Captain stood in silence, gazing at the moon, but it was only an excuse; in truth, he stood in silence to organize his thoughts. If he laid his head on the pillow and tried to sleep, beneath his eyelids he would have to relive the sensations of war. And war was in his body, inside him, but as long as it stayed inside him, he could manage. If it came out—through his eyes, his mouth, his skin—it would be a disaster.

Some nights were like this, while others allowed him just enough rest. The next day, no one would see his fatigue, his expressions, or his regrets. Unfortunately, the sadness and despair accumulated over the years hadn’t had the usual effect on him: he hadn’t turned “bad.” He didn’t mask his pain by inflicting it on others, nor could he bring himself to truly harm anyone. What he once was remained there, in his heart, not locked away with chains and padlocks. It was there, perhaps a bit timid, controlling his emotions and making them more his than ever before.

At times, Captain felt he could forget his emotions, drowned out by the screams of his fallen comrades echoing inside him. Sometimes, the pain was so overwhelming, so suffocating, that it crushed his heart, leaving it little room to beat, each throb more agonizing than the last.

Yet over the years, he had managed to find an anesthetic for that venomous melancholy within his heart—or at least a place where that diseased, infected layer of his soul hurt a little less.

Sometimes, Captain feared forgetting. He feared waking up one day and no longer remembering to whom that pain belonged, those screams, those faces in his mind, those words. His name. He feared forgetting his true name, the one he felt represented him, his birth name—not his pseudonym, not his…

“Thrain,” *you called, your voice firm and calm as you looked at him from behind his broad shoulders. *