Chapter Text
According to most religions worldwide, you must have guidance to do something good for somebody and eventually yourself. For Ludwig, this could not be farther from the truth. Unlike his orthodox brother, Ludwig does not believe he needs a codex to have good morals.
Quite the opposite.
He’s fine on his own and has been for years. He’s seen what war does to a man, and the results are brutal and unforgiving. Slaughtered at the hand of your comrade or what your enemy might consider a friend is a fate no one opts for when choosing their way out of this cruel world. When men are asked how they would like to perish, they either choose to die by their lovers or mothers or turn up another pint for the last time.
Those same men bleed out on the battlefield, terrified, and wondering if a soul is going to save them or end their misery. Ludwig has seen every unfortunate demise that endows his men, and he has no choice but to move on. War leaves no room to grieve—war pushes the bodies onto bramble in search of another soul willing to die for whatever effort it’s fighting for this time.
That’s what his brother taught him. It’s cruel and unfair, but his older brother was raised when the terms earned their definition. Almost every experienced war general knows that saying as a fact and take it up as one.
Except for Feliciano. The exception among men, if you would even call him that.
But, considerably, no other man on Earth still smiles when both legs are gone.
In the Battle of Stalingrad, a devastating loss was delivered to the Germans’ doorstep and proved something was changing in the air—for better or worse. Millions perished in that seven-month battle of countless amounts of bloodshed. The effort to capture Moscow was enough to destroy Feliciano’s attitude, Kharkiv, and eventually, Stalingrad is where he suffered the most damage.
Within three hours of battle, Feliciano managed to amputate both his legs somehow. It’s been around a week since he last saw him as he was admitted to the infirmary. The six thousand men who survived the attack, including Feliciano and Ludwig, were stationed in Milan for the time being. Ludwig didn’t suffer many injuries he couldn’t heal by himself, but Feliciano, as he usually does, requires special attention.
It’s the early morning—a little after daybreak. Nurses don’t arrive until eight in the morning, according to Ludwig’s schedule. As a commander, he has vital duties to take care of, especially after a humiliating loss. However, one of his essential duties also happens to be fulfilling a promise from Mussolini, stating he would train this Italian until he makes his motherland proud. Although his recent efforts are certainly applaudable, they’re nonetheless unwise and rather elementary. However, Ludwig wouldn’t choose to befriend Feliciano on purpose if he wasn’t forced to.
He opens the door to the infirmary warehouse, revealing dusty sunlight and painting the room in a gentle gold. Some patients are asleep and others lie awake—one of the conscious ones happens to be Feliciano, reading something in his lap. When he hears Ludwig shut the infirmary doors, his jaw perks up and he smiles pleasantly.
Ludwig pulls out a wooden stool from the bedside and sits on it, unsure of what to say next. Thankfully, Feliciano was always the more talkative one.
“You know,” The Italian mumbles. “With the way things are going in my country, I don’t think I’ll escape this bed for another two months.”
“How do you know?” Ludwig asks.
“Well, newspapers. But, also, I just feel so sluggish, y’know? And it’s never like me to feel tired!” Despite his exhaustion, the enthusiasm in his voice never falters. “You never felt so tired you just… y’know, don’t wanna get out of bed?”
“No… I just wouldn’t expect it from you.”
The corner of Feli’s lips quirk. “Yeah, me neither.”
The shadows draping on his bed are flat. Legs would be there to curve the shadow, but all Ludwig sees are Feli’s right leg cut off at the knee and his left missing entirely.
“You never told me how you got them this way,” Ludwig mentions.
“Oh, yeah. I never did, did I?” Feli chuckles, removing the linen blanket to reveal bandaged appendages. “I sawed off this one,” he points to his right, “and this one got blown off by an artillery shell.”
“I leave you alone for three hours, and you lose your legs? I’d hate to see what happens if I left you alone for four,” Ludwig grumbles, but isn’t entirely upset at the sight. “Why did you cut your leg off?”
“You see, I was running from a few Russian soldiers when you sent me out, but I got my leg caught in one of their traps—a bear trap, actually! So, I thought I could just cut the chain and run away still. But, then, whenever I was hiding in a house trying to find you, the whole thing collapsed onto me. I was fine, but my leg was crushed—I mean, you could see the bone and blood and everything! Then, I heard voices, so I just… well, sawed it off!”
Ludwig stares at him with disbelief. “You—had a gun. You could’ve shot them even when you were crushed.”
Feli shrugs. “I didn’t want to fight Russians. They’re scary.”
“Why would you cut off your leg if you were trying to get away?”
“I tried pulling myself out, commander, but it wouldn’t work! I didn’t want to die!”
“Feliciano, you weren’t going to die. You can’t die.”
“Maybe not,” he mutters, “but I don’t want to sit there in my blood, getting close to death but never reaching it. I can’t die, sure, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. At least I could crawl away or hide, but when I tried crawling through the battlefield, my leg got shot. Now, I only have half of one.”
As much good as it would serve Feliciano’s training, seeing him suffer didn’t help any of them. It hindered their advance toward victory, whatever victory meant to their bosses. The silver lining of this is incredibly vague, but it’s there—it’s just that Feliciano is the only one who can see it.
“I hope this war ends someday soon,” he remarks pleasantly, “I’d like to return to the way things were, even if they weren’t so great.”
The infirmary is comfortably silent except for their conversation.
“What about you?” Feli turns to Ludwig with a brighter smile. “What do you want to do after this is over?”
Ludwig takes a moment to contemplate but ultimately shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know if this war will ever end, or if life will be the same when I go home.”
“Sure, it will,” Feli places a hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. “As long as you haven’t changed, life will return to how it was.”
“It’s hard to stay the same in a place like this,” Ludwig opined.
“I guess I’m a shining example, right? But, the difference is that eventually, I’ll have my legs back before I know it. Others, though… aren’t blessed with that ability like we are. Instead of pitying them and feeling guilty, we should be happy we’re even gifted to be here. Aren’t you glad to just be alive?”
Ludwig reluctantly lowers his head. “I can’t say glad is the right word to describe myself. Maybe you’re glad, but I… I live for others to follow and eventually die. If parading people to their death is what I do, then I wouldn’t call that a gracious life.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, amico,” Feli croons. “Leading people doesn’t make you a murderer. Your life is as gracious as mine, and we both know what that entails. La vita è crudele (life is cruel), but nobody controls life—not even you. How can you blame yourself for the life you were born into?”
“I could do something, but I can’t. I hold power, but I’m too afraid to use it. Don’t you understand that feeling? The feeling of knowing you have the power to change but refuse to because you’re scared?”
“... Of course, I do. How many times have you been called weak?”
Never once.
Not once has he been called weak or useless. Feliciano has—there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that his efforts are futile, and his bravery is nonexistent.
“Never, I think,” Ludwig admits.
“Must be nice,” Although his words are somber, the smile tells a different story. “I’m not influential or strong like you in any sense. But, I’m not ashamed. Maybe I should, but I’m just not. I don’t think you should be ashamed of being what you were born to become eventually. If I lived a life like that, I would never find happiness, and what’s life without joy?
My point is, I think you’re a good person. Maybe my words mean little to you, but you’re a good man. I don’t necessarily believe in what our bosses are fighting for, but I shouldn’t have to if I want to follow you instead. You may not believe it, but I know a lot about war—I mean, it’s been my whole life! I don’t think there was a day I wasn’t in the middle of a feud or battle. I learned that it doesn’t define us—we are comrades on the battlefield, but we’re more like brothers here.”
“Brothers?”
“Brothers.”
Gilbert means everything to Ludwig. He knows if the world is against him, Gilbert will trudge through hell to be on his side. The term “brother” holds more weight than Feliciano knows because there’s nobody else in this world that can be Ludwig’s brother other than Gilbert. He refuses to be anyone else’s if he can’t be Gilbert’s younger brother.
Feli gestures to the book in his lap to break the sudden silence, “I almost forgot to give this back.” He folds the novella, grabs it by the spine, and places it on Ludwig’s lap. “I took that from your office before we left. I figured you would want it back, commander.”
Ludwig gazes at the leather book in his lap, imagining Feli’s fingers leave a trace of gold and red wine with everything he touches. He apprehensively holds the book, uncertain how to respond to Feli’s habit of taking items without permission.
“I liked the part where the guy was talking about wine,” Feli smiles. “His favorite is chardonnay. I think it shows in his writing, y’know?”
The book is a testament to Ludwig’s boss’ ideals and regime, but the only thing Feli found worth mentioning was the author’s taste in wine. He finds it amusing and would chuckle if Feli wasn’t here, or anybody. He finds his smile unfamiliar and forced, so he rarely does, and he hasn’t found much to smile about recently.
“What’s your favorite? Mine’s Chianti, but I like white wines like chardonnay every once in a while. Did you know red wine helps kill viruses? Before I came here, I used to drink at least two glasses a day. Don’t you see the results?” He gestures to himself and his amputated legs.
Ludwig lowers his head to fight off laughter, but the shuddering in his shoulders gives it all away. The sight of him succumbing to his fleeting joy encourages Feli even more.
“Aw, I made such a fool of myself for that one, didn’t I? I should really start standing up for myself,”
Ludwig snorts before chuckling under his breath. The sound alone fills Feli with more pride than any amount of training will ever provide. However, now he knows that his stone-cold commander enjoys dark humor—or maybe just Feli making a fool of himself for laughter. Either way, he’s willing to do either just to hear that man laugh briefly.