Oliver had already escaped back to his room and his in his bathroom. He leaned against the vanity and trembled. He tried to find some semblance of control over his emotions.

He had restrained himself in front of Piers and Ewen, yet he was starting to let his anger slip through the cracks of his meticulously constructed mask.

First, his tears in front of Draco, then his rage in front of the Ravager and Sampson. He was losing himself.

He shouldn't allow himself the luxury of feelings. They were rash and desperate things. 

Emotions endanger the army.

Anger can cause you to act impulsively. Sorrow can force you to be irrational. Frustration can blind you. Fear can cripple you. Anxiety will break your men's trust. Hope can make you ignorant.

A General couldn't afford emotions because the cost would be another man's life.

Oliver repressed his emotions until all that was left was a cold facade. This allowed him to protect his men to the best of his ability. He could think clearly without the buzz of uncertainties and impulsiveness rattling in his mind.

His relentless control made him a good General.

Many of his men entered the war as teenagers, mere children. They were torn from their families and entered hell.  They no longer had their parents to guide them into adulthood, so Oliver stepped into that role.

He helped them wield a sword and to stand with an army.  He taught them how to camp and survive in the wilderness.  He guided them on when to show mercy. He had raised many teenagers into good men, and they looked up to him as a father figure.

And he held many of those good men as they breathed their last. Somehow, their eyes never wavered. For some bizarre reason, those dying men still had a deep appreciation and respect for Oliver that he felt unworthy of.

Still, he never lost himself to his grief. He always took a deep breath, dusted off the ash of their funeral pyres, and focused on keeping the remaining soldiers alive. He chose to stand firm at the lonely forefront of the army, shouldering the grief of his men.

If the General breaks, then the army breaks.

But when there was a glimmer of hope for his men, he reached for it. He gladly offered his life when he knew his soldiers' nightmare could end with his death.  He even begged his friends to deliver the final blow—ease the land's suffering, and let the old ghost rest.

He was a good General... right?

However, he was losing his demeanor to mere emotions. He had led his army for 30 years. He traveled back in time. He stood at the crossroads of chance and opportunity. Yet, he was falling apart at the seams. 

"You're a fool. A broken, bitter, old fool." Oliver murmured.

Abandoned. Betrayed. Killed... Teetering into incandescent madness. 

Had the great General of the past truly fallen so terribly low?

He covered his ears with his hands and tightly shut his eyes. He wanted to stop the memories, but the faces of the men he burned continued to flash through his mind. There were too many men, and soon their faces blurred, and each one seemed indistinguishable from the next.

Was he even worthy of Anima's Wish when unraveling like this? Was he the right choice? 

It should have been Draco. 

He stopped that thought almost immediately. He would never wish this curse on anyone. No one should have to remember that war, especially Draco, who had lost his sister and his kingdom.

No. It had to be him.

"Fuck."

His hands tangled in his hair. He looked in the mirror and saw the unhinged mess in the reflection.

"Fuck!"

He needed to stop the emotions—stop the anger and sorrow.  He needed to regain control. He needed to take care of Wynter, lead the men who served under him, and continue preparing for the hell that was bound to come.

No one can see him as irrational or weak.

He glared at the reflection and clenched his jaw. His fist pulled back and slammed into the mirror. The broken pieces crashed to the ground. He looked down numbly at the broken glass. The blood from his knuckles dripped down and splattered on the floor.

He staggered back a couple of steps and slumped down to the tile. He pulled his knees to his chest and covered his head with his arms.

The door slammed open, and a distressed Draco rushed in. A shudder ran through his body when his eyes fell on Oliver's huddled figure.  He wrapped Oliver in his arms and carried him over to the bed.  He laid him down and frowned when he examined the fresh cuts.

Draco's large callused hands gently disinfected the wounds and wrapped Oliver's hand.  When he was done, he sat on the bed with his back against the headboard.  He pulled Oliver onto his lap and held him to his chest.

Draco sighed as he looked at Oliver, but Oliver kept his head down. Oliver's face was vacant the entire time, and it worried Draco. He gently took Oliver's chin and forced him to look up. He faltered when he saw the sorrowful violet eyes that contrasted with his expressionless face.

Oliver was finally aware that someone was attending to him and his eyes focused on Draco.

"You didn't leave?" Oliver's voice trembled, sounding meek. He didn't even realize how much he feared Draco fleeing from the darkness harboring inside of him until this moment.

Draco's heart ached when he heard him. "I'll never leave." He swept back Oliver's hair.

Oliver leaned his head against Draco's shoulder. "I just need a moment. I'll get control over my emotions soon."

"You're allowed to have moments like this. You're human, after all." Draco's voice was soft and reassuring.

"I'm a General. To lead, I must remain calm." Oliver shook his head as he said this. He was too tangled in his thoughts to realize that he said 'I'm a General' instead of 'I will be a General'.

Draco noticed this phrasing as well but didn't dwell on it. He sighed lightly as he brushed Oliver's hair with his fingers. "I'm not one of your soldiers. You don't need to restrain yourself around me."

"But—"

"Please, Oliver. Just let go."

Oliver opened his mouth to argue again, but his throat was tight, and his chest burned.  He couldn't muster a single sound.

Let go?

He would have to face a storm of suffering if he let go.  He would have to acknowledge the futility of the war. He must admit that his man died in vain. He would have to come to terms with the fact that his family was murdered by his brother... And he would have to grieve his own death.

Now that he had returned, he had to face the dark fate of the continent and divert it. Every path needed to be planned. Every contingency had to be mapped out. He was constantly straining himself as he strategized every single step.

He could change the fate of so many people, or he could destroy it all. The weight of responsibility was enough to bring a man to his knees.

He had no one to rely on because he returned to the past alone.  He didn't have his old friends of the battlefield.  He didn't have people to guide him.  He didn't have his old relationships.  He needed to start from scratch and slowly build every single connection again.

He initially ignored how his old comrades looked at him like a stranger.  But now, the unfamiliarity gutted him each time he introduced himself. The memories they shared and the battles they fought were nothing more than vapor.

No one remembered him, so he had no one to walk down the path with.

He was burdened by duty... and it was too much by himself.

He was tired.

Oliver shuddered and tucked his head in against Draco's chest.  His stubborn resolve wavered. The weight of his two lives crashed down on him, and he let go of the facade.

The great General grieved.

Days passed, and Oliver didn't leave his room.  Only Draco went in and out, but even he was seen infrequently.

The days were filled with bitter cries and voiceless lamentations. 

The nights were tormented by vivid nightmares that Draco would have to coax him out of. Sometimes he would mutter unknown names or wake up shouting commands to imagined armies.

Other times he would whisper Draco's name and beg for his forgiveness.

Draco didn't know what tormented Oliver at night or understand the words he muttered during the day. He didn't know why Oliver apologized to him either. Nevertheless, he remained. He held Oliver when he needed comfort and watched over him when he found slivers of peace.

He had encouraged Oliver to let go, but now he shook at the result of his request. He couldn't grasp what horrors haunted Oliver, but he had never seen someone break down like this.

His father once told him that the most broken of men wear the sturdiest masks. Draco had misunderstood at first, believing this was another proverb about how pain made you stronger. However, at this moment, he finally comprehended his father's meaning. Broken men hide their pain behind iron masks; their misery is too difficult to see. Once their mask corrodes, the frailty of what lies beneath is exposed.

The world believed that the most challenging thing he had faced was the annulment of his engagement, but this was the furthest from the truth. Oliver had seen too much of the world's evil but never allowed anyone to know. 

Draco felt it now—every bone-rattling sob. He wished he could end it and let Oliver find some comfort, but the torment continued.

After a week, Oliver finally slept peacefully. His nightmares had finally grown tired of his company.

He opened his heavy eyes and winced from the bright glow of the full moon. Its silver light reflected off the snow-covered land creating. He turned his head, still somewhat chaotic, and found Draco sleeping next to him while holding his hand.  

The entire time, Oliver was conscious of him. He knew Draco had cared for him patiently.

Oliver wasn't sure how many days had passed because the period was hazy. He knew that he had shown his ugliest side to Draco, one that no other person had ever seen in either life. But he was comforted that Draco didn't leave him.

With his free hand, he rubbed his eyes and sighed lightly.

He gingerly sat in the bed, letting the cool air hit his bare chest. However, his hand remained tightly around Draco's. He looked down at the sleeping figure and didn't wish to wake him. Draco had to endure much while watching over him.

Oliver leaned his back against the headboard and looked out the window. Snow started falling again, and the Kardos manor was met with a rare peaceful silence.

In his previous life, he hated nights like these because the snow made the marches impossible and the battles miserable. But now, he was warm and next to Draco. Perhaps this was magic.

"Oliver?" The deep voice was heavy with sleep.

Oliver turned from the window and watched Draco blink his eyes and slowly wake up.

"Did I wake you?" He smiled softly at the man.

Draco was stunned for a moment. Oliver was bathed in the silver light, his hair nearly turning white.  He was divine, and Draco felt his need to possess him deepen. His beautiful ghost.

"No..." Draco finally found his words again. "How are you feeling?"

Oliver pursed his lips and gave a thoughtful look. "Lighter."

"Good." He murmured as his grasp around Oliver's hand tightened. "What are your plans for today? Should we stay in?"

Oliver shook his head and swept his legs over the side of the bed. He stretched his legs gingerly, feeling weaker than before. He pressed his feet on the floor and slowly stood. He swayed a little but found that Draco was holding his arms.

"Let me help you." He said and made Oliver sit again.

He went to the closet and returned with a loose shirt for Oliver. He helped him into it and then combed his hair, careful not to pull too hard. He knew Oliver would want to tie his hair back, so Draco decided to braid it instead to match the Rucrean styles.

Oliver closed his eyes and relished the strong fingers running through his hair. "Did you stay here the entire time?"

Draco hummed lightly. "I promised to stay with you, right?"

Oliver felt the heat rise to his ears. His embarrassment was coupled with his shame. "I'm sorry."

Draco paused for a moment and then continued with his braid. "Never apologize to me. All I ask is that you come to me if there is a next time. Never endure something like that alone."

Oliver bit his lip. "Ok." He whispered.

When Draco was done, they sat together in silence, watching the silver moonlight turn into purples and oranges as the sun rose. 

When the room was filled with light, Draco helped Oliver to the desk. "Are you sure you want to return to work immediately?"

Oliver nodded. "I have been avoiding my duties for too long. I have people relying on me."

Draco didn't argue with him and only handed him a pile of papers. "I'll tell Timothy to bring the rest."

Draco disappeared as Oliver started to look over his paperwork. He was worried that Darco would stop him, but perhaps Draco also understood the weight on his shoulders. He needed to lead, even when he wasn't in peak condition.

Moments later, Sarah came rushing in with a tray of food and reddened eyes. "Oli?" She called out timidly.

He looked up from his desk and nodded toward her. "Bring it here for me."

Her chin trembled, and her eyes watered. "Why are you working?"

"The manor cannot stop if I fall ill." He explained as he signed a document and picked up another.

Sarah put the tray down on the desk and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Draco said that you were very ill. Are you sure you're better?"

Oliver was surprised by the affection Sarah had shown. They were never that close until they went to war in his previous life, so she had never hugged him before.

"I'm better." He said hoarsely.

She sighed and squeezed his shoulders before she pulled away. "Be sure to eat and rest from time to time."

"I will." He took the bowl of porridge that she had brought in. "Oh, I meant to pass down the order to eliminate Sampson."

Sarah hesitated. "He's dead already."

Oliver faltered. "What happened?"

"He vexed me." Draco's voice came from the doorway. He gave Oliver a sheepish look. "So, I snapped his neck."

Oliver's eyes fell on Draco, and a small chuckle escaped his lips. "Thank you."

Draco shrugged and sat down on the couch. Sarah served him some food, and Timothy set a thick pile of documents on the desk. "If you need help, Lord Oliver, I will be happy to step in."

Oliver tapped his desk. "Thank you, Timothy. Just report the status of the manor and Wynter for now."

Timothy gave his report and helped with some of the documents while Draco sat on the couch reading books. The day started to pass, and soon the room was only accompanied by the scratching of a quill and pages turning.

However, a heaviness that used to reside in the room had lifted slightly. There was now a hint of hope settling in the air.

••••••A/N••••••

I'm sorry! I have thrown a lot of emotions at you in the last few chapters, and this time I had to break Oliver a little. I hated it.  ❤️