December 27th, 1799

Francis left his bed with a jump again. But thankfully, this time he was awake, and he hadn't disturbed Laura's sleep. Grabbing at his chest with his left hand, he limped towards the door, and exited the room.

His plans were to sleep on the living room couch until the morning. But once he arrived there, he realized he wasn't alone, and that his strategy wouldn't work.

Achille was sat on the left of the sofa, looking as stunned and afraid as he was.

Him and Laura had allowed the man to sleep over at their place that night, before he was settled into Camille's propriety downtown, the next morning. The veteran was supposed to be resting on their spare room, but he'd also been violently shaken and woken up by his memories.

Their eyes met as the general moved closer, but they didn't greet each other with "good night".

—Nightmares? —the grenadier asked, with an unsteady voice.

—Night terrors.

—Hm.

And that was it, for about an hour. The two stayed there in complete silence, trying to make sense of the images flashing through their minds.

—I forgot to ask you... —the veteran snapped out of his stupor first—. Where did you serve?

—Everywhere, I guess —Francis replied, with a slow blink—. During the Gwalarn Campaign I fought in Roman, Mosella, Anjou, Norville, Contrie, Marsan, Mont-pierre and Saphir's island. During the Ruhm Campaign, I went to Harmania and fought in Islovak, Patolovsk and Petrovak. 

—That's a lot of places...

—And I'm not counting minor battles —he pointed out.

—And may I ask in which branch?...

—At first, light infantry.

—At first? You were switched around?

—I asked to be.

—And what did you do next?

—I became a hussar. Squadron chief, to be precise... But I was asked to return to my infantry position after a few months, because they needed me around, and I agreed. A little later down the line, I also spent a short time at sea, fighting in Saphir's island, so...

—You have experience in the three major branches of the army? —the grenadier asked, genuinely surprised—. Times really have changed, huh. Back in my day, you had to pay to choose your branch. And you usually died there, as a cadet.

—That's over now. The soldiers are selected based on height, at first. Then, if they excel at what they do and rise through the ranks, they might be given the chance to ask for a switch —Francis looked at the man beside him, at last—. If you were given the chance to choose your branch in the army... Would you still be a grenadier?

—No. No way —Achille shook his head and laughed—. I'd do what you did. I'd become a hussar. Your uniforms are so flamboyant, and colorful... Your sabers are gorgeous, and elegant. And you know the best part of being a hussar? The women! Oh how those bastards from my corps were popular with the women!

The general laughed as the veteran rambled on. Then, he remembered something. He still had two of his uniforms from his time in the cavalry with him.

—Let's focus on the clothes... Which part did you like the best? The Dolman jacket, the boots, the pelisse?...

—The hats! Those fluffly ones.

—The Busby?

—Yes!

—Alright then... Wait here.

Francis stood up, and returned to his bedroom. Carefully he opened the doors to his closet, and pulled the hat out. Then, he slowly closed them and went back downstairs. Laura didn't even stir.

—There you go —he offered the veteran the Busby.

—What?

—Try it on, let's see.

The grenadier grabbed the hat and put it on his head. Francis helped him with the chin strap, then smiled, and pointed to a mirror that hung in the wall. Achille walked towards it and stared at his reflection in awe.

—I never thought this would suit me... —he let out a sad chuckle, and the general crossed his arms.

—You can have it.

Achille turned around with a quick spin.

—What?

—You heard me right. It's yours.

The veteran removed the Busby from his head.

—But I...

—You can keep it as long as you quit drinking.

Francis had noticed the faint smell of alcohol emanating from the man's mouth, after he first began to talk. Then, he realized that his liquor cabinet wasn't properly closed.

His visitor had taken a few shots while him and Laura slept.

—I'm sorry —Achille gulped down in shame, and looked away—. I-I shouldn't have... I...

—I have the same nightmares as you, monsieur —the general said, with an understanding tone to his voice, that the grenadier wasn't expecting—. Death. Devastation. Regret... I know all of these things. But I also know that you won't get far, by drinking so much. You can rebuild your life, and we'll help you... but this... —he pointed to the cabinet—. Needs to stop.

The veteran nodded, frowned, and looked back at him.

—How are you so wise and centered? At such a young age?

—I'm not —Francis replied, with honesty and straightforwardness—. I'm at a loss too. I'm haunted too. But I have something that's worth living for. That's worth struggling for... Laura. My wife. And I'm sure you must have something, someone, too.

—My children —Achille mumbled, as his regret showed itself on his face—. I haven't seen them in years, but...

—What are their names?

—Vincent and Giovanna.

—You'll see them —Francis promised—. But you need to better yourself first.

The veteran nodded again. Hugged the Busby against his chest. And began to cry.

—I-I'm sorry.

—Don't be —the general walked towards the man, and patted his back, before rubbing it—. You'll get through this.

—And I h-hope... you d-do too.

Francis gave him a small smile, and sighed with relief. Because at very least, despite his struggles, he wasn't alone. He was broken, yes... but not alone.

—Your father would be proud of you —the grenadier said, out of the blue—. He'd be happy to see the man that you've become.

Those words meant more to the general than he'd ever be able to properly express. After all he'd gone through, he hoped that the man was right, and that his dear old papa was watching him from the clouds with a content smile.

—Thank you, monsieur —he whispered—. And I hope you are right.