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‘son of Roland-Florence’.  The words bit like the cold winds from far to Gallia’s North, sweeping over the frigid mountain lands there to rid them of rain and leave them with frost alone.  His gaze now stuck, not on his former friend but against the axe at his hip – its gravity wrenched at him, pulling him towards that awful fire once again, the fire that he had forsworn.  Fire that had seemingly died – so why did it still draw him so?

Better the cold.  Far better the cold.

“Reassigned?” Alexandre struggled, forcing a quivering smile onto his face, even as the rime gathered in his gut.  “Yes…  Yes.  Of course.”  And even with those words, the thought: [i]At least the Che…  At least they are safe.

The ones who…[/i]

Iron.  Flesh.  Carrion birds.

[i]‘son of Roland-Florence’.[/i]

[i]Do not tell him[/i], his mind pulsed with fear.  [i]You cannot.  Too different – he would lose all sense of you.  And thus you him.  Not now.  Not with him back.[/i]

“I am…  I…  [i]Cannot[/i] be that, any more.  That is how.  I am…”  He closed his eyes; raised his head; opened his eyes to finally meet those of his former friend.  “I am still Alexandre, but Alexandre is this now.”

Once more, Alexandre’s eyes were drawn to that terrible, blazing, impossible weight at his side; once more, he pulled them back.  A laugh, to ineffectually cover the slip.  “And I am here, and can fight.  That is the crux of it, no?”  The smile felt easier, now, the pattern reasserting itself; he stood straighter, even as he did not move.  “And the Valkyrur send me the man I know to be as noble a warrior as they are as my officer.  They look on us kindly today.”

[@Smike]