Hey there everyone! I know I haven't written in a while, but I wanted to do something a little interesting. See, I had a little inspiration, and I've decided to do a simple one-shot. See if you can recognize a pattern!

Anywho, I own nothing but my own weird ideas!

()-()-()-()-()-()-()

The silence was heartbreaking. There was no hope left, not with their charismatic leader gone. No one had seen what had befallen the men left behind, but they all knew.

Tenor was dead. He had sacrificed his life that his men–his friends—could escape from that mountain with their lives. He died, leaving an old man and a novice to do his work in his stead. Jazz felt sick just thinking about it. What was he thinking? He couldn't lead an army, stage a rebellion against a sovereign power. This was madness!

Bowing his head into his knees, he wept. He wept for the loss of life on that mountain peak. He wept for the defeat the soldiers of oppression had given his troops. He wept for the despair and anguish that ravaged the survivors. He wept over the knowledge that his men could never return to their families, provided the government didn't hunt them down and slaughter them. He even wept for himself, for that piece of his heart that died with his best friend… his confidant… his lover… He wept for Tenor, and for the pain of his passing.

And somewhere, deep down, he wept in rage. Underneath all the hopeless grief and pity and pain, there was an ember of burning wrath; a hatred for those that had taken what gave him purpose from him. It was tempting to latch onto it. Anything to drive the pain away. Anything was better than this paralyzing torment of sorrow.

"Jazz." Stiffening, he searched his memory for who could be asking for him. Bass. He wiped the moisture from his eyes hastily and looked up. He could see the old miner, though he was blurry around the edges. Was that from the tears or something else? It didn't matter anyway, but it helped divert his attention. Sliding his legs back to the floor, his muscles and bones creaked. How long had he been sitting here? An hour? More? He forced himself to stand, looking up at the other despite easily being a half a head taller.

The look on his face was… startling. Bass was not a man to seem soft, but his cheeks were ruddier than normal, his eyes red and bloodshot. Even as he spoke, his gruff voice was heavy and thick – he, too, had been grieving. "…It's time, boy."

He flinched, backing away as if stuck with more than words. How could he understand? "I can't, Bass… I don't know anything about leading an army. Tenor was the soldier, not me."

"It's not your place to give up, son." The old man's tone was firm, insistent. "They're counting on you."

"But why me?" Jazz whispered. His mind raced with other questions, but they all boiled down to that one simple thought. "I have no right…"

"It doesn't matter," Bass growled deeply, his tone taking a biting edge. "Tenor trusted you, trained you to lead. Sink or swim, boy; either way you're a general now." There was a deeply disturbing pause, stretching far into long minutes. Neither said anything, waiting for the other to acknowledge the words spoken. Finally, the elder miner sighed.

"I know you're scared and hurt, kid. Hell, you're only twenty and you've been through more Hell than any of us want to think about." He took a deep breath, then released it slowly, continuing as his voice trembled, "We all know what Tenor was to you, Jazz. But now is not the time to back down. Don't let his sacrifice be in vain. We have people out there counting on us to make this right… to make them free."

Jazz looked up, blinking to clear the tears away. He didn't want this. He wasn't up to it. He couldn't take this responsibility…

(I have faith in you Jazz. Keep everyone safe for me, would you?)

The words were seared into his mind, that defiant grin etched so deep into his memory he didn't think he could ever forget it. He drew in his breath, held it, then released it. When he spoke, his voice was hardly a croak, tight with emotion. "What do I say?"

"Whatever you feel. Don't lie to them; they deserve better, and so do you."

Jazz nodded, straightening his back into the proud stance his deceased friend had taught him. (You're so damn tall! You know, if you stand up straight, you'd be head and shoulders over anyone. More than enough respect in that, don't you think?) He squared his jaw, feeling the familiar off-set of the awkwardly mended bones with a slight amount of pride. He had been given this test, and by the Saints he would make Tenor proud of him. He would not cover in fear, and he would never retreat again. He nodded once in grim determination, then strode purposefully out of the room, his second-in-command right behind him.

Outside, he found her; that barely teenage girl that had attached herself to him when they were both so young. She looked up at him from under fluffy ash-blonde locks, green eyes shining with tears that reflected his own torment easily. She straightened without a word and took her place beside him, nodding once in greeting before matching his strides in double.

Falsetto… to think you would have stayed… waited for us here… Thank you.

The walk seemed a mile, then was over too soon. He still had no idea what he was going to say, even as he stepped in front of the bloodied remains of their rebellion. He looked over them with a gaze as reflective as obsidian; shining, faceted, yet obscured by their own depths. They were as without hope as he, even though in the days it had taken them to return here most had healed from their physical wounds. Their wounds were of the soul, and he needed to bring the fires forth from the embers.

But what could he possibly say?

They quieted as he watched them, and the air became heavy once again.

(I believe in you, Jazz.)

"It is said in the Book of Finale, 'And though I walk alone through the valley of the shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil.'" He spoke softly, a low rumble of distant thunder, of impending rain. "It does feel like we're walking straight onto Death's doorstep, doesn't it?" He paused, waiting for a moment as he pondered his own rhetorical question. He wasn't a deeply religious man… but Tenor had believed. And what these people needed was something to believe in.

He let his gaze drift about the room, meeting the eyes of every man, woman, and child looking up at him. And he continued.

"However… it's not like we're really alone. We stand beside each other, simply because it isn't over yet." He felt that rage build up, and he forced it into something else; defiance. "And I'd be willing to bet that if we don't back down, you and I – and all of Forte— will have the power ourselves, to govern ourselves and be free.

"I won't pretend that this won't be hard. But in the end, when it is over, we can finally rest with a job well done. But not yet; it's only begun." He steeled himself, staring defiantly into the eyes of the hopeless. "So, I'm asking you, pick up and follow me. Because we're the only ones to fight this thing until we've won. We'll drive on and never look back.

"It doesn't mean that we won't learn from our past…" his voice nearly hitched, but he cleared his throat and continued. "But for all our mistakes and all the things we might've done wrong, we could have been doing this all along." He raised his voice, challenging the weary souls before him to rise. "And we'll be carrying on until the day it doesn't matter anymore. And to those of you who have given up, step aside and let us continue fighting. If you've forgotten what this is all for, then listen closely.

"We fight to live. We live to fight. And tonight, you'll hear my battle cry among your own." Some looked up at him with disbelief, others with hope; what leader would stand among his soldiers, despite knowing little more than the rest of them?

A leader Tenor picked, that's who.

"I will live with you on the front lines, help you show the Count that we can change the tides of fate faster than he can muster his forces. These times… these desperate times have opened my eyes, and now I see where the threat lies."

He could feel that boldness creep ever forward; no longer was it a spark, but a roiling flame of passion. He could feel that charge that overtook their former leader every time they succeeded in their riots. He almost smiled. I can feel it, Tenor… We can do this.

"We've got to lead the way! The people of Forte count on us to overthrow this tyranny!" Raising his fist into the air sharply, he let the grin slip out as his enthusiasm and rebelliousness seemed to flow into the battered –but not beaten!—miners before him. He would turn them into soldiers, into fighters of the noble cause. If he couldn't, they would all die.

He couldn't let that happen.

"Everybody, with your fists and arms raised high," he shouted, feeling their wills return in the form of defiant and vengeful justice. "Let me hear your battle cries!"

And they did. Punching their fists into the air, holding aloft swords and spears and picks as well as bare hands, they all cried out. The emotions were wild; fear, defiance, rage, sorrow, pride. They all rang clear as they chanted wordlessly for him, and he let it fill him with confidence. They could do this. They will do this.

"Now then, brothers and sisters! Stand beside me or step aside. We're on the front lines!"

()-()-()-()-()-()-()

And… I'm done. . Oi… no more of that. X…x