[Perhaps one of the most familiar things this entire war has been despair. Despair, grief, the need and the will to survive. He is no stranger to them, having led armies so long ago, that even a millenia after, some things don't change. Siegfried remembers encouraging the soldier's spirits, eyes bright and hopeful as he rode on a horse, speaking about victory. He remembers seeing the broken bodies and dulled eyes of those he led to their deaths, a bitter copper tang in his mouth that never truly left. He remembers men killing others for the first time, experiencing death and how it sometimes broke them then and there, rendering them useless as a swath of others came for their lives.
There are many familiar things within this war- and none of them are ones Siegfried would call himself "fond" of. But war is war, and regardless of the era, it does not change, not entirely. Even in the pointlessness of waiting, he has found comfort in some aspects that remind him of home.
Mamoru is bounding towards the agent before Siegfried even looks back to him, and the sound of a blade puncturing flesh is so prominent he almost double-takes for a split instant, thinking Mamoru has been injured. But the agent instead writhes at the attack like a fish on a hook, and Siegfried flips the bayonet in his hand, jabbing it straight into the enemy's neck. A garbled gurgle emits from behind the mask, and Siegfried twists the bayonet further, brings it to dig deeper- enough so that with enough force, the blade breaks in his hands. Blood spurts enough that it sprays onto part of his face, and the Regency agent's knees buckle. He doesn't know if it's enough, can't take a moment to really call out to Mamoru- he can only hold onto the broken blade and and pray that with the right amount of force and time, he'll bleed out.
As he is now, it's all he has. He hopes it's enough.]
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There are many familiar things within this war- and none of them are ones Siegfried would call himself "fond" of. But war is war, and regardless of the era, it does not change, not entirely. Even in the pointlessness of waiting, he has found comfort in some aspects that remind him of home.
Mamoru is bounding towards the agent before Siegfried even looks back to him, and the sound of a blade puncturing flesh is so prominent he almost double-takes for a split instant, thinking Mamoru has been injured. But the agent instead writhes at the attack like a fish on a hook, and Siegfried flips the bayonet in his hand, jabbing it straight into the enemy's neck. A garbled gurgle emits from behind the mask, and Siegfried twists the bayonet further, brings it to dig deeper- enough so that with enough force, the blade breaks in his hands. Blood spurts enough that it sprays onto part of his face, and the Regency agent's knees buckle. He doesn't know if it's enough, can't take a moment to really call out to Mamoru- he can only hold onto the broken blade and and pray that with the right amount of force and time, he'll bleed out.
As he is now, it's all he has. He hopes it's enough.]