Fic: Beneath These Skies - 3/7 (BBC Sherlock + Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance)
Title: Beneath These Skies
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5.7 this part, 37k overall
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars, hiddenlacuna
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: An ex-soldier-turned-healer, a priest, and an unhorsed knight flee for their lives after the invasion of their homeland. John didn't expect the road to safety to be easy, but the addition of a petite mage and a scowling former prisoner to their small band opens his eyes to horrors beyond imagining.
Warnings: blood, violence, references to torture, references to mutilation, references to past rape and threats of rape (no rape occurring during the course of the story), fantasy racism (racism toward magical creatures), war, suicide contemplation.
Prologue: Flight to the Border
Chapter One: A Fight in the Dark
Chapter Two: Behind Enemy Lines
First are the uniforms.
John discards his garb with reluctance, but that does nothing to draw attention from Sherlock’s outright refusal. Bad enough he’d balked at the removal of his pack. This only compounds their captors’ frustrations.
“Sherlock, please,” John urges.
Sherlock doesn’t look at him. In the tent, lit by lamp, he must feign blindness, but he does it well.
“Let me help him, sir,” John asks the other priest in the room. He’s a hardened looking fellow, hair so dark and red as to nearly be purple in the dim light. Jason might be his name, if John had heard correctly. The cut of his hood indicates a bishop. “He’s not good with the unfamiliar.”
“Are you his assistant or his keeper?” Father Jason asks.
“A bit of both, sir,” John says. He folds his hands behind his back, standing at attention, waiting for another answer to his request. Sherlock does no such thing, unstable without the weight of his pack to lean against.
Father Jason waves him on.
John changes first, stripping down to his smallclothes and pulling on his own under robe and cassock. The under robe is red, the cassock white. He ties the red sash around his waist with a practised hand, the knot on the right. His trousers are searched for weapons, then returned to him. The same treatment awaits John’s boots.
“Your turn, Sherlock,” John murmurs.
Jaw set, Sherlock nods. He unties the blue length of cloth that’s served as a belt, then gingerly pulls the dark shirt over his head. He flinches with it over his head and hurriedly holds it out in John’s direction before smoothing down his curls. It’s a nervous tick John’s seen before, but never with the man standing shirtless and scarred. Less scarred than John, at least from the front, but then Sherlock unfastens his trousers and lets them fall. He steps out of them, and the ring of scar tissue around his right ankle is grotesque. Back to the wall of the tent, he looks like the cornered animal he is. That they both are.
John hands him the under robe. Sherlock pulls it on quickly, then futilely smoothes down his curls once again. “Arms to me,” John murmurs.
Sherlock turns, holds his arms back, and John slides the cassock up his arms, onto his shoulders. Sherlock runs his palms down the front, scouting the cloth, and he buttons it without difficulty. “Sash,” Sherlock instructs.
John hands him back his blue one and Sherlock binds it at once, knot on the left. A regional preference, they can claim. Perhaps that’s what it is in truth.
A pair of boots follow, worn and likely third-hand, but Sherlock’s sandals are hardly suited to an army’s march. For the Daein officials to recognise this is nearly kind.
“If you’re this slow at everything, you won’t be around for long,” Father Jason remarks, more statement than warning. So much for kind.
“That won’t be a problem, sir,” John promises.
“This one’s been in prison,” Father Jason says, eyeing Sherlock. “What were you in there for?”
“Asking questions,” Sherlock replies.
John clears his throat.
“Sir,” Sherlock adds, insolent enough that silence would have been the better option.
“What kind of questions?”
“Who assassinated Begnion’s previous Apostle,” Sherlock replies.
“That was twenty years ago,” Father Jason says.
Sherlock’s mouth twitches in a wry, undirected smile. “So it was. The theocracy was in chaos, as I recall.”
Father Jason considers him. Sherlock looks to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, and if he’s had a hard life-which he obviously has-he might be younger than that. “Apostle Misaha was killed by sub-human savages. Everyone knows that.”
Sherlock opens his mouth.
“Sherlock,” John hisses. He needs no other warning sign than mere intake of breath.
Sherlock shuts his mouth.
Father Jason eyes them, then tells their guard to relocate them to their new tent.
The camp is large, possibly the main camp of the Daein army in the Sea of Trees. The tents are set up in rows that break formation only for the trees. Most tents have their flaps wide open in a bid for light. Sherlock won’t have to feign blindness here. Even so, John reaches for the hood on Sherlock’s robes and tugs it up over his head. Sherlock doesn’t startle, merely pulls the hood down lower. Keeping Sherlock’s sight secret could be the difference between captivity and escape, if they ever reach sunlight.
“Oi, Brian,” the guard says.
A middle-aged man looks up from fighting rust from his armour. His hair is fading into grey, his face tan and lined from the sun. “Yeah?”
“These two are with you.”
Brian frowns. “Reinforcements?”
John and Sherlock certainly don’t look it, not with Sherlock gripping John by the shoulder and trailing on a staff.
“New recruits,” the guard says dryly. “Thought you’d be a good one to show them the ropes. Healers, so not likely to kill you in your sleep.”
“Oh, cheers.” It’s difficult to tell whether that was sarcasm, but the guard evidently doesn’t think so.
“You two, stay here until called for. What Brian tells you to do, you do. Brian, keeping an eye on them is your business.”
“Got it,” Brian says. His accent is vaguely familiar.
The guard walks away and what feels like the entire Daein army shows up to peer at them. Sherlock steps closer to John’s back. The questions start up and John holds them off long enough for him to see Sherlock to a spot to sit down. The more widely his blindness is acknowledged, the more the Daein soldiers will underestimate him. “Sherlock, Brian is cleaning his armour. Can you help him?”
Sherlock nods, and Brian guides him through it. John stands and faces the enquiry alone:
No, they were not with the princess, any princess.
No, no idea where the princess might be, any princess.
They might have been the group the army’s been chasing. John doesn’t know.
They haven’t seen the princess, any princess. The girl with them was a dark mage. No, from Crimea. John doesn’t know where her teacher was from.
They are healers, John and Sherlock, and yes, Sherlock is blind.
No, Sherlock is not useless. Yes, he will pull his weight.
Yes, John has been in the army before. Yes, the Crimean army. No, he invalided out before the invasion.
“Crimean, the both of you?” one soldier asks.
John realises he doesn’t know. He covers his pause, saying, “Hard to be Crimean without a Crimea.”
The soldiers laugh. One claps John on the back.
“That’s what I think,” Brian says from behind him.
“No, that’s how you justify it,” Sherlock corrects.
The laughter immediately stops.
“Justify what?” Brian asks, voice low. “Are you calling me a traitor?”
“No,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t look up from Brian’s amour, doesn’t pause in his cleaning. “Your accent is west Crimean, rural. You’re fitting in well enough that you’ve been trusted with two strange healers, but it’s also a test. Not impressed, no. You volunteered. So, new soldier. Your rust removal technique suggests farm tools, not armour. Very new soldier. Not even a month, I’d say. If western Crimean, then it was reasonably into the invasion, after King Ramon was killed. Now, that puts you at three weeks at the most.
“Trusted enough to look after us after only three weeks? You must be very earnest. Why would you be earnest? Simple. Family. Rural, so a large family. You have daughters. Lovely daughters, I’d imagine: you’ve a good voice and a protective nature, you could have a lovely wife, and a lovely wife does so often lead to lovely daughters. The Daein army comes, offers protection or destruction, and you leap for protection. Your daughters live unmolested in every sense of the word. As you prioritise your family over your country, I imagine it’s worry, not guilt, that keeps you up at night.”
Sherlock falls silent and everyone falls with him, every last soldier in the crowd. Brian’s face is open and devastated. With such a response, no one doubts the truth of Sherlock’s words.
John clears his throat. “Blessed is the will of Ashera, who shines the light of truth into darkness.”
“Blessed is Her will,” mumbles the crowd.
“Soothsaying is often a blunt matter,” John says, looking soldier after soldier in the eyes. He holds his staff before him. Any scrap of authority in a storm. “It is a wearisome gift. If you have more minor concerns-illness, injury-kindly bring them to me.”
He turns to Brian. “You’re a good man, and a fine father. I would have done the same for my sister.” John says so, but he’s not sure. He can only hope Sherlock won’t naysay him.
“John did the same for me,” Sherlock announces. “Not everyone can see the value of a blind healer.”
“Do you now see?” John asks the crowd at large.
Men shift and look away. Some nod. Some mutter agreement.
“Strange magic,” one says. “But I’d rather it with us than against us.”
A general murmur of agreement rolls through the crowd. After a few more awkward moments, the crowd begins to disperse. Sherlock checks the armour for rust by feel, unperturbed.
Once as alone as they’re going to be, John kneels down at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock shifts where he sits, likely grinding dirt into the white of his cassock.
“Did you have to do that?” John asks quietly, but not softly.
“I won’t be an easy target,” Sherlock swears.
“I said I was going to look after you lot and I meant it,” Brian pipes in. “Priest or not, airing my business--”
“They all know it already,” Sherlock dismisses.
“True. But I take pains not to remind them.”
“Pointless,” Sherlock says. “You’re being tested. They’re reminding themselves.”
“But thank you, Brian,” John interrupts. “Sherlock, making everyone afraid of you is just as likely to get you killed, if they think they can get away with it.”
Sherlock shrugs.
“Here,” John says. “I can help with that too.”
Armour maintenance, then lunch, then an introduction to the unit he and Sherlock have been assigned to. It’s a squadron, not a scouting party, enough soldiers to justify two healers. There are concerns about Sherlock’s battlefield mobility. Sherlock puts back on the stutter, and John stresses how very important it is that Sherlock not be left without John in a combat situation. As mobility is an issue, John suggests a horse, Sherlock riding, John guiding. That idea is dismissed immediately. John is not surprised.
The demand for healing is softened by the supply of staves. Sherlock and John both turn in their staves and are provided with replacements which are clearly well on their way toward breaking. They have to be conserved. John feels the power left in each, and immediately takes the one with the greater charge. If anyone comes to them to be healed, John will make it a simple matter of a fresher staff.
That evening, John discovers that they have displaced Brian’s tent-mate. Sherlock claims to have already known. They lie down with John in the middle, Brian on one side, and Sherlock pressed as far against the side of the tent as he can go.
The next day is much the same, and the day after, they pick up camp. Sherlock is a surprisingly efficient packer for a sighted man without his sight, and he wears his pack without complaint. In fact, with the additional weight on his back, Sherlock’s balance actually improves. It’s a bit bewildering, and even Brian notices.
They walk. All the horses have their riders or loads, but one of the cavaliers offers to let Sherlock hop up behind him. The cavalier has a friendly, boyish smile to match his friendly, boyish face. It bothers John for more reasons than he can name.
“I have John for that, thank you,” Sherlock dismisses. They walk arm-in-arm today, the better for them to converse.
The cavalier’s face clouds, eyes flicking down to Sherlock’s lower half, and John can abruptly name a few of those reasons.
“No sense in exhausting your horse,” John agrees. “Not much fodder about. Thanks, though.”
The cavalier says nothing, merely pricks his horse with his spurs and moves on ahead.
“Did you memorise his face?” Sherlock asks. His voice is a low rumble meant only for John’s ears.
“Mm.”
“Good.”
“Which way are we going?” John asks.
“South. Bending back toward the east, around the mountains. The scouts have found a way through.”
“Do you know that, or are you guessing?”
“I overheard. Why they assume the blind are also deaf, I’ve no idea.”
“Might not be worried about you hearing,” John points out.
“Mm.”
“There are some roots here. Long step over them.”
Sherlock steps. All is fine.
“Are you from Crimea?” John asks. “I never asked.”
“I lived there for the past fourteen years,” Sherlock replies. “I wouldn’t say I was from there.”
“Before that?”
“Begnion.”
“Oh,” John says. “Is that why you were asking about the Apostle?” Her death had thrown the country into, if not disorder, then a state of acute worry. John remembers hearing about it as a young man. He’d been in the army for roughly two years. “I was about, oh, eighteen, I’d say, when it happened.”
“I asked because it was worth knowing.”
“Who’d you ask?”
Sherlock’s lips twitch. “Those who declined to answer.”
“Nobility?”
“Mm. They took it poorly.”
John thinks of the scars on Sherlock’s leg. If John was eighteen, Sherlock could have been no older than sixteen. John tenses his arm under Sherlock’s, the closest he can risk to a squeeze.
Sherlock says nothing.
“Why don’t you think it was the, um, the laguz?”
“The accusations fell against the wrong tribe.”
“How do you mean?”
“Herons, John.”
“What about them?”
“They accused the herons,” Sherlock says. “Approximately two hundred years ago, the herons denied the ability of the Apostle to speak to the Goddess. Begnion’s war with Gallia at the time was carried out in Ashera’s name. Laguz are long-lived, far more than humans, and Begnion never allowed herself to forget that the herons who denied the Apostle’s power still lived.”
“I don’t...” Beyond that of Crimea, John hasn’t read much history. “Look, what you’re saying actually makes sense. Why couldn’t it have been herons?”
“Heron laguz sickened from conflict. Moreover, they had no physical strength to speak of. Some of them couldn’t even fly. Compared to this, the Apostle was an archsage of immense power. A single wind spell would have ripped a heron to shreds.”
“Scapegoats,” John says.
“Yes.”
“Then who killed the Apostle?”
“No one knows,” Sherlock murmurs. His tone leaves John wondering. His words put John on edge, but it takes time to realise why.
“You said ‘had no strength’,” John says.
“I said ‘no physical strength’. Their magic was impressive for its restorative power.”
“You keep using past tense.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, which is possibly out of character for a blind man. John honestly doesn’t know. “John, what do you think happens after the most beloved Apostle of Begnion’s entire history is killed and her murder is attributed to a pacifist species?”
“But, you said. The islands. You said they were-oh. Pegasus knights. Ashera, and the Dracoknight Guard. That...”
Sherlock shakes his head. “The herons lived in a forest within Begnion’s borders. Serenes Forest.”
“What happened?” John whispers.
“Burned.” Sherlock’s eyes remain fixed straight ahead, unfocused iron.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
They walk a minute or three in silence.
“Roots,” John says.
They step over them.
“Was it all of them?” John asks. “Past tense, so...”
“There are a few. They’re still high in demand in slaving circles.”
“Wait, no,” John says. “Apostle Misaha outlawed the slave trade. I remember that: it was part of why she was so popular. King Ramon made a big deal out of it. Crimea had finally taken the lead on an issue. That was why we’d fought for our independence, part of why. We don’t often have Begnion following us.”
“Mm, yes, they followed you directly into hypocrisy.”
“You mean... you mean black market beast trading? Laguz, laguz trading,” John corrects.
“Obviously. Making something illegal hardly eliminates the demand.”
“We don’t need slaves in Crimea,” John says. “Human hands build human homes.”
“Mm. Catchy propaganda.”
“It’s true,” John insists. His king may be dead, but John is still loyal regardless of the uniform he’s forced to wear. Even so, he takes care to keep his voice low. “Bill trained in Gallia. Even I had the choice to. King Ramon--”
“If you had the choice, why didn’t you go?”
“Because I was young and an idiot and I wanted to go where the fighting was,” John answers. “Bill was under strict orders to drop his weapon if conflict arose. I could never have lived like that. King Ramon wanted an end to the age of cruelty. He was a good man and a good king.”
“And the slave traders did not care, John,” Sherlock replies. “It does not matter one whit how good a man your king is when coin is in the equation. All loyalty has a price, and all life has a cost. Don’t argue, not when you’ve sold yours to buy mine.”
John glares at him.
“...Thank you, by the way,” Sherlock murmurs.
John glares straight ahead instead.
“Why are you so offended?” Sherlock asks eventually.
“We don’t have slaves in Crimea,” John says. “We never have. It’s a point of national pride.” The nation may be gone, but he still has that.
“Oh, John,” Sherlock laments. He aims a pitying expression at John’s ear. “You wouldn’t know a product of slave trade if it were staring you in the face.”
“Eyes forward,” John reminds him.
Sherlock chuckles but complies.
They don’t make camp that night, not properly. They’re only going to march again come morning. Lying on the open ground, staring up at the canopy and the glistening water on the trees, John can almost track the motions of the guards about the perimeter of the temporary camp. The torchlight brings the droplets to shine.
John murmurs this to Sherlock, and Brian overhears.
“They look like stars,” Brian says in a whisper. “Like stars, but smaller.”
“It’s nice,” John agrees.
“Do you describe everything for him?” Brian asks.
“Only the things worth seeing,” John answers.
“Not your face, for instance,” Sherlock adds.
Brian laughs. Softly, due to the hour, but it’s a relief to hear.
John touches his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. He knows better than to touch Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock flinches at the contact all the same.
John doesn’t lift his hand.
Eventually, Sherlock makes a small, grumbling sound.
John drops his hand and goes to sleep.
Near morning, Sherlock’s back presses against John’s side. Sherlock is shaking. Groggy with lack of sleep, John edges away, and Sherlock shifts after him.
John sits up and puts his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm. The shaking dies down.
John stays like that for a long time.
The boyish cavalier returns during the morning march. Today, he dismounts. Down on the ground, he looks a little older, if only because he’s tall. Sherlock shies into John’s side, but there’s no way to put John between them without the avoidance becoming completely obvious.
“Hello, priest,” the cavalier greets. “Do you recognise my voice?”
“And your face,” John says, voice bright, and Sherlock laughs. It’s a good sound to hear. His fitful sleep is obvious in his frame, the sharp edges of his movements sagging. He leans on John’s arm a bit more today. Theirs is a harsh pace even for John.
“I’ve been wondering,” says the cavalier. “How do you two know each other?”
“John found me in the darkness and healed my wounds,” Sherlock answers.
“Haven’t been able to lose him ever since,” John confirms.
“You’re never apart,” the cavalier half-asks.
“We’re not literally joined at the hip,” John says. “Not yet, anyway.” He smiles up at the cavalier around Sherlock.
As always, Sherlock continues to look straight ahead. “But, no, we’re never apart. John is my eyes.”
“The commander won’t humour you for long, I’m afraid,” the cavalier laments. “Two healers in a small group is always a waste of resources. Or an expectation of high losses, which is never good for morale.”
Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s arm.
“Might be for the best if you taught a few others how to lead you around,” the cavalier suggests. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm.
Sherlock tenses further, jerking his arm away. “Rule one,” he says. His voice is low and somehow flat. “Never touch me.”
“Sorry,” the cavalier says. “I’ll remember to ask first.”
“No,” Sherlock says. “Never touch me.”
“I’m only trying to help,” the cavalier says, laughing a little, his smile boyish and innocent.
“I don’t need your help.”
For a second, John is afraid Sherlock will hit the man or try to spit in his face, but from behind them:
“Sir Aston, is there a problem?” Brian calls, catching up to them and jogging around John until he’s in front of them, walking backwards.
Aston eyes Sherlock. John remembers, in a jarring sort of way, that Sherlock is a very attractive man when he’s not dying in his own filth. John guides Sherlock a bit to the side, ostensibly to let Brian fall into line with them, a human barrier between Sherlock and Aston.
“No problem at all,” Aston replies. “I was merely offering my assistance to our new priests. I’m sure it must be very limiting for you both.”
“It is the will of Ashera, who shines the light of truth into darkness,” Sherlock answers.
“Blessed is Her will,” John and Brian respond in unison.
Brian looks at Aston expectantly, and something in the lift of Sherlock’s head conveys the same sentiment.
“Blessed is Her will,” Aston agrees. “I merely wish to offer--”
“So you have,” Sherlock interrupts.
“I do hope you’ll consider it.”
“I wouldn’t want to make your horse jealous,” Sherlock replies in crisp tones. “I’m sure she’s anxious for you to mount her and have a nice, quick ride.”
There is a terrible moment where John bites his lip and prays not to laugh, where Aston visibly attempts to determine whether he was just insulted.
“Until we meet again,” Aston says at last, unfailingly cordial in tone. As instructed, he mounts his horse and trots ahead. Sherlock remains tense against John’s side even after Aston fades into the shadows. It’s hardly a comforting image for John: he can’t imagine the effect absolute darkness has on Sherlock.
“That’s trouble,” Brian mumbles.
“Is there someone we can talk to?” John asks.
“Like who?” Brian asks. “Daein may have its Four Riders, but they don’t have any Duke Renning.”
“I’ll speak with Father Jason,” John decides. “Sherlock, we should-”
“No.”
“What? Why not?”
“He’s playing a ‘friendly’ game, John,” Sherlock says. “This isn’t a battle, this is a siege, and he’s walked in claiming to be a mason. Do you understand?”
“Look, it’s a bit obvious he’s trying to remove your defences.” Me, John doesn’t say.
“I could cut your face a little,” Brian offers.
“No good,” John says. “The second he holds a staff, it would be undone.” That’s true of a real healer, and therefore must be said of Sherlock.
“Terrible haircut,” Brian suggests weakly.
“No.”
John and Brian stare at him.
“No,” Sherlock repeats, this time calmly.
“I’ll talk to Father Jason,” John says.
“He’s already made too many provisions for me.”
“I can still try.”
“John. No.” Sherlock turns his head, and this time, he stares at John’s cheek. “The less attention, the better.”
“I can’t guard you all hours of the day.”
“We can try,” Brian says.
Sherlock’s head jerks but doesn’t turn.
“Only if it fails with Father Jason,” John says. “I’ll make a case about vows of celibacy and keeping discipline. That kind of thing.”
“Are you lot celibate?” Brian asks.
“More of personal decision, as a rule,” John says.
“I am,” Sherlock says.
“There we are, vow of celibacy,” John says. “Father Jason’s a bishop. He’ll have to at least listen.”
John isn’t actually sure why he’s surprised at the response. Maybe it’s because of Brian, the combination of Daein armour and the man’s unassuming support. Maybe it’s the bits of the Daein army that don’t seem like they’re slaughtering Crimeans and chasing down girls through the forest.
Whichever the case is, John returns to Brian and Sherlock shaking with rage that night. Brian has the tent pitched, and, more importantly, he has Sherlock inside it.
“Let me guess,” Sherlock drawls. “‘If he can’t carry his weight, I’m sure he’ll be suited to other tasks.’ Oh, or ‘Daein’s army is of the strictest discipline, how dare you doubt that.’ Oh! Let’s not forget ‘Sir Aston is of an old and noble house. How dare you impugn his honour as he offers aid to the blind’.”
“Yeah,” John says. He sits heavily.
“Could be worse,” Brian says, joining them inside the low tent. He has to crouch. He pulls the flaps shut after him and whispers as he settles down on his bedroll. “Going into battle tomorrow. Always a chance Aston might have his throat ripped out.”
Sherlock closes his eyes, his mouth a thin line. John sees this without light, without looking. He simply knows Sherlock’s face.
“I won’t let him have you,” John says.
“This isn’t the Crimean army,” Brian warns. “It’s not so simple here.”
“Healers are always a valuable commodity, and I can heal myself,” John says. “I’m not afraid.” Fear is distant and strange, trapped behind his rage.
“John,” Sherlock whispers, voice unsteady, “do you shit?”
John blinks. “I’ve taken shits in front of you.”
“Then as you are, in fact, a man with an arsehole, stop talking as if you’re a man who can’t be raped. Whatever Father Jason is willing to let happen to me, he is willing to let happen to you.”
“Sherlock-”
“Shut up.” Sherlock rolls over, noisy about it, and John fights down a terrible urge to reach for the man.
John lies down as well, fuming.
“Battle in the morning,” Brian murmurs after a long, painful silence. As attempts to lighten the mood go, it’s an utter failure. “Scouts say the beasts are pushing up against the other edge of the forest. Most of the soldiers were going on about how long it’s been since they’ve had a good beast hunt.”
John doesn’t reply.
For once, neither does Sherlock.
“I hear it used to be quite the Daein tradition, back when Begnion still traded in them. Nowadays, only the bluebloods can afford enough beast stock to slaughter it. Funny, the things people do for entertainme--”
“Shut up,” Sherlock whispers. “Shut up, shut. Up.”
Brian shuts up.
It is a very long night.
“Are we fighting Crimeans?” John asks Brian, speaking quietly as the units fall into position, filing through the increasingly slim trees. Underbrush appears here and there, creeping higher the further they walk. Most is trampled down well before them, but John still takes care with Sherlock.
“Beastmen, I’d think,” Brian says. “They’ve moved the fire mages up toward the front. It’s going to get hot up there.”
John nods, throat thick. Beside him, he can feel Sherlock’s mood only growing fouler. Nothing to be done about that.
“You two should be safe,” Brian says. “There’ll be a human barrier set up for the wounded to come running in through. They’ll come to you. The soldiers will keep the beastmen away from you.”
“I have done this before,” John says. Against Daein, not with them, but the tactics are the same. Even if John used to be part of that human wall rather than a healer behind it. It’s unlikely he and Sherlock will be able to escape in the confusion, but there’s always a chance.
The trees give way to shrubbery, and they step over the already crushed foliage. The change is gradual enough to be easily missed in the tense atmosphere, but Sherlock shakes John’s arm, and when John looks at him, Sherlock squints back. John flicks his eyes forward and Sherlock does the same. The odds of escape just increased.
Light shines just ahead, but that proves to be a clearing. They keep going, and when the trees loom immediately before them, John has to tug Sherlock forward. The shadow falls, cool instead of humid with the fresh air from the clearing. Sherlock shivers beneath his hand.
They keep walking until there’s a new light. Lights. Golden sunlight and the harsh red flares of fire spells. The shouting ahead is almost orderly, and it flows back along the train of men like a wave. The vanguard has joined combat: send in the flanks.
“We’re still in the forest,” Sherlock protests.
“The beasts don’t care,” Brian answers. “This way, come on. John, keep him in formation.”
“Doing the best I can.”
The wind changes, close enough to the edge of the forest for there to be wind. After a week of stagnant, humid air, John would have thought it a blessing, were it not for the reek of charred flesh and fur. Roars echo. Snarls rip the air.
“What’s happening?” a soldier to John’s right demands. “I can’t see.”
“Oh, how terrible,” Sherlock remarks.
John pushes him forward. “Get to the tree line,” he hisses. Sherlock nods.
But the casualties begin to come in, and they expect John and Sherlock to work separately. John holds his staff with his left hand, holds Sherlock’s hand around the other staff with his right. They chant in unison, and while healing two men at once is apparently possible, it makes John’s eyes cross and his stomach heave.
It’s the spells turning his stomach, must be, not the carnage. The soldiers come with armour dented, ripped, the metal torn by claws thicker than John’s fingers. They bleed and shake, some full of bluster and others absolute terror. One man is carried to them, his arms around the shoulders of two comrades, one leg dragging. The other leg isn’t there. Too much blood gone, there’s nothing John can do.
“Life-threatening first!” John shouts. “Form a queue, the dying first!”
Sherlock stops his chanting whenever John speaks and immediately shouts something about pressing down on wounds until they can be seen to.
John resumes casting until, finally, Sherlock’s staff breaks, the red orb shattering from the strain. They drop it without calling for a new one, and John heals on his own, kneeling, Sherlock’s hands steady on his shoulders. The men seem to find something comforting in Sherlock’s stability, in his unaffected sharpness and vitriol, but John never has opportunity to hear whatever it is Sherlock is saying to them.
The men who can stand and fight do, rushing back to the front with a fervour John can understand only too well. Screams cut through the roars of beasts and blazes alike. Sherlock’s hands fist in John’s cassock.
The shout goes up: “The line is broken!”
and
“Push forward!”
and
“Fall back!”
“What in the world...?” the soldier under John’s staff asks.
John shakes his head. “I don’t--”
“Which line is broken?” Sherlock asks. “Enemy line, rush forward. Our line, retreat. Which is it?”
“I don’t-oh, fuck.” That’s not a surge of the wounded coming to be healed. That’s a surge of the wounded running for their lives. “Run!”
When a retreat becomes a rout, it also becomes a stampede. John drags Sherlock by the hand, sprinting back into the woods, running full out simply to keep ahead of the panicked armed charge rushing in from behind. Unencumbered by heavy armour, they outpace the heavy lancers and axe men easily, finding themselves amid archers and horsemen.
“Can you see?” John asks, gasping for air. They slow to a jog.
“Outlines,” Sherlock says, his grip on John’s hand unrelenting. “I won’t hit any trees.”
“Brilliant,” John says. “I need you to run off in a fucking panic that way. Off to the left.” Ought to be parallel to the forest edge, and that should keep the light fairly constant. John will chase him and hope the archers have more concern than shooting down deserters. If caught, they’ll blame fear and Sherlock’s inability to see.
“What, now?”
“Of course now.”
Sherlock hesitates, slowing down even more.
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock runs.
John chases after, running west.
A wave of retreating cavalry breaks upon them from the south.
“Sherlock!” John shouts. “Sherlock!”
The horses part about the trees as water around a stone. John throws himself against one thick trunk, clinging to the northern side as the horses and their riders storm past toward the safety of the woods.
“Sherlock!”
A rider circles back, unknowable behind his faceplate, and John doesn’t recognize the horse. “Take my hand!” the rider shouts. “Climb up, I’ll carry you!”
John pulls away, running west, and is nearly struck down by a panicked horse. “Sherlock!”
“Grab the priest!” someone shouts, and a foot soldier seizes John about the waist. Coordination forgotten, John’s body fights to reach rather than pull away.
“Sherlock!”
“We’ll find your friend,” the soldier promises and throws John over the back of a horse. John holds on, reflexive, and a gauntleted hand holds him down firm on the back. If John falls, he will die, stunned from impact and then trampled by hooves. John clutches to the horse as he would to his own life, holding, hoping, nearly falling off with each roll of the horse’s canter.
The horse stops in the clearing, and John slides off, shaking, muscles exhausted. A man he doesn’t know pulls him behind the line, back under the trees. Daein soldiers position themselves in the dark, a tactic that would work well against humans.
“Sherlock,” John tries to call out. Lost in the dark in Daein uniform. Sherlock.
Beneath the roars of the advancing beasts, John’s cry falls unanswered, unheard.
previous | next
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5.7 this part, 37k overall
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars, hiddenlacuna
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: An ex-soldier-turned-healer, a priest, and an unhorsed knight flee for their lives after the invasion of their homeland. John didn't expect the road to safety to be easy, but the addition of a petite mage and a scowling former prisoner to their small band opens his eyes to horrors beyond imagining.
Warnings: blood, violence, references to torture, references to mutilation, references to past rape and threats of rape (no rape occurring during the course of the story), fantasy racism (racism toward magical creatures), war, suicide contemplation.
Prologue: Flight to the Border
Chapter One: A Fight in the Dark
Chapter Two: Behind Enemy Lines
First are the uniforms.
John discards his garb with reluctance, but that does nothing to draw attention from Sherlock’s outright refusal. Bad enough he’d balked at the removal of his pack. This only compounds their captors’ frustrations.
“Sherlock, please,” John urges.
Sherlock doesn’t look at him. In the tent, lit by lamp, he must feign blindness, but he does it well.
“Let me help him, sir,” John asks the other priest in the room. He’s a hardened looking fellow, hair so dark and red as to nearly be purple in the dim light. Jason might be his name, if John had heard correctly. The cut of his hood indicates a bishop. “He’s not good with the unfamiliar.”
“Are you his assistant or his keeper?” Father Jason asks.
“A bit of both, sir,” John says. He folds his hands behind his back, standing at attention, waiting for another answer to his request. Sherlock does no such thing, unstable without the weight of his pack to lean against.
Father Jason waves him on.
John changes first, stripping down to his smallclothes and pulling on his own under robe and cassock. The under robe is red, the cassock white. He ties the red sash around his waist with a practised hand, the knot on the right. His trousers are searched for weapons, then returned to him. The same treatment awaits John’s boots.
“Your turn, Sherlock,” John murmurs.
Jaw set, Sherlock nods. He unties the blue length of cloth that’s served as a belt, then gingerly pulls the dark shirt over his head. He flinches with it over his head and hurriedly holds it out in John’s direction before smoothing down his curls. It’s a nervous tick John’s seen before, but never with the man standing shirtless and scarred. Less scarred than John, at least from the front, but then Sherlock unfastens his trousers and lets them fall. He steps out of them, and the ring of scar tissue around his right ankle is grotesque. Back to the wall of the tent, he looks like the cornered animal he is. That they both are.
John hands him the under robe. Sherlock pulls it on quickly, then futilely smoothes down his curls once again. “Arms to me,” John murmurs.
Sherlock turns, holds his arms back, and John slides the cassock up his arms, onto his shoulders. Sherlock runs his palms down the front, scouting the cloth, and he buttons it without difficulty. “Sash,” Sherlock instructs.
John hands him back his blue one and Sherlock binds it at once, knot on the left. A regional preference, they can claim. Perhaps that’s what it is in truth.
A pair of boots follow, worn and likely third-hand, but Sherlock’s sandals are hardly suited to an army’s march. For the Daein officials to recognise this is nearly kind.
“If you’re this slow at everything, you won’t be around for long,” Father Jason remarks, more statement than warning. So much for kind.
“That won’t be a problem, sir,” John promises.
“This one’s been in prison,” Father Jason says, eyeing Sherlock. “What were you in there for?”
“Asking questions,” Sherlock replies.
John clears his throat.
“Sir,” Sherlock adds, insolent enough that silence would have been the better option.
“What kind of questions?”
“Who assassinated Begnion’s previous Apostle,” Sherlock replies.
“That was twenty years ago,” Father Jason says.
Sherlock’s mouth twitches in a wry, undirected smile. “So it was. The theocracy was in chaos, as I recall.”
Father Jason considers him. Sherlock looks to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, and if he’s had a hard life-which he obviously has-he might be younger than that. “Apostle Misaha was killed by sub-human savages. Everyone knows that.”
Sherlock opens his mouth.
“Sherlock,” John hisses. He needs no other warning sign than mere intake of breath.
Sherlock shuts his mouth.
Father Jason eyes them, then tells their guard to relocate them to their new tent.
The camp is large, possibly the main camp of the Daein army in the Sea of Trees. The tents are set up in rows that break formation only for the trees. Most tents have their flaps wide open in a bid for light. Sherlock won’t have to feign blindness here. Even so, John reaches for the hood on Sherlock’s robes and tugs it up over his head. Sherlock doesn’t startle, merely pulls the hood down lower. Keeping Sherlock’s sight secret could be the difference between captivity and escape, if they ever reach sunlight.
“Oi, Brian,” the guard says.
A middle-aged man looks up from fighting rust from his armour. His hair is fading into grey, his face tan and lined from the sun. “Yeah?”
“These two are with you.”
Brian frowns. “Reinforcements?”
John and Sherlock certainly don’t look it, not with Sherlock gripping John by the shoulder and trailing on a staff.
“New recruits,” the guard says dryly. “Thought you’d be a good one to show them the ropes. Healers, so not likely to kill you in your sleep.”
“Oh, cheers.” It’s difficult to tell whether that was sarcasm, but the guard evidently doesn’t think so.
“You two, stay here until called for. What Brian tells you to do, you do. Brian, keeping an eye on them is your business.”
“Got it,” Brian says. His accent is vaguely familiar.
The guard walks away and what feels like the entire Daein army shows up to peer at them. Sherlock steps closer to John’s back. The questions start up and John holds them off long enough for him to see Sherlock to a spot to sit down. The more widely his blindness is acknowledged, the more the Daein soldiers will underestimate him. “Sherlock, Brian is cleaning his armour. Can you help him?”
Sherlock nods, and Brian guides him through it. John stands and faces the enquiry alone:
No, they were not with the princess, any princess.
No, no idea where the princess might be, any princess.
They might have been the group the army’s been chasing. John doesn’t know.
They haven’t seen the princess, any princess. The girl with them was a dark mage. No, from Crimea. John doesn’t know where her teacher was from.
They are healers, John and Sherlock, and yes, Sherlock is blind.
No, Sherlock is not useless. Yes, he will pull his weight.
Yes, John has been in the army before. Yes, the Crimean army. No, he invalided out before the invasion.
“Crimean, the both of you?” one soldier asks.
John realises he doesn’t know. He covers his pause, saying, “Hard to be Crimean without a Crimea.”
The soldiers laugh. One claps John on the back.
“That’s what I think,” Brian says from behind him.
“No, that’s how you justify it,” Sherlock corrects.
The laughter immediately stops.
“Justify what?” Brian asks, voice low. “Are you calling me a traitor?”
“No,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t look up from Brian’s amour, doesn’t pause in his cleaning. “Your accent is west Crimean, rural. You’re fitting in well enough that you’ve been trusted with two strange healers, but it’s also a test. Not impressed, no. You volunteered. So, new soldier. Your rust removal technique suggests farm tools, not armour. Very new soldier. Not even a month, I’d say. If western Crimean, then it was reasonably into the invasion, after King Ramon was killed. Now, that puts you at three weeks at the most.
“Trusted enough to look after us after only three weeks? You must be very earnest. Why would you be earnest? Simple. Family. Rural, so a large family. You have daughters. Lovely daughters, I’d imagine: you’ve a good voice and a protective nature, you could have a lovely wife, and a lovely wife does so often lead to lovely daughters. The Daein army comes, offers protection or destruction, and you leap for protection. Your daughters live unmolested in every sense of the word. As you prioritise your family over your country, I imagine it’s worry, not guilt, that keeps you up at night.”
Sherlock falls silent and everyone falls with him, every last soldier in the crowd. Brian’s face is open and devastated. With such a response, no one doubts the truth of Sherlock’s words.
John clears his throat. “Blessed is the will of Ashera, who shines the light of truth into darkness.”
“Blessed is Her will,” mumbles the crowd.
“Soothsaying is often a blunt matter,” John says, looking soldier after soldier in the eyes. He holds his staff before him. Any scrap of authority in a storm. “It is a wearisome gift. If you have more minor concerns-illness, injury-kindly bring them to me.”
He turns to Brian. “You’re a good man, and a fine father. I would have done the same for my sister.” John says so, but he’s not sure. He can only hope Sherlock won’t naysay him.
“John did the same for me,” Sherlock announces. “Not everyone can see the value of a blind healer.”
“Do you now see?” John asks the crowd at large.
Men shift and look away. Some nod. Some mutter agreement.
“Strange magic,” one says. “But I’d rather it with us than against us.”
A general murmur of agreement rolls through the crowd. After a few more awkward moments, the crowd begins to disperse. Sherlock checks the armour for rust by feel, unperturbed.
Once as alone as they’re going to be, John kneels down at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock shifts where he sits, likely grinding dirt into the white of his cassock.
“Did you have to do that?” John asks quietly, but not softly.
“I won’t be an easy target,” Sherlock swears.
“I said I was going to look after you lot and I meant it,” Brian pipes in. “Priest or not, airing my business--”
“They all know it already,” Sherlock dismisses.
“True. But I take pains not to remind them.”
“Pointless,” Sherlock says. “You’re being tested. They’re reminding themselves.”
“But thank you, Brian,” John interrupts. “Sherlock, making everyone afraid of you is just as likely to get you killed, if they think they can get away with it.”
Sherlock shrugs.
“Here,” John says. “I can help with that too.”
Armour maintenance, then lunch, then an introduction to the unit he and Sherlock have been assigned to. It’s a squadron, not a scouting party, enough soldiers to justify two healers. There are concerns about Sherlock’s battlefield mobility. Sherlock puts back on the stutter, and John stresses how very important it is that Sherlock not be left without John in a combat situation. As mobility is an issue, John suggests a horse, Sherlock riding, John guiding. That idea is dismissed immediately. John is not surprised.
The demand for healing is softened by the supply of staves. Sherlock and John both turn in their staves and are provided with replacements which are clearly well on their way toward breaking. They have to be conserved. John feels the power left in each, and immediately takes the one with the greater charge. If anyone comes to them to be healed, John will make it a simple matter of a fresher staff.
That evening, John discovers that they have displaced Brian’s tent-mate. Sherlock claims to have already known. They lie down with John in the middle, Brian on one side, and Sherlock pressed as far against the side of the tent as he can go.
The next day is much the same, and the day after, they pick up camp. Sherlock is a surprisingly efficient packer for a sighted man without his sight, and he wears his pack without complaint. In fact, with the additional weight on his back, Sherlock’s balance actually improves. It’s a bit bewildering, and even Brian notices.
They walk. All the horses have their riders or loads, but one of the cavaliers offers to let Sherlock hop up behind him. The cavalier has a friendly, boyish smile to match his friendly, boyish face. It bothers John for more reasons than he can name.
“I have John for that, thank you,” Sherlock dismisses. They walk arm-in-arm today, the better for them to converse.
The cavalier’s face clouds, eyes flicking down to Sherlock’s lower half, and John can abruptly name a few of those reasons.
“No sense in exhausting your horse,” John agrees. “Not much fodder about. Thanks, though.”
The cavalier says nothing, merely pricks his horse with his spurs and moves on ahead.
“Did you memorise his face?” Sherlock asks. His voice is a low rumble meant only for John’s ears.
“Mm.”
“Good.”
“Which way are we going?” John asks.
“South. Bending back toward the east, around the mountains. The scouts have found a way through.”
“Do you know that, or are you guessing?”
“I overheard. Why they assume the blind are also deaf, I’ve no idea.”
“Might not be worried about you hearing,” John points out.
“Mm.”
“There are some roots here. Long step over them.”
Sherlock steps. All is fine.
“Are you from Crimea?” John asks. “I never asked.”
“I lived there for the past fourteen years,” Sherlock replies. “I wouldn’t say I was from there.”
“Before that?”
“Begnion.”
“Oh,” John says. “Is that why you were asking about the Apostle?” Her death had thrown the country into, if not disorder, then a state of acute worry. John remembers hearing about it as a young man. He’d been in the army for roughly two years. “I was about, oh, eighteen, I’d say, when it happened.”
“I asked because it was worth knowing.”
“Who’d you ask?”
Sherlock’s lips twitch. “Those who declined to answer.”
“Nobility?”
“Mm. They took it poorly.”
John thinks of the scars on Sherlock’s leg. If John was eighteen, Sherlock could have been no older than sixteen. John tenses his arm under Sherlock’s, the closest he can risk to a squeeze.
Sherlock says nothing.
“Why don’t you think it was the, um, the laguz?”
“The accusations fell against the wrong tribe.”
“How do you mean?”
“Herons, John.”
“What about them?”
“They accused the herons,” Sherlock says. “Approximately two hundred years ago, the herons denied the ability of the Apostle to speak to the Goddess. Begnion’s war with Gallia at the time was carried out in Ashera’s name. Laguz are long-lived, far more than humans, and Begnion never allowed herself to forget that the herons who denied the Apostle’s power still lived.”
“I don’t...” Beyond that of Crimea, John hasn’t read much history. “Look, what you’re saying actually makes sense. Why couldn’t it have been herons?”
“Heron laguz sickened from conflict. Moreover, they had no physical strength to speak of. Some of them couldn’t even fly. Compared to this, the Apostle was an archsage of immense power. A single wind spell would have ripped a heron to shreds.”
“Scapegoats,” John says.
“Yes.”
“Then who killed the Apostle?”
“No one knows,” Sherlock murmurs. His tone leaves John wondering. His words put John on edge, but it takes time to realise why.
“You said ‘had no strength’,” John says.
“I said ‘no physical strength’. Their magic was impressive for its restorative power.”
“You keep using past tense.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, which is possibly out of character for a blind man. John honestly doesn’t know. “John, what do you think happens after the most beloved Apostle of Begnion’s entire history is killed and her murder is attributed to a pacifist species?”
“But, you said. The islands. You said they were-oh. Pegasus knights. Ashera, and the Dracoknight Guard. That...”
Sherlock shakes his head. “The herons lived in a forest within Begnion’s borders. Serenes Forest.”
“What happened?” John whispers.
“Burned.” Sherlock’s eyes remain fixed straight ahead, unfocused iron.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
They walk a minute or three in silence.
“Roots,” John says.
They step over them.
“Was it all of them?” John asks. “Past tense, so...”
“There are a few. They’re still high in demand in slaving circles.”
“Wait, no,” John says. “Apostle Misaha outlawed the slave trade. I remember that: it was part of why she was so popular. King Ramon made a big deal out of it. Crimea had finally taken the lead on an issue. That was why we’d fought for our independence, part of why. We don’t often have Begnion following us.”
“Mm, yes, they followed you directly into hypocrisy.”
“You mean... you mean black market beast trading? Laguz, laguz trading,” John corrects.
“Obviously. Making something illegal hardly eliminates the demand.”
“We don’t need slaves in Crimea,” John says. “Human hands build human homes.”
“Mm. Catchy propaganda.”
“It’s true,” John insists. His king may be dead, but John is still loyal regardless of the uniform he’s forced to wear. Even so, he takes care to keep his voice low. “Bill trained in Gallia. Even I had the choice to. King Ramon--”
“If you had the choice, why didn’t you go?”
“Because I was young and an idiot and I wanted to go where the fighting was,” John answers. “Bill was under strict orders to drop his weapon if conflict arose. I could never have lived like that. King Ramon wanted an end to the age of cruelty. He was a good man and a good king.”
“And the slave traders did not care, John,” Sherlock replies. “It does not matter one whit how good a man your king is when coin is in the equation. All loyalty has a price, and all life has a cost. Don’t argue, not when you’ve sold yours to buy mine.”
John glares at him.
“...Thank you, by the way,” Sherlock murmurs.
John glares straight ahead instead.
“Why are you so offended?” Sherlock asks eventually.
“We don’t have slaves in Crimea,” John says. “We never have. It’s a point of national pride.” The nation may be gone, but he still has that.
“Oh, John,” Sherlock laments. He aims a pitying expression at John’s ear. “You wouldn’t know a product of slave trade if it were staring you in the face.”
“Eyes forward,” John reminds him.
Sherlock chuckles but complies.
They don’t make camp that night, not properly. They’re only going to march again come morning. Lying on the open ground, staring up at the canopy and the glistening water on the trees, John can almost track the motions of the guards about the perimeter of the temporary camp. The torchlight brings the droplets to shine.
John murmurs this to Sherlock, and Brian overhears.
“They look like stars,” Brian says in a whisper. “Like stars, but smaller.”
“It’s nice,” John agrees.
“Do you describe everything for him?” Brian asks.
“Only the things worth seeing,” John answers.
“Not your face, for instance,” Sherlock adds.
Brian laughs. Softly, due to the hour, but it’s a relief to hear.
John touches his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. He knows better than to touch Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock flinches at the contact all the same.
John doesn’t lift his hand.
Eventually, Sherlock makes a small, grumbling sound.
John drops his hand and goes to sleep.
Near morning, Sherlock’s back presses against John’s side. Sherlock is shaking. Groggy with lack of sleep, John edges away, and Sherlock shifts after him.
John sits up and puts his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm. The shaking dies down.
John stays like that for a long time.
The boyish cavalier returns during the morning march. Today, he dismounts. Down on the ground, he looks a little older, if only because he’s tall. Sherlock shies into John’s side, but there’s no way to put John between them without the avoidance becoming completely obvious.
“Hello, priest,” the cavalier greets. “Do you recognise my voice?”
“And your face,” John says, voice bright, and Sherlock laughs. It’s a good sound to hear. His fitful sleep is obvious in his frame, the sharp edges of his movements sagging. He leans on John’s arm a bit more today. Theirs is a harsh pace even for John.
“I’ve been wondering,” says the cavalier. “How do you two know each other?”
“John found me in the darkness and healed my wounds,” Sherlock answers.
“Haven’t been able to lose him ever since,” John confirms.
“You’re never apart,” the cavalier half-asks.
“We’re not literally joined at the hip,” John says. “Not yet, anyway.” He smiles up at the cavalier around Sherlock.
As always, Sherlock continues to look straight ahead. “But, no, we’re never apart. John is my eyes.”
“The commander won’t humour you for long, I’m afraid,” the cavalier laments. “Two healers in a small group is always a waste of resources. Or an expectation of high losses, which is never good for morale.”
Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s arm.
“Might be for the best if you taught a few others how to lead you around,” the cavalier suggests. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm.
Sherlock tenses further, jerking his arm away. “Rule one,” he says. His voice is low and somehow flat. “Never touch me.”
“Sorry,” the cavalier says. “I’ll remember to ask first.”
“No,” Sherlock says. “Never touch me.”
“I’m only trying to help,” the cavalier says, laughing a little, his smile boyish and innocent.
“I don’t need your help.”
For a second, John is afraid Sherlock will hit the man or try to spit in his face, but from behind them:
“Sir Aston, is there a problem?” Brian calls, catching up to them and jogging around John until he’s in front of them, walking backwards.
Aston eyes Sherlock. John remembers, in a jarring sort of way, that Sherlock is a very attractive man when he’s not dying in his own filth. John guides Sherlock a bit to the side, ostensibly to let Brian fall into line with them, a human barrier between Sherlock and Aston.
“No problem at all,” Aston replies. “I was merely offering my assistance to our new priests. I’m sure it must be very limiting for you both.”
“It is the will of Ashera, who shines the light of truth into darkness,” Sherlock answers.
“Blessed is Her will,” John and Brian respond in unison.
Brian looks at Aston expectantly, and something in the lift of Sherlock’s head conveys the same sentiment.
“Blessed is Her will,” Aston agrees. “I merely wish to offer--”
“So you have,” Sherlock interrupts.
“I do hope you’ll consider it.”
“I wouldn’t want to make your horse jealous,” Sherlock replies in crisp tones. “I’m sure she’s anxious for you to mount her and have a nice, quick ride.”
There is a terrible moment where John bites his lip and prays not to laugh, where Aston visibly attempts to determine whether he was just insulted.
“Until we meet again,” Aston says at last, unfailingly cordial in tone. As instructed, he mounts his horse and trots ahead. Sherlock remains tense against John’s side even after Aston fades into the shadows. It’s hardly a comforting image for John: he can’t imagine the effect absolute darkness has on Sherlock.
“That’s trouble,” Brian mumbles.
“Is there someone we can talk to?” John asks.
“Like who?” Brian asks. “Daein may have its Four Riders, but they don’t have any Duke Renning.”
“I’ll speak with Father Jason,” John decides. “Sherlock, we should-”
“No.”
“What? Why not?”
“He’s playing a ‘friendly’ game, John,” Sherlock says. “This isn’t a battle, this is a siege, and he’s walked in claiming to be a mason. Do you understand?”
“Look, it’s a bit obvious he’s trying to remove your defences.” Me, John doesn’t say.
“I could cut your face a little,” Brian offers.
“No good,” John says. “The second he holds a staff, it would be undone.” That’s true of a real healer, and therefore must be said of Sherlock.
“Terrible haircut,” Brian suggests weakly.
“No.”
John and Brian stare at him.
“No,” Sherlock repeats, this time calmly.
“I’ll talk to Father Jason,” John says.
“He’s already made too many provisions for me.”
“I can still try.”
“John. No.” Sherlock turns his head, and this time, he stares at John’s cheek. “The less attention, the better.”
“I can’t guard you all hours of the day.”
“We can try,” Brian says.
Sherlock’s head jerks but doesn’t turn.
“Only if it fails with Father Jason,” John says. “I’ll make a case about vows of celibacy and keeping discipline. That kind of thing.”
“Are you lot celibate?” Brian asks.
“More of personal decision, as a rule,” John says.
“I am,” Sherlock says.
“There we are, vow of celibacy,” John says. “Father Jason’s a bishop. He’ll have to at least listen.”
John isn’t actually sure why he’s surprised at the response. Maybe it’s because of Brian, the combination of Daein armour and the man’s unassuming support. Maybe it’s the bits of the Daein army that don’t seem like they’re slaughtering Crimeans and chasing down girls through the forest.
Whichever the case is, John returns to Brian and Sherlock shaking with rage that night. Brian has the tent pitched, and, more importantly, he has Sherlock inside it.
“Let me guess,” Sherlock drawls. “‘If he can’t carry his weight, I’m sure he’ll be suited to other tasks.’ Oh, or ‘Daein’s army is of the strictest discipline, how dare you doubt that.’ Oh! Let’s not forget ‘Sir Aston is of an old and noble house. How dare you impugn his honour as he offers aid to the blind’.”
“Yeah,” John says. He sits heavily.
“Could be worse,” Brian says, joining them inside the low tent. He has to crouch. He pulls the flaps shut after him and whispers as he settles down on his bedroll. “Going into battle tomorrow. Always a chance Aston might have his throat ripped out.”
Sherlock closes his eyes, his mouth a thin line. John sees this without light, without looking. He simply knows Sherlock’s face.
“I won’t let him have you,” John says.
“This isn’t the Crimean army,” Brian warns. “It’s not so simple here.”
“Healers are always a valuable commodity, and I can heal myself,” John says. “I’m not afraid.” Fear is distant and strange, trapped behind his rage.
“John,” Sherlock whispers, voice unsteady, “do you shit?”
John blinks. “I’ve taken shits in front of you.”
“Then as you are, in fact, a man with an arsehole, stop talking as if you’re a man who can’t be raped. Whatever Father Jason is willing to let happen to me, he is willing to let happen to you.”
“Sherlock-”
“Shut up.” Sherlock rolls over, noisy about it, and John fights down a terrible urge to reach for the man.
John lies down as well, fuming.
“Battle in the morning,” Brian murmurs after a long, painful silence. As attempts to lighten the mood go, it’s an utter failure. “Scouts say the beasts are pushing up against the other edge of the forest. Most of the soldiers were going on about how long it’s been since they’ve had a good beast hunt.”
John doesn’t reply.
For once, neither does Sherlock.
“I hear it used to be quite the Daein tradition, back when Begnion still traded in them. Nowadays, only the bluebloods can afford enough beast stock to slaughter it. Funny, the things people do for entertainme--”
“Shut up,” Sherlock whispers. “Shut up, shut. Up.”
Brian shuts up.
It is a very long night.
“Are we fighting Crimeans?” John asks Brian, speaking quietly as the units fall into position, filing through the increasingly slim trees. Underbrush appears here and there, creeping higher the further they walk. Most is trampled down well before them, but John still takes care with Sherlock.
“Beastmen, I’d think,” Brian says. “They’ve moved the fire mages up toward the front. It’s going to get hot up there.”
John nods, throat thick. Beside him, he can feel Sherlock’s mood only growing fouler. Nothing to be done about that.
“You two should be safe,” Brian says. “There’ll be a human barrier set up for the wounded to come running in through. They’ll come to you. The soldiers will keep the beastmen away from you.”
“I have done this before,” John says. Against Daein, not with them, but the tactics are the same. Even if John used to be part of that human wall rather than a healer behind it. It’s unlikely he and Sherlock will be able to escape in the confusion, but there’s always a chance.
The trees give way to shrubbery, and they step over the already crushed foliage. The change is gradual enough to be easily missed in the tense atmosphere, but Sherlock shakes John’s arm, and when John looks at him, Sherlock squints back. John flicks his eyes forward and Sherlock does the same. The odds of escape just increased.
Light shines just ahead, but that proves to be a clearing. They keep going, and when the trees loom immediately before them, John has to tug Sherlock forward. The shadow falls, cool instead of humid with the fresh air from the clearing. Sherlock shivers beneath his hand.
They keep walking until there’s a new light. Lights. Golden sunlight and the harsh red flares of fire spells. The shouting ahead is almost orderly, and it flows back along the train of men like a wave. The vanguard has joined combat: send in the flanks.
“We’re still in the forest,” Sherlock protests.
“The beasts don’t care,” Brian answers. “This way, come on. John, keep him in formation.”
“Doing the best I can.”
The wind changes, close enough to the edge of the forest for there to be wind. After a week of stagnant, humid air, John would have thought it a blessing, were it not for the reek of charred flesh and fur. Roars echo. Snarls rip the air.
“What’s happening?” a soldier to John’s right demands. “I can’t see.”
“Oh, how terrible,” Sherlock remarks.
John pushes him forward. “Get to the tree line,” he hisses. Sherlock nods.
But the casualties begin to come in, and they expect John and Sherlock to work separately. John holds his staff with his left hand, holds Sherlock’s hand around the other staff with his right. They chant in unison, and while healing two men at once is apparently possible, it makes John’s eyes cross and his stomach heave.
It’s the spells turning his stomach, must be, not the carnage. The soldiers come with armour dented, ripped, the metal torn by claws thicker than John’s fingers. They bleed and shake, some full of bluster and others absolute terror. One man is carried to them, his arms around the shoulders of two comrades, one leg dragging. The other leg isn’t there. Too much blood gone, there’s nothing John can do.
“Life-threatening first!” John shouts. “Form a queue, the dying first!”
Sherlock stops his chanting whenever John speaks and immediately shouts something about pressing down on wounds until they can be seen to.
John resumes casting until, finally, Sherlock’s staff breaks, the red orb shattering from the strain. They drop it without calling for a new one, and John heals on his own, kneeling, Sherlock’s hands steady on his shoulders. The men seem to find something comforting in Sherlock’s stability, in his unaffected sharpness and vitriol, but John never has opportunity to hear whatever it is Sherlock is saying to them.
The men who can stand and fight do, rushing back to the front with a fervour John can understand only too well. Screams cut through the roars of beasts and blazes alike. Sherlock’s hands fist in John’s cassock.
The shout goes up: “The line is broken!”
and
“Push forward!”
and
“Fall back!”
“What in the world...?” the soldier under John’s staff asks.
John shakes his head. “I don’t--”
“Which line is broken?” Sherlock asks. “Enemy line, rush forward. Our line, retreat. Which is it?”
“I don’t-oh, fuck.” That’s not a surge of the wounded coming to be healed. That’s a surge of the wounded running for their lives. “Run!”
When a retreat becomes a rout, it also becomes a stampede. John drags Sherlock by the hand, sprinting back into the woods, running full out simply to keep ahead of the panicked armed charge rushing in from behind. Unencumbered by heavy armour, they outpace the heavy lancers and axe men easily, finding themselves amid archers and horsemen.
“Can you see?” John asks, gasping for air. They slow to a jog.
“Outlines,” Sherlock says, his grip on John’s hand unrelenting. “I won’t hit any trees.”
“Brilliant,” John says. “I need you to run off in a fucking panic that way. Off to the left.” Ought to be parallel to the forest edge, and that should keep the light fairly constant. John will chase him and hope the archers have more concern than shooting down deserters. If caught, they’ll blame fear and Sherlock’s inability to see.
“What, now?”
“Of course now.”
Sherlock hesitates, slowing down even more.
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock runs.
John chases after, running west.
A wave of retreating cavalry breaks upon them from the south.
“Sherlock!” John shouts. “Sherlock!”
The horses part about the trees as water around a stone. John throws himself against one thick trunk, clinging to the northern side as the horses and their riders storm past toward the safety of the woods.
“Sherlock!”
A rider circles back, unknowable behind his faceplate, and John doesn’t recognize the horse. “Take my hand!” the rider shouts. “Climb up, I’ll carry you!”
John pulls away, running west, and is nearly struck down by a panicked horse. “Sherlock!”
“Grab the priest!” someone shouts, and a foot soldier seizes John about the waist. Coordination forgotten, John’s body fights to reach rather than pull away.
“Sherlock!”
“We’ll find your friend,” the soldier promises and throws John over the back of a horse. John holds on, reflexive, and a gauntleted hand holds him down firm on the back. If John falls, he will die, stunned from impact and then trampled by hooves. John clutches to the horse as he would to his own life, holding, hoping, nearly falling off with each roll of the horse’s canter.
The horse stops in the clearing, and John slides off, shaking, muscles exhausted. A man he doesn’t know pulls him behind the line, back under the trees. Daein soldiers position themselves in the dark, a tactic that would work well against humans.
“Sherlock,” John tries to call out. Lost in the dark in Daein uniform. Sherlock.
Beneath the roars of the advancing beasts, John’s cry falls unanswered, unheard.
previous | next