Taking a stein full of birdseed with him, the Colonel emerged from his tent with breath puffing from his nose in the crisp air and heavy fabrics billowing behind him. Soldiers stopped and bowed their heads in respect as Francis passed, despite their commanding officer’s eyes being more attentive to the ground between their feet and along the bottom trappings of canvas.

However, it wasn’t long before a sight least expected snared his icy gaze as he spotted the blue rump of a fat hen scuttling under the tent of the captive being held. A moment’s pang of apprehension stung Francis in the chest. He couldn’t afford to lose another hen, let alone by the hands of a petty Imperial.

The tent flap briskly opened with the Colonel’s arrival, the shape of his face torn between bewilderment and offense at the scene inside.

Adrian was resting uncomfortably against the center pole; half asleep and with his hands were bound tight and low. Angry red marks and bruises glowed on his freckled skin. The hens were clucking amiably, wandering about him with one trying to take residence in his lap. Their plump behinds spilled over onto the dusty ground while they clucked softly and pecked bits of stale bread from the alleged murderer’s hands. The others milled about the tent with a calm and curious air. Of course, not a feather ruffled or harmed.

Francis’s frown deepened, quietly witnessing the captured man sing low and under his breath. It sounded of the L’Eyon language, a manner of rhyme crooned softly to himself and his feathered guests, and they returned it with pleased clucking and stretching of their necks to inspect Adrian’s hands for more food. They had been lured there by the promise of an easy, fattened meal.

“Bread will spoil them, you know.”

Francis’s voice made Adrian give a violent jerk, and the hens gave startled squawks. Adrian’s eyes flew open and he tried to sit up straighter, spilling the creatures from his lap. Their wings fluffed and flapped in irritation at being disturbed. He looked up, fire shining in golden eyes that made the cloaked Colonel nearly take a startled step back himself. Bruises bloomed along his face, and his long red hair had become further disheveled from abuse. His mouth was pale and cracked from dehydration, cheeks sunken as he tried to shift and sit up with what little dignity had been left to him.

“It’s all I have,” Adrian rasped after a beaten of quiet.

“The bread is for you, not my regiment’s livestock,” Francis barked with raised alarm at the haggard, beaten appearance. He gripped the tent flap open and stuffed his displeased face outside. The guilty shadows of Privates Maitiu Curran and Camilla Junia sunk in on themselves. “Did I not make my orders clear, privates?! Get this man some damned water, now!”

“Yes, Colonel! Right away, sir!” The two jumped in unison, hands on their hats as they bolted down the hill towards the river.

Francis turned back into the tent, face livid with anger.

Adrian was watching the imposing figure of the Colonel with distrust and a startled frown etched into his face at the booming voice. He looked down to the creatures, carefully petting the beak of one with an inflamed finger. He spoke with a rasp to his voice. “You...wish for them back?” It was a quiet statement, already missing the small comfort of the fuzzy and docile hens.

Francis pressed his thin mouth into a line. “No.” He bent, setting the birdseed the hens ate in front of Adrian’s feet. “As long as you feed them correctly.”

Thoughtful, Adrian reached for the stein and brought it closer. He took up a handful, suppressing a smile as the hens clucked happily and pecked at his hand. “They are....very soft. Big too.”

Francis heard how ill and suspicious the man was. His gaze lingered on the Imperial’s trappings, grimacing with how the men had tied him. His hands were bound so tight his fingertips were an aching red and swollen, his wrists were rubbed raw and brought low so he could never stand or sit straight.

Sighing, Francis unsheathed a small silver blade and stepped quickly over to the other man.

Adrian shrunk back, seed falling from his hands to his lap and the ground as he brought them up to block a blow. A ferocious look flamed brightly in his eyes, ready for a fight and the interrogations that were promised.

Closing his eyes to find patience, Francis cut the rope loose and frowned at the bits of blood along the captive’s wrists. “Stand, stretch, we will begin when they return with water for you to drink.”

“My interrogation,” Adrian murmured. He swallowed and brought his aching hands close to his chest with a wince. It felt odd to stand. Francis took a large step back to allow Adrian space as he stretched and straightened, his back giving uncomfortable cracks as he twisted this way and that.

Francis flushed and moved even further back. Adrian was a good head taller than he, with a long braid that fell down to the backs of his knees. His shoulders were broad and what remained of his muscle showed through his sleeves.

Francis sniffed and raised his chin. “We shall speak like gentlemen. The Wiskusset 17th is honor bound to treat you fairly as a prisoner until we reach Surryfield. Despite our quarrel with the Imperials’ presumptuous oppression, we aren’t that different, you and I. The General shall determine the terms of your return to the Imperials, whether it be on foot or in casket.”

Silence stretched between them. Adrian looked straight forward, not quite meeting Francis’s eyes but actually looking more at his left ear.

Clearing his throat, Francis tapped his heel against the hard ground. “Name and rank?”

Again, only silence. Adrian’s shoulders stiffened and his mouth pressed into an angry line, pupils dilating as he glanced at Francis’s face and then looked swiftly away again.

A muscle ticked in Francis’s jaw, and he huffed as he looked down his long nose.

It was incredible to Adrian, that this other man was able to look down at him when he was so much shorter.

The Colonel flipped the tail of his blonde hair over his slim shoulder. “It will be easier to advocate a prisoner exchange fairly with your name and rank, sir.”

Worrying his lip, Adrian looked carefully at the Colonel’s face. For a moment there was silence again, but before Francis could bark another order at him, he answered in a raw voice, “Subaltern A...Adrian Soleil.” Rasping under his breath, he added, “E...Emperor’s Alchemist.”

Francis lofted a brow at the curious detail. “So you’re a doctor.”

“An Emperor’s Alchemist,” Adrian corrected with a bite to his voice.

Camilla poked her head in, not saying a word as she shoved a large leather skein of water towards the Colonel. Francis snatched it from her with a cold glare at her back as she fled again from the tent. Turning towards Adrian, he roughly handed the leather pouch that was icy with water out to him. “I am Colonel Francis Emberfell, and you will address me as such.”

Wary and watching the hens peck around his feet, Adrian stepped to the side and took it. He began to drink, resisting the urge to swallow long and deep for fear of vomiting it back up. He was slow and careful with his sips, wetting his mouth and dragging his tongue across his teeth. Sudden exhaustion overcame him, begging him to lay down and sleep now that he had a proper drink of water. Wary it would be taken away from him, Adrian kept the skein close to his chest, unable to make eye contact with the Colonel.

Francis narrowed his eyes, looking down at the hens that had taken up residence on Adrian’s boots. “His blood was on your hands. The boy. Do you still deny it?”

Adrian said nothing. His soft, pretty mouth turned down into a frown. He wasn’t pleased at the accusation, and furthermore, appalled it had even been suggested. To suggest the men and women of the Empire had such little honor as to harm a boy brought a sharp flare of anger to his chest. But he smothered it and took another careful drag of the water.

Francis gave a slow blink, watching the sharp insult spike through the captive. “I will be forced to engage your Colonel Ralston once more before our march to Surryfield. I’m sure you’ll be thrilled should he overwhelm my forces. Though, if you can’t be arsed to speak, I imagine your comrades will struggle to find you.”

At first it was stubbornness and pride that kept him silent. Now, Adrian was strangely used to it’s easy protection. The less he said, the less that could be used against him. Though he had half a mind to tell this prideful Colonel exactly what would thrill him.

In a brisk and abrupt fashion, the Colonel stepped forward with a sigh and re-snared the Imperial’s wrists, tethering them at a fair height to the center post in the tent.

Adrian closed his eyes and leaned back carefully against the wood, listening to the soft clucks from the hens scuttling under their feet. It was careful work, allowing the skein still clutched in his hands to drink from, but a bleak reminder that he was still a prisoner with an uncertain fate.

“I expect to see you after the battle, Subaltern.”

A sudden drape of heavy cloth stunned Adrian from his stubbornness just long enough for his eyes to open and realize the rebel Colonel had shed his cloak onto him.

Francis stood and turned at the exit of the tent. In the tailored blue livery of the rebellion, epaulets glinting on his shoulders, he was imposing and though Adrian loathed to admit it, impressive. Exposed without billowing fabrics, a tail tufted with golden hair flicked impatiently at his ankles once before the man disappeared beyond the tent flap.

Adrian watched Francis go, eyes wide at the sight of the long tail behind the spindly man disappearing through the rough canvas of the tent. He resisted the urge to curl into himself, to give into the anxiety that was making his heart race in his chest. Battle? Was there a battle tomorrow? He couldn’t remember; had it ever been mentioned in his camp? Or was this a development due to the loss the Empire had faced weeks prior? He ruminated on this thought, chewing his lip until it bled and the hens started to cluck at him as though they could feel his unease. Still, his mind continued.

Would the rebels win the fight again and they be chased away?

Or could they win and could they save him from this fate?

He shuddered in horror and thought about the men outside, the ones that would surely put him out long before he got to see freedom. Adrian tensed. He had heard rumors and whispers from his own solders about Colonel Francis and his cruelty. Even the Atelaer's own soldiers spoke of how tight-laced and hard he could be. So why was he showing such kindness? It made Adrian suspicious, but still...the warmth of the coat held the comfort of a better nights rest, something he needed after the last few days of capture.

It would be a long night, with the distant screams of flying cannonballs and adamsteel canons exploding across the night air to rattle him senseless.