At five sharp, they marched.
Iris and Roman had been granted helmets and some food for their packs, and they followed the two hundred strong Dawn Company through the winding, shadowed forest road. Lark had informed them it would be a four-kilometer march at a brisk pace, utterly silent save for the sound of their boots hitting the earth, and Iris was suddenly very thankful for those early morning runs with Roman.
Her calves were burning and she was short of breath by the time the woods began to thin, the sunset spilling orange veins across the sky. The road now ran parallel to the front, with stations erected in the cover of the forest as far as she could see. The outposts were built of stones and thatch, with soldiers coming in and out of them. Communication checkpoints, perhaps?
Her thoughts were pruned short by Lark, who suddenly emerged from the river of olive-brown uniforms to speak to her and Roman again.
“We are about to enter the communication trenches here at Station Fourteen,” he explained in a low voice. “We’re still a few kilometers from the front lines, but it’s paramount that you remain low and aware of your surroundings, even if you are at rest in the allotment of ‘safe’ trenches. You’ll also notice there will be bunkers. These are reserved for attacks, whether from Dacre’s soldiers or his hounds.”
Iris licked her lips. “Yes, I wanted to ask you about the hounds, Lieutenant Lark. What should we do if they are loosed in the night?”
“You’ll go directly to a bunker, Miss Winnow,” he replied. “With Mr. Kitt, of course.”
“And the eithrals?” Roman asked. “What is the protocol for them?”
“Eithrals are rarely seen at the front, as they cannot differentiate between Dacre’s soldiers and ours from above. The beasts would drop a bomb on their own forces if they were moving below. They’re a weapon Dacre likes to reserve for civilian towns and the railroad, I’m afraid.”
Iris couldn’t hide her shiver. Lark noticed, and his voice mellowed.
“Now then, the company will soon divide in the trenches, but you’ll trail my platoon. When we come to a stop, you may both also find a place to rest for the night. I’ll ensure you’re up before dawn, to move to the front. Of course, keep quiet and stay low and alert. Those are your imperatives. Should we be bombarded and Dacre’s forces overtake our trenches, I want the two of you to retreat to the town instantly. You may be deemed ‘neutral’ in this conflict, but I wouldn’t put it past the enemy to kill you both on sight.”
Iris nodded. Roman murmured his agreement.
She followed Lieutenant Lark’s Sycamore Platoon down into the trenches, Roman close behind her. So close, she could hear his breath, and the way it skipped, as if he were nervous and struggling to conceal it. A few times, he inadvertently stepped on her heel, jarring her.
“Sorry,” he whispered with a fleeting touch to her back.
It’s all right, she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat.
She didn’t really know what she had expected, but the trenches were well constructed, with wood planks laid on the ground to ward off mud. They were wide enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder comfortably. Sticks were woven along the walls, which curved like the path of a snake. Winding left and then right, and then splitting into two pathways before splitting yet again. She passed artillery stations, where huge cannons sat on the grass like sleeping beasts. A few low points had sandbags piled up, to provide additional coverage, and the deeper she went into the channels, the more she began to see the bunkers Lark had mentioned. Stone shelters were hollowed out of the earth, with dark, open doorways. There was nothing inviting about them, almost as if they were frozen maws, waiting to swallow soldiers, and Iris hoped she didn’t have to shelter in one.
Cool air touched her face. It smelled of dank soil with a touch of rot from the decaying wood. A few times, Iris caught the stench of refuse and piss, all threaded with cigarette smoke. She imagined she saw the scurrying of a rat or two, but perhaps the shadows were teasing her.
Her shoulders sagged in relief when the Sycamore Platoon came to a halt for the night, in a stretch of trench that was relatively dry and clean.
Iris let her bag slip from her shoulders, choosing a spot beneath a small, hanging lantern. Roman mirrored her, sitting across the path from her, his long legs crossed. Lark came by to check on them just as the stars began to dust the sky overhead. He smiled with a cigarette clamped in his teeth, settling down not too far from them, just within Iris’s sight.
The silence felt thick and strange. She was almost afraid to breathe too deeply, welcoming that heavy, chilled air into her lungs. The same air that the enemy was drawing and exhaling, mere kilometers away.
It was a silence to drown in.
She untethered her bag and found her flannel blanket, draping it across her knees as the night deepened. Next, she procured her notepad and a pen, and she began to write down highlights of the day while they were still fresh in her mind.
The darkness continued to unspool.
Iris reached for an orange in her bag, setting her notepad aside to eat. She hadn’t glanced up at Roman one time, but she knew he was also writing. She could hear the faint scratch of his pen marking the paper.
She shifted, only to feel something crinkle in her pocket.
Carver’s letter.
In the furor of the day, she had forgotten about it, still half read. But remembering it now as she was sitting in a trench, hungry and cold and anxious … his letter felt like an embrace. Like reaching for a friend in the darkness and finding their hand.
She studied Roman as he wrote, his brow furrowed. A second later, his gaze snapped up to hers, as if he had felt her eyes on him, and she glanced away, preoccupied with her orange.
She would have to wait for him to fall asleep before she retrieved the letter. The last thing in the world she wanted was for Roman Chafing Kitt to know she was magically corresponding with a boy she had never met but felt sparks for.
An hour passed. It felt like three hours, but time followed its own whim in the trenches, whether that be stalling or flowing.
Iris leaned her head back against the woven birch branches, her helmet clinking against the wood. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep. And she waited, staving off her own exhaustion. When she looked at him beneath her lashes ten minutes later, Roman’s face was slack. His eyes were shut, his breaths deep, as his chest rose and fell, his notepad precariously balanced on his knees. He looked younger, she thought. Softer. For some reason, it made her ache, and she had to push those alarming feelings aside.
But she wondered how much the two of them would change in this war. What marks would it leave on them, shining like scars that never faded?