Madelaine// Gaston |1|

24

     The next morning had approached. Madelaine never went back to her cottage. She didn't go talk to her sister. And she didn't leave Gaston's side. When she woke up, she realized the serious déjà vu falling among her. 

     Her eyes trailed to their intertwined fingers, making her smile. Then her smile fell. He still didn't remember. That's why she left without a sound, leaving to head to the tavern. She reached it without any disruptions and went to the upstairs immediately. She had never been up there. Not once. But now, she just needed to be alone. 

     It's where Gaston keeps everything he can from the war. Gear, weapons, blankets, dead soldiers journals. Anything he could've brought home. Right now, Madelaine needed one specific journal that she knew would be there. She went to the desk that held the journals, going through the first draw. 

     Almost seven different small drawers and several many journals later, she found two that she wanted. Then one other. Gaston's journal. Then, two that had been left on the battlefield. Arthur and Philip's. 

     As she read Philip's, she felt bad. He was only lonely, broken. He had watched his friends die on the front lines. He thought it was all his fault, his sympathy in that moment was greater than any hate he had ever produced in somebody else. 

     Then Arthur's. That stung like a bitch. He may have been royalty, he may have been cruel, but one thing was for sure: he was lost. Lonely, different over all. What kind of lonely, though, could the great Prince Arthur feel? Only the one where his father sent him to the war to make his son brave. Also in hopes that his son would die there. 

     Was it that kind of lonely? Was he alone and lost because his family doesn't want him to take up the throne? Or were they teaching him a lesson? Is that why he was fighting so hard for Madelaine? He wanted to show his family that he wasn't weak. He could be powerful, and it was terrifying. But the Prince has a sensitive side, and that's the one that most people remember. 

     And then there was Gaston. Completely opposite from the rest. He wrote of a secret lover. He used her name only once and that was at the end of the journal when he said goodbye. It was the final battle of the French Revolution, and he thought his death was certain to come. The truth behind it all, it wasn't a battle. 

     It was the day he saved the town. The morning started with battle cries outside of a tent. 

Gaston's P.O.V Two Years Ago- Journal Entry

     The sound of battle cries still rings in my ears today. I knew what was going to happen, I knew we were going to win. But was I going to survive? With every movement I made, I was a movement closer to stepping out of that tent and facing death. You could say it wasn't really a win-win moment. More win-lose. Which is why I was mentally preparing my soul in that moment. 
     A burden that I'd been carrying lifted off my soldier once I got outside. A friend of mine, that didn't return, had ran up to me. He said: "Captain, there is an attack planned on a village named Conques. You must stop it." 
     At the time, I thought I wouldn't be alone. My assumption was that I had others coming to join me at the attack. Little did I know, I was very wrong. The hour I had reached the village, there were people everywhere, bustling and running in the morning. I had found a fountain, and stood atop it. At the moment, I yelled throughout the village for each person to retreat to their homes or any safety. Maybe even leave. 
     And they listened. When I jumped down, I had run into a beautiful woman, who's name I won't recall now. But it was as if I was falling for someone. And I fell for her looks. I am still in love with her today, but by the time I read this again, I probably won't be. She looked up at me, then apologized quickly before rushing to her little cottage where an old man waited outside. 
     After that, my doubts started coming about people helping me with this army coming to the village. The minute they started coming, I was on my own. There was at least fifty coming to ransack the entire place. And I, single handily, slaughtered all of them. Some in the process coming for me, might have hit their own friends other than me. 
     It was all finished, and I had defeated and entire half an army that wanted to slaughter men, women, and children. And leave them for dead. I saved their lives, they are all alive and grateful today because of me. But why does it feel like I am not the hero here? Behind my beast, behind the monster, I feel like it could have all been prevented. The other army could have retreated, they could've gone to a different town. 
     How did I get so lucky with this one? How did I win? How am I here today? How am I writing this passage without hesitation? Because I won. My gentle side in that moment faded away. It's gone forever, my softness being overtaken by a monster. And the only way to get my soft side back, is for someone to get it out of me. 
     The war is over, and this is my goodbye to this journal. To the other woman I loved. Goodbye Allison, I hope the way you left me suited you. Leaving me for death, thank you for that. And goodbye to my formal self. You are not you anymore, you are strong. And if someone has brought out the better side of me, then thank you.