Chapter 5: Tuneless Melody of Memory Lane
Chris left the astonished camp without much thought as to where he was headed. He just marched straight into the depths of the woods, until, finally, his anger subsided and he sat down on a moss-covered rock.
What the hell had just happened?
The brisk walk had done nothing to clear his head, and Chris was at a complete loss as to how quickly the morning's events had spiralled out of control. Despite having harboured an ominous feeling that this would be a horrible day from the very start, he could never have guessed just how bad things would get.
When Chris was brutally roused from his dreamless sleep by Shannon Casull's off-key singing, he felt rather aggravated.
When Chris hesitatingly accepted the unidentifiable breakfast cooked by none other than the ever-chirpy Pacifica, aggravation had developed into barely-contained irritation.
When Chris finally had forced most of the lumpy concoction down his throat, Dennis and the others had huddled together, while Winia and Leo quietly talked in the background. Irritation had grown into something akin to fury.
When Sutton reported in late for duty, Chris promptly exploded.
He never meant to go so hard on Sutton, considering that tardiness was only a minor offence and one that he normally overlooked without much thought. And he should have – he knew that – especially considering that they were in the middle of a forest, but once he had started, he just couldn't end the merciless stream of words flowing from his mouth. Judging from her shocked expression and the tear-filled eyes, Sutton had been positively wounded by the time he ended his cruel monologue with a final glare. But at that particular moment in time, Chris had been too angry to care.
Of course, he deeply regretted his unusually irrational behaviour now, as he was sitting on a godforsaken rock in the middle of a godforsaken forest: Sutton had done nothing to deserve such inhuman treatment from him, especially not since she had followed him to exile. He only had himself to blame, but he had set himself up for the gruelling task of apologizing to her later.
Chris sighed as he absentmindedly peeled off some moss with his boot-clad foot.
What was happening to him?
The sudden anger baffled him. His reaction had been so utterly unlike him that he hardly could recognize himself.
Naturally, Chris was well aware of the fact that he wasn't perfect: no matter of how hard he tried, it was impossible to remain calm, collected and impassive all the time. But he worked harder to maintain his famously unruffled demeanour than even his own unit could ever imagine. He was sure that in their eyes, he was their stern leader who effortlessly compensated for his youth with a quiet, vigilant presence that invoked unquestioned respect and, occasionally, fear.
But Chris battled with insecurities, much like everyone else. Only, his battles were exclusively internal and were often simply ignored. It was simple: revealing one's weaknesses even to allies, or dwelling upon them, was unacceptable. Instead, he compartmentalized his existence; and that which he deemed as unnecessary or detrimental to survival, he locked away so securely that he soon forgot how to regain access to them.
He, who remembered the exact moment when he wielded his first halberd, but had no recollection of his dead parents' names or faces, knew no of other code of conduct. After all, Chris had practically been born into the army, and raised for the sole reason of serving his commanding officer. He was one of the select few – a child soldier, as some had taunted him when he had first entered the Special Forces – who had never known of any other life than that in the military.
Although never questioning his duties, he had been quite indifferent to life as an ordinary member of the Special Forces. It was true that he had been given numerous opportunities to sharpen his skills with his battle-axe, but he wasn't particularly interested in bloodshed and death unlike some of his colleagues; Chris preferred to also use his brain.
However, things soon changed when he was given a letter of immediate dismissal from his normal duties. To his surprise, the letter had stated that he had been especially requested by a Baroness Bailaha to join her unit. He hadn't believed his eyes. The Baroness was legendary, even ordinary army soldiers knew the name of the most powerful woman in the military, and the commander of the near-mythological group Obstinate Arrow, the Fifth Special Ops of the King's Army. This was a small-knit task force that wasn't known for particular proficiency in battle, but for its impressive record of successful stealth operations. The placement fitted him as a glove, and under the Baroness' watchful eye, Chris felt, for the first time, as if he belonged.
And even after his voluntary excommunication from his old life, it continued to define him:
But that's who he was, an obstinate arrow.
Chris preferred to stalk his target alone, waiting patiently for the exact moment to strike with a tenacious unwillingness to accept defeat.
However, against his will, not even Chris could ignore the insufferable. Thus, he would initiate sparring sessions with members of his own unit and other squads so that he could blow off some steam in a relatively safe environment with a close proximity to immediate medical care. However, the safety precautions were more for his opponents than for him. Chris grudgingly admitted that when seriously agitated, he would fight with greater ferocity than usual, even to the point where he had sent his opponent to the hospital wing at more occasions than one.
Once the word spread about Fifth's Christopher Armalite's ruthlessness, the other squads avoided serious battle with him like the plague. Only the members of Obstinate Arrow didn't dare to refuse serious sparring with their leader.
Chris despised his lapses, even if they were very rare, and felt diminished, weakened, by their mere existence. But, ultimately, he had always remained in control over his mental and physical faculties, even when he was weak: he drew a firm line and adhered to it.
That had been an unquestioned truth until today, when the line had been severely and irreversibly crossed.
As Chris sat on the rock, analyzing the recent events, he was in total disbelief that he had let things go so far. But blind, wild fury had clouded his judgement utterly and completely; Chris had never been so angry in his entire life. So when he had caught Dennis pointing at him from the corner of his eye, Chris had immediately sensed a challenge. It was a simple gesture that could hold a number of meanings, but after a short conversation with the man, Chris had been certain that Dennis was criticizing his leadership abilities.
Chris had then proceeded to punch him squarely on the jaw.
It wasn't until Winia called out to him that he had begun to slowly comprehend what he had done. But then he had still been angry enough to self-righteously pronounce that it was his duty to ensure order in his unit, before storming off into the woods. Like a stubborn—
Chris winced at the memory of his behaviour. It had been appalling, utterly appalling. He had acted no better than a violent child, a realization that shocked the normally disciplined leader. His behaviour could not have been much more disgraceful.
This was the first time Chris had raised his bare fists, and it felt the more shocking that he had done so against an ally. And Dennis was so much more than just an ally: he was a trusted comrade and a friend, who had been punished for being just that, a friend – a friend who cared enough to ask him why he was in such a foul mood.
Chris sighed again in exasperation. The feeling of complete lack of control and its consequences were new to him, and he didn't know how to successfully rectify the situation. But he would start with apologizing to Sutton and to Dennis. That was all he could really do.
But he was most concerned about the cause. Why had it happened in the first place?
Chris didn't know for certain. At least, that is what he told himself.
Now, the truth was that Chris did have an idea, sort of.
He just...
He just couldn't explain how it possibly could make a difference.
