#lukasilque

Blood drips down his fingers. It falls in rivulets, soils the ground with a murkiness not unlike the colour of mud. His cracked gauntlet chips a little when he pulls back, testing the curl of his knuckles. It throbs, bruised, and Lukas frowns at the muted pain that filters through his arm.

It had been an ambush; one after days of non-stop skirmishes with border patrols along the straightest paths towards Rigel Castle had exhausted most of their morale. It had been an arduous task, and even when they had been forced to take the wayside roads to avoid direct confrontation with the enemy, Terrors lie in wait under shadowed forests. The land of Duma’s blessing was harsh, steeped with a darkness that grew more potent the further up they go.

Through it all Alm had led them bravely on, pressing onwards with unwavering determination that was almost contagious as he ushers the Deliverance closer to their goal. He does this more often than not these days; raises the royal sword high above his head as he speaks and gifts the army with enough strength to push on until their next lull. He still smiles, cheerful but tired, and in these moments when he looked less of a boy than man Lukas would wonder of silly sentimental things, even as he grips the handle of his lance and watches the Deliverance toast to their brother in arms.

The lull did not come, and morning sees them jumped by a group of Terrors after fending off a small squadron of elite soldiers. The attack had been swift and overwhelming, and Lukas remembers her worried scowl when Clair circles back on her pegasus for her brother, having abandoned the chase of retreating Rigelians as Clive commanded their men to form up.

They had been careless, caught in a trap concocted by enemy ranks, and now their forces were trapped and surrounded on a narrow plateau between rocky hills. He holds the heavy steel in his hand now, shakes the numbness out of his limbs as animated corpses lumber towards him. He would need to wash his gloves properly after, if they didn’t already need to be mended or replaced.

The lance spins easily in his hand, pointed blade smeared with red. Blood drips down his fingers.

It was far too easy to swing the sharp blade down, feel it slice rotting flesh apart as the body collapses. It was easier when they weren’t human. Lukas does not stop, turning to the next one that strayed too far from the impending horde. Exhaustion tugs at him even as he dispatches three more, and he feels a fraction of his self-control slip as he impales another down from the shoulder, sees blood spurt onto the ground and stray specks rust the scarlet of his armour.

More snarling fills the air amid rallying cries as the battle grows fiercer, and soon he finds himself and a small portion of soldiers cut off from the main force by swamping numbers and punishing terrain. He moves closer towards the vanguard, looks back periodically to keep Tobin in his line of sight as the archer nudges his steed up and down the narrow stretch of flat land.

Arrows fly over his head, striking the nearest targets. A few of them scatter or fall, but the rest continue their course. He intercepts them before they can head for the main line, rending the Terrors apart with nothing more but a few swings of his lance. The heavy weapon sinks into his hand, hilt jerking sharply when he pushes his shield aside to gut the innards of one that strayed too close. Blood spatters over his face when he pulls the lance free with more force than necessary, watches the spasming body crumple into a mangled heap. Something gnaws within him, boiling and heavy. He dismisses it as the beginnings of frustration and presses it down.

He does not know how much time passes; the waves of Terrors seemingly unending, and a pile of bodies lie around him by the time he can catch his breath. When he reaches to wipe the grime off his face the sheen of his armguard comes back slicked with crimson. The sight brings him pause, and Lukas resists the urge to close his eyes. Behind him he hears Tobin shout and the sound of galloping coming by his left. A glimpse of floating white catches his attention when he looks up to follow, and he can’t help the sudden coldness that stabs at him, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

Another flash of dirtied white as a figure ducks past falling bodies, and Lukas see pale robes stir from the force at which Silque runs, bypassing clashes between metal and claw as she crosses the battlefield. She was alone; the Terrors must have noticed, because a few have started to lunge for her. The cleric stumbles over rocky debris, throws her staff up and utters something inaudible. Light bursts in spell circles by her feet as her shoulder tenses, wispy orbs peeling off sigils as they chase after outstretched claws.

The weaker Terrors disintegrate or shield away from her, but many more bridge the distance, floundering after her with burnt eyes and singed flesh. Arrows rain on the boldest in two separate directions, and Lukas sees Tobin fire again with lightning precision. On the other side of the plateau’s dip he glimpses a head of blue, but he couldn’t be sure. Not when there was so much chaos in his vicinity mixed with the distracting smell of permeating rot and ash.

He realises he was pushing forward before instinct catches up to him, cutting down a path indiscriminately as he struggles to follow the narrow path the steed had taken. The cries of shouting men echo over the sound of blades, but even that is swallowed up by the frenzied noises of inhuman screeching. More growling sounds by his right; Lukas grunts as he begins to run, swinging his lance with a ferocity that surprises even him. Blood spills, and this time he is forced to stop when he sees the Terrors start to converge round the corners of the dip in land, barring his passage.

He cannot see Tobin anymore, the frantic stamp of hoofbeats reverberating through loose earth lost to the tremble of carnage and uneven ground. The stale smell of magic tinges the air, dark and damp, serves to make his skin tingle with unpleasant vibes. A minute grimace forms on his lips, curling further when he sees the growing number of moving corpses.

Unconsciously, the grip on his lance loosens in detachment.

Lukas doesn’t remember dispatching most of the Terrors down, only heavy swings of lances and the battering of his shield. Something within him clicks, hyper fixation drawing his eye to the sole motion of making the enemy fall. He looks up once through patches of rot and red and sees white robes on the back of a horse, bright light shimmering in fading wisps as the steed gallops through the gaps of stragglers back towards the main line. He thinks he sees the figure turn to face him, but he couldn’t be sure. A Terror is cleaved in half the next time he looks back at his hands.

The steed makes a sharp turn around an outcrop of rocks, and a waiting corpse lunges for it, fingers barely scraping its flank. It rears back in panic, sends its riders fumbling and threatening to fall. The path clears, and he sees his opening.

With abrupt swiftness he slams his shield into the remaining Terrors blocking his way, breaking out of the chokepoint when they stagger. The lance rolls in his hand, rests comfortably on the neck of his covered arm as he weighs the shaft to lie balanced and still. Metal glows amaranth, gleaming silver as the sun peeks out of the overcast sky. He throws it then, watches it sail across mud and grass to hit its target with a sickening crunch.

A body falls, and the steed whinnies loud enough that even he can hear as it stamps its hooves into the earth and runs free, but he has no time to recover as a claw swipes close to his face. Vision breaking, he ducks away, barely managing to pull a long dagger from his belt to parry the strike. The blade sinks easily into flesh, but its reach and his expertise were much shorter, and he finds himself quickly needing to back away with the heavy shield covering his side.

Even then, relief pricks at him, soothes the coldness he felt. He does not regret throwing his lance, he thinks, and that unpractical revelation surprises him more than anything.

There were men coming after him; he spies when he peeks over his shoulder. Their thundering footsteps shake the unsteady soil and send pebbles flying, causing the Terrors to hang back. A soldier hands him another lance, the weight unfamiliar but comforting all the same. He tests it minutely, watches the spotless steel glint as his grip turns the handle red.

He does not move from his position until the battle ends.

x

It ends sooner than he thought.

As quick as they had come, the waves of Terrors vanish, almost as if under a spell. Lukas would find it suspicious, but as it were they were lucky the sudden assault stopped at all. None of their men had been slain, but the atmosphere of the plateau where they partook their bloodshed felt darker under the swell of the wan sun. Absent from the cries of war the land rings with ominous silence, smells even stronger of unnatural staleness and spilled blood.

Alm and Clive had not deemed it safe for them to stay here, so the Deliverance had hurried on, supporting their wounded until they had breached the first sign of safety where the grass did not stain and the darkness did not creep as close. Lukas does not remember much through the muted flow of conversation that passes between the ranks, but sentries were posted and tents hastily constructed, and as their ragtag army begun to settle and nurse wounds in their makeshift camp, he finds himself finally registering the pain that pulses through his right arm.

The impromptu javelin throw must have pulled a muscle.

Terror blood had ceased dripping from his soaked gloves hours ago, but as he starts the heavy trek towards the healer’s tent an erratic trickle of red resumes from the cracked holes of his gauntlet. It could only be his, but Lukas feels only exhaustion as he totters forward, beholding the sorry state of the dented metal and deciding it would be better to pry it off with the help of someone else. He had still yet to see any of his compatriots walking about; he can only assume that they were in better states of health than him.

Muffled conversation filters around him as he passes by brewing fires and tired men. They draw to a halt the closer he gets, and Lukas notices when a few of them keep their breadth from him. Many would not meet his eye. It irks him, stirs his misgivings even when he was sure he had already kept his composure in check.

The gnawing feeling had simmered back soon after the last Terror had fallen from his blade. It was gone now, but he still cannot help feeling shame for feeling it in the first place. It was ill-fitting for a soldier of his rank to be so taken by adrenaline that he would get carried away. It was even more ironic for him, he thinks, and Lukas sets his jaw as he walks on, willing it from mind as he searches for any sign of meandering white robes.

He does not know how long he wanders for, but by the time he finds the healer’s tent the sun had begun to set. The grass patches around it had been crushed in varying degrees of demolition, but apart from a couple of posted guards it was quiet, surroundings empty of waiting men. Better for him, he thinks, as he perks up and dares himself to imagine the ails of his pains fading away under cool magic. It would just be a little while more, and the thought of seeing Silque again after the near mishap in the morning was reassuring.

He has no doubt that she was alright -the mood of the men would be gloomier otherwise- but he feels it wouldn’t be right unless he saw her for himself. It had been reckless of her to run out of the way for a few injured men in their scattered battalions, and he sees himself easily berating her for it even as he shows his gratitude. Lukas thinks of the faces she’d make and feels his heart grow light. His steps lengthen, the totter almost gone as he nears. Just as quick, the growing smile on his face disappears at the sight of green and blue guarding the sides of the tent’s entrance.

Forsyth and Python see him as soon as he draws close, and Lukas feels his heart sink. Here, of all places. He was not in the mood for any of their ribbing. And yet, a small optimistic part of him still hopes that perhaps he could avoid them trying to start a lengthy conversation, if he was lucky.

He opens his mouth to speak, pausing over his first breath when he sees them shuffle closer, looking him up and down. Confusion bubbles within him a second time. Just like those before, Forsyth would not meet his gaze, but Python stares at him with a piercing intent his sluggish mind could not place. And yet what was most odd was their silence. In all their days of knowing each other Lukas had never known them to keep mum unless something serious was underfoot. But here they stand, stiff and awkward and most definitely obscuring the entrance to healer’s tent. Lukas would feel annoyance, but at this point he just wants to close to wounds that spanned his hands and take a nap for a few hours.

Finally, just as he was about to sigh and speak again, Python gives him a smirk that does not reach his eyes.

“Hey buddy old pal. Might want to calm down there.” He twirls the long end of the lance Lukas knows he was carrying just for show, nods at him with sympathy. “You know I’m all about a good prank here and there, Lukas, but there’s a time and place for everything you know?”

“Python!” Forsyth whispers his name loudly just as he opens his mouth to do the same. Their voices blend, and Lukas sees the former flinch back, muffling a hush “Stop that!” to his companion as the latter shrugs. Forsyth glances back at him apologetically and with concern, but there was a guardedness in his eyes he wasn’t expecting. It only served to make him withdraw.

“Python,” he tries again, tiredly. “I’m not in the mood for any of your jokes. And I have no idea what you what talking about.”

“Really now?” The man pauses, fixes him with another look voided of his usual playfulness that made him stiffen. It almost looked like he was appraising him, but the tension breaks as soon as he ponders the notion, sees the lazy curl of Python’s smirk drop as he weighs his words.

“It’s just that you have a real scary look on your face. Wouldn’t want to frighten the missy with it when you see her, would you?”

Frighten..?

Lukas blinks, feels his non-bleeding hand rise to his face. Alarm bleeds through the cracks of his exhaustion even as his mind struggled to catch up as the query rings through his head. Was it the blood? The slitted squint of his eyes and stiff clench of his jaw, did he look angry because of that, from all those unconscious motions to combat the pain that throbbed through him. Or was it really what he thought he had hidden.

Did he not hide it well enough? When had it slipped out? Did he not hide it at all?

He hadn’t realised.

“Stop fooling around! Sir Lukas is hurt, we should be letting him in to get treated as soon as possible.”

Dimly he can hear Forsyth arguing with Python, their voices flowing like muddled water down a river out of sight. He chances a look at his broken gauntlet again, thinks maybe all the blood loss is finally getting to him if all he feels is a dull tinge of acceptance.

“And yet you are standing next to me, gripping that lance and blocking the entrance like you have seen an enemy.”

“You..!”

Their bickering continues, snaps him out of his thoughts as the flaps of the healer’s tent flip open. A pair of hands nudges them apart, sends the argument fizzling as Lukas sees Silque push her way between them. Her sleeves were rolled up, and there was a clean washcloth in her hands. She wrings it now, twists the dry linen as she narrows her eyes and purses her lips.

“Boys,” her voice levels with an edge that has Forsyth lower his head ruefully. “this is the healer’s tent.” Her gaze hung heavy with exhaustion, but they flare warningly when she glances back at Python, sees him raise his palm up in sheepish defense. It was almost amusing, to see two grown men defer to her. “If both of you want to bicker than I suggest that y-”

She freezes when she sees him, words stumbling to a stop, and Lukas wonders belatedly, for a moment, if what Python said was true. But then she was stumbling her way towards him, distress clearly visible on her face, and Lukas sees the roll of white around the length of her right calf when her cleric robes flare up against the breeze.

Something in his gut twists, intensifies the rushing of blood in his ears when she stops in front of him, twitching hands outstretched as though to grip the remnants of his broken gauntlet.

“Sir Lukas,” she says, horror and minute shock in her eyes, and he knows she must have seen the blood streaks across his face, the stiff grimace that bore his shame and instilled trepidation. He doesn’t want that; doesn’t want that for her at all, so he smiles, turns a blind eye to the steady beat of his heart and the rushing echoes of his mind. In the end all he can muster up is a small genuine quirk of his mouth.

“Lady Silque.” Guilt flickers through him when he sees her bite her lip. “Silque. Apologies, it seems I was a little careless today.”

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” She shakes her head, agitated, twists the cloth in her hands again as she accesses his face. “This may be impolite of me, but honestly, you of all people…”

“Ah.” He sees her staring, squinting a little at the blood spattered over his temple, feels the need to clarify. “Not to worry, it isn’t mine.”

“I’m not sure if that declaration makes you scarier or not.” Python comments from somewhere away from him, shushed immediately by his companion when they both glanced back. Lukas would reply, but as it were he found it too much effort to, and the gentle jab with no bite behind was already forgotten when Forsyth comes forward to help remove the buckles of his broken armguards and gloves before Silque takes his battered hand.

Her hold was gentle, and Lukas feels soothing warmth radiate from his bones as the healing spell runs its course. Immediate relief runs through him, and he bites back words when she runs the washcloth gingerly over his palm and wrist. He must have tuned out for a while, because he doesn’t remember her saying anything when she turns back to the latter two, only registers Forsyth saying something back as he holds the mangled remains of metal he is very sure he would never see again before following Python into the tent.

Alone, Silque looks up at him then, and he sees the soft disapproval in the stiffness of her jaw, vaguely aware of how the brown of her conflicted eyes flicker as the setting sun sends his shadow towering over her form.

“I saw you.” The soft affirmation wakes him from the dream, makes him focus on the unruly tangles of summer sky hair that stuck out of her headdress. “Thank you for covering me, but that was terribly reckless of you.” Her voice was quiet when she lets go of his hand, free of cuts and bleeding. He tests it, rolls his wrist experimentally and feels the muscles response without any flare.

“You are our healer. I would gladly give my life if it means you would be safe.” He doesn’t want to meet her eyes yet, but he cannot delay the inevitable. Two can play at this game. But it is not a game he wants to partake, not now, when exhaustion has him pushed to the limit, enough for him to do something that had endangered his life because she had risked hers.

Disappointment swells within him, uncharacteristic and overwhelming, but he cannot resist adding on.

“Though I clearly need to do a better job at it.”

“What do you mean?” Genuine confusion replaces her frown.

“Your leg. Don’t think I didn’t see that.”

“That’s… wait.” Silque blinks, stares at him with growing comprehension, before she steps back, lifting the tail end of her skirts slightly, exposing a glimpse of rolled bandages. The sight makes him frown, newly healed fingers unconsciously curling into a loose fist.

“Forgive me, it was a failure on my part.”

“You are mistaken. It was just a small incident nothing to do with this morning at all! I was just…” She trails off, and Lukas sees a flicker of embarrassment as she swallows, eyes fixed at a point on his chestplate. Silque mumbles something inaudible then, and he raises an eyebrow, trying to decipher the soft jumble of a confession.

“I’m, sorry?”

“I said I tripped over some supplies in the supplies tent. It’s just a small scratch, nothing serious to prioritise my healing over others in need, I promise.”

Somehow he doubts that; the expression must have shown on his face, because she narrows her gaze back at him and turns the soft-hearted accusation back onto himself. He would not find until later, that it had been a half-truth. The cut had been shallow, but it had bled much blood, caused by a broken weapon abandoned in the rubble she had knocked over batting Terrors away from the mainline. All carelessness on her part, but for now he lets it go, keeps his own hypocrisy nestled deep in his thoughts.

Silque keeps her ribbings curt, but he does not protest, and the conversation steers gradually into softer nudging and a quiet lull. Like this, alone and undisturbed, he could almost pretend this was another one of their casual meetings and not the aftermath of a weary battle that would clearly not be their last. Time stretches; it could barely have been five minutes, but those five minutes feel like an eternity of assurances, and by the time she pulls away to observe her work he feels better and in desperate need of a rest.

“-nd no more risking your life like that again. Or I just might have to cut our sweets sharing phrases short.” The teasing lilt in her words halts the soft hum of acknowledgement he was about to give, and he spares a quick glance at her, seeing the soft glint of her eyes flicker in an attempt at a cheeky jab.

“Lady Silque, you wouldn’t.” He indulges back, feels the air between them lighten instantly and watches her with an expression that was almost fond when she struggles to hide the tiny smile that appeared briefly from the corner of his eyes.

“Address me as Lady again and I’ll only share my best sweets with Forsyth for the whole month.”

“How cruel.”

“Shush.” She digs into her pockets and pulls out a handkerchief, unceremoniously pushing it into his hands. “No moving your mouth unless you want to get Terror blood in it.”

It was a soft cloth, softer still than the bloodied linen she had placed away on a stack of crates, but under her expectant gaze he reluctantly uses it to wipe the blood off his face. It stings, even with the soft fabric and his light touch cushioning the expanse of his skin. Small skin-deep cuts made from claws that had skimmed a little too close to his head for comfort and turn his hair bloody prickled in protest, drawing beads of scarlet to their surface. It was a small pain, but Lukas clenches his teeth anyway, resists the urge to show his discomfort at every swipe of cloth.

Silque cups his face abruptly once he stops and lowers his hand, and he feels the cool relief of healing magic ease the tension in his jaw even as he startles, eyes widening as his breath caught. She did not seem to notice, brows furrowed in concentration as she mumbles something under her breath and focuses at a spot on his forehead.

There was a soft steeliness in her eyes as she worked, and he finds his gaze falling to it even as he attempts to look someplace else. Brown irises flicker with the softest shade of violet, turns gentle under the lengthening shadows of dusk. It was mesmerising.

A mild peace stirs within him; idly, he thinks it would be nice if he could soak in her quiet presence for a little while. And if he happens to lean a little heavier into the touch of her hands, meets Forsyth’s flabbergasted gawk and Python’s widening eyes when they exit the tent with handfuls of bandages with a glint of his own, well, that would be completely coincidental.

x

Omake

 “You don’t realise it, do you?” Python asks long after the three of them had left the tent to head back to their barracks.

“Realise what?”

He laughs, and Lukas feels the beginnings of a headache start to form.

“Python, stop fooling around!” A loud smack on the back sends the archer staggering, but he merely continued his guffaws, pushing Forsyth’s hand away when the latter narrows his eyes at him.

“Damn it Forsyth, let me have this. Oh, ohohoho that’s rich. This is so rich.”

Lukas rubs his temples, ponders the sudden attractive notion of reporting Alm just so that he could have the pretense of crashing in the stables.

 x

A/N

Spits blood// im alive and in love with gentle lukasilque