“You’re staring at Mister Vimes, Reg.”
“Am I?” Reg asks, eyes fixed on Vimes’ back as he speaks to some new recruits.
“Yes Reg,” Nobby says. “You’re staring, Reg. Why’re you staring?”
“He… just reminds me of someone, sometimes. The Commander.”
He’s twenty-five and he’s standing on top of the barricades, flag in his hands and pure defiance in his voice.
He’s twenty-five and he should be dead, is dying, blood gushing from more wounds than he can count but he’s still crawling forwards, still fighting, propelled by nothing but willpower and conviction because he will. Not. Give. Up.
He’s twenty-five – but is he, still? – and fresh air washes over his face, not quite ridding him of the taste of mud and dirt still filling his mouth.