Ghrian

None were very promising other than Samuel Silversmith. They were all men and women chosen because they wouldn’t vomit at the stench and sight of gore and the live’s dying slowly in their hands. If not for the shackles still on his wrists and legs, Adrian might have felt pity for them. Might have sat with them after a soldier passed, to tell them how they could improve next time. What to do differently. That it didn’t get easier, one just grew more determined. He might have listened to them, their sadness and desperation, and been a shoulder to lean on in their grief.

The sound of chains were like bells tolling in Adrian’s ears. Reminding him, reminding him, reminding him.

A prisoner of a war.

These were not his people. This was not Pracis. They did not want his pity. They did not want to know that he empathized. They did not worship at the shrine of knowledge shared and shoulders leaned on. Not his shoulders at least. Adrian was lucky he was even still alive, that they deigned his presence in the same room as them, let alone to help them. Even Atelaer knew the wails of the dying couldn’t go ignored. Anyone able-bodied enough to help was called upon, no matter the side. Adrian was in agreement with this way of doing things. Chains or no- he wouldn't be able to stand aside while another suffered.

They hardly knew what to do with him. Colonel Emberfell and countless others were alive because of him. Colonel Emberfell was walking because of him.

That, Adrian decided, was a battle he grew too fatigued to fight.

“My men need to see me.”

“You need to rest.”

“If I don’t get up and show them that there is an end to their pain, then they will lose morale, and I cannot have that.”

“If you get up and ruin your leg so you can never ride or walk or lead them again then what will that do to their morale?”

A stalemate, both equally stubborn, even Francis’s seconds wouldn’t step between their back and forth. In the brief time they were with him, the Wiskusset regiment learned Adrian possessed a wicked temper. When Francis bellowed Adrian was the only one with enough gall to shout back. No one winced anymore to see the two red in the face and snarling. Francis gripped the sheets and his tail lashed in the bed. He sucked in a deep breath. Adrian felt his body tense in response, and began to read that subtle change in Francis’s demeanor. How it straightened his spine and rocked his shoulders back. The look of a commander who knew his worth.

“You will get me up and you will get me out there.”

Adrian stopped fighting. Why was he even bothering to fight at all, he wondered. It would be better for the Pracis forces if Francis crippled himself. They would be free of his knowledge and skill on the battlefield and the resistance on this end would lose morale. Ralston would finish them and Adrian would be free.

All a very delightful daydream, one Adrian liked to picture in his mind when he chose to help them anyway. When the wince of pain on Francis’s face brought the Alchemist moving to assist before he could stop himself. His hands gripped along the Colonel's arms so he would not collapse.

So they walked.

Francis sat and held the hand of every single soldier. He stood, chin tipped up proudly, as he spoke with the other commanders on topics of the Fort and its rebuilding. The explosions created by the Empress’s Alchemists had done quite a bit of damage. Adrian thought Valerie might be very proud to hear that. It ached to think of his twin- and he put it quickly out of his mind.

Everyone was wary to speak too much with Adrian hanging at Francis’s elbow. He lingered close enough to catch the Colonel as he leaned on his crutch, but not too close to smother him. Adrian was, to his delight, quite a bit taller. Francis had a willowy and graceful frame, but he only came to Adrian's shoulder.

“You’re looming,” Francis snapped as Adrian led him away from a group of recovering soldiers.

“I’m not looming.” There was no heat in Adrian’s voice. He long since lost the will to bring venom to his words. He was tired. The bruises from the manacles and unfortunate scuffles with some of the men made Adrian ache with exhaustion.

“What in the hells do they even feed you in Pracis, to make you so bloody tall?” Francis sighed and limped into his private room. The day after he woke up from surgery Francis demanded that he drag his cot out to be among his men. None of the other soldiers would hear of it, so inside the private recovery room the Colonel stayed.

Adrian helped Francis sit on the bed and moved to lift his leg to rest on the pillows. “I got it from my father’s side, he was not actually a Pracian. He came from one of the friendly countries on our borders.”

Francis laid back and sighed as the nagging of pain eased from his back and thigh. “I thought Pracis was all about the importance of bloodlines. Wouldn’t they want someone as fancy as an Emperor’s Alchemist to be pureblood?”

“Despite your assumptions, Colonel Emberfell, no one really cares about the bloodline of an Alchemist. As long as they are smart, willing, and have the heart- they really don’t care if you were raised in a barn and born from a cow.”

Francis felt himself unwind into the pillows. He overdid it today, they both knew it, and he refused to give Adrian the satisfaction of the groan of relief when Adrian started to refresh his bandages. The adamas blue glow caught Francis’s eye and he looked down to watch. The ore was kept at a dim light, curled in Adrian’s fist as he tipped it to touch the fresh ointment on the Colonel’s leg. The pain immediately eased and Francis’s tail flicked in silent wonder. 

“You should be using this on the men, not on me.” Francis said instead of thanks.

“You really like to hear yourself be humble, don’t you?”

Francis bristled, felt the fur stand up on the ends of his tail as his mouth clenched shut. He tried to order Adrian’s respect only once in the first days and the courtly look down Adrian’s nose of disgust and the mocking scoff was so practiced, so trained, that Francis let the matter go. He refused to admit how much it stung somewhere deep. The Imperial still walked with the chains of a prisoner of war, to be ordered to respect his captors was a blow that Francis would not deal on any person. No matter if it would also save Francis’s own sanity, to not have those intense golden eyes leveled on him as if he were a gutter rat.

It was the glint of those mannacles on a dirty wrist that made Francis finally ask, “How have you been faring, Subaltern?”

Adrian paused and weighed truth and lie. Any truth he gave would be used against him somehow, he was certain. But any lie he told would land him only into further discomfort. “I look forward to when your medics have the situation under control enough that my only concern need be your leg.”

“And how are the medics doing?”

Truth and lie. Truth and lie. Adrian sighed. “Pathetic,” he admitted. Truth. “I did not know that the Colonies had so little training in even the basics of first aid.”

“Doctors are rare and precious to come by.”

Adrian knew this. Knew it and hated it. He also knew that only one, one, Emperor’s Alchemist had been assigned to each of the largest towns and cities in the Colonies. Their resources were plenty, but any town more than a day's ride away in need of them would suffer greatly until they could arrive. If they could arrive. If they could afford to leave those who likely needed them more wherever they were.

“Indeed,” Adrian whispered.

Francis’s tail gave an annoyed flick. Just once. Adrian’s eyes followed the motion. “It seems that I am in your debt,” Francis said. 

Years of court training taught Adrian that now was a good time to play a hand. Cut a deal. Do the things that would get him into good graces and better stations. Position himself above Francis so that when he needed it Adrian could simply apply the weight and pressure to get what he wanted. 

He could do it. He did it before.

“There is no debt that needs to be paid. I took a vow.” Practiced, bored words.

Damn him to hell.

“Many of my unit are alive because of your quick intervention and assistance. I will walk again because of your help. You cannot say that there is no debt.” Francis’s brows furrowed, confused. He expected it then- for Adrian to use this moment. 

The voice in Adrian’s head wasn’t his own. It was Valerie’s. Always so much better at playing the cards than he was. Always able to see the choices being made on the game board ten moves before anyone else. Hadn’t they done this song and dance in the past? Hadn’t it won them many games, in the end, with Adrian’s smooth words and pretty face and Valerie’s cunning mind? The pair of them whispering at the edges of crowds, seeing what so many others failed to.

“I am an Emperor’s Alchemist, we took vows to pass on medical knowledge to any willing to learn and to aid in healing the suffering of others. Those vows take precedence before a war, they always will.” Adrian was tired to his bones. Valerie’s voice screamed in his head. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

What would she think of him now?

Francis looked flabbergasted. His mouth worked open and closed while he tried to think of something to say.

Adrian pushed a hand through his ratty hair. “I would not object to a bath.”

The Colonel looked at Adrian’s clothes, to his dirty hair and hands, he wore the same thing he was captured in. Maybe scrubbed at here and there, patches where a brush and bucket of water tried to clean a patch of blood. Francis swallowed at the sharpness in his chest.

“I will request a clean uniform- it will be white,” Francis said quickly at Adrian’s sharp look. “White for neutrality, for a healer and a soldier not to be touched by any, and we will go down to the river to have you that bath.” Even Francis was in clean clothes. Not new, never new, but freshly mended and washed. He couldn’t imagine the discomfort crawling Adrian’s skin.

“And these?” Adrian lifted his arms, the glinting metal at his wrists.

Francis’s brow furrowed. “Can you be trusted without them?”

“You trusted me with your leg didn’t you? The removal of them will not make me suddenly decide to change my mind.”

A beat of silence.

“It is not my decision alone.”

Adrian dropped his hands and fought back the flash of disappointment. “Of course.”

Francis tried not to give away the dislike of his own answer. “When I receive a response I will provide it to you. I promise.”

“Of course.”

Silence.

Adrian left. He pretended he couldn't hear Francis calling after him. For just this moment, he wanted to pretend that the Colonel wasn't a priority, and that he did not need to be a Subaltern or Emperor’s Alchemist. Something in his chest stirred and ached, Adrian longed to claw at his skin, to writhe from his clothes. To beat his manacled wrists into something hard and solid until they were bloody and free. So he staggered into a quiet corner of the fort, trying to breathe through the manic rage and desperation roiling through him. The panic that settled deep into his marrow and made his heart race.

A bath. What a thing to have to beg for. And what would come of it? A river? Out in the open? Adrian's gut clenched at the thought and he breathed through his nose. The clothes would be white. How would anyone tell him apart from a Pracian or an Atelan when the time came of his freedom? What would he do? More importantly what would those strangers all see?

“You shouldn't linger in dark corridors, Adrian.”

The voice was like silk, a snake that wove through grass to wrap tenderly around an ankle before it bit. Adrian's hair stood on end at the sound of it. He turned slowly to look into the eyes of the one looming close to him. Startlingly blue and lovely, set over dark skin and hair, Atticus looked at him with arms folded. He stood at Adrian’s height, lean and strong, with his tail weaving slowly back and forth in the semi-dark. A beautiful man, to be said frankly, and deadly. Adrian watched once while Atticus picked off deer and birds for dinner from the wall of the fort with his rifle. A sharpshooter that would put even an Empress’s Alchemist to pause.

Rivalry stirred somewhere in Adrian.

But not as deep as the fear that locked in his jaw, the back of his neck, the bruises settled on his rib cage.

“Atticus,” said back just as coolly. Adrian played the game of not affording the man the respect of his title. The careful pieces on the board between them that was constantly in motion.

Atticus reached out and gripped Adrian’s chains, yanking him forward harshly so that Adrian tumbled into his chest. Atticus gave a pleased smile, ears flicked forward to capture the sound of Adrian’s gasp of pain. “You exhausted the Colonel today.”

A blame that Adrian knew would fall on himself. 

“I know. I tried not to-” he bit back the need to explain himself. It would not stop Atticus’s vitriol and they both knew it hurt his pride.

The grip to his wrists was a slow thing. It was always slow, the violence, the pain, Atticus was not one to lash out loud and hard. Instead, it was exquisitely torturous and Adrian’s ears always rung by the end. Atticus’s hands squeezed tighter and tighter, until Adrian could near feel the bones of his wrists grinding together. 

That silken voice stayed smooth, as if unaware, even as Adrian turned his head to try and hide the flicker of pain. Atticus jerked him once, hard, rattling Adrian’s teeth. He knew what the Atelan wanted- and he looked up to meet those blue eyes so he could see the pain he was in. “You will not let it happen again. He needs to recover.”

“Yes,” Adrian breathed. 

Atticus leaned down and brushed his lips along Adrian’s ear. He resisted the urge to shudder in disgust at the closeness. “Frail thing, aren’t you? Those clothes do well to hide you, I wonder what the others will think when they see how weak you truly are.” The Atelan stepped between Adrian’s legs and hooked around his ankle, making Adrian tumble back and hit his head hard into the wall. It pushed them further into the dark of the fort.

Fear gripped Adrian at the spine. 

“Let me go,” he murmured and tried to tug at his wrists.

It was a useless plea, it always was, and it made Atticus laugh low in his throat. Dark hair was coming free from his ponytail and he sank his knee into the soft flesh of Adrian’s thigh. Pinned to the wall, Adrian could do nothing but writhe to try and break free. 

“I’ll be kind this time,” Atticus smiled. He spoke as if about the nice day outside. His knee pulled back- and slammed hard back in. Adrian felt the pain all the way in his skull and he buckled. Atticus let him drop to the floor unceremoniously and wiped his hands against his coat as if Adrian dirtied them. “Don’t forget I am keeping an eye on you, Adrian.”

A week ago, Adrian would have spat back something cunning. Today, he knew better to take the small mercy where he could find it. Many of the bruises and aches of his body came at Atticus’s hand. Some part of his mind understood it was out of petty fear and the nature of a person that needed something to rail against and push further. Many times back in the Courts of Pracis Adrian witnessed the same- even been a similar target to it. But back then he had Valerie and he had his strength.

Now, he grew more and more frail by the day, starved, and weak from exertion.

So he said nothing. He let Atticus go and he thanked the stars that todays visit from the Atelan was a quieter one. Francis, of course, could never know of any of this. Not unless Adrian wanted things to grow worse. For Atticus to cut through on his promises of others who would seek to exact the same violence's in the dark. The thing Atticus was good at was not getting caught- and placing wounds where it was easy to hide and heal from. Others would likely not be as quiet about it.

It would go on and Adrian would bear it.