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noonmutter · 1 year

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DWC May 2023 Day 6-7: Gleaming/Hurt, Lover/Aftermath

Military dress was never going to be comfortable for the eldest living Ambroce. Standing in front of a crowd, even if it was in a courtroom--a packed one, and most of them not frothing at the mouth for his execution, which was a nice change of pace--with gleaming medals and shining embroidery in his sleeves and his name in a little patch on his breast felt unnatural.

Don't fidget with it, Ambroce. You're in front of more brass than you've ever seen in your life, and you don't fidget in front of this much brass.

Somewhere in the seats behind him were people he actually knew, the ones that had survived the ordeal of being on his side. Alynore Forrester, now Knight-Commander of the Crusade, and Dolraan Sa'naan, Crusader-Lord (gods, clergy were terrible at titles, it was so painfully redundant) of the same, had done everything in their considerable power to keep him out of a noose. It came as no shock to him that nobody had successfully made them regret that, not even him.

"Private Ambroce, you came to the Argent Crusade as a prisoner, a traitor to your people and all nations under the Alliance banner. You were slated for execution, and by all accounts, even you accepted this as just. However, the late Deacon Albrecht did not. He claimed to see great potential in you, and requested clemency. By weight of his reputation, you received it: your life and a sealed record in exchange for military service, if you could find an outfit that would take you.

"In spite of all odds, you and the Deacon did it. The reports coming from your COs--many of which I am told were adamantly against this deal to begin with--described a man driven to prove his worth as a man, and possessed of such unwavering loyalty that he nearly landed himself back in prison for the sake of others’ reputations. The now-Knight-Commander Forrester spoke particularly highly of you, in spite of the good-intentioned idiocy of that last incident, and so did Crusader-Lord Sa'naan."

Deacon Albrecht. The name sent a pang of grief through him that he fought to push down. He couldn't afford to focus on that now, not again, not here. The first man to show anything but disdain for a traitorous bastard slated to die, and the first one to suffer for it. If he'd failed anyone, Terry felt most powerfully that he'd failed him. He hadn't been there to save him, only heard about his murder after the fact. But he refused to dwell on that failure, out of respect for the firebrand that the Deacon had been.

"In fact, Private Ambroce, it was actually difficult for me to find reports of your service that were negative. Plenty about your personality--abrasive, defiant, coarse, et cetera--but not your service. In that regard, all parties agreed: for all your faults, you are a man of honor. The only dissenting opinions on this matter came from parties who are now in our tender, loving custody for their part in your service's unlawful extension. This of course means their statements are worth, approximately, dogshit."

The blunt phrasing got a startled snort out of him, but he was far from the only one, the eruption lost in the sound of murmurs and chuckling in the seats behind him. Sergeant Rutherford had deserved the beating he'd gotten, the beating that Terry had incited. Order an Ambroce to kill a child, no matter what kind, and just see where that got you. There was no regret to be found there; even if he'd been shot for it, he would've died proud.

The amusement on his face died as his mind wandered to Diggs. His best friend, the man he'd trusted to watch out for his little brother all those years ago in Gilneas, turned against him so completely that Shedwyn had nearly been killed on their doorstep just to send him a message. Terry thought Declan Diggs had died along with everyone else in the collapse of Duskhaven, and Diggs had been convinced Terry had just forgotten about him. And that was all it took. Diggs didn't seem to understand why Terry hadn't forgiven him once everything had come to light.

And all of it spearheaded by Smits. Fuckin' Smythe fuckin' Mathers, of all people. Another close friend, slighted that one man had the audacity not to be able to find him in the aftermath of a continental collapse. They'd spent their childhoods causing trouble and pissing off the watch together, but how dare Terry, just as confused and lost and broken as everyone else with the added bonus of being enslaved by the Forsaken, not be able to find him. How dare Terry be the one to give up. Smits had lost the plot somewhere and replaced it with a new one, where he got his hands on a cushy records job and used it to keep Terry enlisted until he killed himself or got killed.

There'd been no forgiveness asked for or given, there. Smits had been lucky to walk away from that confrontation in the first place. The only reason he'd lived to be imprisoned was because Terry needed him alive to clear his own name. Even then, it'd been horribly close. If Terry hadn't stopped her, Shedwyn was ready to vaporize him and capture his soul in a bottle.

He wasn't totally sure she wasn't still gonna do it after this whole stupid affair played out. His wee wife was a lot less capable of moving on than he was, and Caythaes... Terry couldn't tell if Caythaes was trying to stop her or enabling her, sometimes. Wierd little elf.

“We return, at last, to the heart of the matter. Your initial contract of service was fulfilled, by all accounts, but it was not recorded thusly. We now know this was intentionally done by traitors within our own midst, but the harm that was done to you in the meantime—and the total lack of help you received in resolving it—cannot be undone. Nor can it be overstated. The Alliance failed you, Private Ambroce, and it is a dark mark that the Alliance as a whole will bear forever. For whatever the word of an officer is still worth to you, I give you my solemn oath that this will be the first and last time that happens. I am a soldier, and I lack the words to properly convey the depths of my sorrow for what we have done to you, but I think I can pick up that slack with words that you have long deserved to hear."

Hang on, what? Terry actually started listening to the general on the bench. He'd checked out almost the second he'd read the mustachioed man's name--Rutherford--and gone cold all over. That the ratfaced sergeant he'd revolted against had a relative with stars on his shoulder had explained an awful lot.

"Most men in your situation--conscripted illegally and with no one willing to listen or able to assist--would have fled. Barring that, they would have done the bare minimum required of them at all times. You? You represented the best of yourself, the best of men, the best of the Alliance. You saved lives that would have been lost without anyone able to count them. You protected those you were ordered to slaughter. You made a goddamn legend of yourself, Lighthound. And you did it without demands, expectations, or orders. You did it because all you wanted was to go home to a family that could still respect you.

"Those who served alongside you would have committed war crimes for you. At least one of them tried."

And that would be Barton. Lucky dumbass. His battle buddy had taken multiple beatings on his behalf, and pulled his ass out of a dozen fires, only to nearly end up torched himself.

"If I had the ability, I'd be pushing for a bloody knighthood. But that's not my jurisdiction, and based on all these reports, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't accept it."

The chattering grew loud and intense enough for the presiding officer to bang the gavel and call to order. The speaker was ordered to continue, but warned to maintain decorum, and the general's mustache crinkled with his grin as he cleared his throat.

"With that in mind...The Grand Army of the Alliance, by the authority, signatures, and seals of Regent Lord Turalyon, Captain Kalor Sirensong, and General Bradley Rutherford, declares Private Second Class Terrence Samuel Ambroce to be a soldier in good standing, and his prior debts to the Grand Army of the Alliance to be settled in full. This matter is now closed, and is beyond contestation."

What.

"As a soldier in good standing, and having shown exemplary courage, resilience, and loyalty, the Grand Army of the Alliance grants Private Second Class Terrence Samuel Ambroce the rank of Sergeant, with all rights, classifications, and benefits afforded."

Oh. His heart sank. They'd done this to him a dozen times before. Good job soldier, here's another chevron, get back to work. Going home? Ha, no, you're too valuable for that, go clean up. They thought it was funny.

"Finally… On this day, the Grand Army of the Alliance discharges Sergeant Terrence Samuel Ambroce with full military honors."

The general smiled at the stunned silence from the man who had, up till that moment, looked like he was just receiving another set of marching orders. Now, bless the lad, he looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and given the way the poor sod had been through every wringer imaginable at the same time, it'd probably be both.

General Rutherford had burst out laughing when the first report had reached him. His little shithead nephew had finally mouthed off to the wrong grunt, eh? Good! Bet he pissed himself, the embarrassing little coward, wouldn't know good soldiering if it broke his nose, hah. And then he'd started doing some reading about the man that'd tried in vain to teach the jackass some manners. Gods above, below, and sideways, General Rutherford would've killed for a nephew like this Ambroce boy.

But he didn't have the luxury of trading family members, so he tapped into his inner Fun Uncle as he stepped down from the bench and crossed the aisle to clap a hand on Ambroce's immobile shoulder.

"Go home, soldier. You've earned it."

The general knew better than to stick around--he'd already seen that little purple freight train of a wife barreling toward Ambroce with little regard for pesky obstacles like people. He exchanged a few pleasantries with the Crusader-Lord and Knight Commander on their way past one another, and excused himself to deal with Misters Diggs and Mathers. Their trials were going to be a very different sort of satisfying.

Terry wanted to argue that he didn't need a promotion, that he didn't want a better pension. That he was a Silver Dragoon, not a soldier; there was a difference, by damn. But nobody could hear him, because he couldn't bring himself to speak. He felt Shedwyn all but collide into him, doing her best to squeeze him in half, while Dolraan and Alynore kept a respectful distance and waited their turns to either give their own congratulations, or help drag him to the infirmary.

The man finally broke when he found Graeme and Toby looking up at him. His little boys, whose lives he'd missed so much of.

That he'd never have to miss again. That nothing could ever make him miss again.

It was impossible to actually do it, but Terry tried his best to hide in his wife's mass of hair so nobody could see him cry.

( @daily-writing-challenge @shedwyn @red-alynore @sirdolraan @mekandawn )

#my writing #and so arrives terry #dwc #the light in lordaeron #I FINALLY FINISHED ONE

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