Thorn of Ebonhal

The steam in the small washroom curls against the stone ceiling, carrying the sharp, clean scent of soap and hot water. It’s not fancy—simple tub, bucket, a cracked mirror on the wall—but it’s warm, and the bathwater is actually clear instead of murky. That alone makes it feel unreal after hunger and dust. What makes it very real is the loud war general kneeling behind the tub.

Rowan’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms damp and dusted with stray soap bubbles, his olive coat thrown over a nearby chair. Underneath, his shirt’s unlaced at the collar, and his copper hair is a mess from where he’s clearly shoved his hands through it several times already. “ALRIGHT!” he announces, as if anyone in a three-room radius might not already know what he’s doing. “Head back a little—NO, MORE THAN THAT, you're not a cat, you won't melt!”

He cups water in his hands and pours it over your hair with an enthusiasm that should probably be illegal this early in the day. Warm rivulets run down your neck. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that half of it splashes his own shirt. “SEE? Not so bad!” Rowan grins, bright and stupidly pleased with himself. “We're getting there. I can almost SEE WHAT COLOR your hair is under all this.”

You feel his fingers slide into your wet hair, strong and a little rough, working soap in with heavy-handed care. He’s not delicate, but not cruel either—like he’s used to scrubbing mud off his own head and never learned the softer version.

He starts humming, then decides humming isn’t enough and starts talking instead. “DID I TELL YOU about my first time in the barracks?” he booms, as if this is the perfect moment for a life story. “I was about your weight, you know. SKINNY as a RUSTED SWORD. No one thought I'd MAKE IT. HA! Showed them.” His fingers dig in at the roots, massaging, suds building up fast. “I puked on the General's boots on the second day,” he goes on cheerfully. “HE WAS SO ANGRY. I thought he'd THROW ME IN THE DITCH. BUT I GOT BACK UP. That's the important PART. You're doing that too, by the way.”

He leans around you just enough to flash you a swift, lopsided smile, turquoise eyes bright with unfiltered approval. “YOU got back up. GOOD SIGN.” He returns to scrubbing, thumbs pressing gently at your temples as he works the soap through. It would almost be relaxing if he weren’t narrating his entire life at parade volume. “You KNOW,” Rowan says, like you’re both old friends catching up and not a half-starved stranger he promoted on impulse, “MOST PEOPLE would have curled up and died out there. NOT You. You STAYED on your feet. Stupid, but admirable. PERFECT FOR EBONHAL.”

He laughs at his own joke, loud and bright, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. “LISTEN, I’M NOT SAYING YOU OWE ME YOUR LIFE,” he continues, “BUT if YOU WANTED TO WRITE A SONG or something, I wouldn't complain.” He pauses. Soap-damp fingers pause mid-scrub. “...YOU DON’T SING, do you?” he asks, suddenly more serious. “NO? MAYBE? Hmm. We'll work on THAT LATER.” More water, more warmth as he rinses the suds free, one big hand braced gently but firmly on your forehead to keep soap from running into your eyes. Even then, he’s too close, too loud, completely unaware that privacy is supposed to be a thing.

“I KNOW, I know,” Rowan says, voice dropping a degree but still far from quiet. “This is... a lot. New ran. New clothes coming. New food, new bath, very important.” He dunks his fingers back into the water and begins smoothing your hair back, pushing it away from your face with careful strokes. “But if you're gonna be a soldier me, you can't look like a half-dead ghost,” he insists. “You gotta look like someone people can follow. And trust me—they will. Once you stop looking like a strong wing could take you out.” He grins again, softer this time.

“And, SELFISHLY,” he adds, “I like knowing you're clean and fed and not wandering off into a ditch somewhere. Makes it easier to shout orders at you.” He nudges your shoulder lightly. “ALSO, I talk a lot when I'm NERVOUS,” he admits suddenly, as if that explains everything. “SO. If you're THINKING, ‘WOW, this man never shuts up,’ You're RIGHT. Congratulations you've cracked the mystery.” His hands slow. There’s a brief, uncharacteristic pause where he seems to consider something, lips pressing together, eyes flickering over your face with an expression almost shy—if someone as loud as Rowan can be shy.

Then he clears his throat. “ANYWAY,” he blurts, back to full volume. “THIS is the part where you're supposed to start TALKING ABOUT yourself so I don't feel like I'm preforming a one-man-show.” He gestures grandly with a soapy hand, flicking suds onto the floor. “I’M giving you food, a BATH, and an Upper Soldier RANK,” he declares with false indignation. “The least you could DO is tell me SOMETHING. Favorite food, worst memory, best INSULT you've ever HEARD. I'm not picky.”

He leans forward again, closer than necessary, copper hair dripping a little onto your shoulder now, eyes bright with expectation and a kind of stubborn warmth. “And if you don’t feel LIKE talking yet,” Rowan adds, a fraction quieter, fingers resettling in your hair, resuming their careful, repetitive motion, “that’s fine. I’ll just keep talking until you get sick of my voice and tell me to shut up." He laughs softly at that, like he knows it’s inevitable and doesn’t mind. “BUT until then,” he concludes, grin returning in full force, “Consider this your official initiation: Survive a GENERAL-SCRUB and my life story, and you'll be ready for anything Ebonhal CAN throw AT you.”

He keeps going—about battles, about Ebonhal, about nothing and everything—too loud, too close, absolutely invasive...and somehow, beneath all the noise, impossibly gentle.

The Ebonhal camp is a living thing—canvas and rope and smoke and steel.

Banners ripple in the wind, fires crackle low, and the air hums with overlapping sounds: hammers on tent pegs, distant laughter, the scrape of whetstones on blades. Somewhere off to the side, a group of soldiers are arguing about cards with more passion than they show in front of nobles. Rowan cuts through it all like a bright streak of energy. He walks a half-step ahead of you, cloak swinging, copper hair catching the light every time he turns his head. He’s not shouting, exactly—but his voice is still louder than most people’s speaking tone, carrying easily from one end of the formation to the other.

“Alright, you lot, eyes up!” he calls, tone warm and commanding. “I’ve got someone important for you to meet.”

The soldiers—rows of battered armor, mismatched gear, familiar faces—shift into a looser sort of attention. They don’t snap to spine-breaking posture with him; they straighten, but there’s a comfort in their lines. This is their general. Rowan stops in front of them and pivots so he’s half-facing you, half-facing them. His hand settles briefly at the small of your back, a guiding touch, before dropping away so he can gesture with both arms.

“This,” he says, with a grin that could probably be seen from the next camp over, “is your new Commander.”

Murmurs ripple through the ranks. Curious, skeptical, surprised.

Rowan either doesn’t hear them all, or pretends not to. “They’re under my direct command,” he continues, talking a little louder out of habit, as if the whole camp needs to hear this. “Which means when they give orders, you treat those orders like they came from me. Understood?”

A unified, if slightly uneven, “Yes, sir,” rises from the soldiers.

Rowan beams. “Good answer,” he says, nodding approvingly. “I knew I liked you all for a reason.” He glances sideways at you, eyes bright, clearly proud of himself—as if he’s just presented his favorite treasure to the world. “These people,” he tells you, voice dipping toward you but still quite audible to everyone, “are the best Ebonhal has. Stupid sometimes, sure. Terrible at cards. But the best.”

A few of the soldiers groan. One of them mutters, “That’s slander, sir,” just loud enough for his neighbors to hear.

Rowan hears that, at least. His grin only widens. “See?” he says. “Mouthy. You’ll fit right in.” He claps his hands once, a sharp sound that snaps lingering whispers into silence. “Listen closely,” he goes on, posture straightening just a touch. “This commander is here because I chose them. Personally. I don’t care what rank they started as, or where they came from. They’re here now. That’s what matters. You’ll see soon enough why.” There’s a note beneath his words—something protective, edged with challenge. Anyone second-guessing the decision is welcome to keep it to themselves. He leans a little closer to you, dropping his voice a fraction, though it’s still easily overheard by the front rows.

“Don’t let them intimidate you,” he murmurs. “Half of them have seen me trip over my own sword scabbard. They’re very forgiving.” *There’s a brief pause where he seems to think—really think—about what should come next.

Then one of his soldiers, braver or more foolish than the rest, clears his throat. “Sir?” the man calls. “Where’s the commander bedding down? With the officers, or—?”

It’s an innocent question. Logistical. Rowan turns his head slightly, one ear angled toward the speaker—a small, unconscious adjustment to catch the words. Once he understands, he nods quickly. “Good point,” he says. “Right.” He looks back at you, expression suddenly thoughtful in a way that’s almost... calculating. Not in a cold sense—more like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with too many pieces. “You need to be close,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “In case something happens. I can’t be running across camp just to find you in the middle of the night. That’s ridiculous.”

His eyes flick up, scanning the officer tents, then back to you. You can almost see the idea forming behind them. Rowan takes one step closer, close enough now that if his voice were normal, others might not hear. Unfortunately, his “normal” is still carrying very clearly. “Commander,” he says, warm and earnest, “do you want to share a tent?”

The camp goes silent. Not completely—fires still pop and a kettle whistles somewhere—but the people go still. Heads turn. A few nearby soldiers choke, one of them audibly sputtering on whatever they were drinking. Someone further back makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh desperately smothered.

Rowan blinks, sensing the shift in the air more than hearing the details of the reactions. His brows furrow slightly. He looks from face to face, baffled. “What?” he says, a bit louder, genuinely confused. “It makes sense. They’re a new commander. They’re under my direct command. Sharing a tent is a good way to keep them safe and close so I can—” He cuts off, suddenly realizing how that sounds. Color floods his cheeks, blooming bright across his nose and ears. “Oh,” he says, very quietly—for him. Which is still perfectly audible to everyone in a ten-meter radius. For a brief, shocking moment, Rowan Ashford Ebonhal, the loudest general on the front, is at a loss for words. He clears his throat. Once. Twice. The tips of his ears burn red.

“I meant,” he tries again, stumbling more than he ever does in battle reports, “logistically. For logistical reasons. Command reasons. Tactical safety.” He gestures vaguely, as if that explains everything. “If anyone tries to sabotage the command structure, they’ll hit my tent first anyway,” he hurries on, words tumbling over one another. “So it’s safer. For them. For the commander. That’s all I meant.”

The more he explains, the deeper the blush gets. A couple of the soldiers exchange looks. One of them bites the inside of his cheek, clearly fighting a grin. Another stares resolutely ahead, as if looking anywhere else might get them killed.

Rowan glances back at you, expression caught somewhere between hopeful and mortified. “It’s entirely up to you, of course,” he adds, slightly softer. “I’m not... I don’t mean anything... improper. I just—” He exhales, shoulders slumping a fraction in surrender. “I just like knowing you’re nearby,” he admits, honesty breaking through the fluster. “It makes it easier to breathe. And to sleep. And to yell at you first thing in the morning.”

There’s a small, awkward pause.

Then, from the back, one of the older soldiers coughs into his fist and says, under his breath but not nearly quiet enough: “Smooth, sir.” A ripple of suppressed laughter moves through the ranks.

Rowan shoots him a look—half glare, half ‘I heard that’—then returns his attention to you with that same open, earnest gaze he had when he first shoved food into your hands. “So,” he says, trying for casual and not quite managing it, “shared tent or neighboring tent, I don’t mind. But you’re not sleeping alone on the edge of camp. That part isn’t up for debate.” The words are firm, the protective edge unmistakable. His shoulders square again, as if reclaiming some small piece of his dignity.

“And for the record,” he adds, glancing briefly at his men, “if any of you have a better idea for how to keep our new commander from getting stabbed in the middle of the night, feel free to present it in the strategy tent. Quietly. And respectfully.”

No one volunteers.

Rowan nods, satisfied. “Didn’t think so,” he says, more confidently now. “Right then. Welcome to the family, Commander. Like it or not, you’re stuck with us.” His gaze lingers on you a heartbeat longer than it should. Softer. Warmer. “Especially me,” he adds under his breath—still loud enough to carry—before turning back to his soldiers with a grin that’s only slightly less red than before. “Now,” he claps his hands, loud and sharp, “back to work! The sooner we’re ready, the sooner the commander can see how impressive you all are. Don’t embarrass me.”

As the formation breaks and the camp comes back to life, the story will already be taking shape: General Rowan, half-deaf, too loud, utterly clueless—offering to share his tent with his newly adopted commander, blushing like an idiot and not understanding, for a long, bewildered moment, why that made everyone stare.