It had been four days since Freya's company had come across the world-traveling pararescueman.
Four days of tending to his wounds.
Four days of watching him slowly gather strength.
Four days of being stuck in one place when she should have been riding for Edoras.
Freya paced near the edge of camp, her arms crossed, her mind restless. They needed to be on the move. Her patrol was already overdue, and every day spent here left another stretch of land unguarded. Edoras itself was well-defended, but Rohan's strength was in its riders, and she had sixty of them sitting idle with her.
Yet she knew they could not leave.
Fram had advised against traveling for several more days—Blake was still recovering, and moving him too soon could undo everything.
It was frustrating.
Blake, however, had handled the waiting in an entirely different way. He had spoken with anyone who lingered near, swapping stories—often humorous, sometimes absurd—about his world. His strange manner of speech, his odd turns of phrase, and the wild, impossible things he described had quickly earned him the curiosity of her men. But despite all the talking, he never spoke too deeply of himself.
Freya had noticed.
What she hadn't noticed—until now—was that Blake had clearly gone stir-crazy.
Somehow, he had acquired a walking stick. The branch had been stripped, smoothed, and shaped at one end, clearly the work of his own blade. That meant one of her men had been foolish enough to bring him a proper-sized branch, and Blake had spent who-knows-how-long fashioning it into something usable—all in secret, no doubt, because he knew damn well that she and Fram would have stopped him.
She watched from a distance as he snickered to himself, looking entirely too pleased with his little act of rebellion.
He may be a skilled healer, she thought dryly, but he is a terrible patient.
Blake caught her pacing at the edge of camp and raised an eyebrow. "What has you so irritated?"
Freya exhaled sharply. "I chafe being away from Edoras for so long," she admitted, not stopping her restless movement. "It is defended, but we are often needed on patrol. And I have sixty riders here, away from their duties."
Blake frowned. "Well… what the hell are we waiting on?"
Freya turned sharply. "Look at you. You can barely stand. Four days ago, you were a step away from Mandos' door. I will not even co—"
She didn't finish.
Because Blake, with a look of pure defiance, threw the blanket off himself and, with great effort, staggered to his feet.
Pain flashed across his face, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as he planted his weight on his makeshift walking stick. He wobbled once—his injured leg still weak beneath him—but he stayed up.
Freya rushed forward, her hands catching his arm as she scowled fiercely.
"You absolute fool of a man!" she snapped. "What are you thinking? We just patched you together! What in the name of the Valar passes through that skull of yours!?"
Blake was smirking.
Through the pain. Through the struggle. He was smirking.
"I'm a medic, Freya," he said, voice slightly strained but full of amusement. "I can gauge my own injuries."
Freya narrowed her eyes, not amused in the slightest.
Blake, undeterred, glanced toward the horses, then back to her. "…If we go at, say, a more sedate pace, I should be okay."
He hesitated.
"I think."
Freya followed his gaze to the horses. She saw the flicker of uncertainty in his expression.
"…You've never ridden a horse before, have you?"
Blake was silent for a moment. Then, with a completely straight face:
"…Nope."
Freya groaned, rubbing her temples.
This is going to be a long ride.
Blake had been shot at, blown up, dropped from the sky, and pulled more than one soldier out of a hellfire of bullets. But as he stood before the massive warhorse, looking up at the sheer size of it, he had one undeniable thought:
I may have made a mistake.
The horse—Freya's, judging by the way it stood tall and proud—eyed him with the same level of skepticism that Freya herself did. It was an imposing creature, its deep chestnut coat gleaming under the morning sun, powerful muscles shifting beneath its skin as it flicked an ear in his direction.
Freya, who had not stopped looking entirely too entertained, gestured to the saddle. "Go on, then," she said. "Get on."
Blake sighed, tightening his grip on his walking stick before muttering under his breath, "Alright, big guy, let's do this."
He braced himself, adjusting his stance, testing his injured leg. His ribs screamed as he reached for the saddle, his body very much reminding him that this was a terrible idea. But there were sixty Rohirrim watching, and he would be damned if he let himself look weak.
He placed his foot in the stirrup.
Pushed up.
Pain slammed into his side, like a white-hot spike driving straight through his ribs. His leg shook beneath him, and for a split second, he thought he was going to make it—
Then his strength gave out.
Blake lost his balance. His fingers barely caught the saddle before his foot slipped, and with a very unceremonious thump, he landed back on the ground, gripping his side as pain flared through him.
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Éothain was the first to break, snorting before outright chuckling, which quickly turned into loud, roaring laughter. Other riders followed suit, amused murmurs and quiet chuckles rippling through the group.
"Ah yes," Éothain said, gasping between laughs. "A warrior from a faraway land, capable of fighting with fire weapons—but bested by a horse!"
Blake groaned. "You guys ride these things for fun, don't you?"
Freya, who had crossed her arms over her chest, was smiling—but not unkindly. "Since childhood."
Blake exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. That tracks."
To Blake's credit, he did not quit.
He tried again.
And again.
And again.
Each attempt was met with some level of struggle—his ribs, his leg, his complete lack of knowledge on how to mount properly—but damn it, he wasn't giving up.
Fram, who had been silent through most of it, finally stepped forward with an exasperated sigh. "Enough, lad," he said, shaking his head. "Your body's been through too much. Let Freya take you up."
Blake scowled, rolling his shoulders. "I got this."
Freya raised a brow. "Do you?"
Blake gritted his teeth. "I can do it."
Her expression softened slightly—not with mockery, but something else. Something that told him she understood his pride.
"…I believe you," she said. "But you're hurt, and I will not see you break yourself further."
For a moment, he almost argued.
Then he exhaled sharply, swallowing the sting of frustration.
"…Fine."
Freya swung up onto her horse with effortless grace, then turned, reaching her arm down toward him.
Blake hesitated for a fraction of a second before grasping her forearm. Her grip was strong, easily pulling him up behind her as he settled—uncomfortably—into the saddle.
"Hold tight," she warned.
Blake scoffed. "I'll be fine—"
She clicked her tongue, and the horse surged forward.
Blake immediately grabbed onto her waist.
Holy shit.
The power of the animal beneath them, the speed, the sheer momentum of it—it wasn't like sitting in a vehicle, or even being in freefall. It was alive, a force of nature, pure strength and control wrapped in muscle and bone.
He had been in high-speed convoys. He had flown at supersonic speeds. But this?
This was something else entirely.
Freya definitely noticed his grip tighten, because he heard the amusement in her voice when she said, "Welcome to Rohan, Blake Takahashi."
The ride was long and grueling.
Hours passed beneath them, the rolling plains stretching endlessly in every direction. Though they kept the column at a slow, measured pace, the journey was relentless, the constant motion wearing on even the strongest riders.
For Blake, it was agony.
The rhythmic sway of the horse jostled every broken rib, sent sharp spikes of pain through his leg, and pulled at the deep bruises littering his body. His head throbbed, his breath shallow, but he refused to say a word.
By the time they finally stopped for the evening near a small copse of trees, the sky had bled into deep purples and oranges.
Blake was barely conscious.
Freya felt him swaying behind her, his weight shifting too much in the saddle. She twisted slightly, her sharp eyes assessing him in an instant. His grip was weaker, his posture slipping, his head dipping forward.
She motioned toward Fram, who had been watching as well.
The old healer sighed, shaking his head. "Stubborn fool," he muttered, already moving to intercept.
With careful precision, they pulled Blake down from the horse—or rather, caught him before he could collapse outright. His knees buckled, and if Freya and Fram hadn't taken his weight, he would have gone down hard.
Together, they dragged him a few steps away from the animals and lowered him gently onto a bedroll. His face was ashen, his breathing ragged, but he was still fighting, still aware enough to push through the pain.
Blake's hand twitched toward the pack that had been stowed on another horse. "My medical kit," he muttered. "It's… it's the one with the red cross on it. Bring it."
Freya hesitated only a moment before motioning to one of her men. He returned swiftly, placing the strange pack beside Blake.
"You are a stubborn fool, Blake Takahashi," she said, voice tight with frustration as she knelt beside him.
Blake exhaled sharply, not bothering to look up. "Blake… or Takahashi. Not both. It gets tiring."
But there was no humor in his voice. No smirk. No teasing remark. Just pain.
That unsettled her more than anything else.
She didn't argue as he took the pack, his fingers shaky but sure as he rummaged through it.
Then, to her growing alarm, he pulled out a small glass vial and a thin, sharp needle.
Freya's stomach tightened. "What in the name of the Valar are you doing now?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.
Blake ignored her, already prepping the syringe of Toradol. He was quick, his movements practiced despite his exhaustion.
Freya tried to stop him, reaching instinctively for his wrist.
"Stop," he rasped, shaking her off. "It's for pain."
Before she could demand more answers, before she could understand what in the gods' names he was injecting into his own body, Blake jabbed the needle into his thigh and pressed the plunger.
Freya stilled, staring at him in shock.
For the first time since she had met him, she felt something close to fear.
Not of Blake himself.
But of what kind of world forged men like him.
Freya lunged forward, grabbing Blake's wrist the moment he pulled the needle away.
"What in the name of the Valar was that?" she demanded, her voice sharp, urgent.
Blake barely reacted. His fingers were still curled around the spent syringe, but his grip was weakening. He blinked sluggishly, his breath uneven, his body slumping slightly where he sat.
Freya's grip tightened. "Blake."
Nothing.
His head tilted slightly, his dark eyes flickering toward her, but he wasn't fully seeing her anymore.
Her stomach knotted.
Fram was already moving, kneeling at Blake's side, his hands pressing against his chest and neck, feeling for his pulse, checking his breathing.
"Blake," Freya tried again, her voice softer now, edging into something dangerously close to fear.
Blake's lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came.
Instead, his eyes fluttered shut.
His entire body went slack.
The panic rose so fast in Freya's chest that she barely noticed herself shaking him.
"Blake—!"
"He's still breathing," Fram said quickly, calm but focused, his hands checking over the unconscious warrior with practiced ease. "Pulse is steady. His body is just at its limit."
Freya exhaled sharply, trying to force herself to calm down—but her hands had curled into tight fists against her legs, her heartbeat still hammering from the rush of alarm.
She turned to Fram. "What in the gods' names did he just do to himself?"
Fram shook his head, genuinely baffled. "Some kind of medicine, clearly… but never have I seen it taken in such a way." He gestured to the discarded syringe. "A vial of liquid, a thin needle—it's nothing I've ever heard of. Not from our healers, not from the Elves, not even from the old tales of Númenor."
Freya frowned deeply, staring at Blake's unconscious form. He was still too pale, his breathing still too shallow.
She had seen warriors push themselves beyond their limits before. Had seen them drink tonics and chew bitter herbs to keep going. Had seen them press on even when their bodies screamed for rest.
But this was different.
This wasn't a warrior ignoring pain.
This was a man forcing himself past his breaking point.
Freya's fingers twitched slightly at her sides before she finally, reluctantly, sat back. Her sharp eyes remained fixed on Blake, as if watching for any further signs of danger.
For the first time, she realized just how little she understood about him.
And for the first time, it truly unsettled her.
The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows over the small grove where they had set camp. Beyond the ring of trees, the wind stirred the plains, its lonely song weaving through the tall grass, restless and ceaseless.
Freya sat rigid near the fire, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her gaze locked on the unmoving form of Blake Takahashi.
He hadn't stirred since he'd collapsed.
His breathing was slow but steady. His chest rose and fell in measured rhythm, but his skin was still too pale, his body too still.
It left a feeling in her stomach that she did not like.
She had seen men wounded, seen them unconscious, seen them teeter on the edge of life and death. But this… this was different.
This was not a man simply falling to his wounds.
This was a man forcing himself past all reason.
She exhaled sharply through her nose.
Fram sat across from her, tending the fire with slow, measured movements. The old healer was silent for a long while before he finally spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.
"I know that look, Shieldmaiden."
Freya's eyes flicked toward him. "Do you?"
He nodded. "It is the look of a warrior faced with something they cannot explain."
Freya glanced away, fingers curling against her arms. "…There is much I cannot explain about him."
Fram hummed, poking at the fire again. "You have seen many men fight. Seen many fall. What makes this different?"
Freya's jaw tightened.
She wanted to say everything.
The way he spoke of war, yet carried no pride in it.
The way he laughed so easily, yet held a weight in his eyes.
The way he gave his life for a stranger, without hesitation.
And now, this.
This reckless disregard for his own body.
"He did not take the medicine as we do," she said instead, voice quiet but sharp.
Fram nodded slowly. "No, he did not." He glanced at Blake's pack, where the strange glass vial and spent needle still lay in the dirt. "This is no herb, no tonic, no salve I have ever seen. Not even from the Elves."
Freya followed his gaze. "And you do not know how it works?"
Fram exhaled through his nose. "No."
That unsettled her even more.
Fram had been a healer for decades. If he did not know, then who in this world would?
Footsteps approached from the darkness, and Freya turned to see Éothain stepping into the firelight, his expression set with concern and something uncertain.
"How is he?" Éothain asked, his sharp eyes flicking toward Blake's still form.
Freya inhaled slowly, steadying herself. "Unconscious, but alive."
Éothain frowned, glancing at Fram for confirmation. The older healer nodded.
The young rider shifted, gaze lingering on Blake before turning back to Freya. "…And what of that?" He gestured toward the strange glass vial and needle.
Freya's fingers twitched slightly at her sides.
Fram shook his head. "I have never seen its like."
Éothain's frown deepened. He crossed his arms, glancing between them. "You think it is… sorcery?"
Freya let out a slow breath. "No," she said firmly. "But I do not know what it is."
Éothain studied her, then looked back at Blake. His lips pressed into a thin line. "It is unsettling," he admitted. "A warrior should not be able to push past his limits so easily."
Freya's eyes darkened. "That is what troubles me."
Éothain hesitated, then shook his head. "I do not like it."
Freya turned to him, her sharp gaze locking onto his. "Do you think him a threat?"
Éothain's mouth opened slightly, but no words came at first. He looked at Blake again, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.
"…No," he admitted at last. "Not a threat. But a mystery. And mysteries can be dangerous."
Freya hated that she agreed.
Because right now, as she stared at the unconscious warrior before her, she realized she did not just want answers.
She needed them.
And when Blake Takahashi woke, he was going to give them to her.
The world drifted back in pieces.
Blake was aware of the aching throb in his ribs first, a dull but insistent pressure spreading through his chest. His leg felt stiff, his body sore in ways he had long since learned to ignore. The smell of woodsmoke clung to the air, blending with the crisp scent of damp grass and earth.
Then, voices. Low. Close. Waiting.
His instincts stirred before his mind did. Even as consciousness fought to reclaim him, his senses sharpened. He didn't move—not yet. He kept his breathing steady, his posture loose, listening.
He wasn't alone.
Then, a voice—firm, sharp, and distinctly unimpressed.
"You are awake. Do not bother pretending otherwise."
Blake sighed through his nose. Freya.
He cracked one eye open. The early morning light filtered through the sparse tree canopy, casting soft golden hues across the camp. The fire had burned low, leaving only glowing embers, but Freya sat alert and unmoving, her arms crossed as she stared at him with thinly veiled frustration.
She had been waiting for this.
Blake shifted slightly, testing his body, but found himself far too stiff to move much without aggravating his ribs. "Morning," he muttered, his voice rough from sleep.
Freya did not return the pleasantry.
Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her sharp blue eyes narrowing. "What in all the gods' names possessed you to do that to yourself?"
Blake blinked once. No preamble. No lead-in. Just straight to the point.
Yeah. That tracked.
He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly to look at her. "You're going to have to be more specific."
Her jaw clenched. "Do not test me, Blake."
Okay, she was actually pissed.
He sighed and shifted, trying to sit up. Immediate regret. A sharp flare of pain shot through his ribs, making his vision darken for half a second.
Freya noticed instantly.
She moved before he could protest, placing one firm hand on his chest, stopping him from rising further.
"Do not be foolish," she warned, her voice cool but firm.
Blake stilled. He could have fought her grip—if he wasn't feeling like absolute shit.
So, instead, he did the next best thing. Smirked.
"What, no 'stubborn fool' this time?"
Her eyes flashed. "You have not earned it yet."
Blake huffed a quiet laugh, but the sharp ache in his ribs immediately cut it short. His smirk faded slightly as he let his head rest back down.
Freya studied him for a moment longer before slowly removing her hand. "Now," she continued, resuming her previously abandoned interrogation. "Explain."
Blake let out a slow breath, already knowing this wasn't a fight he was going to win.
"I pushed through," he said simply. "Because that's what I do."
Freya's frown deepened. "That is not an answer."
Blake stared up at the sky for a moment, considering his words before exhaling through his nose. "I did it for your mission," he said finally. "You needed to reach Edoras. I wasn't going to be the reason you didn't."
Freya blinked, her frustration shifting slightly.
Blake turned his head toward her, his dark eyes unreadable but intensely steady. "It's my job to go beyond my limits. To push past them. That's what I do. That's what I've always done."
Freya stared at him, something in her expression tightly wound, as if she didn't like that answer at all.
"That is madness," she murmured.
Blake huffed softly. "No. That's Pararescue."
Freya's lips parted slightly, her brow furrowing. There it was again—that word.
"…Explain it to me."
Blake shifted slightly, adjusting his arm beneath his head. "We're special operations. Elite combat medics. We go wherever we're needed, no matter how bad it is. When men are pinned down and dying, when there's no one else who can reach them—we go."
He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
"Our motto is So Others May Live. We live by that. We train for it. We fight for it. And when the mission demands it, we die for it."
Freya felt something cold settle in her stomach.
Blake exhaled slowly. "Pushing beyond limits is just part of it. We have to. If we don't, people die."
Freya was silent, staring at him, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest.
Then, finally—
"…And the medicine?"
Blake blinked once, then shifted, rolling his shoulders slightly. "Painkillers. That one was called Toradol—stronger than what most people use, but not an opiate."
Freya tilted her head slightly. "Opiate?"
Blake hesitated, then exhaled. "Stronger medicine. Used for severe pain. But it makes you sluggish, dulls your senses. It's effective—but dangerous, if you take too much. That's why I don't use it unless I have to."
Freya studied him for a moment, then glanced toward his pack where the glass vial and needle still lay.
"It is strange," she murmured. "To take medicine that way."
Blake shrugged slightly. "It works fast. And in my job, seconds matter."
Freya inhaled slowly, turning her gaze back to him. "And you are certain it will not harm you?"
Blake smirked slightly. "Not unless I take too much of it."
She did not look convinced.
"…You are reckless," she said finally.
Blake grinned, despite his injuries. "Yeah. But I'm still alive."
She sighed sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Barely."
Blake chuckled softly, shifting to get more comfortable. "That's all that matters."
Freya frowned deeply, her thoughts still churning, but she did not press further. Not yet.
Instead, she leaned back slightly, studying him for a long moment before finally muttering—
"You are a difficult man, Blake Takahashi."
Blake smirked, eyes closing briefly. "And you are a stubborn woman, Freya of Rohan."
Freya exhaled, shaking her head. "Rest. I will not have you falling unconscious again."
Blake only gave a small, tired chuckle in response.
Freya watched him for a long time, her sharp blue eyes filled with thoughts she did not yet voice.
Because even after everything he had told her—even after all his answers…
She still had so many questions.
Blake woke slowly.
His body still ached, but the razor-sharp pain had dulled to something more manageable. A deep, throbbing soreness lingered in his ribs, his leg, and his back, but it was nothing he hadn't pushed through before.
With a quiet grunt, he shifted, reaching instinctively for his med kit where it had been set beside him.
He moved carefully, no sudden jerks, and no pushing past his limits this time.
Lesson learned.
His fingers found the discarded syringe first, and with a sigh, he tucked it back into the kit before pulling out a bottle of lighter painkillers. Dry-swallowing two of them, he leaned his head back against his bedroll, exhaling slowly as the stiffness in his body protested every movement.
A rough chuckle sounded nearby.
"Not going to knock yourself into the land of dreams again, are ya, lad?"
Blake cracked open an eye to see Fram sitting across from him, stirring the remains of the fire with a stick. The old healer's sharp gaze wasn't unkind, but it held a weight of quiet amusement.
Blake shook his head faintly. "Negative," he muttered. "I hate taking that shit. Generally, we don't wanna use it unless we have to, and I knew I'd reached the point where I really needed it."
Fram hummed thoughtfully, watching him.
"I've been shot before," Blake continued, his voice quieter now. "It don't feel good. Hell, I've been stabbed a few times too. But riding all day with broken ribs, a messed-up back, and a fractured leg?" He let out a slow, humorless chuckle. "Not something I'd call a fun day."
Fram snorted. "Aye, I suspect it wouldn't be. And it was foolish to try." His tone wasn't harsh, but firm. "Honestly, you shouldn't be moving much at all. But since you seem determined, we'll keep a *slower pace today—if you can manage it?"
Blake nodded. "I can manage it."
Around them, a few Rohirrim riders cast glances his way, their expressions unreadable.
It hadn't escaped them what he had done yesterday.
The sheer pain he had endured. The way he had forced himself forward, refusing to yield.
They wouldn't have called it wise, but they respected it.
Because not many men could have done the same.
Blake ran a hand through his hair, exhaling tiredly. "I'll be smarter about it," he muttered. "I'll manage my pain better than I did yesterday." He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe I was being foolish."
Fram raised an eyebrow.
Blake glanced up at him, sighing. "Look… I'm in a strange place here, Fram. Maybe…" He hesitated, then exhaled again. "Maybe it's my way of trying not to appear vulnerable."
The admission came grudgingly, but honestly.
Blake let out a half-laugh, mostly at himself. "I say that… and then go and knock myself out in front of all of you." He shook his head again, disgusted at his own stupidity.
Fram chuckled softly, but there was a glint of understanding in his eyes. "Aye, lad. You did."
Blake rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it.
Slowly—accepting Fram's aid this time—he pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his makeshift walking stick. He adjusted his weight carefully, testing his leg, his ribs, his everything before finally nodding to himself.
Time to move.
Blake moved slowly through the morning bustle of camp, making his way toward where Freya stood near her horse, adjusting her saddlebags.
He owed her an apology.
Not for pushing himself too hard. That was just who he was.
But for making her worry.
Freya hadn't expected him to approach. When she turned and saw him leaning heavily on his walking stick, her sharp blue eyes widened slightly.
"…Ma'am," Blake said quietly, keeping his voice low.
Freya turned fully toward him, a flicker of surprise crossing her face at his formal tone.
He hesitated, shifting slightly, choosing his words carefully.
"I… I owe you an apology," he said at last. His voice was quieter, more subdued. "I alarmed you last night. Can't say it won't happen again—my ways are different than yours." His lips pressed into a tight line before he sighed. "But for causing you worry… I'm sorry."
Freya blinked, clearly not expecting that.
Blake didn't stop there.
"I've also been acting stupidly," he admitted, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I'll be smarter from here on out. I know better." He shook his head at himself, frustrated. "I'm in a strange land, Ma'am. I'm a mess. And I don't know what to do."
For the first time, he let that admission hang in the air.
Then, quieter—more earnestly—he repeated:
"…So I'm sorry. For causing you undue stress."
He bowed his head slightly, a genuine sign of respect.
Freya was taken aback.
She had expected defiance, maybe stubborn resistance, even a smirk and a joke.
But not this.
Not the raw honesty of a man completely out of his element, trying to find some way to steady himself.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then—a small smile. Just the barest hint of one.
"…Blake," she said quietly.
His eyes flicked up to her, mildly surprised.
She studied him for another beat before tilting her head slightly, the edges of her expression softening.
"You can call me Freya."
Blake hesitated for just a second, as if turning the name over in his mind.
Then, finally—he exhaled slowly, offering a tired, but genuine smile.
"…Alright, Freya."
For the first time since they had met—since she had found him half-dead on Rohan's soil—there was a moment of real understanding between them.
The foundation of something unspoken.
Something solid.
Something earned.
The morning mist still clung to the grass when they set out, the air crisp and sharp, the wind rolling lazily over the plains. The column of riders moved at a slower, steadier pace, their horses trotting in smooth rhythm.
Blake rode behind Freya once again, this time not fighting it.
His body was still wrecked, and after the absolute disaster of trying to mount a horse the day before, he had grudgingly accepted that he needed to ride with her for now.
Freya, to her credit, hadn't mocked him for it.
Much.
They had been riding for nearly an hour before Blake finally spoke.
"So," he said, adjusting his grip slightly around her waist, "what's the name of this place?"
Freya raised an eyebrow. "You mean the land?"
"Yeah," Blake said, his voice thoughtful but measured. "What's the country called? The world?"
Freya frowned slightly, tilting her head as if considering how to even answer that.
"You truly do not know?"
Blake huffed a quiet laugh. "Freya, I fell out of the sky. Pretty sure that's a sign I don't know where I am."
"…Fair enough," she muttered, before exhaling. "You ride through the land of Rohan, home of the Rohirrim. To the west, the White Mountains guard our borders. To the east, the Great River Anduin marks the edge of Gondor, our ally."
Blake processed that.
Rohan. Rohirrim. Gondor.
"Alright," he said slowly. "And beyond that?"
Freya's gaze turned forward, scanning the endless horizon. "Beyond Gondor, the lands grow darker. The Southlands are in turmoil, and to the east…" She hesitated, her voice growing colder. "The Black Land remains."
Blake noted the shift in her tone.
"…The Black Land?" he repeated.
Freya's jaw tightened. "Mordor," she said at last, as if the name itself left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Blake let that sink in.
He didn't press further—not yet.
Instead, he shifted topics slightly, testing where her knowledge ended.
"And you?" he asked. "Who do you serve?"
Freya lifted her chin slightly, her pride unmistakable.
"I serve King Théoden, son of Thengel, rightful ruler of Rohan," she said firmly. "Our loyalty is to the House of Eorl."
Blake filed that information away.
"So," he continued, "this Théoden guy—he's a good king?"
Freya hesitated, and for the first time, her confidence wavered.
"…He was," she admitted carefully.
Blake caught that immediately.
Something wasn't right.
Blake waited a beat before pressing further.
"What happened?"
Freya exhaled, her fingers tightening around the reins.
"Our king is… not as he once was," she said carefully. "He is aged, and his will has grown weaker."
Blake frowned. "Weaker how?"
Freya hesitated, clearly choosing her words carefully.
"He is ill, perhaps," she admitted. "Or perhaps simply burdened. He listens more to Gríma Wormtongue than to his own riders."
Blake narrowed his eyes slightly. "Gríma Wormtongue?"
Freya's expression darkened. "His counselor. A man of clever words and quiet whispers."
Blake did not like the sound of that.
"So, this Wormtongue guy…" he asked slowly, "is he actually giving good advice? Or is he just in your king's ear, running the show?"
Freya's jaw tightened further.
"We do not know," she admitted. "But the King's Marshal, Éomer, does not trust him. Nor do many of us who ride under him."
Blake filed that away.
So the king is losing his edge. And the people closest to him are getting nervous.
That wasn't just bad leadership. That was a slow-building disaster.
Blake glanced around at the vast emptiness of the plains surrounding them. Open. Exposed. No real cover. A land designed for speed and mobility.
"What about threats?" he asked. "Bandits? Raiders?"
Freya let out a short, humorless laugh. "If only."
Blake's frown deepened.
She hesitated, then admitted, "There has been an unease in the land. Raids grow more frequent, and not just from the East. We have driven back orcs coming from the mountains. And to the west… well."
She paused, her voice turning flat.
"Isengard watches."
Blake caught that immediately.
"Isengard," he repeated. "That's… a kingdom?"
Freya shook her head. "No. A fortress. A stronghold of great power."
Blake studied her posture carefully.
"You don't like it."
Freya's jaw tightened. "I do not trust it."
Blake raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
She was silent for a long moment, before finally speaking.
"The White Wizard dwells there," she said at last. "Saruman the Wise. Long has he been a friend of Rohan, an ally to the West… but his favor has cooled."
Blake picked up on her choice of words immediately.
"…Cooled?"
Freya's grip on the reins tightened again.
"Our riders no longer receive his welcome. His gates are shut. And there are rumors…" She trailed off, gaze darkening.
Blake pressed. "What kind of rumors?"
Freya hesitated.
Then, at last—quietly, warily—
"That he breeds monsters."
Blake did not like the sound of that.
Monsters…
Blake sat with the thought long after the conversation had ended.
What kind of monsters could possibly be alive here?
Earth had monsters, but they wore human skin. He had seen them in warzones, had heard them screaming in the night, had fought them in alleyways and deserts, in villages where the blood soaked into the dirt and the innocent were caught in the fire.
He wondered if she meant those kinds of monsters.
He fell quiet.
The day passed much as the first.
His pain flared at times, but this time, he managed it. He took his pills when needed, drank water whenever he could, and didn't push himself nearly as hard as before.
By nightfall, they made camp once more.
The vast sea of grass stretched endlessly around them, the stars beginning to scatter across the sky like silver dust. They were still a few days out from Edoras, but the air had grown cooler, the wind sharper, the feeling of travel less grueling than before.
Blake sat down carefully, easing himself onto the ground, exhaling as he stretched out his injured leg. His body still ached like hell, but it was tolerable now.
Nearby, Fram was grumbling as he struck tinder and flint, trying to light the campfire. Freya sat beside him, and Éothain lingered nearby, watching—either to keep an eye on Blake or to act as his caretaker. Blake wasn't sure which.
Fram struck the flint again. Sparks flew, but the wood remained stubbornly cold.
Freya smirked. "Seems your skill with fire is not what it used to be, old friend."
Fram shot her a mildly irritated look as he tried again.
Before she could pull out her own gear, Blake shifted slightly and reached into his pack.
"Hang on," he muttered.
He pulled out a Zippo lighter, flipping the metal lid open with a sharp click.
The moment he struck the wheel, a small, steady flame bloomed to life.
Just like that.
The campfire caught instantly as he tilted the lighter toward the dried wood.
And then—
"What sorcery is that?!"
Éothain jumped back like he'd just seen Blake summon a dragon. His hand went straight to his sword, his eyes wide with alarm.
Blake raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
"…Not sorcery," he said dryly. "Just a piece of home."
Freya, in contrast, merely tilted her head, watching the flickering flame with interest, but without fear.
Blake turned the lighter over in his palm, running his thumb briefly across the engraving on its side.
The Marine Corps emblem.
It was old—worn down from years of use, scratched along the edges, but still sturdy. He had gotten it when he was seventeen, back when he had first enlisted—before he had ever dreamed of becoming a PJ, before he had seen war, before he had fallen into this strange world.
A faint, wry smile touched his lips before he tossed the lighter to Éothain.
The Rohirrim fumbled it horribly, nearly dropping it into the dirt as his jittery fingers snatched at the metal.
Blake chuckled.
"You flip the top," he said, motioning toward it. "And then you strike that little dial there with your thumb."
Éothain hesitated, still eyeing it like a cursed object, but finally, carefully, he did as instructed.
The flint struck, and—
Whoosh.
The flame bloomed again.
Éothain made a soft, startled sound, staring at it like he expected it to explode at any moment.
Blake smirked. "It'll stay lit till you blow it out, or it runs out of fuel. Comes in handy."
Freya leaned in slightly, studying the metal casing. "No flint. No steel. And yet it lights… every time?"
Blake nodded. "Yep."
Her expression shifted slightly, something like genuine admiration flickering behind her sharp blue eyes.
"Your people must be craftsmen of great skill," she murmured.
Blake hesitated, then exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "We're good at making a lot of things."
Freya hummed thoughtfully.
Éothain, meanwhile, was still staring at the lighter with a deep frown, his free hand hovering uncertainly over the flame.
Then, with suspicious slowness, he blew on it.
The flame winked out instantly.
Éothain froze.
"…It is gone," he said warily.
Blake tried—really tried—not to laugh.
"That's kinda how fire works, bud."
Éothain scowled and immediately tossed the lighter back at him. Blake caught it easily, clicking it shut with a metallic snick before tucking it back into his pocket.
Éothain crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed.
"I do not trust it."
Blake smirked. "You don't trust me, either."
Éothain scowled even more. "No. I do not."
Blake just chuckled, leaning back slightly as he rested his head against the saddle behind him.
"Fair enough."
The fire crackled steadily as the group settled in for the night. The warmth of the flames pushed back the cold, casting flickering gold light across the gathered warriors. Blake leaned against his saddle, arms folded over his chest, his body still aching but finally manageable.
Across from him, Éothain sat rigid, his sharp eyes flicking between Blake's jacket, his gear, and the Zippo lighter now tucked safely back into his pocket.
Blake saw the look. Knew that expression.
The Rohirrim warrior wasn't done asking questions.
"…What do those symbols mean?" Éothain finally asked, his tone edged with distrust.
Blake raised an eyebrow. "Which ones?"
Éothain gestured toward him, his hand moving in a small circle. "All of them. You carry many markings. The one on that small fire-box," he nodded toward the Zippo, "is not the same as the one on your arm."
Blake glanced at the Marine Corps emblem on the lighter, then down at his service patch—the Pararescue insignia.
Éothain's gaze narrowed slightly. "And then there is… that."
He motioned toward Blake's shoulder, where the American flag patch sat.
"You wear too many symbols for one man. Why?"
Blake exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly. "Because where I come from, we have more than one army."
Éothain frowned, clearly not expecting that answer.
Freya, who had been listening quietly, tilted her head slightly. "…How many?"
Blake let out a short breath, thinking. "A lot. But the main ones? Five."
Éothain's brow furrowed. "That is foolish. One kingdom, one army."
Blake smirked faintly, shaking his head. "Not how we do things."
He motioned toward his patches, explaining as simply as he could.
"In my world, my homeland is called the United States of America. A vast land with many people, all under one banner." He tapped his flag patch. "This? This represents all of it. No matter where we serve, we carry it."
Freya studied the patch, blue and red and white, stitched in tight, clean lines. "It is a strange thing," she admitted. "To have so many different forces, yet claim one banner."
Blake nodded. "Each branch serves a different purpose. The Army—the foot soldiers, the ground forces, the ones who hold the line. The Navy—warriors of the sea, ships, and fleets. The Air Force—masters of the skies." He smirked slightly. "That's where I serve now."
Éothain leaned forward slightly, studying him. "And the others?"
Blake's gaze flickered to the fire, his expression shifting subtly.
"…The Marines," he said quietly. "That's where I started."
Freya picked up on the change in his tone immediately.
"And the fifth?" she pressed.
Blake exhaled slowly, tapping his Pararescue patch.
"…Special Forces," he said simply. "The ones sent in when things are at their worst."
Éothain huffed. "You say your people divide their forces to strengthen them. It seems a way to breed weakness."
Blake gave a wry chuckle. "Not how it works. Our divisions make us stronger. Each branch has its own warriors, its own ways, its own duty. We don't fight each other—we fight for each other."
Freya considered that, silent for a moment.
Then—gently—
"You said you began as a Marine," she murmured. "Why did you change?"
Blake's jaw tensed slightly, but he didn't look away from the fire.
"…Because I fought in a battle," he said at last.
Freya watched him closely. Éothain's sharp gaze didn't waver either.
But Blake didn't elaborate.
He didn't tell them about the screaming, the fire, the blood in the sand.
He didn't tell them how many friends he buried before deciding to leave the Marines behind.
He simply looked at them, his expression calm but unreadable.
"…And after that battle," he said quietly, tapping his Pararescue patch once more, "I chose this."
So Others May Live.
Freya exhaled slowly, nodding just once.
Éothain sat back, crossing his arms, still watching him carefully.
Blake leaned back against his saddle, rolling his shoulders, before smirking faintly. "That answer your question?"
Éothain grunted. "It only gives me more."
Blake chuckled. "Yeah. Get used to that."
Éothain was silent for a long time.
The fire crackled, the embers shifting in the night breeze, but Blake could feel the Rohirrim warrior's stare on him.
Then, at last—
"…How?"
Blake raised an eyebrow. "How what?"
Éothain shook his head slightly, his brow furrowed. "How can your land have so many warriors that it needs five separate armies?"
Blake blinked.
Éothain wasn't challenging him this time.
He was genuinely confused.
Freya, too, was watching now—not with suspicion, but with curiosity.
Blake leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on his knee. "We don't just have a lot of warriors," he said simply.
"We have a lot of people."
Éothain frowned. "How many?"
Blake exhaled slowly, thinking.
"…About three hundred million."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Éothain stared at him.
Freya, too, had gone still, her sharp blue eyes watching him like she wasn't sure whether to believe him or not.
Fram, sitting nearby and tending the fire, let out a low whistle.
"…Lad," the old healer muttered. "Are you jesting?"
Blake smirked faintly. "Nope."
Éothain's frown deepened. "Three hundred… million?"
Blake nodded. "Yep."
The Rohirrim warrior shook his head, like he was trying to grasp a number that large.
"…That cannot be possible," Éothain muttered. "You would need endless cities, endless fields, endless land."
Blake chuckled. "Well, our country alone is about… let's say…" He tilted his head. "Twenty times the size of your land?"
Freya inhaled sharply.
"…Twenty times the size of Rohan?"
"Probably more," Blake admitted.
Éothain stared at him like he had grown another head.
"There are not even twenty lands as great as Rohan in all of Middle-earth," the Rohirrim warrior muttered.
Blake just shrugged. "Well, in my world, there are nearly two hundred countries."
Éothain's entire body language shifted.
Blake could see the gears turning in his head.
He wasn't suspicious anymore.
He was overwhelmed.
"…How many people exist in your world?" Freya asked, her voice quieter now.
Blake hesitated for a second before answering.
"Right now? Around eight billion."
Freya's lips parted slightly, but no words came.
Éothain didn't even bother speaking.
Because there was nothing to say.
Eight billion.
Not thousands.
Not hundreds of thousands.
Not even millions.
Billions.
Blake watched as Freya and Éothain tried to grasp a number so impossibly vast that it might as well have been the number of stars in the sky.
He let them sit with it.
For once, he didn't fill the silence.
Didn't try to explain.
Because what could he say that would make something like that make sense to people who had never even seen a city with a million people?
So he just sat there, watching as two warriors of one of the mightiest kingdoms in Middle-earth suddenly felt very, very small.
The fire crackled low, embers glowing against the dark.
Blake let them sit in silence for a moment, watching as Freya and Éothain tried to process the sheer insanity of his world's numbers.
Then—gently—he broke it down further.
"…Alright," he said, shifting slightly, "let's make this easier to understand."
Freya tilted her head, still deep in thought. Éothain, ever the skeptic, crossed his arms but remained quiet, waiting.
Blake glanced at Freya first.
"How big is Rohan?"
Freya frowned slightly, considering. "From the Gap of Rohan to the Wold in the north, it is over four hundred miles. From the river to the western borders, nearly three hundred."
Blake nodded. "So, about the size of one of our states."
Éothain scowled. "A state?"
Blake smirked. "Think of it like… a region within my country. Each state has its own cities, rulers, laws, but we all answer to one leader."
Freya's brow furrowed, but she nodded slowly, absorbing that.
Éothain, however, still looked skeptical. "And your homeland has many of these states?"
Blake exhaled.
"Fifty."
Éothain's expression froze.
Freya's lips parted slightly, but before she could speak, Blake continued.
"Now," he said, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees, "Rohan is, what—four hundred miles long?"
Freya nodded.
Blake pointed toward the eastern horizon.
"My homeland? From one end to the other, it stretches over three thousand miles."
The fire popped loudly, but neither Freya nor Éothain reacted.
They were too busy staring at him.
"…Three thousand," Freya repeated slowly.
Blake nodded. "That's just from one side to the other. North to south? Another thousand miles."
Éothain looked like he was trying to do mental calculations, his expression somewhere between disbelief and genuine horror.
"You lie," he muttered.
Blake grinned. "I really don't."
Freya, still processing, exhaled sharply. "How can a land so vast even be governed?"
Blake shrugged. "Takes a lot of effort."
Freya shook her head slightly, staring into the fire. "Rohan alone is difficult to rule, and we are but a single kingdom. To rule a land so large…"
She trailed off.
Blake smirked slightly. "Now you see why we have five different military branches."
Éothain finally found his voice again. "…And this land of yours. It is not even the largest in your world?"
Blake chuckled. "Not even close."
Éothain muttered something under his breath in Rohirric that Blake was pretty sure was either a curse or a prayer.
Blake watched them for a moment, letting it all sink in.
For the first time, Éothain wasn't looking at him with mistrust—he was looking at him like someone who had just realized the world was bigger than he ever imagined.
Freya, ever the strategist, wasn't just shocked—she was calculating.
She was thinking through what a nation of that size meant.
Blake could practically see the gears turning in her head.
Finally, after a long pause, she spoke.
"…How does it not tear itself apart?"
Blake huffed a quiet laugh.
"…Sometimes," he admitted, "it almost does."
Freya's sharp eyes flicked to him, intrigued.
Blake exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. "A country that big? With that many people? We've had wars before. Bad ones." He shook his head. "Keeping something that large together takes work. But at the end of the day, we hold to one belief."
He tapped his flag patch.
"That despite our differences, despite our fights, we're still one people. One country. One home."
Freya studied him for a long moment, then her gaze dropped to the flag emblem.
She traced the pattern in the air. "And this… is your banner?"
Blake nodded. "Yeah."
Freya tilted her head slightly. "It bears no sigil of a king. No house. No warrior's mark."
Blake smiled faintly. "Because it's not just for one man. Or one ruler."
He ran his thumb briefly over the stitched fabric.
"It's for all of us."
Freya was quiet.
Éothain exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "Your world makes no sense."
Blake grinned. "That's what I said when I woke up here."
Éothain just grumbled.
Freya, however, remained thoughtful.
"…I would like to hear more," she admitted at last.
Blake smirked. "Well, we've got a few more days till Edoras. What do you wanna know?"
She met his gaze, her expression unreadable.
"…Tell me about your battles."
Blake's smirk faded slightly.
His grip on his walking stick tightened.
The firelight flickered in his dark eyes as he exhaled slowly.
"…Alright," he murmured. "But you might not like what you hear."
The fire burned low, flickering embers casting long shadows as the night stretched on.
Blake watched Freya carefully, his dark eyes steady as the flames reflected in them.
She had asked the question simply, almost too simply.
"Tell me about your battles."
But that was a big question.
Blake exhaled slowly, running his thumb over the fabric of his sleeve, feeling the slight ridge where his Para Jumper patch was stitched.
"…You mean my people's battles?" he asked, tilting his head. "Or mine?"
Freya hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Éothain shifted slightly, watching the exchange, but he said nothing.
Blake caught the hesitation, zeroed in on it.
"…You don't just mean history, do you?" he asked quietly.
Freya's gaze flickered, but she didn't look away.
"I mean both," she admitted at last. "But… yes. I wish to understand your battles as well."
Blake let the fire fill the silence for a few moments before leaning back slightly, exhaling.
"…Alright," he murmured. "But war in my world isn't like war here."
Freya arched an eyebrow. "How so?"
Blake was quiet for a beat.
Then—
"Here, you fight with steel and horses. You see your enemy face to face. You hear their breath, smell their sweat. War here is brutal, but it's personal." He tilted his head slightly. "In my world? War can be fought without ever seeing the man you kill."
Freya's brows furrowed. "That is not war. That is—"
"—exactly what war has become," Blake interrupted, his voice quiet but firm.
Freya and Éothain both watched him closely.
Blake took a slow breath, his expression unreadable.
"When my people go to war, we don't just march an army to the battlefield. We send machines that fly, ships the size of fortresses, weapons that can destroy entire cities."
Éothain's jaw tightened.
Freya leaned forward slightly, her sharp gaze locked onto him. "…You mean catapults? Sieges?"
Blake let out a humorless chuckle. "Nah. I mean something worse."
The fire crackled as they absorbed that.
Freya's fingers tightened slightly on her knee, but her voice remained steady. "And you have fought in wars like this?"
Blake's jaw flexed slightly, his grip on his knee tightening just a little.
"…Yeah," he admitted.
Freya studied him.
"…And what do you fight for?"
Blake inhaled slowly.
He tapped his patch.
"So others may live."
Freya was silent for a long time.
Blake let the fire burn between them, waiting.
Then, at last—
"…Tell me," she murmured, her voice quieter now. "Tell me of your battles."
Blake watched her for a beat longer before exhaling through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
"…Alright," he murmured. "But I'm warning you now, Freya—there's no glory in the kind of war I fight."
Her sharp blue eyes met his.
"…Then I shall listen without seeking it."
Blake studied her one last time, then slowly, finally, he began to speak.
"It began for me on September 11th, 2001."
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off a weight.
"I was still in school… But I remember it. Everyone does."
He paused, then glanced up at them.
"Have I told you about terrorists?"
Éothain's brow furrowed. "Terror-what?"
Blake's jaw tightened slightly. "Terrorists," he repeated.
Freya frowned. "Are they… raiders? Bandits?"
Blake shook his head. "Worse. Raiders steal, bandits kill for greed. Terrorists kill for fear. They don't fight warriors. They don't take the field in battle." His voice darkened. "They kill the defenseless. Women, children. Innocents."
The silence was absolute.
Éothain looked disgusted. "That… that is not war. That is butchery."
Fram, who had seen more than either of them, sighed heavily.
"There have always been those who kill the weak," he murmured. "But to make war of it?" His expression darkened. "That is something else."
Blake nodded grimly. "Yeah. It is."
Then—slowly, heavily—he continued.
"On that day, a group of them snuck into my country. They hijacked planes—massive ones, the kind I told you about."
Freya's fingers tightened on her knee. "And what did they do with them?"
Blake exhaled.
"They crashed them. Into the biggest city in my homeland."
The fire crackled, but no one moved.
"Everyone on board, killed in an instant."
Freya's breath hitched. Éothain's jaw clenched. Even Fram's weathered face looked pale in the firelight.
"We have these things called televisions… moving tapestries that let us see events happening across the world in real-time. We saw it happen. All of us. The entire damn country, watching live as those towers burned."
Silence.
Only the crackling fire remained.
"After that day, my country went to war."
His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it. A tension, a weight pressing down.
"You couldn't find a house, a street, a town that didn't have one of these flying." He gestured to the flag on his sleeve. "We weren't just angry. We were united. For once, we all agreed on something—this couldn't go unanswered."
"I wanted to fight right then, but I was too young. You couldn't enlist until you were seventeen, and even then, you needed your parents' permission."
His lips curled into a bitter smirk.
"God, I must've annoyed the hell out of them. I wouldn't shut up about it. Eventually, they just relented."
"Before I knew it, I was shipping off to the Marines."
Blake shifted slightly, adjusting his position, but his expression didn't change.
"The Marines… they're different. A different breed. They don't just train you—they break you."
Freya arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "Break you?"
Blake let out a short, humorless chuckle.
"They run you into the ground. You're never fast enough. Never strong enough. Nothing you do is good enough. You eat, sleep, breathe discipline. They make you fail, over and over, until you stop thinking you can't do something and just do it. They turn you into a soldier, whether you were ready for it or not."
Éothain frowned, shifting. "And you chose this?"
Blake's lips twitched slightly.
"Damn right, I did."
His fingers tightened slightly on his knee.
"When I finished boot camp, I walked across the grounds in my dress uniform. My parents were there. My old man shook my hand, told me he was proud. My mom… she just cried."
His voice softened.
"I think she knew where I was headed before I did."
He let the fire fill the silence for a moment.
Then—the weight returned.
The fire burned low, but the heat wasn't what made the air feel heavy.
It was Blake's words.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight—a slow, deliberate gravity that filled the space between them.
His fingers traced the edge of his sleeve, as if feeling the texture of the past.
"Fallujah."
Freya watched him closely. Éothain's usual skepticism was gone, replaced by silent tension. Even Fram, old and battle-worn, looked grim.
"I hate that fucking name."
Blake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
"I will hate that fucking place till the day I die."
His grip on his knee tightened.
"It wasn't just a battle. It was a slaughterhouse."
"We thought we were ready. We had training, we had weapons, we had firepower. But it didn't matter. The moment we breached the city, we realized just how deep in the shit we really were."
"They had turned the entire city into a goddamn fortress. Every street? A kill zone. Every window? A sniper nest. Every doorway? A trap. Every pile of rubble? Could be hiding an ambush."
"We didn't just fight men—we fought the city itself."
"They'd rigged entire buildings to collapse the second we stepped inside. Some were packed with so many explosives that when they blew, they took out entire city blocks. You'd be walking one second—then the next? The whole street was gone. Just smoke and fire and bodies."
Freya's jaw tightened.
Éothain shifted uneasily, clearly struggling to even comprehend war at that scale.
"And the worst part?" Blake huffed out a humorless laugh. "You never knew who the enemy was."
"They didn't wear armor. They didn't carry banners. They dressed like civilians. You could be walking past a group of people in the street, and the next second—one of them pulls a rifle and opens fire."
"I saw guys get shot in the back by people they'd just walked past. I saw Marines hesitate—because we weren't sure. Because maybe it was just a man trying to get home. Maybe it was just a woman looking for her child. Maybe it was just a kid—"
Blake stopped.
His jaw clenched.
His breathing was even, but Freya could see the tension in his hands—the way his fingers curled into his knee.
"And sometimes?" he said quietly. "It wasn't just a kid."
Éothain's face darkened. "…They sent children to fight?"
Blake didn't answer immediately.
He just stared into the fire.
"There's no honor in the kind of war I fought," he said at last.
"We fought through that city inch by inch. House by house. Room by room. Every fucking door we kicked down could've been our last. You never knew if there was a rifle waiting on the other side—or a tripwire. You never knew if you were walking into an ambush."
"You don't think. You can't think. You just go. If you hesitate, you die. If you hesitate, your brothers die."
"You wanna know how bad it was?" he asked suddenly, looking between them.
None of them spoke.
Blake huffed.
"The enemy had a rule: If you kill one of us, we have to drag the body out. Why? Because they'd fucking booby-trap their own dead."
Freya's eyes widened.
"I lost a friend like that. We thought we were just getting his body out. Thought we were giving him dignity. The second we moved him, the bomb underneath him went off."
Éothain's fingers twitched toward his sword, but there was no enemy here to fight.
Fram's voice was quiet. "…How many did you lose?"
Blake's breath hitched.
"Too many."
He ran a hand over his face.
"I remember them all. Every damn one of them."
Freya didn't know what to say.
None of them did.
"And then there were the airstrikes."
Blake's expression was unreadable.
"When we got pinned down—when there was no other option—we called in the jets. I've seen entire city blocks disappear in a heartbeat. One moment, there's a street. The next? Just fire and rubble."
"It was beautiful. In the worst fucking way."
"But every time we called in a strike, we knew—"
He swallowed.
"We knew there were civilians still there."
Freya's fingers tightened. Éothain looked physically ill.
"You think you understand war?" Blake exhaled, shaking his head. "Try making a decision like that. Try knowing that if you don't give the order, your brothers will die—but if you do, so will people who have nothing to do with it."
"I've given that order."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"I've watched fire rain from the sky. And I've listened to the silence that follows."
No one spoke.
Even the fire seemed quieter.
"When it was over?" Blake finally said. "The city was dust."
"We won."
"That's what they said, anyway."
"We lost so many. Marines, soldiers, Iraqis. I don't even know how many civilians died. A lot."
"And when it was over, I realized something."
He tapped his Pararescue patch.
"I was done taking lives."
Freya exhaled slowly.
"I wanted to save them instead."
His fingers ran absently over the patch.
"It wasn't easy. It took years of training to switch to Pararescue. But I made it. And I thought maybe I could do some good."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"Still did plenty of taking, though."
Freya exhaled sharply, her jaw tight.
"…That is not war," she murmured. "That is madness."
Blake nodded once.
Éothain, who had been silent, finally spoke.
"…That is not how battle is meant to be fought."
His voice was cold, but there was no accusation—just disgust.
Blake let out a slow breath.
"Maybe not. But that's how it is."
Fram finally looked up, his old eyes heavy.
"…Evil has always found new ways to kill," he murmured. "Even in other worlds, it seems."
Blake just nodded.
Freya studied him for a long moment, then spoke softly.
"…I understand now."
Blake looked up at her. "…Understand what?"
She met his gaze, steady and unflinching.
"…Why you fight the way you do."
Blake held her gaze, then—slowly—he nodded.
He didn't need to say anything else.
She already knew.
Éothain had been silent for a long time.
Freya still looked lost in thought, staring into the fire, her mind turning over everything Blake had just told them. Fram sat with his hands clasped, his face heavy with thought.
But Éothain?
He wasn't just horrified.
He was confused.
Finally, he shifted, adjusting his seat, and exhaled slowly.
"…I don't understand."
Blake blinked, pulling himself from his thoughts. "…What?"
Éothain's gaze flickered, his hands resting on his knees. "You said you left the Marines. That you turned to this… Pararescue." He shook his head. "What makes it so different?"
Blake stared at him for a moment.
Then, he chuckled.
Not out of humor.
It was a dry, tired sound.
"What makes it different?" he repeated, shaking his head slightly. "Everything."
Éothain's brow furrowed, but he waited.
Blake ran a hand through his hair, thinking.
"Special forces exist all over my world. They all have a specialty. The SEALs? They're masters of the sea and land. The Green Berets? They train foreign armies and fight in the shadows. Delta Force? They're the ones you call when you need something done fast and violent. But Pararescue?"
He let out a slow breath.
"We specialize in one thing—bringing people home."
Freya finally looked up.
Blake tapped his Pararescue patch.
"The Marines made me a warrior. But Pararescue? That's my redemption."
"To even try and become one of us? You have to be willing to be broken. You start with a few hundred men. After the first test? Half are gone. After the first month? You're lucky if ten are left."
Éothain stiffened. "Ten? Out of hundreds?"
Blake nodded.
"They call it the pipeline. Two years of training. Two years of getting pushed until your body is broken and your mind is screaming for you to quit. You spend weeks in the water, holding your breath until your lungs feel like they're going to burst. You run until your legs stop working. They throw you out of planes, send you into combat drills where you have to fight while rescuing a dying man. You learn every way a human can break—so you know how to fix it."
Freya inhaled sharply.
"They drown you, beat you, starve you. And at the end? You either make it—or you fail. And most fail."
Blake exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
"I've heard it put that we're the Archangels of the Battlefield."
Éothain's brows knitted together.
"I don't look at myself like that. I never have. But maybe… you'd call it something different. The Valar, maybe."
Fram lifted his head slightly, intrigued.
Blake smirked faintly. "One Green Beret told me once that PJs are the only guys he knows who can return fire with one hand while bringing someone back from the brink with the other."
Freya's expression softened slightly.
"…And you would die for this?" Éothain asked, his voice quieter now.
Blake's gaze hardened.
"Every PJ knows one thing: We will bring you home. Or we'll die trying."
Éothain sat very still.
Blake exhaled slowly, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees.
"The first time I went on a mission as a PJ? We were pinned down. I had a guy bleeding out in my arms, bullets flying past my head. I should've died that day. But I didn't. He did. And I swore I wouldn't let another one slip through my hands."
"I've jumped into hellholes to save men who should've been dead. I've dragged wounded soldiers down cliffs, carried men through gunfire, fought while plugging bullet wounds with my own hands."
"I've done things that should've killed me. And one day, it will."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"But if it means one more soldier gets to see his family again? If it means one more man gets to go home?"
He met Éothain's gaze, unflinching.
"Then it's worth it."
Freya studied him.
She had seen many warriors in her time.
She had seen men who fought for glory. Men who fought for gold. Men who fought for their land, their king, their people.
But she had never met a man who fought for the simple sake of saving others.
Éothain exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.
He wasn't scowling anymore.
He wasn't even skeptical.
He just looked… lost.
Fram spoke first.
"You fight not for conquest. Not for power. Not even for vengeance. You fight to bring the lost home."
Blake nodded once.
Fram sighed, shaking his head. "You are either the greatest fool I have ever met… or the bravest man."
Blake smirked. "Why not both?"
Freya chuckled softly, shaking her head.
Éothain was quiet for a long time.
Then, at last—
"I still don't understand," he admitted, his voice low.
Blake raised an eyebrow. "What part?"
Éothain looked at him, his expression unreadable.
"…Why you?"
Blake blinked.
Éothain shook his head. "Why risk yourself like this? Why put yourself through that? What makes you different from the ones who quit?"
Blake inhaled slowly.
Then, after a long pause—
"Because if I don't do it, who will?"
Éothain stared at him.
Blake exhaled, shifting slightly, adjusting his leg where it still ached. His fingers traced absently over the patch on his sleeve—the one with the winged dagger, the one with the words that had defined his entire life.
"Our motto is simple."
He looked up, meeting Éothain's gaze.
"So others may live."
Silence.
The fire crackled, but nothing else moved.
Freya sat very still, watching him carefully.
Éothain, for once, had no words.
Fram, old and knowing, just listened.
Blake inhaled slowly.
"After Fallujah… after everything I saw, everything I did—I realized something."
He exhaled, shaking his head slightly.
"For every father… for every mother… for every soldier I have managed to get home to their family—it's always been worth it."
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, staring into the flames.
"For Miranda, hanging by a thread. For that moment where it was my weight keeping her from going home. For the sacrifice. For making the call. For cutting the rope."
His throat felt tight, but his voice remained steady.
"For making that choice—"
He looked up.
"Then yes, it is worth it."
Freya swallowed hard.
Éothain was frozen.
Fram exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
Blake's fingers traced the patch again.
"If you live life without a creed—without something to guide you—then what the hell is the point?"
He looked at Éothain now, really looked at him.
"Life is only worth living if you have something to stand for."
Éothain, for the first time, didn't have an argument.
Blake smirked faintly, shaking his head.
"We live in the moment, Éothain. We embrace what we have while we have it. Because one day? It'll be gone."
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
"So enjoy the moment. Live your life to the fullest."
His voice softened.
"Because when I move on to the next life? I want to do so with my head held high."
No one spoke.
The fire burned low, flickering embers rising into the night sky.
Freya looked away, exhaling slowly, her arms crossed tightly as if holding something in.
Éothain sat rigid, hands curled into fists, staring hard at the flames.
Fram, old and knowing, just nodded.
Finally—after what felt like forever—Éothain spoke.
His voice was quiet.
"…I think I understand now."
Blake smiled faintly.
"Good."
And just like that—he leaned back, took a sip from his canteen, and let the silence take over once more.