BaschReks. A chaste love.
Reks had been in training camp when he first met the Captain. Awe was the first emotion on every trainee's face when he stepped into the training circle at the center of base camp. He stood, leaning on the short fence surrounding them, and watched. His name moved between the sparring not-quite-men like a breeze: Basch.
It spurred everyone into greater efforts in the hot mid-day sun, and when Reks threw down his partner with the wooden blade held to his neck, he smiled happily. Maybe he would get through this.
And then his eyes widened as he looked up and the visiting Captain was there, standing in front of him with a laughing smile in his eyes. He was handing his sword to skeptical-looking training captain outside the enclosure and accepting a wooden one in return.
"Come, boy, let's see how you would do against a real fighter."
There were one, two strikes that Reks managed to block and parry and a hope that he wouldn't make a fool of himself in front of this captain rose, but then there was that gleam of laughter in Basch's eyes and he realized, after landing on his back heavily on the packed earth, that Basch hadn't been trying at all.
The Captain must have seen the disappointment on his face, because he moved the sword away from his throat and held out instead a well-worn palm to be grasped.
That gentle golden voice motivated Reks to ask to join this Captain's division after only another short month in the training camp. He didn't expect the Captain to remember his name or even his face, but to be near him was enough. And then one day he called them all out in front of his tent and told them in a clear, strong voice that he had chosen to go and serve his country on a mission that was well-probably suicidal. He offered a chance to leave, to change divisions.
Reks didn't take it.
Trust. Trust, and love.
It was there until the moment he died.