//------------------------------// // Calling Griffenheim // Story: EaW: From Front to Front - The Great War // by Warpony72 //------------------------------// December 31st, 1010 Industrie District, Griffenheim Griffenheim on New Year’s Eve. The city still hadn’t stopped its celebrations, despite the war having ended over a month ago.  On the day it had all finished, grand parades had rolled down Griffenheim’s majestic boulevards, troops returning home in orderly fashion, freshly pressed uniforms glittering with new decorations, knights in their enchanted plates with blank, faceless armored visors and panzers of all three classes lumbering through with gun barrels raised high.  A large part of these celebrations had been the Reformisten. Before, they had entered the city as pariahs. After the Treaty of Griffing, with the news gone public about who had saved the Kaiser and what had happened to turn Katerin loyal once more, they were heroes. Wingfried himself had been stoic in the back of his staff car, watching the lines of griffons that had turned up to cheer him and his marching soldiers on, offering flowers, food and drink from the crowd to confused Reformisten troopers.  He leaned forwards to a black unicorn seated with him, and a dark-brown griffon both in the uniforms of high level officers. “Now, my friends: Operation Tartarus awaits.” The infamous phrase was taken by the Reformisten propaganda department, and printed on posters and banners wherever the Black Knights went. Now, the banners remained.  Soldiers still went out in uniform to be given free food, drink and even nightly companionship.  They were heroes of the Empire. Valiant warriors who had annihilated the traitors in what had to be one of the most important battles in the Empire’s history.  Banners of Generalfeldmarschall Bronzetail, the new face of the Reichsarmee hung next to those of Wingfried, the Black King of Hellsword. Propaganda posters of Fallschimjager descending from the sky onto a cowering and unprepared Archon Eros went up right next to recruiting posters of mighty panzers crushing all in their path and other posters of powerful artillery guns thundering over the heads of proud ranks of Imperial Grenadiers.  Snow covered the streets, and the frosty winds tugged at these posters as the lone griff staggered past, trying his best to keep footing. Most of the folk in the district were in the bars and their homes, watching the clock and counting down for the new year. A better year, they knew. For now the Herzlands were reunited, loyal Imperial governors watching these former breakaways.  The spirit of Mondstille persisted as well, strands of pine and strings of garland hanging next to silver ornaments on walls and storefronts. Packages and gifts had already been exchanged, and for once the typical greedy griffon mindset in the Empire was not fixed towards what to gain next. He moved up the stairs, feeling the cold biting through the artificial warmth the alcohol had provided, as well as his ratty scarf and old coat.  But he merely shivered, brushing the frost from his shoulder and fluttering his wings as he finally reached the door, a beaten and worn old thing whose green paint had long faded like the district had.  His key slid home after two or three tries, and he swung the door in, fighting the gusts as he strode through and firmly shut it, so quick the candles only briefly fluttered in the harsh wind. He took a moment to contemplate the tiny flames, bright eyes sunken into his black-feathered face.  Then he sighed, tugging off his cap, scarf and coat, stomping his rear legs to get the snow off his boots. He’d have to take those off too. “Cyril?” called a voice from the kitchen.  “Is that you?” “Ja, Mutter,” he called back, feeling his speech slur a little and fighting it as best he could. “You’re home early,” Margot’s voice continued, hopeful.  Perhaps her son had decided spending time with family was the more important venture here, instead of drinking with his army buddies on this important night, such as he’d done Monstille Eve. Sadly, and with a little bit of loathing and shame in his heart, he broke her of that notion. “That Grenadier from the other night was there.  Started back up again. The bartender threw us both out.” “Oh, Cyril.  You didn’t break anything this time, did you?”  Her disappointed and downcast tone told him all he needed to know as he moved into the living room. “Just a bottle.  Over her head.” “Cyril!” And there she was, in the doorway to the kitchen.  Margot Duskwing was a force to behold in herself. Her feathers were black as her son and brother, though streaks of grey were beginning to form around her ears and eyes, evidence of the years of hardship she’d been subject to since Stefan had been killed.  As per tradition, she had retaken her maiden name upon her husband’s death, though with how busy she was these days with the house and taking care of Sophie while her son was away, no one was under any illusions of her chances to find another griff to fill her life. Now, she was covered in flour on her apron from baking, and she glared furiously at her half-drunk troublemaker son, heartbreak replaced fully by righteous anger.  Arms crossed over her chest, talons clacking as they rubbed together. Cyril, hardened vet that he was, wilted before her, glancing down behind his mother. Ten year old Sophie peered through the gap, trying to see what was going on as her wide eyes glanced between her brother and mother.  She more resembled her father, grey feathers around a white face. She knew better than to say anything during these exchanges, but the look on her face told of a thousand questions she wanted to voice. Cyril felt his defenses crumble, even before either said anything more.  The alcohol-induced fighting spirit he had channeled on the problematic soldier in the bar was spent.  Sergeant Hellseig had ordered him home instead of going out bar-hopping as many vets were tonight. That had already taken the wind out of his sails, and now seeing how his mother and sister were looking upon him, hurt and disappointed, robbed him of it entirely. “Cyril, you’re out of control!” Margot snapped, literally clacking her beak as her wings flared a moment.  “Every night, you’re out drinking away your pay and getting in fights and breaking things in public! You’re almost never home for dinner, and when we see you during the day you’re hungover half the time!  It’s disgraceful!” “I know, Mutter,” Cyril replied weakly, but he knew now the boiler was fired up the only way she would stop was if all the steam was let out.  And she proceeded to for almost a half-hour, berating her son for his sloppy appearance, his terrible behaviour as of late, irresponsible habits.  It got to the point where Sophie awkwardly went back to the bakin the kitchen. That hurt the most. The fact that little Sophie, who had for so long idolized her big brother, was so used to him getting chewed out she went to go do something else without voicing a single word.  It broke his heart, but then again Cyril knew he was responsible for all this. And then both Margot and Cyril crossed the line. “If your father were here, he would hang his head in SHAME!” Cyril flinched.  His mother never talked about his father like that.  It had always only been how much she missed Stefan, how proud he would have been.  Never like this. He saw the realization on her face, the awkwardness, heard the apology coming. But his fight reared its ugly head.  Before she could say what he knew she would, he bit first. “Well, I’m sure he would!  But he’s NOT here!” Silence. It hung in the cold house for several moments as mother and son gaped at each other, unbelieving of what they had both said.  This was the worst it had ever been between them. Even when Cyril had first returned home, broken and disheartened, their outbursts hadn’t reached this kind of hurt. Margot broke first, turning away and sighing as she returned to the kitchen, the curtain separating it from the living room falling into place.  Too late, Cyril raised a claw to try and catch her, say something to her, anything. But she was gone before he had fully reached out. Alone again.  In the dark living room.  Hearing the raucous sounds of a New Years’ party downstairs through the floorboards.  The only lights were the ones leaking through the thin curtains from the street and the face of the radio set in the corner, accidentally left on and caught between stations, burbling static.  Groaning, he stepped over to the set, contemplating turning it off and just going to bed. But something made him reach up, adjusting the tuner and volume dials until he heard music playing clearly.  Once that came in, he flopped onto the couch, closing his eyes and leaning his head back as he waited. He knew this song. We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them I won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singing this song We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Til the blue skies Drive the dark clouds far away So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them it won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singin' this song We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day He grunted as the song came to a close, knowing exactly why he had listened to this song in particular, eyes still closed. “Happy New Year, Paige,” he muttered as a faster paced, more upbeat holiday song came onto the set.  Just as he had been the three years previous, he sat alone on New Years’ Eve, efforts to reunite with her thwarted to an almost comically sick degree.  Did the universe simply hate him this much? Or was it interference by some divine being? He knew he had really lost it if he believed that Princess Celestia or the goddess Eyr really wanted to fuck up his love life.  Maybe it was a sick joke by Discord or Maar. That made more sense. Or was his luck really just that bad? The radio set crackled with static, and he frowned, bringing his heavy head around and blinking in the dark, staring at the set.  Interference? Must have been from the snow. But the white noise continued, battling the radio station as the dials on the display twitched back and forth, the radio experiencing some anomaly.  He leaned forward, puzzled and out of his element. Despite his lack of knowledge, he reached out, a talon pausing as he tried to figure out what to do. Then, with a thunderclap and a flash of blue light, his world disappeared.  Cyril howled, cursed and squawked in shock as he tumbled headfirst into the bulky radio set, almost knocking it over but instead bouncing off the wall.  He threw a claw over his face, wishing he had his sidearm that was still safely locked up back in the regimental armory. But after a moment, the glow lessened, and he blinked as his vision began to return. “It worked!”  called a voice, echoing and shrill in his ears as he tried to place it.  The flanging exclamation was strange, almost impossible to discern with all the background noise.  But also, somehow, familiar. “Cyril! Are you there?”  And then, after a moment.  “Oh.  Shit. Oh shit!  Cyril, are you okay?” Confused and not believing his ears, Cyril lowered his claw.  The bright light, it turned out, had only ebbed, not disappeared.  Instead, the blue glow was softer, emanating from a spectral form in the middle of the room.  This apparition appeared to be made of dancing blue-white motes, dancing inside of a set of boundaries.  He took a few seconds to comprehend what he was seeing as his eyes traced the outline, drawing a shape in his brain.  It appeared quadrupedal, with wings that flared out in either aggression or worry. It had a tail, and a head that he tried to place as he stared at it.  Was it an illusion? Then it took a step towards him. “Cyril?” it asked softly, in that quiet ghostly echo.  The voice had normalized, for the most part. Not so much warping or distortion, though it still did every few syllables.  And he suddenly placed the rest of the pieces. “Paige?” he half-whispered, almost unbelieving.  He had to be drunker than he thought. There was no way this was real. “Cyril,” she replied, and he swore he could see a wide smile on her muzzle.  “Holy shit, it worked.” He stood, still unbelieving what was happening. Behind her, the curtain to the kitchen flew open as Margot, brandishing a meat cleaver, literally flew into the living room wings wide and talons out, ready for whatever had dared make the mistake of intruding into the Duskwing household.  Then she stopped, staring in abject stupefaction at the glowing form of Paige Turner, standing in the living room. Behind her, Sophie poked her beak out nervously to see what the noise was, then ducked back into the kitchen, eyes wide in terror. He stepped closer, looking her up and down.  She was silent a moment, letting him absorb what was happening, her starry expression difficult to make out but definitely beaming with pride and barely contained glee.  Any trace of alcohol in his system had been blasted out, replaced by stone-cold sobriety as he gawked, moving around her to take it all in. Finally, she couldn’t resist. “What do you think?  Not bad, eh?”  The image then turned, facing something off towards the wall.  “Say hi, Static!”  After a moment of silence, Paige turned back.  “She says ‘hi’.  We’ve got her to thank for casting this in the first place.” “This is unicorn magic?” Cyril asked, stunned.  Behind him, Margot covered herself in the holy gesture out of habit, eyes just as wide as Cyril’s, the forgotten meat cleaver hanging limply in her claw. “Of a sort,” Paige replied, her accented voice warping briefly before returning to its echoes again.  “I took a standard message spell and er...boosted it a fair bit.” “What?  How?” If what she said was true, she had taken a fairly simple and standard spell, something even griffons knew about and replicated with magic crystals from time to time, and amplified its range by over five thousand percent!  She was literally transmitting him from the other side of the world! “My thesis,” she answered proudly.  “I decided to take a wild hunch of mine and run with it.  And, well...it worked!”  She gushed, and he could almost make out her bright eyes, beaming at her accomplishment. “The crystal…” he whispered.  “You used the crystal to boost the spell?” “I’ll admit, it was a bit of a long shot,” she replied, shrugging as her wings fluttered and laid back against her flanks.  His eyes followed the motion, and then he gave in to the temptation, reaching out and trying to rest a claw on her cheek.  To his sharp though not complete surprise, his talons went through, his claw tingling as the dancing lights began to gather around the intruding limb. He pulled back sharply, and the lights returned to Paige’s ghostly form.  She hung her head in sheepish defeat as she sadly admitted “But no spell in existence can help me teleport all the way to you.  Sorry.” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as his brain finally caught up to his eyes. “You’re...you’re here!” “In the spectral flesh!”  she declared proudly, then stopped to ponder on that.  “Or, is it ectoplasmic flesh?  Then again, it's not flesh at all, more a manifestation of arcane energy-” “Paige?” he gently interrupted her.  To her credit, she heard him immediately, lifting her head and tilting it to show she was listening.  “How long is this good for?” Her ears drooped, and he knew it was bad news. “Not long...maybe five minutes.  I tried to time it so I’d show right when the New Year was going to pass over there.  Did I get it?” Cyril glanced over at the old, worn clock above the fireplace.  Even he hadn’t been aware of what time it was, but sure enough there were only four more minutes until midnight.  He nodded, dumbly, still trying to wrap his head around the concept. “Ja…just on the nose,” he looked back over to her, frowning.  “You couldn’t have tried this before?” Here she looked a little taken aback, but pressed on after a moment. “I didn’t know it would work before.  I’m not a unicorn. And a message spell is, at best, able to cover a continent.  I had, maybe, one shot at this. Reaching Griffenheim took...well. All of the energy I had in the crystal.” That was SEVERAL years of charging and stabilization efforts, gone.  She had burned all that work for five minutes of talking with him. He was stunned as the full implications of that finally hit him. “But...your thesis?” She waved a hoof in the air, the lights dancing around and leaving small contrails in her wake. “I’ve still got, what?  Two years before I need to finish that.  Besides, I can get it all back. Just gotta get multiple unicorns to submit to extensive charging sessions while I make sure it doesn’t overwhelm the spell framework.” She shuffled awkwardly, scratching her mane with a hoof.  “How hard could that be?” “But-” he clamped his beak shut as his eye saw the hand on the clock twitch.  Three minutes until midnight! And here he was, standing around like an idiot asking questions that wouldn’t matter soon.  With that realization dumping cold water on his mind, he knew he had to act fast. “Paige,” he started, gesturing behind her.  The apparition turned her head, her magic vision landing on a still frozen Margot.  But Cyril rushed over to his mother, gently pushing her forward. “Paige, this is my mother, Margot.  Mutter, this is Paige.” The two were silent as they studied each other.  Paige, at least, had the benefit of not being forced to try and perceive details about a magical illusion, but she at least gave Margot the chance to recover.  Finally, Margot leaned over to her son. “I thought her mane would be longer.” Indeed, while Paige had let it grow out since her days in the RAF, it was much shorter than when they had first met, her bangs barely to her jawline.  Paige recovered quickly, smiling and nodding. “An honor and a pleasure to meet you, Frau Duskwing,” she said in her accented Herzlandisch.  “I am sorry I cannot shake your claw.  A strange first meeting, I know.” Margot recovered, clearing her throat and tucking the cleaver away. “Think nothing of it, dear.  These are strange times after all.” Paige’s ‘eyes’ traced down behind them both, and she leaned down, smiling as the two griffons looked back to see that Sophie had gotten her courage together to step out from the kitchen, gawking up at the spell ghost. “And this little cutie -must- be Sophie!  My Gods, she’s such a pretty little thing!”  Paige waved a hoof, grinning.  “Hello there Dragi!  Don’t be shy! It’s me, Paige!  Your penpal!” Cautiously, Sophie stepped forward, once more using her mother as a hiding spot as she looked up and said “H-hallo Fraulein Paige.” Paige actually -squealed-, prancing in place.  “She’s adorable!” Down below them, Cyril could hear the party beginning to gather up, and glanced at the clock.  Two minutes left. “Paige?”  She looked over to him, smiling and happy.  “Why this? Why now? After all these years and everything with...well, us.” Her smile faded, and she studied his face for a long second, so long he almost glanced at the clock to make sure she wasn’t just about to disappear.  Her ghostly wings rustled. “I had to try,” she said, so quiet and so warped he almost missed the whisper.  “When I got your letter and saw what had happened.  I couldn’t stand the thought of you here. Alone. Trapped.  Hurt. I know it's not much. And I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to try again.  But I get to see you. Talk to you.”  She reached up, about to stroke his face before remembering that he wasn’t there either.  “You look so tired.” She leaned over, and with careful motions gently put her muzzle against the side of his beak.  He felt the tingling as his feathers and skin met the arcane energy, and for a moment he swore he could almost feel an actual warmth of her coat, hear her soft breathing as she kissed him.  He leaned in a little, turning his face to run his cheek along her manifested one, gently preening her image, the tingling spreading down his neck. Below, their moment was spoiled as the party-goers began chanting the countdown from twenty.  They’d have, at best, a minute after the countdown finished. He pulled back, so happy to have had this opportunity, but so sad it had to end, and so soon.  He wouldn’t get another chance, and who knew when they’d physically see each other? So, he took it. “I love you, Paige.” She paused, watching him carefully, almost examining him.  No, she wasn’t examining. She was shocked. It was a little difficult to tell in her starry gaze, but he finally realized he had pulled a fast one on her, and for a moment his heart sank in terror.  Was she about to tell him- But then she snorted. “You’re no fun!  Isn’t there a time-honored tradition where I spend months weaseling it out of you while your male pride prevents you from saying it until one of us is in mortal peril?” He chortled, disbelieving her response before he laughed as well, mostly at the sheer absurdity of the statement as any humor in her voice. “Not-not this time,” he said as he got his laughs under control.  “Sorry to kill your fun.” TEN! She stopped laughing, watching him carefully, a decision being made behind her eyes that he could see, even when her manifestation warbled and warped.  They were almost out of time. Nine! “I love you too, Cyril.”  She said it quietly, softly.  They only had this moment, these bare seconds before the cold barrier of separation would come slamming back down between them, and they were forced back to the lonely life of waiting an entire month for any word from each other. Eight! Everything would change now.  Or would it? At the end of the day, they would still be split by an ocean and two continents, and who knew how many wars in between? Seven! “Hey,” Paige said quietly, seeing the look on his face.  He blinked in surprise, focusing on her again. Six! She smiled, and in that briefest of moments, he swore he could physically see her there, his memories of the harbor and the photo he still carried.  “It’s not goodbye,” she insisted. Five! “Not until we want it to be.”  She reached up again, and her hoof seemed to melt slightly into his jaw.  He ignored the tingling, instinctively trying to press into her. Four! “It’s, ‘until next time.’  As long as we keep saying that.” Three! “Then it’ll never be goodbye.” Two! “Until next time, then.”  He muttered, staring down at her and cursing how unfair the world was.  The gods had brought her so close, so DAMN CLOSE. This was a mockery, an insult, dangling in front of him what he desired most and could never have.  And judging from the look in her starry eyes, she was feeling the same kind of hurt. One! “Love you,” she said, quieter than ever. Happy New Year! “Love you too,” he whispered back. They both braced, watching each other carefully as the clock began ringing quietly, the party downstairs breaking out in cheers as the year officially rolled over to 1011 ALB.  January 1st. But she didn’t fade. Not yet. After another moment, they both let out breaths they hadn't realized they’d been holding. Paige turned, looking back at Margot (who nodded) and waving towards Sophie, who braved emerging from behind her mother to wave back, smiling as well.  Paige turned back, about to say something more. That’s when the front door, which Cyril realized belatedly he had forgotten to lock, flew open in a blast of wind, snow and panzer crew. “Duskwing!  Gelukkig nieuwjaar!” Truppen Eihol called, the Feathisian driver clearly more than a little drunk as the griff stumbled in the door. “Sit down ‘fore you hurt yerself, you lout!” Spotsley snapped, stumbling under Eihol’s weight before roughly depositing him on the bench in the entry hall.  “Duskwing! I swear to fuckin’ gods if you don’t come get this daftie, I’m leavin’ his arse in your hall!” “Calm down,” Sergeant Hellseig said quietly, pushing past the two arguing soldiers.  “Before you two become even more of a disgrace.” But it was Long Haul, the Reformisten pony loader, who made it through first.  Words died on his lips as, with wide eyes, he took in the magically projected form of the pegasus, who was just as stunned to come face to face with him too.  For a moment, the two of them simply grappled with their confusion and inability to process what they were seeing. And then, in a gently fading light and a gentle breeze, Paige’s image began to fade.  Sensing her end, she glanced down at herself before sharply up at Cyril, trying to say one more thing.  But before the words could manifest themselves, her form broke up, and the motes of light blew past, over Cyril who automatically reached out to try and catch her.  Of course, by the time the lights made contact with his feathers, not even the sensation of them bouncing off him remained as his final connection with her faded at last. “Recalled to duty?” Sergeant Hellseig nodded, leaning against the table as he fiddled with the cap in his hand.  “Leutnant came to the bar with the news after you left. The 41st is shipping back to the camp in two days’ time.  We’ve all been cleared of suspicion.” Cyril leaned against the couch, looking over the sergeant’s shoulder at his mother and sister in the kitchen, slicing up the cake they had been baking as Eihol drunkenly tried to take a piece while Spotsley reprimanded the drunken driver, making sure to properly give him his slice and not stab himself with his fork. “Where are we going?” Cyril asked, now glancing between Hellseig and Haul.  The pony hadn’t said anything about the apparition he’d witnessed, and that was fine by Cyril.  The less he had to explain to everygriff, the simpler it would be. “The Frontier,” Hellseig replied, seemingly not noticing or not caring about the tense looks the gunner and loader shared, likely chalking it up to the disagreements they’d had since they had been paired up.  “The Reformisten brought Lushi back into the fold. Now the anchluss is complete and the Herzlands are reunited, King Wingfried is taking his Black Knights south. Towards Prywhen and Blackrock. Given they have no panzers of their own, we’re part of the Imperial Expeditionary Korps assisting them.” The communist republic had taken down the infamous bandit queen while the Herzland Wars had raged, so attacking into Blackrock was going through republic territory.  Any idiot could see where this pattern was going. After Prywhen and Blackrock, the Empire would be eager to retake the jewel of the south, Cyanolisia. Or, in this case, the Friestaat.  After that, the rest of the south could be seized at leisure. “So, we just ended one war to start another?” Cyril asked quietly.  Hellseig winced, but Haul remained steadfast. “Operation Tartarus has been in the planning stages since the Reformisten existed. It was going to be launched whether the Empire was there or not,” the Earth pony said matter of factly.  “But with Imperial panzers, grenadiers and aircraft behind the Reformisten, what was thought to take a considerable amount of time and resources could be accomplished in less than a year. And with the Landwehr holding seized territory, we worry less about pacification and more on winning the battles.” “That positive about your chances of success, are you?” Cyril quipped sarcastically.  Taking the southeast in a year? Insanity. Just walking that far was an endeavour in itself, much less fighting for it.  “I think Asterion and Sicameon have something to say about that.” Haul shrugged.  “Those are the optimistic projections from the briefing.  Even I shall admit, it will likely take slightly longer than the Geheimstadt is predicting.  But it will still be extremely rapid.” “And how do you happen to know so much, Haul?  Last I checked, I outranked you.” Cyril cocked an eyebrow.  Surprisingly, the pony snickered, a small smile on his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Duskwing.” “In any case,” Hellseig interjected.  “We have our orders. The Empire wants to focus on Aquileia.  Which means the Reformisten takes the lead in the east one way or another.  We’re there to blow up anything they can’t. Simple, easy mission.” A few minutes later, Hellseig was satisfied his gunner knew the objective, moving towards the kitchen to slap some sense into his drunk driver and foul-mouthed radiohound, noting that Margot Duskwing was on the verge of taking up her knife again.  Left alone with Haul, Cyril contemplated simply turning on the radio and relaxing on the couch. “Was that her?” Cyril looked at Haul flatly, the two watching each other carefully.  With a small, measured reaction, Cyril slowly nodded. Haul nodded in response, seemingly deep in thought. “She must care for you deeply, to go to such lengths.” Cyril didn’t answer.  Just stared back. But the loader understood, sighing as he rose and trotting off towards the kitchen too. He’d be missed.  In a moment, the rest of the crew would demand he come over to share in the New Year festivities with them. But for now, Cyril leaned back, listening to the quiet buzz of the radio and stared out the window at the snowy streets of Griffenheim.  Then smiled, at last.