Alternate Realities

Lucas Samos

Anonymous: Not based on a prompt or anything, but would you consider writing about Lucas Samos? Poor baby deserved better! I'm also intrigued by Elara and Samson Merandus too lol thanks <3

Answer:

They do their best to stand straight as soldiers. They mime the posture, they hold so perfectly still they are obviously recruits. First-off, none of them know for certain how to hold their hands. Some cast their fingers straight down, others curl them in fists. In less than a week, they'll all be too tired to do more than just hold their hands relaxed at their sides, unlock their knees, and breath evenly under their uniforms. For now, every glance or barked order makes them jump. There's too much inside of them. Too much fear. Too much hope. Too much excitement. So many questions.

Who will kill first? Who will be killed? Who will cause an accident? Friendly fire? Missed assignment?

One glance to the captain and I know she's making the same wagers as I am. Every three months, the high houses and common silvers alike send a few of their children to become heroes. Leaders. To become like me, to be like General McCathos, or the Panther. To prowl around the Lakelands and finally end the war. They send them to be the bringers of glory where no glory has ever been found.

I killed my first man in my sixteenth week. He was tall, small for a Strongarm, and light on his feet. He came to the rear of the camp and would have crushed me. I laid him out with a steal stake through his neck. I had been aiming for his heart, but I missed. I told my commanding officer I didn't want him to scream. They gave me my first medal for an accident. I served the rest of my guard shift stinking of blood, feeling the faint iron within it. I did not feel any glory.

Who will go home in a box? Who will go home a ghost? Who isn't human enough to be haunted? The questions, the statistics wear me out.

Pacing up one line and back down another, we examine the recruits. I look for their uniform to be in standard, pristine position. No wrinkles. No stains. Collars buttoned and name tags straight. I stop and correct the alignment of a shirt. The recruit holds her breath the entire time. Her jaw quivers. She might be frightened enough to have a chance or just enough to freeze. I finish. I move on.

If I didn't see the insignia, I wouldn't have been able to pick the prince out of the new recruits, but he wears the black crown on his left shoulder. I knew he would come soon, eventually, just not now. We're told to treat him the same, but that splash of black means differently. We're to keep him alive, keep him safe, let him collect stories he can tell until he's grey in the temples. Every King needs stories about war, none of them have ever seen a real fight, just a play for their stories.

Silvers, get sent when our families please. Fifteen for Prince Tiberias, I doubt he's ever had to shave. I see others in the row that must be younger than thirteen. None as young as I was when Uncle Volo sent me. Up to a quarter might die in the next six months because there's no truly safe place. Those that survive, those from the high houses, they'll go home with their stories. The rest, they'll likely stick out a full five years for their stipend. A stipend gets a good marriage, some property, a business. None of that is glory.

"Thoughts, Samos?" Crevling asks when we meet at the front of the formations.

"Third row, third from the end, box for sure," I sigh. She gives me her wager. And then training commences. They'll be in the trenches in six weeks.

.

I write the letters home. If we don't know what happened, we use a form letter, like the reds. They lose too many for specifics. But when I can, for my soldiers, I try my best to give their families what I would want if I had a child lost in this war. Today, I write the first letter for the latest recruits.