He couldn't sleep.
Gaston let out a sigh as he stared at the ceiling. In the army camps there had always been noises: the guards whispering, the crackling of the campfires. Here it was too quiet.
He had been away for three years, and had been back in Villeneuve for only two months. But already it felt like a lifetime and it felt like his army days were in the distant past.
When the war ended, he had returned victoriously to the village. The war had cost many lives of good French soldiers, but he had returned home. He had survived. With his incredible skill, how could it be different? Of course he had returned. No one had expected a different result.
The first weeks he had spent adjusting from army life to the regular village life. He was glad to go wherever he pleased, hunt to his heart's desire, and go to the tavern as often and as long as he wanted. However, after two weeks the novelty had worn off.
Every day here in Villeneuve is the same! he thought, frustrated.
Of course, there had been boring days in the army as well, when they were moving from one place to the next and they were just walking or riding fully packed for days on end. Endless days of walking, singing to keep their spirits up. But that feeling of boredom didn't feel as bad, as there was always something new: new surroundings, new villages, new people. And the people he was with, his army buddies, they were all in the same boat. They had been through the same battles, they had seen the same things.
Here, the people lived in a bubble. They all lived their perfect little lives without even knowing that there was something else out there. They all were just living from one day to the next, with the same routine every day. Day in, day out.
As he hardly slept these days, he usually sat in front of the window watching the sun rise over the village. And as the sun rose, he could see the village come to life, every day in the exact same order. Like clockwork. First the fishermen left to go to the rivers, then he would see the smoke come from the baker's chimney, and shortly after the sounds of the market started.
He stood up from his bed and paced his bedroom. His room felt small, smaller than he remembered. The walls were closing in on him. He had gotten used to sleeping in tents, wind coming from every opening, the smell of grass in his nostrils as soon as he woke up. He smiled at the memory. It had been a great time. It had made him feel alive.
He leaned on the window sill and looked to the sky. Almost an hour left till sunrise, as he studied the position of the moon and the stars. If he left now, he could be on the hills before the sun came up.
And so he went. Soon he was almost at the top of the hill. He dismounted his horse, bound it to a tree, and walked further up the hill by himself. It was a clear night and the view went on for miles. The world was so big out there, and here… Well, it was Villeneuve.
He sat down in the grass, closed his eyes, and felt the breeze gently blow through his hair. Soon memories started to flood back, memories of how he had travelled to war. His journey had started on this hill. He had only had to travel over the mountains and across the border to Prussia. On his way he had met his first army companions. Several men from the villages and cities around Villeneuve had been drafted, and they all travelled via the same route to the city where they had to report.
Their training had been short, but for him it was more than enough. His drill sergeants called him a natural talent and often let him demonstrate the use of several weapons to show the others. Even weapons he had never used before, he mastered and excelled at within a matter of minutes.
Being in the army had been the greatest time of his life. He couldn't tell anyone, as war is supposed to be hell, but he had enjoyed it immensely. Every time when he had been able to show his skills as a hunter and a sharpshooter, he felt more and more alive. It was the constant game of him being able to outsmart Death that made him feel this way. He felt invincible.
Every time he was sent ahead to see what the enemy was up to, he had enjoyed the game of sneaking up to them as close as he could. It was pure skill. He never got caught. One or two times it had been close. But then it just took one arrow or one bullet, and the enemy scout was gone. They never knew what hit them. When he stepped over the dead body, there was always a look of shock and surprise in their eyes.
Every soldier wondered how a big man like him could be so unnoticeable if he wanted to. They admired him for his knowledge of the woods and his battle instinct. His buddies had an ongoing bet for the first few months: whoever was able to sneak up on Gaston and get his hunting knife as a trophy, without being noticed, would win fifty francs. No one had ever collected the prize money. Not even when he was asleep were they able to catch him off guard. There was always a sound, a smell, or a shadow that gave them away.
Later, when he was promoted to captain, the bet had been over and his buddies had to salute him. They didn't mind; they respected him, and everyone thought, naturally, that there was no one who deserved it more than Gaston. He was their leader.
And they had respected him even more when he decided to join them in a battle. To him it only made sense: he had to be there where the action was, not staying behind with the officers. Out there was where it all happened. On this one afternoon, his soldiers stood on a large field opposite the enemy. He could still feel the tension that was in the air then. Who would fire first?
It was up to him to give the command, but he had thought of a surprise. Yes, he would yell 'fire', but he would fire the first shot himself. He had aimed at the highest in rank he could spot from that distance. As the sergeant fell to the ground, there was a shock going through the enemy soldiers. They jumped to the side. But before they could get themselves back together and fire, Gaston had already given the order. And with that, they had a head's start. They marched forward, firing shot after shot.
He walked among his men, protecting them. He was always quicker; he spotted an aiming enemy soldier before his own men could. And whenever he could, he took out the higher ranks and those who were important for morale, like the drummer and the ensign-bearer. The air was filled with smoke, the smell of gunpowder, and the metallic tang of blood. The smoke surrounded then and the noises got louder and louder. The yelling of commands, the gunfire, the sounds of birds overhead contrasting with the screams on the ground. It only lasted a short while, but it felt like a never-ending battle.
The wind came, and the smoke cleared. He was still standing while many around him had fallen. He was panting, but he wasn't sweating. Pure adrenaline was rushing through his veins. Once again, he had beaten Death. The danger of the battle was no match for him. He would take the challenge every single time and be the victor!
Suddenly he heard the church bells. He opened his eyes again and let out a sigh. The sun had risen without him noticing it. Eight strikes, eight o'clock. The market had started already, school was about to start. No danger whatsoever. Same old, same old.
Reluctantly he stood up and walked back to his horse. He looked over his shoulders one more time at the mountains in the distance. What I wouldn't give to go back.