At first, Gerald was really not in the mood to get up at five, one and a half hours before the regular time, but when he saw the reason why, he had to change his attitude. Ever since before lunch when Kreig left him in a stupor, he’d been a sort of zombie. He ate, he walked around, but that was about it. When he got back to his cell by 7, he’d gone straight to bed, something his bunkmate found delightful.

And now he had to wake up at 5. Why? Because a guard was at his cell, holding a large packet wrapped in brown paper, nudging it at him through the bars.

Gerald accepted it not because he was awake enough to, but out of muscle memory.

He looked at the packet, rubbed his eyes sore, and looked back up at the guard, who hadn’t left yet. The guard looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't. Gerald was too tired to react with anything except involuntary paralysis. The guard did not leave, simply remaining where he stood, staring at Gerald and his brown package.

“Is this, um, for me?” Gerald asked, sliding his fingers along the edge of the package. It was large and rectangular, a bit soft to the touch, neither fragile nor robust.

The guard nodded. “¤!&, §½%) ?=+#@/ Kreig.” The language the guard spoke was known colloquially by the prisoners as ‘Language of Mould’, though the real name, as few men told Gerald, was ‘English’. Nobody knew why most guards spoke it, but usually, they refrained, since most of the prisoners reacted harshly to the mere sound. Gerald had never heard the language from anyone who wasn’t from this world (apart from maybe War), so he held no negative connotations towards the language itself. But what he did recognize was the name used.

“From War?...” Gerald muttered, glancing down at the package in his hands. As far as he knew, prisoners weren’t allowed to trade anything, including gifts. That posed the question, who in the world was War and why in the world was he given a present from him?

Might it have to do with what happened earlier that-, no, yesterday?

...Maybe so. Such a strange situation… Gerald couldn’t remember ever acting like that before. Sobbing and weeping and wailing his eyes out in the arms of another man… A man who happened to be War himself. It felt silly afterwards, but in the moment, when it happened… it felt good. He didn’t regret it, and now that he thought about it, he didn’t feel like death was his best solution anymore. Sure, it was tempting, but… A child didn’t necessarily have to return home from war in a casket.

Gerald carefully undid the wrapping on the present.

It was a painting. Gerald hadn’t seen many paintings in his days. He knew he could find them in the mansions and castles of grand nobles and kings, he knew the Emperor had a sizable collection, and he knew that no peasant should ever hold one with his bare hands. In shock at what he saw, he almost threw the thing away, believing his commoner's hands were too dirty for such a thing. That was until he took the time to actually behold the painting itself, what it portrayed.

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He saw War first, which wasn’t strange, since War had a sizable frame, easily enough to overshadow Gerald, something he knew all too well after what had happened earlier that day. Still… War wasn’t the only person visible in the painting. There was a sea, and a sky and a bundle of rocks overlooking the endless blues merging at the horizon, and there, in the very centre, cradled tenderly in War’s arms…

Was none other than himself. Small and young and so fully him that Gerald was frightened for a moment. As if he was staring into the mirror of his soul, the full extent of his pain reflected back in every agonizing detail.

It was beautiful.

A painting so pretty he felt undeserving to be apart of it himself.

Gerald placed his arms around the painting and held it close. Where had it come from? Who painted it? It couldn’t have been War. A man so talented in death couldn’t possibly be a man of the arts. Then again, creating such a fantastic piece of art in a mere night… It would’ve been impossible to commission, especially with such a stunning degree of accuracy. There wasn’t a single detail wrong. The gulls, the rocks… There was something inherently personal in the expression, in how it was made.

“...I’d like to meet him,” Gerald said, peeking up at the guard who had yet to leave.

The guard stared at him, said something in English, and unlocked the door to the cell. Gerald made to stand, but the guard pushed him back into the bench, all the while shaking his head. Although Gerald was confused, he understood the sentiment, remaining seated. The guard then proceeded to wander over to the wall, retrieve a hammer and nail from his belt, and hammer it into the wall.

Then, he held out his hand. Gerald looked at the hand, and looked at his painting. The hand made a ‘give it here’ motion and Gerald relented, placing the noble luxury in the man’s hand.

It was mounted on the wall. Like it had always been supposed to be there. Even though it looked much too beautiful for the cold barren walls of the cell, Gerald couldn’t bring himself to object.

The guard made to leave, but Gerald grabbed his arm as he went. Their eyes met, and although Gerald had no idea if his words would go through, he said it again. “I’d like to meet War.” It was a weak request, he knew that. Silly, even. In all honesty, he had no real idea of why he wanted to do it at all. But, somehow, he knew it was right. He had to talk to War, assert what their relationship actually was, and doing it in the cafeteria or the courtyard would be far too public.

The guard stared at him. Gerald repeated himself. “I’d like to-,”

“&%¤)/, &&/&(¤# !”##%,” the guard said, holding up his hand, a gesture clearly urging Gerald to silence. As prompted, Gerald kept his mouth shut for a moment while the Guard removed a rectangular artefact from within his pocket. At his touch, the artefact lit up, and with a few movements of the guard’s hand, the screen moved. It turned blue-and-white. “=++(#¤, &/”(.” With that said, the guard made a rolling motion with his hand, non-verbally telling Gerald to say it again.

“...I’d like to see him.” The artefact made a few sounds and the guard turned to it, watching as text appeared on the screen. In the upper box, what Gerald had just said was written, and in the bottom box, he could see a line of equal length in what he presumed to be English.

The guard froze in place. Turned to look at the painting. Back to Gerald. Finished the movement with a conflicted expression. Then, he stepped out of the cell, fiddled a bit with the rectangular artefact, and brought it to his ear. What followed was one of the strangest things Gerald had ever witnessed, namely a man talking into what seemed to be thin air. It must have been some form of magic, though Gerald had never seen either of the two magicians in his platoon use any such magic…

The air-conversation spanned about five minutes which the guard spent alternating between submission and defiant pride. In the end, he removed the artefact from his ear, pressed a button on it, sighed deeply and placed it in his pocket.

And turned to Gerald. Apparently, since he reluctantly opened the cell door and gestured for Gerald to exit, the upper echelon must have given the green light.