Author's Notes: Once again, reviews are greatly appreciated. They aid me in my writing, and help me to build a dynamic story that all of the readers can enjoy.
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Tristan lifted the barrel of the gun to his lips, blowing gently down the barrel. Pointing the weapon towards the fire, he closed one eye, using the other to sight down the chamber with the illumination behind it. Buildup was still present. Silently, he ignored a twitch in his right arm as he reached down, picking up a string with a swab attached to the end of it. He proceeded to run this through the barrel several times before he was satisfied with the condition it was in.
Unlike Daryn, his thoughts were not on the events of the day. His mind was cold, calculating. Placing the barrel down, he picked up a small priming pin and proceeded to scrub it furiously, though gently. Without bringing his eyes off of his task, his mind wandered into the possibilities of the future. Daryn would be an idiot to lead them back to the army; Dycedarg would surely finish his task were they to do so. Nonetheless, desertion would leave them branded as traitors.
Tristan had long since decided that he would not return. If Daryn decided to lead the rest of them to their deaths, he would gladly allow the sheep to move to the slaughter. He, however, was far too pragmatic to allow such a thing to happen. He had his own life to care about, now. His brother was dead, and with him, the family title would likely fall to pieces. It mattered little to the teenager; not being official nobility meant that he would not have to suffer the pretension associated with the title. His hands moved to the spring, a cloth gently going to it to wipe the grime away.
His thoughts finally did return to the day prior, and this change of thought, he began to question his earlier decision. Of course, the site of his brother, broken as he was, was disturbing, but only on the level of a lack of necessity. The deed could have been done in a much more efficient manner. Dycedarg could have merely slit the man's throat and been done with it; instead, he chose to divulge in a sick torture session. Such an act showed a lack of professionalism; Dycedarg chose pleasure over business.
Tristan pondered on this for a moment as he picked up a file and a few rounds balls of lead. Why were emotions so important? He knew that his companions were currently enveloped in a struggle with their own feelings, but Tristan saw the indulgence of such thoughts as useless. He was not wihtout emotion himself, but fretting about such things achieved little. He paused for a moment in rounding out the bullets, his eyes drifting while the rest of his body remained still, save for the occasional twitch. Slowly, he observed the rest of the assembled. Daryn was struggling with some internal struggle, Rikk was probably swearing vengeance on Dycedarg, and Tia was obviously disturbed by sight of her sister. That was the problem with emotions. They made you weak and predictable. If you find someone's weakness, then they are all too easy to exploit.
Returning to his work, he blew the filings off of one ball before picking up another and continuing. Tristan enjoyed their companionship, of course. They were able allies in combat, and their respective skills balanced each other well. They were also the closest people that Tristan would consider to friends. Nevertheless, he weighed the viability of moving on without them.
Finished with smoothing the bullets, he began to meticulously place them back in their pouch, counting as he did so. Well, they were friends, after all. They obviously cared for him, and did their best to watch out for him. Practicality followed this sentiment, with the thought of the fact that he was, indeed, only fourteen years of age. Supplies would be difficult to procure alone, and earning wages would be even more difficult, unless he were to resort to petty thievery. He would do so if necessary, but he doubted his skills in the manner. Tia would likely be better suited to such a task.
In addition, the world was not without its dangers. Beasts of all types wandered in the wilds, as well as brigands. Tristan was skilled, but was not necessarily capable of handling some of the things he might encounter. Support from more skilled combatants – and the rest of the party, save for perhaps Alyssa, were indded far superior in skill than he – would be welcome in such situations. The final problem was that of the fact that he would be a deserter, a title which brought with it all forms of issues.
Setting the bag of ammunition to his side, he slowly began to piece the disassembled weapon back together. He ensured that every item was in its proper place, and fit both properly and snugly where it was supposed to. As per usual, his movements were methodical and purposeful, slow yet effective. Were his identity known, he would surely be prosecuted, and without the aid of those both stronger and, in some cases, wiser than he, there was little doubt that he would find no way to escape such circumstances. In addition, it was likely that due to Rikk's carelessness, Dycedarg would find a way to order a manhunt on all of them. The Beoulve had the backing of his family, a powerful one indeed, and few would doubt such a word. With the amount of resources and influence he held, even at a young age, there were many that would search for Tristan, enforcing the need for companionship even more. Indeed, it appears that the old attaché, that there was safety in numbers, seemed to hold true, at least in this respect.
Of course, being hunted had a higher survival rate than marching back to Dycedarg. Were he to return to the army, Tristan would be handing himself to the traitorous bastard on a silver platter. Such was unacceptable. However, there was a certain intrigue to this as well. Dycedarg would have a harder time in assassinating the teen in the midst of the Order of the Northern Knights. It was only due to the confusion of the battle that he was capable of doing what he had done the previous day. He would probably be safe with the Hokuten, at least for a while. Still, it would only be a matter of time before Dycedarg would manage to finish what he had started. Both tactics seem to be ones of stalling, and neither seemed promising.
Of course, there was a third option: Betrayal. Should Daryn choose to desert, the others would likely follow the knight. They had formed a bond of friendship, one that was too tightly bound to be broken by something as light as duty. Of course, their loyalties lied with their leader first and foremost; he had, after all, earned their trust far more than some bearer of rank that had no direct association with them. Tristan could use this to his advantage. After learning of their plans, he could move back to the army proper, and procure a meeting with Dycedarg himself, betraying the locations of his companions in exchange for his own life. Tristan clicked the gun closed with a decisive snap, smiling inwardly. This plan seemed by far to be the best.
There were, of course, complications. Daryn could easily outrun and overpower Tristan, even without the use of his chocobo. Even if he managed to get a head start, Tia was probably capable of tracking him. The child was not much of a survivalist in the wilderness, after all. Even if he were able to catch up with the main body, there was no guarantee of a private audience with a member of the Beoulve family, and he may even be killed upon arrival to the base camp. Then the issue of Dycedarg himself came to the forefront of Tristan's mind. The man was relentless in his pursuit of perfecting and furthering the Beoulve name. Not only would Tristan be a liability to Dycedarg on the basis of being a surviving member of a family, but knowledge of Dycedarg Beoulve's plot would make Tristan downright dangerous to keep alive. Dycedarg was probably smart enough to allow Tristan to describe the whereabouts of the small company, and then would likely run the boy through on the spot. Even if he did not, Daryn was a capable leader, and he knew that Tristan was pragmatic to the point of uncaring; even if only in caution, he would likely alter their immediate destination so as not to bring his friends to danger. Upon finding out that the party was not where they were supposed to be, Dycedarg was likely to kill the boy purely on the basis of giving him bad information.
All in all, none of Tristan's plans seemed to have enough of a chance of success to really consider weighing. Pulling back the hammer, he squeezed the trigger on the gun, letting the striker slam forward with a satisfying click. He nodded in satisfaction; the mechanisms were working properly. It seemed to him that his best choice would be to stick with the party as it stood. Daryn was a good commander, and was experienced enough to make few mistakes. His likelihood of survival seemed best if he followed the knight's lead.
As the sun crested the horizon, spraying the valley of death with its glorious rays, Tristan looked up in surprise. The entire night had passed in the course of his musings and meticulous care of his weapon. Glancing back down at it, he shrugged, sliding it into his belt, ensuring it was securing before continuing to do anything else. Wordlessly, he rolled his unused sleep roll and proceeded to aid in breaking down the camp. Daryn's decision would come soon, and Tristan would follow it.