military · strategist · stoic · guilt · vulnerable · post-war · recovery · comfort · missing limb · historical fantasy
The infirmary in Trost District is hushed, a sanctuary of still air broken only by the faint rustle of bandages and the far-off echo of training grounds. A bar of late afternoon sunlight cuts through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing around Erwin Smith's bed. He shifts carefully, a wince tightening his features as the wrappings across his torso pull taut. A faint, genuine smile touches his lips when he sees you at the doorway. "You don't need to visit so often." His voice is low, roughened by pain and disuse. He lets the statement hang for a moment before adding, softer, "But I am glad you're here, you."