And there he was. Like a bloody common recruit, locked away in the barracks.

"Considerations of space" indeed. In retrospect, it might have helped had he not attempted to rearrange the recruitment sergeant's face when he'd come knocking. But really; François was, for all his status as an exile, technically a foreigner and a knight. The ignominy of military impressment shouldn't have been his lot. Weren't knights supposed to accede gracefully to the army's demands?

... granted, he hadn't done that...

So here he was. He'd brought a manservant, a serviceable part-Celt called something he didn't bother remembering, and who currently unloaded the burden of François's armor without a word, before holding out a hand for pay. He dropped a full sterling into the cupped palm, with a flourish.

"Thanks," he said drily, surveying his new quarters. Not large enough. The beds were barely three feet apart, and they couldn't expect him to clean his own armor, could they? Or to train with the new recruits? That was a prospect both humiliating and, well, boring. If he knew anything, he did know his way around a sword. Well--technique. In a real battle his size wouldn't stand him in good stead. He'd avoid it somehow.

"And they call the Baskar the barbarians," he muttered to himself, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing as he pinched bedbugs from beneath the regulation-issue wool blanket. "Enough!" He flung himself down onto the bed, his head momentarily descending into his hands, and then started upright. No reason he couldn't just make more room for himself, was there? His books alone, sitting in the satchel his servant had used to carry them, took up half of his personal space. No one else here had any books. And then there was his collection of antique flasks, and his money, some of which was back in his small estate. Which, as it happened, wasn't quite far enough into the middle of nowhere to deter the recruitment officials.

Now that he was here, and determined to make the best of it, he slid to his feet and grabbed the nearest bed, pulling it flush against his own, before he flung himself down onto the broad comfort of the doubled mattress.

Then he fell asleep.

How longer after he wasn't sure, he woke up, sensing a presence, stretched, and yawned.

"Oh," he said, feigning a look of surprise. "Is this yours? We'll just have to share."

A stick in the mud.

That was what young Lonan Ballard resembled, a dusty, dirty, stick in the mud. The poor sheep farmer’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he took in the roughly constructed garrison for the first time. The boy from West Duain was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of activity. He was used to wide open fields and lazy days hid beneath a tree. Drilling men and sparring fights? This was too much. They’d set him off like an over burdened pack horse, carrying his issued equipment in to the infantry barracks. He’d have to get used to the uniform, Lonan had never owned clothes that actually fit him this well. Of course, the sleeves were still a little long and they’d had to make a new notch in the belt for it to be functional… but still!

The inside of the barracks was actually a little more what Lonan was used to, not the scale of course, but the close quarters. He and Ennis had shared a single room home for many years now. Ugh! Ennis. The thought of him alone put Lonan in a sour mood. It was his fault he was here in the first place. What a horrible older brother. The pout remained pursed on his lips as he counted down the bed rows in his head to the instructed number where he was supposed to place his things. When he finally got there, Lonan had yet another surprise waiting for him.

The bed which was supposed to be his was currently pressed against another and a young man laid sprawled across them both. The blonde’s head tilted to one side, a look of confusion plastered bluntly across his face. Why on earth would anyone need two beds? And what was all this stuff? The only book that was ever kept in his home had been the bible, and even that had collected a fair amount of dust from sparse use. He was squinting, and in the process of trying to decipher what the title of one was (Lonan barely knew how to read basic words and even that was slow going,) when the sleeping man finally roused. He straightened his posture immediately, as if snapping to attention. The simple short sword he’d been barely holding on to slipped from his grasp. Luckily the weapon was sheathed. The thick leather cover hit against Lonan’s foot causing the boy to jump, his voice cracking in pain. “Mother of—“ he bit his lip to keep from swearing.

When he was sure the throbbing in his toe had subsided enough to speak, his head cocked again to one side and he asked the question that had been nagging him since he'd walked in. "But... Why on earth would you need two?"

François rolled over onto his back, his arms clasped behind his head, watching the newcomer. He was blond and good-looking, but he had eyes like a sheep's. Completely dull, completely dim. Hadn't even the verve to get angry.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm sure I can think of something." Slowly, deliberately, he winked. "The question is, what were you doing with one? Couldn't find any company, is that it?" He shook his head and writhed, rumpling the bedcovers, forgetting the lice that surely lurked there. The trick to living well was to forget it was really living badly. And it always was.

"But then, you really aren't one of Nature's philosophers, are you."

A glance up and down. Country bumpkin, for certain. Nothing more and nothing less. How depressing when life failed to reward the impatient and optimistic.

Not that he was precisely optimistic.