The soldier Vossler stopped to ask looks out of the window and frowns slightly. "That soldier there, sir? Basch fon Ronsenburg, I believe. A refugee from the Republic of Landis." A pause, and then he gets more daring -- Captain Azelas isn't known for being cruel, after all, though it's well known that he does lack patience in battle. "He's good with a sword, isn't he?"
Vossler watches Basch for a moment longer and turns away from the window. "Aye. And he doesn't have the look of a refugee. Not as... lost."
"I don't think that man has ever been lost in his life," the soldier says, half a smile on his face, and then he remembers himself and salutes briefly. "I need to go, sir. Sentry duty. Glad to help."
Vossler nods slightly, turning to the window again. Basch has stripped down to the waist, and in the warm air of Dalmasca he's clearly sweating -- though the heavy sword he wields certainly has something to do it. Later, Vossler will deny that the spark he felt then had any meaning, but it felt like they were somehow meant to come together and without even thinking he moves round to the door and steps out into the courtyard. "At ease," he says, before Basch has time to lower his sword.
"Sir," he says, cautiously, wondering what Captain Azelas might be doing coming out to watch him practice. "I was simply... relaxing."
Vossler smiles, then: there's a feeling of finding a kindred spirit, now. "An odd way to relax, but fitting for a soldier... or a warrior, for that matter."
"You consider there to be a difference?"
"I do," he says, without elaborating. "Do you mind if I join your practice?"
There's a hesitation, and then Basch meets his eyes. There's none of the hesitation or deference of an underling there, though he isn't defiant. There's pride in Basch, and honour, as plain as day, and Vossler knows he's right in judging this man a warrior rather than a simple soldier. "Would you like to spar?"
"In a moment." Vossler nods. "Meanwhile... is the sword the only weapon you can handle?"
He notices just a hint of bristling about the way Basch straightens up, but there's no actual anger there in his open, honest face. "Of course not. I can also handle an axe, a hammer, and I have some skill with the staff and the bow. I have not had a chance to do much with a crossbow or any of the more obscure weapons. I can fight with two swords at once, or with a shield and a sword, that matters not."
"You're very skilled, for a common soldier," Vossler says, and he's not sure if he's actually surprised. "Perhaps I might have you trained in some of the weapons you have not had opportunity to work with. It seems to me you are a very promising soldier."
"Wait until you've seen me fight," Basch says, smiling just a little. He steps into a guard position, holding his sword up ready. "Would you spar with me now?"
Vossler turns and draws one of the practice swords from the rack. He takes a moment to get used to it -- the weight, the balance -- and then he nods and turns, holding his sword up in response. "Very well."
"You're being promoted, Basch fon Ronsenburg. Do not look so startled."
"I did not expect to rise through the ranks quite so fast," Basch says, looking around at the men he will command. "I assume you had a hand in that in some way."
"I hope you are not offended," Vossler says, glancing sideways at him. "I thought your skills too good to waste at the bottom of the pile."
"You do me honour," he says, quietly, and Vossler still can't decide what he's thinking. There's a long pause. "I hear I report directly to you now. I would have thought the first move for a promising soldier would be in one of the personal guards or in a position under you that isn't one of command..."
"You are more than a promising soldier."
"Ah?"
"I believe you may be someone I could trust. Someone who could be a great asset to Dalmasca. No matter what your former origin or allegiance. You can be a son of Dalmasca now, if you wish."
There's a long pause, longer than any yet, and Vossler looks at Basch again, and now their eyes lock and hold. Basch seems stunned, almost confused, and Vossler laughs, now, and puts his arm over Basch's shoulders.
"If you prefer, I could put you in the princess Ashe's bodyguard..."
"I think I would prefer this," Basch says, and he smiles. "Perhaps we could relax together more often."
"I look forward to more sparring matches," Vossler says, and he means it. For a moment longer their eyes hold and then he looks away. "For now, you should meet your men."
"I would like to get to know them."
He raises an eyebrow. "I do not see why that would be helpful."
"If you know your men, you know their strengths and weaknesses, and most importantly you know why they fight, so you know how to spur them on." Basch shrugs just a little. "There may come a time when knowing that will help."
"Manipulation," he says, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
"Not if you sincerely want to help them," Basch says, and without another word he moves from Vossler's side and goes toward the soldiers -- the soldiers that he will command. Vossler finds himself looking forward to the results of this -- and looking forward to seeing more of Basch. He wonders if he's finally found a soldier who can keep up with him in battle.
He stays to watch a moment, and when Basch turns and sees him, they exchange smiles. Vossler turns to go, but makes a mental note to meet Basch for sparring later.
"There is too much unrest."
Vossler turns to look at Basch, raising an eyebrow. "Among our people, or out there?"
"Everywhere," Basch says, and shakes his head. "I remember it being like this in the Republic before... Everybody felt it, but we could do nothing. Nothing more than we were already doing. And then everything went mad. I barely even remember how I came here. My twin... I do not know where he is. I think he may have gone to Archades, but that... that is not a comfortable thought."
"I did not know you had a twin," Vossler says, but indeed, for all he knows, Basch hatched out of an egg in the Dalmascan Westersand. Stranger things have probably happened, all in all.
"His name is Noah."
"None of our reports on Archadia mention a Noah."
"That doesn't necessarily mean anything," Basch says, and he looks a little amused. "Our reports on Archades are as effective as... as a rabbit making reports on a lion. Dalmasca is as a rabbit to Archades, despite the bravery of the soldiers we command."
"Not a rabbit, not with men such as you and I in command."
"A rabbit with fangs, then," Basch says, shaking his head. "Nothing more. Do not forget. Our safety lies in keeping our heads down, not in sticking them out. When you stick your head out too far, then the predator bites it off."
Vossler shakes his head. "I think the unrest lies in you more than anyone else, this night."
Basch's eyes avoid his face for the first time in a long time. "Perhaps."
"Perhaps we should try and do something about that," Vossler says, his hand on his sword hilt.
Basch half-smiles. "Perhaps we should."
Basch turns over again. The two captains share a tent -- more out of necessity than design: many things were mislaid on the quick move to join King Raminas. There is a tense silence, tonight: Vossler is angry, Basch thinks, angry at everything and especially at Archadia. Basch would feel the same way, but in his mourning for Landis he learned to accept that nothing is forever, and Dalmasca is not his home in the same way as Dalmasca was.
"A pity we cannot spar now," he says, quietly, when the silence seems too thick; if he drew a knife now, he thinks, he could almost cut the silence into blocks. He resists the urge to add that there are other ways -- he has not considered it before, and he should not be thinking it now.
Vossler rolls over onto his other side, and Basch sees his eyes glittering in the darkness. He wonders if he is thinking the same thing. "I do not feel like sparring right now. Before a battle I prefer... other things."
"You think it will come to open fighting?"
"I know it will."
There's another long silence and then Basch moves closer, reaching for Vossler's hand awkwardly, catching it in his and squeezing. "Is there anything I might do?"
The next moments seem to happen both fast and slow: Vossler moving over him, Vossler's mouth against his, teeth nipping at his lip, tugging, and his own responses, more eager than he'd like to admit. It takes him a while to even form the thought that yes, Vossler was thinking the same as him. The rest of him is busy responding to rough, eager caresses. They're already only partially clothed -- the night is a hot one -- and he isn't even sure when the rest of their clothing is taken off and discarded, lost somewhere in the heat of the moment.
There are more kisses, and there is pleasure overlaid with pain etched with pleasure, and Basch remembers how Noah would tease him when he over-romanticised the very idea of sex so he tries not to -- he concentrates on the feeling of coming open, coming together, and he lets the tension spill out of him and concentrates only on the moment: pleasure and Vossler's quick breaths and Vossler's skin against his, sweat-slick and roughened by scars and chafing and life.
It is strange to wake up next to a warm body. Not unwelcome, though, Basch thinks: he and Vossler don't exactly fit, but there's something incredibly comforting about the way they're curled together. It almost feels as if they are not going to battle, as if peace will last if they stay like this, just like this. But they're both soldiers and not used to inaction, and would be useless in peace time, and so they rise soon after they both wake, dressing in the pre-dawn chill -- Basch helps Vossler fasten buckles, his own fingers clumsy with the cold.
Now is not the time for love or foolish promises, so Basch does not even steal a kiss before they duck out of the tent. It feels as if those stolen moments last night were truly stolen, snatched from fate, that it will be the end. There is a shiver in his spine that is not a part of the lingering night.
"Be careful," he says, quietly, to Vossler.
The other captain nods. "Am I not always careful?"
"Take even greater care," he says, simply. And then he does kiss Vossler: a fleeting brush and then away again. He feels Vossler's eyes on him as he walks away and feels as if a chapter of his life is drawing to a close.