November of 1797 – February of 1798

The months he spent serving as a hussar would be forever remembered by him as the most entertaining and exciting ones he had whilst being in the armed forces. He genuinely enjoyed this period of his life —which honestly was miracle, since most of the days he spent away from Laura he despised even being alive—.

The sights he saw while riding through the countryside were jaw dropping, even during winter. Those endless fields of green pasture, covered with the whitest, purest snow; those infinite skies of grey, shifting and moving like waves above his head; those flickering shades of green and blue, reflecting off the frozen lakes and rivers... They all worked as God's strokes of genius in the beautiful paintings that surrounded him. He stared, and stared into the horizon, and most times, could not believe in what he was seeing. Had the earth always been this beautiful? Even in the harshest of seasons? Even with the falling snowflakes, the clouds and the rain? Had everything always been this vibrant?

He was enchanted.

This inner peace was also helped by the fact that his missions during this time were less bloody and gruesome than the previous ones had been. And the comradery that he found beside his fellow riders was both enthralling and heartwarming. Above all, this was the aspect he enjoyed the most: feeling like he belonged to something greater than himself, while being useful and lawful at the same time. His mates treated him with upmost respect and admiration from the get go, since they'd already heard about his innate leadership skills, his loyalty and the bravery he'd demonstrated as an infantry soldier. This shiny, bright reputation made even his squadron leader, Alphonse Rouen, take a liking to him.

The old man taught him everything he knew about the job. How to care for their stallions, make better use of his weapons while riding, which attack and defense strategies were best to employ, as well as why and when, and also taught him the real importance of the role of the cavalry in the war. In just a few weeks, they became as close as father and son, and took care of each other as such. It was an endearing sight, amidst the chaos and devastation of the revolutionary war.

During this time, Francis also became an expert swordsman. He was decent with a musket, sure, but he discovered that with his sable he was a true menace. An unstoppable force. And no one could hold him back from slicing his enemies in half like they were made of paper if they tested his patience. He hunted them down, one by one, and didn't rest until every man he laid his eyes on was dead.

This change of attitude and demeanor happened because of Rouen. Francis' perspective on killing as a whole also shifted by working alongside the older and more experienced rider.

He learned that, to live, he'd sometimes have to make someone die.

This was a war, after all.

But these changes weren't only behavioral. Francis' appearance shifted as well, going from a small town gardener, to a ruthless warlord. His uniform's colors, once blue and white, were now green and gold. His tricorn was exchanged by a busby hat. His dark cape, replaced by a dark pelisse. His saber got longer, and more bejeweled. Guns shrunk in size. From the distance, he was barely recognizable.

He also let his hair grow during the winter (because according to his mentor, it would help him keep himself warm - which was true-) and grew a thick moustache to accompany it. He lost a lot of weight and gained a lot muscle. Got rid of most of his innocence, and obtained determination. Learned how to steal to survive, and murder to thrive. From all points of view, he turned into a new man.

Tougher. Colder. More determined to win his battles, despite the overwhelming odds.

He wasn't evil, nor unfair... but he did his job as he should. And that meant not allowing any of his enemies to escape from his wrath.

During his off duty days, he met up with his old friends from the infantry to drink and dine. Out of everyone, Charlie was the closest one he had, and with whom he spent the most time joking around.

—You're like the brother I always wished to have! —the captain told him once, as they emptied a bottle of wine underneath the shade of an oak tree.

Francis took those words to heart, and frequently wrote to the man, keeping himself updated with his shenanigans. It was him who warned him that one of their greatest enemies, General Bautzen, was moving towards the north, and it was him who told him to beware the insane strategies of that retched man.

Francis knew, thanks to Charlie, that things would soon take a turn for the worse. And he knew, going into a battle near Courrer, that there would be great losses ahead. But he never expected to see his dear friend and mentor, squadron leader Rouen, be brutally killed right in front of him.

The old man's chest was hit with a cannon ball and his body was cut in half, blood and guts flying everywhere as his horse continued to move forward on his own. His legs and hips remained attached to the animal, while his torso and head disappeared in the snowy battlefield.

Francis was in shock, but also deeply furious and emotional by what he'd just seen. So, instead of crying his eyes out and putting a stop to his advance, giving his victory away to the hands of his panic, he did the contrary. He blinked away his pain, swallowed his grief down, and he used his rage as a weapon to lead a vicious attack against Bautzen.

Once again, his ability to take control over the man around him immediately, formulate new plans on the spot and give directions to his otherwise lost and confused colleagues, made them call him their new Leader —before Laupin even made anything official—.

And he was thankful for their trust, truly. But he wasn't happy about it. The death of Rouen was a huge deal for him. It was like watching his father be executed, all over again.

This tragedy made him lose a great chunk of his mercy. As him and his fellow horsemen rode across Courrer, resentment took over him and he rightfully lost his mind. He slaughtered all and any the royalists he found, forgetting for a moment his own set of morals and virtues. It was only after the entire city was covered with blood, and its street filled with unrecognizable dead bodies, that the guilt and sorrow he felt fully set it.

Only then he cried, as he observed the path of destruction he'd left behind. He dropped from his horse to the earth bellow with a thump, took the creature to drink some water by the half frozen well, and removed his busby from his sweaty head.

It was snowing at this time of the year, and the cold outside was sleep inducing, but he felt extremely hot and energetic. He was steaming from the adrenaline and the stress of this recent battle. He was exhausted, but restless. Devastated, but his fury kept him from fully breaking down. He wanted to kill the assholes who had killed his friend. Seeing those whom he'd already murdered laying before him in the snow wasn't enough. He wanted revenge. He wanted to annihilate Bautzen, whom had somehow gotten away unscathed from the massacre. And yet, his goodness begged him to slow down. To compartmentalize his rage. To keep it together for the sake of his men.

—I heard the other hussars are calling you squadron leader now... —a familiar voice made him turn around. It was Laupin—. It looks like you can climb up through the ranks quicker than I can assign them to you.

—I'm sorry monsieur, I told them not to...

—Hey, I'm not mad at all. I'm impressed, in fact. Squadron leader Forestier; it has a nice ring to it.

—I wish it didn't.

—Why?

—Because my leader, monsieur Rouen... he's dead.

Laupin caressed his horse, as the animal continued to quench his thirst.

—You got close to him, didn't you?

—Rouan was a good man.

—He was... But war doesn't forgive good men. Or bad, either. It just destroys, and kills, and injuries them. There's no fairness in any of this. And there isn't any glory. Don't expect a happy ending to this madness.

—Why do we even fight, then?

—Well... I fight for freedom. What do you fight for?

—Peace.

—Well, that's noble.

—For other people, maybe —Francis gestured to the scenery around him—. But take a look at what I've done. What we've done... This is not noble. It's necessary, I agree... but not noble.

The commander nodded and sat down on the ground, beside the well. After a few minutes, he spoke again:

—I've done some research about you, Forestier... I needed to know if I can trust you.

—And what did you find out, monsieur?

—Not much... although I did manage to get in contact with one of your old employees. Duchess Laura Dubois, is that her name?

Francis' blood ran cold.

—Yes. Why is that so important?

Laupin chuckled.

—Do not be afraid. I know her... I was friends with her brother, years ago. And that's why I... —the man shook his head—. I always thought your face looked familiar. I just didn't know why. But then, as you saved my life in Anjou, a memory came to mind; you and the Duchess playing together in her old home, in Forestier... before she became a Duchess. Both living in an old, little northern town, that was wiped off from the map after the Baron in charge of it was executed by the King...

—I do not know what you're talking about, Monsieur...

—Your name isn't Francis Forestier, is it? It's Francesco Caralen Fanton. The son of the disgraced Baron of Forestier, hence the surname you chose.

The former gardener frowned and stepped closer to the commander.

—Francesco is dead. He died when he saw his father be brutally and unjustly murdered in front of thousands of cheering people. He's gone. I do not respond for that name anymore, so do not call me that, monsieur.

—Noted —Laupin agreed, without feeling attacked by his inner fury—. To me, and to all the men that know and respect you, you'll always be Francis. Or, you know, squadron leader Forestier.

—Are you...

—Giving you yet another promotion? Yes —Laupin answered as he proceeded to open the flask he carried with himself, and drink a bit of cheap wine—. You deserve it. Monsieur Rouen told me that himself. You have talent, kid. I just beg you to be careful with it. Don't risk your life if you can avoid it. The republic needs you alive... Laura needs you alive —he then took a swig and offered the flask to Francis—. Drink up, hussar —with an aggravated sigh, the man did—. And drop the "Monsieur"... You've saved my life, more than once now. No need to be formal with me. Call me Camille or Laupin, either is fine.

—Then there's no need for you to call me Forestier either. Francis is fine.

—Great, that's what I was hoping to hear —the older officer joked, and stood up from the ground again, probably so he wouldn't get too comfortable and fall asleep. Then, he snuck his gloved hand inside his coat and grabbed a sealed envelope from its insides—. This is for you. It's a letter, from Laura.

Francis grabbed it desperately, ripping it open instead of searching for a knife. Then, he began to read. And as his eyes went down each and every paragraph, his fear grew worse and worse. Cold tears pooled in his eyes. His shaking hands almost crumpled the paper.

—Her husband returned home. He beat her to dust.

—What? —Laupin's calm demeanor shifted into a worried one.

—She had to run away from him... And she's recovering in the home of one of my friends. But the Duke is searching for her. He wants her back. As usual.

—You have to get her out of Alvern then.

—And take her where?

—My wife could take her in. We live in the capital, Lievre. It's way more peaceful up there, now that the King is dead. And pardon my honesty, but it's not like Laura is a recognizable member of the royalty. She can move there with another name and completely restart her life.

—But she can't go alone, and the Suzanettes' have a business to run. They can't leave Alvern either.

—As I said, you can go and pick her up. Take her to the capital yourself.

—I can't leave my men alone now! We have to go to Contrie next week!...

—You have more than enough time to ride with you horse up to Alvern, save the poor duchess, get her to safety and return here —Laupin crossed his arms—. Go, Forestier. I can see you're dying to do it.

—It's just... I have a responsibility here.

—I know. And as your commander, I can guarantee you, you've done a great job already. It's time for you to focus on something that you also care deeply about, and leave the south for a minute —he got closer to Francis—. And also, if you can kill the Duke, you'd be doing a great favor for the revolution. He has escaped from our forces for months now, but he can't run forever.

—So you're allowing me to?...

—Yes —the commander nodded—. Murder him if you see him. And you know what? I'll get you a better horse myself, so you can chase him if needed —he patted his left arm twice—. It was good talking to you Francis. Now go. I'll see you again in a week. Good luck.

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