March 09th, 1798

Although Laupin had forbidden Francis from fighting, he never said a word about scouting. Which is why in the morning that followed their little quarrel in the medical barracks, the captain grabbed his musket, his saber, and his backpack —in which he swiftly stuffed a few snacks inside— and snuck out of the citadel, before the crack of dawn. Not only did he want to take a better look at the enemy campsite he found near the castle ruins, he also wanted to understand the region his army was in better. And he had the whole day to do it, since he had been temporarily barred from his duties as a soldier.

He decided that the wisest thing to do was to take a peek at the campsite first. Since it still was quite dark outside, he could use the shadows of the trees to hide himself better, and watch his enemy up close from the woods without having them notice his presence. And this, he did. He kept his head low, his gun ready for any attack, and moved like a fox through the thick vegetation of the area. After finding a good spot to settle down and watch, he carefully put aside his gun and pulled out a notebook and a pencil from his bag. Francis then sketched the layout of the camp, and wrote down all and any weaknesses he found in their line of defense, that could be exploited in a later attack. Once he was done, he packed everything up again, grabbed his musket once more, and continued moving to avoid getting caught.

He didn't want to trail further south alone, because he knew doing so would be utter madness. So, he decided to explore what was east of Marsan next. By then, the first rays of sunlight were already kissing the sky. The air was starting to get warmer, and the birds were singing.

The peace he felt whilst he walked through the tree trunks alone was healing. The soft chirps of passerines flying over his head, lured him deeper and deeper into the forest. And the voice of nature, echoing all around him, convinced him that maybe he should drop forever his musket, and become a hermit once and for all. Because contrary to yesterday's chaotic evening —filled with screams of pain, loud explosions and the disorienting percussion of the cannonade— the present truly was a gift.

A miracle he didn't want to let go, even though he had to.

It was while strolling through this wonderful place of serenity and silence, when he finally had time to reflect about his life, and his own position in the world.

And Laupin was right, to his chagrin. He indeed needed a break from the clanking, annoying, overpowering noise of battle to clear his head. He needed this complete stillness of the world around him to ground himself. He needed a break, because honestly he was about to lose it. And he had plenty of reasons to.

Laura was dead. The Suzannets' were dead. His friends were dead. And nothing remained of his old life, but his damaged memories. And while yes, the republic he'd dreamed of for so long had finally become a reality, it was still taking its baby steps, and it could fall down at any minute.

He hoped things would get better, but there wasn't a guarantee that they would. And that was nerve wracking.

Francis sat on this thought for a while, before convincing himself that he had to do what he did best: keep moving forward, despite his fears, his doubts, his pain... He couldn't stop now.

He had to avenge his fallen lover, and everyone that died alongside her. He had to deliver the promise he made her in the letters he wrote to her, and become an honorable officer. It was an obligation. Otherwise, she would have died for nothing. He had to make Laura proud, wherever she was. And that meant killing the Duke, becoming a general, and freeing the republic in her name, in her honor.

Which reminded him why he was awake this early in the morning, walking through the woods alone. Why he was searching for the Ruhmnians second camp without any backup to defend him, despite knowing that would happen to himself if he was caught. And why, although he fantasized about dropping his weapons and living a life of complete solitude, he knew he couldn't turn his dreams into a reality.

There were things that had to be done first.

So while yes, this break from the fight was necessary, it wasn't definitive. It was needed, but it wasn't eternal. He found himself bending to the pressure of duty, but he wasn't buckling under it yet.

He. Wouldn't. Buckle. Under. It.

Never.

Having this internal discussion with himself was useful, in the end. Because it brought him the answer to a question he'd been asking to himself ever since he joined the army: what was he really fighting for?

In the beginning, it was for the glory of the republic. Now however, it was for Laura, and for the wellness of her spirit. It was for his murdered family and friends. It was for the souls of the citizens of Alvern, whom had all perished in the fire and brimstone of war. They were the sole reason why he still was holding his musket high, and keeping his back straight as he marched. Nothing else.

With a tired sigh, Francis stopped walking for a moment. Looked up at the sky, with tears in his eyes. Searched for strength to keep going in the same white clouds that him and his lover used to watch together, when her husband was away in Montpierre. In the God that allegedly was sitting over those mountains of white, protecting the creatures he created from afar. He hoped that that glorious being, reigning over all, would be fair this time around. He hoped he'd be protected by his almightiness. That the creator of mankind would take pity on him, and allow him to be happy despite his tragic past.

He hoped that his heavenly Father would allow him to strike the Duke with a mighty blow, and kill him in the name of justice.

After a few seconds of speaking to his creator in his head, he put an end to all of his contemplations and resumed walking, feeling lighter, more confident, and determined. This time around, he moved towards a small village he'd suddenly spotted in the distance.

It had already been wrecked by some unknown force when he arrived. And since the revolutionary army still hadn't stepped into that particular area of the southern region before, it was unlikely that they had done this. This devastation for sure was a work of the Ruhmnians.

Initially, Francis didn't see anything he hadn't seen before. Burned houses, destroyed churches, piles upon piles of dead bodies, abandoned carriages, animals, guns and tools... the usual. But, as he scavenged for goods amidst the smoking ruins —such as water, food, and ammunition—, something caught his eye.

There was a survivor of the rampage, strolling through the smoke. A boy, between seven and nine years of age, walking through the bloodied street, seemingly busy with the same task as him; finding provisions. The kid was wearing a straw hat that was way too big for him —which he surely must have stolen from someone—, was walking around barefoot, and carried a small linen sack on his left hand. But, unlike Francis, he wasn't aimlessly moving through the debris. No, he had an objective. He was going to the vineyards, right outside of the little town. He needed to check if some of its grapes had survived the scorched-earth policy of the foreigners, and collect them before anyone else could.

Francis intended to follow the boy from a distance, to examine his behavior and his actions like he would a wild animal, but he accidentally stepped on a burnt piece of wood and alerted the kid of his presence.

The child immediately started to run, as if he really could get away from a fully grown man like the captain. And since he didn't scream for help, only tried to plead for his life, the officer knew instinctively that the boy didn't have a family anymore. He was alone, hopeless, and without protection, in the middle of a warzone. And he was so fucking small.

—Wait! Don't run away! I don't want to hurt you!

—Please, monsieur!...

—Hear me out! I have food!

Once the captain said these words, the kid stopped moving, dead in his tracks. Then, he turned around with a quizzical look in his eyes, that shined with a weird mixture of wonder and fear.

Francis, wanting to prove himself as a non-threat, knelt on the blackened ground below and set his musket down, at least two feet away from him. He had a pistol and a saber on his belt, which he could use to defend himself if it was really necessary to, but he doubted that a small boy like the one standing in from of him would manage to actually cause him any damage.

Once the bigger gun was down, Francis opened his backpack and slowly pulled out a piece of bread he had saved from last night's dinner. It wasn't much, but it could be used as truce between them. So he took a small bite out of it, wordlessly, to prove that it wasn't poisonous, and extended his hand forward as he chewed.

The boy, now a little bit more convinced that the officer wouldn't murder him, finally dared to approach him. He moved slowly, cautiously, like a cat about to hit a ball of yarn with its paw. But Francis understood why; he was terrified.

And as the nameless child grabbed the offered meal —like it would be the last he would consume in his life—, his heart softened even more.

The boy didn't eat it, he devoured it, savored it, and left no crumbs behind. This eagerness, plus his skeletal appearance and the way his dirty clothes sagged against his bones, suggested that he hadn't eaten anything in a good while. This could very well be his last meal, if he wasn't helped by anyone.

—How old are you? —Francis asked, once the kid had relaxed enough to talk.

—Nine... and you?

—Thirty-eight.

—You look older.

The captain laughed.

—I feel older —he looked around—. Where are your parents?

—Dead.

Francis was expecting that answer already, but it didn't diminish the impact it had on himself.

—I'm sorry... But who's taking care of you, then?

—Me.

—You?

—Hm —the boy nodded—. It's only me around here. I don't have anyone else.

—And where do you live?

—You ask too many questions.

—I know —he opened his backpack again and pulled out a small piece of cheese, wrapped up in a squared linen cloth—. Answer me and I'll give you this as a reward.

—Alright —the boy instantly grabbed the item, with no hesitation. Hunger would do that to anyone—, I live in that house over there. Near the trees —he pointed to a couple of faraway cypresses.

There was a small cottage there, a little burned, but still standing. It looked dangerous to be living in, though. The roof could fall down at any time.

—Shit... —Francis whispered, then hung his head low and thought about what he should next. He couldn't leave that boy there, alone, hungry and vulnerable. He still had a beating heart, after all. He still was human, and had some kindness left in him—. Hey...

What the captain saw once he dared to look up again, hurt his soul beyond compare. The kid was doing what he wanted to do since the beginning: picking at the blackened vines around them, and saving whatever grapes he could find between the charcoal, that still were half-edible, for later. The scene was pitiful, and desperate. He wished he never had to see something this terrible again.

—Hm —the boy, unaware of his inner crisis, eyed him for a second.

He seemed more relaxed now. Although that didn't mean that he trusted Francis... Not yet, at least.

—I have a proposition to make.

—What is that?

—What?

—A prepos...

—Proposition?

—Yeah. What's that?

—It's a deal.

—Oh.

The Francis closed his backpack and put it on again, then grabbed his musket from the ground and used it to steady himself as he stood up.

—I'm an officer of the fourth regiment of the southern revolutionary army. I work under commander Laupin. If you want, I can take you back to my camp, and I can get you a job as a washerman for our troops...

—Washerman?

—You'd be in charge of cleaning our uniforms and stitching some of them too, along with some other people... That's the job. And they'd pay you well enough to survive, you'd have a safer place to sleep at night... Also, there are more kids around your age at camp. So you wouldn't be alone anymore, stuck in this wasteland. What do you say?

The boy stopped collecting the grapes. Turned around, still wary of the stranger, and crossed his arms.

—Why?

—Why what?

—Why would you take me there?

—Because I can't leave you alone in here, in these ruins.

—But why? Why would you help me? All of the soldiers I've seen around here so far only have tried to shoot me.

Francis sighed. Hung his musket on his shoulder.

—Because I am an orphan too. And us orphans, we help each other.

The answer seemed to satisfy the child for now, who eyed him up and down with bigger interest. It also managed to make him take a step forward, and slowly extend his tiny hand towards the officer, as if inviting him to shake it. Francis of course, did so. He wouldn't waste the chance for anything in the world.

—My name is Victor.

—Captain Forestier.

—Don't you have a first name?

—Francis.

—Huh —the kid released his palm—. You don't look like a Francis.

—Oh, no? —he smiled—. Then what do I look like?

—Hm... Like a Paul, or Pierre.

—Why'd you think so?

—I don't know... You just do.

Francis laughed, and for the first time in days, felt something more than sadness and frustration fill his chest.

—If you say so —he then looked at the kid's house—. Do you have to pick up something before we leave? Clothes, toys, whatever?

The boy shrugged.

—I don't have anything. They burned it all.

—They? Who?

—The soldiers. Not your soldiers... The ones dressed in red and black.

The captain's relaxed demeanor stiffened a little bit.

They were here?

—Yeah. They have a camp nearby. That's why everything is destroyed. They stole our food, water, and guns, and set everything on fire as they left... They killed everyone too.

—And when did that happen?

—A week ago? Maybe two? I don't know. I stopped counting —Victor pointed towards his house—. Can I say goodbye to my mom and dad before we leave, though?

—Didn't you say they are dead?

—They are.

Oh.

—Of course you can... I'll take you there. And then, we leave. It's too dangerous for either of us to be out here.

—I know.

Francis let the kid lead the way to the cottage. When they arrived, he expected the boy to kneel down beside a grave, or something similar. He never imagined that he'd walk inside the house, and stare blankly at two charred corpses, laying in fetal position on the ground. All around them, the floor, the walls, and the ceiling had caved it, and were also completely black. Yet another devastating scene was added to his ever growing mental collection.

—Oh dear Lord... —the captain mumbled, and almost lost his footing because of his shock—. How did they...

—I don't know —the boy said, in a low voice. He seemed sad, but his trauma was so immense and overpowering, it stopped him from crying—. I was playing in the vineyards when the soldiers came. And I stayed hidden between the vines when I saw them burn it all. I was too scared to move... Only when they left and I came here. And I found them like this... But there was a lot of stuff on top of them, so I had to dig them up... I thought that if I did, they might wake up, but they didn't.

Tears pooled in Francis' eyes again, as he listened to Victor explain, with as many details as he could muster, how his own parents had perished. Rage roared at the bottom of his stomach. Sadness made a home in the base of his neck. And a horrible tightness knotted the muscles of his chest.

—Where did they go after this? The soldiers?

—To their camp. Where else would they go?

—You know where they are? —the captain asked, and the boy nodded.

—It's not very far away from here.

—Can you show me?

—Yeah. Sure —he then said, and walked up to the corpses.

Victor sat down beside them, and Francis took that as a sign to give the kid some space to say goodbye.

—I'll be waiting outside for you.

—Okay.

Five or so minutes passed and the boy returned. His face still was dry, and his eyes weren't puffy. Which meant that he hadn't cried, at all. Somehow, his toughness made Francis even angrier. He wanted to slay all of those Ruhmnian bastards, and make sure their empire collapsed on itself.

But for now he chose to stay cool, as to not scare the boy off. He needed to be level headed and serene, if he wanted to gain the trust of the kid.

—Where do we go now?

—This way. – Victor made a gesture with his hand, and started walking further east, towards a mountainous region that Francis had briefly glanced at, when observing the map of the land he was in the night before. They slithered between boulders and cliff sides for about fifteen minutes, until the boy dragged him to the top of a small hill, and told him to crouch down as they reached the summit. Then, he pulled him to the edge, and pointed towards the campsite of their enemy, down in the valley—. See? There they are.

—How did you find them?

—I used to come here with dad, to collect water. I did that alone two days ago, and spotted them. I haven't gotten any closer though. And I don't want to either... They scare me.

—I know. And they scare me too —Francis admitted—. But they aren't undefeatable. And we'll get them to leave our country alone. You'll see.

—Are you going to attack them?

—Yeah. And kick them out of here. Soon.

Victor looked at the captain in the eyes.

—Can you kill someone for me? —the request, coming from such a young boy, made Francis speechless for a while—. One of the soldiers that killed my parents, had a huge scar on his face, and his eye was missing. I heard someone call him Oberst. Or something like that. I don't know if it's his name, or what...

—It's a rank. A position in their army —the man replied, finally freeing himself from this stupor—.  It's similar to commander, in our military. Are you sure you heard it right?

—I am.

Francis sighed.

—Alright then... I promise you that I'll kill that bastard myself.

—Thanks.

----

Once they returned to Marsan and crossed the gates of the city, the boy grabbed the captain by the hand and glued himself to his side, afraid of what he was walking into. There were so many tough and mighty soldiers all around him, that he couldn't help but feel intimidated.

—Don't worry. I won't let anyone hurt you —Francis promised him, as they walked into a building that contained the town's main lavoir, or wash-house.

—Captain Forestier! What do you need, monsieur? —Terrence, one of the teenage boys that worked for the army and were currently sharing the space with the local laundresses, asked him.

—Victor here needs a job. I told him we were in need of help to wash our clothes. Can you take him in, and teach him what he needs to know?

—Of course, monsieur.

—Great. Then do that... And treat him kindly, please. He's my niece—Francis lied, and winked at the kid—. Good luck. I'll see you at dinner.

—But...

—You'll be fine. Trust me —he patted the younger boy's back—. Terrence is a good guy. I wouldn't leave you to his care otherwise.

—That's right, I am. Plus, the job is easy. You'll get the gist of it quickly—the teen said, then smiled—. Come on, chap... I'll be you mentor for the day.

—Okay...

Francis left as Terrence explained to Victor how to properly remove stains from the blood soaked coats they received every morning. The captain then strolled to the watch-tower, and climbed the stairs until he reached their army's meeting room. Obermann and Laupin were sitting in there, as he'd expected, discussing the best strategy to attack their current enemy.

After the captain cleared his throat, announcing his presence, both quickly shut up.

—Didn't I tell you to spend the whole day in bed? —the annoyed commander asked.

—You told me to abstain from fighting, which I did —Francis leaned his musket against a wall and removed his backpack, which he then opened—. Instead, I went sight-seeing.

—No, you fucking didn't...

The lowest ranking officer smirked, grabbed his notebook and opened it on the sketch he'd made of the enemy campsite. He pulled the page out and gave it to Laupin.

—Happy early birthday.

—My birthday was in December.

—Happy late birthday, then.

—Forestier, you're an idiot —the commander grabbed the paper anyway, and studied carefully, before passing it along to the general.

—An idiot of incredible bravery, I must add —Obermann snickered.

—I also found the second enemy camp whilst exploring. It's settled in the middle of the Twin Mountains, right in the center of the valley, near the river. It's a smaller camp, with less men, but their horses are hidden there. I also saw many carriages with supplies. I think it's worth it to attack them there first, and cut off the Ruhmnian access to food and water, before heading south and attacking their other camp.

Obermann stood up from his chair and approached his blackboard, silently doing some corrections to his plan of action. He then stopped moving his hand, looked at the map he was holding, and slid his eyes up to Laupin.

—Forestier's plan could work. Their cavalry is their strong point, and without it... They could lose.

—They could —the commander agreed.

—But... our chances of winning this dispute are still slim —the general ran his chalky hand through his hair, clearly distressed—. If we strike their hideout at the castle first, there can't be any survivors to tell the tale. Because the moment the valley camp discovers we're on the move, and that we wiped out their friends from the face of the earth, they'll be ready for our arrival... And they'll for sure try to trap us between the Twin Mountains.

—While that's true, I think that attacking the castle first, and then moving to the valley is still the best choice we could make. Because those ruins are easier to invade than a valley. Also... —Laupin pointed at the map—. Look right there. On the western side of the valley, up there, there's this affluent that feeds from the river, and that leads into the surrounding forest. We could move our cavalry to the banks of the affluent, while we send our artillery and our infantry up this small hill over here... And that way we would have the upper ground settled for our first cavalry charge, which will take the Ruhmnians by surprise...

—And a surprise cavalry strike could keep them occupied and disoriented while our infantry advances —Obermann agreed—. But wait... do you know what else we could do?

—What?

—We could hold a small attack to the castle campsite, and force the Ruhmnians to run off into the valley. Then, we'll have our foes concentrated in one spot, and we'll be able to destroy them quicker.

—I like that idea.

—Good. Me too —Obermann then looked up at Francis—. Go fetch the generals, Forestier. You have given us our victory, and they have to know it.

—Yes, monsieur —the captain nodded, smiled briefly, and grabbed his belongings again.

—Bring the other commanders too. We need to make some adjustments to this plan.

—As you wish.

—And after that, go rest —Laupin said next—. I need your health to be fully restored as soon as possible.

Francis, now calmer than he'd been the day before, nodded again with complete peace of mind before leaving. His duty was done, and now he finally felt satisfied enough to rest. From there he went back to the troops' tents again, and left his things in his own tent before running around the city to find the officers Obermann send for. After notifying everyone about the sudden meeting, he went straight to sleep.

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AN: A drawing I made before I wrote the chapter, which was based in one of my nightmares as well: