Embers

[Omi]

Lucie LEBLANC (aucun rang)

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The wine was a fine vintage -- a 734 Joigny pinot noir -- but the taste was like ashes in her mouth. Nothing held the joy it once had for her any longer; not the wine, not the cigarettes, and even Gallia proper seemed to have lost its lustre. There was nothing wrong with the wine, of course -- any sommelier would have told her as much -- but the bitterness churning in her gut meant it was like drinking vinegar. For Christ's sake, she thought -- even the year of its production was like a slap in the face.

That was the year the Crown had forced the Sirian question fully into the open, exploding onto the stage of Sirius with all the fury of eight centuries of resentment. For Lucie, what should have been the high point of her career had swiftly turned into a cavalcade of missteps and misjudgements. In her mind, Leeds still burned like a planet-sized monument to her failures; a blazing torch that served as the capstone to the whole sorry affair. The image of it was seared on her psyche; the sight of a world burning through the viewscreen of her Cougar, the rest of her strike wing hanging in silent awe at her four and eight. Her lips had been pressed thin even then; the burning of a world had put paid to any hopes of a limited peace. The war had turned from a matter of conquest into one of total annihilation overnight, and in the end they had all paid a terrible price.

She knew she wasn't directly responsible for it, of course. Figures of authority well above her had signed off on the affair, and she had never held any great love for the Bretonians in any case. The atrocity itself was not a burden on her psyche; what tortured her so was the stain it had left on her homeland's legacy. She herself was a fine scapegoat for it, despite her distance from the auspices of command during those fateful few days. If it hadn't been for the Kusarians and their ill-advised invasion, she mused, she would probably be dead now. They had given her and the rest of the Enclave an unexpected, desperate lifeline -- positioned them for a power play so audacious that they had been able to manoeuvre their way into the new Gallic government.

They had offered her a full pardon, and all it had cost her was her dignity -- the weight of shame squeezing her soul like cold hands at her throat. She'd felt the eyes of her most zealous on her as she stepped forwards, all of them disbelieving, spurned, and betrayed. She'd watched Cornett's mouth twitch in barely-repressed rage, his cold eyes boring into her with all the quiet, murderous fury she'd come to know him for; she'd watched as Roche, somehow, failed to follow in her footsteps, but simply watched her go with a strange sadness in his eyes. It had shocked her then just how many of her comrades-in-arms had chosen to struggle on, all of them heading back from the talks once negotiations broke down entirely. They had left her there, alone in a room full of enemies turned not-quite-friends, languishing with the other moderates. Was she a coward? Spineless? Or was the story she tried to cling to rooted in some kind of truth -- Gallia had always meant more to her than the Crown itself? Standing there, alone with her thoughts, Lucie had realised she didn't know anymore. Her conviction had been all she had, and now that it was gone, there was nothing left.

Now, years down the line, here she sat, empty and hollowed-out. Her old connections had vanished into thin air, calls not returned and messages left forever unopened. The few friends she'd had before the war were all gone -- some dead, the others missing -- and among post-war Burgundian high society, few of any standing were looking to make any connections with a disgraced ancienne Grande maréchale. The only thing that had survived the war intact was her accounts, but each new day brought with it more of the slow, creeping realisation that no amount of Gallic francs could lay her demons to rest.

She took another long, slow drag from her cigarette, tilting her gaze up to the stars once more. Above her, the skies of Nevers were clear and open, streaked with stars and spaceborne traffic alike. The world was a paradise -- warm, pleasant, and practically untouched by the horrors of war. By all rights, her retirement should have been one of triumph. Instead, as she reached for the bottle once more, intent on draining it dry like she had night after night for weeks on end, all Lucie could find for it was three simple, sad words.

What a waste.

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