The sky ceased to weep as clouds parted above, revealing the resplendent stars above. Night had fallen somewhere amidst the rain, giving each pellet of water a bone-chilling sensation. Mark used the sounds of splashing droplets to help keep his mind together while enduring the frigid downpour.
Torches soon set his trench alight, stretching as far as he could see on both sides. The radiance of the flames reflected against the abhorrent swamp just a few centimeters below him on the slope. Somewhere in the distance, he could see faint lights depicting the enemy trenches.
As the sunless portion of the day passed, the majority of the liquid filth had begun to recede. Before the first light shone through the sky there were only puddles left.
Mark rose with a stretch and started to walk down the murky pathway, hoping to at least warm up his shivering body with movement. He passed soldiers who were sitting against the side of the slope, their bodies shaking from either the cold or trauma.
He was reminded of the vagrants back from the city who motionlessly slouched against city buildings, with nothing to go or do, their lives slowly wasted away until nothing remained. People here were somewhat like that, except even when in action it felt like death was somehow approaching. There was also no peace. The only death people earned here was one in suffering.
Whether the idling men were smart or foolish, he wouldn't know. Maybe it was better to conserve energy, or maybe staying active would do more good. Either way, he had to get up early. Rations were coming soon and he wasn't planning on missing any.
His stomach hurt and his head ached. Malnutrition bit at his spirit, so for the sake of his sanity, he wanted some food. Filling his stomach would also prevent him from succumbing to disease, which was always a plus. What more would he want than to prolong his suffering?
Walking in the unfamiliar darkness, he finally stumbled onto a crowd of men gathered in front of a small group. There was a semblance of a queue, however, the crowd mostly resembled a mob, kind of like how the factory workers back in the city always coagulated in front of the gates he used to guard.
The rationers vigilantly kept their guard while providing the scraps of food. Mark couldn't see exactly what was being handed from his position, but there were a lot of people begging for more, and a lot of shouting in return. There probably wasn't much.
Slipping through the gaps of the mass, he eventually made it to the front. His hand stretched out in an attempt to be handed something, and eventually, the rationer put food in his hand.
He retracted his arm and shielded his gains, protecting it from any unscrupulous thieves.
After leaving the mass of hungry men, he uncovered his hand and felt for what was handed to him. It was in that moment he realized that the only thing he was given was a dry, hard, stale piece of bread.
His footsteps stopped in utter disbelief.
Usually, they provided some canned meat at the very least, if not some other things to go along with it. Even though he hadn't been here for more than a few weeks he could already tell that he was just handed a meal far below standards. The thought was agitating as much as it was intimidating. He bit his lip and continued to walk.
He curled his fingers into a fist and tapped the piece of bread with his knuckle, then smiled.
It wasn't just stale bread, it was extra stale bread.
Sighing, he brought it to his mouth and bit down, but the sturdy biscuit refused to break. How old does a piece of bread have to be to get this hard anyway? Since it was hard to see the biscuit, he could only hope that there was no mold.
Slowly nibbling away at the stale ration, he went over to a group of resting people and joined them. He could only gain some shields... companions, if he interacted with others.
He extended his mind as soon as he sat down then watched as those near him grew subtly calmer, as if a small weight had been taken off their shoulders and looming death was no longer so apparent.
The person to his right looked over and saw him nibbling on the ration.
"What are they giving out?"
Mark smiled crookedly.
"Only some stale bread for now. Maybe they will come back with more stuff later."
Everyone who heard him sighed, some let out frustrated groans, others remained silent as a sensation of dread settled.
A vein bulged on Mark's head as he looked at the man who asked him the question.
'Damn you! I was planning to simply rest here, not become the bearer of bad news.'
He nonchalantly looked at the ground while the mood continuously became somber. His attempts at reversing the sentiments of the group were ineffective.
That sensation of powerlessness returned. It felt as if there was something so close, something dangling that he could grasp with his fingers, yet it always retracted when he tried, as if mocking and taunting him.
Maybe if his abilities were more effective he would be able to raise the sentiments of the people around him, or if he were smarter he wouldn't have ruined the mood in the first place. And if he were both stronger and smarter, perhaps he wouldn't be at the wretches trench in the first place.
Fueled by a sense of ire, he pressed on the extent of his ability as a Blessed, forcing an unbridled feeling of contentedness on those around him, trying to reach the limits of his capabilities, and perhaps even break past them.
Yet before he was able to, one of the men suddenly shifted and blankly looked Mark in the eyes.
"Would you stop doing that?"