April 17th – May 15th, 1799

Waking up inside a Staelian prison wasn't on Francis' cards for the foreseeable future, but alas, there he was. Sick, exhausted, running up a fever, but alive and surrounded by a handful of his men, who also had been captured by the foreigners during the battle. In fact, it was one of them who used a piece of torn fabric to stop the bleeding on his leg and potentially save his life: Gregory Nelson, a marine officer.

—You're tough as nails, boss. You're gonna make it. Just hang on —he heard the scruffy man say, as he moved in and out of consciousness.

It took the commander a few days to fully come back to reality. And thank God he did so before they were moved to the labor camps. Because all of the prisoners who were deemed "too weak to work" were killed upon arrival. If he survived the medical exam, it was thanks to Nelson.

—I'll want you on my staff once were back home. I owe you everything —Francis told him as much, while they were out in the plantations, harvesting tomatoes under the hot sun.

For twenty-three days, this is what he did. Work like a slave with an open wound in the leg, to help an army which his only goal was to destroy.

He tried to lay low and for the most part, he succeeded. No Staelian leader recognized him while he was in the labor camp. He did have to watch some of his fellow patriots die —either out of exhaustion, starvation, or straight up murder— but still, he persevered. He felt as if he had to, after witnessing their downfall. As if he needed to live just to make the Staelians pay for their crimes.

In a way, he wasn't resilient because he wanted to survive, but because he wanted to hunt down and slay the bastards who had killed his friends.

And thank heavens he managed to keep his head up, and his feet moving. Because one day, out of the blue, all of the Staelian guards left the camp. The prisoners, confused by their sudden departure, didn't know what they should or should not do now. As usual, Francis became their leader by nature and not exactly by choice.

He helped them organize their defenses in case the guards came back. Gave them orders to ransack the Staelian barracks and kitchen. Told them how to ration the food. Evenly divided the weapons amongst all. Counted their resources and wrote them down in lists. And waited for something, anything, to happen.

They were behind the enemy lines, and had no means of transportation to leave it. Staying put and securing their camp was their best choice to survive.

And this strategy of staying put actually worked. General Munsch was able to locate them, and move his forces down to where they were. Francis was rescued along with the other prisoners and taken overseas, back to the mainland.

Only when he saw the face of said man in person, strutting around the camp and looking back at him with clear concern in his eyes, Francis allowed himself to collapse. His tiredness and frail health finally caught up to him, and he fell down to his knees, then chest, unconscious. And thought he had died, once more.

But no. He stayed alive. And it almost seemed like God refused to set his soul free. Literally, the was no other explanation as to why he kept coming back from the grave, time and time again. He was chained to earth by the Creator. Any other man wouldn't last as long as he had, doing the work that he did, being as hurt and weak as he was.

But the case is, he made it through.

He woke up.

When his eyelids parted he found himself in an unfamiliar bed, wearing unfamiliar clothes, and with Laupin's shadow looming over him. He had no missing limbs, and no memory loss. Was breathing fine, and besides a high fever and a nasty headache, he had no major maladies.

His tiredness was the worst part of it all. It made him drowsy and lethargic. He barely took a look around and already felt exhausted.

As his eyes found Laupin, he saw a woman standing behind him, near the door. But he couldn't really focus on her face and therefore, couldn't recognize her. Francis didn't know if it was because of the haze of the fever he was running, or if maybe, he had gone a little bit blind somehow, but his eyes didn't allow him to see that far ahead.

Sadly, before he could say something about it and find out what was really going on with him, his body betrayed him, and he drifted back to sleep.

The second time Francis woke up, he was alone. Lying in the same place, in the same position, wearing the same clothes, but alone.

And he was feeling much better. Which made him able to see things more clearly, for some unexplainable reason.

Turns out, his eyes hadn't been damaged at all. It was his sickness what had made him a little loopy and shortsighted.

So he sighed with relief, looked around again and blinked several times, trying to adjust his sight to the harsh brightness of his environment. Everything around him was bathed in a grayish light, which was as calming as it was blinding. 

While he inspected the place, Francis realized several things at once: It was morning. The skies outside were cloudy. The bedroom he was resting at seemed to be owned by someone with a lot of money —since the sheets were unbelievably white, soft, and their material was clearly very expensive—.

Oh, and there were wooden crutches resting on the wall beside his bed.

He thought that maybe they were brought in for him. So he pulled the covers away from his body, sat down on the edge of the mattress, and wasted nearly twenty minutes trying to get up on his feet. Eventually he managed to do it, despite the unfathomably sharp pain caused by his injuries —that, to his annoyance, irradiated everywhere else on his body—. 

He slowly made his way to the window, and looked outside. By the architecture of the neighborhood alone, he found out where he was: the capital of his country, Lievre.

—What are you doing standing up, Forestier?

—Camille... —the commander spun around with some difficulty, and smiled when his eyes met the general's, staring back at him from the now open doorway—. Lord, it's good to see you.

—I could say the same thing about you, my friend —the man walked up to him and gave him a loosehug, not wanting to worsen his agony. Despite this, the act itself was kind andloving. And Francis needed that display of affection after so many days ofcaptivity and isolation, to be honest. Which is why he hugged his friend backwith great enthusiasm—. I'm glad to see you alive. We all thought you were gone after you...

—Sailed off into the sea and blew myself up?

—Yes, let's talk about that for a minute; what were you thinking, you utter madman? —Laupin asked, between hurt, amused, and impressed—. Seriously, why on earth would you do something this insane? I grieved you, you bastard!...

—I know, and I'm sorry for the pain I caused you. But I don't regret my actions... If I hadn't blown up that ship, chances are you wouldn't have come home to your wife and daughter.

—I know... but God... —Camille's relived expression turned somewhat sour, as he let Francis go—. It hurt. To see you... die.

—But I didn't die.

—Yes, but... you almost did. I thought you did. And I've come to consider you my family. So please... don't ever do something that impulsive again. My old heart can't take it. I'll die from bitterness and sorrow.

—Fine. I shall preserve my life to the best of my abilities, from now on —the commander replied, then flinched when he tried to switch his body weight onto his other leg, and failed to realize just how bad his wounds were.

—Let me help you sit down again. You can't stand up for too long. You must rest.

—I just got out of bed, I'm fine.

—Francis, you just spent three days going in and out of a coma.

—That's not possible, I arrived here yesterday.

—You were rescued from the prisoner camp on the 10th of May, and arrived here on the 12th. It is now the 15th... Let's not even mention the twenty-three days of captivity you went through before you were rescued by general Munsch. You need to rest. Now come.

Since there are no arguments that can stand up against facts, the commander was forced to comply. Francis laid back down on the mattress and returned the crutches to Laupin, who once again propped them up against the wall. Then, the general sat down next to his legs, and took a deep breath in before announcing:

—You were the winner of the Republican Cross. Your suicide mission was considered an act of martyrdom by the Directory, and you were appointed as one of the recipients of said honor immediately. The order of merit is yours. It was given to you as a post-mortem award, but... still. They'll find a way to fix that mistake.  And I know what your opinion about these types of medals is, but...

—I'll accept it. I always do. But I won't wear it.

Laupin massaged his face.

—I should have expected that.

—I'll hand it forward to someone else.

—I'm sorry? —his eyes looked for Francis' immediately.

—Gregory Nelson deserves it more than I do. Not only did he stop the bleeding in my leg while I was in captivity, he also helped a lot of other imprisoned and wounded soldiers survive in the camp. He's the man who really deserves that medal. Not me.

—But the Directory won't allow you to do that...

—I do not care at all, my friend. I'll do it anyway. I'll send it to him as a gift, and as a display of my gratitude.

—I also should have expected that answer —Camille let out a short lived chuckle, then continued, after a few minutes of thoughtful silence:— Besides that I... I have to give you some othernews. Delicate news, of upmost importance.

—Yes?

—Well, you see... while you were away a lot of things happened.

—Who has died now?

—No one. On the contrary, actually... —the general shook his head again, as if in disbelief of what he was about to say:— I found out why the Vannes Kingdom has agreed to help us so much during our war with the Staelians. And it's... it's quite a tale.

—You're stalling, Camille. Sorry to tell you.

—No, I know I am, it's just... What I'm about to share with you, it will blow your mind. And I'm trying to think of a way to say it without hurting you, to the point of driving you straight into insanity.

—Just say whatever you have to say, It's fine. It can't be worse than everything we've already gone through, can it?

Laupin made a face that seemed to indicate otherwise, but followed Francis' advice anyway:

—Laura. It was Laura who contacted the prince of Vannes and convinced both him and the King to help us.

—That's... —the commander swallowed some saliva and looked down, visibly saddened by the mention of the woman—. That's actually quite understandable, since she was friends with the prince...

—Yes, but that's not all —Camille interrupted him—. She didn't actually die during the burning of Alvern. She's... she's alive. She contacted the prince while alive.

Francis' jaw tensed. His eyebrows crashed together. His hands fisted the material of his covers and he looked up again.

—What are you talking about? I literally saw her body...

—You saw her hand, and her ring. Her alleged body was buried under debris and you couldn't pull it out of the rubble, you told me so yourself.

—No, she was...

—She sold the ring to the Suzannet's eldest daughter, so she could pay for a carriage and leave Alvern for the Vannes Kingdom. The girl who bought the ring then wrote to you, without her knowledge, and fabricated a story about the Duke coming back to her hometown, and beating the Duchess to a pulp... Laura thinks she did it because she wanted to tell you that your beloved was dead, and then make some quick money out of your grief, by reselling the ring to you as a keepsake...

—No... Stop with these filthy lies at once, Camille.

—I'm not lying. And I'mterribly sorry to say that you were mistaken about her fate, because I know howmuch you've suffered, and how much you've grieved. But she's alive.

—No! Why are you doing this to me? Why are you saying all of this to me? What's the point of making me suffer like this?! Haven't I gone through enough already?!...

—She's here, Francis —Laupin spoke over him, without raising his voice—. She's downstairs, with my wife and my daughter, and she has been here since she found out you were taken by the Staelians.

—No... no, d-don't do this... Ann wouldn't h-have tricked me... not f-for money...

—I'm sorry, but it's the truth. War brings desperation, and desperation brings dishonesty. And I wouldn't lie to you about this. You know I wouldn't dare to.

—T-Then why isn't Laura up here?!...

—I asked her to wait for me to speak to you, so you had enough time to understand the news, and digest them.

—SHE WAS DEAD!

Laupin opened his mouth to speak, but decided to stay silent in the end. He only let out an understanding sigh through his teeth, and stood up.

—I'll go fetch her. You'll only believe me once you see Laura with your own eyes. And she's desperate to be with you, so... It will be good for the two of you to reunite. I'll be right back.

Francis, already crying, watched him leave with wide open eyes and a burning ache sinking deeper and deeper inside his chest. He sat down on the bed again, with some difficulty, and as the door closed stared at his shaking hands, with a mixture of fear and sorrow.

Was Laura truly alive? Was his general speaking the truth, and the truth alone? And, if so, what on earth had he done?

After the alleged death of the Duchess, he had been a brute. A blood thirsty, vengeful, unhinged brute. He had killed, he had tortured, he had subdued, and humiliated every single one of his enemies, with no guilt, with no remorse.

And for a while, he believed he had done the right thing.

But now his askew view of the world had been set straight.

And he couldn't help but ask himself again, with profound horror, what had he done?

The hinges of the door squeaked as it opened. He looked up again, on the verge of sobbing. And when his bewildered eyes met Laura's fretful ones, he couldn't hold his emotions back anymore.

He couldn't say where he found the strength to stand up again, without the aid of the crutches. He couldn't say how he was able to stumble towards her either. All he knew is that he wanted to hug her. And so, he did. Wrapped his arms around Laura's body as tightly as he could and cried.

—Y-You're alive... G-God have mercy on me, y-you're... you...

—Blessed be his name, since he brought you back to me —she whispered and shed her own tears as well, hanging onto his clothes for dear life—. I prayed for days... I begged him for you to survive this war, and he delivered... I'm so g-glad he delivered.

They didn't speak for a long while. Just held each other and cried, out of relief, out of hurt, out of grief, out of happiness... out of love.

—M-My letters...

—I kept them, Francis. I kept them all. But I had to leave Alvern. I had to find my friends outside of this... country. I had to ask them for help. Once I read about the Ruhm empire's declaration of war, I knew I had to go.

—But I f-found your b-body... I c-couldn't remove it f-from under the rubble...

—That was probably Ann's body you found. I gave her my ring in return for coins to pay the coachman...

—It was a d-diamond ring...

—I didn't care. I knew what I was doing was worth it. If I could save you from dying at the hands of the Ruhmnians, I... I'd do anything —she pulled away from his chest, so she could look into his eyes—. Although I'm terribly sorry that you believed, for a minute alone, that I was dead.

—I saw a body, and you d-didn't write me any letters a-anymore... How could I not?...

—I was on the run. From the royalists who thought I was a traitor, from the rebels who thought I was just another piece of royal scum, and from my husband and his minions... I couldn't write to you while I travelled to Vannes. It was a risk that was too great to take. But I took all of your letters with me. And I still have them; they're on my leather chest, inside my room.

Francis blinked a few times and slowly shook his head, trying to make sense of this sudden shift in reality without really being able to.

—I-I still... I c-can't believe you're here.

Laura's left hand shot up, and caressed his cheek. His stubble was untrimmed, raspy, and nearly turning into a beard. His dark hair was matted, now switching to grey —despite his young age—, and one of his eyebrows had been cut in half permanently by a scar. But that wasn't all. A thousand little ones were also found all around his body, in every place she checked.

He had gone through the horrors of war, seen the unimaginable, lived through the most repulsive of situations, done what many men would never dare, and his experience was beginning to show.

He looked, and also felt, worn out. Exhausted beyond comprehension. Tired beyond his years. And wounded in many more ways than just physical.

—I'll take care of you now, just as you've always taken care of me —she promised, and gave him a little smile, that although worried, was genuine and kind—. I'll make you feel better, commander Forestier.

—To you I'm only Francis.

—And that's more than enough for me —Laura's grin widened, and she leaned her head forward, kissing him in the exact way he had been yearning for, and longing for, for months on end.

—Marry me —he begged, more than asked—. I do not care if it's only for us to know... But I need you to be mine, and only mine, for the rest of our lives.

—Do I even need to say yes? —she cooed with delight—. I'm already yours —and then, leaned in to taste his lips again.

And again.

And again.

And again...