Together We Fall

Moore shivered. His boots crunched through the thin layer of frost trampled on the ground, frozen mud clinging to their sides. He ached with weariness—and by the looks on the other men’s faces, so did everyone else. They had been marching for three straight days now; breaks were sparse and brief. Moore was growing tired of the sight of endless silver-fogged woods, the stagnant gray sky, the monochromatic foliage. The bite and chill of the winter air did nothing to help.

Williams nudged him with his shoulder. “How’re you holding up?”

“Great,” Moore replied, trying not to let his teeth chatter. “You?”

“Never better.”

They trudged on in silence, two men in a weary sea of soldiers. Moore glanced around him again. The rebels had no uniform, no crisply pressed pants nor jackets of matching colors. Each person wore a different threadbare coat and pair of muddy boots—in fact, the only consistent item was the square black patch that every man bore proudly on his chest. An oak tree, with sprawling roots and wide branches, was sewn onto each one in scarlet thread.

Under the oak these men united. Under the oak they were one.

:::::

The first time Williams met Moore was the day he was recruited. 

The latter was the well-built, middle-aged man who introduced him to their cause through clipped sentences and succinct words. “Welcome to the rebellion. You can call me Moore,” he had said, holding out his hand.

Williams shook it. “Williams—George Williams. Thank you,” he had replied.

Moore was a veteran, having been a rebel since before anyone could remember. But he had kind eyes and a soft personality, and soon, Williams and Moore were inseparable.

Williams was introduced to the others living at the base. Most had lost a loved one or a comrade, fueling their anger and giving them resolve to fight in the rebellion. Some had simply realized the wrongness of the society they lived in and sought to change it. A handful had come with their families, although the majority were alone.

Together, all of them were a group, a force, a rebellion, all branches of a single crimson-threaded tree.

The march was wearing down on all of them, but no one was ready to give up yet. They would keep going, for the sake of the rebellion. 

Keep marching. We’re almost there.

:::::

The battalion was waiting for them.

It was a big one—no, a massive one. A part of Captain Hale wondered why they needed so many men; surely it was a waste on such a scant rebel company? He had gathered all his most capable men, and they still barely reached two hundred. But the wall of soldiers positioned at the other end of the valley, fogged by the snow flurrying the air… it had to be at least five times that.

Then Hale realized that they didn’t need such a large force. They had sent one because they had the extra resources. Because they had the spare manpower. They had sent this battalion just because they could.

It was a clear message to the rebels: See how much more powerful we are than you. See how we will slaughter you. You can do nothing, you are nothing.

Their lieutenant's voice boomed across to Hale’s own company. “Stand down!” he ordered. “You are outnumbered! All of you are guilty of high treason and plotting against your own country. If you refuse to surrender, we have full authority to open fire!”

It was clear that this opponent was not a ragtag group, hastily thrown together in defense of the capital. Each trained soldier wore a stiff gray uniform, all starched cloth and brass buttons that gleamed in the cold winter light. They were lined up in flawless formation: rows and rows of statuesque figures with advanced weaponry. These men were elite. Ruthless. Unbeatable.

One thousand to two hundred. 

Hale clenched his hands.

Standing tall where the rebels could see him, he looked out at his men and saw defeat. He read hopelessness in their slumped shoulders, lowered eyes, silenced conversation. Their adrenaline rush, their driving desire for justice, had been quelled by the sheer number of enemies they were facing. 

Hale understood. But it was a disappointing sight nonetheless.

He folded his hands neatly behind him, back straight and steady despite the urge to shiver from the cold. A captain had to be the person an army looked up to, the one they followed with no question or hesitation. He was the leader, and he could not afford to appear weak when his men had cause enough to be weak already.

“Friends,” Hale began, deep voice echoing firmly throughout their side of the valley. “Brothers. All of you, rebel soldiers.”

The men fell silent. Hale felt their eyes on him, weary and uncertain but still willing to hear their commander. 

“Many of you are tired. Hopeless. You’re unsure whether or not you’re wearing the right patch; whether or not I, Captain Hale, can truly lead you to victory. You’re doubtful that you will return whole and alive.”

Hale paused, meeting as many eyes in the company as possible. “I am not here to tell you that you will. On the contrary, many of you likely won’t.”

The men didn’t respond, looking up at their leader with those hard faces, streaked with grime from their miserable trek through the forest. They were listening.

“Are you afraid of death?” His voice was quiet. “Are you afraid of that bullet hitting your chest, piercing your heart and obliterating your life? Because we are facing a force stronger than me, more disciplined than you, bigger than us all. Chances are, you will not see your loved ones again.” He exhaled. “So, if you balk at death—if you wish to reach old age—if you value your life above the rebellion… I am inviting you to leave. Turn around. Flee. I do not hold it against you.”

His invitation was met with silence. Not a single man moved; their gazes stayed fixed solemnly on their captain’s face. Hale nodded sharply. 

“Then listen to me. Each of you—each and every one of you—are a different person; you came from different homes, grew up with different families, found your way here for different reasons. You may have dark skin while the person beside you is white. You may be blessed with great wealth while the man you yesterday shared a smoke with has not a penny.

“But here—standing on this frozen ground, lined shoulder to shoulder—here, none of this exists. There is no status; no superior background nor higher position. You share a common goal. You share a common enemy. You bear—” Hale fisted the symbol on his jacket— “The oak upon your chest! Does this mean nothing?

“So all of you, rise! All of you, find strength. We are the singular hope of the people, the symbol of their fighting chance. We will not falter, because we fight with brothers beside us. We fight united; under the oak, for the oak. We fight as one.

“Stand by me, soldiers! Rebels! Brothers! Stand strong despite the odds. Together, we rise; together, we fight; together we fall. The oak!” Hale raised his fist in the air.

His two hundred men copied his motion and their fists rose. Their voices echoed, accumulating like thunder and swelling to the heavens. 

“The oak!”

:::::

“Reckon we’ll make it out of here?” Moore muttered to Williams, not taking his eyes off the captain.

Williams hefted his rifle and stayed silent. Moore sighed quietly.

“Yeah, me too.”

“It’s what we signed up for,” said Williams. “We all came knowing the price. I guess I just didn’t know I’d have to pay it so soon.”

This time it was Moore who didn’t reply, squinting through the gray snow to the veritable army they were facing. The opposing soldiers were lined together in strict ranks, lines upon lines of distant stone figures. The sky above was wreathed with mist and cloud, slowly churning gray, silver, white. Sleet swirled bitterly. Ice dripped from the clouds.

“It’s cold,” Moore heard Williams mumble.

Moore didn’t have the will to respond. Instead, he reached out and placed a shivering hand on his friend’s shoulder. He held it there—whether he was comforting Williams or Williams was steadying him, he couldn’t tell. What mattered was that they were together, standing side by side as they prepared to fight.

Out of the corner of his eye, Moore saw Williams bring his open hand to his chest. He saw him trace the crimson symbol above his heart. 

“Under the oak,” Williams said softly. “We’ll stay together, eh, Moore?”

Here they were, about to march to their deaths, and still their bond stayed strong. Moore tried to stifle the mawkish side of him that arose suddenly, sending a strange prickling sensation at his eyes. “Right. To the end… Brother.”

Williams grinned. “Brothers. To the end.”

Moore touched his own patch, feeling the neat stitching that made up his oak tree. He felt courage well up in him suddenly, a quiet acceptance of what was to come and a resolve to go out fighting… with his brothers by his side. 

The first gunshot rang out, and hell ascended.