March 4th, 1800

But God once again refused to let him go. Peace and rest were things he'd never known since he was a child, and this fact wasn't about to change now that he was a grown man.

He lived... despite the odds. Despite his own fears. Despite his poor health and the hopelessness of his doctors and nurses. Despite the fact that he knew, he probably deserved to end his days like this: wounded, delirious and exhausted.

He prevailed.

But, as he got better, slowly and steadily, one badly injured man was dragged to the bed beside him.

Francis glimpsed once at him, and had to look again, because the sight was absolutely horrifying.

Burned from head to toe, that poor creature was bound to pass away in the next twenty-four hours, at most. If he lived, it would be yet another undisputable miracle of God.

But the Providence rarely grants two miracles in the same place, at the same time. So, Francis would keep his blessing, as this poor fellow perished in his place.

And honestly, in this case, it seemed as if death was the most merciful of options.

—W-Where am I? —the wounded soldier cried, and shook against the sheets below.

His skin had melted in a way which the general had never seen before. His clothes and flesh had become one. His feet were no longer recognizable. His ears had turned black as two pieces of coal. Fingers, fused together. How on earth was this man still breathing, let alone talking?

Apparently —and this Francis would only learn about later, from one of the nurses— the officer had covered his face with his palms as the fire burned around him. Doing that allowed him to breathe, and kept his eyes, nose and mouth safe from the flames. It also protected his throat, vocal chords, and respiratory system. Which meant that, even though his whole body had melted together like a candlestick, his innards were still mostly fine by that point.

—You are in La Roche —the former gardener said, after watching him in silence, for a while—. At the hospital.

—W-What h-happened to me?

—You were burned.

—H-How badly?

—Terribly.

—A-And my brothers? My m-men?

—I don't know. You were brought in here alone...

—T-They must have k-killed them... Those r-rebel bastards!...

—You're a royalist? —Francis asked, with a mix of disdain and curiosity.

—O-Of course I am!... P-Proud of it!...

—You're proud of a King which ruined our country financially, murdered thousands of innocent people and caused unnecessary wars against our international neighbors?...

—It's n-not about the King!... It's about... p-principles.

—Principles? What principles? Ignorance? Despotism?...

—The King's g-guard didn't rape my wife! —the burned man shut Francis up, and despite his frail and thin voice, his rage was apparent—. The King's guard d-didn't k-kill my baby boy!... Didn't s-slaughter m-my hometown!... Didn't l-loot and b-burn my b-business to the ground!...

—Just because it didn't happen to you it doesn't mean it didn't happen at all —the general snapped back.

—Lord... y-you almost sound l-like one of them...

—Maybe it's because I am.

Silence. The dying man's pained face slowly turned into a furious smile, despite his grunts, his shaking, and his ever growing closeness to the end.

—T-The Lord m-must be testing me... He m-must... Is it n-not enough to witness the m-murder of m-my people, Father?... You must f-force me to d-die in pain, and t-to waste my f-final moments with o-one of the killers as w-well?...

—I can't say I am too thrilled to have you here eithe —the general replied, and looked away from the pitiful scene next to him, now facing the ceiling—. The whole r-room smells of overcooked pork. 

—N-Noble of you... to i-insult a dying man...

—What do you want me to do? Allow you to insult me back as you die? No. I am on death's doorstep as well. Waiting to get throw into the fiery pits of hell for good. The difference is, I know where I'm going once this is all over. I know there's no salvation for me, after all I've done. While you, and the other men that follow your footsteps, believe yourselves to be "warriors of God", and pretend you aren't blood thirsty killers like us republicans are... You think you're going to Heaven for your actions but the truth is, you're no better than any of us. You're all murderers too.

—I f-fought for justice...

—Well so did I.

—You w-were all ruffians!...

—So were you —the general didn't miss a beat, and the nameless soldier drew a sharp breath through his teeth, as he spoke. For a moment, there was silence. And Francis, not wanting to look at the man again, said:— Hey... Are you still there?

—A-Against my better wishes... yes.

There was another pause in the conversation. The general tried to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but the sound of his roommate shaking and groaning kept him awake.

And also... there was that damned smell.

He hated it.

—What even happened to you? —he then decided to ask, opening his eyes again.

Francis was bored, and quite frankly, he felt bad for the officer beside him. It was clear as day that the individual was in an unsurmountable amount of pain, and that with every minute, it was getting worse.

—Your m-men... set fire to t-the outpost I was l-living on, w-with my b-brothers... I g-got stuck on the u-upper floor... and n-nearly died t-there... T-The flames... were e-everywhere...

—I'm sorry —it was the first heartfelt and warm thing the general said, since the beginning of their conversation.

Thinking about being in that man's shoes, as the fire engulfed him actually twisted his guts in knots. What a hellish way to perish.

—A-And you?... W-Why... are y-you here?

—My horse got shot under me, while I was leading a charge in battle... I got stuck under it.

—And... Y-Your w-wounds?... W-Where?...

—I took a bullet to the thorax... It hit my fifth true rib. I should have bled out, but the weight of my horse put pressure over the wound and stopped the bleeding. I don't know how the rib didn't break completely and punctured my lung though, but... it didn't. And once I arrived here, the surgeon decided to remove the bullet, and close the wound, leaving my bones alone to fix themselves... And now I'm battling a fever and an infection... Which means that soon I will be dead anyway.

—I-If you lived u-until now... m-maybe you won't.

—I hope you're right —Francis mumbled, and the soldier beside him slowly turned his head towards him.

—G-God has a plan f-for you...

—Does he now? —the general decided to entertain him, knowing he was clearly out of it.

—Y-Yes...

—And what would that plan be?

—T-To love... instead of k-kill... i-instead of c-continuing with t-this life you l-lead...

—I think it's far too late for me to repent.

—It isn't... because I c-can... h-hear it on your voice. You're tired... a-as much as I am t-tired... of this war. That's t-the only thing that u-unites us, I think... we're tired... e-exhausted...

Francis, noticing how his words got more and more slurred with each passing second, dared to look at him again.

Somehow, his wounds managed to appear worse than they were before.

That pulled at some of his heartstrings, and woke up his compassion.

—You're right about that, I will admit it... I am worn out.

—T-Then repent... Go home...

—It's not that simple. I have a father to avenge. I have a name to clean. I have a wife to make proud of...

—Go. Home —the soldier insisted, with a might that shook Francis to the core of his very being, and sent shivers down his spine—. It's n-not too late for you... but it s-sure is for me...

—I'm sorry.

—It's... fine...

The republican, now becoming more and more worried about the soldier's state, decided to speak up again, before he passed:

—What is your name, monsieur?

—Prosper C-Chauvin...

—Where did you live?

—I w-was born on F-Ferrer...

—And your family?

—S-Still there... My sisters... If t-they h-haven't been... killed yet...

—I'll write to them in your name. I will tell them you died as a man of honor, defending your ideals and your values —Francis promised, knowing it was the only thing that he could actually do to comfort him—. I won't apologize for defending my own; God know I have my reasons to wear my uniform... But I understand you do too. And I'll make sure that your folks are taken care of. You don't have to worry about them. They'll be safe.

—W-Why?

—Because you're dying, and you're asking me to go home. Because despite the fact that we're enemies, you're offering me redemption. That shows me your true character. And I respect it... I truly do.

Maybe it was because of his high fever. Maybe it was because he secretly agreed with the royalist; he needed to go home. But Francis found himself showing his kindness and empathy to a complete stranger for the first time in months, maybe years.

This wasn't an old ally from his youth. This wasn't one of his friends, or loved ones. This wasn't one of his victims. This was his enemy. His rival. A tiny piece of a mechanism he had sworn to destroy, gear by gear, belt by belt, and yet... here he was, being merciful towards him.

How ironic.

They were both standing underneath God's careful eyes, waiting for the reaping. And he chose to be good, for once. He chose to be human, for once.

To the only kind of people he absolutely despised.

Was it then possible, for him to change his ways? If he was managing to at least be civil in the presence of his foe... Was it possible for him to give up his bloodlust, his need for revenge, that was never fully satisfied, despite the crimes that he committed, despite his killings and his feats? Was it possible for him to change his mindset? And to try to be human again?

His old enemies would always hate him, that was true. The shadows of his past would always attack him when he least expected it. But could him hang onto the light of tomorrow, and see the birth of another day, free of the hatred that poisoned him since his childhood? Could he really be redeemed?

Could he go home?

Forever?

—M-May I know your name... b-before I go?... —Prosper asked, as his body stopped shaking and his stiff, burnt limbs started to go lax.

—Francesco Caralen Fanton —Francis decided to share his true identity out loud, after years of publicly rejecting it—. I am the son of the deceased Baron of Forestier. And now, a general of the New Republic.

—Deceased?

—Yes.

—Well... I-I'll s-speak to your f-father... o-once I'm g-gone...

—And what will you say to him, if I may ask?

—That y-you're a good man... d-despite it all... you were... good...

The soldier didn't finish his sentence properly. He took his last breath, and Francis watched him die.

As the seconds passed and it became quite apparent that he wasn't coming back. He was gone. Just like that, he reached the end.

And after realizing he was alone once more, the general began to cry.

Again, maybe it was the fever.

Maybe it was the fact that, for a moment, he felt seen by God. Because one of the questions he had been asking himself since the beginning of the war had finally been answered, by the least probable individual he could think of, a royalist.

¿Was he a good man, despite it all?

And the truth, was simple: He was a good man. Despite it all.

And that thought alone convinced him that Prosper was right.

He needed to leave this life of violence and revenge behind. He needed to drop the sword, and be free at last.

His only commitment was now to his happiness, and to his joy. His only duty now, was to come home to his wife. His only mission, to live merrily beside her, and to love her tenderly, as he'd always wished to, forever and ever.

The days of writing letters and oaths to Laura were over. He needed to live every promise that he ever wrote down.

When all of these realizations settled in, at once, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He was done with his past. He was done with sobbing and screaming in rage for things that had already happened. He wanted to turn away from the shadow of the guillotine. He wanted to turn away from the distant, foggy silhouette of the King. He wanted to shake off the shame, the pain, and the regret his father's murder had brought on to him. He wanted... Laura. He wanted her.

And because of this, he swore to himself that from that day on, we would care about the future, and about the things he could built for himself, and for her.

And thus, on that sad, stuffy and lonely hospital room, he was reborn.

The military man in him would forever live. But the ruthless soldier he'd once been was no more.