**The following story takes place after "Of Lowlifes, Lutes, & Liars" Chapter 11: Shattered, and Side Story 2: Mercy.**

“Jaycen, please. It hurts…” A fragile voice echoed in his mind, petering out until it fell silent.

The Solanai knew at once that the sentry's wounds were too devastating and too deep for even the most skilled healer to treat. There was nothing left for her now but suffering.

I can't stop it. There's so… There's just so many…

Jaycen froze in the haze of distant memory, with vision distorted by tears and time. His troubled mind had conjured up a tragedy, faded and stained from attempts to bury it, upsetting the Solanai as he waited for news of the Deceiver.

He was kneeling in a muddy battlefield, riddled with corpses of friends and foes, but which one? The dusty, lawless borderlands of Molcene? The vast, fertile delta of Carmine? Years of service all over Tevrose had created so many graveyards, but this one was the worst by far.

The choking smoke from burning bodies, the dying gasps from wounded men, the putrid stench of Evermonth blooms—all of it was as vivid in Jaycen’s mind as the day it had happened.

And in his arms, stabbed and skewered a dozen times over, a young woman grew still and cold. Her battered body oozed blood from every puncture, and her skin had gone clammy and unresponsive to Jaycen’s touch. The Solanai glanced down to try and recognize the other soldier, but her face was obscured, hidden from view by a Dark Army cowl.

Who are you?

Jaycen had pried off his gauntlet and his companion’s sentry hood to check for signs of life, but only felt the sticky squelch of blood between his fingers. Tresses of long, black hair fell from her loose ribbon that had kept the wefts back, and a familiar scar above her brow drew a boggling stare from the Solanai warrior.

Wait, it’s you. But I thought you were—You shouldn’t be here.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jaycen Mevralls had done everything in his power to keep Margrit from seeing real combat on the front lines, but she’d managed to join anyway. His cousin had a stubborn restlessness that couldn’t be suppressed, and she’d ignored Jaycen’s orders and joined the war without finishing her sentry training first.

This is my fault, Jaycen thought, as he kept trying to find any signs of life in her bloodied body. I should have known you’d sneak out. It’d been better if I just sent you home.

Jaycen tried to wake her, to coax any response from his treasured cousin, but she would not answer his pleas. Green eyes that had been so full of life went dull and vacant. A tight hug around her body yielded no rush of air in or out, as Margrit had long since taken a breath.

Margrit? Maggs?

Despite his best efforts to protect her, to spare this poor woman from a painful death, Jaycen had failed. By the time he’d cut down the last of the berzerkers and raced to her side, Margrit was already—

No, please. Please don’t go, Jaycen begged, his breaths ragged from forcing back sobs. I promised your mother I’d get you home in time for the harvest. You still owe me a Merkander ribbon. A-and I’ve been learning how to dance…

But there would be no more festivals for Margrit Mevralls. No more tourneys, no more dances, no more impish pranks on her older cousin.

There was only waiting now. Waiting for the war drums to fade, waiting for surrender on either side, and waiting for the pitmen to take Margrit’s body away. Jaycen was trapped in that lonely period of waiting, tormented by his precious cousin’s lifeless stare.

Jaycen’s mind crept back to the cramped healer’s hovel while he waited. He lamented the loss of his cousin, squeezing an ivory cameo of Margrit’s likeness until it left dents in his hand. Still, no matter how hard he wished, Maggs was gone, and the only lingering trace of her was a single, aging memento. The lieutenant was about to replay the events in his head again, when a firm hand met the tender spot where Jaycen’s neck met his shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you,” Jaycen replied with a start. He’d been so distracted by painful visions that Major Barshaw had snuck up on the lieutenant, taking him by surprise. “Sorry, ma’am. I was lost in thought. Is it my turn again already?”

Still as silent as ever, the major shook her head “no” and stared down at Lieutenant Mevralls, her eyes narrowing at the disheveled state of him.

It had been several days since either soldier had a meaningful break, and Jaycen was looking far more worn out that Tazanni had expected. With a frown and a sigh, the Titan of Tevrose produced a nearly-full flask of sloshing liquid for Jaycen to take, then meandered toward the exit.

“Thanks, Major,” Jaycen added. “I’ll be sure to bring her ‘round the barracks, once she’s—”

But Major Barshaw didn’t stick around to listen further. It had been four long days and nights of taking turns caring for the battered outcast, and Tazanni was desperate for a break. Not only that, but the major had been poring ether into the Deceiver ever since they’d arrived at the hovel. Surely, even the Goddess of Vengeance needed sleep at some point.

And Jaycen fared no better on that score. He’d been up for ages, pacing the hovel like a caged animal, and in great need of relief. The horrid grumble of an empty stomach drew Jaycen’s attention to another source of discontent, and he sought to quiet the rumbling with Major Barshaw’s offering.

“Good gods, what is that?” Rida asked with a disgusted sniff. He’d lately arrived from the adjacent room, where Khazmine was recovering from her injuries. “Ew, Jaycen. You know how much I detest Night’s Watch. Is that what you’ve been drinking this whole time?”

In lieu of a reply, Jaycen took another hit off his flask. The strong liquid burned all the way down, exacerbating Lieutenant Mevralls’s pernicious gut rot.

“Hey, you need food, Jaycen,” Rida pressed, though not harshly enough to wound the weary Solanai. “Real food. And a shave. Well, and a bath, too, if I’m honest.”

Nothing the D’jabareen healer said seemed to resonate with the warrior, and Jaycen merely stared off in the middle distance, ruminating on events he could not change. Sensing he’d been unhelpful, Rida opted for a change of tactics.

“You know, I think what you and the major are doing is helping,” Rida confessed. “I’ve seen some improvement since yesterday, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Khazmine woke up today.”

Jaycen’s head shot up to meet Rida’s gilded stare, scanning the healer for how hopeful he should be. A crinkle in the southerner’s eyes drew a twitch from Jaycen Mevralls, allowing the faintest smile to take root.

“Still, you’re a right proper mess, mister,” Rida teased. His tiny, calloused hand met the Solanai’s shoulder before giving him an encouraging pat. “How do you think Miss Khazmine would feel, waking up to you in such a sorry state, hmm?”

The look on the Solanai’s face made it plain to the D’jabareen healer. Jaycen hadn’t thought of his own appearance, but he could be bothered to try harder to ease the half-breed’s worries. The velveteen chaise creaked from Jaycen standing up from its plush cushions, and the lieutenant made for the same door Major Barshaw had used.

Jaycen stopped in the entryway, grabbed his bloodstained cloak in a rumpled wad, and made for the door, only stopping at the sound of Rida’s voice. “Hey, if you ever want to talk about it, about what’s bothering you, I’m happy to listen.”

“Later on, Mister <Radlant>?” Jaycen asked, his tone reserved and official-sounding. “In the meantime, when can we expect to speak with Miss Khazmine again? Can you watch her while I—”

“…Yes, sir, of course.” Rida replied. There was a smile in his voice as Jaycen reached for the knob. If nothing else, at least the Solanai would take a much-needed break after playing “hero” for half a week. “I’d say anytime now. She’s taken plenty of infusions, and readily accepts ether, so I shouldn’t be surprised if she wakes up soon.”

At his parting remarks, Jaycen swallowed hard, pursed his lips together into a frown, and nodded. The tired soldier stepped out of the healer’s hovel, into the sunlight, and strode away, unable to give voice to his torment.

***

Later on, wrapped in the steamy embrace of a warm, humid bathhouse, Jaycen Mevralls sighed deeply in his copper basin. Milky white waters, rich with the scent of cleansing soap and crystal Fordaad vine flowers, relaxed his aching limbs in the tub.

Jaycen had lost track of how long he’d been in his reserved suite. All he knew was that the waters had lost the bite to their intense heat, and his fingertips had puckered like wyrbloom prunes.

He was lazily debating getting out and drying off, when a long-dead voice came to mind, dredging up memories he’d thought were successfully buried since earlier.

“Jaycen, please… It hurts…”

Jolting into high alert, Lieutenant Mevralls splashed his bathwater all over the tiled floor. Trembling fingers grasped onto the curled copper edges of his basin, gripping the rim until his knuckles blanched white.

His heart began beating with the same lub-dub rhythm as Solanai war drums, worsening the sensation of pervasive anxiety that crept up on him like a spector. It was that same feeling again, the one that haunted Jaycen in his quietest moments, when peace seemed so near, yet impossibly far away.

The porcelain tiled walls and floor felt like they were closing in on him, squeezing Jaycen on all sides. Steamy air was still thick and rich in floral scents, yet suffocating and stale at the same time. No matter how many breaths the soldier took, he couldn’t seem to get enough air, fueling his need to flee immediately.

I gotta get out. I need to get away.

Scrambling to put on clean clothes and leave the claustrophobic bathhouse behind him, Jaycen paid his fare and departed. It wasn’t until twin suns warmed his skin again that the Solanai realized what he’d forgotten.

Combing his damp black hair back with tensed fingers, Jaycen brushed against his face and grumbled. Dammit, I forgot to shave. Stupid…

Jaycen scratched at four days’ worth of beard that had grown during Khazmine’s treatment. He scowled at this transition stage between clean-shaven and bearded, lamenting the uncomfortable “in-between” of either a clean slate or a full commitment to regrowing his hair.

“You look so handsome with a beard,” Margrit’s voice echoed in his head, eliciting a wince from the Solanai.

Lieutenant Mevralls despised the feeling, and always had. Wanting to get a fresh start, yet continuing to revisit ghosts from the past was exhausting.

“Blooms fer sale!” the florist of Merchant’s Quarter bellowed, snapping Jaycen out of his stupor. She was a tiny slip of a thing, sun-kissed from her trade, and had the natural warmth and charisma of a born-again saleswoman. “Bouquets an’ blooms! Cheers up the home an’ brings good fortune!”

“H-have you any that are good for getting well soon?” Jaycen asked, his mind still rattled from the bathhouse incident.

“You sick, sir?” the florist asked, her head tilted at the off-duty Solanai. “Or’s it someone you know? Either way. Here, take these. Orange wyrblooms. They’s as good as any’s to cheer up an invalid. Two does, mister, sir.”

With a fresh bouquet in hand, Jaycen ambled back to Rida’s hovel, eager to give them to the wounded half-breed. By the time he’d returned, Lieutenant Mevralls could hear muffled voices inside the infirmary.

“My superior?” Khazmine asked, her voice spiking the soldier’s heart rate anew.

“Yeah, you know—Ah, Jaycen, you’re back,” Rida turned his head to meet the arrival of Lieutenant Mevralls, who came to the room in casual garb, bearing freshly-cut orange wyrbloom stems to decorate Khazmine’s recovery room. Jaycen wasted no time dithering in the hall, and knelt by Khazmine’s bedside to check on her condition. “She’s awake, as you see.”

“Thank you, <Dorian>,” Jaycen said before his eyes drifted back to Khazmine. The Solanai brushed lengths of silky black hair out of the outcast’s face, trying desperately not to fall victim to guilt and despair.

Khazmine and Margrit were so similar in temperament and mannerisms that Jaycen couldn’t help but see kinship in the Deceiver. Their hair and features bore a passing resemblance, but it was the way the outcast stared at him that troubled Jaycen most.

Just like his cousin Maggs had done for years, Khazmine was looking up to Jaycen as a hero, someone she could count on. The thought of failing to protect her stung all the harder now, and Lieutenant Mevralls made a silent vow to the outcast fetch-and-carry.

Sure, Miss Khazmine wasn’t Maggs, but they were close enough to give him hope. Perhaps befriending this starving half-breed could help Jaycen atone for his failures. Or maybe Maggs was looking out for him from the Great Hereafter, giving Jaycen another chance to live up to her years of admiration.

“So, you’ve decided to stay with us then,” Jaycen said with a hint of a smirk. Lost in her glacier-blue stare, the Solanai finally felt a hint of relief.

I’ll do better this time. I promise…