The sound of trumpets catapults Clef from a deep sleep to confounded panic. He sits up on his pallet, his heart in his throat. He glances around his small room, looking for some sort of explanation. Outside, the trumpets are still sounding. As the camp wakes, the pandemonium of war-torn confusion joins the high-pitched notes.
We're under attack, he thinks, pulse racing. He scrambles out of bed, his bones protesting all those nights upon the hard, wooden pallet. The evening chill makes his bare skin pimple with gooseflesh. At least, he wants to believe the cold is the cause. Under attack… but how? How did they get so close? This is a question to which he has no answer; for now, he must live with the consequences.
Clef scrambles for his clothes. His breeches and robes are white slashed through with crimson, marking him as an Elder Brother of the Crescent. Despite his best efforts, they are stained with dirt and blood. Next he dons his belt, sturdy leather dyed a shade of dark red. Hanging from it are accouterments of his trade: phials, pouches, and charms. More supplies are stored in the satchel he grabs next, pulling its strap over his opposite shoulder. Finally, Clef gropes for his silver diadem. The crescent moon in its center is encircling a blood-red ruby—yet another identifier for his status. His prematurely silver hair is getting unruly; the band helps keep it in check.
It's not taken him two minutes to get dressed, but it feels like an eternity has passed. The screams get louder, but are not as overwhelming as the clash of steel against steel. Clef runs out of his room, nearly bowling over one of his subordinates in the process. He recognizes Julia, one of the Order's novices. He's pleased to note she has donned her robes as well, the white opal in her diadem gleaming in the candlelight.
"Brother," she gasps, still twisting her long dark braid into a bun. "The alarm. How—?"
"I don't know," he replies, leading her to the main room. "I'd been informed our perimeter was secure. If the Tendovians have breached our defenses…" he trails off, leaving the implications where they fall. Julia doesn't reply, but Clef can feel the anxiety radiating off her in waves. He understands; it mirrors his own.
The clinic in Baron Falls is small, and already crowded to capacity with wounded soldiers. Those with minor injuries are sleeping two to a bed—some even on the floor. Most are almond-skinned natives of the Embergrass Prairies, like Clef and Julia, but many are paler or darker with Northern and Southern blood. Not for the first time, Clef's heart aches. His homeland is a veritable symbol of the good that can come of harmony, but once again it is merely a pawn in a Unification War.
"Baron Falls is a stronghold," Julia says, babbling nervously at Clef's heels. "Our backs are to mountains, and our river runs through fertile land. Tendoves knows the strategic advantages here. If they're attacking, they must be—" she stops herself, but Clef knows what she had been about to say. Confident. Their Southern enemies wouldn't have risked an assault unless they were certain of victory. The notion is not a comforting one.
"Forget that," Clef says, using his most authoritative tone. "Organize the others. Gather supplies. Ask Cerie to help me check on the patients. We may need to start moving people."
"Move them where?" Julia asks, sounding hopeless. "We're cornered."
He reaches out to grab her shoulders, shaking the fear out of her. "Not yet, we aren't. Not yet." He tries to pour as much bravery into his voice as possible—as much for his own sake as for hers. "You can only be defeated if you stop fighting. Now go!" Once he releases her, Julia scampers off to do as he's asked. She's still frightened, but she isn't giving up.
Clef heads for the nearest bed, occupied by a former lancer. He is currently lame, and the prognosis for recovery is a poor one. Clef is dreading the thought of having to transport this man on such short notice, and under such duress. He sends a silent prayer to the Lady that it will not come to retreat.
"Leave me," the soldier mumbles, voice tight with pain. The belladonna blend has worn off sometime during the night, leaving him sweaty and breathless, skin clammy to the touch.
Clef shakes his head, smoothing the young soldier's hair from his brow. "It has not yet come to that," he says, hoping he sounds soothing.
"It will. You know it will." A coughing fit overtakes him, and Clef helps him calm down a sip of cold belladonna tea. "I recognize the trumpets. Tendoves is here." Clef tries to shush him, but the soldier won't have it. "They would not be here if they did not think they could take us. I would only slow you down," he insists desperately, clawing at Clef's sleeve. "Save someone else with the cart meant for me."
"It has not yet come to that," Clef hears himself repeating. He moves to the next bed, tearing his sleeve out of the soldier's grasp. He finds himself returning to the phrase again and again, trying to ease the minds of those with more combat experience than he. The more he echoes it, the more doubt he feels. Clef has been stationed at Baron Falls for months, tending to the injured but never seeing the front lines. He'd been aware of the war's severity, yes, but only tonight has it come knocking on his doorstep. Only tonight does the icy grip of fear seize his heart.
The Tendoves Duchy to the south is only half of their problem. The Red Mountains' army moves as well, coming down from their well-defended peaks to try and take their southern neighbors. Vast though the Prairies may be, the pincer movement closing in on them is obvious to even Clef. This is the second time in as many centuries that the two empires have sought to unify the continent under one powerful dynasty.
The First Unification War had ended with a tenuous armistice—both sides having exhausted their resources with winter on the horizon. Clef prays daily for a similar end come the cold months. In the meantime, they must keep the armies at bay.
"Don't strain yourself," Clef says, comforting one of the women. When they'd brought her to him, she had been sliced open, her insides threatening to spill from her belly. Only her armor had saved her from instant death. It had taken Clef several painstaking hours to sew her back up.
"The trumpets," she manages, struggling to rise. She is stronger than she should be following such demanding surgery; Clef has to force her back down. "They call us to battle. They've sounded the alarm!"
Clef tries to quieten her before the other patients are infected with similar fervor. He's only just managed to calm her when Julia appears at his side. Her face looks ashen. "What is it?" Clef asks, pulling her aside.
Julia looks as though she might weep. "Tendoves," she says in a small voice. "Tendovian soldiers everywhere. They've blocked access to the carts."
Seven hells, Clef thinks, mind racing. Why would they do such a thing? Cutting off supply routes, certainly, but why the carts stationed near the clinic? Tendoves could not possibly mean to—
The door to the clinic is kicked open, hitting the wall violently. The sound is louder than the battle raging outside; it makes Clef and Julia jump before twisting around to look. For a moment, the room is frozen in shock. The Tendoves soldiers who enter the clinic are larger than life in their full plate armor. The helmets hide their faces from view, the anonymity making them even more terrifying. In the candlelight, the white dove emblem shimmers against the navy cloth adorning their armor.
"Lady help us," Julia whispers. The fear in her voice makes Clef remember that he is the Elder here, and that all of these people are under his protection.
He's standing before one of the soldiers before he realizes it. Clef lifts his chin, holding his head high despite the hammering of his heart against his ribs. "Hold, Tendovian. This is a place of healing."
The soldier looks down at him. Clef can see his eyes through the helmet—cold and harsh. "Brother, is it?" he asks in a gruff voice. He pokes Clef so hard that he has to take a step back. "You ought to mind your own affairs."
"They are my affairs," Clef says, balling his hands into fists. "Why are you here? Come to triumph over the injured and ill? A fine ballad that would make." He gestures around him. "These are casualties. We pose no threat to you; leave us be."
"A bossy little medicine man," one of the other soldiers says.
The first soldier reaches out. Clef holds his ground, expecting another shove. Instead, he's pulled forward, boots dragging upon the floor. The soldier holds him fast with a fistful of his robes. When he speaks, Clef's skin prickles at the undercurrent of violence in the tone. "I was told to eliminate the supplies." He gives Clef a shake. "I'm eliminating the supplies."
Realization comes fast, leaving Clef feeling cold. "Y-you can't," he says, pulling at the hand on his robes. "It's against the code of warfare. We did not engage you; you came to us."
The soldier stares down at him, gaze unwavering even as he gives the command. "Burn this place down. Kill everyone inside. Oh, and make sure you destroy all of the supplies—food, medicine… clerics."
Clef starts struggling, anger and fear mingling together into a cocktail of infuriated terror. "Cretin! Coward! Is this how Tendovians win their battles?" Despite his admonishments, the Tendoves soldiers are moving through the clinic. Clef can see now that they are carrying unlit torches. "No. No! You've already beaten these soldiers, you fools." Somewhere behind him, he hears his Sister Cerie scream. Her terror grips his heart in an icy grip. "Don't," Clef says, desperate and pleading. "Please don't do this."
The soldier holding Clef pulls him even closer, nearly lifting him off the ground. "I'm going to open you from navel to collarbone, Brother," he sneers with disdain.
Two things happen at once: a group of Prairies soldiers arrive from the back entrance to engage the Tendovian troops, and the soldier holding Clef is struck down with a heavy broadsword. Clef falls to the floor, teeth chattering. There is a battle raging behind him, but he can only stare as his rescuer hacks at his attacker, easily finding the weak points in the full-plate and spilling his blood.
His savior is a newcomer, for Clef has never seen him around Baron Falls before. He isn't wearing a helmet. Clef can see that he has some Southern blood in him, with skin a shade darker than Clef's and eyes like warm chocolate. His white armor marks him a commander of some sort, and it makes both his black hair and the flame emblem of Embergrass more striking.
"Clear?" his savior asks, pulling his sword from the Tendovian's neck. He's not talking to Clef, but to the small contingent of Prairies warriors he's brought into the fray.
"Yes, sir," someone else replies, and Clef sags with relief. They were saved. His Sisters and Brothers were saved, and his patients are safe.
His savior sheathes his sword and offers Clef a hand up. "You ought to be more careful, Brother. Surely you knew you were no match for armed soldiers."
Clef allows the other man to pull him to his feet. He notes that his robes are now sporting two shades of red. "They were not soldiers, they were cowards." He sets his jaw stubbornly, staring at the man who has just saved his clinic. "And was I to sit idly by while they burned my patients alive?"
His savior considers him, looking proud. "No," he says with a rueful shake of his head. "No, I suppose not. Well done, Brother. You are a brave man." He claps a hand on Clef's shoulder, and his expression morphs into one more grave. "But the Commander has given the order to retreat. We've lost Baron Falls."
"No," Clef whispers as the news sinks in. Embergrass has lost a vital piece in the war. The South is moving up.
"My soldiers will help you move the injured," his savior says. "Hurry and get them out of here. We are falling back to Crestfall."
He barely waits for Clef to nod before disappearing out the door. Outside, the battle continues—the open door is making the shouts and clashing weapons even louder than before. Clef closes it over, offering what little comfort he can.
"We've lost Baron Falls," he says to his Sisters. "Pack up everything and everyone. We retreat."
With the eight men and women his savior has left them, Clef moves quickly. Before long, the clinic wagons are among the mass exodus from Baron Falls. Clef watches the outpost fade out of sight with a heavy heart. The sounds of the siege are still audible. Some of his conscious patients are sobbing in frustration and despair.
Clef understands them; he feels the same way. Not an hour ago they were holding fast, as Embergrass has always done. Now they are losing the war.
*~*~*
They meet more Brothers and Sisters of the Crescent in Crestfall. While the city does not offer the strategic defense that Baron Falls did, it is located on a riverbank. The Prairies boast the richest, most fertile lands on the continent. Combined with the easy access to freshwater, Crestfall is a valuable city. Clef knows as well as anyone that it is only a matter of time before it becomes a target for the North or South. The Commander of Crestfall's contingent had already begun preventative measures prior to the arrival of Baron Falls refugees. The city walls have been fortified with supports and the watch has been increased. The stores of food and herbs are almost as vast as those kept in the capital. It does not take long for Clef and his comrades to set up a new base of operations in the city's clinic, a massive basilica near the river.
Clef is required to send weekly letters to Emberborne Keep. Mostly it consists of casualty reports, medical supplies, and well wishes for the Duchess's stronghold. As the weeks turn into months, the casualty count takes up most of Clef's time. Occasionally he receives a reply from one of the chamberlains, emphasizing the importance of a strong army and thanking the Order of the Crescent for its good work. He knows for a fact that an envoy was sent to Tendoves front lines to petition a formal complaint concerning the renegade soldiers' actions in Baron Falls. He does not know the outcome of the meeting, but the dead cannot be punished. At the very least, the renegades had paid the price.
The Second Unification War wages on. Clef spends his days setting bones, cleaning wounds, and sewing up holes in human bodies. He works from sunup to sunup. Some days, he goes without food. He's simply too busy; more and more wounded are brought to Crestfall every day. He's been given the Crestfall Order's large basilica to work with, but the demand upon it is too great. Despite its size and the number of Brothers and Sisters working there, they are getting too many injured to keep up. At this point, it's more of a field clinic than a full-size facility. Things are just as they were at Baron Falls. Every new casualty brought in is taxing them, but they can't afford to succumb to exhaustion.
"Hold him down," Clef says through gritted teeth. "I can't do this with him thrashing about." He manages to keep his voice even for his Brothers' benefit. Lucas and Arryn are barely keeping it together as it is. Clef can't blame them; they've probably never seen something like this before.
Clef is wrist-deep in their current patient, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The man's fevered struggling is only making Clef's job more difficult. He's trying to find the arrowhead that broke off inside the wound before it causes irreversible damage. The stomach wound is producing more blood than Clef knows what to do with. No one had been able to tell him how long ago the man had been wounded.
"He's s-strong," Arryn says, throwing all of his weight into keeping the soldier down. "The grip of death has given him strength."
"That's good," Clef says, feeling around the warmth for something foreign. "He will need that strength to help recover from this." He continues to grope, praying to the Lady that he has not pushed the weapon deeper inside the patient.
The man chokes and gurgles, prompting Lucas to gasp. "Elder Brother, he is—he looks—"
"Stay with me." Clef spares a desperate glance at the man's face. His eyes are wide and full of terror, and he is sweating profusely. "Soldier! Stay with me. " They are but a single horror story in a church full of epic suffering, but Clef shuts out everything else—his assistants, the other patients—and focuses on this one man. Please, he pleads, to both the Lady and any deity who is listening. Please give him strength. Give me strength.
"Elder Brother," Lucas says, hand clamping hard around Clef's bloodied wrist. The urgency in his voice makes Clef hold and look at him. "Elder Brother, he is gone."
"Lady save his soul," Arryn says, sitting with his head bowed. He is gripping fistfuls of his soiled robes so hard that Clef can see his hands shaking.
The soldier is indeed gone, skin rapidly losing color. His insides are warm still, and Clef withdraws his hand. It's stained dark red, slick with the man's blood. Not for the first time, he feels anger. Anger at the North, the South—at every person who raises weapons against another. On the heels of this rage comes the despair, bubbling up to his throat and threatening to escape in a sob. Clef barely manages to swallow it. Even then, he only succeeds because of Lucas and Arryn.
What he says is, "We have tried our best. It is all we can do." Even to himself, his voice sounds devoid of emotion.
"Elder Brother," Lucas says, but stops. He is young, still—barely sixteen. Clef hates how his soft wisps of blond hair are colored with dried blood.
Clef feels overwhelmed. The weight of it all is crushing his chest. I can't, he thinks fervently. I can't afford to… Soldiers depend on him to mend their injuries when someone gets past their armor. Clef mustn't let anyone see the chinks in his own armor; he has to be strong for the rest of them.
He stands up suddenly, startling Arryn and Lucas. "Find out who he was," he says. "I will need to send word. I'm going…" he looks down at his dripping hand, "… I'm going to wash up."
Clef is moving before either one of them can reply. He walks away, away from the death and the blood. He has to weave his way around pallets and makeshift operating tables. Haggard Brothers and Sisters barely acknowledge him when he squeezes by. Clef can see the exhaustion plain on their faces, and it breaks his heart.
In a bustling field clinic, it is impossible to ever truly be alone. Clef finds a washbasin to scrub his skin clean, ignoring everyone around him. Then he ducks into a storeroom under the pretense of searching for supplies. Much of the walls are lined with shelving and holding baskets or barrels of splints and bandages. One strip of stone is still visible near the door. Once Clef is shut inside, he punches the wall hard enough to hear his knuckles crack in protest. It does little to suppress his frustration, so he does it again. And again.
Soon he is panting, leaning one hand against the door to keep it closed and cradling his bruised one to his chest. His knuckles are stinging, blood pearling in the scrapes. His vision is blurry, and Clef realizes he is crying.
What is it for? What is any of it for?
Embergrass is in the same position it was weeks ago. The only news of the war Crestfall is getting is the influx of injured and refugees. Some days, it feels like people are dying for nothing.
Several minutes tick by before Clef is able to compose himself. He wraps his own hand before leaving the storeroom, noticing that they have already started using torn bedsheets as bandages.
*~*~*
Autumn becomes winter. Prairie winters in general tend to be temperate, but the Red Mountains have biting cold seasons. Clef waits anxiously for some word that the North has withdrawn from the war, but this never happens.
Many of his patients recover and return to the field. Many of them die. Clef takes pains to learn most of their names, if only to send word to their families. One month, there are so many fatalities that Clef cannot even write them all down. His wrist twists up into one sore muscle, and he has to ask Julia to finish it.
Handling the high volume of injured continues to take all day and all night. It is impossible for Clef to be awake all the time, but he is the only surviving Elder Brother stationed here so he tries his very best. Between administering medical aid, handling sensitive correspondence, and coordinating supply runs with the captains, Clef has precious few hours to himself. The fatigue threatens to overwhelm him, but he cannot afford to rest. He takes to using powders to disguise the dark circles under his eyes. Clef does not want his Order or his patients to see their foremost cleric coming apart at the seams.
He is the only member of the Order with his own room in the basilica. Clef takes advantage of this one morning, stealing a few moments by the open window. The chilly winter air is helping to keep him alert. He's watching the frigid waters crash upon the riverbank when the winds carry the telltale sound of trumpeting to his ears.
"No," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "No, impossible."
Clef is moving before the next blow, hiking his robes up so he can run faster. He calls for his Brothers and Sisters, already brainstorming how they are going to evacuate hundreds of injured from Crestfall. It will not be like Baron Falls, he swears. I won't allow it.
Julia and Lucas meet him at the foot of the stairs. "Elder Brother." Julia's voice doesn't even waver; the months have done much for her resolve. "The Captain has sounded the alarm. Something about a causeway?"
"Causeway?" Clef blinks, mind racing. They couldn't mean… they were under siege from… "They're coming across the river?"
Lucas rubs his face with his hands, making a mewling sound. "Elder Brother, what are we to do? The basilica is right by the river."
Clef rounds on him. "I know where the basilica is! Back to your stations," he adds in a calmer voice. "Keep this to yourselves until I know what exactly is going on."
Julia and Lucas scamper off, leaving Clef to stew with his own thoughts. Despite his order for silence, they will not be able to keep a secret like this. The trumpets can be heard throughout the city. The troops will be amassing along the river. Clef needs to speak to the Captain himself.
All of his exhaustion vanishes in the wake of this news. He moves as fast as he can without appearing to be panicking, leaving the basilica for the first time in a week. He gets not fifty feet from the grounds when something crashes into a distant bell tower. The sound of shattering stone is deafening, evoking shrieks and pandemonium. Clef finds himself frozen still, staring at the cloud of dust rising into the air as civilians and soldiers alike flee the collapsing building.
Catapults. He can feel his heart rise to his throat. How am I to defend us against catapults?
Captain Renale ends up finding Clef, instead of the other way around. Her white armor is easily recognizable atop her black stallion, but she isn't wearing her helmet. Her black topknot whips about in the wind. "Take shelter, Brother," she says, reining her steed next to Clef. "Their catapults are as dangerous as our mobile towers."
"Who is attacking?" Even as he asks, Clef wants to bury his face in his hands. Woe to be Embergrass, trapped between two empires.
"Tendoves," Renale says, pointing vaguely across the river. "The South sent a contingent to bank us along the west. The river is calm this year; they thought they could tame it and build a causeway while the Red Mountains keep our attention elsewhere."
"They did build a causeway," Clef points out, wrapping his robes tighter around himself. "They're close enough to shoot at us."
As if his words had called the South to action, another huge boulder sails into one of the larger buildings. He ducks out of reflex, covering his head. The sound is horrendous—to Clef, it's as though civilization itself is crumbling to the ground.
Renale takes a moment to relay a series of instructions with hand signals to a party of troops across the road. Clef does not know any of the meanings, but the soldiers set to their tasks quickly enough. When Renale turns back to Clef, it's with a stern expression. "It's not over yet, Brother. Please stay indoors. We have enough to worry about out here without our most valuable cleric stumbling about."
She turns to go, but Clef calls after her. "And what of the basilica? The building is huge; it's a prime target. I need to get all of those people out and somewhere safe."
"No warrior worth their blade would attack a church of the Order," Renale says over her shoulder. "It's the safest place for you and the injured."
"Safe like in Baron Falls?" Clef asks, balling his fists up in frustration. More rocks are falling now—each crash striking fear into Clef's heart. But they are smaller, all landing far away, and with luck they are striking vacated buildings. "Don't mistake me for one of your troops, Captain. I obey the Duchess and I serve the Lady. And I swore an oath to give everything I have to protect the injured and ill. If I must move them all myself…"
Renale does turn around then, fixing Clef with a baleful glare. She marches her horse back over, and then leans over, armor clinking as she moves. Clef wills himself not to quail beneath the weight of Renale's gaze once they are eye to eye. "Have you gone mad, Clef? Do you have any idea what's happening out there?" She gestures sharply with one hand. "We've got the North coming down and to our left, and the South marching up and to our right. We're forty thousand strong and yet are barely holding our own here. Crestfall is even more valuable than Baron Falls was, and I refuse to lose it—but I need to focus on my soldiers and what they're doing, not minding wayward townsfolk and willful clerics." She sits back up in her saddle once more. "Now return to the basilica where you're needed most, and trust us."
Clef does as she commands, face burning with both shame and anger. What if the Tendovians don't realize the basilica is where the injured are kept? What if they don't care, like in Baron Falls? How are they going to stop the South from coming over the causeway?
When he re-enters the basilica, Julia nearly trips over herself running to him. "Elder Brother," she says with a gasp. "What shall we do?"
He weighs his options, but ultimately decides to heed Captain Renale's words. "As you were. Tell everyone to keep to their duties." He plows on in the face of her concern. "They aren't targeting us. The Captain tells me they have a plan." When Julia hesitates, Clef says, "Do it, Sister."
"Yes, Elder Brother," she says, as obedient as ever. Clef can tell she does not agree with him though. He doesn't blame her.
Clef tries setting a good example. He sets bones, cleans wounds, and sews people back up. Miraculously, very few are brought to him over the course of that day. Moreover, several wounded soldiers actually recover enough for active duty. All the while, sounds of a barrage from the air echo through the basilica's walls. Clef does his best to ignore it; the others follow suit. He makes a note to commend them all tomorrow.
Then, around the midday mark, the barrage… stops. The silence is unsettling after a morning of attack. Clef finds himself pausing in the middle of a stitch, listening for the worst that must be yet to come.
Lucas brightens, looking up at Clef from where he sits, helping hold the patient's wound closed. "They've done it then, Elder Brother? They've stopped them on the causeway?"
Clef hesitates, not knowing what to say. "So it would seem." But how? They certainly did not build their own causeway. Such a thing would take days if not weeks to complete.
"Lady be praised," Cerie sobs from somewhere across the room. Her exclamation is echoed by several others.
For his part, Clef is full of more curiosity than he knows what to do with. He certainly cannot stop working to seek out the Captain, so he busies himself with surgeries instead. Once things have calmed down a bit, he will find out for everyone.
Despite the reprieve, things do not calm down. Infections arise and wounds fester. Clef works until sunrise, until he has nothing left to give. He works until his vision blurs and he nearly pierces himself with a needle. He makes a graceful exit at this point, dead on his feet, and barely makes it to his bed before losing himself to sleep.
*~*~*
Clef rouses from his slumber only a few hours into morning. He stumbles to the wash basin, stealing a glance at himself in the small, cracked mirror. Oh, he's certainly a sight to behold. What kindness the powders afford him cannot conceal the drawn, haggard countenance of his face. Clef washes quickly, and throws on the last of his clean clothes and his worn robes. He makes a note to assign one of the Brothers to the laundry.
The basilica is as busy as ever. Clef offers encouragement and comfort to the other clerics when he passes them in the halls. Some of them are so young, and yet look so old. The war has aged them. Others are older than Clef's twenty-six, but appear no less haunted by what they've seen. Every day, it gets worse.
Arryn stumbles over to Clef's side with a cup of piping hot tea. "Good morning, Elder Brother."
Clef accepts the cup, eyeing Arryn critically. His robes are stained with blood and black tea, and their wrinkled folds speak volumes. "Go find some real breakfast for yourself," he says, reaching out to squeeze Arryn's shoulder. "Something hearty. Then do the laundry. As it dries, you will get some rest. Those are your duties for the day."
If Arryn is surprised at the veritable holiday, he is graceful enough to give no sign of it. "Thank you, Elder Brother." He bows his head before scurrying off.
Clef downs his tea quickly, wincing at the burn in his throat. No sooner does he set the cup down then Cerie arrives, handing him the current list of patients who need immediate attention. Thankfully, all of them are minor cases—mostly adverse reactions to usual medications. Clef visits each one personally, rattling off alternatives and substitutions to the clerics.
He's just finished his initial morning rounds when the basilica doors open, letting in a rush of cold air. Clef looks over sharply at the intrusion. Normally, everyone uses the smaller doors to either side; the large doors are mainly for funeral processions.
The intruders are Embergrass soldiers. Two of the three are carrying a litter. "Cleric!" the one in the front shouts. "We need an Elder cleric!"
Clef is already moving, weaving around beds, pallets, and other clerics until he reaches the newcomers. "Shut the doors," he says, and a Sister scrambles to obey his command. Clef fixes the soldiers with a glare. "The cold is not conducive to recovery. Have a care when you enter; the injured need every advantage."
"He needs help," one of the other soldiers says, ignoring his reprimand. "We rode our horses nearly to death to reach you."
Clef motions for them to bring the litter. They make space in a corner, moving aside barrels of used linen. The patient in the litter does not respond, not even when his fellow soldiers rest the makeshift bed none too gently onto the floor. He's been wrapped up in cloaks like a mummy to protect him from the cold, leaving only his nose bare.
"Julia!" Clef barks. She appears not a moment later. "Scrape together some bedding for this one. We'll make another pallet here." When she runs off, Clef kneels down to unwrap his patient. Once his face is revealed, Clef pauses with startled recognition. I know this man. The wounds have tinged his dark skin gray and months in the field have made his cheeks grow a little gaunt, but there is no doubt about it. This is the man who saved Clef and his patients in Baron Falls. "Who is this?" he asks, continuing to unravel the patient.
"Captain Andar," the same soldier says. "He was grazed by an enemy lance. We didn't realize until after we decimated the South and destroyed their causeway. Bastard hid the injury from us." Despite his words, the soldier's voice sounds fond. "The Captain didn't want us to lose morale."
Clef had nearly forgotten. "The causeway," he says, motioning for the other soldiers to help him get Andar's shirt off. "You routed the enemy, then?"
"The attack was Captain Andar's initiative," the soldier says with pride. "He designed it and insisted on leading it. The South was thoroughly defeated; we ambushed them and drove them into the river."
"They suffered heavy losses," another soldier says. "It was a definitive blow in our favor, but the Captain… Brother, you have to help him."
"I will," Clef says, carefully peeling away the soiled bandages. He has to swallow a sound of disgust at what he finds underneath them. The crude stitches and amateur cleaning have done little to help the wound. It's a red, angry hole in Andar's side, bubbling with puss and infection. Horrified and furious, Clef gives the soldiers a scathing look. "Who is responsible for this? A child could apply better primary care. He's lucky to be alive." The soldiers quail beneath Clef's scolding. "Lucas!" he calls, beckoning him over. "Surgical emergency. Fetch all my usual tools and a strong belladonna blend. The Captain will be needing something to numb the pain."
Lucas dashes off to comply. The third soldier clears her throat. "Brother, we rode as fast as we could—"
Clef rounds on her. "Did you not have a field cleric among you? How did they permit such a thing to happen?"
"He died."
The blunt, quiet answer brings Clef up short. Presently, Lucas arrives with the tray of supplies, fresh towels, and water. Cerie follows suit with a cup of Clef's signature concoction. Together, they rouse Andar only just long enough to down it. Clef watches them while he washes his hands, feeling ashamed of his outburst.
Clef dismisses Cerie but keeps Lucas to help. "Forgive me," he says to the soldiers. "I spoke too hastily."
The third soldier shakes her head. "This war can rot in all seven hells." She bows, almost touching her forehead to the floor. "Please help the Captain, Elder Brother. He saved Crestfall yesterday; we should return the favor."
"I will," Clef says, and this is a promise he intends to keep. The soldiers leave Andar in Clef's hands, disappearing out the smaller door.
With Lucas to hand him tools and clean up in his wake, Clef sets to work. His world narrows to include only himself, his instruments, and Andar. The flesh around the wound is hot, infection radiating from it in waves. Andar himself is feverish, though his sleep is deep rather than fitful. Clef removes the atrocious stitches with as much care as he can afford, wincing as more blood begins to ooze from the wound. Once they are discarded, he sets to work giving the injury a necessary cleaning. He scrubs away dirt and grime, soiling rag after rag. He hands the reddened linen to Lucas, who sounds increasingly distressed.
"It's a terrible wound," he says, voice barely above a whisper.
"I've brought people back from worse," Clef says, trying to convince himself as well as Lucas. Though he had cursed the soldiers and their novice attempt at a suture, he has to admit that Andar might not have survived this long if the wound had been left open to the elements.
Once he's satisfied, Clef holds out his hand. Lucas hands him a phial of disinfectant ointment. He applies it liberally, waiting while it absorbs into the wound. Lucas gives him a surgical knife, and Clef prepares the injury for stitching, slicing away strips of torn, dead flesh. Needle and thread come next, with Clef bending awkwardly to get at the wound.
Julia arrives with a pallet and bedsheets, but Clef barely registers her. All of his concentration is focused on the precise, tidy pulls of his needle and thread. Slowly, with Clef barely daring to breathe, he closes the jagged wound, snipping the excess thread with a relieved exhale.
Lucas is at his side in an instant, handing him another jar of ointment. Clef applies the salve gently, and then with Lucas's help, wraps the wound with fresh bandages. Once they're finished, Clef stands up and wipes his brow. He summons more clerics, and with their combined effort, they manage to get Andar onto the prepared bedding without jostling his wound.
"He should wake in a couple of hours," Clef says, washing his hands. "When he does, make sure he drinks his fill, and then come fetch me."
"Yes, Elder Brother," Lucas says, handing the tray of used supplies to another cleric to clean.
It is up to him now, Clef thinks, glancing askance at the unconscious Andar. Be strong.
*~*~*
Around the midday mark, Lucas finds Clef redressing another patient's wounds. Elaeda had been brought in about a week ago, having been mauled by one of the South's berserkers. The lacerations are healing nicely, and Clef is pleased to be able to tell her that she is going to be fine. Lucas waits until Clef's hands are washed before announcing that Captain Andar is awake.
"And?" Clef asks, shaking droplets from his fingers. "How does he sound?"
"Pained, Elder Brother—but he does not want any belladonna at the moment." Lucas worries at his bottom lip. "He asks for the cleric who saved his life."
"Then I will go to him." Clef reaches out to ruffle Lucas's hair. "Don't fret; he likely does not want his wits addled just yet. Commanding officers are like this sometimes."
When Clef reaches Andar's pallet, he is relieved to at least see the empty pitcher of water next to the bed. Andar is attempting to lift himself up on his elbows, face pinched tight with pain. Strands of black hair are matted to his face with sweat.
"Not a good idea," Clef says, kneeling smoothly next to the pallet. With a gentle but firm hand, Clef forces him to lie back down. "I'm afraid you won't be sitting up for a few days."
Judging from the anger that flits across Andar's face, the news is most unwelcome. He makes no comment, though. Instead, he fixes Clef with a probing stare. "Have we… met before? Something about you seems very familiar to me. Or is that the potions talking?" he adds wryly.
Clef gives him the ghost of a smile. "We met in Baron Falls, the night we lost the city." He pauses, letting Andar make the recollection.
"Yes," he says, realization dawning on him. "Yes, the silver-haired Brother who risked his life for his clinic."
"I never did get to thank you for saving my life."
"I believe you just have," Andar says sincerely, holding Clef's gaze. "You've saved mine, as I understand it. Thank you, Elder Brother."
Clef glances at the blankets hiding Andar's injury. "You did not make it easy for me, Captain. It's too soon to tell, but there may be permanent damage to that side."
"Doubtful," Andar says, with enough conviction to startle Clef. "I have the utmost faith in you."
"You are most kind," Clef says dryly. "However, the Order of the Crescent does not specialize in miracles. We have tried our best, but your condition was grave when you arrived."
A strange look crosses Andar's face—as though he cannot decide if he should be affronted or amused. "And here I assumed you would be badgering me to do my best to attain full recovery."
"I'm not in the business of lying to my patients, Captain. I brought you back from the brink of death; the rest is up to you. But in my experience, such a wound comes not without consequence." He softens his gaze, willing Andar to be rational. "You did not come into my care immediately after being wounded. The early hours are critical, and… it may very well heal completely, and you will be as you were before. It may not heal properly despite our best efforts, and you will be—"
Andar reaches out to grasp Clef's arm. His grip is weak, but still his muscles quiver from the effort. "I must go back to the front lines."
Clef puts his hand on Andar's. His fingers are cold. Clef beckons a nearby cleric and asks him to fetch some tea.
"Don't put anything in it," Andar says. Despite his bravado, Clef can hear the strain in his voice.
"Captain," he says, trying to warm Andar's fingers himself, "I know this must be difficult for you to hear, but you are in no condition to return to the front. You'll not be in any such condition for a couple of weeks, at least—and that depends largely on the amount of effort you put into your recovery."
"And what sort of effort does this require of me?"
Clef leans forward, squeezing Andar's fingers. "You can start with following my advice and taking something for the pain. Ease it so you can let yourself relax. Sleep will be your most valuable ally, and it's most effective when deep and uninterrupted." Andar doesn't say anything, but gives Clef a nearly imperceptible nod. When the cleric arrives with tea, Clef says, "Please bring some bread, and a belladonna blend, as well."
Clef helps Andar lift his head just enough to sip the piping hot liquid. The tea is a blend of cinnamon, ginger, and rooibos, and the scent wafts up to Clef's nostrils. He waits patiently until Andar has consumed the entire cup before moving on to the bread. It crumbles easily into smaller pieces, and Clef feeds them to Andar one by one. He spares Andar the indignity of being fed by distracting him with the tale of his arrival.
"Crestfall was under siege," Clef says once he's finished. "And you are the one we've to thank for the victory."
Andar averts his gaze, surprisingly modest. "I did what anyone in my position would have done. If the causeway had been completed, Crestfall would have been taken. I simply saw an opportunity and took it." His face hardens as he stares at something across the room. "There will be other such opportunities out there. I should be in the field to spy them."
"Captain—"
"Andar," he says firmly. "Anyone who has fed me from the hand should call me by name."
"Very well, Andar: you have done your country a great service. It will not begrudge you the time necessary to heal." Clef folds his hands into his lap. "I can see it in your eyes. You are cooperating with me now, but as soon as you can sit yourself upright, you will be tripping over yourself to get out the door. This will not do. As I have said, you must mentally prepare yourself for the idea that you may need to be—"
"No."
"—A reserve member from now on," Clef says, undeterred.
Andar looks back up at him then, determination etched into every line of his face. "Then I will prove you wrong, Brother."
"Clef." At Andar's raised eyebrow, he gives a tiny smile. "Anyone who saves my life can call me by name." He grabs the cooling belladonna concoction and reaches for Andar. "Now drink this, follow my instructions, and you may very well prove me wrong."
*~*~*
Clef manages to keep Andar under control for an entire week. Mostly, he does as Clef asks him—sleeping, eating, and refraining from straining himself. Outside, the war enters what Clef refers to as the eye of the storm. All three sides involved are playing it safe for the colder months, hoarding their supplies and waiting out their enemies. He is no soldier, but he knows it is only a matter of time before someone strikes.
At the beginning of the second week, an envoy from the front arrives. Cerie directs him to Andar while Clef maintains a safe distance. The conversation is none of his business, but Clef knows that whatever the man is telling Andar, he is going to have to deal with it.
Sure enough, Andar is restless as soon as the envoy leaves. Clef keeps an eye on him while he attends to other tasks, but Andar does not stop fidgeting. Finally, Clef's curiosity gets the better of him and he delivers Andar's afternoon meal himself.
"What has you so upset?" he asks, setting the tray upon Andar's lap. It's piled high with freshly baked flatbread, cheese, sliced bell peppers, a bowl of chickpea paste, and mint tea.
Andar is sitting up under his own power, the blankets pooling about his waist. He is shirtless, and the white bandages are crisp against his dark skin. He attacks the meal as though it were an enemy to defeat, crunching peppers between his teeth and ripping the flatbread into more manageable pieces. He is obviously agitated, scowling as he tears through the dough. Clef kneels next to his pallet and waits. He watches Andar sweep a piece of flatbread through the paste and plop it in his mouth.
"Well," Clef says. "It is good to see your appetite has returned in full force."
Andar pauses, another huge helping of chickpea paste balanced on a piece of bread. After a moment, he shoves it into his mouth. He has the grace to look contrite as he chews, scratching the stubble on his cheek. "I received a message from the front," he says. "For my victory on the causeway, they have promoted me to the Companions."
Clef feels his eyes widen of their own accord. The Companions are the Commander General's handpicked few—generals who answer only to the Commander General himself. Andar certainly deserves it; over the past week, he has had several visitors, all singing the praises of the one who had routed the South's causeway. "It is a great honor," Clef says. "Why do you look so distraught?"
"Because I am here," Andar says, slamming the bread back onto the tray. The tea sloshes, some of it spilling over. "What sort of Companion am I, lying in bed while the battle rages on?"
Clef puts his hands on his hips. "The sort who understands how little use you would be until you are healed."
"I am healed," Andar says, sounding petulant. "The wound feels much better. I can use the privy without difficulty."
"Yes, that is certainly the same as fighting a war."
Andar bristles, but recovers soon enough to deliver a harsh glare at Clef. "I am needed, I swore—"
Clef rides over him. "You swore to what? To protect your country? Well, I swore to protect the people who protect the country. It's your job to fight the war. It's my job to ensure you are capable of doing so. Until I say otherwise, you are exempt from duty."
For a moment, Clef is certain that Andar will retort, and that they will be arguing all afternoon. However, the fight leaves him with one great exhale, and he shakes with head with a chuckle. "Clef, you are… an obstinate man."
Despite himself, Clef grins. "I've heard every tale and every excuse. You soldiers are all the same, with your bravado and martyrdom. It will not work on me."
Andar tries, anyway. "I do outrank you, Brother."
"Out there, perhaps. In here, you do as I say."
"Obstinate and domineering," Andar says, not unkindly. He sighs, looking up Clef imploringly. "Will you at least let me assist around the basilica? I could carry boxes, fold linen—anything to get my muscles working again."
Clef hesitates, considering him. Andar has been following instructions to the letter, and he does look worlds better for it. So long as Clef assigns him menial tasks that won't result in straining the injury, he can't see the harm. At the very least, keeping busy will distract Andar from the fact that he cannot return to the front.
"All right," Clef says, leveling a finger at Andar's pleased expression. "Tomorrow, I'll have you handle folding the laundry. But I want you to promise me that you will cease immediately if you don't feel well. I mean it—you could set yourself back if you ignore the wound's protests."
Andar is already nodding, pulling apart some more flatbread. "Yes, yes, as you say. Thank you, Clef." He glances up, and gives Clef a genuine smile. "Really."
Clef finds himself smiling back. "Don't make me regret it."
*~*~*
Enlisting Andar's help around the basilica turns out to be a godsend. The North takes advantage of the South's temporary ceasefire, moving up against Embergrass troops. Thankfully, Crestfall is still far enough removed from the battlefield that Clef and his patients are not in any immediate danger. However, the casualties are high, and the sudden influx of injured soldiers has Clef and his clerics working around the clock. Andar is strong and capable, adapting easily to the numerous menial tasks Clef asks him to complete, freeing experienced clerics to more important work. Clef has kept an eye on him, noticing the way he walks while favoring his left side, but Andar has not once complained—and soon too much of Clef's time is monopolized for him to make a thorough inspection.
As always, Clef swallows his hunger, hides his exhaustion, and does his best to be the Elder Brother his clerics need. He ignores the way his vision blurs, the way his head pounds, and the increasingly troubling news from the Northern front lines. He has seen so many injured soldiers that he is surprised there is anyone left on the battlefield at all.
When a messenger rides ahead to tell him a cart of wounded will soon arrive, Clef fights the urge to weep. The more ground we gain, the sooner we lose it. He manages to nod, and dispatches Cerie and a few others to meet the cart and gauge the severity of the injuries. Clef heads to the desk in the main room so he can write down the date and time of the new arrivals.
"Elder Brother!" Cerie shouts from outside, startling Clef nearly out of his skin. "Please hurry!"
The icy fear in her voice has Clef running, nearly tripping over pallets in his haste to reach her. He brushes by Andar on the way, who barely manages not to drop his pile of linens. Clef races out the door, ignoring the way the cold wind whips about his face. Soldiers and clerics are working together, loading the injured onto litters in order to bring them inside, but Cerie is in the cart herself.
When Clef reaches her, she is kneeling over one of the patients. Her hands are covered in blood as she tries to stave off the oozing leg wound. She looks up at Clef with skin as white as a sheet. "She looked—so I checked and—"
Clef immediately realizes the severity of the injury and takes over, nearly shoving Cerie out of the way and shouting commands at her. "My tools, Cerie, quickly." She is gone before he finishes the sentence, and he rips the soldier's breeches further to get at the wound. The blood gushes out, coating Clef's hands in a thick layer. Whoever struck managed to slice the soldier's thigh, opening a vital artery and—No.
Clef looks up, quickly masking his concern to give the soldier some encouragement, and his heart leaps to his throat. It's Elaeda. Her dark hair is matted to her head with dirt and blood, and her face is covered with dirt, but Clef recognizes her. She is unresponsive, head lolling to the side. She's only been back in the field for a couple of weeks. She's only…
Cerie arrives, nearly stumbling into the cart in her haste. Clef seizes one of the rags and presses it against the wound. "Hold on," he says, pleading with her. "You're in good hands now, so hold on just a few minutes more." It's a miracle she has survived this long; something must have held off the blood loss before she arrived at the basilica.
"I'm sorry," Cerie is saying, panic-stricken. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make it worse."
Clef has no time to console her. He tries to keep pressure on the wound while attempting to wrap the cloth around Elaeda's thigh. Someone puts a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Clef shakes them off, gritting his teeth. The hand returns immediately, shaking him.
"Clef." It's Andar, sounding solemn. "Clef, she's not bleeding, she's…"
Slowly, Clef realizes that Andar is right. Blood is still oozing from her leg, but she is not bleeding profusely. No. He swallows thickly, scrambling to feel for her pulse. No. Nothing. She is gone. She has probably been gone for several minutes. No!
He pitches the soiled rag across the cart in anger, vision blurring with tears of frustration. "Why did I save her, if only so she could die once again? Fuck this thrice-be-damned war!" From the corner of his eye, he can see Cerie quail, looking wretched. Clef tries to pull himself together, pinching the bridge of his nose with bloodied fingers.
"Clef," Andar says, reaching for him. "You did your—"
"Do not say it," Clef manages through clenched teeth. "Especially not when it wasn't good enough."
He pushes by both Andar and Cerie, marching back inside. He leaves Julia in charge, retreating to his quarters to collect himself. No one should see him like this. A savior should not look so hopelessly defeated.
*~*~*
Clef is not surprised when someone knocks on his door two hours later. He turns away from the window, shutting out the cold and making his way to the door. Seeing Andar on the other side is unexpected, though, and Clef finds himself staring at him for several moments.
Andar is balancing a tray on one hand and holding a bucket in the other. "May I come in?"
Dumbfounded, Clef moves aside, closing the door behind him. There is steam rising from the bucket, suggesting hot water. The tray is carrying bread, tea, and the thick lentil soup Clef knows they were preparing for today. "Andar, what is this?"
Andar makes a disappointed noise as he sets his burdens down on Clef's table. "Your confusion suggests that no one takes care of you often enough." He looks over his shoulder. "Come, wash up. Then you will eat. I have heard you do very little of that." When Clef continues to stare, Andar huffs in annoyance. "Quickly, now. The water will not stay hot forever—especially since you keep an arctic wind in here with you." He makes a face. "Why is it so cold?"
"Keeps me alert," Clef says quietly, pulling off his robes until he is bare to the waist. His skin rapidly pimples with gooseflesh. It's a relief to dip his hands in the water, and he washes methodically, scrubbing away blood and grime.
Andar hands him a small, rough towel. Clef pats himself dry before grabbing a clean white shirt. He grabs his diadem, as well. When he pulls them on, he feels much better, and the soup smells much more enticing.
"Have you eaten?" he asks, grabbing the bowl.
"Before I came up," Andar says. "It's all yours."
Clef eats slowly, savoring every bite, every spice. Andar remains, but he does not speak a word. Clef doesn't ask why he stays, and finds he does not mind the company. Once he's finished, he sighs with satisfaction. "Thank you."
Andar stares at his face for a long time. "You ought to rest more," he says simply.
Clef realizes that he's washed off his face powders, and probably looks like death warmed over. Suddenly self-conscious, he ducks his head. "You know I do not have time for that."
After a moment, Andar gives a bitter chuckle. "Yes. We are fond of giving advice we do not intend to follow."
"Advice we cannot afford to follow," Clef says to the floor. "The war pushes us beyond our limits."
Andar comes closer, surprising Clef by reaching out for his hair. "Is this war?" he asks, fingering one lock of silver. "Has it aged you?"
"No," Clef says. "That's just me."
"I like it," Andar says unexpectedly, releasing the strands to brush his fingers against Clef's cheek. Clef is leaning into the touch before he realizes it. By the time he thinks to move away, a tangible awkwardness has arisen between them.
"My apologies," he says, avoiding Andar's gaze.
"No," Andar says, firmly shaking his head. "It is I who should ask forgiveness. I did not intend—" he clears his throat, looking rueful. "The war brings out the barbarian in all of us."
Clef cocks his head, considering Andar's flushed skin. "Perhaps war merely forces us to abandon all pretenses."
Andar looks directly at him, brown eyes unwavering. "Perhaps." After a few seconds, when Clef is just suppressing the urge to shift beneath the gaze, Andar closes his eyes briefly. "I came to speak with you, as well."
This makes Clef frown. "Is something amiss?"
The hollow laughter that escapes Andar's throat startles them both. "I met with an envoy just now. The news she brought was troubling." At Clef's insistence, Andar elaborates. "Crestfall is not our only outpost to suffer heavy losses. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how the Mountaineers and Tendovians are slowly squeezing us dry. The Commander-General has asked if I am available for consultation. After some consideration, I've deemed it necessary to return to the Companions."
Clef is overcome with concern so quickly that the feeling surprises him. "But, your wound—"
"It is well enough."
"It isn't." Clef starts wringing his hands. Worry is rapidly giving way to frustration. "We both know you are not leaving to provide consultation. They're requesting the same leadership that saved Crestfall. You could do permanent damage to yourself, or worse."
"I could die," Andar says simply. "Or worse, so could we all. I will not sit idly by while Tendoves and the Red Mountains use us as pawns for their own empires. I intend to route the North and South myself, and force them to sue for peace."
"This is my duty, then?" Clef turns away from Andar's implacable expression, folding his arms to stop them from quivering with anger. "I'm to patch you up and send you off to your certain death?"
"Nothing is certain."
But it's too much after Elaeda. Clef runs his hands through his hair, fingers ripping through the tangles. With his clerics and patients, he has mostly been able to bottle the rage and despair. Andar has already seen too much, and Clef cannot hide from him. He feels helpless, cheated—and the feelings are compounded by the fact that Andar has come to defy him personally.
The warm, strong hands that grip his shoulders make Clef start. Andar holds him firmly, speaking softly into his ear. "I did not come here to belittle what you've done for me, Clef. I came to ask for your assistance."
"Ah, so now you ask my advice." With regret, Clef pulls away from Andar's embrace and turns around to face him. "I have already told you about your prognosis." His gaze flickers to Andar's left side. "You think I have not been watching you, but I have. You've made an excellent recovery, all things considered. However, I fear you will be but a shadow of the soldier you once were."
Andar's face closes up, and he draws himself up defensively. "I have been practicing drills. I can lift my sword and spear with my right hand."
"You are left-handed," Clef says softly. "And I have seen the way you lift that one."
"You are an obstinate man," Andar says, folding his arms. "I've seen better bedside manner and encouragement from rocks."
"I am only speaking the truth," Clef says, fixing Andar with a glare. "Part of my job is to deliver news the patients do not wish to hear, but that is often for their own benefit and safety. I can recommend a position in the reserves, or perhaps helping man a portable tower or crossbow. You want me to give permission—a blessing—for a return to the front line in your condition?"
Andar is shaking his head, not breaking Clef's gaze. "No. I want you to join my company."
This brings Clef up short, making him blink in confusion. "Come again?"
"If you've been watching me, you ought to have noticed me watching you. Your talents would be better suited to a front line clinic." Andar makes a sweeping gesture around the room. "What you have done in Crestfall is nothing short of incredible, but Embergrass needs you out there."
Reflexively, Clef's fingers drift up to touch the ruby set in his diadem. "You want me to leave Crestfall?"
"Leave it to Sister Julia," Andar says. "She is more than capable. It's time we brought one of our greatest assets to the front."
Clef feels as though he's been cast adrift. It isn't an official summons, yet Clef can see Crestfall leaving his command before his eyes. "Julia is… ready to be an Elder Sister, I think." His voice sounds alien to his own ears. "But my patients—"
"Think of how many more you could save if you had the opportunity to reach them sooner."
It is the wrong thing for Andar to say. The arrow pierces Clef's heart and the pain nearly sends him staggering. The worst of it is that Andar is right. Time is of the essence with critical wounds, and Clef can potentially bring many more back from the brink if he doesn't have to wait as long to treat them.
"Clef." Andar reaches for one of his hands, enfolding it in both of his own. "It's more than that. You said the war is forcing us to throw pretenses to the wind." He pulls Clef's fingers to his lips, dropping a soft kiss upon them. "I'm asking you to come with me."
"With you?" Clef echoes, eyes fixed on Andar's. He's dumbfounded to find Andar looking at him with such overt eagerness. "But we, we haven't ever—"
"And we may never have the chance." Andar squeezes Clef's hand. "Will you come with me—for Embergrass?"
Over the past few weeks, Clef's hero-worship of Andar has faded to a more realistic respect. The man before him now is handsome and strong, but Clef has seen his weaknesses and his insecurities. "It may be that we march to our deaths."
Andar touches Clef's cheek again. This time, Clef deliberately leans into it. "If I march to my doom, I would still count it as a personal victory, were it with you."
Clef pulls away, not amused. "This is not a game, nor a clever dalliance."
"You are right," Andar says, bowing his head. "Forgive me. I intended you no disrespect."
"It's not I whom you're disrespecting." He can see Andar flinch beneath the weight of his words, and Clef decides to spare him further admonishment. "Clearly, you require someone to mind your tongue." When Andar looks up sharply, Clef graces him with a tiny, hopeful smile. "I will go with you. For Embergrass."
Andar's relief is palpable, a relieved sigh escaping as he reaches out, running a thumb along the bow of Clef's lips. "We ride at dawn."
"So soon?" Clef cannot mask the pitch in his voice. That will not do. He still has to brief Julia, tend to some patients, write some reports, do the paperwork required for Julia to be raised as Elder—and a million other things.
Andar's hand on his shoulder stops the world from spinning. "You carry too much, Clef." Andar gives him a gentle shake. "From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I could tell you carry too much. The war doesn't wait. Tell Julia she is being promoted; let her handle the rest. I'll draw up your official draft right now, and you can send it by carrier pigeon or courier."
Clef inhales deeply through his nose, and exhales through his mouth. "Yes, General," he says, without an ounce of mockery.
"Thank you, Elder Brother," Andar says with equal sincerity.
*~*~*
Clef says his farewells to Julia and the others, knowing full well that he may never see any of them again. He leaves Julia a tome of notes and instructions, which she accepts with the grace befitting her new station. At daybreak, Clef rides with Andar and a small contingent to rendezvous with a larger outpost further north. It's there that all the official papers are drawn up and the soldiers assigned.
Andar is swiftly reinstated in command of the Flying Shadow Company. Clef learns that the moniker came from the story of the Battle of the Causeway, now a legend in its own time. Marching with the same people who thwarted the South from taking Crestfall has Clef feeling invincible. Managing outpost clinics had kept him from the front lines for so long that save for the causeway incident, he had almost felt removed from the war proper. Now, despite nursing saddlesores and sleeping on the ground, Clef does not feel any closer to the conflict than he had two weeks prior. Flying Shadow is currently making its way to the Reach to provide relief for another battalion, and the roads are decidedly deserted.
Clef is the only cleric assigned to the company, although he has been assured that he would be in command of more once they reached the front lines. Most of his current patients are visiting him because of bad mushrooms. Clef does not know whether to be relieved or annoyed that his talents aren't being used elsewhere. "Drink this," he says, handing the ailing soldier a steaming horn of tea. "It will calm your stomach and help expel the toxins."
The soldier downs the concoction with a grimace, and swallows audibly. "Expel?"
"Yes, it won't be pleasant." Clef waves him off. "Try to find a secluded spot to sleep."
The soldier rolls to his feet with a groan, nearly running into Andar on his way out. Andar watches him go, smiling like a fond uncle. "The deadliest plague an army will face: food poisoning."
Clef gives him a look. "You jest, but I'm actually quite concerned. Some of these men and women are still children, Andar. If they can't restrain themselves from chewing on strange plants…"
"They've all seen battle; they are not children." Andar shrugs one shoulder before coming to sit down, his white armor creaking and clanking. "If putting strange things in their mouths makes them recapture some of that innocence, so be it." Before Clef can retort, Andar leans over, looking absolutely gleeful. "A courier arrived with new orders. We've been summoned to the Teeth."
Clef openly gapes. " The Red Mountains border?" Surely he's misheard. Flying Shadow doesn't even have three hundred soldiers; what Andar has just proposed is veritable suicide. "They have called you back to the front lines to throw you into the North's lap?"
But Andar is already on his feet, pacing the small space inside Clef's tent, narrowly avoiding his potions and salves. "The North's largest contingent is holding the Teeth. It's treacherous and impregnable. It's also home to Fang's Keep, the Mountaineers' stronghold, holding all of their supplies and commanders." He stops pacing, staring down at Clef while Clef cranes his neck painfully to maintain eye contact. "We are taking the fight to them. They are giving me a battalion, and want me to organize the offensive once we arrive."
"Madness," Clef manages to say. He lowers his head, staring at the forgotten empty horn lying on the ground. "And while we throw our forces at the North, what will become of Tendoves?"
"I have already given my recommendations for the South," Andar says, waving the issue aside. "After the last blow we dealt them, I doubt the Tendovians will be mounting an offensive anytime soon. With the instructions I've given, it won't be long before we have the South suing for peace."
Clef's eyes widen. "One notable victory and you believe yourself a god of war?" At Andar's startled expression, Clef climbs to his feet so they may argue on equal ground. "For months, we've been barely holding our own against the pincer movement, and now you try to tell me that you've single-handedly won the entire war?"
"Not single-handedly," Andar says, sounding breathless, "but I've helped win half of it. The Battle of the Causeway demoralized the Southern troops. There are whispers of their exhaustion, of their wishes to go home to their families—and news of the causeway has boosted the morale of our own soldiers."
Clef rocks backward before he can stop himself, taking the news as a physical blow. "You are… serious?"
"Of course, until the official envoy arrives, there is no way to be certain. But our troops have the encouragement they need, and that's all I care about." Andar scratches his cheek, eyes downcast. "We ride at dawn."
"We always ride at dawn," Clef says. He glances around at the tiny clinic he's built. "Will you be sending me soldiers to help pack up?"
"Of course." Andar pauses. "You will have more clerics to organize once we reach the Teeth. I believe there may be several Elders there already, though."
"It is no matter." Clef turns to begin tidying up. "I am sure we will all work well together."
Andar's hand on his sleeve pulls him up short. When Clef glances back, he finds Andar looking uncharacteristically hesitant. He speaks very slowly. "I wanted to tell you that I would protect you." He pauses again, but continues when Clef doesn't reply. "We may march into the lion's den, but I will not let them touch you."
Clef closes his eyes briefly, pulling his arm from Andar's grasp. They have spoken many times since leaving Crestfall, but never so intimately. "You are a strange man, Andar. First you claim that war cannot afford the luxury of romance, then you say the war is practically won, and then you grant me invincibility." He doesn't intend to state the obvious, but the words are coming before he can censor them. "You asked me to come with you; I did. We both know it wasn't just for Embergrass, and yet this is the first time…"
There are long seconds of silence. Clef feels foolish, having brought his personal feelings into something much more dire. He turns away again, intending to busy himself with salves until Andar takes his leave.
He finds himself tugged back around. Andar holds him by the shoulders, fixing him with a stare that's all at once nervous, needy, and desperate. Clef knows his own face is probably filled with equally convoluted emotion. They remain that way for a long, awkward moment: two men who have been at war far too long.
Finally, Andar clears his throat. "I am sorry. I've wanted—but my duties." He is stammering; Clef finds it oddly endearing. "Do you, do you think we—?"
"I think we are at war," Clef says softly, "and we should find comfort where we can."
Andar crushes them together, and Clef grunts when he's pressed against the cold armor. Andar kisses him thoroughly, with a gentleness that surprises him. Clef scratches at the breastplate, trying to find purchase, before giving up and running his fingers through Andar's cropped hair instead.
"It's not comfort," Andar pants between kisses. "The moment I saw you, I… you're an angel. A guardian angel."
"I'm no angel. Just a man." A man feeling the rippling tingles of pleasure and anticipation in his belly, and moving lower. It has been a long time for him, but Andar stirs desires he thought buried.
Andar ignores his protest, kissing a line of fire along his jaw to his ear. "First in Baron Falls, and again in Crestfall," he says in a whisper. "I had thought I would never see you again—but fate had other plans."
"I admired you," Clef says, shuddering when Andar nibbles the lobe of his ear. "You saved my life twice. But I never thought we would…"
Andar pulls back suddenly, fussing with his armor. "Help me."
It has been some time since Clef has had to remove someone's armor, and his uncertainty is compounded by his clumsy eagerness. He helps Andar shed gauntlets, gorget, greaves, cuirass, and fauld. The pieces fall to the ground with little care, revealing the simple leather and tan cloth Andar wears underneath.
Free from the constrictive protection, Andar reaches for him again. Clef goes willingly, surging up to claim Andar's lips. The kiss is even better this time, now that Clef can feel Andar's hard muscles against him. The closeness fuels their impatience, and before long Clef's robes are in complete disarray—victims of Andar's haste.
When the red-and-white cloth joins the armor on the ground, Andar advances with purpose. Clef yields, giving ground until Andar gets them where he wants, knocking over phials and jars along the way. At Andar's gentle urging, Clef lowers himself to his sleeping pallet. Andar's heat blankets him, and then they're kissing again. Andar grinds down and Clef starts undulating in response, helping to rock them together—the friction delicious but not enough.
Andar evidently feels the same way, rolling them onto their side. He worms a hand between them, fussing with their breeches. Clef reaches down to help, freeing their cocks from the confines. Andar takes them both in hand with a groan, and Clef wraps his arms around Andar, sucking a welt into his neck. Andar's cock is hard and hot against his own, his fingers stroking them expertly. Clef finds himself moaning into Andar's skin, not caring if the entire camp can hear him.
Andar spills first, and the warm slickness propels Clef into a haze of his own pleasure. He arches against Andar, breath puffing over Andar's lips even as he tries to coax Clef into another kiss. Andar has to settle for licking at Clef's lips while he rides the waves.
They lie there longer than they should, heedless of the mess dripping onto the makeshift sheets. Clef wants to ask for assurances, for promises—but he does not. Instead, he reaches for a cloth to clean them up.
Andar stays as long as he dares. Clef can tell by the way he groans with regret before dragging himself up. "I must make the rounds. Unfortunately, we must still ride at dawn."
Clef sighs, feeling resigned. "Yes, I understand." He rolls over, groping for his fallen robe. The air is suddenly frigid.
"Clef." He looks up, only mildly surprised to see a mix of affection and regret on Andar's face. "I'm not in the habit of making quick exits."
"I know it," Clef says, rubbing at his face. He doesn't even remotely feel like getting up, and he still has to pack. "Come see me when you're able."
"Of course." Before Andar leaves, he bends over to catch Clef's lips in a fleeting kiss. Then he gathers his fallen armor, somehow balancing everything in a huge bundle, and ducks out of the tent.
People will be suspicious, Clef realizes. Actually, it's more likely that people will know. The idea brings an unexpected smile to his face. He's found a bright speck of light amidst all this darkness.
*~*~*
The Teeth are every bit as imposing in person. Everyone in Flying Shadow Company switches to heavy cloaks, but even then the cold bites at them. The roads have become slippery and treacherous, the horses crunching ice and snow beneath their hooves.
Clef bears it as best he can, but the only time he finds a semblance of comfort is when Flying Shadow arrives at the Embergrass Battalion. The camp is like its own tiny city, and they've organized themselves in a well shielded nook among the mountains.
Once he is settled in his own red-and-white tent among the other clerics, Clef ventures out to see where he can help. He stands in the middle of the camp, wind whipping his cloak about him, and then it sinks in: he in on the front line. The Embergrass Battalion is comprised of the Commander-General's own soldiers—and he intends to give command of them to Andar.
Andar will be riding into Northern territory—and Clef might have to, as well, as a field cleric. Lady help us all.
Clef acquaints himself with the other Elder clerics, Elayne and Geoffrey. Between the three of them, they work out a schedule for recoveries and perform six surgeries. Mostly, Clef operates as he would have done in Crestfall and Baron Falls. However, despite the close proximity to danger Clef feels more useful, stopping disaster before it strikes. Though they are all Elder Clerics, Elayne and Geoffrey both praise Clef's skill with needle and thread.
He's just made it back to his tent, intending to catch a few hours of sleep, when Andar steps inside. Clef stares at him, slack-jawed. Andar's helmet is off and his forehead is bleeding—one long line of blood flowing down to his nose.
"What has happened to you?" Clef scrambles over, grabbing a cloth and salve on the way.
But Andar only looks giddy, wearing a gleeful smile despite the glassiness of his eyes. "We were scouting," he says, letting Clef poke at him. "We met one of their scouting parties. Only one scouting party returned."
Now that he's cleaned most of the oozing blood, Clef can assess the damage. It's a shallow cut, evidence that a blade had grazed Andar at best, but the sight still sends Clef's heart lurching into his throat. "Another inch," he says, looking directly into Andar's eyes. "Another inch, and…"
He closes the distance between them, kissing Andar as though their lives depended on it. When they break for air, Clef swallows audibly. Without another word, he starts applying salve.
"Clef," Andar says, less giddy now as he catches Clef's wrist. "It is not a bad cut."
"Bravado," Clef says, reaching for a bandage.
"Clef."
Clef ignores him, wrapping the bandage around his head and pressing a kiss to it. "Bravado and martyrdom."
"Clef." This time, Clef gives Andar his undivided attention. From the serious expression that has come over Andar's face, Clef can tell he is not going to like whatever Andar is about to say. "I have found a way through the mountains."
Clef does not know how he feels about that. The familiar pangs of concern and trepidation are coupled with hope. "So soon? How have you done such a thing?"
"I've been studying the maps every free moment I've had." Andar brushes a strand of stray silver hair from Clef's face. "The scouting mission's purpose was to make sure the maps were still current."
"And then?"
"We strike," Andar says simply, gauging Clef's reaction. "While the iron's hot, as they say."
"While they are out of sorts," Clef says quietly. "While they are not expecting it." Concern is beginning to vastly outweigh any of his other emotions. "When do you ride?" He pointedly doesn't meet Andar's eyes.
Andar takes hold of his chin, beckoning him to look up. When he does, he finds Andar's gaze more intense than it has ever been. "Tonight."
The ground gives way beneath him, and now Clef knows what it is to worry oneself to death. He resists the urge to curl in on himself, to hide beneath the covers until the war is over and he can wake from this nightmare. "Tonight?" he echoes, voice barely more than a croak.
"Why do you think we were summoned to the Teeth?" Andar's reply is not unkind, and he pulls Clef to him as though sensing his distress. "This assault has been planned for weeks. The Commander-General is ready. He's taken my recommendations to heart."
Clef is hardly listening. All he can think about is how exhausted Andar must be, and he is going back out in an hour's time to lead the most important offensive of the war. He feels sick. He huffs an uneasy sound against Andar's white breastplate. The plate armor is freezing, but he barely registers the cold.
"Clef. Speak to me." When Clef cannot, Andar makes an attempt at levity. "I ride to my doom shortly. The Lady's blessing would be appreciated."
Clef shoves him away, glaring through unshed tears. He wants to claim it's because of the temperature, but he knows it's more than that. "You ass," he says without humor. "How kind of you to wait until now to tell me. After we—after I…"
"I could not, Clef. I could not." Andar spreads his arms in surrender, looking devastated. "Do you think this is how I wanted it?" He comes forward again, and Clef is too distraught to protest the hug. "Would that I could remain here with you. But I must fight."
Clef pulls away again, gazing at Andar with what he knows is a grave expression. "How did you get that cut on your forehead?" He watches closely for any sign that Andar is hiding something. Just watching Andar try so hard not to give himself away does the opposite. "They got too close to you," Clef says, reaching the conclusion unaided. "You can't fight as well as you used to." His voice sounds hollow to his own ears. "You are crawling into the lion's den and you aren't even certain you can protect yourself." He turns away from Andar, overcome with a mixture of despair and anger. "How have you done this to me? We barely know each other, yet if I lost you—if I lost you now, it would be like losing a limb."
"We know each other." Andar doesn't reach for him this time, letting the words hang in the air. "The most important things… we know. When the war is over, we will have all the time we need."
"When the war is over, we may have run out of time."
"I will come back to you," Andar swears with startling ferocity. "If there is a breath left in this body, it will be used to reach you."
It is both the right thing and the wrong thing to say. Clef goes to him, and kisses him to stifle both of their sobs. There are no tears, but Andar presses their foreheads together and holds Clef tight. They stand that way for a long time.
Finally Andar whispers, "I have to go."
"Lady guide you and keep you safe," Clef manages to say. Andar accepts the blessing with a smile, brushing a knuckle against Clef's cheek before moving past him.
He doesn't want to look—doesn't want his last memory of Andar to be of him leaving. Clef can't help it, though. He watches Andar duck out of the tent, furs flapping in the sudden gust of wind, and already feels lost.
*~*~*
Clef does not sleep that night. He's not alone; the entire battalion is up and about. The clinic is quiet and its patients more than manageable. This leaves Clef ample time to sit and fret. He watches the soldiers mobilize, something he has never seen up close before. Captains and their troops fall in line behind their Companion General. Andar is among them somewhere, but Clef does not see him. He tries to remain unobtrusive, huddling inside his furs as he watches the heart of the Embergrass army prepare to fight the decisive battle.
Despite the scale of the operation, Clef can tell they are trying to be as quiet as possible. It's naive to believe that an army of this size will remain hidden from the Mountaineers for long, but Clef can't help but be impressed by the relative stealth.
Cleric Elayne appears at his side, shivering in her own layers of furs. She is a pallid blonde, and the bitter cold makes her even whiter. "I heard they plan to climb the Teeth with five different factions, and strike five key positions."
Andar mentioned no such thing, but Clef doesn't tell her that. "I heard this is the battle that decides the war."
"Yes," she says quietly. "I heard that, too."
*~*~*
Four hours after the battalion marches, Clef is trying to pretend he is very interested in the tea that's steeping. He begins wishing for a patient to wake up, delirious and fussy, just so he would have something to focus on. Geoffrey and Elayne sit around the candles with him, steadfastly ignoring the sounds of war. The harsh mountain winds carry the sounds of the battle to the camp, filling their ears with distant metallic clangs and shouts.
Elayne is pouring him a cup when the clap of thunder rumbles through the Teeth, startling them all. Clef drops his cup and yelps when the tea scalds him, but the clink of its landing is drowned out with another barrage of thunder. When a third round rolls out on its heels, Clef exchanges terrified glances with Elayne and Geoffrey.
"That's not thunder," he realizes, and then they're stumbling in their haste to get outside.
Without the protection of their furs, the Red Mountains night air is brittle and unforgiving. Clef ignores it as best he can, peering into the distance. Their camp is not close enough to see what is happening, but the thunder rolls again and again and again.
"What is it?" Geoffrey asks over the noise.
The Commander-General left a small contingent in the camp. Clef spies one of the sentries by one of the supply tents. She's younger than most of the soldiers, and looks none too pleased to be guarding stores of beets and potatoes while a battle rages on only hours away.
"Brother," she says, gaping at his state of undress. "Put your cloak on—unless you believe you can sew with frostbitten fingers."
"What is happening?" he asks, even as he shivers. "What is that sound?"
She hesitates for a fraction of a second before saying, "I don't know, Brother."
Clef bares his teeth in a snarl. "Girl, it is most unwise to lie to the cleric in charge of what you eat." A flicker of nervousness ghosts her face before she manages to smooth it out. Clef plows on. "I need to know. I need to know what it is so I can prepare for—for having to fix it."
To her credit, the sentry does look apologetic. "I'm sorry, Brother, but I only know rumors. I don't want to frighten you."
Clef resists the urge to pull out his hair. He's half-mad with worry. "If it's a rumor, then it will do no harm. Speak, soldier!"
"Bombs."
Clef finds himself taken aback. "Come again?"
"Mixtures from the Mountaineers' mines," she says. "The other soldiers have been whispering about it. Sometimes, when the ore and powders are good, Mountaineers can make projectile weapons." A look of wonder flits across her face, as though she cannot decide if she should be frightened or impressed. "They are more dangerous than arrows or catapults. They crash like thunder and flash like lightning. They make fire when they explode. Bombs."
As if on cue, another bomb goes off, its explosion echoing through the Teeth. Clef's heart leaps to his throat. Is it true? Lady save us, do such things exist? If they do, does Andar know about them?
"Go inside, Brother," the sentry pleads with him. "We are losing enough of our own out there."
Clef stares at the treacherous mountains for a few moments longer, wanting answers more than anything, but eventually heeds the sentry's advice.
*~*~*
His answer comes not an hour later. "Cleric!"
Clef, Elayne, and Geoffrey all spring from their cushions, alert and ready to help. The commotion rouses much of the little clinic again, after it had taken Geoffrey the better part of the hour to soothe everyone awoken by the bombs. The patient ushered into their tent is a bloodied mess, hanging limply between a soldier and the sentry from earlier.
"Lady help us," Elayne says under her breath.
The man's helmet is gone, and his hair has been seared off. His scalp is covered with blackened abrasions. His armor is dented, almost concave against his stomach. He looks like—Clef swallows—he looks like a man shoved into flame.
"Balls of fire," he's muttering between coughs. "They made balls of fire."
"Lady help us," Geoffrey says, sifting through potions and salves so roughly that he drops several of them.
"Who is he?" Clef asks as he directs them to an empty pallet.
"The messenger from Flying Shadow," the sentry replies, settling the wounded soldier onto the blankets.
"Flying Shadow." The words fall from Clef's lips like bricks. He goes very still, watching the soldiers watch him.
"Yes," the soldier says, frustrated. "Bastard Northerners ambushed Flying Shadow. Burned them clear off the Teeth. This one is the only man left."
"Balls of fire," the wounded messenger mutters, tossing his head upon the pillow. "General Andar said—beware the balls of fire."
"Aren't you going to help him?" The sentry gestures sharply to the messenger.
"Andar," Clef says, his voice a whimper. "What came of—of General Andar?"
"Gone," the soldier says harshly. "Did you not hear me, Brother? Flying Shadow is dead! The bombs rained down upon them—and they were trapped in that path near the Fang, ripe for the taking thanks to this damnable joke of a plan. Now will you help him?"
No. No, no, no.
"Clef!" Elayne snaps, pushing past him. "What has gotten into you? Geoffrey, help me."
Clef barely registers them taking over. He stumbles backward, managing a few steps before his knees give out. The fall seems to take an eternity; Clef knows in this moment what it means to be cast adrift. The pain of hitting the ground propels his denial into despair.
"Brother?" he hears the sentry venture.
He's staring at them, but he sees right through them. "Who told you?" His voice wavers dangerously close to a wail, but he doesn't care. "Who told you about Andar?"
"The messenger," the soldier says, out of patience. "He was there. He ran all the way back here to warn us, and you're sitting around while he fights for his life."
Dead. Andar is… he is dead. Clef chokes out a strangled sob, dropping his face into his hands. I… I am dying.
"What—?" The soldier bends over to shake Clef's shoulders. "Have you lost yourself?"
"Brother," the sentry says, with more confidence than she probably feels, "this is war."
"This is not war!" Clef shouts, sitting up straight. "This is deceit and trickery. This is barbarism." Using the soldier's arms as leverage, Clef pulls himself to his feet. "Using such a weapon should considered a war crime! How could they? How could Andar—?" He nearly collapses again, but the soldier holds him up.
"General Andar was important to you," the soldier says softly, giving Clef another rough shake. "So save his messenger."
"Clef," Elayne says. "Look at this."
Through his haze of hysteria, Clef follows Elayne's voice. She and Geoffrey have gotten the messenger's armor and clothing off, revealing lacerations and massive bruising along his torso and belly. The sight brings Clef back to himself, and he shifts quickly back to being a cleric.
"He bleeds from within." Clef bites his bottom lip, kneeling down next to the messenger, who is now unconscious. "His ribs are broken, and possibly his lungs are strained. I do not think he was quite close to the, the bomb. I believe he was struck by something the bomb scattered—a large rock, perhaps."
"How do we proceed?" Geoffrey asks, as Elayne ushers the soldier and the sentry from the tent.
Clef pokes and prods as gently as he can. "I'll need bilberry, some elderoot, and both the red and purple blends of my personal potions." They are mixtures of various natural herbs and remedies that Clef brews himself for complex situations such as this. "We will set the bones as best we can, and wrap them. We'll tend to the abrasions with aloe and salves."
Geoffrey brings him all he asks for, and then leans forward eagerly. "Have you stopped internal bleeding before?"
"Once," Clef says. "But not ever because of a bomb."
*~*~*
Two grueling hours later, Clef declares the operation a success. There is no one around to hear the announcement, though. The camp is still virtually empty: a painful reminder that, despite small victories, the whole situation is something much larger than Clef.
With his patients mending, Clef sits in the middle of the clinic and waits. His back gets sore from how rigidly he holds his vigil, but he doesn't move. He's waiting for the end—he's waiting for the bombs.
They never come.
*~*~*
Seventeen hours later, the camp screams that the war is over. Clef comes undone, going so limp and lifeless that Elayne and Geoffrey have to fetch men to carry him to his own tent. The younger clerics Geoffrey sends tend to him like he's made of glass, cooing nonsense and forcing water down his throat.
It all comes crashing down. Months of sleepless nights. Malnutrition. Blood and death. Elaeda. Andar. Clef stopped bothering with powders long ago. Now he looks exactly how he feels: filthy, haggard, gaunt, and devastated. It's over. Somehow, the war is over. He has nothing left to hide—nothing left to be strong for.
His heart begins to ache, finally grieving for a lost love that was never given time to blossom. Despair twists up inside him, painfully taut, wringing tears from his eyes. He begins to sob—messily, inconsolably, like a child—and it goes on and on until one of the clerics disappears, returning with Elayne. She manhandles him as well as any soldier, forcing generous helpings of brandy down his throat. It burns so sweetly that he barely notices she's doctored it.
He cries until he sleeps. Mercifully, he does not dream.
*~*~*
Someone is trying to wake him up. Clef does not want to; he's given enough. People only come to fetch him when they need him elbow-deep in entrails. He has seen enough blood to last a lifetime.
The shaking is becoming insistent. He rolls away, stretching out onto his back with a moan. How long has he slept? It seems like days, but he feels like he needs another two weeks.
The smell of tea and honeycake wafts up his nostrils, making his stomach rumble. The person kneeling over him chuckles, and it sounds strikingly familiar. It can't be.
A pair of chapped lips brush over his, and Clef's eyes fly wide open. Andar's chocolate brown gaze is as warm as ever, and he's wearing a smile that sparkles despite the harsh healing gash across his right cheek. He's wearing nothing but breeches and a long-sleeved shirt, and he's brought breakfast.
"I've heard you haven't been eating," he says, still smiling.
The sound of his voice makes Clef lurch to his knees, twisting around to throw his arms about Andar's neck. He squeezes too hard, and presses a rough kiss to the side of Andar's head—needing to feel him. "How?" he asks, voice croaking from sleep. "You—they said—I thought—"
Andar shushes him, holding him close. "I know. We did not anticipate the… bombs. One of our scouts managed to warn half of Flying Shadow. We did suffer considerable losses, but most of us retreated up the Fang."
The name is familiar to him. "The Fang is a path?"
"The most dangerous one," Andar says, running his fingers through Clef's hair. "Before the elements made it icy and precarious to traverse, it used to be a secondary route to Fang's Keep."
Clef pieces it all together. "You took your company up and around, and ambushed the North's stronghold." He moves back far enough to give Andar an incredulous stare. "You routed them, as you routed Tendoves."
"It was not easy," Andar says gravely. "We lost a lot of good soldiers. But they did not die in vain; once we decimated Fang's Keep, more of the battalion arrived to join the fray. Many of their commanding officers retreated, but the Commander-General was accepting their surrender before long."
"It's over." Clef sags against Andar, overcome with relief. "It's really over."
Andar leans down to kiss his cheek, rubbing their subtle together. "Will you eat? You're the one who looks like he's been fighting the battles."
The tea is lukewarm, but it goes down smooth. The honeycakes are sweet and delicious, and Clef makes sure to share. When they've eaten their fill, they curl up together on Clef's pallet. Clef rests his head on Andar's chest and listens to his heartbeat.
Though he is loath to leave this private sanctuary, Clef knows their jobs are not over yet. "What happens now?"
Andar makes an unidentifiable noise. "I've been promoted." Clef lifts his head to stare at him. "The Commander-General's personal advisor," he says wryly. "He wants me to help draw up the terms of the treaties. We suspect the South has already surrendered, and we just have yet to hear."
"Incredible," Clef says, breathless. "You… you saved Embergrass."
"I helped," Andar says, looking right into Clef's eyes. "And I was able to help because you saved me." A sly smile plays across his lips. "Would you care for a position as Elder Cleric in Emberborne?"
Clef can't help but smile back. "Are you asking me to come with you?"
"Yes," Andar says sincerely. "So I may woo you properly."
"Without the warfare. Yes, that would be nice." Clef closes his eyes briefly, but then feels the weight of responsibility upon his shoulders. "Do we… have to leave right away?"
Andar's gaze flickers to the closed tent flap. Then he grins, rolling them over and dropping a kiss to Clef's lips. "There is time for us," he says, tangling his fingers into Clef's silver hair. "From now on, there is always time for us."
Clef kisses him again.