Uhh, I was also intensely feverish when I wrote this, and I'm a wee bit nervous about even going back to it, so yeah, here it is. Yayy.
Everything Will Be Alright
The rumors start coming in not long after our escape from Renvall, from the mouths of enemies and villagers alike.
"I heard Prince Ephraim was overrun by Grado's soldiers- do you suppose it's true?"
"I heard they killed his men in front of him and took him prisoner-"
"No, I heard they were all killed, every one of them!"
They are words that shake all of us, myself included. As much as I trust Orson and Ephraim, I can't help but run the odds again and again. How many troops can the prince really run through with his lance? How many battles can Orson, at his age, withstand? And what of Kyle and Forde? They're still novices, still barely even men, how can they possibly survive the onslaught?
I can only try not to dwell on it, if for nothing else, for the sake of the others. The terror on my princess's face is plain at every whisper: eyes wide, breath coming in tiny gasps. Less obvious, my enthusiastic student, whose hands ball into fists and whose jaw tightens into a grimace every time someone mentions the prince's men dying.
It's easy to forget that surge of fear that comes with knowing those precious to you ride off to risk their lives. Even in peacetime, I've learned to block it out. I can't face it every time my men go off to quell some minor uprising or fend off bandits. That kind of fear, no, that horror, I can't imagine facing it each day. I can hardly handle thinking about it right now.
But for Franz, I know, this is his first time, and it is hardly an easy thing to shut out. The others seem more focused on Eirika's distress, but no one knows the shake in Franz's hands or the falter in his steps the way I do. My first few months in command, I faced it near every night. It's enough to drive a man mad.
The boy's gaze doesn't drift in my direction for approval the way it usually does tonight. He seems obsessed with setting up his tent, even though his work is far from ideal. He shakes his head and crawls into the shoddy shelter anyway.
I have been where he is now, hoping against hope that the ones I care for are safe, even as I torment myself imagining what I'd do were they not. I suppose I'm there now, for Ephraim, in a way, though with things looking as they do, I've resigned myself to accepting his death, and those of his men. And loath as I am to admit it, I was there until the moment I saw Franz riding toward us. I'd thought he'd gone down with the castle, like so many of the other boys I tried so hard to train, the ones whose bodies I rode past with the princess in my arms.
I want to go to him now, offer him something, anything. But I am his commanding officer, not some war buddy. I cannot bring him sugar-coated promises of his brother's safety, or his prince's. I have never excelled at lying.
And yet, I find myself dismounting and shedding my armor, before slipping into the tent behind him.
He gasps and quickly hides something under his blanket. If I know him as I think I do, it is the painting of his mother. "G-general Seth."
"Franz. How are you faring?"
He stumbles over his words, now, as anyone in his position might. His king is dead, his prince and brother are most likely as well, his home lies in ruins, and even I, his commander, have proven myself vulnerable with the still-fresh wound in my shoulder.
"I-I-I fare well, sir."
"Don't lie to me, Franz."
I didn't intend for it to come off as harsh as it seems to, but his eyes go wide, and his lips start to quiver. Sometimes I forget how young he is, even with his enthusiasm and naivete. Were we not at war, I might have balked at the thought of sending him anywhere near a real fight, but we have no choice. None at all.
He stares up at me, not quite meeting my eyes. "I'm afraid," he chokes finally, and he lets out a shudder that I know he sees as a failure. "I-if Forde died, I don't know what I'd do. He's all I have left."
Of course, he didn't need to say that. We both know it too well. At the same time, it's good that he can say such things. I'm not sure, in his position, that I could.
Before I can stop myself, I feel my hand clapping his shoulder, hear the lie slipping from my lips:
"Everything will be alright, Franz."
And before my gut can plummet with the thought of suppose it isn't?, he's latched onto me, sobbing like the frightened babe he still is. I wasn't expecting this, though perhaps I should have. Maybe I don't know him quite as well as I'd thought.
I wish I had some pithy remark about brave men not crying, but I'm hardly one to call myself a coward, so instead, I try to be soothing for him, just for tonight. The truth can wait until morning.
"Everything will be alright."