"You're... you're not mad at me?"

It took Sonja a bit of time to answer; as always, she was quite focused on her work. Finally, she put her tools aside and removed her goggles, giving Rosch a strange look. "Why would I be angry with you?"

Rosch glanced at the blackened and ruined piece of scrap affixed to his left arm. "I've made a mess out of your brother's work," he replied mutely. "And now you're gonna have to nearly start from scratch to rebuild it."

Sonja's eyes rolled heavenward. "Pish-posh. You came back alive and that's what important. Besides, some parts are salvageable. And I guess," Sonja bit down her lip as she passed a hand through her short brown hair, "and I guess it will give me the occasion to try and improve on my brother's design."

"I'm sure you can," said Rosch. "Uh, I mean, improve on what Rowan did. You're really smart… your brother always said so."

Her features were illuminated by a genuine, but fleeting smile. Before Sonja could reply, however, the door to her office burst open, and a harried-looking woman wearing the colours of the medical division rushed inside.

"Sonja!" she exclaimed. "That kid! He did it again!"

Sonja rose from her seat, exasperation written all over her face. "What? Again? Didn't we put someone at the entrance of the infirmary to keep watch?"

"He gave 'em the slip somehow! How the hell he managed that, well, I don't know!"

Rosch struggled to stand up. The wounds he had sustained a few weeks past had mostly healed, but one of his ankles still gave him trouble. "What's going on?" he asked the two women. "What's that about a kid running away?"

"He's not exactly a kid," said Sonja. "He's about my age, actually." Under Rosch's insistent gaze, she groaned, adding, "He's the sole survivor of that rookie squad… you know, the one that got slaughtered at the battle where you were injured, Rosch."

"What…? Someone managed to survive?"

"Barely," said Sonja. "I've never seen something like it. I really thought he was a goner when they brought him to me."

"And now he's managed to escape the infirmary three times in two weeks," said the other medic. "What's his deal anyway?"

Sonja rubbed her temples with a sigh. "He's in a state of shock, Marion. He's in no condition to act rationally."

"Then, we've got to find him before he does something stupid," the woman named Marion said. She offered Rosch a sheepish grin. "Sorry for barging in and interrupting, by the way."

"It's okay," Rosch told her. "We were about done, right, Sonja?"

"Mh-hm," answered Sonja. Obviously, she believed that the safety of her wayward patient was a more pressing worry at the moment. "Please come back at the end of the week. Until then, I'll see with Fennel what we should do about your Gauntlet."

The morning after, Rosch once more descended to the lower level to visit the medical wing. Many members of his unit had been severely wounded in the battle that had taken place in Lazvil Hills, two weeks ago. Thankfully enough, they were recovering fast, leaving no doubt that they would all be fighting as a team again soon.

Upon entering the infirmary, Rosch was immediately swarmed by his convalescing squadmates. They sat together and swapped stories, the relief of being alive evident in the laughter they shared. Out of the corner of his eye, however, Rosch noticed a young man sitting by his lonesome on his cot. Half of his face was covered by bandages, and the other half could barely be seen from under long, disheveled blond bangs. Every time Rosch had visited the infirmary over the past days, the young man had been there; not once Rosch had seen him take his eyes off his book.

"Who's that guy?" Rosch asked, jutting his chin at the blond youth.

A sense of unease thick as Thaumatech fumes immediately filled the air. "You know how they sent that one green squad to the front lines?" one of Rosch's friends replied. "Well, he's the only one remaining."

"I heard it was a bloodbath," someone else added. "The higher-ups used them as cannon fodder, I tell ya."

"Kid's must have one hell of a guardian angel to still be around," another mused.

"Shit," said Rosch. "Then, he's the one who keeps flying the coop?"

Rosch's statement was followed by nervous chuckles from all of his friends. "Yeah," said the first of Rosch's comrades who had spoken. "I guess he really doesn't like it much here, huh?"

Rosch took a closer look at the blond soldier. The young man had not budged an inch, but there was now a slight frown forming on his brow. With a grunt, Rosch got to his feet.

"I'm gonna see if I can talk to him," he told his buddies. "It can't be healthy, dealing with that kind of crap on your own…"

The members of his squad mumbled their assent. Wincing, Rosch staggered his way toward the young man. The injured soldier barely lifted his head when Rosch stopped by his cot.

"H-Hey," said Rosch, "uh, d'you mind if I sit next to you?"

This time, he did earn himself a reaction from the blond youth; the latter peered at Rosch from under his bangs, a guileless sort of confusion settling on his face for a brief moment.

"…why?" he finally replied.

"I was just thinking you could use some company," Rosch answered. "Us soldiers, we oughta stick together, right?"

Again, the young man remained silent for a while, possibly mulling over Rosch's words. "If you say so," was his eventual reply.

Rosch managed to school his features into a grin. From behind, he knew his squadmates were watching their ongoing conversation very carefully. "Good! My name's Rosch. I'm a corporal. What about you?"

"…Stocke. You can call me Stocke."

"Stocke, huh? D'you come from the countryside or were you born in the capital?"

The young man broke eye contact. He went taut as a bowstring, nearly ripping a page out of his book by accident.

"Oh, uh…" Rosch swallowed nervously. Obviously, the topic was a sore one for the kid. "You're not much in a mood to chat, are you?"

"I'm… tired…" Stocke replied laconically.

"Alright," mumbled Rosch. "I'm gonna leave you be. Just… just remember that if you ever need someone to talk to… well, I'll be there. We're all stuck fighting in this goddamn war together, after all."

Again, Stocke's only uncovered eye stared ahead vacantly. He did not say a word as Rosch wobbled away, red-faced with embarrassment.

More days passed before Rosch returned to the medical wing. His stomach did somersaults as climbed down the stairs; maintenance sessions on his Gauntlet had never been a walk in the park, mostly because Sonja tended to slip into those strangely… manic moods when she had a wrench in hand. To his great surprise, the basement floor was even more of a cluttered mess than usual. Soldiers and staff members of the medical division scurried about the place, barely acknowledging Rosch's presence.

The young corporal soon came upon a familiar face. "Sonja?" he asked as he approached the medic. "Is something happening?"

Sonja met back his gaze, her eyes filled with distress. "What do you think? That rookie soldier—he ran off again!" She buried her face into her hands, letting out a little whine. "He came to me with one of the deepest head wounds I'd ever seen, three broken ribs and a fever that took three days to break. I can't have him wandering around like this! Who knows what will happen to him?"

"They'll find him," Rosch reassured her. Even to his ears, the words sounded hollow. "He's gonna be fine, you'll see."

"He's my patient. I'd like to help him, I really would, but every time he pulls a stunt like that, my superiors get on my case a bit more and I just… can't. I can't deal with this anymore…" Sonja punctuated the end of her sentence with a choked sob.

The sight of her tear-filled eyes was like a punch to Rosch's guts. "You could take some time off," he suggested weakly. "They'd understand, considering the circumstances—"

"There's a war going on," snapped Sonja. "And Prophet damns me, but I won't stand around doing nothing while people are dying. I won't be useless." She crossed her arms against her chest and scowled at Rosch. "Are you coming? Maybe doing some maintenance on your Gauntlet will help clear my mind."

"S-Sure," said Rosch. "Lead the way."

She spent the next hours working on Rosch's mechanical arm in sullen silence. The young corporal tried not to think too hard about the deep, dark bags under her eyes and the sickly pallor of her skin. Finally, Sonja gave Rosch his leave, with clear instructions to come back when she would receive the necessary components to finish the job. The medical wing had slightly quieted down when Rosch stepped out of her office. Still, it soon became apparent that the runaway patient had not been found. Rosch had to hand it to the guy; he really had a knack for stealth.

Which was why Rosch was so flabbergasted when he later caught sight of him sitting alone in a corner of the castle courtyard.

A bizarre, invisible force seemed to nudge Rosch toward the blond youth. Upon noticing the other man approaching, Stocke startled, tensing as if he expected a fight to break out. His uncovered eye—barely visible under that impossible mop of blond hair—was brimming with cold animosity.

"Whoa!" said Rosch, taking a cautious step backward. "Calm down, I didn't mean to sneak up on you!"

Stocke's shoulders slumped forward; in an instant, the young soldier had gone limp, like a puppet which strings had just been cut.

"You okay?" Rosch inquired. "D'you want me to get some help or…?"

"No," Stocke enunciated firmly. "I'm fine."

Rosch eyed the spot next to Stocke. "Uh, can I sit here for a bit?" He racked his brain to find a suitable excuse. "My ankle starts killing me whenever I stand for too long."

After a while, Stocke answered with a faint, "…sure."

"Thanks!" Rosch plopped down on the bench. "Ah, it's great to get a bit of fresh air, eh?" Undeterred by Stocke's lack of response, Rosch added, "I get ya. Staying cooped up in the infirmary for too long can get to you."

"Yeah," mumbled Stocke.

"But next time you want to get out, you should ask permission, you know? My friend Sonja—she's the one who's been taking care of you—well, she's worried sick. Why do you keep escaping, anyway?"

Stocke's expression darkened. "I can use my own magic to heal myself. The medics are overworked, they don't need to waste more of their precious time on me."

"That's where you'd be wrong!" Rosch countered. "Sonja tells me there's nothing a professional healer hates more than an amateur butting in. If you don't know precisely what you're doing, then you might screw things up and end up in an even worst state." Rosch rubbed his jaw in contemplation. "Or at least that's what she says."

Stocke levelled an empty gaze to Rosch. "I see."

"She knows her stuff, Sonja. Her whole family… they're all geniuses or something." Rosch pointed to what remained of his Gauntlet. "Like her brother Rowan. He's the one who built me this." He ignored the encroaching sense of grief brought about by the mere mention of the man's name. Now was not the time to wallow in misery; Rosch had to stay strong, for Sonja's sake.

Stocke's expression betrayed a hint of interest as he examined the prosthetic. Then, his brows furrowed. "Rowan? As in, the director of the Thaumatech division? The one who—"

"The one who got killed two months ago, yeah," completed Rosch.

The blood drained from Stocke's face. "Her brother… died… two months ago…" His hands had started shaking. "Her brother died two months ago and I… I kept… I kept—"

"Hey!" Rosch put a hand on Stocke's shoulder. The blond youth stiffened at the touch, but he did not look at Rosch; his gaze seemed directed at something the young corporal could not see. "You couldn't know. Don't feel bad about it, she wouldn't hold it against you anyway. She… she understands what you're going through. That's why she wants you to get better." He gave Stocke's back a light pat. "But to do that, you need to listen to her and get proper rest, you know?"

Stocke was slightly rocking back and forth on his seat. "I can't afford to wait for so long." The words had tumbled out of his mouth in quick succession, his voice barely sounding above a whisper. "There's a war going on…"

Rosch fought the urge to slap his palm on his forehead. "You too? Why is everyone springing this argument on me lately? You're no use to anybody in this state. Just… just focus on your recovery, okay?"

"'No use', huh…?" Stocke repeated sotto voce. "Yeah, I get it…"

"Wait!" said Rosch. "That's not what I meant!" Despite his best efforts, he had found himself nearly shouting. The other people passing through the courtyard sent them suspicious glances, and Rosch could feel his cheeks heating up under their scrutiny. He cleared his throat before continuing in a mutter, "Anyway, why is it so important that you be of use to someone, huh?"

"That's how it is," said Stocke. There was a strangely mechanical quality to his voice, as if he was just parroting someone else's assertions. "That's how the world goes."

"No," Rosch spoke sharply. "That's not how it is. I can't—I won't believe that's how things work." He stood up, the movement startling Stocke out of his daze. "No one's useless. That's a crappy way to see things."

Stocke's expression was inscrutable. "The only reason I've had my wounds treated free of charge is because I'm a soldier. Otherwise…"

"Well, Sonja would have treated your wounds regardless of who you are and what it is that you do," Rosch interrupted him. "She fought and fought to keep you alive—because she believed your life was worth saving. And her brother—" Rosch drew a deep breath to keep his voice steady as he spoke of Rowan, "Her brother was the same. He built this Gauntlet for me, even though the brass was against it. He didn't think a… a… crippled rookie was useless, like they all did. He thought my life was worth something beyond any possible use I might have."

This time, Stocke did not turn his gaze away as Rosch spoke. The young man's face displayed an open, almost innocent sort of bewilderment. Without the crease deepening between his brows and the lines of stress showing at the corners of his mouth, he suddenly appeared much younger —much like the age he was supposed to be, in fact.

"Then, I…" Stocke croaked, "I should go apologize to your friend. She… she sounds like a good person. The kind of person who doesn't deserve that kind of treatment."

Rosch's features softened. "Yeah, she's really something else. And like I said, she gets it. You've suffered a huge loss too. I remember when I lost my arm… she stayed with me every step of the way. She didn't have to, but she did."

"Mhm. There's some people like that in the world. And sometimes you don't have to look very far to find them." Stocke's eye crinkled in a smile. A hint of amusement flickered in its blue-green depths as he stared intently at Rosch.

The latter coughed, going even more crimson. "Uh, s-sure. L-Let's get going."

And, somewhere in a dimension that existed beyond the fabric of time, a pair of children smiled as the course of the world edged closer to the thin golden thread of true history—history as it should be.

A/N: Written for Svirdilu for the 2016 RH Fanwork Exchange.