Lieutenant Jarryd Alyt has given blood and soul in service to the Duke, yet suffering the loss of a beloved companion and best friend drives him near the brink of despair. Disillusioned though still loyal, when new recruit Arin arrives, Jarryd is struck by the youth’s innocence and beauty.
But will the horror of war strike before Jarryd summons the courage to love again?
Definitely a story behind him, doubtless filled with pain, but Arin didn't look to be a criminal or a problem child, and upon closer view, Jarryd gauged his age around twenty, but no more than that. He looked like nothing so much as a little boy who'd lost his way home, likely a privileged home judging by his cultured accent. The smooth unmarked face had made him appear younger. Yes, such a one would probably be the first to die, but better that than taken captive. Lt. Jarryd Aylt started to turn away, but on second thought, looked the boy up and down again.
"Can you write a legible hand?" he asked.
"Sir?"
He repeated the question.
"Y-yes, sir," came the reply.
"I need an aide. In fact, I need to send a message to the Duke right now. Come with me."
After collecting his kit, somewhat bewildered, the youth trailed after him. Jarryd didn't know why he did it at first, but the reason he gave himself was the need to talk to someone other than himself or his second-in-command. He handed a written missive into Arin’s hand, instructing him to find the biggest tent located in the north of the camp, to ask his way if necessary. Later in the evening, a different reason came to his mind as the youth, sitting at Jarryd’s tent's entrance, voiced his earlier question on why Jarryd seemed angry with the new recruits.
"Because I'm tired of seeing men die," Jarryd finally answered, voice barely above a whisper. The youth nodded sadly as if he understood completely.
"Turn in, soldier," Jarryd ordered, lying back on his cot.
"Yes, sir."
* * * *
"Give in to it," Lvarnan advised his friend some weeks later, unfazed by Jarryd’s warning glare. "Don't give me that look! Whatever you told yourself the reason you took him on doesn't matter anymore. Anyone can see it in you two, clear as a spring stream."
Jarryd glanced away from the sincere entreaty, inadvertently down the path Arin had just taken to collect their dinner. He frowned again at Lvarnan, then himself, and said nothing.
"You see?" Lvarnan continued. "Your eyes follow him even when you don't mean to."
"I know," Jarryd finally conceded. "I know."
"Then you also know it’ll probably end up getting him killed more likely than you," Lvarnan finished. "He'd run to you when it's safer to keep his place in a fight just because of not knowing his own heart, or what you feel for him."
"I'll see to it," Jarryd promised his old friend, who then clapped him on the knee, before rising to check on the rest of the men.
