Inside the tent, it was warm, though not dry-- nothing was with this mud and rain. A lantern burned on a table, and a small desk filled with letters and maps sat near one wall. In front of her was a cot, and on the cot was Torran. He looked almost like an entirely different man from the last time she'd seen him.

The pallor had left his skin, leaving it drained and pale, but no longer ashen with the first signs of death. He had somehow gotten a bath to rid himself of the blood and mud, and now wore a fresh tunic and leggings, with his blond hair combed back slick and glistening with damp. It made Idelle think of little boys headed to prayers in the morning, though she wouldn't say that out loud.

He stood up when she came in, unstable and shaky. She looked down to see that someone had made a quick splint out of some wood, and lashed his leg to it. The wound to his hip must have been fairly bad if the battlefield healers hadn't been able to do much but disable it.

His gaze followed hers to his leg. "They're going to call in someone from Holmley," he said, and she almost thought she might have seen him roll his eyes.

"That's a long way," she said. "An open wound like that shouldn't be waiting around for a specialist that's weeks away."

He grinned, taking her by surprise. It only added to his already boyish look, and she felt a surge of heat rise to her cheeks. He wasn't old enough to lead this army, not with a crooked smile like that. "See, you're thinking exactly like I am," he said. "I tried to get them to cauterize it as best they could, but no one was willing to risk giving the duke a permanent limp."

"Isn't a limp worth--"

"My life? Exactly! Exactly," he said, finishing off her sentence. Despite the worries of the healers for the future, he already had a limp as he wobbled over to her side. Cauterization or not, he had to throw his leg out to the side and hobble as he took the few steps across the tent. He didn't touch her, but instead gestured for her to take the seat at the desk. She looked at it, then down at her muddy clothes and the water that still dripped off her in torrents.

Torran, seeming to not notice her reluctance, already headed back to his cot. "I wanted to apologize for not properly thanking you," he said, lowering himself with a thump. "Unfortunately, I apparently wasn't conscious enough to learn your name or show you the proper recognition for what you'd done." 

Idelle gave an almost painful smile, hoping that he wouldn't remember the slap she'd given him either. He looked at her expectantly, and, just like with Sir Hewe, she knew he was waiting for her name. She cleared her throat and tried not to sound as awkward as she felt.  "My name is Idelle. And there's no need to thank me. We're soldiers. If there's anything that we're trained well in, it's helping and protecting our brothers-in-arms."

Torran nodded his head. "True. But I wasn't so out of my mind that I didn't notice you were the only one who came out to help me when I was pinned under that horse." He fixed her with a stare that made Idelle want to step to the side and hide behind Sir Hewe. "It was completely foolish of you to come out into the open like that, so near fire mages. Which is why it was also incredibly brave and selfless. You didn't have to come and save me, especially since I have an inkling that you had no idea who I was until recently. Yet, save me you did."

"Commanders are precious in this war," she said, wanting to move his steady gaze and the tender tilt to his words away from herself. "A foot soldier can't compare."

Torran scoffed, his eyebrows drawing together and his jaw tightening. "Whoever is spreading that lie should be made to fight in the front lines. The foot soldiers are the ones keeping our country safe and free of magic. The commanders would be useless without their men behind them," he said. "Don't ever sell yourself short like that again. You're as valuable to this army and country as Sir Hewe or myself."

Idelle doubted she was at the level of the king's cousin, but she didn't say anything else. She merely dipped her head in acquiescence and gave a small bow. "Thank you, Your Grace. I hope to continue to serve you and our country." She said it as if it was a farewell, and her eyes crept toward the door. But Lord Torran was obviously not done with her yet.

"I'll forever be in your debt, but I wanted to show a small sign of appreciation. It's not much, but I've ordered from the supply chain an extra ration of food for the entire month and extra bedding and clothing. I couldn't do anything about armor or weapons, but I hope yours weren't too damaged." His eyes traveled down her form, most likely noticing the lack of her leather armor now, but also making her squirm as she realized just how dirty and tough she had become in the trenches.

"Thank you for your generosity, sir," she said, dipping her head once again. "I'll take the food, but the other things I think I should decline. The other men in the trenches may share in my gift of food, but I would not feel right taking comforts they cannot also enjoy."

Torran nodded, his lips pulling down at the corners. "We're doing our best to source supplies, but it's getting harder with every day," he said, almost more to himself than to anyone in particular in the tent.

"We're sure you're doing the best you can, sir," Idelle said, though she knew perfectly well that many of the men in the trenches did not think any such thing.

Torran stood back up again, wobbling on his one good leg, and began to totter back and forth. "I can't leave you with only a few slices of bread for your great service to me," he said, running a hand through his blonde hair which was now much straighter and neater than it had been on the battlefield. "You deserve a squire's position for the skill and quit wit you showed in getting us out from behind enemy lines. Perhaps one of the commanders can take you on and train you. Like Sir Hewe?" Here he looked over her head toward the bear of the man who had been listening to all they said without uttering a word. At this, though, Sir Hewe let out a huge guffaw and slapped his thigh.

"You expect me to take on another squire? You've already given me four since we were assigned this post, sir, and I'm positively drowning in them!" He shook his bearded head, his eyes twinkling. "No, I think your gratitude should be fielded by someone else this time."

Torran's face fell and Idelle could already see his argument gearing up in his mind. She didn't know Sir Hewe and she didn't know how susceptible he would be to Torran's pressure. While a position as a squire was a dream for most soldiers, since it involved proper training, better equipment, and more knowledge of the war in general, she didn't want to be caught up in the world of the commanders and generals.

"Please, I'd rather just stay where I am," she said, holding out a hand to stop Torran and perhaps show just how much she wanted to only return to her trench and sleep. Yet, her words had barely left her mouth when a commotion outside drew everyone's attention away from talk of squires and rewards.

First, there came the sound of thundering hooves, closing the distance from the supply chain road down to the tents. Then, shouts from the sentries and a hurried conversation, to be followed by the thundering horse hooves once again. It had barely been a minute since they'd first been alerted to the noise to when the flap of Torran's tent swept away and a man practically ran straight in.

If his messenger's bright-red jerkin hadn't given him away, the mud splattered like flecks from his toes to his head certainly would tell the tale. No one else had any business traveling that fast, even with the war on. From the wiry look on his face, Idelle knew he would have already been through countless horses, changing them at the checkpoints in order to reach Torran as fast as possible. He probably hadn't slept in days, which meant whatever he was bringing was news that couldn't wait. Judging from the royal crest that ran emblazoned on the letter he held in a shaking hand, it would be from the city.

Torran limped over to the man, who now stood with a shaking knuckle to his forehead, gasping for breath and staring at Torran as if the young commander might turn into a bird or start dancing on his head. All the color was gone from the messenger's face, leaving him almost the exact color as the envelope that Torran now took from him.

"Your Grace," the man breathed out, almost like a plea. Like he was expecting Torran to comfort him or do something.

What did that letter say?

Torran ripped the envelope open and pulled out a thin piece of paper. Idelle couldn't read it from where she stood, but she saw only a few lines of looping black handwriting. Whatever was being said, it certainly didn't require verbosity.

Torran's eyes bounced around the words until he reached their end, and then he seemed almost to collapse on himself. Swaying, he almost fell over, and just barely caught himself against his desk before he lost balance completely. The letter dropped from his hands, floating gently to the ground where Sir Hewe snatched it up.

Idelle never thought she'd see a man so large look so small. As he finished reading the letter, his shoulders slumped forward and he looked ready to fall over himself. By this time, a crowd of commanders had gathered at the entrance to Torran's tent, hoping to figure out what the commotion was about. They stared at Sir Hewe, pressing forward to try and read the letter still held in his white-knuckled grasp. No one had been able to miss that messenger arriving, and no one wanted to wait to find out what his message said.

Sir Hewe, perhaps sensing their eager eyes, took a shuddering breath in, as if shoring himself up against something. Then, he turned slowly to face the commanders crowded at the door. "King Aengus is dead."