July 27, 1918

Jaune sat on a crate and ran his fingers across his Military Medal. The docks here in Flanders were rather peaceful with the birds squawking and the seas wafting up to port. No enfilading fire, no cannonades, no screaming... Isolating himself from the other soldiers, he waited alongside the rest of them for the Allied ships to come and ferry them to Russia.

"Jaune."

He looked up. And stood up straight. "Capitaine Causson."

Captain Émile Causson strode towards him. "Repos, Caporal."

Jaune sat back down, tucking away his newest medal into his satchel along with the other three he had received over the past year.

"How are you feeling, Jaune?" the captain started offhandedly, staring back at the sea.

"Bien."

"You do know that we will be working with a different unit."

"Oui, Capitaine. Je sais."

"Some of them have barely seen the worst of what you and I have been through. It would take time to acclimate."

Jaune hummed and nodded.

"Do you remember our objectives?"

The corporal's response was mechanical. "Our purpose is to secure Allied stockpiles at the Russian seaports in Murmansk and Archangel."

"And?"

"Lend aid to the White government and hopefully rescue the Czechs."

"Czechoslovak Legions."

"D'accord."

Silence.

Jaune could feel his superior studying him but made no attempt to meet him in the eye. He knew that it was considered dreadfully impolite to leave a conversation hanging, especially with a man who gave the orders, yet he decided to wait a bit longer before speaking. He honestly had nothing to say anyway.

"We might as well rescue the Russian imperial family. They somehow managed to escape the Bolsheviks and are being sheltered by monarchist agents. They are supposedly on their way to Archangel as we speak." Causson paused again then continued heavily. "No one else knows those final details."

The corporal turned to look at him with his brow raised. "Is this why we are conversing in English, sir?"

"Hillard and I have been entrusted with this sensitive part of our mission and I trust you enough to share it with you."

"I'm flattered and grateful, sir." Rescuing deposed royals sounded like something out of an action-adventure movie. Still, Jaune was at least grateful that this campaign would prove to be something of a big break from the monotonous sit-shoot-charge in the muddy, unsanitary trenches...assuming they wouldn't transform Russia into a similar situation.

"I can tell that you are not being yourself, Jaune," his superior remarked. "You may have been under my command for six months but that is enough time for me to understand you. I know this is all hard for you but it is harder on me and your comrades if you cannot gather your thoughts properly."

"I only fight like everyone else, sir."

"You become frenzied and you charge recklessly into the enemy lines." Causson sighed. "And you survive every time. I do not know why, I do not know how. But you are a walking miracle. I have never seen a man repeatedly survive the injuries you have sustained."

Jaune shrugged. "You said it, sir. I am very lucky."

"And blessed."

Right.

"And foolhardy."

Come again?

"Jaune, I hope you are aware that your actions can inspire others to do the same. When you run out there in the open, many follow behind you. Unlike you, however, they do not survive."

Of course. He was aware of it. And he was powerless to stop the boulder of momentum once it started rolling downhill. No matter how many times he convinced himself that he was not at fault, the fact remained that other soldiers would willingly charge alongside him under the umbrella of his so-called 'invincibility' hoping to experience the same luck. Which made surviving a blunted charge more jarring than the last. Because he had inadvertently led others to their deaths.

Causson cleared his throat. "Personally, I am hoping that the Arctic cold would temper your battle fury. Perhaps this campaign would reinvigorate your resolve."

Resolve for what? Living? What was there to live for in a world where he did not belong? Jaune had no home here, no friends here, no childhood, no memories, nothing to root him to this blasted Earth. If anything, this land was his afterlife with this war serving as his unending penance for his mistakes at Beacon.

"I will keep that in mind, sir," he answered emptily.

"When this war is over, I would be willing to personally finance your return to Greece if you wish."

Jaune failed to conceal his surprise. "Sir?"

The captain smiled warmly, as a father would to his son. "Or wherever you would want to go, be it work or schooling. Do not take this as favoritism or fraternization, however. You have much potential that I hate to see squandered."

"That would be nice. Thank you, sir." He had no idea how to go about this, though. Greece? What was he supposed to do in Greece? Perhaps visit Athens and pretend that he had not been there in a while to cover up for his complete ignorance of the place? Or maybe actually apply at the Académie de Paris or some other school.

Ah, why bother thinking of the future when he was constantly gambling with his Aura? Captain Causson should save his resources for someone else. Jaune had had enough of shattered optimism and false hope.

"How are you injuries, by the way?"

Gone. "Itchy."

"Do you need ointment or any medicaments?"

"No, thank you, sir. I'm fine." At Arras, to placate the field nurses and hide his Aura, he had to rub over his deep gashes with exotic oil balms from some desert region called Palestine. Other than stinging with the intensity of a hundred wasps, they did not do much.

Horns blasted the silence away to signal the arrival of the transport fleet. Causson tapped him on the shoulder. "Inform me if you need anything."

"Oui, Capitaine."

"And Jaune. Do take care of yourself. Know that I pray every night for you and your brothers here to return home safe." Then he strolled to the other troops lounging on the other side of the dock.

Jaune had to give his superior credit for striving to be a better officer. That was why he respected the man; he always endeavored to amend suicidal orders. The blonde corporal watched the captain wave down the salutes and initiate casual conversation in French. The stiffness among the men died, replaced by by some laughter and some smiles. And a handful of fleeting glances his way. As much as he wanted to sit back and watch the troopships slowly dock on the pier, he felt the nagging obligation that he apparently owed to his would-be squad.

With a quiet grunt, he picked himself up and dragged himself over. Time to 'socialize' with his new unit. Goodness knows he would be sharing a boat with them for the next week or so.

The journey could have been as straight as a line drawn on a map. Alas, Weiss was once again reminded of the principle that even the simplest of plans could spiral completely out of their control.

First, the truck ran out of fuel along the muddy off roads, forcing them all to prod along on foot towards the nearest settlement. They could have kept with the highway were it not for the Bolshevik patrols. Second, upon reaching the village, someone immediately recognized the imperial family and could not control their elation...inadvertently alerting the local commissar. That led to an attempted arrest, a shootout on the streets (with the only casualty being amazingly the commissar himself), and the unintended emergence of an underground anti-Bolshevik militia. Third, despite the militia guiding their escape, they somehow managed to encounter the rear echelons of an entire Bolshevik army.

The skirmish was quick albeit painful. Two of their number were killed and another passed from his wounds while they melted back into the woods. Three more militiamen were wounded though thankfully not seriously; Mister Kharitonov endured a graze on his thigh when he pushed the tsar down to avoid getting shot while Olga and Tatiana suffered light gashes after snagging themselves on chipped timber.

Weiss could have assisted with her Semblance but after two small glyphs, she nearly fainted from exhaustion. So she resolved to assist moving the imperial family from danger while Mister Dverko and his associates returned fire. They, too, followed suit, the Bolsheviks thankfully being too uncoordinated to pursue them.

That was three hours ago. They had since hiked further into the woods and set up camp with all the amenities provided by the militia. They had been planning for these kinds of contingencies for a while now though the sudden appearance of the imperial family in the flesh was completely unexpected. Admirably, their presence was enough of a morale boost especially after going through the motions of loosing three of their own in a battle.

"Isha?"

Weiss set down the tin plate. "Yes, Doctor Botkin?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Never better."

The physician studied her worriedly. "Forgive me for expressing my observations. Your abilities appear to be putting a heavy strain on you."

She nodded. "I am aware. It's part of who we are. Or who I am."

"I have noticed the fatigue. It appears to me that the more you use your abilities, the more your body has to cope. Is there anything related to these unique characteristics of yours that could be more easily understood?"

Weiss remembered that he had been provided a surgical field kit. She doubted any of the tools in the wooden box were sterilized. "It is mainly between me and my Aura. Meditation is the best treatment for my case. Don't take this the wrong way; I appreciate your concern, doctor."

Doctor Botkin nodded. "Horosho. Ya ponimayu. If you need anything, I am always available."

If only there was anything he could do, she did not say. Grazed, bruised, and aching, there was only so much her Aura could do. And even then, her Semblance demanded much of her. It honestly hurt so much that she was unable to be of more help. Morose thoughts aside, she finished off the last scraps on her plate then turned in for the evening.

They had tents, at least, along with some extra cots. Four sentries rotated in shifts for the night though Weiss could barely get any sleep.

"Isha?"

"Yes, Anya?"

"You cannot sleep?"

"Nyet." Weiss turned on her side. Anastasia looked as though she had barely gotten any herself.

"Is there...anything on your mind?" inquired the grand duchess.

The former heiress gazed back at the flaps of their tent before answering, "Yes. There is a lot."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Weiss was unsure. On one hand, she owed it this much to the imperial family to be more open with them. On the other, she did not want to burden them any more with her own worries. They had been fleeing on foot across the rugged winter wilderness for days and that alone had been enough of a burden for all of them.

"It's fine if you would not want to."

She shook her head. "No, no. There's just...so much on my mind that...it's hard. So many things happening. We were in a palace, then shipped from safe house to safe house. We were under house arrest and then...we escaped and...we have been hiding out then running..."

Anya nodded. "Okay. I guess I am not alone in this."

Weiss raised her brow. "You too?"

The grand duchess chuckled softly. "It has been quite an adventure, don't you think?"

Complete with the brutal reality of casualties, indeed it has. "I suppose so." She heard shuffling and saw that Anya had moved to lay on her side, a determined but curious expression on her face.

"Isha, have your powers...is using your glyphs hurting you? Because you have been paler than usual."

Whether or not that was meant as a joke or a serious observation, she wanted to roll her eyes. She was always pale. It was a common trait among natural Atlesians, especially those whose lineages dated back to the earliest settlers of the continent. And did not Atlas share the same climate as Russia? Only, Russia was much, much larger and colder. "It's normal."

"You nearly collapsed on the march."

Fatigue. "I slipped."

"You needed help carrying some of our things."

Debility. "They were too heavy."

"You are not a strong as you were before," Anya deadpanned with a flat look.

Weiss met hers with a poor glare. "My powers demand much from me. You shouldn't worry."

"Are you sure? Do you need a massage or a cup of tea with melted ice?" she teased.

The former heiress rolled her eyes. "It's getting dark, Anya. We should rest."

A wry smirk. "Feeling sleepy already?"

She wished she was. Might as well force herself to rest. Shifting to her side so her back faced her, she echoed, "Goodnight, Anya."

A soft giggle. "Of course. Spokoynoi nochi, Isha." Moments of silence passed until the grand duchess quietly followed up with, "Ya znayu ty ustal. Pozhaluysto nye navredi sebye."

Weiss gripped her sheets as she struggled not to cry.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 25, 2018

LAST EDITED: September 6, 2018

INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 30, 2018