24th of Arestre

I was out for three days, or so they told me. I had to take their word for it. I slept nearly non-stop for two days, three nights, and quite a bit of a third day. All I could put together were flickers and whispers of things that might, or might not, have happened. An overwhelming sea of pain... gentle hands giving me something that made everything feel so much better... cool water trickling over my tongue... nightmares unspooling in endless, wheeling circles... someone helping me to a lavatory in the dark... a mug of something warm and sweet at my lips, an Illyrian voice urging me to drink slowly...

The first time I woke for real and stayed awake, it came in drawn-out, lazy stages, a sort of generally roundabout becoming aware of a warm glow above me. 

I opened my eyes. Slowly, the glow sharpened into the cross-weave of fabric. After a dull moment of turning that over in my brain, I decided the glow was sunlight coming through canvas. My next arduous conclusion was that it must therefor be day, and probably had been for a while.

And I was in a tent.

A third thought surfaced then, that it was probably the quiet that had woken me. It was not a threatening quiet, and it wasn't absolute. There were people somewhere nearby: Illyrian voices, vehicles rumbling past, the smell of cooking, but this place, this tent, it was almost... peaceful.

No. That was all wrong. I needed to be doing... something...

I took a tentative breath.

It felt like my lungs were made of sandpaper. Everything was dry as a desert, my mouth devoid of any moisture, my lips parched and crackly. Even the air felt crispy. But I was breathing. For the life of me, I couldn't think why that was such a relief, but for a whole minute I simply lay still, breathing in and out while trying to remember where I was and how I had gotten there.

Thinking in itself was exhausting, but there was something I needed to do. The urge wasn't going away. It was only growing stronger. Pushing. Insisting. I needed to get up and go..  find...  My breath hitched as I finally remembered a brief, blurry, terrifying glimpse of fire and falling, and... Arramy. I needed to find Arramy.

I shoved myself up off of what turned out to be a folding cot, a blanket clinging to me as I struggled to my feet.

Then I had to sit right back down, a muffled curse squeezing through my teeth as every inch of me declared war and set itself on fire. My entire left side ached with a vengeance, my muscles resisting even the slightest movement. My left arm was absurdly heavy, and I looked down to find it was wrapped in bulky hard-form plaster from shoulder to wrist, bent at the elbow, and held close to my chest with a length of linen.

Also, I seemed to be wearing nothing but a... was this a man's military shirt? It hung off me, coming down nearly to my knees, and there seemed to be nothing but a patchwork of bandages and tacky-plasters underneath it. I smelled like burn salve and liniment. My left ear and temple throbbed steadily beneath a thick layer of gauze that was wrapped around my head. Even my teeth hurt, giving a warning twinge when I ground them tight. 

As if there had been some sort of signal, there was a scuffing noise just outside, and then a tall, lanky young Illyrian man wearing a stained medical smock came ducking in through the tent flap, letting in a burst of blinding daylight that had me flinching and blinking back a wash of tears.

I heard more than saw him cross the tent to the cot. Then he was bending to peer into my face with kind green eyes, his hands gentle as he carefully checked the bandage around my head.

"Are you dizzy?" He asked in Altyran.

"Only if I stand up," I mumbled,  automatically taking note of his Colonial accent as I stared at him, trying to place him. He seemed familiar. There. A brief, hazy memory of his lean face hovering over me, surrounded by bright white lights.  

My pulse skipped a beat, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. "Who are you?"

He flashed a quick, tired grin, looking at my eyes, now. Not into them, but at them, as if searching for signs of damage. "I'm Doctor Starling. Or Doc Starling, or just plain Doc... Whatever gets my attention. I'm not particular... Can you hold out your right arm, palm up?"

My brain knew I wasn't in the Stable, and it was very obvious this man was not a Coventry surgeon, but my body was still acting like it was going to stage an escape. My palms  were even slick with cold, clammy sweat. I let out a shaky breath, willed my heartbeat to return to normal, and did as he asked, seizing the opportunity to ask, "Where is Captain Arramy?"

Again, there was that quick smile. "I think you'll find he's General Arramy around here. He's just outside on the porch. Touch your nose?"

Distracted by his question, I put my forefinger to my nose, wincing when both my elbow and my wrist gave a dull stab of pain, and my nose began burning as if I had just rubbed it raw. It had not been hurting before. Wonderful. But there was something he had just said —

"Good. Good. Follow my fingers," Doc instructed, holding up two fingers, moving his hand to and fro, forward and back, watching as I tracked the motion. "Good. Do you know where you are?"

"A hospital tent?" I guessed, frowning. Why was it so hard to keep hold of more than one thought at a time? "In the Illyrian camp," I added, knowing at least that was accurate, even if on closer inspection the tent seemed more like a man's private quarters than a recovery ward. What was that thing he had said —

"Close enough,' Doc grunted. Then he got up, grabbed a nearby stool and dragged it over to sit in front of me again, arms folded over his chest as he considered me for a moment, deciding what to tell me. "You're in the General's tent. They brought you in two nights ago... We had to patch you up. The worst is probably your left arm, broken in two places, just under the shoulder ball, there, and halfway down your forearm. It set well enough and it should mend, but you'll have to be very careful with it for a few weeks. You also have a moderate concussion. I'm not seeing any signs that it's getting worse at the moment, but I would suggest you take things easy. There's significant bruising along your ribs... might make breathing uncomfortable... cuts, burns, abrasions... You're dehydrated, malnourished... suffering from extreme exhaustion... Nothing that a lot of rest and good food won't help..."

I swallowed, nodding (carefully) when it seemed appropriate, but my sluggish brain had finally caught that elusive little detail he had offered earlier, and the rest began fading into background noise, rushing by like a river of information. When Doc stopped, I asked, slowly, "So Arramy... he's here, then? On the... on the porch?"

Doc regarded me through a thoughtful squint. "Yes. He has been hoping to see you, actually. I made him wait, but I can send him in now, if you'd like." 

My breath promptly stuttered to a stop, my heartbeat taking wing, although this time not from fear at all. A smile pulled at my stiff, crackly lips, and I managed a nod. "Yes. Please."

Doc smiled. "Good." He stood again, unfolding his lanky frame with a stiffness that probably rivalled mine. Then he crossed the narrow space between the cot and the door. "I'll send a nurse in with something for you to eat," he said, stepping back out through the tent flap.

Eat. My stomach let out a loud, empty gurgle right on cue, and I glanced down, surprised, only to gasp at the realization that I was wearing little more than a shirt, my bare legs poking out from beneath it like pale, bony sticks. I made a haphazard one-armed grab for the blanket, pulling it close just as a large hand appeared, moving the tent flap out of the way. Then Arramy was there, ducking inside.

Silver eyes met mine, and he went still, looming tall in the doorway.

I forgot all about the blanket and how unpresentable I must have looked. All I could do was listen to the wild pounding of my heart. For a long, breathless moment we simply stared at each other.

Then Arramy cleared his throat and took a step forward, coming all the way in. "I... it's good to see you," he said, his voice husky. "Doc says you're through the worst, now. How —" He stopped talking when he nearly ran into the stool. He looked at it with a small frown as if trying to figure out why it was there before picking it up with one hand and putting it back where it had been. Then he stood there, regarding me for another heartbeat, brows still furrowed. "Ah. How are you feeling?"

My stomach chose that moment to let loose another drawn-out yowl. "Hungry," I rasped, wide-eyed.  

His eyes crinkled at the corners, a half-grin lifting one corner of his mouth. "That's good." Then his eyes widened and he lowered his head, his frown deepening. He lifted a hand to his hair, raking his fingers through it to scrub the back of his neck. "I ah... I hate to do this, but I need to ask—"

He broke off, turning toward the door as a familiar, velvety baritone sounded outside. "Is she awake? Can I see her? I need to speak with her."

Whoever was out there – a guard, perhaps – mumbled something in protest, but NaVarre was already pushing through the tent flap, swinging along on a pair of crutches.

He also stopped still in the doorway, his gaze flying from Arramy to me, then back to Arramy.

Arramy straightened to his full height, and I watched a cold distance settle over him, shuttering the warmth that had been there only a second ago.

"General," NaVarre said slowly.

Arramy dipped his head in a curt nod. "NaVarre."

"I came to see how Miss Warring is doing," NaVarre said quietly.

Arramy glanced at me, then his throat moved as he swallowed. "I'll just be a moment. Need to get some things," he said, and gestured toward the military chest at the foot of the cot. Without another word, he moved to the chest, opened it, and began pulling clothing out of it. Pants. A black Illyrian shirt just like the one I was wearing. A pair of socks. All clearly his, and all placed in a neat pile on the officer's field desk that took up the back wall of the tent. Because it was his chest. In his tent.

My cheeks flushed even hotter as I finally recalled that little detail.

NaVarre went to the stool and dragged it closer to the cot again, easing himself down on it and propping his crutches against a wall support pole, apparently settling in to wait for Arramy to leave.

I couldn't look away from Arramy if I tried, my eyes following his every move as he added a wedge of soap, a towel, and a razor to the pile on the desk. I began seeing things I hadn't had the time to notice before, in those few stunned seconds after he walked in. Bits of inky blue-black grease paint still smeared his face and streaked his hair. His clothing was dusty with dried mud, soot, and who knew what else, and he smelled like a war zone; sweat, dirt, hot metal, ashes, oil and explosive powder. Judging from the lines of exhaustion bracketing his mouth and the weary slump to his shoulders, he hadn't stopped fighting after putting me on that medical lorry.

My throat went dry and achy.

Arramy finished gathering his things and closed the chest, then crossed the tent to the door.

I almost reached for him, the words "wait, stay," ready on my tongue, but he stopped and looked at me.

The gruff, businesslike tone in his voice made something shrivel and go cold in my chest. "There's a group of Coventry dug down tight in the Manufacturing sector," he said. "I don't want to waste any more lives trying to draw them out... I could use an interpreter, if you're able."

NaVarre stiffened, coming half off the stool. "She most certainly is not."

With a heavy sigh, Arramy shot a tired glare at him, his mouth set in a firm line. He didn't have to say the words, 'I wasn't talking to you' aloud.  

"I'll go," I offered quickly, my gaze darting between the two men before landing on Arramy. "When?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw NaVarre's mouth open, but I didn't look at him.

"In an hour?" Arramy asked, glancing at me askance. "After you've had a chance to eat something?"

I dipped my head. 

"I'll be by later, then. And... I'm glad you're awake... Brenorra."

The way he said my name – hesitating just a little, that deep brogue caressing it – shot a ray of warmth straight into my heart again, sending the poor, stupid thing stumbling around my ribs. I managed a short "Mmmm," watching as he pushed through the tent flap and stepped back out into the bright daylight. Then he was gone, striding away, leaving me in his tent with NaVarre. 

NaVarre was shaking his head, adamant. "He shouldn't be asking you to do this. You need to rest."

"Maybe," I muttered, looking down at the strips of tacky-plaster decorating my shins, "But it really isn't your decision."

Silence fell.

Footsteps came toward the tent, crunching swiftly in gravel then clacking on wood just outside, and the round-faced nurse came bustling in with a tray.

"Ah! You have company, I see," she said in Illyrian, beaming a bright smile at NaVarre. "I'll just leave this for you. Doctor Starling said to eat as much as you can." She marched around NaVarre and deposited the tray next to me on the cot. "I'll come back in a little while to take a look at your bandages," she added, then faced NaVarre and ticked a finger at him. "And you, don't you wear her out, now."

NaVarre lifted a palm to his chest and batted those pretty eyelashes. "I would never."

That earned him another beaming smile, and then the nurse was gone, leaving us in silence again.

The tray held a pitcher of water and a mug, a bowl of what seemed to be some sort of rice mash, and several small breakfast pies. I went for the water first, guzzling at least two mug-fulls in succession before I slowed down, chose a pastry, and took a nibble. It was a buttercream tart. I forced myself to wait a moment, to find out if it would turn my stomach. When it didn't, I ate the whole thing at once and went for another, and another, trying not to groan and failing miserably as I stuffed myself full.  

Amused, NaVarre eyed me, just letting me eat. Then, when I had finally devoured all the pastries and gulped the rice, he leaned forward, teeth flashing in a grin. "Well hello."

I looked at him again, unable to summon much more than a faint twinge of gladness that he was there. Which wasn't fair. He was alive. Just because he wasn't Arramy didn't mean I shouldn't be glad to see him. I dredged up a small, wan smile and managed to stick it to my face as I studied him.

He had trimmed the overgrowth of scraggly beard into a goatee and taken a brush to his hair. He was also wearing a nice vest over a clean shirt and a pair of decent pants, and he was moving more easily. He almost looked normal, almost like the plantation-owner NaVarre, although he was still a frail ghost of himself. Nothing could quite cover up the ravages of the time he had spent in that hell hole, not even his gorgeous smile.

"Hello." I took a sip of water from the mug, then lifted it in a salute. "I see you made it." 

"I did indeed. You also, too, seem to have made it," he said, his smile widening.

"I thought for sure you got caught by the Mechs," I said. "Then I heard that the miners got loose, and I started to hope you got through...." I paused, watching him. " And Kenoa?" I asked quietly. "Did he...?"

"He's fine. He took a round to the leg, but Doc says he'll make a full recovery. He's in the med tent."

I sat back against the wall of the tent, relieved, wondering how Arramy had taken finding out his brother was alive, and wishing I had been there to see it.

NaVarre raised an eyebrow. "Apparently we have the illustrious General Arramy to thank for our freedom. Can you believe he has been fighting for the Illyrians? And for a year. A year! He's become a bit of a legend, I gather."

I grinned and took another sip of water. "Mmmmhmm. The Coventry calls him the Ice Wolf. I'm fairly sure he drove the High General insane, toward the end."

"Yes, well, they knew each other well enough... They served together in the Panopalesian conflict," NaVarre muttered. Then shook his head. "Coventry war hammer to Illyrian war hero. It boggles the mind."

I shot a sidelong look at him over the rim of my water mug. "A lot happened after you were taken."

He smiled again. "I'm sure it did. Well. It's all over, now. The Triumvirate is dead. They found the High Minister's body in the medical sector, and both the High Counselor and the High General died when their airship went down... " he leaned forward, his smile taking on a conspiratorial twinkle, "thanks in no small part to a mysterious woman who worked in the High General's office. Rumor says this woman managed to steal a rather important map, feed the Coventry false information from their own listening devices, and smuggle much-needed medicine into the slave hospital, among many other incredible things. She is being credited with saving countless lives. You wouldn't maybe... happen to know... who this woman is, would you?"

His voice was sly. Gently teasing. The Bren he had known once might have chuckled, or blushed, but I looked down, studying the bottom of my cup, my throat gone tight. 'Saved countless lives' sounded nice, but it felt more like I had just woken up from a very, very long nightmare. The thought that I should probably be sobbing with overwhelming relief came drifting through my head, only to find no purchase in the thick, cottony fog already in there. I couldn't quite believe it was over. At the same time, the tent was so far removed from that cell in the Stables that I also couldn't quite believe any of it had actually happened at all. Everything was wadded up together in a complicated knot that left me feeling like I was only half-awake; half dreaming I was free, half still stuck in that nightmare. That left a weirdly disassociated third half of me sitting there drinking water like a regular person, unsure what was real and what was a dream.

"So," NaVarre said abruptly, his tone brightening. "Doc tells me you should be able to travel in a few weeks. I have a boat all lined up. We can be in Arritagne by the end of next month."

My brows shot up beneath the bandage in spite of the flare of discomfort that immediately followed. "Arritagne?"

"Yes. As a member of the Circle, I've called for a Coalition War Trial, and I need to be there to present evidence. Your testimony will be invaluable."

I stared at him, my brain still stuttering over what he had just said. "I...I don't know if that's... I haven't..." thought that far. I couldn't even form anything coherent as a response.

"It's alright, you don't need to worry about a thing," NaVarre said, leaning closer to put a hand on my good arm, his mouth quirking into a reassuring grin. "I've got it all under control. I just wanted to let you know the plan. All you need to do is rest. Get better... Don't let that mountain pushda of a general drag you around."

I narrowed my eyes, an objection rising to my lips, but he was already pushing himself off the stool and reaching for his crutches. He bid me a brief goodbye, mentioned a need to make sure something was in order, and then he, too, was gone in a flurry of afternoon light.

I stared at the inside of the tent flap, trying to sort through what had just happened. It was taxing, all that thinking. And disturbing because it was taking so much effort. I was suddenly very, very tired.