The Second Death of Locke — Chapter no 4

four

IER DIDN’T DIE ON the walk back to camp, which was a small miracle inK itself. Ola and Brit half-dragged him, mostly unconscious by this point, into the medical tent. In a side area, Leonie, the lead healer at this camp, waited for Grey. Leonie’s dark curly hair was piled on top of her head, stuck through with a pencil to hold it in place. She wore a deep blue healer’s apron over her black dress, pockets stuffed with gauze and tools and herbs.

“You’ve looked better,” she sighed when Grey walked in.

Grey frowned at her. “And you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Only two,” Leonie said. She came close and helped Grey unbuckle her armor, laying it piece by piece on a cloth-covered table. “You’re filthy.”

“Thanks, love,” Grey said.

Leonie’s fingers lingered for a second too long on Grey’s waist, working at the leather buckle that clasped her breastplate on. Grey took a shuddering breath, finding an odd comfort in the steadiness of Leonie’s hands, the coolness of her brown eyes as she scanned Grey over quickly. “None of this blood is yours?”

“The captain’s,” Grey said crisply, stepping away. She recounted Kier’s idiocy as she wiped down her sword.

“Should I begin without you?” Leonie asked, gathering instruments on a tray after Grey finished reporting the extent of Kier’s injuries in a measured, emotionless voice. “Or delay? Surely an hour won’t make a difference. You look—”

“No.” Grey took the three packets of prepared nutrient-dense sludge that Leonie held out, cursing the mages who formulated this shit years ago,

cursing herself for needing it, then cursing herself again for not washing off first—the mud added flavor of the worst variety.

But she had to replenish her power in whatever way she could, as quickly as possible.

When the sludge was gone, swallowed in uncomfortable gasps, she fought her way out of her padded shirt, then pulled her soaked undershirt and vest off too for good measure. Naked to the waist, she did her best to ignore the chill of the air as she washed the dirt and blood away from her skin. Every muscle ached: from battle, from carrying Kier back, from her depleted stores of power. She sluiced mud away until the water rolled clean down her chest and arms, then washed once more for good measure.

Finished, she pulled on the clean shirt Leonie offered. The pair walked through the flap of fabric that led to the back of the infirmary.

An assistant had already stripped Kier, washed his wounds and rendered him unconscious with a cloth soaked in an anesthetic herb blend placed over his mouth and nose. They sat by his head now, carefully monitoring his breathing. She noted the dark streaks pooling under his eyes, the remaining crust of blood on his cheek, the crookedness of his nose under the damp white cloth—but she’d worry about setting that for him later.

“The captain has left his last words,” the assistant said quietly when Grey entered the room, and Grey very nearly threw her out in a fit of rage even though it wasn’t the assistant’s fault that Kier was such an absolute disaster.

But it was good to feel something. Strong feelings, anger and rage and desperation, made her power replenish faster. She felt the swell of it crawling from somewhere in her lower belly.

Good. She needed it.

“He can tell me himself,” she muttered, glaring at the folded piece of paper, “when he’s awake.”

There was no further argument to that. Leonie set the instruments out for Grey as she slipped into a set of sterile gloves and surveyed his injuries. She had six years of putting him back together under her belt. It was her duty to do it yet again.

She took him in, the slope of his pectoral muscles, the shadowy peaks and valleys of his ribs, the scar from yet another near miss over his heart.

She turned her attention to her own well-being. Her power was

moderately replenished—she cursed the sludgy porridge, but it was effective—but this could be a long one. Her inspection of his wound revealed that the blade had gone in through his lower intestine, so she had to deal with any contamination to ensure the wound didn’t go septic.

She laid her palm flat on his chest and focused. The power came slowly at first, an exhausted trickle. But that was all she needed. She felt the strands of him in her fingers, the tether between them tightening.

She took a thin blade and opened him up.

She had fixed him up after battle more than once, but Kier was usually better behaved than this. She’d only really been wrist-deep in him thrice before: once after a mage from Cleoc Strata with intriguing internal capabilities tried to turn his spleen inside out, another time when he’d been stabbed in the stomach by a soldier from Eprain, then the final chest wound from a Hand after he’d killed their mage. All of these had left her utterly terrified, anxious with every move that she’d fuck up something inside of him permanently.

She’d had so much experience with internal surgeries, but when it was Kier she was working on, Kier under her hands… it was like all her training turned to sludge in her brain, overpowered by the realization that despite the fact he was beloved, he too was just meat.

This time, she was too tired for fear. She focused on that tiny thread of power, easing it out as she worked. Leonie helped her, handing her instruments when she asked for them, holding together tissue, wiping away blood. She didn’t offer to tether her own power to Kier, to give Grey a break—she’d worked with Grey long enough to know better.

To her credit, the assistant at Kier’s head didn’t ask questions or black out, even when the effect of Grey’s power and direction had his flesh pre- emptively knitting back together and they had to cut him open again.

Grey lost track of time, focusing only on the slippery feeling of his insides and breathing evenly. Finally, she surveyed her work, probing for anything out of place, and sighed with relief. “Let’s close him up,” she said, glancing at Leonie—but it wasn’t Leonie at all.

Hand Master Mare Concord stood on the other side of Kier’s body, waiting for instructions. Grey didn’t even know how long she’d been there.

She had only seconds to recover before Mare was handing her a needle and suture.

Grey was too tired for this. She focused on maintaining that last little thread as she stitched the layers of Kier back together. Mare was a great help, at least: she was ready with the tools Grey needed before she even asked.

Of course she was. She had probably done very similar surgeries on her own mage.

Grey cleaned the stitched wound one final time and affixed gauze. Once that was done, she washed her hands three more times until every trace of Kier’s viscera was gone from her skin, if not her shirt.

“Good work, Hand,” Mare said. “Neat stitches.” At some point while Mare was watching, the assistant had left too—it was just the two of them, three if Kier counted.

“I’m very good at mending socks, too,” Grey said, sorting the equipment into the appropriate wash buckets. She did an internal check for her well. It was waning again, but not empty. Worse than it had been in years, but she could deal with that. She focused very hard on finishing the conversation— the sooner she could curl up in her bedroll, the better. She’d settle for the break room in the back of the infirmary at this point.

“It’s a dangerous game you two are playing. Your mage should know better than to use that much of you. If you need to file a complaint with a request for retraining, Hand Captain—”

“He doesn’t take any more than I’m willing to give,” Grey snapped. She was so, so tired of these conversations.

“You have… quite the capacity,” Mare said carefully. “We’re meant to report high-capacity wells, you know. In case a higher-ranking officer is in need.”

Grey stiffened. Mare was the type of weathered that wells usually didn’t live long enough to become. Grey forced herself to focus, to watch her face for any sign of—well, anything. “I’m already serving a captain, Hand Master.”

Mare shrugged, allowing this. “Unless there’s another reason for the capacity you’re able to offer Captain Seward.”

Grey did not let any emotion show on her face. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m just saying,” Mare said firmly, steely, “it’s notably unusual, and there are very few reasons for unusual power.”

That was enough, the last of it her brain could handle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hand Master, but I’ve used quite a lot of myself today and I cannot keep going.”

“Hand Captain Flynn…” Mare reached out, gripped Grey’s shoulder, but Grey shrugged her off. She always made her worst decisions when Kier was indisposed.

It was insubordination to leave this room, risk on top of risk, but she did it anyway. Grey dragged herself out of there, freezing, and across the encampment, barely upright when she slipped into the safety of her own tent. As soon as the flap closed behind her, her knees hit the floor and then she was slumped, the air running from her lungs. She forced herself up, clawed her way onto her pallet. She was still sticky with Kier’s blood.

She’d be punished for that, she knew. For leaving without being dismissed. For not answering Mare’s questions. But to stay, to try to cobble together something coherent—that was an even greater danger.

She gave up and let herself slip into emptiness.

Fire. When she dreamed, she always dreamed of fire.

This time, the fire was in the shape of a boy in front of her. He sat cross- legged, and she was no longer a soldier, no longer a woman, no longer a well. She was a girl, a child. She might’ve been fire, too.

The fire-boy said, “Stay quiet.”

She stayed quiet. They were sitting on hard-packed ground in a stone room. A basement. It smelled like salt and ash. When she snuffled, raised her fist to wipe her nose, the boy caught her hand. It did not burn, but it should’ve.

There was pounding overhead. She was covered in blood, drenched in it.

She remembered whose it was, but she did not let herself think of it.

“Do you promise,” the fire-boy whispered, “to let us go?”

“No,” she whimpered. She wanted to hug him, but she was afraid; she was so afraid that her heart pounded rabbity in her chest and her hands were sweaty and her teeth ached from clenching her jaw. Just an hour ago, she and the boy were at the big table, squabbling over dessert. She could still taste the sour tang of sugar between her teeth.

He gripped both of her hands so hard, and this time, it hurt.

“You have to,” he said, leaning his fire-head close to hers. She remembered the color of his eyes under all that licking flame: they were silt-brown, shell-brown, sargassum-brown. “I can’t hold it much longer, but I will until you promise.”

She sobbed, and he let her, even though it made so much noise. There was a shout overhead, then the pounding of feet down the stairs and someone at the door.

“I promise,” she said. The fire-boy kissed her, once, on the forehead, and

held her hands so very tight.

The world around her exploded.

Grey woke to an empty room and a dry mouth. Across from her, Kier’s bed was terribly devoid of Kier, and for one half-second of unremembering, her heart flew to her throat.

Then she realized her shirt was still stained with his blood, and now her blankets were too, and that was enough to remind her. She sat up, folding her legs under her, and stared out at nothing.

The fire wasn’t burning. The cold was good; it made the anxiety in her chest dull to a low-level thrum. She hurriedly changed into a clean shirt from Kier’s trunk and her own trousers—she’d need to wash properly soon, but it could wait—and laced her still-damp boots over a pilfered pair of Kier’s socks. She swung her cloak over her shoulders and set out into the frigid morning. There was no note pinned to her tent, no letter of dismissal waiting for her, so her interaction with Concord was apparently not enough for immediate action.

When she reached the infirmary, Leonie was at the herbalist’s desk near the door, filling a tray with measured-out herbal tablets and salves. She took in the half-scrubbed traces of blood on Grey’s hands, the shadows under her eyes, and sighed, the breath blowing her curling fringe up over her face.

Unlike Grey, Leonie looked a bit better rested today, her deep brown skin shining with a healthy glow, the shadows under her eyes less pronounced.

“Is it too much,” she asked mildly, “to ask you to take care of yourself?”

“Yes,” Grey said, pulling the little booklet of overnight notes from Leonie’s apron pocket and searching for Kier’s name. The only reason she was able to do it without a disapproving look was because Leonie already

knew that if Kier was in the infirmary for a few days, she’d at least have Grey’s help to lessen the load. “How is he?”

“Alive. How are you?”

“Alive,” Grey muttered, reading over the notes from the overnight healer. It was helpful, at least, to know she’d only been out for

approximately twelve hours.

“Have you eaten, Hand Captain?”

Grey didn’t hazard that with a response. It wasn’t anything personal— she liked Leonie. In fact, she’d more than liked Leonie on one frantic fever- dream of a night three months ago when Kier was in the infirmary, recovering from a broken rib.

As if to bring that memory into stronger relief, Leonie laid a hand on Grey’s arm. She had short fingers, but they were nimble and strong, trim and clean, capable to a fault.

“You smell like old blood and you’re still wearing the battlefield,” she said. “Eat. Clean yourself up. He will be here when you’re back.”

She met Grey’s gaze, held it for an immeasurable moment and muttered something uncomplimentary about the obsessive nature of Hands under her breath when Grey swept past her into the depths of the infirmary.

She stopped on the way to his bed, briefly, to check on the three others from their company who were still here with injuries from the day before. If Kier was awake, he would check if she’d done it first.

Satisfied once she’d completed her due diligence, she made her way to his bedside.

His skin, usually a medium olive tone, was nearly as pale as the sheets.

He was shirtless, the sheets pulled up over his chest. She pulled off her cloak and considered throwing it on the empty cot to Kier’s side for a moment, but that would just make more work for Leonie, so she folded it over his feet instead.

She took the time to check his heartbeat and the frequency of his breathing, only pausing for a moment of relief when he flinched at her frigid hands on his skin. He was dry, not clammy with fever. When she pulled the blanket down and lifted the gauze, the area was not inflamed. She found her well of power restored, so she let herself unspool, a tether attached to him, nudging the power to the wound. She kept her eyes open in case Mare Concord happened by—in case she actually was being watched.

In these moments, when he was incapacitated, she allowed herself to be tender. It always came easy to Kier to brush her hair behind her ear or grab her hand, possibly because even the slightest touch came with a rush of power, but she didn’t have the same freedom. It never seemed to mean anything to him when he took her hand, when skin met skin. Not like it did for her.

She glanced around—Leonie was near the front of the ward, treating an injured person with a salve, and everyone else around was sleeping. No sign of Mare.

She skimmed her fingers over his cheekbone. Under her touch, the scratch across his cheek healed. She took another quick glance around, tracking Leonie’s progress, and let her hand snake under the covers, palm pressed to the uneven stitching of his wound.

“Hand.”

She glanced down at him. Her other hand was still pressed to his cheek, thumb skimming over his eyebrow without her telling it to. She withdrew both hands. He winced at the loss of contact, so she pushed a bit more power in his direction.

“You’re doing the thing again,” he murmured, eyes sliding shut.

“Keep that to yourself,” she chided—but she put her hand back over the wound, watching as he instantly relaxed.

“You look like shit,” Kier said.

“You’ve got your eyes closed.”

“So I don’t have to see you looking like shit.”

“Unfair. I’m the reason you’re alive.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

Grey sighed, pulling her hand away. She had to stop—any further healing and people would start asking questions. Kier’s eyes rolled back open. “Thank you,” he said.

“A draft to ease the pain, Captain,” Leonie said. Grey’s gaze snapped up to her, her apron, her tray, her neutral expression. She was favoring her right leg again—always did, in the rain, and there was near-constant rain here— but it would do no good for Grey to ask how she was feeling. Leonie’s left leg had been amputated from the knee down years before, replaced with a wooden materialist-crafted prosthetic, and she’d confessed to Grey once that the rain made her badly healed hip throb.

“Thank you,” Kier said, taking the draft like a good patient. Grey and Leonie exchanged a glance. Both of them would’ve refused. Neither of them were good patients.

“And as soon as you’re able to get up, Attis has requested you.”

“He is unable to get up,” Grey said quickly, which didn’t stop Kier from trying. A firm push to his shoulder was effective enough.

“Noted,” Leonie said. “It can wait.”

“Did she say why?” Grey asked.

Leonie shook her head. “Something to do with the prisoner you recovered, I think.”

It wasn’t a guarantee, but perhaps Grey wasn’t completely fucked for her behavior the other day. Maybe Concord still owed her for saving her life. Maybe—though Grey very much doubted it—she would get off easy this time.

Leonie took note of her fidgeting. “Hand Captain, if you’re going to be loitering here, I’d appreciate your help if you have time to spare—but I will

require you to clean up and eat first.”

“And that’s an order,” Kier said.

“You still don’t outrank me,” Grey said, but she conceded anyway.

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Torrin –

It is over. It is done. Let me live in peace, I beg of you. It is barely a life at all, and has not been since they died by my side. The last thing I ask of you is to let all of it die, as I should have.

I know, in your stubbornness, you may never stop looking for me, but I ask as the last of my name that you do.

Letter from Severin of Locke to Scaelas, 3 months PD

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