His sabatons struck firm ground once again, a blessed reprieve from the mud without.

  The braziers glowed low, their orange hue casting long shadows across the leather-bound walls.

  The warmth inside was little of comfort to his skin.

  Rain struck the tent rhythmically, its fury muffled against the man-made hide.

  The interior was plain. No gold or plated silver greeted him. Only armour stands lined in silence, each plate catching the firelight’s glow.

  At the centre stood a wooden war table, cluttered with ink, maps and parchment.

  Alric said nothing.

  She did it for him.

  “Butcher of children,” she spat. “Are you done embracing me like a woman-to-wed?”

  No answer. The rain and hiss of coals spoke for him.

  “Is this your tent?” Her eyes darted across the space, her voice betraying the hint of uncertainty and wavering bravado creeping closer to her soul.

  “Why are we here?”

  He looked down. His helm a mess of torn cloth, blood and filth.

  And through the slits, he said.

  “To tend your wounds.”

  “How are you going to do that, hm?” She tried for spite but fell short, overtaken by fatigue. “Are you going to kiss them clean?”

  “With Vargo’s supplies. When they arrive.”

  Having said that, he walked to the cot. It was a plain and narrow, positioned near one of the braziers.

  With measured care, he laid her down, as if placing memory atop memory.

  And this time, she did not fight it.

  And he, did not linger.

  He moved to the war table, his sabatons softly scraping against the earth-packed canvas.

  Once seated, he unfastened his gauntlets and set them beside him with a slight metallic screech.

  Next, he removed his helm, unlatching chin straps, and lifting it up from his head, placing it next to the gauntlets.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see her stir, her gaze fixed on him as if burning his image into her soul.

  The quill took to his hands, and soon, he began writing.

  She lay still, breathing shallow fits, still watching him.

  “Do you even breathe, commander?” she asked. Incredulity and mockery stained her tone.

  He did not answer her.

  She continued.

  “You carried me here like a knight, only to discard me like refuse. What is it you’re aiming for?”

  The scratching did not stop.

  “Do you play at grace?” she asked again, her voice on the threshold of drained despair.

  “Do you view yourself as good? Or do you simply perform plays of magnanimity when it suits you?”

  Just then, the flap of the tent’s entrance parted, letting gusts of wind and water invade the interior, sapping it of warmth.

  Vargo.

  His form a silhouette against the rain, his cloak dripping, boots caked in soaked mud. A satchel clinked in his hands—glass and metal intertwined.

  “My Lord. The supplies.”

  “Good. Place them on the low bench by the brazier.”

  “Yes, Lord Commander.”

  Without delay, Vargo moved toward the cot.

  He placed the satchel down, his gaze lingering for a moment before peeling it away. Whatever thoughts he carried, were left unspoken.

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  He turned back towards Alric and asked.

  “Shall I call for the medicae, my Lord?”

  “No, I will see to it myself.” Alric answered flatly.

  Vargo bowed his head. “Yes, my Lord.”

  Without another word, he turned and moved back through the tent’s entrance, vanishing into the rain.

  Silence returned.

  Only the hiss of coals and the muffled pulse of water remained leaving them again, where they began.

  Rising to his feet, Alric stepped toward her.

  With every measured pace, her body shrank further, retreating into the canvas wall behind her. Kknees drawn upwards, legs pressed tight, her frame trembling involuntarily.

  He stopped at the low bench and leaned forward, retrieving the satchel.

  With a dry hiss, he unfastened it.

  A strip of bandage, tinctures, thread, scalpel, shears, and various vials of ground herbals unfurled beneath the brazier’s glow. Sterile tools, for messy work.

  From the cot, he heard her whisper.

  “Do… do not touch me.”

  Alric lifted his gaze from the supplies and turned, meeting her eyes.

  “I will not touch you to shame.

  Nor to destroy.

  Nor to hurt.

  Only to mend what my men have done.”

  And in his mind, words he dared not speak.

  And what I let happen.

  Looking at him, she started laughing.

  Hoarse, grating, crazed. Frayed at the edges.

  “You? Mend me?”

  “Are you insane? Dull? No… no, you are both.”

  She continued laughing disdainfully, a smirk resting on her lips, holding his gaze until fatigue sapped her of the strength to continue.

  He remained impassable.

  Sensing he wouldn’t wouldn’t budge, her expression faltered.

  “How can you mend me? There’s nothing left to mend, commander. Everything’s already broken. You made sure of that.”

  Her accusation remained silent in his ears.

  “Say… do you really think you can help this?” She weakly gestured towards her body, disgust apparent in her movements.

  “You do know this ruin doesn’t answer to gauze or grace… yes?”

  Dropping her tone to a whisper she continued.

  “This body is broken, disgusting, defiled. I am filthy. You made me this way. Or better yet, your war-beasts did.”

  Her eyes lowered, hollow with emotional exile.

  The only answer was the hiss of coals and thundering rain.

  He dared not speak in vain.

  “But if you think your precious grace can hold a woman together better than your men tore her apart…”

  Her chest rose. Fell. Shuddered.

  And turning her face away…

  “Then do it. Sew me shut, commander.

  But don’t pretend it means anything.”

  He said nothing at first. But she was still pressed into the corner of the cot, and he would need more space to do his work.

  “I can’t tend to your wounds with you pressed against the wall.”

  Her eyes flicked to him.

  “What, you want me closer then? Is that it?”

  “I don’t want to corner you like a crow picking at carrion.” He said plainly. “I need space to work.”

  She stared a beat too long. Then, she shifted, a slow, resentful shimmy, and slid toward the edge of the cot.

  “Good.” He said simply.

  “Fuck you.” She muttered.

  He reached for the first vial, unstoppered it, and poured its contents onto a strip of bandage.

  The smell of crushed herbs and iron filled the tent.

  He let it steep for a moment, watching the cloth darken.

  Her legs were still drawn in. Arms folded in on themselves as though trying to fold herself away.

  He crouched.

  “Where first?” he asked.

  Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

  After a moment of hesitation, she lifted her hand and pointed to a split on her side, half-covered by what little fabric remained there.

  He set the bandage down and reached for the shears.

  With one hand he caught the tattered vest, and with the other, he began to cut, exposing more of her skin.

  She flinched, one leg lashing out in reflex towards his breastplate. The kick thudded dully, a slight groan escaping her.

  He remained silent and continued his work unperturbed.

  Her skin was blackened in patches; bruises and abrasions like pressed thumbs dotted her form. Dark welts rose beneath a lattice of crusted blood and filth.

  He took the bandage and pressed it against her side.

  Her breath hitched and a hiss slipped through her teeth.

  But she remained still.

  He continued cleaning the wound in slow, deliberate circles, leaving stinging trails.

  Her body trembled, whether from pain or cold, he did not know.

  Rain continued tapping against the canvas, and the brazier crackled like a thing alive.

  He worked in silence. And she let him.

  His hands moved in concert: washed. Rinsed. Salved. Again.

  Until only the most severe wound remained.

  A torn laceration gauged her side, jagged and horizontal, edges puckered with poorly clotted blood and decay.

  He studied it for a moment. Then, reached for a new bandage and vial.

  “We need to close this,” he said. “Infection will kill you otherwise.”

  She offered no answer.

  Still crouched, he turned his head to her and spoke.

  “I need you to shift. Give me room to work.”

  Her gaze slipped to him, the glint of madness reawakening.

  “Oh? Would you like me to open my legs then?”

  He met her eyes unwaveringly.

  “Either that, or roll to your right and give me purchase that way. Your choice.”

  Her mouth twitched, something between a snarl and an empty smirk.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Then, wordlessly, she stiffly rolled to her side, a line of blood smearing the cot.

  “Go on then.”

  “Stay deathly still.” He said, his voice flat as a drawn blade. “It’ll tear open worse if you move too much. Brace. Clutch. Bite the covers of the cot if you must.” He continued, as he soaked the bandage in a tincture more sting than salve.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be the image of obedience, commander. A tamed woman, just like you like them, yes? No movement at all, I promise.”

  He ignored the venom. She turned her face into the crook of her elbow, one hand gripping the cot’s edge, while the other twisted the covers beneath her.

  “This is going to burn.”

  She didn’t answer. Only pressed her forehead against the crook of her arm deeper.

  He gently started to dab at the wound.

  Then, came the pain.

  With a firmer drag, he began to clear the blood and muck that clotted the wound. Layered and rocky, they peeled off like flakes in winter, revealing the flesh below.

  She jerked once, then stilled. Jaw clenched, breathing shallow, rapid breaths through her nose.

  He worked until the wound was red and honest.

  Setting the soiled bandage aside, he took the sting-soaked needle, and threaded it with linen string.

  “Endure.”

  He began.

  Left hand steadying the flesh.

  The right driving the needles through.

  With a single, decisive pierce, her skin yielded to steel.

  Her breath hitched again. A sibilant shrill slipped between tightened pearls.

  Her hands, white-knuckled, dug deeper into the cot.

  He continued, stitch by stitch, until the wound held fast.

  Its ragged lips shut tight by linen cords.