Glory.

[Sam A. Federov]

The sky over Berlin was darkened by grey clouds of smoke and dust. Sunlight stained the sky a muddy yellow where it broke through the overcast, ash filtering down from the sky like snow upon the ruined city. Houses were flattened, streets littered with rubble. Sandbags, broken glass, burning vehicles spread across the great square. One building still stood, strong and proud, though scarred by flame and cannon. The Reichstag.

From where the young man sat, near the roof, great pillars of smoke could still be seen rising from the destroyed skyline. He shifted a little, in an attempt to gain some comfort from the hard stone of the balcony, the smoke from his cigarette drifting away in the breeze. Behind him, he could hear his comrades cheering and laughing. The raucous sounds of the 756th Rifle Regiment's drunken rendition of "White Army, Black Baron" was, admittedly, a nice change of tune from the rumble of artillery and the rattle of gunfire in the night, however it had not brought a smile to the Sergeant's face as it had to the many other soldiers on the roof that night. He sat alone, far removed from his inebriated companions inside, a vacant expression on his face as he watched the tattered red flag flap in the wind across from him.

"Ey, Schlange, are you going to have a drink or what?" The call of a fellow soldier snapped him out of his trance, and the young man turned his head. Upon acknowledging this intruder to his solitary vigil, he turned back with a sigh.

"Vasili, you know I hate that name..." came the young man's weary reply. Said intruder strolled over, a dusty bottle in hand, and sat down across from him. Vasili was older than him, if only by a bit. His face coated in dirt and a dirty infantry helmet cradling his head. It never quite fit him, and always shook when he laughed, which was often. More often than most anyone else on the Eastern Front, that was for sure. His voice was gruff and loud and his body strong and fat, giving him the appearance of some kind of bear taught to wear human clothes.

"Yeah, I never understood that. If your nickname is enough to send Germans fleeing, I personally consider that a victory." he said, a drunken grin on his face.

The young man simply rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. "Yeah, well, of course you would." He flinched a little. That was unnecessarily mean. "... Sorry" he added with an apologetic glance. Vasili simply waved his hand, his smile fading a little.

"Don’t worry, comrade. Tell me... why not come and have a drink with the boys, eh? You deserve it." There was a slight pause, concern visible behind his smile. "We all do." The young man simply sighed softly, and turned his head to look at him.

"Do we? Do we really? I mean... how many people died to get us here?" Vasili grimaced. This was the answer he had expected. He leaned in, sitting with his hands leaned on his knees, and looked at him.

"Federov, the war is over. The dying has stopped. Be happy! This... it's a time for celebration!" He smiled at him, tilting his head a little. "Come on, surely you have to smile at some point."

Federov said nothing, instead turning to look out at the city once again. The two sat in silence for a few minutes, Vasili leaning back and watching his friend patiently. Finally, the young man spoke up. "Gimme the rest of that bottle and I'll be happy." He looked over with a slight smirk on the corner of his mouth. Vasili chuckled, handing him the bottle as he stood up.

"Fine... if you have to celebrate on your own, at least you're celebrating." He turned to walk back inside, stopping at the door to look back at him. Federov did not turn around, instead just taking a swig of the bottle while looking out at the city. Vasili sighed, and closed the door behind him.

His smile melted away as soon as Vasili was gone, and he took another long swig of vodka, gasping a little at the burn. With one hand, he took the medal from his chest and stared down at it. The silver star, with a brass image of the Kremlin's Spasskaya Tower. Underneath was written "СЛАВА". "Glory." He wiped the dust and dirt off its surface with his thumb. "Glory for what exactly?" he thought to himself.

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In his armchair by the fire, nestled in the comfortable confines of the Red Dragon Inn, the old man again looked at that medal. The firelight glinted off of the slightly rusted silver as he puffed on the cigar between his lips. Funny little thing, really. He had found it nestled at the bottom of his rucksack. Brought back a lot of memories, not all of them good. But... hell, that was a long time ago, really. Not worth thinking about. With a slight chuckle, he called up towards the bar. "Hey, Morgan, I ever tell ye I won a medal..?"

[TrashTM]

I went through all the stupid verification stuff to make an account I’ll never use again to say I’m proud of you.