William

A dozen tents had been pitched along the outskirts of the battle away from filth. Oscar stayed outside while William entered. Heat suffocated the interior. Orbs of flames lit the chaos and stole the chill. The injured overflowed, spilling from cots to makeshift floor beds of hay and damp cloth. The stench of charred leather and excrement burned the corners of his eyes. Nurses hurried to attend to the worst injured while soldiers scurried past carrying corpses to make room.

“William,” a cheerful voice called among the ruckus.

Charmaine Tuckerton hurried forward. Her military uniform had been seared up to the elbows and caked in crimson. A bandage wrapped her bald head, and a gruesome cut tore her warm russet brown skin from chin to ear. A medic had already seen her based on the herbs clinging to her cheek. The bandages must have fallen away during the ruckus. Towering over most, Charmaine had little trouble shoving through the masses to wrap William in a tight embrace.

“What a relief, you’re alive,” she muttered against his temple.

Through the years, Charmaine hadn’t lost her fondness for physical affection while he could live without it. The sense of entrapment caused sweat to form at his back. A hand forever rested on the hilt of his revolver, ready at a moment’s notice.

“I am relieved to see you alive, too. I hope I’ve seen the worst of your injuries,” William said.

“Oh, yes. This came from a nasty tumble with a grump.” She pressed a gentle hand against her injured cheek. “But I have nothing more than bumps and bruises otherwise. What about you? Are you injured? I wanted to join the initial search, but—”

“Tuckerton!” Charmaine jolted at the shout of their Head Medical Officer, Marsha Montgomery.

Montgomery went by her last name only. Never liked being called Marsha because the men scoffed at her before she entered a room. One of the very few female medical officials of her status, she had to be stern and borderline cruel to survive here. That’s probably why she was barely forty and already gray as a grandmother. She glared from across the tent, wrinkled brown hands covered by the blood of a thrashing soldier she kept pinned to the table. The wounded man howled like the damned.

“Cauterize this wound, now! Move it, man!” Montgomery bellowed. Charmaine’s expression fell. William squeezed her hand. That was the most either of them could do here.

“Yes, Sir!" She called and hurried to the back of the tent. Fire crept over her fingers and an anguished cry followed the hissing of flames and smoke.

Removing his jacket and rifle, William joined nurses at a nearby cot. There had never been enough combat medics, even after half the mortal troops conjoined for the battle of Lockehold. Medicinal medicine was a hard enough study. Medicinal magic was a monster of its own.

William worried Montgomery had been wrong to notice his so-called affinity for it after months of work with little results. The incantations of a dead language never held the correct cadence or necessary power. They were but useless noises rolling over his tongue in odd forms he hardly remembered. And there was too much to remember; words, herbs, potions, and measurements. But if he wanted to survive, he had to learn. He had to be more than the sensitive Vandervult boy.

Hours passed. Darkness settled. Those meant to die, had. They lay in droves outside. Forty among them wore silver shrouds; fae. Resilient rabble. Pity how they rarely died.

William hoped to see more, though forty had been the most lost in a single battle. Although, once a man spoke of an assault where seventy or so fell. No one believed him. And as expected, the fae cared little for the dead. They did not mourn or feign care.

A group of the rotten dregs converged by one of the supply carts, belonging to the human troops, of course. Soldiers no longer argued with them. It was pointless. The Generals never intervened unless absolutely necessary, either. So, the stealing fae sang joyous songs in their foreign tongue and laughter spilled over the field.

If they were wounded, they had long since healed. Their bodies had such unnatural and envious dispositions, healing deadly wounds in hours. A rare few among fae were capable of healing others, typically those of such ancient power all had forgotten from whence they came. And they certainly had no intention of assisting humans. Fae and mortals fought against the scourge of Calix Fearworn, his Shadowed Disciples, and their monsters. That didn’t mean they shared healers.

A selfish lot. William despised them. Their nonchalance, their disdain, the general lack to feel outside their own greed and ravenous hunger for mayhem. War was troublesome enough. Fighting alongside fae made war worse. They were good for one thing and one thing only—

Fuchsia light intense as a raging fire burst through the camp followed by a wave of blistering heat. Snow melted instantly, creating puddles and slick surfaces. The fae cried out, a series of victorious chants that grew in the face of shadows closing in. The fuchsia flames dimmed, though remained flickering within the palms of a pompous fae. A damned Shade, in fact. The Shade bastard and his entourage stepped into their kin’s circle. His raven hair sat a glorious mess atop his head, roseate eyes brighter than gems, capable of beating back the darkest night. His tattered clothes hung against a muscled form. Beneath ripped sleeves, runes marked him from the tip of his fingers to his elbows. Black marks made darker by the paleness of his skin. When he laughed, it was joyous and evil and proved what the fae were good for; fearsome power.

No incantations. No herbs. No potions. No knowledge. Fae wielded magic better than the air they breathed.

The pink tinted fire danced between the Shade’s fingertips, illuminating his suave features. A face that most would look enviously upon in one form or the other. Perhaps fae were good for two things. They had always been charming to admire, flawless and magnificent. Everything anyone could yearn for, and even what they wouldn’t expect. As much as William, and many others, hated working alongside fae, none denied their grace made the sun shy. Yet another weapon in their long arsenal, a way to deceive lonely and desperate souls.

Charmaine suddenly appeared at William’s side. She carried the heavy aroma of disinfectant, wafting from the towel wiping her raw hands clean. All medics carried scars from the consistent dirtying and washing of their hands. The disinfectant no longer made either of them flinch as it seeped into their cuts.

“Nicholas Darkmoon,” Charmaine whispered, awestruck.

“You speak his name as if we are to be impressed,” said William.

“We should. He’s a prince.”

“Fae do not have monarchs.”

“But they have lands. Great lands that stories claim stretch as far as our seas. Darkmoon is the largest territory ruled by a High Fae. A Lord Laurent, if I recall correctly. He holds tremendous power that has passed on to his son. The fae revere him, in their manner.”

“All I see is a cursed Shade jackass who likes to show off,” William muttered.

Sweat dripped from his brow thanks to Nicholas' infernal flames. The sparks danced over his broad shoulders, flickering at his back like feathered wings. Such magic was unnatural, tainted, even by fae standard. And wielded by the very enemy they battled against, thus the sight of Nicholas put him on edge.

“Lockehold must have had something.” A hopeful gleam caught in Charmaine’s downturned eyes. “Nicholas appears most at important battles. Rumors say he throws tantrums after a boring siege.”

“Only a fae would call any siege boring.”

“If I had to wager, he is in a good mood. Lockehold is the key to the Deadlands. We’ve broken through. There must be little more left to do. We can go home. I can…” Charmaine said no more less she risks unpleasant interactions with the simpleminded.

“Albie.” William hated using that name, but they agreed it was better than the name she cast aside. He pressed a finger beneath her chin, gentle and nurturing, to break that hopeful gaze away from creatures intent on snuffing it out. “Do not trust hope. She’s a painful and disappointing mistress.”

“Hope has never failed me. Hope gave me you.”

“A group of ruthless boys with a lot to prove and a pained cry brought us together. At most, a dose of dumb luck.”

“Such optimism, William. Wherever did you acquire it?” Charmaine grumbled, then sank to the floor with a defeated sigh. Her legs trembled. William would too, once he stopped moving. They had been awake and on their feet for two days and narrowly survived a gruesome battle. With even more on the horizon. But their bodies couldn’t stop. If they dared to rest, they’d join the dead.

“I want to sleep through the night and have three meals a day with snacks in between. I want to look myself, to sing and dance and be happy. I want this damned war to be over. I want to go home,” Charmaine whispered in a breathless voice others shared in the middle of the night when they believed no one listened. William, too.

He wanted to hope. He dreamed of home. Warm tea, flowers in the garden, a soft bed, a mother’s comforting embrace, his brother’s teasing laughter, and his father telling him long winded stories. What he remembered of that, anyway. What he hoped he still loved about normalcy, anyway. He craved the life before this. Before suffering and war and cursed fae, like the annoyed one heading their way with fuchsia flames at his back.