some other part of him was almost relieved. After everything he had been forced to do in the war…maybe it was best that he wasn’t able to use his powers anymore. Maybe it was a just punishment for his crimes and actions.

But a magician who couldn’t use magic or even walk without the aid of a cane was no use on the battlefront.

He was called into the General’s office when he could move by himself for the most part with a crutch.

General Roth was sitting there at his desk, wearing his typical sour face, but Alfonse felt nothing. It was odd, because usually he could barely stand the sight of the man anymore, after he had seen the General’s true colors. Now he was too tired to be bothered to feel much of anything.

At the General’s shoulder, was Captain Beck, Alfonse’s direct commanding officer. His fatherly face was tight and concerned as it had been every time he looked at Alfonse lately. The young man felt uncomfortable receiving his Captain’s concern. He was fine. He had to be fine.

Have a seat, Keller, the Captain said as he came in, motioning to a chair.

Alfonse looked at it, and decided that the awkward attempt to sit with his crutch’s support and getting back up again would be too much.

I’ll stand, thank you, he replied.

The captain pressed his lips together, but didn’t protest. Alfonse shifted his grip on his crutch and glanced down, suddenly feeling bad, like he had disappointed his captain even though he knew that was silly.

Sergeant Major Keller, the General said, startling Alfonse back into the present. He looked up to meet the man’s hard grey eyes. I’m sorry to inform you that, due to your injuries, we don’t see that you are fit to serve any longer. So, I’m going to offer you an honorable discharge, for the time being. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small wooden box. However, your act in the tunnel was one of bravery. Without your quick thinking, the enemy would have made it to our camp. Because of that, you have been awarded an Iron Eagle for your actions.

He slid the box across the desk. Alfonse stood there for a long moment before he reached out for it. He opened the box and saw the medal sitting in a velvet divot, the ribbon was the blue of the Teuton national flag, and from it hung an iron eagle encircled by a laurel.

He should say thank you, that he was honored, and yet every word stuck in his throat. He closed the box, holding it numbly. He felt Captain Beck watching him and shame and a million other things started to wash over him.

A transport will be leaving tomorrow morning to take the wounded soldiers back to the home front, General Roth was saying and Alfonse forced himself to look back up at him. Have your things packed.

Alfonse still just stood there until Captain Beck cleared his throat softly. Alfonse wet his lips and ducked his head, clicking his heels awkwardly before slowly turning around and leaving the General’s office.

He returned to the infirmary and sat on his bed for a long time, not packing his things. He was alone for now. Only a few other wounded soldiers lying in cots further down the row. No one wanted to stay close to him because he continued to have nightmares. Franz had only had minor injuries so he’d left days ago to return to duty. Alchemists couldn’t stay away from the front lines long if they could be utilized.

His head ached and he lowered it to press the heels of his hands against his eyes. Like every time he closed them, he saw the darkness again. The initial gunshot, the blood across his face. His frantic fight, and the second shot, his head hitting a rock…

He found he was breathing heavily and startled when a footstep creaked across the badly raised boards.

Keller.

The voice was soft and kind and Alfonse hated that more than anything at the moment. He looked up, jaw tight, to see Captain Beck standing in front of him. The older man took a seat on the cot opposite.

Do you need help packing? he asked.

Why did I get a medal? Alfonse asked before he could stop himself.

For an act of valor in the face of the enemy, Captain Beck said simply.

Alfonse snorted, looking at the wooden box in disgust. Valor. Bravery. I did nothing but survive. I lost a man, a friend. Where’s his medal for bravery? He didn’t even see it coming.

Alfonse ducked his head, images of that moment rushing through him and making his head ache. A flash of silver in the dim light. Gilbert’s blood splashing across his face…

You know that’s just how it works, Alfonse, the captain said and Alfonse looked up, surprised at his familiarity. You know they just give you the medals for being the one who got out. Perhaps to reassure themselves that what they make you do means something; hope you’ll end up believing the same. But in the end, it’s really to clear their own conscious more than it is yours.

Alfonse looked away, hands clasped tightly in his lap, nails digging into his palms. The physical pain a sharp contrast to the one inside, helping ease some of the inner anguish for the moment.

Captain Beck stood back up and set a gentle hand on Alfonse’s shoulder. Alfonse stiffened but didn’t shake him off.

I’ll send Weber to help you pack your things. Cheer up, Keller. You’re going home. I’m sure your brother will be glad to have you back.

The thought of Ernst sent both a pang of longing and one of trepidation through him, but the longing won out. Maybe back home in their own house he would feel better. Get the mud and the blood and the screams of the dying out of his head.

Captain Beck gave his shoulder a small squeeze before he left.

Alfonse got up with a pained grunt, and made his way to his bunk in the barracks to pack his trunk.

When he got on the transport the next morning, he left the wooden box with the medal in it on his cot in the infirmary. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

He was going home.

Chapter One

Ernst Keller knocked on the door to the final house on his rounds. Frau Klein’s baby boy had a fever and he’d made a tincture that would work well yet still be kind enough for an infant to use.

Her daughter, a girl of about eight, opened the door at his knock and he smiled.

Hi, Ernst, she said, voice small.

And how are you this morning, Lettie? he asked, taking off his cap and stepping inside.

All right, she said with a small smile back before it turned into a frown. Are you going to help Heinz?

Ernst reached out and tweaked her nose gently. Don’t you worry; your brother will be right as rain soon enough. Now where’s your mother?

In here, Ernst.

He followed the woman’s voice and found Frau Kline in the back room of the first story, which was the nursery. She sat rocking a fussy baby and looked up gratefully when Ernst came in.

Thank you for coming, she said.

Of course, let me see the little man. He reached out and took the baby from her arms, reaching up to stroke the overly warm forehead. At his touch, he willed some of his healing ability into the baby, like he did when he planted the herbs for his garden. The infant stopped fussing and seemed to rest easier. Ernst cradled him for a couple more minutes before he settled him into his cradle while Frau Klein stood by, watching anxiously.

It’s not anything too bad, he promised her with a smile. Just a little chill—not surprising, considering the time of year. The herbal mixture I brought will work fine. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the small package. A teaspoon of this in warm milk twice a day. He may fuss to drink it, but once he does, even one dose should start to work.

Thank you, Frau Klein told him and made her way to the kitchen. She fetched a purse and was about to count out coins. How much do I owe you?

Ernst held up his hand. Nothing for so little.

But times are so tight, she protested.

And I just have myself to feed, Ernst reminded her gently. If you wish to give me anything, a couple of those apple pastries the next time you make them are payment enough.

She smiled and reached up to touch his cheek. Of course, dear. I’ll make them as soon as Heinz is feeling better.

Ernst left the house and made his way back to the shop. He had some more tinctures and medicines to put together today, things he was running low on. And he was going to have to move some of his herbs into the hothouse in preparation for the coming winter.

He didn’t get far down the road though, when someone called his name.

Ernst!

He spun around and saw a telegraph boy running toward him.

A sudden feeling of sickness seized him as the boy stopped in front of him.

What is it, Karl? he asked.

A message for you, Karl said and handed him the small, brown envelope.

Ernst swallowed and fumbled in his pocket to pay the boy before hurrying back toward the shop.

He didn’t want to open it. Didn’t want the uncertainty to become certain. And yet, he couldn’t stand not knowing either.

He dumped his satchel carelessly on the table, scattering a few bundles of dried herbs as he took one long look at the envelope and then with a breath to steel himself, he ripped it open.

As he read the short message, he sagged in relief and slumped in a chair, legs like jelly and hands shaking so much the paper fell onto the table. He said a quick prayer of thanks to the goddess of warriors and allowed himself to breathe again.

Alfonse was on his way back to him.

His brother was coming home.

It had been over a year since the war with the Steppes started after a series of events that led to a border raid that led to shots fired, that led to an important man getting shot. No one really knew how that turned into a full-fledged war, but it had. And soon every man who could wield a weapon, magical or otherwise, was sent off to the trenches to fight for Teuton in the hopes that the war would stay out there in the vast fields between the border of Teuton and the Steppes, far away from the cities and the people.

Alfonse had volunteered. He’d always been a bit restless for the small country village, and Ernst had always known that, but it had gotten worse since their parents died. They’d both been taken by a sickness that had swept through the country despite everything his mother had tried. Even healers couldn’t fix everything.

The brothers had been alone after that, and Ernst, only seventeen and just four years older than his younger brother, had to take over the business and raise Alfonse as well.

And that had been a task. Alf had been a wild boy, though not in a bad way. Just free. He could cause mischief, but then smile and gain the hearts of the villagers all the same. He certainly had gained the hearts of most of the girls in the village once he was older, that was for sure. Alf had been a ladies’ man pretty much since he could walk.

And he was a natural magician, and a highly adept one at that, which meant that everyone offered him a certain respect. There weren’t a lot of them out here in the country since most were readily snatched up for work in the cities.

So when the war started, Alfonse had instantly wanted to go. It was probably best in the long run, Ernst now realized. He would have been conscripted soon enough, after a few months, when they realized that this fight wasn’t just going to blow over with a few blows and a couple peace treaties, everyone with magic, especially the natural magicians and alchemists had been taken to the front. Ernst had only stayed because he was given a pass as the only healer in his village and the only one with any natural talent until you got to Iron City.

Part of him wished to have gone with Alf in the beginning. It had been hard to let his little brother walk toward death alone—well, not alone, he had taken Franz Weber and Gilbert Seidel with him, all of them volunteering together. But they were all young, and Alfonse was all Ernst had left, and the thought of losing him was unbearable. But another part of him seemed to realize that Alfonse needed to do this without him. He was nineteen when he left. A man, and a powerful magician. Ernst knew they needed him, and though he wanted to keep his baby brother to himself where he would be safe, he knew that he had to let him go this time.

Every day was like walking on eggshells. Alfonse wrote to him at first then eventually stopped. Ernst understood. He knew the war was hard. Their father had fought in the previous one, and he never talked about it. Sometimes he got that distant look in his eye that told them he was remembering something. But it was still hard for Ernst to know nothing of his brother’s safety or whereabouts. Nothing to rely on but the telegraphs that would come in every few days, telling of another soldier who wouldn’t be marching home. Every time he didn’t receive one he said a prayer of thanks, and asked for his brother’s protection.

In the meantime, he ran the shop that their parents had left, tended his garden, and made his medicines. Tried to keep his spirits up, help where he was needed. He was one of the few young men left in town now, and so he did odd jobs for the soldier’s wives and the elderly. He neatly evaded the young women who showed up at his shop nearly daily to ask for some tincture for some new ache, oftentimes coming to a squabble right on his doorstep if more than one happened to show up at the same time. He smiled at the shopkeeper’s daughter, Ada, when he went to buy dry goods, which only made the other village girls more determined to win him over.

He survived. But he missed his brother dearly. Alfonse had been Ernst’s constant companion for the majority of his life and all his other boyhood friends had gone to war with him. He tried not to feel so alone, but sometimes, he couldn’t really help it.

But now his brother was coming back, and he felt as if some weight he didn’t know was there had been lifted from his chest.

He had a lot of preparation to see to. For the most part, Alfonse’s room had been left untouched, even his clothes were still there, since he only needed a uniform now. He cleaned the room though, dusted it, aired the sheets…not an easy task in the bleak, wet weather they had been having, but it would have to do.

The telegraph had said that Alfonse had been injured, but Ernst didn’t worry over much about that. He was a healer after all; the idea of an injured little brother did not daunt him. He simply made up a few more tinctures and creams that were good for wounds.

It was three days between the time Ernst received the telegraph to when the transport truck pulled up outside the shop door.

He had just been making up his orders for the day when he heard the rumbling sound of a magic engine outside. He dropped what he was doing instantly, tore off his apron and ran outside into the chill morning in just his shirtsleeves.

The back of the truck was sheltered with canvas, and a man got down, hauling out a trunk before another came around the back.

Alfonse appeared then, a crutch held in one hand, and a wary look on his face as he eyed the distance between the truck bed and the ground. The man reached up and helped him down.

Alfonse swayed slightly, then stuck his crutch into the cobbles and finally looked up at the shop.

Ernst was already moving, unable to stay away a moment longer. A grin spread across his face despite himself, and his arms were already open when Alfonse turned to see him.

Alf! he cried and caught his brother up in a cheerful embrace.

He was so glad to see him that for the first few seconds he didn’t realize Alf wasn’t hugging him back.

In fact, upon the initial embrace, Alfonse stiffened up entirely. It was only after a few seconds that he relaxed in his brother’s hold, forehead lowering to rest on his shoulder, even if Alf’s arms didn’t wrap around Ernst like they normally would have.

Ernst held him for a little while longer, taking stock of the extra few inches Alf had grown—taller than he was now!—and the pounds his already slim brother had lost. He could feel the lean muscle, but there was more bone than he would like. His cheek rested on top of the dark head, exhaling deeply, as if he had been holding his breath the entire time Alfonse was gone and was only now able to release it.

Welcome home, brother, he said, then pulled away.

Alfonse looked startled to lose the contact, and perhaps also a little relived. Ernst smiled reassuringly and finally, Alf’s lips curled up a little too. A bit of relief shot through Ernst’s chest. He reached out to squeeze Alfonse’s shoulder.

Come on, I’ll make you breakfast. You should get off that leg.

And like that, his brother was home.

At least in body.

As Ernst turned away to pick up the trunk, his smile faded because of the look he had seen in his brother’s eyes. It was the same he had seen in his father’s when he was having a bad day.

He feared that, perhaps, Alfonse had left something of himself back at the war front.

Chapter Two

Alfonse had been a knot of emotions the whole journey across the country, like the impossible knot from the old legends that a noble warrior of Teuton had outsmarted and won the right to the kingdom. But there was no single swipe of a blade to untangle Alfonse. His wounds were aching from the tight quarters and the jarring of the truck. And then everything culminated when he saw his village, Coldbrooke, on the horizon.

He was coming home.

He reminded himself of that every other minute, and yet still couldn’t quite decide whether that reassurance was a balm to his twisted feelings or not. He was relieved, yes, and yet there was still that small part of him that was scared to return. He just didn’t quite know why.

But when they’d pulled up outside of his house that doubled as their family shop, relief had won out at least for the moment. It was in the same place on the street as it always had been. Warm, and inviting, with the blue door and white trim, both of which looked like they’d been touched up while he was gone. The smell of wood smoke from the oven inside, lightly scented with the herbs Ernst was likely drying, gave him an instant nostalgia that, for a very brief moment, allowed him to forget his leg.

And then his brother had been there. As soon as the driver had helped Alfonse out of the truck with his bad leg, Ernst had been there folding him in a firm embrace, taking his weight and welcoming him home.

And in that moment of familiar touch, his nose pressed against his brother’s shoulder, smelling the familiar scent of him, the herbs perpetually clinging to his clothes, he