The smell of smoke hung thick in the air. It clung to the soldier's coat, filled the hollows of the trenches, and wrapped itself around every breath taken by the weary and wounded. Shells had fallen throughout the night, their thunder echoing across the broken fields like the drums of some ancient god demanding more blood. Morning had come, but it brought no sun—only gray skies and the groan of wind through shattered trees.
In the heart of it all stood Frido, a soldier unlike any other.
He was not tall, not strong, not clever. His helmet was too big, always slipping down over his eyes. His uniform was always a little too dirty, his boots mismatched, one always untied. Other soldiers called him Peaceful, sometimes mockingly, sometimes fondly, because in a world drowned in hatred and fury, Frido had never once lifted a hand in anger.
He had once tried to calm an argument between two officers by offering them both raisins from his ration pack.
He had once tried to hug a captured enemy soldier, believing, as he said, "Maybe he just needs warmth."
But he had marched through every muddy mile like the rest, carried wounded comrades on his back, and stood his ground when the enemies surged forward. He was not quick, nor fierce—but he was brave. Braver than most.
And this morning, he stood on the edge of something greater than he could understand.
A captain approached, blood streaked on his temple and anger in his eyes.
"Frido," he snapped. "Message from high command. There's to be a push at noon. We're the front line. You'll carry word to Company B on the southern ridge. Move."
Frido blinked. "Sir, the southern ridge is... gone, isn't it?"
The captain grimaced. "So we think. You'll go and find out. We need confirmation. Now move!"
Frido saluted clumsily, almost dropping his rifle. He never liked rifles. He used his more like a walking stick than a weapon. "Yes, sir. I'll be peaceful about it."
The captain growled, "This isn't one of your peace marches, Frido. Just don't die. Not yet."
Frido trotted off, boots squelching in the mud.
He passed rows of soldiers—some asleep against sandbags, others sharpening bayonets. Many whispered prayers. One young boy, barely sixteen, clutched a photograph of his family and cried quietly. Frido paused and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We'll go home," Frido said. "You'll see them again. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not even soon. But peace finds us. Even here."
The boy nodded, unable to speak.
And then Frido was off, weaving through the mist, past barbed wire and bones half-buried in the dirt. The war had scarred the land like fire scours a forest. No green remained, no birds sang. Only the crows now.
As he walked, the world seemed to grow quieter. There were no more guns, no screams. Only the sound of his boots, the wind, and distant memories.
Memories like...
---
Years ago – in a quiet village in the valley
The world was simpler.
Frido had been a boy with large ears and a permanent smile, always running barefoot through wheat fields. His home was a tiny cottage with a crooked chimney, nestled beside a stream that sang in the summer and froze in the winter.
His mother was a seamstress, his father a blacksmith who sang lullabies in the evenings. They weren't rich, but they were warm.
Frido had never understood anger. When other boys fought over marbles or sticks, he'd offer to give up his turn. When a dog bit his leg, he patted its head and said, "It's okay. Maybe your day was bad."
Everyone called him a fool. But they also loved him.
He once stopped an argument in the village square by giving the baker and the butcher a chicken. It wasn't even his chicken. He had borrowed it from Old Man Brahn, who later thanked him anyway because, "somehow, peace came to my house after that."
Frido had a friend—Lina, a bold, sharp-tongued girl with eyes like fire. She once told him, "You're too soft. The world isn't kind."
Frido replied, "Then I'll be kind enough for both of us."
They were twelve then. They grew together like vines around the same trellis—he slow and steady, she wild and laughing. It was Lina who taught him to read, to question, to dream beyond the valley.
But then the war came.
---
Present – the ruined road south
Frido climbed a shattered hill, ducked beneath a broken fence, and paused at the sight below. The southern ridge was... gone.
Nothing remained but smoke and silence. The trees had been burnt to stumps, and the trench line was a jagged scar with no movement, no sound.
He knelt by a helmet half-buried in the ash. Inside it was a letter, never sent. He folded it and tucked it into his coat.
There were no survivors here.
He turned back, but the wind carried a sound—footsteps. Not friendly.
He ducked behind a broken cart just as figures emerged from the haze. Enemy scouts.
Frido didn't move. He wasn't sure how to fight. But he knew how to stay still. And he knew how to pray.
They passed him by.
He waited an hour, just in case. And in that hour, he thought of Lina.
---
Years earlier – the train station
He had stood with her at the platform, his knapsack too large for his back.
"You don't have to go," she'd said. "You don't believe in this war."
"I don't," Frido answered. "But I believe someone has to be there who doesn't. Someone has to carry peace into it."
Lina slapped his arm. "You're a fool, Frido."
"I know."
"And if you die?"
"I'll try not to. But if I do... maybe I'll slow down one bullet, or carry one wounded boy to safety. That'll be enough."
She kissed his cheek. "Come back."
He had promised. But now, here in this wasteland, he feared that promise would be broken.
---
Present – returning north
Frido limped back, his coat torn by shrapnel, blood on his leg. He had fallen crossing a barbed ravine. But he still walked. Slowly, steadily.
As he neared the camp, the guns began again.
The captain rushed to him. "Report!"
Frido, pale and shaking, said simply, "No one's left, sir. The ridge is gone."
The captain closed his eyes. "Then the plan is suicide."
"Maybe," Frido whispered. "Maybe there's another way."
The captain scoffed. "You have a plan, Peaceful?"
Frido looked at the map. "What if we... spoke to them?"
Everyone stared.
Frido smiled. "No, not with flags. Not with brass bands. But if someone walked... unarmed... across the no-man's land. Carried a message. Carried truth. Maybe someone would listen."
The captain's face darkened. "You'd die."
"Maybe," Frido said. "But maybe I'd stop something worse."
And in that moment, the first stone of sacrifice was laid.