February 16th, 1798

The squadron leader spent his days in Contrie mostly in silence. Drinking, staring mindlessly at the horizon, getting his clothes cleaned and his guns repaired.

His men were worried. Laupin was worried. But every time someone tried to talk to him, to get him to open up, he scurried away. Said he was fine. Drank more wine and disassociated from reality.

Which is why, when they were sent to kill the royalists currently stationed at Norville —a neighboring town—, everyone had the surprise of their lives when the usually cool headed, calm and collected hussar, went absolutely batshit crazy during the course of the conflict.

The trail of blood his sable left behind as he advanced through the enemy lines was terrifying, even from his own colleagues' perspective. He didn't spare a single life he encountered. Didn't linger on the deaths he caused. Didn't double check if he'd accidentally killed an innocent. Didn't seem affected by any losses either. His face didn't twitch. He was almost uninterested in his affairs, as he galloped across the land and murdered everything that lived.

But Laupin went from worried to genuinely scared when Francis' horse was shot down and he was thrown forward. Not because of the dangerous nature of the accident, but because the victim of the accident itself stood up with an energetic jump and kept fighting, as if nothing had happened at all.

The rider was bruised, had his nose broken, face bloody, and was limping pretty badly, but he kept slashing, and punching, and killing. Mercilessly, senselessly.

This was no prolific soldier. This was no courageous hussar; this was an assassin in the making. A man completely lost to grief and rage. With no identity. No upper meaning. Guiltless, and shameless. And no one was going to stand between him and his revenge.

As Laupin watched over him, Francis wiped his sword clean against a dead man's shirt, spat the blood and saliva pooling on his mouth on the ground beside it, and wiped the sweat off his face. Then, his eyes shot up, and met with the commander's.

The silent conversation between the men was short lived, but intense nonetheless.

"What are you doing?" The gardener could almost hear his superior ask.

But an abandoned horse ran towards them and broke them from their trance. Francis shook his head, returning to reality, and took the chance the universe was giving him. Smoothly, he grabbed and held the creature back by its reigns, before getting back on the saddle, where he felt the most powerful and protected. Then, he led yet another cavalry strike against the royalists, which was crucial to the battle's final result, and claimed their victory.

His strong offensive allowed Laupin and his men to take over the redoubt on the outside of Norville, and once that was under the revolutionary army's control, the rest of the city was as well, because this was their enemies main line of defense. Without it, they had no choice but to retreat into the Great Reduit, a citadel of sorts that was used in case of outer defense breaches.

The Reduit itself was then attacked by commander Labastide and his infantry. The heavy artillery was brought into the city later, to support him. While the fortification was destroyed by bullets and cannon balls, Laupin led his forces through the streets of Norville, to wipe off the remaining royalists that had been left outside.

There were a lot of women screaming and kids running around, as usual. Wounded civilians begging for mercy and innocents dying for the simple crime of existing at the wrong place and time.

Nothing too surprising. Except, of course, for the fact that Francis felt absolutely nothing towards them. No sorrow, no pity, no compassion. He just wanted these people gone. They were allies of the monarchy. Loyal servants of the Royal Family. They adored men like the Duke; ruthless bastards with way too much money and power, that abused their benefits and privileges with an evil smile and carefree disposition. They defended these kinds of monsters. They deserved to die, all of them.

And so, he killed. Until his hands were shaking, saber dripping with crimson, and uniform stained beyond salvation. His boots were sticky with soot and mud. His whole silhouette was covered with splotches of dark red. His face was twisted in a sinister frown.

Gone was the fear he once felt. Gone was his hesitation and uncertainty. He had nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. He could afford being cruel and merciless now.

His rage was such, that at some point he dropped from his horse onto his feet, and fought his enemies face to face. He saw the desperation in their eyes as their life was ripped away from them. He heard them gurgle as their blood blocked their airways. Smiled at their suffering end. And only stopped to think about his own sick sadism when he heard Laupin screaming his name at the top of his lungs, and felt his long fingers wrap themselves over his shoulder.

—FRANCIS! —the commander made him snap back to reality—. It's over! The Reduit fell!...

—LET ME GO!

—NO! —the older man pulled him back.

And then the squadron leader realized what he was about to do, before Laupin's interruption.

There was a kid on the ground. Crying, with his hands up, face pleading for mercy. He was shaking. His lower lip was trembling. There were scratches all over his tiny body and a nasty wound on his left leg. His clothes were dirty, grimy and bloody.

And Francis was going to murder him. He was going to sever his innocent face in half and then bury his sword in his torso, to the hilt.

This was a seven years old boy. A child. And he was ready to kill him.

He'd gone too far this time.

Gulping the bitter taste of his regret down, he pulled away from the commander, harshly, and began walking off to a different direction. He needed to cool down. He needed to regain at least some part of his humanity because right now he was feeling like a disgusting wild animal.

Seeing those shiny and terrified little eyes, shining with tears, broke his numbness into a trillion little pieces. His stern attitude and cold demeanor disappeared.

Francis looked hurt. And he felt horrible.

He had joined in the revolution to have a better life, in a better country. He'd joined the armed forces to guarantee freedom, equality and honor for his descendants, as well for the children of his lifetime. He wanted every citizen, old and young, to have a fair shot at success and happiness.

Instead, this was what he was doing. Murdering farmers and artisans just because they disagreed with him. Murdering their families just because they were related to his enemy. Murdering their friends, and acquaintances, and pets, and cattle, to make sure their ideals and beliefs didn't survive.

He knew that this wasn't really necessary. He knew that executing everything that moved just because it moved wasn't right.

He'd almost just killed a fucking kid, for fuck's sake...

The squadron leader sighed. Massaged his face. Stopped walking for a second and observed his surroundings, taking in the devastation of yet another city him and his men had ruined.

The scenery was brutal. But the visuals weren't the only thing he'd never be able to forget. That smell of burning flesh... of rotten, and overcooked meat... The scent of charred bodies... Lord. It was disgusting. Repulsive. And it would haunt him, in this life and in the ones to come.

If there was a heaven, he knew he was never getting into it. He'd lost his chance of ever seeing the pearly gates. His soul now belonged to the devil. He'd sold it the moment he decided to join this stupid, senseless war...

Well, it wasn't fully senseless. The King was dead, and that was a relief. But still... This bloodshed was ridiculous. Pointless. Borderline villainous.

He had become a villain.

If only Laura could see him now...

She'd been right, all along. He wasn't meant for this. He shouldn't have caved to his selfish desires of power and fame. If he'd stayed at the Dubois palace, maybe they would have run away together before disaster struck. Or maybe, they would have died together, holding hands as the world as they knew it came crashing down. But this was the important part, he would have been beside her. He would still be himself, and he would have been beside her, and current Francis wouldn't exist.

He didn't know who he was anymore. He didn't know what he wanted. But this... this wasn't bringing him any satisfaction. Being a murderous bastard out of anger and spite wasn't doing him any good. And he could feel God's thunderous eyes, shunning him from the heavens above. He could feel the earth parting beneath his feet and Satan's velvet voice calling his name.

He'd lost his way. And he had no idea how he'd find it back. Because his northern star, his compass, was gone.

Laura was gone.

And once again, he was alone.