Not Forgotten

Patience...

So, it's been a minute. And by a minute, I mean the last time I wrote a new chapter was just under two years ago. First things first: I am taking my work into a new direction. What I mean by that is that there will be far less unnecessary and pointless erotica. Looking back on my old work, I can not even get through a chapter without cringing and feeling sick to my stomach. The writing will be far more mature, meaningful, and soulful. This does not mean that there will be no sex scenes or whatever you want to call them in literature form, but they will be FAR less frequent and always be significant to plot or character development if there even is any at all. Also, the character of Anistasia Vygovska is gone. It was a stupid idea and was a shameless copy of what another author had in their story at the time of writing. My uploads will resume, but far less frequent as I am working on an actual original story that is not fan fiction. I have no idea how long this will remain the case as I might fall back into uploading daily, or this might be the last time you will bet hear from me. Thanks, and enjoy.

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The days continued. Wake up. Get dressed in perfect uniform (the Captain would reprimand us if we did not iron our uniforms daily to avoid any imperfections). roll call. A measly breakfast of plain bread and a splash of milk, clean the barracks. Get verbally abused for doing a sub-par job. Run anywhere from 3-12 kilometres based on how bad the captain thought our cleaning of the barracks was. Clean the armoury. ODM training. Verbal abuse for our sub-par marks in training. Eat a small lunch of more bread with some measly pork mixed in every now and then. Clean the captain's office. Further verbal abuse for doing a sub-par job at cleaning the Captain's office. Run another 3-10 kilometres. Eat a solid dinner of meat, rice, milk, and fresh vegetables out of the garden. Hand to hand combat training on a full stomach where, if we (Ouro) were caught slacking off, we were all beaten in the gut until we vomited our freshly eaten supper by the captain. Then came tea time; a sacred time where the captain was not only tolerable, but happy and talkative. At first, no one was interested in talking to him out of fear of doing something else sub-par and facing unimaginable consequences, however, one night Ouro either worked up the courage or was stupid enough to ask him a question.
"What is the deal with the ascot?" Asked Ouro. "It's a cravat." The captain retorted, momentarily annoyed, shooting him one of his scary side eyed glares. "Sorry" replied Ouro, "what is the deal with the cravat."
"It is a piece of my mother's dress." The Captain replied. "I didn't know you were a momma's boy, Captain!" Ouro replied. "Do you see her often?"
"No. She died when I was eight and I was raised by the most infamous serial killer in underground history." The captain retorted in an even more monotone voice than usual.
"You're funny captain!" Ouro said with a laugh. Everyone in the room just stared at him like he had just said he had a bomb in his jacket while in the middle of a city square. "Ouro, I don't think the Captain is joking." Whispered Eld. Ouro's eyes widened in horror, realising what he had just done.
"This tea is delicious tonight, Captain! What kind is it?" Ouro said, desperately trying to change the subject from anything that could result in his body being found in a swamp. "Chamomile." The Captain said, miraculously seeming to be in a good mood once again. "The commander sent us this high quality stuff from the capital as a gift. Not that you brats deserve it."
We all finished our tea and went to bed. As I was laying in bed, dreading the painful cycle that would inevitably come in a few hours, I had an interesting thought. Maybe, just maybe, the Captain really does care about us. There have been these little things that go unrecognised that hint at true, hidden kindness. It had just been hidden behind all of the torment and torture that was our daily routine. The way that he helps us in our training, showing us these tiny things we can adjust to become just the slightest bit faster or how to keep our blades sharper after multiple attacks. The way he always analysis us at the end of the day to make sure that we have no wounds or lingering injuries. The way that he always makes us dinner every night and makes sure that there is enough for seconds. Even his cruelty and harsh training is really just to give us the best odds to survive out there. The pained look in his eyes that can be seen in most seasoned soldiers of the scouts. I have know nothing about his past but I can tell that he has lost someone very important to him and that he blames himself-his constant anger being a product of vicious self hatred. You can tell that it kills him to know that in all likelihood, he will see us die. He knows that the dead - they've settled their dept. It's up to the living to pick up the tab. How many people has he seen die? How does he live with being the strongest? I have seen people die, but me? I'm only 20 years old. I haven't even been a soldier for 5 years. If I live, how will it effect me?
As my thought begin to muddle and I slip into sleep, I get one more in. If I live and they die, who will I have? Will the Captain comfort me? Maybe that wouldn't be so bad...