by T. C. Edge
He behaves quite differently around Herald Kovas, of course, who begins to take a greater interest in our progress. Watching us that day when we train in the rain - a session that, I have to admit, is quite testing, though extremely useful in helping us understand how best to battle the elements in conflict - he continues to keep tabs as the days go on. After each session, Elian tells me he needs to update Kovas on his progress, much as I might with Perses. Sometimes I see the old Herald lingering around, appearing as if from nowhere to check up on us.
And while Elian clearly has some sort of familial affection for the man, I maintain my current position. Yes, I must respect him, the things he's achieved, the great powers he possesses, but I don't have to like him. Unlike Perses, there's no warmth or humour there, at least not that I can see. He's blunt, cold, and seems continually grumpy. Without that bond that stretches back many years, there really is little to enjoy about the man.
But, of course, I keep those thoughts to myself as well. It seems of little importance, really, how I feel about Kovas, or how Elian feels about Perses. They are our commanders, both, and we must respect that. Personal feelings must be put aside at times like this.
Well, I hardly take my own advice in that regard, least not when it comes to Elian. Amid the dreary and often unfriendly confines of the convoy and the nightly camp, he remains a shining light. Yes, Perses is always there to advise and guide me, though his presence continues to grow scarce the further we go. And yes, Hestia, almost humorously cold herself, is someone whom I quite enjoy being around, if only to watch her try to lighten up, and become a little more relaxed. And the Overseer, when I ever get a chance to speak with him, continues to present his good humour, his out of place and relaxed disposition.
But none of them match up to Elian, a man not much older than I am, who I find I'm increasingly able to be myself around. That silly part of me, the part that likes to joke or play pranks, or act in an impulsive way, finds someone of a surprisingly similar mind. And it seems, being with me, Elian is also able to lighten up. As if his life in Olympus, one of great prestige and esteem, forced him to adopt the appropriate traits; the arrogance, the superiority, the callous thoughts towards those beneath him.
He doesn't really believe that, nor is he really like that. With me, as we spend time alone, he's able to present another side of himself that I truly begin to adore. A funny, curious, almost whimsical side, playful and light, without great prejudice or judgement of others. I might wonder if it's merely as a means to get closer to me, a great deceit designed to lure me in. But that, in itself, seems like an almost arrogant thought. Who am I to warrant such work? Why would he go to such lengths for the odd kiss here and there?
And, really, if I'm honest, it's me who forces the latter. That kiss in the rain several days ago was a watershed, a breakthrough moment. Ever since, I've taken those lips again and often. When we find ourselves alone, I find it hard to contain the urge, foolish as such a thing may be at a time like this.
But I don't care. For too long I've laboured under the illusion that I must be unhappy, that I cannot simply enjoy what's been put in front of me. But things have changed so dramatically now that, well, I simply wonder 'why the hell not'. After all, what's the worst that can happen? Even should these be our last days, and we fall foul of this upcoming war, shouldn't we enjoy what time we have?
Don't I deserve a little joy too?
It's several days on from the end of the storm that I find myself on my nightly stroll with Elian through the camp. The tension, though the soldiers wouldn't ever admit it, is palpably present. Around the campfires, quiet conversations continue, and faces display the nervous lines that deepen during times of stress.
Over the course of the long journey so far, I've seen an increasing display of concerns. You see it in peoples' eyes. You hear it in eavesdropped conversations. You sense it in their body language, in the way in which they carry themselves. I know, tonight, that should the barrels of beer be opened, few would heavily partake. Oh, many might have a drink or two to ease the nerves, but few would overindulge, fearing the effects of a hangover the following day as we creep ever closer to the fight.
No, the men are focused now, professional, making sure they eat well and sleep well, training each day with their squads, checking and re-checking their weapons and armour to make sure they're ready when the time comes. It's an impressive thing to see, though hardly unexpected. A small part of me, perhaps, thought that a army of this size, inexperienced as it is, might lose its way slightly, or come off the boil at just the wrong time. The opposite seems to be true. Now, with the days and hours closing in, they make sure that they are ready to go.
Elian and I remark on such things as we venture through the network of campfires, past the Worthies assigned to cook upon the flame, the soldiers gathered around and eagerly awaiting their evening meal. The carriages, as always, are spread out over the chosen space for the night, dispersed among the trees that litter this region. Ahead, across the field, I know another patch of woodland awaits, our scouts currently out there plotting our course.
It's a pretty area, this. Very verdant and fresh, cut with little brooks and streams that bring fresh water from the hills. Yet there remains a sense of danger here, too, something elemental and undefined, something not easy to quantify. It's the knowledge, most likely, that our path is finally coming to an end. That we'll soon be on the doorstop of the people we've come here to greet, a meeting that will involve the trumpeting of guns and the clash of steel. That will take life without remorse, and leave the rest to live with the result.
It's not the place, then, that holds this sense of unease. It's those who now reside here, temporarily, for the night. This dread exists within us all. Few, even those who've witnessed much conflict before, will be able to rest easy here.
To combat my own growing trepidation, I refocus on my task, wandering side-by-side with Elian, trying not to present too frightened an image. Nor, really, do I want to present an imagine of anything else. We are not to show any affection in public, we've decided. The moments of intimacy we share are to be kept strictly between ourselves.
We stay together for a time, passing the camps without really expecting to spot any trouble. I still speak with my spies each night, of course, but no one's particularly troubled by any minor misdemeanours anymore. I get word of the occasional ill-treatment, but it's never enough to force me to take action. Small things, really, that exist within the fabric of life here. Not great tears in the garment, but little threads that come loose. Words of abuse, even bouts of verbal bullying, are far more common than physical assault.
I don't know whether that's my doing, a result of my policing, or simply because we're getting ever nearer to war. Either way, the result is the same each night; we wander, show ourselves, and make sure that the peace is kept. I keep up on the news and gossip, and take action only if I must. Really, it's not much of a crusade, not with such pressing matters to attend to.
After a while, as is the custom, we go our separate ways. I like to do it to cover more ground and give myself a little time to think. I also prefer to speak with my informants alone, rather than with Elian listening in.
So, we split, and agree to meet back at Black Thunder a little later on to discuss the day's training. I brush his hand lightly with my fingers as I step away, allowing a smile to tease upon my lips. It's enough for Elian to go against protocol. He glances both ways, snatches me up, and then quickly draws me to the shadowed cover of a carriage. There, he pulls me in and assaults my lips in the best possible way. I can see, now, why he was considered something of a ladykiller in Olympus. Try as I might to hold him at bay, even I couldn't defend from his charms forever.
I don't want to, of course, but isn't that the entire point. It's hard to know right now whether I'm just one of a legion of young woman he's courted back in the city, or something more. Yes, I have the title of Herald against my name, and the prestige that goes along with it, but I do
remain a girl from the Fringe. With all the socialites in Olympus, the highborn young ladies vying for Elian's attentions, a girl with my background might not be deemed 'appropriate'.
And, well, then there's my title. Good in some ways in helping to equalise our prominence, but so very bad in others. While he'll spend much of his time upon the hill, and performing ceremonial duties around the city, I'll be beyond it, fighting, warring. This fight with Haven, even if it goes well, will likely not be the end of it. Even if defeated, there will be others who need conquering. Whatever I'm told, I'm certain that remains a part of the Prime's ambitions.
As our embrace ends, and Elian departs with a flash of his white teeth, and a playful wink, I realise quickly that I'm overthinking things. All this is, well, quite new to me. As with everything, I'm having to learn this stuff on my feet. And my natural inclination to analyse and overthink is already bearing fruit.
I shake my head and turn away, actively telling myself to "shut up" as we go. I say it as I round the corner of the wagon and come across a Worthy girl at work, fetching fresh rations for the pot. Her eyes dance up in concern, as though I was speaking to her.
"Oh, not you," I say with a smile. "Just speaking to myself, as usual." I lean in a little closer. "I have to if I want to find any intelligent conversation around here," I end with a grin.
The girl, no older than I am, grins back coyly, before hustling off on her way.
I continue my path, working my usual route - though, with the camp changing configuration each night, there's nothing precise about it - until I venture towards the rear end of the camp. As always, and particularly now, the perimeter is being carefully watched and protected, even back here where many of the Fringers reside. Little shadows dot the way ahead, hidden among the trees and open plains. It's an exercise in patience and concentration that I know I'd struggle with myself.
The campfires remain, though grow a little more dispersed back here. I regard those sitting around them as I pass, recognising many of the faces now. I don't know names, or powers, ages of favourites colours, but I do know faces. Those things I don't forget in a hurry.
One, in particular, sticks out among the others. A grim face, well proportioned but in a kind of boring way. The man's eyes aren't quite as I saw them last; back then, they were sunken, drowsy, swimming from overconsumption, yet held a dreadful, intense stare, one directed mostly at me. Now, they are heavily bordered by bags beneath them, speaking of little rest out here on the road.
He is one of the men who assaulted the Fringer, a man who makes my blood bubble up a little as I look upon him. Beside him, among his little gang around the fire, I think I see others of familiar look, though in this faint light it's not easy to tell. His comrades that night, the three drunken stooges. Simple soldiers, perhaps not terrible men, but those brought up in a system I hate. They are, to me, a representation of that. Of the inequality, the dreadful divide. And it gives me a cold chill to look at them.
Conspicuous as I am, not only for my youth and general aesthetic, but combat armour and position, I find the grim-faced man looking up at me from his perch, his hollow expression shaping into something hateful once more as he recognises me. He sits, with the others, on a fold-out bench around the fire, a pot cooking above it, bowls of broth in their hands to combat the cold. They all look a fairly miserable lot, a common impression of a group of men who make war their worldly purpose. Or, maybe they didn't. Maybe they were forced into this life as so many others are. Maybe, really, I have no axe to grind with any of them.
The man doesn't linger on me long; I think he knows not to, being fully aware of my reputation. With a final snarl, he shakes his head and drops his gaze, his eyes falling back down to his feet, thinking, perhaps, of his home so far away. Does he have a wife back there? I wonder. Might he have children he misses dearly? Is he more human than that night made him out to be, or just another thug dragged out here to kill?
It's a thought that passes through my mind when looking at many men and women here. When I catch their eyes, and see those lost expressions, the lies that they portray. Many try to show excitement, energy, a desire to finally prove themselves and fulfil their purpose in battle. But you can often see through the facade. See that it's just a show, just something they feel they need to express, when in reality they spend their nights quivering, so frightened of the unknown.
Those men and women, I'm sure, are those who haven't yet seen combat. The minority here who march about with resolve and confidence, knowing just what to expect; they're the ones who have been there and done it. They're the ones this army will rely on. The many others who have been trained to fight, but never been truly tested in battle, cut very different figures if you look hard enough. And I do look hard. For some reason, I enjoy it, seeing through the falsities, discovering the weakness beyond.
So it is with this man. He's seen no true war. He's never had a real fight. He makes himself feel big by picking on the defenceless. He and his chums may not be awful men, but they might just be cowards.
And in his face I see it. The weakness. The cowardice.
No, I think to myself, he's not meant for war.
I march on, idly thinking on that drunken night a week or so ago. I'd told the Overseer not long after that I'd go and visit the injured man, show solidarity with this so-called heretic who'd been so brutally beaten. I never did, and nor have I even thought about it until now.
What does that say about me? How can I be a bastion for my people if I forget their distress, their plight, so easily?
The thought sets a clear plan into my mind, my path diverting to another part of the camp, a little further into the centre, where I know the infirmary carriage to usually reside. I walk for a couple of minutes through the network of transports, ranging in size and purpose, until I spot the one I seek. Marked with a red cross on a white background, a common symbol for medics before the fall, it's one of the larger vehicles we have in the convoy, intended for the housing of the ill and injured.
I approach the door, and knock loudly. It takes a moment for a medic to appear, a portly woman with, as far as I've been told, a skill for healing. How that manifests, I'm not entirely sure. It could just be that she has an excellent bedside manner, and little more.
She smiles down from the entrance, smile on her face, a slight look of surprise in her eyes.
"My my, Mistress Herald, what a pleasant surprise," she clucks. "What can I do for you this evening?" She performs a little belated bow after speaking, looking slightly sheepish for not doing so before.
"I'm here to see a patient," I tell her as she rises back to full height at the top of the short set of stairs.
"Oh?"
"Yes, a Fringer came in maybe a week ago. He'd suffered a severe beating and needed..." The woman begins nodding, looking as if she wants to interrupt but can't bring herself to do so. "Yes," I say. "Something to tell me?"
"Um, yes, Mistress Herald. I'm sorry to say that we don't have anyone like that here."
"He's been discharged?"
"Oh no, Mistress, you misunderstand. He was never here, I'm afraid. We only deal with members of the fighting force."
My eyes flatten out. "You mean members of Olympus? Right, I get it. I was told, however, that he was taken to the infirmary carriage by the Overseer?"
"Of course, yes. Um, I think he meant the staff carriage for the, um, the..."
"The Fringers," I finish for her. I pull my lips up, nodding knowingly. "Yep, that makes sense. Where is it?"
The woman leans out of the carriage, taking a step forward down one of the stairs, and points towards the rear. "I believe it's set up back there this evening," she tells me, the tone of her voice carrying a guilty note. "I do apologise, Mistress Herald. If it was up to me, I'd happily treat any man or woman from the Fringe. They'd heal quicker under my supervision, of course."
I nod up at her. "Right. So that's your gift? To heal people? That's actually true?"
"Um, to a degree, y
es. It depends, of course, on the severity of the wound or affliction. My magic can only work so well," she laughs, voice bubbling skittishly. "Though I have skill with medicine nonetheless. It's my passion to see the ill and infirm back to health as quickly as possible."
"A nice passion to follow," I say. "A worthy cause."
"Yes, yes it is," she says, suddenly introspective.
"What's your name?" I ask her.
She beams, thrilled to be asked. It's not an honour presented to all, to be asked your name by a Herald. "It's Eloise, Mistress."
"Well, Lady Eloise," I say, "mine's Amber. If I should need tending over the upcoming days, I'll be delighted to help you fulfil your purpose."
I smile at her and step away, quite aware that she watches me leave with tears beginning to build in her eyes.
Another few minutes of wandering finally has me at my quarry, a carriage that, aside from its interior purpose, is hardly marked out by it on the outside. I have to ask around a bit to find it, eventually pointed towards a regular, and rather small looking carriage that sits lonely to the side of an oak tree. Its door lies open, the faint sigh of lamplight coming from inside. Outside, at the bottom of the single step it takes to enter, an old man stands against the wooden wall with cigarette in hand, puffing as he looks vacantly off into a set of nearby trees.
I step towards him, though fail to draw his eye. His garb is white cloth that's seen much better days, stained by a host of colours, mainly shades of red and brown by the looks of things. I can imagine the source of the red. I'd rather not think about the brown.
"Are you the medic here?" I ask, approaching and stopping a few feet away from him. He's short, about my height, but at least several times my age.
"Yup," he grunts, his voice notably affected by what sounds like a serious smoking habit. His eyes stay off, staring to the woods.
I frown at him, quite as shocked by his appearance as his habit. "Please tell me you only smoke out here? You really shouldn't be doing it at all around patients."
