The end of December.
It should have been the Saints' Day Festival, but the soldiers hadn't celebrated it in two years. According to the propaganda, this was progress—a step toward freedom from the Church's deceptions. A false holiday wasn't worth celebrating. But in this harsh, foreign land, the men clutching their rifles felt a pang of nostalgia.
They didn't necessarily miss the festival itself, but rather the peace and tranquility of spending the cold winter at home with their families.
The Empire was said to have similar traditions of praying for a good harvest around this time, but the two sides were now mortal enemies. Members of the National Guard, deep in enemy territory, peeked out from trenches and tents. The world outside was nothing but a scorched plain, plowed by artillery fire. There wasn't a trace of harvest or celebration to be found.
