[WP] You find yourself caught in a fire you started yourself.

...

If you play with fire, you shouldn't be surprised by the burns. I know it, I've accepted it, but living through the consequences is another thing entirely: This is all my fault.

"Captain! They're breaching the hall!" A voice shouts from one of the figures leaning heavy, back against the thick wooden doors. The sound of splintering, cracking and screaming fibers almost envelopes the next cry of panic, faces desperate and eyes wide. "Captain, what do we do? They're almost inside! We can't hold!"

Those words are meant for me.

It's a difficult pill to swallow, even after all this time.

In this world, in the country, in this outpost: these Soldiers call me Captain. The men and women here look to me for answers, and when I say something, they listen. When I say run, they run. When I say jump, they jump. When I say fight, they'll fight. It's more than being in charge, more than just the small formalities of instruction: I'm solely responsible for who gets to live, and who gets to die early. If I tell them to draw their swords and cut someone down, they will perform their duties without question.

There's nothing more terrifying in the world, than a person with this kind of power.

Even if that person is me.

"Captain! Archers are ready!" Another voice behind me shouts, and I glance them over. I wonder if they can tell, that at this very moment, my heart is beating into my throat, or that my pulse is so strong I can feel it behind my nose and eyes. I wonder if they know, that no matter how many times I flirt with death it still terrifies me just as much as it ever did, or the urge to choose "flight" over "fight" has grown to overshadow almost every other thought in my mind.

But I already know the answer.

These Soldiers look at me, and they only see their Captain, and so I nod. With a faint smile, I let a wry grin settle on my face as I turn back to the doors to witness their final moments of deterioration. The only reason I'm not running, is because there's nowhere left to run. We're all equally trapped behind thick stone walls, with the enemy coming in.

Every fiber of my being is focused on holding composure and not pissing myself.

Full seasons of practice, and this is the best I can do.

As adjustments go, even this isn't something that just happens with a flick of the switch. You can't just wake up and be the mystical figure that all the Bards are all singing about. Saving the day with magic and bravery in the songs and books always leaves out the important behind-the-scene details, and just because they're calling me "Captain" doesn't suddenly mean I've turned into one.

No blessings from the gods, no power bestowed, innate genius, or even raw talent: There's nothing very mystical or magical about me.

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I'm ordinary. Average as it gets.

Sure, I've been called a Mage- but my magic is so weak that even practiced properly it's hardly useful. I can light a cigar or pipe, I can see the fae, maybe I could heal a paper-cut if I focused on it all afternoon: but a Shepard's son given a tutor for a year could out-do my greatest efforts on such a front. The only reason people call me a Mage, is because they're ignorant. Because I came from a world where Magic wasn't an option, and I learned from birth to live without it.

An ordinary human, without the crazy powers or the magics or the short-cuts everyone in the world seems to take for granted. Ordinary: I think that's the part which is more troubling than all the rest of it.

"Captain!" The hinges are breaking free now, even with five men putting their backs and shoulders in resistance to it. Each echoing crash against the doors is like a giant's drum, beating on, and on. "Captain- We can't hold much longer!"

Humans, people- especially those of the ordinary sort: They can mess up. They can make mistakes. Bad mistakes. The kind that get people killed.

"Captain!" The doors creak, splinters burst. Only a few more moments now, surely.

I miscalculated.

This is the risk of taking a gamble, even if forced into it. I played around with something I didn't understand completely, and the bill has come due. It's what I get for deluding myself into honestly believing the title they've all given me. For buying into that honest-to-god madness that I really was some kind of hero. That the title "Captain" was rightfully earned.

The first twenty-something years of my life I was completely without anything of the sort, then, abruptly I was "Boss," or "Mage" or "Jarl Congrad's-favorite-Crony" or even sometimes: "Battlemage of the Southwestern Territories," but somehow those weren't enough for people. Somehow they weren't even enough for me- and, now I'm Captain.

The Captain.

Their Captain.

Thirty pairs of eyes are looking at me for instructions. Five on the doors, backs and muscles straining, fifteen beside me, swords and spades readied, and ten more behind us with short-bows nocked. Looking their faces over, I see panic and fear. I see regret, and terror: but as they meet my own gaze I know there isn't a single shred of doubt. Not in any of them can I find doubt.

Each person here is waiting on my word with the most uncomfortable level of trust. Each of their faces hold the kind of expression that plainly states that they don't just think- No, they know I have the answers. Unwavering faith in me, a regular human being.

In the fabled "Captain."

They truly believe that I have the knowledge and the experience to get us out of this rotten-mess we've landed. That as soon as I open my mouth, I'm going to be able to reveal some great and wonderful secret-plan that will save us all. It probably hasn't even crossed their minds that I'm the exact reason behind the enemies at the fates, or that I'm a reason we're all probably going to die.

"Sir!" The hinges creak, the stone splits, the wood twists and shatters. "What do we-"

"That's enough!" My voice is out there now, projected as if from another body that I'm watching from a distance. "Step back, draw your swords and form up." It's strange to hear that voice- so full of confidence, because I know it's mine and that it's a lie. A deception, until the bitter end. "Ready yourselves."

As they move, each exhausted and panting, steel swords ringing with soft tones from the sheaths at their hips to form along beside all the others, I feel like maybe it's not the worst thing. Less than three dozen soldiers in this room and ten who might already be dead on the battlement, against several hundred.

Not the fairest of fights. A few human soldiers and a single elf, about to fight to the bitter end in a battle agains hundreds of ruthless monsters. Entire tribes of screaming, hungry Goblins: each drawn in like moths to flame towards the relic hanging around my own neck.

I did this. I have to pay the price.

"Your orders, sir?" Beside me, a young soldier asks the question, eyes searching for a plan: for the Genius that they all believed in. I could feel the eyes on my back, looking desperately for the Captain, the Battlemage, the Hero.

The door began to buckle.

"Get behind me," I spoke as calmly as the rifle raised to my shoulder, "and watch."