The Empire had truly retreated and now the long, arduous task of collecting the injured began. Adrian had known battle by this point, had been part of the medical units to scour the fields after battle for years now. The stink of flesh beginning to rot and blood mixed with mud had become a strange perfume he had grown used to. The fields of the dead was where true mercy could be found. Some soldiers were shot to be put from their misery, too far gone to ever survive their wounds or a trip into the fort. Many were taken by slings on either side of a horses back, trotted back up into the safety of Fort Howley. Here on the field, Pracissian and Atelan no longer mattered. Help would be given to whoever still lived and a swift and just death would be given to those who would not make it.

The remnants of the Wiskusset 17th’s camp were being sent into the Fort, Adrian about to go with them. But instead he had turned, eyes pleading as he caught the sleeve of their Medic Corporal Silversmith.

“Make use of me.”

The buzzards circled overhead, ready to prey on the dead. Silversmith looked to him for a moment with eyes that shined with worry and he simply gave a nod. The ropes that bound his hands to a cart were cut and together they darted out onto the field. Bonds of loyalty to a crown and the tethers of pride were dashed in Adrian when it came to the injured. Other oaths he had to human life were more important.

He poured water into the mouth of a soldier and watched the life leave her weary eyes. A canon had taken her legs and they both knew nothing would save her from this fate. She had asked only for clean water and a hand to hold. Who was he to deny her that?

Sometimes a sigh was all that was left when death finally came.

Already exhausted, sweaty, and stinking of muck and mud, Adrian lifted himself up. Now would be a time to flee, he thought. No one watched him or kept him here. They were too wrapped up in aiding the wounded and recovering from the Empire’s attack to notice where he was or if he left. It would be easy, he could make his way across the battlefield and just disappear into the forest and be gone.

Stomach hurtling down into his boots Adrian carefully stepped over the bodies and skirted around them while he held his jug of water tight. He had no provisions, no weapons, and no way to survive out in the wilderness. But it was better than staying and being hanged as a murderer.

He hunched down and pretended to be inspecting bodies as he carefully began to pick his way through the battlefield. As calmly as Adrian could handle, he casually turned away when rebels rushed by to pluck a groaning soldier from the ground. The less they saw of his face, the less likely they were to guess his intent.

Freedom felt so close, just a few yards away before he could disappear into nothingness. He found his eyes on it more and more intently, drawn towards the taste of fresh air from the field full of dead.

A hand caught his elbow that made him jolt in surprise. Absolute terror shuddered down to his toes. Had they seen him trying to escape? Did they know what he was trying to accomplish? Slowly, he turned, mouth set into a grim line as he tried not to look guilty.

Medic Corporal Silversmith was there, his round face serious as he began to drag Adrian across the field. “Come with me. I need your help with something important.”

Relief, followed by sharp despair, coursed through Adrian’s chest. Silversmith was a round faced and short man with obvious Pracis heritage, dark brown eyes, and even darker skin. His hair was a lighter color, a sweet and soft beige that came out in lovely, tight curls tied back by a brightly colored ribbon. Adrian would have found the aesthetic quite pleasing, if it weren’t for the fact of the long, bushy tail like a cats that swished back and forth fiercely. He wondered, in a giddy moment of his wash of emotions, if it ever got stepped on while he sat.

But the yelling that reached his ears brought Adrian away from such ideas.

Francis was being held down on a stretcher by several soldiers. He was wild, tail mud covered as he thrashed one leg. “If you take it I will shoot all of you!” he bellowed, voice risen to a madman’s scream, “I swear on the earth I will have you hanged for insubordination if you take it!”

Private Camilla Junia stood a few feet away, shaking in her boots with her feathers fanned out and her eyes huge on her small face. She held the Colonel’s horse desperately and chewed her lip. It was hard to imagine that this was the self-same man who had ridden out so proudly that morning as he raved and flailed with all that he had.

Adrian didn’t know what the source of it was, until his eyes dipped lower. A bullet wound, struck in the man’s left leg that had been splinted and tied tightly down to the stretcher while he thrashed. A sickened feeling made Adrian’s shoulders tense- the leg was being prepared to be amputated from the thigh.

Corporal Silversmith looked to Adrian and his hand gripped his elbow even tighter. Thumb pressed to the soft joint of flesh, “Can you help him?”

Adrian said nothing and only watched Francis pant and curse at the men who lifted him to take him to the fort. If they took Francis’s leg it would cripple him forever.

And the rebellion.

Silversmith jostled his arm, hard, and hissed between his teeth as he jerked it so hard he felt his shoulder pop. “Can you help him? I bloody saw you trying to leave- can you help him?”

So there it was. Adrian had been caught and whatever leverage Silversmith could use to get Adrian to continue being useful he would use. It would be Adrian’s choice then, his life or the Colonel’s?

The soldiers were bringing him closer now and up the hill while Francis looked at them all with rage. But those blue eyes, full of ice and fire, caught sight of Adrian. He knew what Adrian was, who he was to the Empire, and before they passed his hand flashed out. With a powerful grip Francis grabbed the lapel of his vest and dragged him down. So close that those blue eyes were all that Adrian could see.

“Save my leg. By the earth…by your gods please…” Francis panted, breath hot as it blew across Adrian’s chest. He whispered, low and trying for others not to hear his pleading, “Please.”

There were a hundred things Adrian would rather do than this. But he leaned back, gazing at Francis’s desperate face and the absolute agony that the Atelan man was in. Without thinking, he pressed a hand to Francis’s forehead, feeling the fever already raging there. The medic’s hand was still gripping his other elbow hard, twisting it behind him. Leaning away, Adrian looked to the man grimly. “Do you have a scalpel and morphine?”

The medic gave a jerky nod as his eyes blazed in relief.

Adrian would regret this, he was sure. Voice weary, he jerked his chin, “Get him inside and find me some refined adamas. Let us see if I can save it.”

Francis fell back against the cot, silent now and no longer fighting as they trekked their way up the muddy hill and off the battlefield. They entered through the heavily armed front doors that were covered in deep gouges from canon-fire. Fort Howley was awash with injured and soldiers who ran swiftly back and forth shouting orders. Repairs were already started while men and women reinforced the walls and dragged the injured into the infirmaries for those who were worst off. Adrian could see the gleam of orange and an officer’s jacket, up above where Major Baxter moved amongst his men with sleeves rolled up to work beside them.

As the doors of Fort Howley began to shut behind them, Adrian looked back only once. In the gleam of the morning he could see the forests he had almost escaped to and the freedom beyond it. As the heavy wood closed with a loud slam Adrian felt that thin hope of escape snap and with it his fate was sealed.