Unlikely friends

CALLAN

For Callan, time seemed to pass by at an incredibly mundane speed, mocking his impatience and unquenchable desire to return home. It was almost as if the roads ahead forged themselves in such a way merely to deter Callan's path and test his already suffering patience. For the hundredth time, he grunted in frustration and his horse, sensing his unrest, reared abruptly, forcing Callan to halt and announce yet another damned rest. If Callan could have his own way, he'd plough through the roads with no rest at all, for he was so determined to shake the horrifying remnants of Askemian blood that still seemed to hang onto his clothes.

As Callan leant by his horse draining the contents of a flask with the thirst he'd neglected since Askemia, he watched the princess dismount her horse. He was amused to see the absence of her tiara. Strange.

"The princess seems to have lost her tiara, Faramond, " Callan remarked. "She doesn't seem particularly bothered, I must say." Faramond chuckled.

"You wouldn't believe if I told you she threw it away herself, would you?" Callan almost choked on his water. Faramond seemed to find it rather amusing though, laughing as Callan attempted to coax some air back into his lungs.

"Really?" His gaze wandered to Paige herself, who was cheerily exchanging pleasantries with her horse, seemingly her only true companion on this journey. Her grin forced his lips to tweak in amusement. "She's a strange girl, Faramond."

Faramond just laughed. He seemed to be finding this entire conversation rather amusing. "Strange, sire? I'd say she's just... a little misunderstood."

Callan averted his gaze. "Those are the ones you really have to watch out for."

PAIGE

Night fell so gradually around them that Paige would not have noticed its arrival if not for the faltering in Orion's steady gallop. The horses before her slowly came to a halt and Paige was forced to do the same, wondering where they'd safely take shelter for the night. The road ahead of them seemed to fade into grassland, part of a large widespread plain that seemingly had no periphery. Every few yards was freckled with the shadow of trees, leaving majority of the plain to bathe in the silvery glow of the half-moon that lay lying on her back in the cloudless night sky.

It was Faramond who approached her first, followed by some other men she'd become acquainted with along the journey. In fact, she'd seemingly befriended majority of the men, except for the Prince himself, who kept a dignified yet unnecessary distance away from her. Perhaps his hatred for Askemians extended to herself too.

"We're stopping here?" Paige asked as they approached her. Faramond nodded. Upon first glance, he resembled the spitting image of the perfect soldier, with his broad unmoving shoulders and stern dark eyes, so dark that they bested the night sky even. Yet after coming to know him, Paige could confirm that appearance rarely spoke the whole truth, for Faramond proved to be caring and kind. No wonder the Prince was so close to him.

"The horses refuse to nudge any further," he said, with that same welcoming smile. "The Prince has ordered for us all to rest before continuing tomorrow. We have a little while on the road still, 'till we reach Acraeneia."

"Thank you, Faramond," Paige said. The men turned and left, once they'd invited her to their little campfire, which the rest of the men were struggling to build in the distance by a large oak tree. Paige, leading Orion, walked to seek some private shelter, where she'd be able to reflect, once the others had slept. When Paige left her little spot to join the men by campfire, she caught sight of the Prince, some distance away, by the bank of a large lake that she had failed to notice. His back was turned to the rest of them, and he leant against his horse.

For the first time, since she had lain eyes on him, Paige saw him, not as the King he promise to be one day, but rather as a little boy, aged much like herself, too young to be in the forefront of all this. Too young to have seen so many deaths.

Perhaps they had something in common after all.

CALLAN

He could hear laughter in the distance.

Callan couldn't rejoice like the rest of them. He failed to see how they were all so upbeat, able to joke around and enjoy themselves. Maybe it was because it wasn't all their fault. They weren't the ones who would go to sleep that night and know that all those deaths, all the cries from today and all the cries for tomorrow were their fault.

But Callan would.

He could have done something. Anything. Yet this was what being a King was about. Fighting for what was right. However, Callan could not shake the question in the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to justify himself.

Was it worth it?

"Hello."

Callan's hands immediately tightened around the hilt of his sword and his feet dug into the grass, yet when the soft and gentle quality of the greeting registered in his mind, he loosened his grip upon his weapon and look up.

He half expected the Princess' image to be some form of illusion, crafted by the romantic atmosphere and wandering quality of his mind, for her image almost seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, like a fragile reflection trembling upon the water's surface. He almost reached out to make sure she was real.

"Can I sit?" Her question surprised him, although her approaching him was already surprising enough, and he nodded his lips parted and eyes wide, still in amazement, as she sat regally, gentle smile playing on her lips. Her face was tilted high, the moon's silver glow dancing upon her round face and casting dainty shadows beneath her soft cheekbones.

"Lovely night, isn't it?" It was at this, that he finally pulled himself together and replied, choosing not to remain the dumbfounded idiot he'd played the part throughout the beginning part of the conversation.

"If you were talking about the view, I suppose so," he said. The Princess looked up at his words then, as if expecting him to elaborate. And because of that small glance she gave him, he did. "But the death, the cries, the loss," he continued, "I don't think any amount of glory and victory is worth that."

She remained quiet, and he dared not look back at her, for he was afraid he'd depressed her. She was a princess. Not a goddamn therapist.

"It's funny how so many people seem to think otherwise," she replied, and he looked at her, despite his rational thinking. "Some people don't think about how every soldier, every person fighting, is just another one of us, with a family, and friends, and a home. With a life to return to, with people that will cry when they leave and lives that could be ruined without them."

For the first time since his parents had passed away, Callan wanted to cry. Her words spoke the truth he tried to neglect, tried to hide away from, tried to run from.

"My best friend died today. Him and a hundred others, whom I grew up with. People I loved even more than my parents, which isn't saying much, but I loved them nevertheless," she continued. "My parents didn't even care at all."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, too afraid that his voice would break. "It's all my fault." As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He knew that it was his fault, but it would make it more real, hearing it from someone else.

"No," she objected softly, and his doubts and fears wavered. "It's not your fault. You wage war for the sake of good. My parents waged war because they're blinded by stupid pride and ignorant honour. You were trying to free the world of their evil."

He watched her carefully as she said the words, as if he was still having trouble believing that she was speaking them. Yet she was, her lips moving and her eyes tracing the horizon, which flickered fiercely, like the a thin line of raging black flames. Then she looked at him. With her cool, dark eyes, glowing almost silver, just like the moon itself. She smiled too, a gentle soft and slow smile, which begun at the corners and ultimately forced his own lips to tweak.

"Thank you for that."