Ludwig was not a superstitious man. On the contrary, he was about as practical and grounded as a human could hope to be. His life was orchestrated by his own set of self-imposed rules, to which he adhered to with stubborn rigor. Needless to say, his life was not a glamorous one. Others might call it "bleak". Ludwig would not choose that word himself. But, if asked, he would not be able to offer an alternative description either. For him, it just "was". To live any other way was unthinkable.
At dawn each morning, he rose and assembled himself a proper German breakfast of brotchen, wurst, and coffee (black). The food was neither enjoyable nor unpleasant. The important thing was that it filled him and sustained his health. With grim satisfaction, he tended the low cottage in rural woodland that he had inherited from his father, where he had lived alone from the age of seventeen. Fond memories of his long dead father accompanied these activities where his father had and absent older brother once accompanied him in reality, and they did not trouble him in the slightest. He traced his father's steps through the sturdy log house to the stable where the horse was kept at night, then to the shed where the axe was kept that cut countless bundles of firewood. After this work was completed, exercise time commenced without fail. Even the coldest of winter mornings would see him making his rounds sprinting the beaten forested path near his home or doing pull-ups on the low hanging branch of his favored tree. Exercise was what he truly relished out of his monotonous days. Then, when there was nothing in the world but the strain of protesting muscles, burning lungs, and shuddering heart, was when he felt alive. He embraced the pain, that was very real and concrete, which in turn conveyed neural waves of wild and indescribable pleasure. (He knew, of course, that this sensation was merely the result of endorphins triggered in his brain-"runner's high". He wasn't silly enough to give any thought to notions of spiritual purification.) After a solid two hours of those strenuous workouts, he returned to his modest property to tend the garden that his father had cultivated in the thin soil. It bore more vegetables than one person needed, so he periodically went to town on his horse and cart to sell off the surplus and buy necessities that he couldn't produce himself, like the meat he so craved. He had a superficial friendship with the grocer there, but in truth, he dreaded venturing into town. The ever-shifting hordes of people in their varied fashions, classes, and demeanors-crossed at all angles with social lines and always emoting-set his teeth on edge. He avoided those trips into that alien cityscape as much as he could. A job wasn't even on the table for him, not that he particularly needed the money. His father had left behind enough for him to live comfortably in Berlin, if he so desired. But he had no desire; he could leave that urban life to his attention-seeking brother. It was much more gratifying to Ludwig to conclude his waking hours reading dusty volumes by candlelight with no sound but for the wind outside enfolding the cottage in tuneless song. Life unwound at a numbingly tranquil pace out there, one solitary day running seamlessly into the next like the dubious frames of a moving picture show. He and his horse existed in seclusion, uninterrupted and undisturbed. No complications. No human faces, with all the troubling things that followed them, to part the interminable private mist that he was mired in. He breathed it in with determined acceptance. He would live, and eventually die, in this cottage on the southern border of Germany with not an ally beside him. This friendless, practical life suited him well. Or so he thought.
Being drafted came as no surprise to Ludwig. The collective rumblings of war had been present for a while. Even one as isolated as him could feel it, as one feels the approach of a distant train. Soon it was splashed across the front page of every newspaper he came across. People somewhere existed that posed a very real threat to all German lives, the ink shouted. Then came the blood, spilled in a neighboring nation. Its scattered droplets fell on all of them, and on everyone across the whole world.
The moment the mounted, uniformed messenger appeared outside his window, Ludwig knew the course his life would finally take. In the messenger's dust, the official stationary paper slipped into his hand, bringing with it-not fear-but a strange, profound relief. He sighed as if to let out a breath he had unknowingly been holding in for many years.
He was to report to the nearest recruitment facility at the appointed time. No exceptions. Desertion was unforgivable. Just like that, he was swept into the current of the wider world. To resist it was suicide.
Ludwig would report to the recruitment facility, because for the first time in his life, he was needed. His country needed him.
The time was World War I.
A/N: Alright. Let the tomato-chucking begin. This is my first post, after all, so there's bound to be some errors. Grill me as you see fit, but do keep in mind that this my first fan fic ever!
At this point, I have no idea where this story will go. How exciting…
Ha, I don't really know what to put here. I guess I'll give a shout-out to my close friend, Kuro-Riya. Thanks for showing me the ropes, and for writing your awesome SuFin fic of which I am an avid reader!
Feed me your reviews!
