The company trudged back into camp at sunset, covered in mud, smiling and laughing. It seemed they left behind a field of victory after all, one hard-fought and well-won. Lyara bounced on her tip-toes, standing as near to the procession as she dared—she didn’t think lightly of being trampled—scanning each grimy face for the one that mattered most.
She’d distracted herself well enough throughout the day collecting stories from the other women in camp—heartbreaking paintings of a life of poverty, when quoted properly Edras folks would see it that way, too—but now the anxiety gnawing in her chest was even more potent than it had been waiting for the return processions back home.
Perhaps it was more real, here. She could see the fresh blood herself.
Seren, still holding the King’s standard on a pole notched in one of his stirrups, emerged from the crowd, his white gelding pulling Dradge’s black stallion behind—the saddle empty. Simple fears leapt in her heart, silencing all else, and Lyara ran to his side.
Seren looked at her a moment, as though once again having to remind himself who she even was, but quickly offered a sympathetic smile. “He’s alright,” he said. “Wait here, he’s in the infirmary tent—”
Lyara took off at a run. Puddles splashed muddy water over her boots and the skirt of her dress but she didn’t care. She wove between trotting horses and treading men until she reached the simple, white-cloth overhang set up on temporary stakes at the edge of camp. Many injured soldiers—a dozen at least—were being tended to by army medics, but Lyara still searched for her one.
She heard his voice carrying over the others—commands, short and direct—and found him tucked in the corner, four other men hovering around. Lyara shoved through, thanks to her height they didn’t seem to notice her until she brushed against their elbows, then stopped in her tracks, her breath catching.
Dradge was propped up on a table, the jagged remnants of a pole-arm protruding from the stain of blood in his lower left stomach. Tears stung her eyes, but for that instant she couldn’t move. Seren had said he was alright, why would the man lie…?
She stumbled to her husband’s side, he only noticed when she grasped his hand in hers. Panic flashed across his face, then he tried to smile through the pain.
“Lyara, it’s—don’t look. They’ll fix it.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, she shook off the hands that tried to steer her away, but could only stare at the wound in his stomach. His own blood had already soaked through his clothes and the bandages a soldier pressed around the jagged hole in his flesh. She could see the torn entrails underneath. Medics didn’t just fix that.
“You ready?” A soldier said, meeting Dradge’s gaze. Only, this was not a soldier. He wore the same crimson cloak, but beneath that were a civilian’s shirt and trousers, not chain-mail or plate armor—not even a tunic with the King’s blackbird and crossmarks.
Dradge nodded, setting his jaw, though his face proved him a liar.
The man—he had dark hair and round, green eyes much like Dradge’s, although his skin was a shade darker and the start of wrinkles on his bare cheeks made him at least a few years older—whispered under his breath. Not in Ristaer, a tongue more fluid and elegant. The veins in his hands began to glow a soft blue.
Lyara gasped, and suddenly it all made sense. The man was Fidelis. Her anxiety paled beside growing awe.
Continuing to whisper, the Fidelis grasped the pole-arm fragment and, with a sharp tug, pulled it from Dradge’s stomach. Dradge bit down on a scream, clenching Lyara’s hand in his. That hurt her, but she simply squeezed back, glad to participate in a way that at least felt useful.
The Fidelis jammed his bare hands against the gushing wound, and slowly the flow of blood dried up. He probed the hole with his fingers—Dradge gritting his teeth all the while—mending torn intestines and picking bits of debris from the gore.
“Water,” the Fidelis said, holding out an expectant hand without looking up. A soldier placed a filled tin cup in his hand and the man splashed the contents through the wound. He tossed the empty cup aside, then grasped Dradge by the shoulder to roll him on his side and tend to the exit wound in his back, knitting that torn skin together with his glowing hands and his whispers until only a jagged scar remained.
Dradge tried to hold back a whimper as the Fidelis let him resettle on his back.
“Bandages,” the man said, and another soldier handed him a wad which he pressed against the wound. “I’ll cover this, but I’ll have to clean it again before I close it up.”
Dradge nodded, shuddering as he let out a deep sigh.
The Fidelis looked at him with a wry grin. “You’re also an idiot. You understand that?”
Dradge’s eyebrows rose, but he returned most of the grin. “That’s no way to speak to your superior officer.”
“You’re not my superior. And no officer I’ve ever known would take a spear meant for someone else.” He gave a sharp salute. “Thank you.”
Dradge laughed, the sound cut short as he grimaced. “I wanted to be sure my men would have a healer waiting when we got back.”
The Fidelis looked at him in wonder, shaking his head. “There wasn’t the time to think up that excuse. You jumped in front of that pole-arm and then realized who I was.”
Dradge grumbled under his breath. “I was trying to block the damn thing…”
The Fidelis stuck out his hand. “Féderyc. I owe you my life, least I can give is my name.”
Dradge offered his left hand—Lyara still clung to his right—and awkwardly shook it. The Fidelis turned, meeting her gaze for the first time.
Lyara dropped to one knee, placing her right fist against her heart and her left hand over her right as she bowed her head. She wasn’t prepared for this; she wasn’t worthy.
The Fidelis sighed and sank to his knee in front of her, mimicking the same motion. It left an imprint of his hands, outlined in her husband’s blood, on his grey tunic. “The Essence moves by its own intentions. Don’t turn your devotion towards me.”
Trembling, she met his gaze. With more than a little disappointment, she realized the eyes that held hers belonged to only a man.
Féderyc offered her his hand, and hesitantly she took it and let him lift her to her feet.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and weak.
The Fidelis just nodded as he stepped towards the next injured man in the tent. “Keep an eye on him, I think he needs it.” There was a finality to that statement, something that suggested it didn’t apply to just here and now.
Lyara turned to Dradge with a shaky smile, taking up his hand again as she smeared the tears from her cheeks. He returned the look, his face pale and eyes sunken—but he didn’t try to sleep, he tried to pull her closer.
“I’m sorry, I told Seren to distract you…”
She laughed, tears catching in her throat, then leaned down and planted a kiss on his sweaty temple. “He did a terrible job.” She climbed up onto the table beside him—there wasn’t much space, but she fit, curled against his side—and placed her head on his chest. His heart beat steady and strong, quickening at her touch. “What were you thinking? I’m too young to be a widow.”
He chuckled, the sound echoing beneath her ear, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I told you, I don’t think. If there’s something that needs done, I do it. When I’ve got good people at my back it always works out.”