A trickle of sweat slid down his back, tickling as it went. Sebastian shifted his weight, and tried to ignore it. He was sweltering under the heat of the sun and from exertion. His palms were starting to get slippery, and he hastily wiped one of them on his trousers. It wouldn't do to be dropping weapons.

The spear in his hands was relatively safe. That is, it was a lighter, leaf-tipped version of the lethal pollaxes and pikes. It was suitable for training but rarely used in combat. Nevertheless, Sebastian had no wish to be stuck like pig on the end of one, and he didn't trust the thin, “jack,” the trainees wore. What he wore barely covered his essential organs. For the thousandth time, he wished he wasn't so hopelessly poor.

Training in close combat had come shortly after he'd arrived at the fort. After marching and drilling with staffs for what must have been centuries, the greenies had finally been allowed to hold a real weapon. Across from him, standing on his line, was his training partner. Bastian hadn't caught his name, but in his thoughts had labeled him, 'Burly'. Burly was tall and muscular, with a ridiculously straw-like swatch of blonde hair, and two beady blue eyes, which he was now using to glare spitefully down at Sebastian. Despite his bulk, by no means was Burly the most intimidating man on the field. For that small service, Bastian was grateful. It would've been harder to get through the next few months if he had been training with Goliath.

Sebastian swiped again at his trousers, and twisted the spear in his palms. Burly was bouncing ever so slightly on his heels, eager for the next order from the Training Master. Next pattern was a high-strike, high-block, Sebastian remembered. High-strike, high-block. High-strike, high-block. Which am I? Block. Right. Block. High-block.

“Attack!” The Training Master's voice cracked overhead, and like oxen, the men on the lines heaved into motion.

Burly's spear swooped up, and then plummeted down towards the junction between Bastian's shoulder and his neck. Trying to remember the right angle to defend at, Sebastian jerked his spear upwards to meet Burly's The poles clacked together, and Bastian felt the vibration in his teeth. His high block did what it was intended, and turned Burly's spear away from his body. Unfortunately, Bastian hadn't struck the man's spear at the right angle, and as Burly's weapon slid away from him, it nicked his shoulder just the tiniest bit. Sebastian yelped, and flinched away. The nick hadn't hurt, so much as surprised him. Bastian glanced at his shoulder, and saw a thin drop of blood tracking its way down his arm.

Burly smirked at him. Shooting the man a glare, Bastian let go of his spear with one hand, and used it to wipe the crimson trail off of his arm. However, during the moments it took for him to swipe at the blood, Burly had raised his spear again, and brought the wooden pole down on Sebastian's fingertips. This time, Sebastian yelped from the pain, and instinctively, he dropped the spear. It made a dull, clattering sound as it dropped to the ground. Burly chuckled. To Sebastian, the noise was deafening. Anger boiled in his chest, and more than anything, Bastian wanted to jump at the bigger man, but that was a bad idea. Instead, Sebastian ducked down and fetched his weapon. He made sure to keep one eye on Burly, just in case the lout tried anything else. It was going to be a long war.

"Recruit!" Digby had his eye on the new recruit from the moment he saw him. Something about the boy just didn't sit right with him. He had barbarian blood, for sure, and it was just not right. Your loyalties lay with your blood more often than not, Digby knew, and however honest he might be, he could not be trusted. It was only logic. Families, groups, peoples--they cohered. They did not fight for the other side. You knew who your people were, and you defended them.

It set his teeth on edge.

In this case, however, the yell was directed not only at Sebastian, but at his sparring partner, Geoffrey.

"You don't--strike--a fallen--enemy!"

He wrenched the spear from Geoff's hands and flung it, quivering, into the ground a hair's breadth from Sebastian's side.

"And you." He advanced on the fallen, dark-haired boy. "How long do you expect to last? You already look like one of the barbarians. I hope you don't plan on helping them by rolling over on your back in battle! This is a war! Get on your feet. And keep your spear in your hands, or you'll be taken for one of them. You are your spear. In the infantry, your spear, your hache, your pike--is a dearer friend than any comrade-in-arms. Use it." He stepped forward and wrenched Geoffrey's spear from the ground, then tossed it back to the blond boy.

He stepped back, watching the pair closely. Perhaps Sebastian had done something to provoke the attack other than incompetence--you never knew. "Carry on." He folded his arms across his chest.

Sebastian's head whipped around at the Lieutenant's first word. He watched the older man stalk over to the lines, and rip the spear from Burly's hands. Sebastian forced himself not to flinch when that spear bored into the earth less than a fingerwidth's away from him This man, tough looking, and with a voice like dogs barking, was one of the most intimidating people Sebastian had ever seen.

"And you." The man rounded on Bastian. Sebastian had to stop himself from taking a step back as the man advanced on him. "How long do you expect to last? You already look like one of the barbarians. I hope you don't plan on helping them by rolling over on your back in battle! This is a war! Get on your feet. And keep your spear in your hands, or you'll be taken for one of them. You are your spear. In the infantry, your spear, your hache, your pike--is a dearer friend than any comrade-in-arms. Use it."

Sebastian ducked his head. His face felt hot, and his jaw was tense. He was frustrated. First, making a fool of himself by getting nicked in a drill, and then dropping his weapon. There was never an excuse for loosing your weapon, Bastian knew, and the enemy certainly wouldn't wait for you to explain one. Last but not least this bombastic man's implication that Bastian would, “roll over,” and, “help,” the barbarians, infuriated him most of all. Sebastian immediately thought he was bing accused of treachery (it was something he was almost used to by now), but he realized he was stretching the man's words too far. The Lieutenant was only pointing out Bastian's incompetence, and in that respect, Sebastian knew he had no defense. He had been incompetent. His chest felt too tight when he thought about it, constricted with rage. Damn that man for being right. How long did Bastian expect to last in a skirmish, if he couldn't get a grip on his own weapons? These flimsy pieces of wood and metal were the only things standing between Bastian and an untimely demise. If he wanted to see himself through this war, it wouldn't be on the backs of his brothers in arms, it would be by surviving the crush of the enemy. Sebastian's hands gripped the spear so tightly he could feel a splinter digging into his palm. No more slips, he swore to himself. He would succeed at this. It wasn't as if he didn't know had to fight. He was going to be good at this sort of fighting, too. He would be. He had to be.

The lieutenant ordered them to continue with the exercise. Bastian took a moment to peer at him out of the corner of his eyes. The Lieutenant looked expectant, glowering at both Burly and Sebastian with his arms crossed over his chest. Bastian returned his eyes to his opponent, and tried to calm himself down.

He breathed evenly and deeply, and loosened his grip on the spear somewhat. He had to be able to move. Burly was glowering at him, not uniquely, but the look in his eyes was a particularly vicious one. He obviously did not appreciate being yelled at by an officer, and even more apparently blamed it on Bastian. Sebastian took another breath. The next pattern was a low-strike, low-block. Sebastian was still blocking. He visualized the move in his head. Burly would swing down and then strike upward with his spear, aiming for Bastian's side, or his gut. Sebastian would have to anticipate the angle and block the move quickly. If it worked, Burly's spear would be pushed well away from any body parts Bastian was fond of. Bastian imagined it once more.

“Attack!” The drill sergeant called again, and this time, Sebastian had nothing left to think about.

Burly's spear dropped, and then stabbed at the flesh below Sebastian's ribs. Bastian's spear came around, and neatly brushed the Burly's weapon away from his side. His hands had been a bit too close together when the move struck, but Sebastian compensated, and managed to avoid getting his fingers hit. It was a small mistake, barely a mistake at all, and when he and Burly returned to their starting positions, Sebastian felt like he could breath easier. He shot a nervous glance towards the Lieutenant.

Digby backed up a little, so he could keep an eye on a few other practicing partners, as well. He liked to see how the new recruits were doing. Some, quite young, reminded him of himself or his brother.

Sebastian did not.

He drew his gaze back to the halfbreed soldier, who was moving a little less clumsily now. Everyone had their pride. Geoff wasn't half bad. He had the advantage, and it was a considerable one, of heavier musculature. Now that could save your life. It might've saved Roderick's.

Hawes had them going through a reasonably complex drill, given they were so green he could smell the sap. Farmers, not soldiers! But Sebastian looked almost suspiciously good at some of the drills, his errors aside. Were the errors purposeful? Some sort of front? Digby shook the thought out of his head, running a hand distractedly through graying hair. No, that way lay madness, lay paranoia, lay the battle-rage that terrified him because it took him out of himself. He should be reasonable.

They moved into the low-block combination, and Digby shook himself out of his reverie with another barked rebuke.

"Stop! Repeat that block." He rounded on Sebastian. "Are you messing about on purpose, boy? This ain't a game! Men lose fingers that way. Are you not so fond of your fingers? I wouldn't mind there being less of ye, but I want my army to keep its fingers! Try that again until you can get it right." The rest of the recruits moved on to basic disarming, which requiring a twisting spin to the spear, but these two--certainly Sebastian--clearly weren't ready. It wasn't spite, Digby told himself. It was standards. And he would damn well hold the same ones for a half-breed as he held for a Thiasan.

Sebastian had almost thought he was home free, when- "Stop! Repeat that block." The Lieutenant focused his attention, once again, on Sebastian. "Are you messing about on purpose, boy? This ain't a game! Men lose fingers that way. Are you not so fond of your fingers? I wouldn't mind there being less of ye, but I want my army to keep its fingers! Try that again until you can get it right."

Desperately, desperately, Sebastian wanted to yell. He clenched his jaw, and gritted his teeth, crowding the words back onto his tongue and ordering them firmly to stay there. He had made a mistake. A little mistake. A mistake so insignificant that any green recruit caught making the same mistake would be let off easily. A mistake so small it would've been missed, if the Lieutenant hadn't been looking for a reason to- Sebastian's nostrils flared and he sucked in a breathe. Thoughts like that lead to sloppy punches. Sloppily punching an officer is a bad idea.

The recruits surrounding him, some of them sniggering, began to practice a simple disarmament. Bastian glanced around, watching their hands. He could do that. He was ready for that. Burly was ready for that. Sebastian looked anywhere but at the Lieutenant. He was glaring, and he didn't want to be accused of insubordination on top of stupidity.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” he managed to choke out, and he took his position on the line.

Across from him, Burly looked just about ready to burst. He was glowering so fiercely that Bastian actually paused for a moment, and hoped that Burly had the good sense to stick to the drill. There were other ways to make Sebastian's life miserable, and Bastian was sure Burly would make use of them, but please, let the man not take out his frustration right now. Not just now.

Tense, frustrated, but determined, Sebastian waited for the Drill Sergeant's next call.

“Disarm!”

Burly's hit was vindictively powerful, fueled by resentment and embarrassment. Sebastian felt its impact in his bones. Never the less, he deflected the blow, one wrist bending the slightest bit. Bastian breathed deeply in through his nose, out through his mouth, and returned to starting position.

“Disarm!”

Burly hit again, and again Sebastian felt the anger behind it. This time, though, he held steady. He turned Burly's spear so wide, the bigger man's momentum carried him forward a few steps, almost to his knees. No mistakes this time, Sebastian though triumphantly. Nothing. Not even enough for a man like this Lieutenant to pick out. Sebastian wanted to smirk. He wanted to grin. He wanted to wave it in Burly's face. He wanted to turn to the officer and raise his spear above his head, maybe scream triumphantly or cry out like a savage, just to be flip. Let them try to break him. Let them try. He returned to the starting position, and waited for the next shouted command.

"Are you satisfied with that, boy?" Digby called. "Anger belongs in battle, and there it'll do ye good. You--Geoff--this is not combat. I know the other one looks like a barbarian, but he ain't one. You're not trying to kill him, you're trying to learn. And you!" He rounded on Sebastian. "You can't afford to be smug. In battle there is no room for smug. There's room for anger, aye, but it's a hard job channeling it, and it makes reckless! And you of all people can't afford to follow your bloody ego!"

He took a step forward and put a hand to his face, indicating the nasty scar that ran down from his eye. "This is what happens when you go battle mad, and you don't notice! Are you ready for that? It isn't about winning! In battle it's about destroying! In battle it's not about pride or who you are, it's about the fighting! You are a Thiasan infantryman! Don't focus on grudges or beating your opponent. Now move forward with the disarming."

Hawes had glanced over at him, frowning and shaking his head, and Digby knew what he was on about--he was the Drill Sergeant, after all. They'd talk it over later.

Digby stepped back, catching his breath, and looked around the practice ring. A tow-headed boy, in particular, stuck out for his seriousness. That was a good thing, sometimes. And then sometimes you missed out on creativity that way...

He turned back to Sebastian and Geoffrey, elbows locked in against his body again.

"Are you satisfied with that, boy?" The officer called out. Sebastian turned. "Anger belongs in battle, and there it'll do ye good. You--Geoff--this is not combat. I know the other one looks like a barbarian, but he ain't one. You're not trying to kill him, you're trying to learn. And you!" He rounded on Sebastian. "You can't afford to be smug. In battle there is no room for smug. There's room for anger, aye, but it's a hard job channeling it, and it makes reckless! And you of all people can't afford to follow your bloody ego!"

Sebastian felt his temper flare. He was accustomed to prejudice, but he had never become numb to it. The pride and defiance he had felt just a moment ago were crushed and flailing, fighting to survive.

The man took a step towards Sebastian, and put a hand to his face. A nasty scar ran under his eye, and Sebastian internally winced, imagining what must have happened to make such a wound. "This is what happens when you go battle mad, and you don't notice! Are you ready for that? It isn't about winning! In battle it's about destroying! In battle it's not about pride or who you are, it's about the fighting! You are a Thiasan infantryman! Don't focus on grudges or beating your opponent. Now move forward with the disarming."

Though Sebastian felt somewhat cowed by the man's words, he still bristled under the harsh reprimand. Easy for him to say, not concentrating on grudges. Easy for them when they don't have to guard their backs as well as their front. None the less, Sebastian moved back onto the line.

At this point, Burly looked harassed, and bit weary, as if he just wanted to be done fighting the halfbreed and getting chewed on by a bitter lieutenant. Bastian felt an odd pang of sympathy for the man and wondered why the lieutenant seemed so determined to make their lives difficult.

“Disarm!” The drill sergeant shouted.

Burly moved forward, starting out in the offense position. Sebastian first blocked the initial attack, and then, deftly insinuating the tip of his spear beneath Burly's, he disarmed his training mate. The spear flew a short distance before bouncing to a stop. It was well done, Sebastian knew. Not perfect, he imagined, and he also imagined the Lieutenant would tell him why.

Sebastian waited patiently on the line as Burly fetched his spear. It was Bastian's turn to be on the offensive. He was preparing himself to attack when the sergeant's voice thundered over the din of clattering wood.

“Stop! That's enough! Food, conscripts!”

Sebastian sighed. Around him, fellow trainees began to break away from the line. Some chatting, others panting, they migrated en mass towards the mess hall. Burly was long gone. Sebastian stayed for a moment, watching the others leave.

Digby kept his arms folded, but turned aside as Hawes made his way over to him. He kept half an eye on the halfbreed, who was likewise standing motionless.

"Playing favorites?" Hawes muttered to him, slinging a rough arm around his shoulders. "Good ol' El Tee, always your way--"

"Favorites? Anything but." But Digby knew what he meant. He always did seem to choose one man to be harsh on. But usually it was someone he liked. Not someone whom he distrusted. "Don't trust him as far as I could throw--"

"Skinny thing like that, could throw 'm pretty far--"

Digby punched his sergeant lightly in the gut. "Go and eat. I'm not hungry." Sebastian was eyeing him besides.

"Well, boy, what do you want?"

He planted his hands on his hips, his legs akimbo--an aggressive stance. "Out with it, open that mouth."

The Lieutenant spoke quietly with the drill sergeant for a moment, and then turned away. The man took an offensive stance. Waiting. Daring. Sebastian was at a loss. What he wanted to say, he couldn't say. So what now?

“My name's Sebastian MacNab, Lieutenant.” It sounded flat in his own ears, but it was a start. You see that? He added silently. Not son of anyone. A good, Thiasan name. “I'm green. I know it. Is there something you needed to say?” It was not what he had meant to come out. It was not very brave nor was it very polite. It was flippant. Their mildness made Sebastian angry with himself, and the risk in them made him frightened.

He stiffened his back, his hands in fists at his sides, and he looked the officer in the eyes. They were terrifying eyes, full of challenge and power. Yet Sebastian figured his comments were only mildly insubordinate, and perhaps, just perhaps, this was the sort of man who appreciated that.

Digby regarded the recruit coldly. He had to admit, with some grudging respect, that the boy acted almost like he had done when he was green. But thoroughly different. His guttural allegiance was to his own family. And this one's family was barbarian. So.

"I'll tell you this much, boy," he said at last, squinting at him. The sun was high, and he could feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck. It wasn't entirely from the heat. It was also from anger, for no reason he could entirely discern. "I don't trust the barbarians. And I don't trust their kin. Kinship is a powerful tie, and we need to know our men are on our side. And that's the bare facts, boy. How old are you?" He changed the subject abruptly, his eyes running over the boy's frame.

He wasn't sure why he'd asked, exactly.

Sebastian blinked. How old am I? The abrupt change of subject almost distracted him from the harsh, but honest, words the Lieutenant had spoken before. The implication of treachery rubbed wrong to Bastian. No matter what he was, or how confused he was about where he belonged, he knew this one thing about himself: he was no traitor. He was not one to turn on those who trusted him, and the idea that someone, someone he'd never met and did not know, instinctively suspected such a thing of him was not only insulting, but painful. The entire episode was made more ironic by the fact that Bastian had never met another Baskar in his life. And yet, even as his righteous indignation reared its ugly head, in the back of his mind, he understood what the officer was saying, and moreover, Sebastian understood his point of view. It wasn't so much important if Sebastian was on the right side, as it was important his comrades believed it. If the soldier beside him couldn't put his life in Bastian's hands, then how were either of them to fight? As immoral as it was to hate Bastian, simply for the way he looked, was it practical to ignore it? Then again, understanding a thought did not mean that Sebastian had to accept it, or even that he had to like it.

Thoughts zipped in his head, building and breaking and contradicting one another. It wasn't as if Sebastian had ever asked to go to war, he thought. He had never wanted to be a soldier, or to force himself on his fellows. Yet, boiling and reeling as he was, Bastian realized the officer was waiting for an answer.

“Nineteen.” He said shortly, not really sure why he was offering up the information, but unable to find a good reason not to. “And you're right, Lieutenant. Kin is kin. A man will, and should, die for his family.” Sebastian took the tiniest step towards the lieutenant. “So you should know, sir, my mother lives on the Lawley fiefdom, I've never spoken a word against my King for as long as I've lived, and with all due respect, Lieutenant, you have met more Baskar than I.”

Half his age--the boy was half his age. And his response had been well-spoken, Digby had to admit. He reached within himself for a way to answer, reacting more to the boy's suddenly assured tone than to his words. Then he paused to think about the words.

"Right. Sebastian--" A fancy name, but he supposed that with a son called Roderick he couldn't comment. "I have a son. He's a little younger than you." Digby cleared his throat. "And I love me own father. And here is what I tell you, Sebastian." He met the boy's dark eyes. "Here's what I tell you. If you meet a man, in battle, and he's the spit o' you, and you think, could he be my father? If you meet a man like that--could you cut him down or would you hesitate?"

Turning his head, he hawked and spat deliberately as he waited for a response. It wasn't an expression of contempt, so much as--resignation.

"The question ain't," he went on, softly, though is voice remained gravelly as ever, "The question ain't whether you mean well. The question is what ye do."

Sebastian listened patiently to the man talk. He couldn't help but thaw a little when he heard about the officer's son. It was hard, he supposed, to be a military man with a family. All the same, it wasn't the Lieutenant's sympathetic history that made Bastian quiet, it was the scenario that he presented.

What if? What if Sebastian made it to the front lines, to a real battle? There he was, in the mud, waiting for doom, listening to the war cries of the Barbarians, the pounding of their feet, and thunder of their horses' hooves. He was crouched down low behind his shield, locked in a line with his fellow soldiers, their pikes stuck outwards, towards the advancing hordes. He sees, through a tiny gap, the face of one such Barbarian, and for moment, he thinks he sees his own reflection. Is that his nose? His mouth? Are those his eyes? Is this man, this man about to run Bastian's pike into his gut, is he his long lost father? Would he sit there silently, waiting for the warrior's wight to drag his weapon down, or would he hesitate, perhaps even break rank?

No. Sebastian pushed away the vision. No. He was a Thiasan. He was. His father, if he was a Baskar, had raped his mother, a woman, no doubt, who had no part in this horrible war. If his father was a Thiasan, his mother was a woman who had abandoned him to the enemy-- what could she have expected for him, but death? The only family he had ever known was Lydia, a Thiasan woman, and so, he decided, if the choice ever came, he would put her on the scales beside his Barbarian blood. In that thought he took refuge, confident in his love . And yet, and yet, there was that ache. That empty, hollow place, that laughed at him and his denials. Out of its depths, a wisp of chill, insidious, doubt curled around his heart. Doubt.

Sebastian was quiet for a long time, because he knew, knew in a despairing sort of way, that he did not know the answer to the Lieutenant's question. He did not know if he would hesitate to kill a savage, if the savage looked like him. Every Barbarian was a potential brother, something Bastian had no knowledge of, and no hope for, in Thiasa. Would there be a sense of connection? A sense of belonging, perhaps? So Sebastian was quiet, and he carefully considered his words. What could he ask of this man, knowing what he did?

Finally, Sebastian opened his mouth. “Well, give me the chance to fail, sir. Damn me, once my deeds are done, and not before. Please, lieutenant, wait to condemn me until I've earned it.”

"Damn you." Digby's voice came out as a whip-crack. "People's lives are at stake here." He advanced on the boy, who stood straight before him. "What you don't seem to understand is that a moment of your hesitation will kill your fellow soldiers." He glared. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he had to remind himself--this boy was half his age, this boy was lost, this boy was ignorant, this boy would not profit from the sound drubbing he so sorely wanted to administer.

"You don't understand that you can't come to battle lookin' to prove anything. You fight to protect your bloody country and you fight with all your heard or people die, good people, better men than you. An infantry's a unit. Was a time when they were all members of the same city, and they defended themselves all together, for home and family and city. And you best ask yourself--what is your home? You'd best ask that or you'd best not fight at all."

Sebastian almost jumped at man's curse. He felt a little sinking shame as the man talked. Preached, really. Nevertheless, Sebastian refused to back down. He stood straight, as the officer advanced on him, and met his eyes. If he was going to get beat, he was going to get beat, and judging from the tension evident in the Lieutenant's stance, that was not such an outlandish idea.

When the officer was finished, Sebastian waited a moment, searching the man's face. It was an important question that the man had posed, but it was one Sebastian was already asking. It felt like a punch in the stomach to hear it from someone else, but it wasn't an unfamiliar sensation. The man was partially right- Sebastian had an obligation to the men around him. The flippant little boy in him wanted to point out that not fighting was very simply not an option, what with him being a conscript, but he held that back. That was not the point of the conversation. He wanted to mention that those lives, those lives in such peril, included Sebastian's own, but he knew that was not the right answer, either. And all that, all that talk about going to war with nothing to prove? Now Sebastian knew that wasn't fact. Advice from a veteran or no, every soldier had something to prove. Mostly, it was to himself, but sometimes, it was to those around him. The ones who died were the ones who fought ONLY to prove something. You also had to fight FOR something. Sebastian had something to fight for, but he didn't think telling the Lieutenant that would make much of a difference, either.

Really, there was nothing Bastian could say. The officer was determined not to trust him. Bastian was young, he was confused about himself, and about the world. There was no way he could set the older man straight, no way to convince him that Bastian was worth trusting.

In the end, Sebastian just spoke-- said what he thought the man was ready to hear, and kept the rest to himself. “I'll be a good soldier, Sir.” He promised. It was a pledge he'd also made to himself. “I've got something. Something to fight for. And yes, I do have something to prove. As for the rest...well, sir, I have never been to war, but I hear it's ugly. I can't say I won't hesitate to kill a man, but if I do, it won't be because he has skin like mine. I doubt there's another soldier here who can say that."

Grudgingly, Digby nodded, the fight seeping out of him.

"It's something you need to think about," he said at last, his voice a rumble. If he hadn't been him, his tone might have been called petulant. "You're right. It ain't easy to kill, no matter who you're killing. And I have more reason to do it than some, and I don't think it's right to take you boys from your homes and put you on the battlefield with no wherefore or sayso."

He rubbed his forehead, tired. The air had that tangy taste to it, as though a lightning storm had just passed them by. It was the aftertaste of a sour argument.

"Come on, boy. Do you have a name that isn't s'bloody long as Sebastian? You need some food in you or you'll disappear." He jerked his head in the direction of the mess hall.

The man sighed, and with that sigh, all the wind in his proverbial sails seemed to dissipate. Sebastian was mildly surprised to hear about the man's dislike of conscription. Sebastian shared his distaste for it, not surprisingly. What truly shocked him, though, was when the Lieutenant asked for a familiar name, and, if Sebastian wasn't completely going daft, invited him to eat lunch.

The tension was still there, if only barely, coiled up and waiting to spring out again. Sebastian doubted that this man would ever be able to trust him fully, but who knew? Sometimes people were the most surprising of creatures-- if only because of their adaptability. After blinking dumbly for a moment or two, Sebastian realized that he was, indeed, quite hungry. Training all morning under the sun, and then arguing with this rather intense man, had left him feeling famished and exhausted.

“Ah, Bastian, I suppose.” He shrugged. “It's not much shorter. Oh, but I think I'll take you up on that. I am hungry. Quite hungry. Lieutenant,” He nodded to his superior. If nothing else, this officer struck Bastian as a decent man. A father. A military man. A good soldier. Someone Sebastian did not want to be completely unlike, in many ways. However, the intricacies of the Lieutenant's character, and that of his own, and of their relationship, would just have to wait. Right at this moment, Bastian had been reminded that he was hungry.