Stephanie let out a soft sigh, her fingers brushing weakly against Richard's hand as she looked up at him, her face still pale. "I have a killer headache," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Will you lie with me? Just talk to me for a bit?"

Richard hesitated for a moment, concern flickering across his features. "Are you sure you shouldn't be resting quietly?" he asked gently.

Stephanie let out a soft sigh, her head sinking into the pillow as she clutched Richard's hand. "Tell me something really boring," she murmured, her voice tinged with exhaustion but carrying a faint smile. "Help me fall asleep."

Richard chuckled softly, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Boring, hmm? I'm not sure I've ever been asked to be dull on purpose."

She gave a sleepy laugh, her eyes fluttering closed. "Just something work-related. Logistics, reports, supplies… whatever you think will knock me out."

"Very well," he said, settling more comfortably beside her. "I've been working on supply allocations for the regiments heading south. We've been short on boots—again—which means we have to prioritize which units get replacements first. The shoemakers are struggling to keep up with demand."

Her eyes opened slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. "How do you even decide that? Who gets the boots?"

Richard smirked. "It depends on deployment. The units most likely to see action get first priority. The rest have to make do with what they have or wait until the next shipment."

"And what about uniforms?" she asked, shifting slightly to face him more fully. "Do they get fitted for those, or are they just handed whatever's closest to their size?"

His lips twitched into a smile, though he tried to keep his tone neutral. "Uniforms are tailored at the regimental level. Each regiment has tailors who handle alterations. It's not perfect, but it works well enough."

She hummed thoughtfully, her hand absently tracing small patterns against his chest. "And what happens if they need something new while they're on a campaign? Like, if their boots fall apart, or they outgrow their uniform?"

"We rely on supply depots," he explained, his voice calm and even. "They're stocked with essentials—boots, uniforms, weapons, food. But reaching them can be… challenging, especially if the supply lines are threatened."

Stephanie's brow furrowed slightly, and she couldn't help but ask, "How do you keep the supply lines safe? Aren't they an easy target?"

Richard chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "You're supposed to be falling asleep, not conducting an inquisition."

She grinned faintly, her eyes sparkling despite her exhaustion. "I can't help it. You make it sound interesting."

"Interesting?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "It's just supply management. Hardly thrilling."

"It is to me," she insisted, her voice soft but sincere. "The details of how it all works… I don't know, it's fascinating. Please, keep going."

He studied her for a moment, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. "Very well," he said, his voice softening. "We guard the convoys as best we can, but it's always a risk. The French know how vital supplies are, and they'll do anything to disrupt our lines. It's a constant battle to keep things running smoothly."

She hesitated for a moment, her brow furrowing. "The formations you use… it just seems like both sides are lining up and shooting at each other until one side loses more men. Is that… really how it works?"

Richard chuckled softly, though there was a hint of weariness in his tone. "In a sense, yes," he admitted. "Battles are often about breaking the enemy's line before they can break yours. Discipline and coordination are what win the day."

"But there's no protection," she pointed out, her tone tinged with disbelief. "You're all just… standing there, completely exposed. It seems so… I don't know… suicidal?"

He sighed, his expression thoughtful. "It's a matter of strategy," he explained. "Standing in a tight formation allows us to concentrate firepower. A well-timed volley can devastate the enemy before they get too close. The goal is to keep them from reaching our lines."

Stephanie frowned, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his chest. "But why not use some kind of protection? Like shields, or trenches, or something to block musket fire?"

Richard tilted his head slightly, considering her question. "Shields are impractical against muskets," he said. "The power of a musket ball would punch straight through most materials, and carrying shields would slow the men down. Trenches… they're used sometimes, especially in sieges, but they don't allow for the mobility we need in open battles."

She hummed thoughtfully, her curiosity clearly not satisfied. "But there's nothing that could disperse the impact of a musket ball? Like… layers of thick leather or something?"

He gave her a small smile, amused by her persistence. "Not that we've discovered," he said. "Our uniforms are wool, mostly for durability and warmth. Adding layers would make them too heavy and cumbersome."

She sighed softly, her fingers stilling against his chest. "It just seems like there has to be a better way," she murmured.

Richard's smile softened as he looked down at her. "War is rarely as straightforward as it seems," he said quietly. "It's as much about psychology as it is about tactics. Intimidating the enemy, holding your ground, maintaining discipline under fire… those are the things that win battles."

Stephanie tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes filled with both admiration and sadness. "It's incredible how much you know," she said softly. "But it's also so… tragic. The risks you take, the losses you endure… it's all so much."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his voice steady as he replied, "It's what I was trained to do. And I'm still here because of the men beside me. We endure it together."

Stephanie shifted slightly against Richard, her head still resting on his chest. She blinked up at him, her voice soft but curious. "Okay, so once you actually start fighting… how does it end? Like, what happens after? Do you get to keep the territory, or is it just about who loses the most men? What do you even get out of it?"

Richard exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're not going to let me lull you to sleep, are you?"

She grinned faintly, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his chest. "Not until you answer my questions."

Chuckling, he shifted slightly to face her more fully. "Battles end for different reasons," he began. "Sometimes one side simply loses too many men to continue fighting. Other times, a commander might retreat to avoid losing their entire force. And yes, territory is often part of the outcome. If we drive the enemy out of a position, we occupy it. But it's not always about land."

She tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "Then what is it about?"

"Breaking the enemy's ability or will to fight," he explained. "Winning a battle weakens their army, their morale, and sometimes their resources. It's about gaining the upper hand—forcing the enemy to fall back, regroup, or surrender."

Stephanie nodded slowly, her gaze thoughtful. "So it's not just about the physical space—it's about control. Who's stronger, who's smarter, who can last the longest."

"Precisely," Richard said, his voice low. "Sometimes, holding territory is critical—like a supply line, a river crossing, or a strategic city. Other times, it's symbolic. A victory can send a powerful message to both the enemy and our allies."

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "But what happens to the people who live there? If you take their land, what does that mean for them?"

Richard's expression grew more serious. "That depends," he said carefully. "If it's a friendly territory we're retaking, we try to protect the people as best we can. If it's enemy territory… it's more complicated. We impose order, but there's always tension. Civilians rarely welcome an occupying army, even if we mean them no harm."

Stephanie frowned, her fingers pausing in their absent tracing. "My grandma," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "was just a girl in Berlin during World War II. Germany… they were the bad guys. They needed to be stopped. But Berlin was bombed to rubble. It was horrible." She paused, her breath hitching as if the next words were lodged painfully in her throat.

Richard tightened his hold on Stephanie as she spoke, her words like stones dropping into the still water of his mind, rippling outward and disturbing everything in their path. His chest ached with a heavy, unfamiliar sensation—something between guilt and anger. As she spoke about Berlin, her grandmother, and the aftermath of war, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering to his own campaigns.

They had just been talking about his army—his men—occupying enemy cities, taking towns, establishing control. He'd always prided himself on maintaining discipline, ensuring his soldiers acted with honor. But even the most disciplined armies had cracks. And Stephanie's words made those cracks impossible to ignore.

When she paused, hesitating before continuing, his stomach clenched. He didn't want to hear the rest, not because he didn't care, but because he feared what it would reveal about his own blind spots.

"When the so-called good guys came in and took Berlin," she said, her voice trembling slightly, "they… they didn't treat the women well. Including my grandma. She was just a girl—fifteen years old. Pretty. Innocent. And they hurt her."

Richard froze. The hand he'd been gently stroking along her back went still. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, his mind racing as her words settled over him like a suffocating weight.

Her grandmother, a civilian, had been harmed by the men who were supposed to bring liberation. The thought made his blood run cold. He wanted to believe his army was different, that his men were better, but he couldn't shake the fear that somewhere, in some occupied town, there were women who might tell similar stories about the British.

"She survived, obviously," Stephanie added quickly, as if to reassure him. But her next words only deepened his unease. "She never forgot. She carried it for the rest of her life—fear, humiliation, anger. And she used to say that in war, everyone loses. It doesn't matter if you're on the right side or the wrong side. When the fighting stops, all that's left are ruins. Of buildings, of lives, of… people."

Richard swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he processed her words. He thought of the towns his men had taken, the civilians left behind, the destruction that came with every victory. He thought of the women—wives, mothers, daughters—who must have watched his soldiers march in with fear in their eyes, wondering if their honor, their safety, their lives would be taken along with their homes.

"Your grandmother was a brave woman," he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. It was all he could manage without letting his emotions overwhelm him. "To endure that, and to share it with you… she must have been incredibly strong."

Stephanie nodded, her fingers gripping his shirt. "She was," she murmured. "But it left a mark on her. On all of us, really. That's why I can't stop thinking about the civilians you mentioned. The ones in the territories you take. Because… they're always the ones who suffer most, aren't they?"

His chest tightened further, and he exhaled slowly, trying to find the right words. "They often are," he admitted. "And it's something I think about constantly. I've seen it firsthand—the destruction, the fear, the desperation. It's why we try, whenever we can, to act with honor. To protect the innocent, even in the midst of war."

But even as he said the words, doubt crept into his mind. Could he guarantee that every man under his command had acted with honor? Could he promise that his army had left no scars like the ones Stephanie's grandmother carried?

Stephanie looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "But not everyone does," she whispered. "Not every soldier… not every army."

"No," Richard admitted, his voice low and tinged with sadness. "Not everyone does. And that's one of the great tragedies of war. It strips away humanity, even from those who believe they're fighting for the right cause."

She nodded, but her expression didn't soften. He could see the questions lingering behind her eyes, even if she didn't voice them. Did she wonder if he'd ever been part of something like that? If he'd ever looked the other way? If his men—his choices—had left behind their own scars on innocent lives?

The thought burned through him, leaving an ache in its wake.

"I'm sorry for bringing this up," Stephanie said softly, breaking the silence. "I didn't mean to make it so heavy."

"Don't apologize," he said firmly, his voice steady even as his thoughts churned. "What your grandmother endured is part of history—part of who you are. And it's a reminder of why we fight. To end the suffering, to prevent it from happening to others. Even if the world isn't perfect, we have to try."

Stephanie shifted slightly in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. Her voice broke the silence, soft but brimming with excitement.

"My favorite TV show is The Last Kingdom," she said, glancing up at him with a small smile. "It's about the Saxons and the Danes, set during the time of Alfred the Great. You're obviously rooting for Uhtred—he's the main character—but the whole point is that it's so hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. You want both the Saxons and the Danes to win, even though they're constantly fighting each other."

She hesitated for a moment, then added with a sheepish laugh, "Except I always hate Alfred. He's supposed to be this wise king, but he's so annoying—self-righteous, manipulative, and obsessed with his legacy."

Richard stiffened slightly at the mention of Alfred, his brows furrowing. "Alfred the Great? The man who unified England against the Danes?" His tone was incredulous, though not unkind. "You hate him?"

Stephanie nodded with a playful smirk. "Oh, absolutely. The show makes him so infuriating—he's always scheming and preaching. He's supposed to be a hero, but he's so flawed it's hard to like him."

Richard tilted his head, considering her words. "Alfred is one of the most revered figures in English history," he said carefully, his voice tinged with curiosity. "He preserved the English identity during a time of great turmoil. Without him, England as we know it might not exist."

"I get that," Stephanie said quickly, her hands moving animatedly as she explained. "The show doesn't ignore that he's brilliant—his strategies, his vision, his ability to hold the Saxons together—it's all there. But it also shows the human side of him. He's so obsessed with being remembered as 'great' that he alienates everyone around him, even the people who are helping him the most. Like Uhtred."

"Uhtred," Richard repeated, his brow raising. "He's the Dane?"

"Well, yes and no," Stephanie said, her voice warming with enthusiasm. "He's a Saxon by birth but raised by Danes. So he's caught between two worlds. He fights for Alfred because he believes in Alfred's vision, but he also loves the Danes—they're his family. It's complicated."

Richard nodded slowly, the concept intriguing him. "That does sound… difficult. But loyalty is a complicated thing, especially in war. Divided loyalties can break a man."

Stephanie smiled, her excitement bubbling over. "Exactly! That's what makes the show so good. It doesn't give you clear answers. You can see why Alfred's vision is important, but you also see why the Danes fight the way they do. It's hard to root for one side without feeling torn."

Richard leaned back slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It sounds as though this Uhtred is an impressive man."

"Oh, he is," Stephanie said with a faint blush. "He's brave, clever, and… well, let's just say he's very charismatic."

Richard raised a brow, catching the way her cheeks darkened. "Charismatic, is he?"

She laughed nervously, waving her hand.

"But here's the thing," Stephanie said, her hands gesturing animatedly. "He doesn't go to Alfred out of loyalty or anything like that. He just wants his birthright back—Babbenburgh Castle, his family's land. It's his ultimate goal. So he ends up fighting for Alfred because it's the best way to get what he wants. And he wins so much for Alfred—battle after battle—but Alfred always stabs him in the back. Always."

Richard, who had been listening intently, sat straighter at the mention of the castle. "Babbenburgh?" he asked, a faint crease forming between his brows. "Do you mean Bamburgh Castle? In Northumberland?"

Stephanie blinked, startled by his immediate recognition. "Uh, yeah, that's it! You've heard of it?"

Richard's lips curved into a slight smile, though his tone was serious. "Of course. Bamburgh Castle is one of the most significant fortresses in England's history. It was the seat of the kings of Northumbria, a beacon of power and defense in the north during the Anglo-Saxon period. I recall it was said to be nearly impenetrable, perched on its rocky outcrop above the sea."

Stephanie tilted her head, watching him with curiosity. "So, what do you know about it? Did it ever actually belong to someone like Uhtred?"

Richard's smile widened slightly. "Not in the way you describe. The Saxons controlled it for centuries, and later it fell under Norman rule. By now, its strategic importance has faded, but its legacy as a symbol of strength remains. It's hardly surprising a story would weave such a castle into its narrative—it holds a certain mystique."

Stephanie laughed softly, her cheeks flushing as she admitted, "In the show, Babbenburgh is practically its own character. Uhtred's whole identity is tied to it. And it's gorgeous on screen—looming, powerful, like it's daring anyone to try and take it."

Richard nodded thoughtfully, his gaze distant for a moment as if picturing it. "I've never visited it myself, but I've heard tales of its grandeur. The thought of a man dedicating his life to reclaiming such a place… I can understand the appeal."

Stephanie sat up slightly, her cheeks already flushed before she even began to speak. "Okay, you've got to hear about Spartacus. I love that show, too!" she gushed, the enthusiasm evident despite the deep red spreading across her face.

Richard's brows rose in curiosity. "Spartacus? As in, the Thracian gladiator who led a slave rebellion against Rome?"

"Yes! Exactly," Stephanie said, her hands gesturing animatedly. "The show is all about him, the gladiators, and the rebellion. But it's way more brutal than anything you'd expect. Like, so much blood. I'm talking everywhere—and it doesn't hold back on showing how horrible life was back then."

Richard tilted his head, his expression cautious. "I can only imagine what such a show might depict, considering the time period."

"Oh, you'd be horrified," Stephanie admitted with a nervous laugh. "But it's so compelling. You start out hating the owner of the ludus—the gladiator training school—and his wife. They're the worst. Greedy, cruel, manipulative… and yet, somehow, the show makes you feel for them too. Like, you don't want to, but you do."

Richard frowned slightly, processing her words. "Feel for them? Even though they're villains?"

"That's the thing!" Stephanie exclaimed. "The show makes it clear that they're horrendous by today's standards, but for their time, they weren't as cruel as they could have been. They're doing awful things, but you kind of understand why they're doing them. They're just surviving in this brutal, cutthroat world."

She paused, her blush deepening as she added quickly, "But, um… yeah, it's really graphic. The fights, the blood, the… other stuff. It's, uh, definitely not something I'd recommend for someone like Georgiana to watch."

Richard's mind reeled at the implications of her words, his gaze narrowing slightly as he considered the level of violence and… other content she was skirting around. "I can only imagine what a show about gladiators might depict," he said, his tone carefully neutral.

Stephanie laughed nervously, her cheeks growing impossibly red. "Yeah, let's just say it's not exactly… subtle. But that's what makes it so gripping. You see the brutality of the time, but also the humanity. The gladiators form these deep bonds, and you're rooting for them even when they're fighting for their lives. And Spartacus—he's just…"

Her voice trailed off, and Richard raised an eyebrow. "Just?"

Her blush deepened further, and she looked away, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "He's, um, very… charismatic," she mumbled, barely audible.

Richard fought the urge to smirk, already piecing together what she wasn't saying. "Charismatic, is he?" he asked, his tone teasing. "Charismatic like Uhtred? There seems to be a theme in the shows you like."

Stephanie groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Don't start! The story is amazing, the battles are epic, and the characters are so well-written!"

"I'm sure they are," Richard said, though his lips twitched with amusement. He couldn't help but picture what sort of scenes she might have been blushing over—scenes far removed from the polite and restrained society they lived in.

"And, look," Stephanie continued, dropping her hands and meeting his gaze earnestly. "I know it's gruesome and intense, but it's also fascinating. It shows how survival shaped people in those times, how desperation and loyalty pushed them to do things they'd never imagine. It's heartbreaking and inspiring all at once."

Richard nodded, her passion for the story clear despite her embarrassment. "It sounds as though it captures the complexity of that era well," he said thoughtfully. "Though I imagine it's not the sort of thing I'd be accustomed to seeing."

Stephanie laughed, the sound light and self-deprecating. "Yeah, probably not. Let's just say it's… a bit of an acquired taste."

Time slipped away as Stephanie, despite her headache, animatedly discussed the battles and strategies of Uhtred and Spartacus. Her descriptions were vivid, her passion for the intricacies of war strategy clear as she spoke of shield walls, surprise ambushes, and betrayals. Richard found himself leaning forward, utterly engrossed. He offered his own observations, comparing them to the tactics he'd seen in the field, and they fell into an easy rhythm—trading ideas, questioning each other, and laughing at her sharp insights. Her knowledge astounded him; she understood strategy in a way that few outside the military ever did, and her enthusiasm only made it more enjoyable.

Finally, as her voice softened and her responses grew slower, Stephanie drifted off to sleep mid-thought, her breathing evening out. Richard sat back, watching her for a long moment, a smile tugging at his lips. A woman who not only tolerates talk of war but actively enjoys it? And knows enough to challenge me on it? The thought warmed him deeply. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, marveling at the unexpected gift of finding someone who shared such a unique connection with him.

As Richard watched Stephanie sleep, her face softened in the flickering light, his mind churned with conflicting thoughts. Their conversation replayed in his head—her eyes lighting up as she recounted Uhtred's cunning strategies, her cheeks flushing as she described Spartacus's ferocity on the battlefield. The way she spoke about those men, clearly enthralled by their heroics and leadership, stuck with him.

His lips curved in a faint, rueful smile. Is that her thing? He wondered. The blush in her cheeks when she mentioned Uhtred's exploits, the way her voice dipped slightly when she described Spartacus—it was enough to stir a man's pride or envy. And here he was, a soldier, a real man who had led troops, fought battles, and won victories.

She had kissed him before, clung to him, her desire for him unmistakable in those moments. He knew she wanted him, that she found him attractive—there was no doubt about that. But still… it stung a little to hear her gush so openly about fictional heroes while he had yet to hear her speak of him with the same admiration.

Does she even see me that way? The thought tugged at his pride. He had fought in wars, faced enemies on the battlefield, and endured more than he cared to remember. Did she even realize what he'd done? What he was capable of? And yet, he had never told her—never shared those parts of himself.

He realized he rarely wore his uniform around her. She rarely saw him as the colonel he was. To her, he was Richard—soft-spoken, steady, protective.

Perhaps it was for the best. War was not the romanticized spectacle she described in her stories. It was brutal, unforgiving, and far from glorious. Would she recoil if she knew the truth? Or—he swallowed hard—would she find it… alluring? The idea made his chest tighten, an unfamiliar mix of curiosity and trepidation.

She knew of war from stories and history, but he had lived it. He had killed men, given orders that cost lives. Could he bear to share that truth with her?

And yet… perhaps she already admired him more than he realized. Her questions about battles, her fascination with strategy, the way she leaned into him for every answer—it wasn't fiction she was drawn to then. It was him.

He shook his head slightly, a low chuckle escaping under his breath. I'm a man, after all, he thought wryly. Of course, I want her to gush over me. But beneath the humor was a deeper yearning. He didn't just want her desire—he wanted her admiration, her respect, her awe.

As he looked down at her sleeping form, her breathing steady and her features calm, he exhaled softly. She didn't need to know every gruesome detail of his past, but perhaps one day, he could share just enough to bridge the gap between the man he was and the hero she seemed to crave.

Thanks for the note on smallpox I will change that when I go back to edit :)