We're Burning (Frerard)

15. The Ways - One Two Three And... No Four

„There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart." - Jane Austen

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"Mr. Prince?" A small, nasally voice called from behind him, tugging on Frank's shirt.

Frank turned around, coming to face a young elf and who seemed to be his father. The boy was young, perhaps ten or twelve. He was rather tall and scrawny for his age, and his mousy brown hair was tousled adorably on top of his head.

His father looked much like him, tall, slightly muscular unlike the boy, with his brown hair messed by the breeze. Hesitantly, Frank glanced at Ray, whose helmet was held in his hands, his curly hair bouncing lightly around his face, tucked behind his ears.

It was the first time Frank ever saw him without it on, he noted dully. The pointed tips of his ears made it hard for him not to stare, but with everything that had happened in the last few hours, he believed that bit of rudeness was a luxury he could afford. At least with Ray.

Ray nodded encouragingly at him and Frank gulped. He turned back to the boy and his father. "Yes?" He asked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

The boy fiddled with something in his hands, and looked up at his father, similar to the way Frank had looked at Ray. His father put his hand on his bony shoulder and squeezed, smiling softly at him. "Go on, kiddo."

Frank's fingers twitched. It made something inside him ache - seeing how lovingly the man looked at his kid, and the way the kid's features filled with determination at his encouragement. The boy turned back to him.

"Mr. Prince? I was wondering if you could..." the boy gulped, and pressed the thing in his hands closer to his chest. "When the guards left our village, they - they took away a lot of people with them. And I - I heard them say they'll take my brother to the castle."

Frank nodded quietly. He had a feeling he knew where the boy was heading with his request. A part of him wondered why the kid couldn't ask Pete or Ray. Another part of him, a more logical, strategic part of him realized this was some sort of a test. The boy probably wasn't even aware of it.

Subtly looking around him, Frank caught Jamia, the woman who had led the group of elves that captured them and brought them to the refugee camp, and who led the whole... rebellion, - Frank still didn't like that word - looking at them from afar. He realized that it was indeed a test.

"Last time I saw him," the boy mumbled quietly, and looked down at - a picture, it was an old picture in his hands. "He was being taken away from me. I think - " the boy's eyes became misty. He looked like he was about to cry.

"I think he thinks I'm dead," the boy stuttered. His lower lip wobbled dangerously, and when he looked up at Frank, his eyes were big and full of unshed tears.

It made Frank want to recoil, to take a step back, away from the kid. Away from all that madness. Instead, something in him softened, and he crouched down, looking at the kid as kindly as he could.

"Do you want me to tell him you're alive and well?" Frank asked softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

The young elf nodded, thrusting the picture in Frank's face, so close to his eyes he could only see a blur of colors. He bit the inside of his cheek. He was going to have to find that elf from the tens of them in the castle. If he was even there.