Entry 21

Captain Jon Vaeris Rells stood in the great hall of a fortification that he had been tasked with presiding over. It was his job to ensure the survival of the soldiers and civilians under his command, those souls who fought so hard to keep the dream of a peaceful land intact.

Yet, when the pivotal moment in defending that peace arrived at his doorstep, the key to winning lay in the hands of someone whom his own men believed to be the enemy.

What would he choose? What would save his people and stop the threat posed by the mountain raiders?

What was right?

The captain sighed. He'd always thought that power would bring him greater freedom: the freedom to make decisions that no one else could, the freedom to help those who needed it when they needed it. His thinking had been wrong. So terribly wrong. For the decisions he made would always fall back on him, leaving scars on his reputation no matter the outcome. Every victory brought loss, each choice set in stone left behind a trail of opposition. 

Whether they be vast or barely present, a negative outcome proved inevitable. And as he ran through the possible outcomes in his head, the cost could never be repayed. People would die. Many of them with families. For those left waiting in the medical tents, or huddled close to a campfire late into the night listening to the sounds of distant battle within the pass, that cost would undoubtably seem too high by morning.

To the innocents left crying in their wake, no war is worth losing those you love.

"Sir?"

Jolted from his troubled thoughts, he found all eyes in the room turned towards him. They were anticipating an answer to the guard's question; one that would ease the suspicions rising with each passing second. Silence was doing the commander no favors. He sighed, finally relenting under the pressure of his allies.

"Crescian," he began, "is an old friend of mine. We met as children, back before the concept of political rivalry had truly set in our minds. I lived in the mountains on this side, and he on the other." From where I stood, Rells almost looked saddened as he explained their connection. 

But despite those gloom-filled memories, he continued. "When I joined the army of Triton, I asked him to cross the border and come with me. He...refused." A heavy sigh followed, even more melancholic than the last.

"He wanted to save his homeland," he said, "not leave it to fight for another. When the rebellion sparked, he was there. Now, he's captain of the Confederate company sent to guard their side of the pass." For the first time since I'd been brought to the hall, the captain laughed softly.

"Ironic; we followed different paths, but ended up the same. I saw him again close to a year ago, the first time since I left for the military academy in Harton."

A year ago...

Fort Meddon. It always came back to Fort Meddon. The beginning of the end - for Bovica, and for the life I once knew.

The room stood silent for a moment following his admission; more than likely, they all wondered what else their commander had kept hidden. The speartip pressing against my back eased slightly, and the guard holding it there spoke up.

"So...what are our orders, sir? I don't mean to sound out of line," he said cautiously, "but the past shouldn't be our biggest concern right now. Those people out there need a decision. Either you go to the pass and meet this Crescian, or you stay here and continue planning for the next battle." He had a point, and we all knew it. All eyes focused on him as he continued.

"Only twenty-two men came back from the fight earlier. Fifty soldiers entered that pass, many of them having families here, yet only twenty-two men passed by me on the return; most too exhausted or injured to give more than a passing glance." His head hung low as he remembered the ones lost that morning.

"We won't survive another massacre, captain. We just won't. The choice is yours, but you must choose something before the farmers and nurses and families outside those doors," he said, pointing to the massive entryway, "lose what little hope they have left."

Captain Rells stood by the war table, lost in thoughts amplified even further by the guard's speech. For a decision that could be fatal, his answer came surprisingly quick.

Looking up, he called out for one of the soldiers guarding the door. As the man approached, the commander lowered his voice and said, "Go to my quarters and look under the bed. There should be a small chest with a lock - use this key to open it." He held up what looked to be a rusty iron key.

"Inside, you'll find a bundle wrapped in cloth. Bring it to me. If anyone asks what you're doing, you're to say its nothing more than extra parchment for the scribe."

"Yes, sir," the guard replied, setting off in the direction of the captain's chambers. Rells wasn't finished, though.

"Livand," he said, turning to the strategist who had previously made known his opinions on the matter of meeting with the Confederates.

"Once he comes back with the package, you and I will be setting off for the pass. A small group of able-bodied men can follow behind, alerting us of any possible ambushes by bandits or otherwise."

Livand looked shocked. Shocked might be putting it lightly, but let's not dwell too long on that.

"S-sir! The number of soldiers strong enough to hold their own is too low, even if we worked with those rebels! We can't afford to risk it!"

The captain sighed. "How many do we have?" he asked.

"I watched those men come back from the pass. Considering how many of them looked barely functional, I'd say we have maybe sixteen men. At most." Livand's head hung low, calmed by the unlikely nature of their success.

"Then we bring the Bovican."

In that moment, the phrase "divine comedy" never felt more accurate. I fled one army, and found myself conscripted into another. The mention of my title almost didn't register, as it had been so long since the conversation focused on me.

I let out a startled, "What?" as quickly as my brain would allow.

"You were supposedly at Fort Meddon; or at least, my men say you were. That battle lasted months, and there's a specific term I use to describe it for those who weren't there: hell. If you survived that, then you should be perfectly fine watching our backs."

My attempt at a rebuttal was cut short by the return of the guard carrying a small wrapped object in his hands.

"Thank you, that's all I needed. You can return to your post." Holding the package carefully, the captain looked back at me.

"We're leaving. Either you support my men in the coming fight, or I jail you due to your status as a former Bovican soldier. I doubt anyone here would bat an eye." he said, heading towards the double doors with Livand following close behind.

Seeing no other option, I grudgingly made my way to the door and accepted the fate laid before me.

"Well," I mumbled to myself, "look on the bright side: at least I'm not dead."

"Yet."

"What?" The soldier to the left of the door had heard me.

"Not dead yet."

As you can imagine, that inspired so much confidence.