When Silver Burned: Chapter 39-40 (Patreon)

39 - Older Boy

The first attacker came from his left, their silent steps lost in the sounds of the battlefield. Kalsin parried the strike, blade getting caught between the claws and starting to twist from his hand. He followed the downward motion with the rest of his body, pinning the Veiled’s weapon on the ground before Ringtail’s sword thrust out over his shoulder, surging with speed, to skewer the Veiled under his chin. Even as the lifeless body had yet to fall, he was already looking for the next target.

With practiced footwork he twisted behind Ringtail to intercept a coming figure with a half-torn veil hanging off his chest. His blade still yet to swing around Ringtail, Kalsin used the pommel of his sword to bash the iron prong into the man’s descending hand, knocking it to the side, the claw missing them by a hair. The rest of his sword arrived a moment later to slash open the man with the same momentum, a scream ripping from beneath the veil as he went down.

They moved as two bodies with a singular mind, one pair of eyes looking where the other could not, one muddy shield taking a blow while the other cracked a skull. Instinct took over, honed by their countless days and nights training side by side, giving them a small island of control in a hazy carnage where the red tinge of the land washed together with the blood that dripped over the corner of the eye.

It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t perfect. And it wasn’t enough.

The Veiled trampled over the dead with their advance, their iron headers charging forward like bulls to knock any older boy aside foolish enough to stand their ground. More climbed over the earthen wall, spilling in like ants, holding wicked curved swords with handles almost as long as the blade.

“Kalsin!”

He heard his name being called somewhere in the distance, but they got separated within the tide of bodies, and Kalsin found himself being circled by two invaders. He held his sword resting atop his shield, waiting for the first one to charge. He felt a desperate laugh wanting to bubble up from his throat.

Years and years fighting against mythos and coming out unscathed. Figures, how it would be men taking him over the grave.

His eyes were still tracking the first Veiled when he saw something rush toward him from the side.

It was her.

Eyes wide, Kalsin jerked his shield toward the red-haired ghost with the dress and the obscured face. Even though he knew she was not real, instinct made him react and angle his body to protect from a strike that, in reality, did not exist.

Only, after a fraction of a second—a real blow rattled his shield from a third attacker he had failed to notice.

Kalsin gasped, unable to make sense of things even as his sword lashed out toward his red-haired ghost—whose body was nearly overlapping with the Veiled, keeping just a moment ahead of the real opponent’s movements. As if she was predicting their attacks just a blink into the future.

And in a fight, a blink was worth an eternity.

The circling Veiled lunged from both directions, a blur of motion—yet Kalsin was already moving. The ghost arrived before they did, trailing wisps of shadow and silk, her curled fingers showing where the first claw would strike. He twisted, sword rising to parry—and even as she faded out of existence and reappeared to strike from a different direction, steel rang against steel as he caught the Veiled's swipe mid-arc and shifted his shield toward the red herald.

The third opponent’s claw came low, sweeping toward his leg. Kalsin didn’t even look. He felt her drift downward, her obscured face tilted, her arm sweeping through the ghost of the strike a heartbeat before it happened. He lifted his leg up just in time, the claw skimming dirt instead of flesh—and then stomped down hard, twisting the blade and Veiled’s fingers caught inside the brass-knuckle guards.

As the Veiled hissed in pain, the first Veiled he’d deflected circled around with his curved blade held tight against his forearm. Kalsin caught sight of his ghost gliding sideways through the other two, straight toward the sword-wielder, her pace quick and confident.

He didn’t question it.

Kalsin pivoted after her and moved into the narrow gap toward the swordsman. Two strikes sailed through where he’d just been standing—one claw from the upright invader, another desperate grab from the Veiled squirming on the ground. Kalsin dragged his sword along the back of the prone opponent as he went. There was a scream, there was cloth soaking in red, and there was already another hit coming at him.

His ghost swiped up high. He brought his shield up and ducked low, and the curved blade clanged against the top of the steel instead of cleaving into his neck. His ghost clutched her midsection, and he drove his sword forward even before the kiss of the Veiled’s sword bounced off his shield. The thrust sank into flesh with a satisfying bite.

He wasn’t fighting three opponents anymore. He was fighting one; a red herald keeping him one step ahead of the present.

She was protecting him. She was showing him the way. In a dance where a single misstep would be death, she was guiding him along the narrow thread of possibilities that would let—him—survive.

The three Veiled didn’t stand a chance.

The retreat of the defenders seemed to have come to a halt as a lone man with silver eyes and unmatched instincts began to carve a slice into the invading force. Momentum arrested, more and more Veiled began to decorate the line of corpses that littered the ground. Scattered defenders found their mates, forming small groups anew and pulling their prone comrades back into the fray.

And in the thick of it, unnoticed by most and unbothered by the growing pile of corpses around him, Kalsin’s blade sliced off all and any futures that threatened to snuff out his.

Present and future bled together, cutting and resting and cutting again—and then at some point, there came a moment where the red herald no longer lunged at him. Kalsin gasped, his body stinging from overexertion and cuts he didn’t know he had. He leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees, eyes on the mystery that had been haunting him ever since he’d gotten his second scar.

“...What are you?” he whispered.

She just stood there, surrounded by the dead and dying, defenders and invaders hacking at each other beyond her shimmering form. The battle was still raging, but the sounds had retreated to Kalsin’s ears. She tilted her head, watching him through her wall of red hair. She was smiling. A wide, manic smile, he knew somehow.

How. How did he know?

The present returned to him in a rush, and Kalsin heard coughing from the side. He saw Ringtail pick her way through the bodies toward him, using her shield as a crutch. He blew out a breath slowly, and by the time he looked back toward the front… the red herald was gone.

“Ugh,” Ringtail said, coming to a stop next to him.

“Agreed,” Kalsin said. He steadied Ringtail by the arm when she swayed in place. A red stream of blood trickled down by her ear, but she seemed whole otherwise. “You all good?”

“Whole and mmm…” She puffed out her cheeks, taking a moment to look through the battlefield. “Damn,” she muttered. “Damn, Ghost.” Her swaying slowly evened out, but Kalsin kept her steady, just in case. She didn’t seem to mind. The poor girl probably took a blow to the head and would be chewing his head off otherwise.

Kalsin prodded himself out of his reverie, letting go of her arm. He checked the straps of his shield. One had gotten loose. “Are you ready for more?” he nodded toward the fight that had slowed down to a sluggish melee.

“Uhuh.” She flicked some tomboyish locks out of her face, watching the brawl. She then bashed a fist into his shoulder—nearly skewering him with the sword she still clutched tight. “Right behind you, you unhinged bastard.”

Kalsin eyed an opening in the fight where a defender had just gone down to one of those long scimitars. Just when he was about to start forward, he noticed movement nearing the battlefield.

A roar whooshed to life—and a stream of fire blasted into the Veiled ranks from the side.

Like a colorful wave rolling in, the golden uniforms of the Clenn blasted their way across the muddy red backdrop of the battlefield. A man blurred in a straight line forward, air dislocated in his wake and cutting the Veiled atop the wall in half, their gored bodies falling on either side. Claps of thunder accompanied the strikes of a woman, using her fists to send groups flying in the air. A man had turned his arms into thin shards of glass, wading into the middle of the enemy ranks to send bloody limbs flying.

Everywhere, the full might of overworld manifestations were being unleashed; for seconds only. But they only needed seconds.

Kalsin gasped as the rallying surge of an abyss poured over him, bringing forth unknown reserves of strength. Jumping over the bodies of the dead and with Ringtail following behind, his raw throat joined the collective shout of the defenders. It was a turning point, and a decisive one.

Kalsin saw a Veiled grab another of their kind, signaling and pulling back in twos and fours. But those who stood alone only fought more fiercely, a chant rising from behind many isolated veils like some prayer to the forgotten. Kalsin looked in the fevered eyes of a lone Veiled with nothing to lose, and raised his shield to receive the charge.

“What the–” Ringtail’s startled yell from behind was a distraction, but Kalsin didn’t look away as he took the claw upon his shield—metal scratching upon metal—and stepped in with a push that carried his entire body weight behind it. The bash caught the Veiled in the neck, cutting off the chant, and the point of his sword sank into the invader’s gut. He kicked the Veiled off his blade, letting him crumble, and after confirming no foes remained nearby, he turned around and–

“Ugh!” Kalsin wheezed as a tower of muscle bodily picked him up and began squeezing him like the world’s bloodiest toy in existence.

Though soundless, Jack’s laugh was one that he felt vibrating deep in her chest. His arms were locked at his sides, unable to do much of anything as she mushed him to herself, unconcerned with the waning battle around them, of the smoke and the piles of dead, and of the living that may witness a Clenn embrace a Scarrd.

Jack finally released her grip, allowing Kalsin to catch his breath. He nearly slipped on a puddle of something red and cloying, but a mountainous hand remained holding his shoulder to keep him steady. Kalsin's lungs burned, not sure if from Jack's crushing embrace or from the battle's exertion.

She was here.

After all that’s passed, the mad dash at the gates, the prison, the training, the march toward the east… she was here.

He drank in her face—a savage constellation of blood freckled her cheeks and fueled the near-manic glow of joy in her eyes, crinkled in a grin that was both familiar and new. His eyes flicked down to her smooth jaw where her scar used to be, then back up.

She was beautiful, too.

"You're late," Kalsin managed, his voice a dry rasp.

Jack raised an eyebrow. Her gauntleted hand on his shoulder trailed to the side of his neck, then up to cup his cheek and lingering for a moment—before giving it a playful shove.

“Ha!” Kalsin stepped back, taking the reprimand as his due. He loosened the straps of his shield and massaged some blood flow back into the limb. “When the cavalry came, I always expected it to involve horses.”

Ringtail approached, wiping her blade on the tattered remains of a Veiled robe. "And just who the fuck are you?" she said, giving it one last flick before stowing the sword in the ground. She folded her arms with one hip jutting out. Her glare was a venomous thing.

Jack stared at Kalsin for another moment before turning her attention to Ringtail, her grin transforming into a polite smile. She touched two fingers to her lips, then pointed a casual thumb at Kalsin.

Ringtail’s face grew outright stormy.

Jack’s eyes squinted like an amused bear who’s got the honey. Fully intending to eat it, too.

The strange standoff lasted until Kalsin cleared his throat. “Was that your entire squad? We were supposed to defend farther down, but we got cut off from our section.” He looked for Shoreline, but couldn’t see her in the rustic haze of trailing smoke that followed the Clenn advancing down the length of the wall. They were like a sponge wiping a slate free of grime, though their progress did seem to be slowing as they ran out of surges.

Jack nodded. She scrunched her nose in distaste and picked at the golden tabard peeking out from underneath her armor plates. Apparently, spending time with the high and mighty Clenn division did not raise her opinion of them.

Jack retrieved her shield she had dropped at some point and, with a glimmer in her eye, knocked his iron with her own like clinking glasses for a toast. She then touched her biceps and pointed at him with a pleased nod.

“Right, mhm. Figures that I needed to be spoonfed some country’n’righteous conscription to finally learn the business of defensive tools.” Kalsin fidgeted with the rim of his shield. “The weight is horrendous. I’ll drop the habit as soon as I have you protecting my back again.”

"We should report to command," Ringtail said, her voice clipped. She hadn't moved from her defensive stance, still eyeing Jack with barely concealed suspicion. "They will want to know where we ended up."

Kalsin nodded, though his attention remained on Jack. There was something different about her now, beyond the missing scar. A surety in her eyes, a new confidence in how she held herself. The army had changed her, just as it had changed him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but movement caught his eye. Through gaps in the drifting smoke, he spotted the soldiers in golden uniforms gathering at intervals along the wall. They worked methodically, some pressing palms to the earth while others stood guard. The Clenn were fortifying their defenses while their surges slowly recovered.

"Your squad will need you, hm?" he said to Jack, surprised by the roughness in his voice.

She shook her head once, decisive. Her hand found his shoulder again, squeezing with enough force to make the chainmail bite into his skin. The message was clear: she wasn't leaving his side again.

"Jack..." he started, but she silenced him with a look that contained a saga of emotions—worry, determination, and something fiercer that made his next words die in his throat.

Armor clinked as she reached into her pocket and took out a wrinkled paper folded in half, a letter without the covering. She pressed it into his chest with a gauntleted fist, making him jolt and instinctively grab onto it. They remained like that—connected by her one hand squeezing his shoulder, the other feeling his heartbeat, her eyes locked and searching his. He felt the letter slip into his grasp, unable to look away from her.

Was she always this stunning? With him too blind to see it, too focused on a tiny fault on an otherwise perfect canvas.

"If you're quite done with your Clenn friend," Ringtail cut in, emphasizing the title with no small effect. "We need to move. Now. The others are likely looking for us."

With visible effort, Jack tore her eyes away from Kalsin to look Ringtail up and down like she was an amusing puppy barking at her heels. Her face was one that toyed with the idea of nudging the doggy aside with her heels—and whether it was even worth the trouble.

Kalsin slowly lowered his hand and made the letter disappear into his pocket.

“Right,” he said. It felt wrong to say goodbye to Jack so quickly—but her radiant mood remained intact, so clearly she knew something he didn’t. “Yes. Let’s not give the lieutenant more excuses for reprimand.”

He gave Jack one last glance before jogging ahead to catch up with Ringtail. His bodyguard just remained there, a steel sentinel in the midst of the blood-red tundra, her arms folded and a small smile playing on her lips as she watched him retreat.

Kalsin and his sullen squadmate walked in silence for some time, stepping through the smoking aftermath of the freshest assault against the Republic’s outer line of defense.

She looked like she wanted to ask. Ringtail opened her mouth approximately three times to speak, then thought better of it and ended up with a wrinkle to her upturned nose that would’ve been a cute feature on her face if she wasn’t using it for those brooding grimaces constantly.

The longer they walked, the more Kalsin’s mood darkened with her.

Unmoving bodies littered their way along the mud-wall. The Veiled had broken through more rally points than he’d have initially guessed, and even the defended parts of the barrier were piled high with corpses. Older boys trailed through the hazy field, putting a sword or spear through any carcass that didn’t look mangled enough for a confirmed kill. The tiny hairline fractures beneath their feet were stained red.

The veterans had been right, Kalsin thought as he watched a man use his teeth to tie a bloody strip of gauze around a split forearm. Boredom for ages. Long enough to want anything to break it up. Then a shock of horror bad enough to snap it all back into perspective.

Waiting for the hammer to drop was so much worse than actively going to face it, said the hunter to the soldier in him. The soldier agreed.

The first member from their company they spotted was Cyanfish. He was sitting at the base of the earthen barrier, his one visible eye staring up at the sky with his shield propped in his lap. His bluish hair was matted dark red where it showed, half his face wrapped in white army dressing. He glanced at them for a moment as they passed him, then went back to his own world with a small tug on his shield like that of a lover’s embrace.

Further in, several familiar faces sat outside one of their clay huts. From behind, Kalsin saw Crux hold onto Shoreline with a desperate arm across her shoulder, their foldable chairs shuffled close enough to touch. Uggo, Pike and Yesfellow were waiting at either side of the doorway while Fals paced up and down, chewing on a stick of something brown and leathery. A cauldron was bubbling downwind, manned by Quiescent, stirring the pot once in a while. Only a limping Joe seemed to hold a bowl and an appetite.

Dweller came running up to them, giving Kalsin a brief nod before wrapping Ringtail in a hug. Ringtail sputtered something unintelligible before patting her friend on the back and making some space. “M’ fine. Vadász preserve, we’re all good. Not a scratch, see? Don’t go all weepy on me now.” She tipped her chin toward Kalsin. “Ghosty-boy over here kept me all safe and shite.”

Kalsin ignored them both and stopped at the doorway. Though resting against the wall, Pike’s shoulders were tense. The man wouldn’t look at anyone.

“Fals,” Kalsin said, waiting for her pacing to bring her back to them. She had a spattering of dried blood on her cheeks. Not her own.

“Mhm,” she said, chewing on her stick. She took it out and spit to the side. “The most important thing to understand is that, right, is that we shouldn’t blame anyone.” She surveyed the whole lot of their sorry numbers. “Veiled trash.” She turned away and went back to her pacing.

Kalsin stared at the entrance, hating the hesitation and, most importantly, the certainty that something had gone wrong. The question ‘what if I was there’ wormed its way into his mind even before he saw who paid the price and how steep it was. 

You’re not enough, it whispered. He had always been everything—an oddity, an exception, a unique man, a head above the crowd. Everything except that.

Being good enough.

Heavy steps came from inside. The door opened to Littleguy hunched under the arch. His eyes were red, his expression blank.

He took a slow look around the outside world as if waking from a deep slumber, without focus, without noticing anyone in particular. Kalsin stepped back as Littleguy then walked away, leaving the company just as quiet as he found them.

The inside of the hut was crowded and reeked of blood and vinegar. All three cots were occupied by bodies with too little movement. Brownweather stood in one corner while an elderly man with rings braided in his white hair finished gathering his scissors and twined catgut.

Crawl stared up at the blank roof with a mangled chest and a patchwork of sewings that failed to correct the damage those iron claws had inflected. Even now, blood leaked from one of the nastier cuts across his ribs. But the wounds were no longer a concern of anyone. Least of all him.

The medic took one last look at the other patients, then excused himself, leaving Kalsin alone with the lieutenant. Nobody spoke. So still the man was, the only thing separating him from the injured was that he was still on his feet.

“Who are you?” Brownweather asked.

Kalsin slowly turned to look at the lieutenant. He was too drained to speak. To think.

“Your name,” Brownweather said. “What is it?”

“Kalsin.”

“Hm,” Brownweather said. Arms folded, he stared at the dark wall above one of the cots. Long seconds passed, and none eased the oppressive atmosphere of this little nook smelling of death and little else.

The lieutenant rested his eyes for a moment before walking past Kalsin toward the exit. He paused in the doorway. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Kalsin. Welcome to the end of the world…” Brownweather said over his shoulder. 

He then turned to go, leaving the dark room of the dead. “...older boy.”

40 - The Price We Pay

Three of their company had died. One’s fate still hung in the balance. Of the departed, two Kalsin knew well.

“Diplomacy,” Brownweather said, holding the torch above the ditch filled with kindling and the unmoving body of the bookish woman who had been a quiet fixture of their numbers. “Was not a person to mince words. Not unless they were words to keep unruly action getting out of hand. A peacemaker, I thought she was. A peacemaker sent off to do the nasty business of war. Not many of those around, I reckon. And now… strike off one more from those dwindling numbers.” He stared down into the ditch before letting the torch drop into it. “See you later, Diplomacy. Eventually, eh? Eventually. One way or another.”

Kalsin stood among the crowd, watching the flames catch and the smoke slowly starting to billow. Three graves had been dug in a triangle, the company circled around their former comrades in the dead of night. Glowing fires of several farewells happening all across the outer line of defense could be seen in the distance. 

Pike ignited one of the torches and handed it over to Brownweather, who stepped across the edges of the graves to stand above the second ditch. His boots kicked up the black dust of the plains.

“Crawl. A scrawny little fella who couldn’t find his feet when the rain got the mud going.” Brownweather absently rotated the torch in his hand, watching the burning tip. “Could’ve been a good soldier. Hm, coulda been. Young, impressionable—that’s where the strongest of our mates start from. But sometimes… sometimes the good ones get culled before experience could shape them into a man.” He let the torch drop. A whoosh as fire caught kindling. “What a waste. What a damn fucking waste.”

Kalsin didn’t need to turn his head to see Ringtail swipe an angry hand across her eyes. She didn’t know Crawl as well as he did, but he could easily guess the same questions that she was asking herself. Maybe their presence would have made a difference. Or maybe it would have killed off that Rolce fellow and a different son of a different mother of a different company.

There was no point speculating. No damn point of this whole bloody meatgrinder. A soldier asked no questions—empty, they just watched the fires burn. Waiting for their own turn in the ditch.

Across the rising fires, Littleguy was a ghost of his former self. Hasn’t spoken a word since. Not even when the lieutenant asked for his real name. János, was it? Crawl had mentioned it once. It seemed almost like yesterday.

Brownweather waited above the last ditch in silence for some time. A scent of smoke was starting to descend along the border zone.

“Shutter,” Brownweather said. “Odd bugger, but hardworking. Solid shield arm despite his size. I never told anyone the story of his name, and now I reckon he wouldn’t want it shared anyway. I guess that’ll be one more thing you’re taking to the grave with you, soldier.”

Kalsin remembered. How scared the boy was, of others seeing his otherness. All but a memory now, a ghost from the past.

“Life is a harsh teacher. I had to be, too.” Brownweather lowered the torch and gently dropped it below. “Too many of you burn, in the end.”

Sparks hissed, heat rising from the trio of graves. Brownweather stepped back slowly until he was standing among the former recruits, joining them in silent guard over their departing mates. A gust of wind stirred the flames even higher, giving life to the orange-and-red blaze until they stretched higher than the earthen walls beyond.

The flames were starting to make his eyes hurt. Kalsin kept on staring.

Fals had stepped forward at some point. She did not bring her lute tonight. She didn’t need anything but her voice to say goodbye.

I never was a man — one, thinking myself wise,

But bold,

And stray,

And most of all,

Above the hold of a house.

I had things right — yes, far as I could guess,

Then met,

And stayed,

And most of all,

Found myself as guest.

I look behind and see — now, aged to not be young,

I,

And I,

And most of all,

It's WE that should be sung.

Somewhere far away, he could feel Ringtail’s hand grip onto his arm, wrapping herself closer to his side. But most of the world was reduced to the guilt, the fire, and a lone voice singing above the roar of the flames.

Took some time to come and see,

An alliance, decree,

We danced in forges' molten chain...

...and saw it shatter free.

Stood up a'gain and forged it new,

Made ourselves a crew,

Stood a'gainst the brittle storm...

... An' smiled and pushed on through.

Why'd we stop to palm the pain,

With honey on the rain?

There's time to have it all, we said...

...Now we say it all in vain.

A score of friends we'd come to know,

A score of friends we'd shame,

When not a'once we looked around...

...Till the end of our campaign.

Some of us we burned like coal,

Hearts too wild to tame,

An' those who stood for something more...

...We won't forget your names.

What a sight this burial must’ve been to the distant observer—an endless row of lights stretching for miles upon miles. You could almost picture the common folk pointing skyward, marveling at it like a distant constellation, a flicker of joy lighting their hearts. Unaware that the same joy they felt was being extinguished in the hearts of those who kindled the flames.

Crawl, dead. Shutter, dead. Batshit, still barely holding on to life.

How many more would die the next time?

This place, this outer line of defense, was a butcher’s yard where the Clenn herded their lessers to die in their steads. The Clenn; they—who held the upper powers of the surge, who had both strength and wealth far above any Scarrd. The golden soldiers treated this cursed place like some twisted vacation resort only to return to their protected forts and honeyed lives.

The job of the strong was to protect the weak. Not to let them be slaughtered for the sake of their comforts like expendable rats.

Kalsin watched the flames, numb. Numb from the reality he suddenly woke up to. Numb, so he could escape the responsibility that sheer chance has put on his shoulders—a responsibility he did not want to accept.

The crowd was slowly starting to disperse into the night as flames died down to embers. Kalsin walked, too. It was dark after staring so long into the brilliance of the flames, but he could make out his hut on the edge of their lodges well enough. No stars reflected up in the night sky.

“...to be alone right now, Ghost.”

Kalsin was startled to find Ringtail walking with him. He stopped at the entrance of his place, looking down at the grip she had on his arm. Then back up at her.

There must’ve been something in his eyes. His silver orbs were disquieting at the best of times, after all.

Ringtail let go of his arm with a start. She opened her mouth to speak, then frowned instead. “I know it’s still raw, but—but we knew this would happen from the start. Maybe not this exactly, but, I mean… shit.”

“Go back to your hut, Ringtail.” 

Kalsin didn’t need this right now. He didn’t know what he needed—but not this.

“No. Not until I see you lucid enough not to slip onto a sharp object by accident.”

He let out a sour laugh. “What, after all that time being a pain in the ass, you’re suddenly concerned about my wellbeing?”

Ringtail turned away. She only took a step away before she turned sharply back and thrust a finger in his chest. “I was never a pain— Like, I never wanted to, I was just… You’re just… Ugh!”

“Say it, then,” Kalsin said, grabbing her wrist to keep her finger from digging into him. “What is it that makes you just sooo insufferable toward a guy who just wants to be left alone?”

Ringtail pushed on his chest with her free arm. “Oh, so now you want to be left alone? Surely that Clenn girl you hugged after the battle was an accident, right?”

Kalsin kept his balance, but had to tug her closer to keep her wrist from sneaking out of his grasp. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I dunno, you tell me! Like, here comes Ghost with his brooding dark gait and silver eyes, not interested in anyone, and a girl’s gotta go the extra mile to be even noticed, and then—”

“Your antics made it pretty damn hard not to notice you, when you keep acting like an annoying fucking brat at each turn!”

“Oh, yeah? Says the guy who runs away the moment I try to apologize!”

“Apologies don’t work when you don’t stop doing the thing you’re trying to apologize for!”

“Your shieldwork is trash!”

“You kick like a moron!”

Ringtail grabbed his collar with both hands, pushed her chest into him, and pulled him down to smush her lips against his.

Kalsin’s body froze. Froze in a way that he hasn’t in a very, very long time. 

He felt Ringtail’s lips move against his, the smaller woman’s desperate grip trembling against his collar to keep him at her level. He felt the warmth of her body pressing close, trying to push herself whole into him. He felt…

He felt… something.

Something that wasn’t emptiness. Something that wasn’t failure, or aimlessness, or desperation.

Kalsin staggered back half a step, Ringtail sticking on him like glue—and then his grip on her wrist tightened. He pulled her off of him with some effort, the maneuver making both of them spin, switching places.

Ringtail’s back hit the door with a breathless gasp, the fire in her eyes not sated in the slightest as she tried to push off toward him again. But she didn’t get the chance. The door rattled as Kalsin pinned her in place with his own body, leaned down, and kissed her twice as hard as she’d done just a second before.

Her hands slid up, clawing into his hair. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting smoke and citrus and entering a battle that she simply refused to give up. She pulled away just enough to free their lips, and then back on the offensive she was, feverish to come out on top.

One of his hands trailed down to her hip, squeezing. She responded to his touch, and would have offered him more if the door behind her didn’t swing suddenly inward, making both of them stumble inside the dark hut.

They fell, then scrambled back up using each other’s bodies for purchase. Hands clutched desperately, seeking contact and the bed further inside. The door slammed shut from a wayward foot kicking into it.

There was a scraping of boots across the wooden floor, then a thud as they landed in one corner. A shirt slipped off in the dark, followed by another, and then they were back at breathing the same air. Teeth scraped lips, nipping and biting, and then they fell onto the bed in a tangle that wasn’t clear on who was above or below.

Whispers, as she was saying something. Other words followed, his voice, though he hardly remembered. Everything was a blur, vague outlines of vision and sounds and feelings that existed to fill the void with something good. With something past the pain of war and grime he had known his entire life.

Too much death. The funeral pyres burned along the outer line of defense to remind folk the people they had lost to senseless things and causes they didn’t believe in. Men and women walked away from their burning comrades and rested their heads on their pillows, telling themselves that maybe, some day, this hollowness would go away and become a distant memory.

Kalsin knew better.

But for just one single night—the boy the world had abandoned wanted to pretend that he was loved.