202 Year

Cheers and claps erupted through a standing crowd of blue uniformed men, honoring the recipients of the latest title awards: Most Victories, Most Wins in Battles, Best Cooperative Partner, Best General Soldier, and Best Strategist. Each one was given to three to five soldiers, aside from those that did not have more than one or two recipients. In this event's case, the Best Strategist turned out to be the only one with one recipient, and that, of course, fell on the Kingdom of Crystal's own Third Prince Caspian. Their strongest and most successful Commander, a regular receiver of the Best Strategist and Best Military Commander awards, and one who never missed out on a single war despite his royal position permitting him not to be seen in action. Being Commander, however, did. And he, of course, was seated in the best seat possible on stage, the first left chair in the front row.

"Now it's time for our Commander, Third Prince Caspian, to say a few words. He will also announce the names of our newly promoted soldiers." The speaker glanced at the Third Prince, clapping away with a smile of bravado. The crowd of tall soldiers welcomed him with salutes as he marched to the podium.

Bright styled hair in a sky blue shade, made even more brilliant under the rays of sun, and sharp aquamarine eyes are the two features on Third Prince Caspian that catch most people's attention first. His sparkling blue cloak with white stars, always present around his shoulders especially in battle, emphasize the two features all the more—given their increasing attributes to his crystallizing powers, which channeled through crystal veins linked in a shoulder pauldron, it was a necessary addition to his blue, teal, and white wardrobe. His pale skin and slim, pristine features made a sight for sore eyes as he spoke into the microphone.

"Good afternoon, soldiers," he said, voice low and quiet even through the mic. His smile was small, hardly visible at all. "I would like to thank all of you for your service, leaders and soldiers alike. For offering your time, bodies, and lives each and every day. For competing and earning the titles honoring your skills...which every single one of you have. One of you shook your head, don't. Don't deny your own achievements, whether to others or yourselves." He paused as he scanned the crowd, his smile disappearing. "Our commencement ceremonies aren't mere commencement ceremonies. They are reminders that you've managed to live until now. Not just another day, but all of these days in total. To persevere in another battle of wills and hardships, where we continue to grow as people, as demi-humans, as crystal soldiers. We celebrate life as I speak—no, not death. We save that for another day. If you didn't know that, please review the post boards around campus or ask your instructor for information.

That said, I commend you for being here another honorable day. Your superiors are good people. If they don't show their appreciation of your service at the end of every day, see a Commander or Raines in the Humanistic Sector. They'll take care of the tough reprimanding for you."

Although the audience heard these heartfelt words of gratitude from him at every monthly and yearly ceremony, their hearts, made of ice in times of strife, were nevertheless moved. Words acknowledged, he continued, "Now I shall name our new General Soldiers, Captains, and Generals. Please march in a line down the aisle as your name is called and come to the stage to take your individual photos, badges, and stripes of valor. After, you will be free to go on a ten-minute intermission. But there are still three hours of this, so don't fall asleep on your feet unless you want your badges turned into crystals." This he said with a dry smile.

The only physical objects anyone in the military would want composed of crystal, other than specially forged swords, was the Honorable Crystal Trophy, handed over in person by Third Prince Caspian only once a year. This trophy was not allowed to be given to the Third Prince or any Commander, and it was made of the rarest form of ice crystal, gova, a type of ice that took many manual hours and weeks to melt into liquid. Rare indeed, and at a cost that was sky high. Of course, these were possible to afford due to funds of the royal family, Third Prince Caspian included, as a charitable donation to the oppressive service of the military.

As names were called, Soldier Dillon Caudry's communicator attached to his waistband vibrated with what could only be a text message. Not a call based on the short vibrations lasting only five seconds. He ignored it, for this was the Monthly Commencement Ceremony and he was certain he would be called for the promotion of General Soldier any moment. Soldiers in the ceremony, of course, were not permitted to bring mobile devices while in uniform and on duty, but they were allowed to keep their communicators in case of emergencies. Even then, said emergencies must be incredibly significant for them to be allowed a response. Dillon deemed a text message as not significant enough.

"Soldier Dillon Caudry." There it was. Not missing a beat, he ignored his friend and neighbor's clasp of congratulations and followed the march of light blue and royal blue uniforms in the center aisle. Up on stage, soldiers becoming general soldiers solidly paced to and from the podium, taking their photographs, receiving handshakes, and general soldier badges—a lighter blue piece of metal than their somewhat dark blue counterparts—from Commander Caspian and the speaking Commander. General soldiers only received badges to pin next to their old soldier badges, while captains and generals received stripes in shades of aquamarine, white, and teal to pin on their armbands.

Dillon graciously did his part and rushed back to his position in the back middle row. There must had been dozens of general soldier promotions, given the long lines and queue so far. Soldiers chattered among themselves as they waited out the march. Some of them were nodding off on their feet, while others conversed to keep themselves awake. Sure, it was an afternoon on a ceremony day, but Dillon criticized the supposedly disciplined soldiers for being irresponsible as to not get a decent amount of sleep. They were always warned far in advance, and yet...

He shook his head.

"Hey, congrats, Dill! Excuse me, General Soldier Caudry," Gibes, Dillon's neighbor in line, corrected with an emphasis on the title, grinning from ear to ear. He clapped him on the shoulder, then said with a frown, "Wait, so does this mean you're my boss now? Oh boy, I'm shaking in my boots already."

Dillon nudged him hard in the arm. "Shut it, brat."

"Yes, General Soldier, sir." He gave an exaggerated salute.

What a moron. Despite himself, he couldn't help laughing. "How many more of those fake salutes should I expect in the future?" Who knew how many others, newly promoted, received this very same joke?

He got a shrug in return. As Gibes turned his attention to his neighbor, Dillon checked his communicator and was not surprised by the ID name of the text. He rang him.

"Dillon? Isn't it only two o'clock right now? I thought you were occupied for five hours." Fay sounded concerned and confused.

"I am, but it's just a march right now. They called my name already. I'm a General Soldier now. Since I'm new I won't expect much from my team."

Fay made a sound of excitement. "That's awesome! You never told me you were this close to a promotion, the hell? You're already thinking about your team? Are you that good?"

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Stifling a laugh at the other's disbelief, he pondered a moment. "I am...good at this job. Let's leave it at that." Most believed him too humble whenever he turned a blind eye on praise after a brilliant show of barrier power, or saved someone as a result of said power. Calling it 'good' was putting it mildly, but what was the point in boasting? He wasn't going to get anything out of it. "So, what did you want?"

"Uh, nothing really. I just...wanted to talk."

Dillon narrowed his eyes. Was it one of those moments again? It seemed like he wanted to take his mind off his personal problems, so he opted not to inquire. "There's an intermission soon, so we can talk more in a bit. Have you been keeping in touch with Anita? How is she?"

His voice was immediately serene at thoughts of her. He missed her. When they met, he had been in communication with Fay on a daily basis, having not been so heartless as to ignore him at the café or on the streets. He was persistent and determined—that was certain to him on their second encounter. They bonded over the smallest of things, over the major things, and everything in between: old hobbies, old dreams, current interests, tough exercises, the direction of their education systems, historical wars, military life, and hopes for their kingdom stretching far in the future.

Then he met a young woman rich in personality, garbed in long clothing that made him think she made anything look elegant, with her in it. Brown hair in a bun, wavy ends at the sides of her delicate face. He was engrossed in their conversations. He had amazing times with her and Fay after they were introduced. Given how well they got along, and even looking at some of their features, Dillon hadn't been able to resist comparing them to each other. She was nearly a female version of Fay, aside from the physical colors and a few aspects. At an early point, he asked Fay to keep in contact with her if they hit it off with each other. This way, he wouldn't leave either of them alone too long while he was working. Of course Fay agreed, eager to please and happy to have liked her as much as he did after they had dinner the first time.

Fay answered, "Yes, she's great. She always misses you." He giggled. "Wait until she finds out I learned of your promotion first! I can't wait to rub it in."

"Child." He clipped his communicator to his waist without another word as his gaze was once more captured by the ever-ethereal Third Prince. Lord, he was a sight. How someone so cool and calculating as he could also be the brightest star on the planet was a mystery. He didn't think he would ever know the answer.

Scanning around, he noticed a majority of the crowd felt the same, enraptured eyes fastened to the Third Prince's every motion. If Dillon had that kind of attention, he would shy away from public sight forever.

Giving the soldiers a final smile, Third Prince Caspian bowed his head. "Be on your way, ladies and gentlemen. Don't give the speakers a hard time." He left the stage, a glassy look back on his face. The smile was for show; that was obvious, but no one gave him a hard time for it. No one that the public would know anyway.

Hours later, with the abrupt ending of the ceremony, the crowd thinned out. The new general soldiers weren't due to meet their teams until 10 that night, so they all had a reprieve until then. Dillon made for the campus food store, hankering for some aromatic coffee. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught General Soldier Cedric Aster, his former superior on Team 0-18, approaching him. Slowing down, he saluted him in greeting.

"Sir." No one would ever know how delighted he felt inside at the sight of his mentor from his outer appearance.

"Dillon." Cedric nodded and smiled. He had mature eyes in a wide, sharp shape, set against a minty cool blue, almost transparent, that seemed as if they could read into any soul. He had light skin, as bred by purebred genes of the kingdom, windswept hair in a silver-white color and almost black in the back, wide and broad shoulders, and muscular biceps that hugged the shirt of the uniform. Sometimes he looked too handsome for his own good. Women probably swooned over his looks, but would be disillusioned if they truly got to know him. But that was just Dillon's personal opinion.

"Rather, it looks like we're on equal ground now. Call me Cedric already," he said, giving Dillon a hard slap on the back. "Don't be such a prissy trooper anymore. You're a General now. Where were you off to?"

He knew exactly where he was off to—away from a certain square building. Dillon eyed Cedric's menacing smile. "Nowhere. The library. You know our appointments in the Scholar Sector sit side by side." Despite his words, he was reluctant to voice them. He was avoiding it, after all, and Cedric was all over it. "Sir."

He raised an eyebrow. Dillon conceded. "Aster."

"Then shall we?" He walked slightly ahead of him, for Dillon's pace was that of a snail. "Must you continue to be like this, Dillon? You know the importance of these records. They are the epitome of history's essence. Without it, how should we learn anything?"

They walked alongside now, but Dillon's head hung. "Sir...Aster. Reliving it, I tremble at the mere thought of it. My disappointment is too unbearable. You know that."

"Your disappointment? Or your anguish?" Cedric's voice was soft. "I know it. You can't bear the loss of your comrades. Of Jace, Natalia, Molana. Derrick, Osaic, Tricia, Patrico, Lyn. You are one of the most intolerant demi I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, but because of that pleasure of knowing you, I know you must learn to let go. What is blocking your thoughts and feelings out going to do to you? Have you seen yourself lose control? We, your allies, have. Unbearable for you? It's unbearable for us to know you hold such pain inside and refuse to release it. To let it grow and fester, instead of change. You're a goddarned General now; you earned my hard scrape of a recommendation. Want to know something? We're the ones disappointed. I'm disappointed in you.

Their deaths are no more special or different than those of your loved ones, those of your mother's or father's. You accept that death is what we surround ourselves with. That death is only a natural consequence, no matter its circumstance or cause. It's going to end, and there isn't a damn in hell thing you can do about it. So do something that you can do about. Don't disappoint me. You know my bad sides. Fortunately for us, I know yours too."

Did this man have any idea how often he had saved Dillon with his verbal words alone? That he ceaselessly admired and respected him, his beliefs, his ideas, and his easy acceptance of everything that tore apart the world and all of the humanity trapped in its cruel web of destruction? Lord knew. He knew. He would forever be his mentor and trainer, no matter the rank or distance.

"I understand, sir. Thank you." His words were barely a whisper through the knot in his throat.

His scowl gone, Cedric smiled, eyes straight and direct ahead, focused only on their destination and the life they had ahead of them. "Dillon, there's too much pain from the other side. They have inflicted that pain on us as a result, so now we are in tremendous pain of our own. Pain affects us, so we try to right it, to balance it. Should your refusal to share pain not affect us too?"

"No, you are correct," he said, pleased to naturally agree with the sentiment. "Let's make a record of our pain, so we can right these wrongs."

Brows raised, Cedric glanced at him, then laughed. "You say interesting things in interesting ways."

That coming from the corny one, with lectures full of all things corny. Still, Dillon appreciated whenever he made him laugh, for Cedric had one of the most natural laughter out of everyone. He did it from the gut, and held a great humor for many things in life.

"You're the one who uttered those words. I just rephrased it."

As they approached the entrance of the large crystallized square building, with a huge dome roof, that was known as the Library Sector, the crystal door slid open. Cedric let him in first. Together they strode to the back of the large lobby, past the study and book rooms, and down a long corridor with many individual rooms. This corridor was attached to another lobby, and along with the rooms, was the property belonging to the Scholar Sector.

Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. Cedric's words went in one ear and out the other without registering.

"Oh, General Soldier Caudry, you're finally here! How did the ceremony go?" Mylos, the desk clerk, asked.

"Fine. It went fine." He hesitantly signed his name and appointment time in the log on the lobby counter. Without another word he took a seat on the side, in one of the many cushioned chairs, ready to retreat back into his shell.

Sitting down next to him, Cedric stared at him with concern, though it would not register to Dillon in his state. He was mentally and emotionally blocking off the world again. For a demi-human individual as defensively powerful as he, he didn't seem to know how to shut it off. It was an ongoing battle for both him—even if he had no intention of fighting—and Cedric, with an end that was perplexing in its muddled layers, like a foggy piece of crystal glass. An end that neither were sure they would ever reach.