[Bishop-chan's notes - Now, we return to that quaint little garrison known as Fort De Bellegarde.]

Fort de Bellegarde - Confidence
by an NPC

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"You called for me, my captain?"

"... Mathieu. Thank you for coming."

The captain was slumped in the small, comfy leather chair in his office. Chaplain Mathieu noted how all of the windows were shut tight, the shutters drawn, leaving only a few of those odd Faerie lights lighting up the room, giving it this strange, unearthly glow. The captain's desk, usually packed to the brim with correspondence and strategic memos from high command lay unusually neat and orderly, with nary a scrap of paper to be seen.

"Captain, how may-"

"Just, forget rank right now, Mathieu. No need for formalities."

The chaplain could just barely make out the small lines underneath his eyes, just barely. Notices how he's holding a letter up. News?

"Cristophe. What is that?"

The captain laughs to himself, flapping the letter out at him, "This, Mathieu, is what I believe to be an omen. Tidings of unrest."

Mathieu hasn't seen the captain out and about since that speech. The one about loyalty, a few days ago. He noticed all the trays of half-finished food on his way in. The corner of the office dedicated to a small portrait was specially lit up, uncovered for the first time in Mathieu's memory. Looking closer at it, it seemed to be a portrait of a woman... he tries to put a face to it. He half-remembers the small talk, the drinking at the last Silver Pentecost, that elusive smile, that delicate face. His wife, Elise. The captain seldom talked of his family, especially his wife.

Why was it uncovered now, of all times?

"Cris, what... what is this, have you been sleeping in here again?"

"I don't know how to put this to you Mathieu," the captain mumbled, slowly got up and out of his chair. He is still in full uniform, unwashed for days, his wandsword sheathed and his mantle crumpled, "But it... it seems... we are at an impasse. Will you come with me for a moment, Mathieu?"

He unlocked the door to the balcony and gestured for the chaplain to follow him.

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"Cristophe, what's been on your mind these days?" the chaplain asks as they both leaned against the railings.

Below, they could see the lights, the flames of the torches, hear the gentle strings of one of the Fae musicians attached to their unit, echoing through the night. A few of the men patrol the walls, with bows and musket alike. The Faeries were still out and about, the tell-tale shimmering of their wings in the moonlight lazily casting across the skies. In the distance, you could see the foreboding presence of their calling to the continent, the World Tree as they called it. Even in the night, it seemed to have this quiet radiance unmatched by anything on this earth.

"Cris?"

"An honest question Mathieu. Have I failed as a leader?"

"Of course not, Cristophe! The men have nothing but the utmost respect for you. The Faeries as well, if that counts for anything."

"Good. We shall need their all of their faith and their trust in the days to come."

"Why do you consider such questions, my captain?"

Mathieu took a look at the man before him; Captain Lecarde, a noble of some repute and a young and untested Triangle mage. Cristophe the Torrent, known for his foul tempers and his devotion to the church. A man also known for his sudden and infrequent bouts of generosity and patience for the men under his command.

That was not the man before him now, brooding and in deep contemplation.

Before him was Cristophe Lecarde, his best friend of twenty three years, the insecure and nervous boy from the manor opposite the forest. The one who always came to church on time, who idolised the Heavy Wind's exploits and daring. The young man who joined up with a genuine dedication to serve his Queen and Country.

"What... what if this is a sign... from God, Mathieu?" Cristophe continued, "The World Tree, the Faeries? What if all this is a sign from God and the Founder? What other purpose does this treaty we are drafting serve but as a sign of their intent to bring humans and non-humans together... as allies?"

Mathieu swallowed, thinking hard to his training, "Well, they have not pledged to recognise the Church's doctrine as superior, but they have not tried to convert us to their ways... yet. That is good. Until we hear from His Holiness in Romalia, I think we are playing it by ear. If an alliance between Tristain and the Faeries is what the Founder and God decide for us here, then let it be so."

"What do you think?"

Mathieu stares blankly at him for a moment.

"Mathieu, what do you think about this Faerie business?" Cristophe mumbles,

"I... I would hope that they mean well. They are cooperative and civil, vexing at times, but otherwise amenable to the requests of the Crown. If they were to become Tristain's allies, we, we could benefit greatly. They are of a most pleasant disposition as well. I could think of worse allies to have."

The captain pushes the letter towards Mathieu, letting him examine it underneath the moonlight.

"Mathieu, I have gotten word from... a friend of mine in the Command staff. They say that it is very likely that we will be allied with the Faeries. They also speak of the... rumours."

One line in particular makes Mathieu's jaw drop, "... my God. Is this 'friend' of yours reliable?"

Cristophe stares deep and hard into Mathieu's eyes,

"Yes. More than reliable, Mathieu. Infallible. Tristain's alliance with Germania may be broken. We may be at war with Reconquista in the coming months.

What do I tell the men, all of them? They are to fight and die for their Queen and Country? They are to give their best? They're the sons of farmers, of craftsmen and the common man. Some of them don't know about the world beyond their town, nevermind matters of the countries around Tristain. They don't fight for a living, they have little training, limited equipment. Some can barely speak proper Gallian. And they are to be thrown towards the wolves of Albion?

They hear things, they see things.

I know the camp whispers of Tristain's inevitable downfall, that the coming storm of Reconquista is the Founder's will made manifest, sent to cleanse Tristain of the heresy we have committed in opening talks with the Faeries. And yet, the Faeries come at us with open arms, bearing many gifts. Many problems, but at the same time many gifts. They give us freely their soldiers and their craftsmen, teach us their ways of fighting and of living off the land. In less than one year, they have supported us and have done more for us than any other Brimiric nation has in over two decades.

These Faeries are going to be part of our future... h-have I been wrong about them? What, what if this is truly a sign from God? That Tristain would defy the Church and its teachings and embrace the Faeries. What if this means... that the Church has been... w-w-wr... inaccurate about matters of the faith? What do I tell them all, Mathieu? That our allies have forsaken us, that the White Isles descend upon Tristain for no reason than the greed of man? T-that everything the Founder has told them about the inhuman may be doubted? For God's sake. What should I say... What if the elves were truly acting in defence and not-"

The captain scrunches up the letter, "Heresy. I have committed heresy. I have sinned in these thoughts. Strike me down Father and Founder, for my soul is forfeit-"

The chaplain slaps the wandsword from his hands, sending it tumbling into the square underneath, "Cristophe! To simply think is not to be! What in God's name are you doing?!"

Lecarde slumps across the railings, before collapsing to the ground, "What... what do I tell them all, Mathieu?"

"... let your heart speak for itself, Cris. If this is truly what you think, and you wish to let the men know, then let it be so."

"Mathieu... now I know you never listened to Reverend Astor in church," Cristophe Lecarde mumbles, closing his eyes, finally succumbing to his exhaustion, "Thank you, my friend."

Chaplain Mathieu wipes his forehead several times, taking a look over the railings to see where the captain's wandsword landed, waving away the few sentries coming to investigate the noise. He carefully extracts the crumpled letter from Cristophe's hands, folding it neatly and placing it in his own pockets to return to him later.

He then lifts Cristophe as best he can, carrying him all the way to his quarters, hanging his mantle and empty sheath on the hooks, placing his boots by his trunk, before putting him to bed. He leaves the picture of his wife lit up and uncovered and makes a note to send someone to fetch all the trays and send them back to the cook.

"Rest easy Cristophe, you damned fool," he whispers, "... don't tell the reverend about this, please?"

Hearing nothing else besides the light snoring of his friend, Mathieu shuts the Faerie lights off and leaves, closing the door behind him.