Having done all that, Roderick's gaze fell once more on that slender figure.
Tommy was still leaning behind the breastwork, his face pale, but at least his hands were no longer shaking so badly. He was looking down, clumsily fiddling with the short gun he had loaded into a complete mess. Roderick sighed inwardly and walked over again. This time, there was less command in his voice, and something almost pleading in its place:
"Instructor," he said hoarsely, "you saw it. There are... far more Sauron than we thought. This place is too far forward. I'm begging you—go back to the castle. It has solid stone walls. It's safer there. Your talents, your pen, shouldn't be lost here. Lord Edgar entrusted you to me. I..."
He did not finish, but the meaning was clear: I cannot let you die here.
Tommy raised his head and looked at Roderick. Mud speckled the battalion commander's face, and his eyes were bloodshot, yet his gaze was unwavering. Tommy could see that the commander was truly thinking of him. A warm current, mingled with deeper guilt, surged through his heart.
He remembered how he had nearly collapsed just now. He remembered those busy soldiers, who might die the very next moment. He remembered the oath he had sworn when he joined the army, and his family far away.
He drew a deep breath, used every ounce of strength in his body to suppress the last trace of trembling, and forced himself to stand straight. Meeting Roderick's eyes, he shook his head. His voice was quiet, yet unusually clear, carrying the stubbornness of a man who had thrown caution to the winds:
"No, Battalion Commander. I'm not going. I'm staying here. This place... needs someone to shout something." After saying it, he seemed to find