Author's Note: Sorry this is a short chapter where nothing really happens. Please read it anyway - I did win an essay contest using concepts from this chapter :) Enjoy! (And HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY TO ALL YOU AMERICANS AND PEOPLE WHO CELEBRATE IT BECAUSE YOU WANT TOO!)

Chapter 14

I was standing in the middle of a squad 200 men strong, feeling completely alone.

We were almost to France- our ship was currently docking. But my mind was a million miles away.

I was nervous and twitchy- a nasty combination due to my awe that I was even made it to France. Evidently, I had a different goal to achieve now than I had had when I'd first arrived in England.

Surprisingly, I was going to follow orders (at least for a little while).

Our mission: Capture Paris. Seems simple enough. Until you realize how heavily fortified the city is, or until you realize how many men have already died trying to achieve that "simple" goal.

Yay. Now comes the fun part…

My mission: 1) Find Arthur, 2) Find the Bonneyfoy (my real family), 3) don't die doing 1 or 2.

Hopefully, all those things can happen in Paris…that's what all the training was for, right?

I've heard that you can go insane during/after war, so I've taken the precaution of keeping this monologue that's…in my mind (I think).

First thing that comes to mind: I couldn't have been more wrong about war.

You always see it glorified back home, wherever home is. People hear the word "war" and a little bud of pride appears. Sure, you think of the bloodshed, and the number of casualties. But they were all "sacrifices" for the "greater cause". What is this "greater cause?" More land? Recognition by the monarch?

No; there isn't one. The only reason all those men go out onto the battlefield is because they feel obligated, like they have to, or they'll be considered weak.

Self determination.

Your officer's barking orders from behind.

The solider beside you pushed you along, onto the front.

All this moves you forward, until you find yourself on the front lines.

That's when you look across – even across no-man's-land – and you see another man, supposedly your enemy. But he looks the same as you.

You're both young.

You're both terrified.

You're both holding swords, with targets marked in blood over your heart.

But he's French. And I'm…"British"

I can't kill him. I'm looking in a mirror.