Viktor Speeder

Second Battle of Speeder Hill, Coalition Trenches

01:23

The first St. Winter's Day of the Second Human-Faunus War

The Coalition, composed mostly of VAF infantry, have finally established a foothold at the base of Speeder Hill, which is barely a hill anymore; Coalition artillery, the largest artillery bombardment of the war thus far, has altered the terrain between the Coalition and Federation lines, leaving hundreds upon hundreds of craters and upturned soil. What few trees that used to stand at the edge of the forest, where the Federation troops reside, are nothing more than shriveled pieces of charred wood. The ground, once completely covered in pale white snow, is now black like the sky. The moon is partially covered by snow clouds, which drop their small payloads over the battlefield. Small campfires dot the lines on both sides as soldiers try and stay warm, left under equipped with rationed winter clothing, dying batteries in their NVGs, and try and recover their strength from digging foxholes into the frozen ground. The Feds have fought relentlessly, harassing the human lines with sporadic gunfire and illumination flares, but have recently grown silent after the humans refused to move their lines.

"Hey, First Sergeant," Private Mac asks Sergeant Slaten, whom he shares his foxhole with. Slaten lifts his helmet up over his eyes. This is his first chance to sleep in the past 36 hours.

"Yeah, Private," Slaten murmurs, looking over at the young soldier.

"I can't feel my fingers, First Sergeant," Mac says, practically in a whisper. His hands, wrapped in two gloves each, are shaking violently.

"No one can, Mac," Slaten replies. "It's completely normal in this temperature. Just keep them under your armpits."

"It hurts too much, Sir. Fuck, I think I have frostbite."

Slaten thinks for a moment, then sits up and slowly raises his head over the top of the foxhole. No other heads, not even the Faunus a football field away, are present, which is a surprise. Humans don't want to waste their night vision batteries, but the Faunus can see fine in the night. Where are they now? Slaten shrugs the thought off, and concludes that there won't be another attack anytime soon.

"Alright, let's take a look," Slaten says. He sits up and crawls over to the private, and helps him take off his gloves.

"Do you know what frostbite looks like, First Sergeant?" Mac asks worryingly.

"No, but I think I can tell if something is-oh," Slaten says as he removes the second layer of gloves. Both of Mac's hands are white with shades of blue and purple.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck!" Mac exclaims, staring at his hands with his light brown eyes, teeming with panic. Slaten regrets vocalising his initial reaction.

"Shut up, Mac, it's not that bad," Slaten says, curling the private's fingers into a fist, then releasing them again, trying to keep blood flowing. "Just keep them moving for a sec."

"Not that bad? How do you know?"

"Well, your fingers are still intact, for one. When I was in the capital, shrapnel from a Fed grenade took off three of my buddy's fingers. It was nasty as hell, but he kept fighting, even with the index finger dangling. He lived, and you'll live too. If you don't I'll kill you." Mac chuckles slightly, and his breathing starts to return to normal.

"You-you were in Vale?" he asks. Slaten rubs his hands against Mac's. In reality, the First Sergeant really doesn't know what he's doing; he was never trained to fight in this temperature; but anything to comfort the young soldier is good enough for him.

"During the invasion, yeah," Slaten replies. "That was a fuckup on all sides. I was with Charlie Company, back when we still had one. Over 60% casualty rate clearing out an apartment building. One measly little building. After the retreat, they disbanded what remained of Charlie and bloated the numbers of the other companies, along with fresh recruits like your sorry ass."

"I can't feel my ass either, Sarge." This time it's Slaten's turn to chuckle.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's normal too, Private."

There are rapid footsteps from behind them, and Slaten instinctively reaches for his HK417.

"Friendly," a voice from the footsteps whispers.

"Who's there?" Slaten whispers back. He looks over the foxhole, and relaxes when he sees a red cross on a VAF uniform. "Oh, hey Doc. What're you doing?"

"I'm making rounds for the night to make sure everyone is alright," Doc replies.

"Well get the fuck in here before you get your head blown off," Slaten says, moving over. Doc slides into the foxhole, next to Mac.

"So everything's quiet down here too?" Doc asks, taking off his glasses and wiping a few specs of frost off of them.

"Yeah, Foxtrot is probably as tired as we are right now," Slaten says. "Have you been down the flanks?"

"Yeah, no Faunus activity anywhere," Doc says. "Figured this would be a good time to check the lines."

"Yeah. Hey, perfect timing Doc. Can you take a look at Mac's hands?" Doc nods, and Mac holds out his still blue hands. "I wasn't sure if it was frostbite-"

"It's not," Doc quickly answers. He digs inside one of his coat pockets and pulls out a rag, and rips it into two. He starts wrapping one of Mac's hands. "How long have you been wearing those gloves?" he asks, eyeing the gloves next to Mac.

"Uh, how long have we been here?" Mac answers. Doc shakes his head, and starts wrapping the other hand.

"You gotta keep your hands warm, not just keep them covered," Doc answers. "You're better off with nothing than those wet things. Same for putting your hands in wet pockets; don't do it. Get a fire going, dry the gloves out. When these start to get damp, change them out. Rinse and repeat."

"That's it?" Slaten asks. "Strips of cloth and two pairs of soaked gloves?"

"Consider yourselves lucky. Most of the other foxholes are shoving snow in their wounds. Preventing frostbite is easy as long as you know how."

"I was in Charlie, Doc, I know I'm lucky. I'm just wondering if we could get some fresh gear. Wasn't there a supply run yesterday?"

"Negative, blizzard northeast of VS-15. The whole line is without a resupply for the time being. We got nothing. Speaking of which, you guys still have your aid kits?" Slaten and Mac nod. "Give them here. You won't need it until you're hit, and a lot of guys already have been." The two soldiers hand over their small first aid kits, which Doc opens and dumps the contents into his bag.

"Thanks Doc," Mac says.

"That's what I'm here for," Doc replies. "And if you see the female medic from Delta, Ivy I think, tell her she still has my scissors."

"Will do, Doc," Slaten says. Doc nods and climbs out of the foxhole, moving towards the next foxhole.

"Well at least I don't have frostbite," Mac says.

"Told you," Slaten says. He lowers his helmet over his eyes again, but only a few minutes later, he can feel Mac tapping him on the shoulder.

"First Sergeant!" Mac whispers.

"Don't say your toes have frostbite now," Slaten mumbles.

"No, Sarge! The Faunus are doing something!" Mac says. Slaten bolts upright and shoulders his rifle in an instant.

"What's happening?" he asks. He quickly peeks then ducks his head over the top of the foxhole, looking for movement, but he sees none in the open field between them and the Faunus-occupied forest.

"I don't know, it was all quiet at first, then they started...singing." Slaten looks over at Mac.

"Do you know how far Doc went? I think we may need him again."

"No, I'm serious, Sarge! They just stopped a second ago."

"Well, what were they singing?"

"I don't know, I couldn't make out any of the words."

"Sergeant Slaten!" a voice whispers from behind them.

"Who's there? Doc?" Slaten asks.

"Negative," the voice says. A face appears at the top of the foxhole. It's Lieutenant Clement, commander of Charlie Company during the Battle of Vale, now Slaten and Mac's platoon leader.

"What's up, Lieutenant?" Slaten asks.

"I'm checking with the platoon," Clement replies, sliding into the hole. "Did you guys hear anything just now?"

"Yeah! Singing?" Mac says.

"Affirmative."

"The hell's going on?" Slaten. "I was sleeping."

"The lines are buzzing with activity right now."

"Whose? Ours or theirs?"

"Ours, as far as we can tell. Apparently a lot of the soldiers are saying that they heard Feds singing the Hymn of the Four Saints."

"Four Saints, huh?" Slaten says. He shoulders his rifle again and looks through the ACOG scope towards the Fed lines. He doesn't see any movement, only specs of white falling from the sky. He quickly ducks back down.

"I didn't hear much of it myself," Clement says. "But they were definitely singing."

"Why?" Mac asks.

"I don't know, but you're allowed to break radio silence if they try anything. And I really hate saying this, but stay frosty."

"Already on it, Lieutenant," Slaten says, flashing a thumbs up. Clement smiles and climbs out of the foxhole.

"Why would they be singing the Hymn of the Four Saints, Sarge?" Mac asks.

"Beats me," Slaten says. He wants to sleep, but now he's fully alert.

"It's St. Winter's Day, right?"

"Yeah, as of a couple hours ago probably."

"Do the Feds celebrate St. Winter's Day?"

"Their church recognizes the Four Saints, so probably."

"Shit, can't believe it's already St. Winter's Day," Mac says, partially to himself. "I remember last St. Winter's Day. Dad drove all the way from Atlas to spend the night with us. Mom baked a giant turkey, my little brothers spent the whole day outside building snowmen, me and my girlfriend went to the-"

"SHH!" Slaten interjects when he hears something in the forest. From the forest he hears from multiple voices:

"Red like roses fills my dreams and brings me to the place you rest…"

"I'll be damned, it is the Four Saints Hymn," Slaten says. He keeps his head down, but he can hear murmuring from Vale soldiers all around him.

"White is cold and always yearning…"

"...burdened by a royal test," Slaten quickly finishes ahead of the Feds, who recite the verse in the correct tempo.

"Burdened by a royal test…"

"You hear that, Sarge?" Mac says.

"No shit."

"No, I mean it sounds a lot closer." Slaten can't deny the claim. He sits up and rotates the NVGs mounted to his helmet down to his eyes and flip them on. Through the green optics, he can see not only shadowy figures peeking out of the trees across from them, but also VAF soldiers on either side of him also sitting in plain view.

"Black the beast descends from shadows…"

Slaten watches his comrades recite the line along with the enemy, and can even hear Mac join in for "from shadows."

More Coalition soldiers begin to stand up in their foxholes, disregarding cover to see what's happening. Besides the hymn, the air is completely void of sound. Even the wind is absent.

"Yellow beauty burns…"

With every syllable more humans and Faunus, of both uniforms, join in the hymn, Mac included. Slaten can see dozens of Faunus in the trees now, all in plain view, but none seem to be holding any weapons. No one on either side fires a shot, not even Slaten, who watched most of his friends die in Vale. Watched his countryside burn until his unit was redeployed back to this burning countryside. Despite seeing all the destruction the Federation has caused, Slaten can't help but recite the final line of the hymn:

"Goooooold."

Silence for several seconds. The figures in the trees don't move, and neither do the figures in the foxholes. Curious, Slaten switches on his radio…

"-the fuck down!" a voice on the radio shouts. Slaten groans. It's Captain Hallen, an inexperience pogue that replaced an officer killed in Vale. "All units, take cover before the Feds open fire!"

"Hallen?" Mac asks.

"Yep," Slaten says.

"Sarge, what just happened?"

"I'm...not sure, Mac," Slaten says, staring at the Faunus.

"We're all gonna die!" Hallen shouts.

"All units, listen up," Clement says over the radio. "We've made contact with a Federation scout near our lines."

"WE'VE BEEN INFIL-" Hallen shouts, then cuts out, most likely by someone grabbing his radio.

"The scout says that the Feds wish for a ceasefire for the night, in honor of St. Winter. Our recon says that he's telling the truth. There are no reports of Fed artillery or snipers or machine gunners anywhere along the lines. So all units, stand down and get some sleep for the night. And, uh, happy St. Winter's Day."

After several minutes, all the soldiers on both sides are standing up in their foxholes, waiting for someone to make a move. Then, Mac does:

"Red like roses fills my dreams…"

All the soldiers quickly join in and repeat the hymn again. This time, during the singing, a few of the Feds step out of their foxholes and into the open field. Slaten momentarily grips his rifle, but releases when he sees one of the Faunus wave to them. Many human soldiers wave back.

"Hey, Sarge," Mac says, standing next to Slaten. "Could...should we…?"

"Let it play out," Slaten replies. He's not sure what's happening; an ambush, suicide pact, shell shock, any number of things. But right now, Slaten is thankful for music instead of bullets coming from the Feds tonight.

Several more Faunus troops join their friendlies in the open, and a handful of Coalition soldiers also walk out of their foxholes and into the open field.

"Remember, people," Clement says on the radio. "We have a ceasefire."

"How do we know this isn't a trap?" another office questions.

"If it was," Slaten replies. "We'd be under attack by now."

And, once again, the hymn is sung:

Red like roses fills my dreams and brings me to the place you rest.

White is cold and always yearning, burdened by a royal test.

Black the beast descends from shadow.

Yellow beauty burns gold.

By the end of it, the majority of the Coalition soldiers, including Mac and Slaten, are standing in the open, facing the Feds, shoulder to shoulder. After the hymn is sung, there's an awkward silence, coupled with more waves, but no one says anything; no slurs, no taunts, not even greetings.

One of the Faunus breaks rank and starts confidently walking towards the Coalition lines.

"Hey, Lieutenant," Slaten says into his radio, watching the walking Fed.

"Yes, Slaten?" Clement replies.

"With all due respect, Sir, but I'm not fighting on this hill tonight...lost visual on the enemy."

"Solid copy, Sergeant. Getting lots of reports like that."

"Mac," Slaten says to the Private. "Wanna meet some UFF Faunus?"

"Sure, Sarge," Mac says.

Slaten walks towards to meet the Faunus. Many other soldiers, both Federation and Coalition, do the same.

"Hello," the first Faunus to walk forward says to Slaten when they are about a dozen meters from each other. Their pace slows slightly, but both soldiers keep walking.

"Hey there," Slaten replies. They don't say anything else until they are right in front of each other. The Fed is much better equipped than anyone on the Coalition side: A white winter coat, white snow cap, and large wool gloves and boots. His Steyr and sidearm are nowhere in sight.

"Nice, night, huh?" the Fed says. Soldiers down the line start to mingle with one another.

"Yeah, it really is," Slaten says, looking up at the shattered moon of Remnant, shining brightly in between the clouds.

"So...you ever done anything like this before?" the Fed asks with a smile. Slaten laughs.

"Not that I can remember, no. What was that, anyway?"

"The hymn? We're just, you know, tired of fighting. One foxhole started singing it, then the next, and so on. I'm surprised you guys could hear it."

"Not much else to listen to this time of night."

"Not with your human ears, no," the Fed chuckles.

"I hope you smelled the shit I took in my foxhole," Slaten counters.

"Oh, that was for me? How kind."

"Yeah, we've been eating local Faunus cuisine, so it was shittier than usual." Both soldiers laugh.

"Hey, speaking of which, you guys hungry?" the Fed asks, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "I don't see a lot of fires on your guys' side. You want some warm rations? We got some expired Faunus Moon too."

"Sounds good to me," Clement replies, walking up behind Slaten. The Coalition soldiers exchange nods and smiles.

"Alright," the Fed says, then flips on his radio. "Flex, let's get some food up here."

Both armies fetch their limited supplies and pool them together. Warm Faunus rations and Moon, human coffee and sweets. Soldiers sit on empty crates exchanging stories, Mac and a few Coalition and Federation soldiers start a game of soccer with an old ball they found in a nearby village. Doc and the rest of the VAF medics start trading supplies with Fed medics, and even bring out a few of each other's wounded to both let them join the festivities and to help work on them. Slaten, Clement, and the Fed, Rowan, stand together, talking.

"Hey, wait a minute," Rowan says, noticing Clement's rank patch. "You're an officer?"

"Yeah, but you don't need to salute."

"No, I don't mean that. I thought you guys were all grunts like us."

"No, a lot of the officers are losing their shit in their foxholes," Clement replies. "This is all very much against our orders...technically. Officially, we're advancing on the enemy's position, which is what my superiors will hear in the morning."

"Yeah, same for us I guess," Rowan says. Clement's radio crackles to life.

"Lieutenant Clement!" an officer on the other end shouts. "Return to our lines immediately! That's an order!"

"Solid copy, Major," Clement says into the radio. "Alright, I'll see if I can stall this thing a little while. Rowan, good meeting you."

"Same to you, Lieutenant," Rowan says, extending his hand. They shake, and Clement walks back to his lines.

"Hey, Rowan," Slaten says. "You said that you're all grunts. What do you mean?"

"Hmm? Oh, I mean that there are no commissioned officers on the front lines."

"What? Well where are they?"

"A couple miles behind us, away from any chance of getting shot at. Something about protecting the chain of command or whatever."

"So did they organize the ceasefire or-"

"Oh hell no. This is all us. Besides giving us a break from fighting, it's also kind of to spite our COs for forcing this battle on us."

"...What do you mean?"

"This is the 4th Rifles Division. We're the only unit to not have any rotation out of combat deployment for the entire war. I've been stationed here since the early fighting broke out. We all have. Lost a lot of friends on the border. But because none of our officers have been killed, they keep on pushing us farther and farther. If it were up to us, we'd get the hell out of this kill zone and wait for armor to show up. No way we can break through in this condition."

"Yeah, I noticed," Slaten replies. Rowan smiles.

"Well, fuck them now, right?" he says.

"Yeah, fuck them."

"Hey, guys," a young Fed grunt says, approaching them with two steaming cups of coffee. "Need something to drink?"

"Hell yes," Slaten says. Both soldiers take the cups. "Thanks, kid. Oh, hey! Want some chocolate? I think I have some left." Slaten starts searching his pockets.

"Ch-chocolate? Like, real chocolate?" the young Faunus says with excitement.

"Yeah, here you go," Slaten says, pulling out a half empty wrapper of a chocolate bar and handing it to the Fed. The small Fed smiles and runs to a group of his comrades. "Well, he sure was appreciative."

"Yeah, I think he's from Menagerie. You know it?" Slaten shakes his head as he sips from the cup. The liquid quickly warms him up.

"I know what it is, but no one in the Coalition knows what's on it. We call it the Secret Fed Kingdom."

"It's not a kingdom, it's an industrial colony. It's where most of our industry comes from. Not very good living conditions, and the only legal way to get out of there for most is through the military. That was probably the first time that kid has seen chocolate."

"Oh. Wow."

"Yeah, wow. I bet he's not gonna forget this St. Winter's Day anytime soon."

"You kidding? None of us will forget tonight."

"Heh, yeah." Rowan pauses, then extends his hand. "Happy St. Winter's Day, Slaten."

"Happy St. Winter's Day, Rowan," Slaten replies, shaking it.

The truce continued for the rest of the night, and when the sun began to rise, both sides exchanged goodbyes, went back to their foxholes, and readied their weapons.

Hello everyone! I got the idea for this and spent all of Christmas Eve writing this. In case you didn't catch it, this is based on the real Christmas Truce during WW1 in 1914, when thousands of British and German soldiers agreed to a ceasefire and celebrated Christmas together in no man's land. I've always found it to be such an uplifting story; one of the world's most horrific and bloodiest wars in history was halted for a single night in the name of peace and celebration. I've also been wanting to write a story about the Second War not centered on the Hunters, and on the common grunt instead, so I figured this was a good excuse to do so. Also, in case you were wondering, this chapter is not in chronological order with the rest of the story. It simply takes place on the first St. Winter's Day of the war, which can be wherever in your head canon. This won't impact the main story, it's just a little extra story for fun :)

I have a few closing statements. First, I got (and am writing this on) my brand new laptop, which means I don't have to use my dinosaur Macbook anymore that was slow as hell and would freeze if I had more than three tabs open, which means that I can start writing in my room instead of on my desktop, which means (hopefully) more writing will get done! Also, I started writing Fort Beacon in January 2015, which means the one year anniversary for this story is coming up soon, and since I doubt I'm gonna finish the next chapter before then, I'm gonna say this here:

THANK YOU!

I've probably said this before, but I'll say it again. You guys are the reason why I write, and why I've kept on this story for the passed 12 months, and it's been an absolute blast! I'm not sure how long Fort Beacon will run for; I promised to reach some sort of conclusion for it and intend to keep that promise, but I'd like to start another fanfic, maybe a few one shots, to prove that Fort Beacon wasn't just a stroke of luck. But it's been so, so great to post a chapter and immediately see feedback from you guys, both good and bad. So, yeah, thanks and happy holidays! :D