Mercy carried the torch she’d handed to him high, to ensure even stragglers wouldn’t lose their way. He had followed her quietly, hand in hand, as she walked to the front and gave her commands. Only one man before had shown as much leadership as his friend now did. He had been an old man, frail and feeble in look, but with a booming, authoritative voice that shocked one to attention every time he spoke, even when all he said was light and playful. Mercy once remembered him telling a joke about men walking into bars. At the start of the joke, Mercy had been jolted by that voice. For a moment, Mercy’s composure had broken at the thought that the man he fondly remembered had very likely died in the raid. Although rich in mental and emotional strength, it was impossible to get by without the final component, physical strength.

People, in groups, are very much like dogs. He had been told. They tend to take on the emotional state and mentality of those that assert themselves as leaders. They will remain loyal as long as their leader is strong. If the leader shows weakness, they will feel fear and be driven past rational reasoning by it. Even if no other assures them he intends to take the place. Violet, Mercy figured, was perfectly suited for such a position. He still marveled at the very air of strength that floated around her. He squeezed her hand, as if to prove to himself that she still stood with him.

Mercy nodded in response to Violet’s soft warning, at first afraid his voice would carry if he dared speak. Finally, he began, “What do you think could be up within the tunnels? Is there a plan in case of such events?” There was a clear hint of worry in his voice that reminded him to keep poise and avert causing anymore worry amongst the lineup of rebels behind them. What he had managed to learn in the short time he knew the man he’d earlier thought of ran through his mind in a sort of checklist. “Surely no one could be after us.”