Fan Fiction ❯ Shielded in Broken Armours ❯ Part 1: Song of the Nightingale ( Chapter 4 )
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Fantasy / Adventure | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 11.30.2004 | Updated On: 11.30.2004 | Pages: 2 | Words: 4.3K | Visits: 173 | Status: Completed
by Alice Montrose
completed July 31, 2004
Chapter Four
The Demon camp was almost deserted, but it would not remain thus for long. If the battle was over, then the troops would return, bringing the prisoners with them. The corpses would be taken care of later. Buried in the ground, or burned and their ashes thrown into the waters of the Mauri, to be carried in the sea and then further into eternity.
He could imagine a sea of pyres over the sea of blood. Fire to cleanse what could not be cleansed. Fire to wash the ground that could not be washed. Fire to purify what could not be purified...
No time to think of it now. No time to sink into meditation. He had something more important to take care of. And what was at stake was not just his future, but the future of Demonis. Perhaps of Angelia as well.
Those that had remained behind to guard the camp ran and gathered around him as he dismounted, assailing him with questions. What had happened? Where were the others? Why had he come alone? And the unspoken curiosity on their faces: why had he brought an injured Angelian with him?
Ignis tried to reassure them. The others were all right. The battle had been won and they would return soon. The ones here had to make sure the healers were ready to treat all the wounded, not just the Demon ones. They should also prepare tents for the prisoners that survived. He had ridden before to inform everybody and make the necessary preparations. As for the man...
He could not find the proper words. He had brought him here because he had been given the order to save the man's life in a dream earlier that day. But he could not tell them that, lest the soldiers thought him mad.
... As for the man, he was the Angelian High Commander. He was a precious capture. He held all the information they needed to block any further attack. But he was injured, and he had to be taken care of.
He ordered them to go back to their posts and to let the healers know the wounded were coming soon. So many details to be taken care of before the rest of the army returned to camp...
Ignis dismounted and had to hold on the saddle for support for a moment. He was tired, so very tired. Physically exhausted. His armour was smeared with blood, his uniform ripped in a couple of places. Under his helmet, he felt his hair dripping with sweat. He took it off, only to have wet strands of it fall in a heap all around him. He probably looked really dishevelled, and was amazed that the soldiers had made no comment about it. Then he recalled they all knew what a battle meant. There was no time to sit around and make sure no rebel hair was in your face with the enemy wanting to kill you.
His attendant, Kheerah, took hold of the reins of his black stallion. He nodded, throwing him the other horse's reins as well.
He felt too drained to carry the General Zain-Reil's body on his own, so he asked one of the men that had remained behind, a young infantry sergeant - or so said his uniform - , to help him get the Angelian safely into his tent. The man gave Ignis a surprised look, but he obeyed. They laid the general on the pillows in the back of the tent, and by that point Ignis did not give a damn if they got dirty. He ordered the sergeant to go fetch his personal healer as soon as possible.
Kheerah came to help him remove his armour and stared at him aghast. He must have looked really frightening, like this. He sent the boy back out, to fetch plenty of fresh water. He then removed every piece of metal on his body by himself, letting them fall on the ground without a second thought. He removed the sweaty shirt as well. Minor wounds and some fresh bruises made their presence felt. No matter, none of them was serious. He would care for those later.
A bath would have been nice, but he postponed that too. He washed his hands and face in the small basin he always held in this tent and then quickly donned a fresh shirt. He wringed his tangled hair and managed to pull it back in a tail of sorts. Later, he told himself. He would take care of everything else later.
Not ten minutes had passed since he had entered the tent. He checked the general's pulse again. The heart was still beating. Blood was now staining the improvised bed, flowing slowly through cloth and armour.
He had to get that damned steel case off the man! With trembling fingers, he started to unlace the small hinges.
"You called, my lord?" the healer's voice interrupted him. "Are your injuries severe?"
He nearly laughed in the man's face. After seven years of harsh training in the core of the Black Mountains, a few scratches were not even worth mentioning.
"I can wait. It is this man that needs your attention, Zehi."
The healer approached. Zehi was an old man, but very devoted to his job. He made no comment at the fact he was expected to treat an Angelian. Healers were not supposed to care who the patient was, after all.
"The armour must go," the healer said calmly.
Like he didn't damned know that already. But he refrained himself from any remark, and nodded slightly. He managed to unfasten half of it by the time Kheerah was back with a bucket full of fresh water from a nearby spring.
"Milord, let me do it!" The boy hurried past him and knelt on the bed as well. Had he not been so tired, the blasted thing would have been off long before. But they had to be extra careful not to make the sharp edges cut further into the wound. Carefully, they lifted the breastplate. Then they removed the blood soaked tunic and shirt, and Kheerah pulled off his boots as well.
"Lordship, please go. I will take care of this," the healer asked him.
But he refused to go. He had to make sure all was well.
"No, I'm staying," he told the old healer firmly. "I'll sit in the chair over there, and watch you. In case anything goes wrong. In case you need any help."
Zehi accepted, although his expression said he was not very happy about it. But there was no way one could refuse a man of Ignis' status without endangering one's life.
He asked Kheerah to wash the general's wounds. Carefully. Then he watched the boy at his task, under the healer's guidance.
The Angelian had taken another hit, on his left shoulder, but it was no longer bleeding and could be ignored for the time being. The wound at the side was their immediate concern. The blood and dirt came off, and revealed the injured flesh to the sight. Crimson liquid was still flowing free, a thin rivulet that further stained the cushions. They would need to be replaced.
Later.
It had become his mantra. He had so many things to do, and he would do them all. Later.
But the flow had to be stopped, or else the High Commander would bleed to death. He must have already lost a great amount of blood, and it was very unsettling.
Loud sounds were heard outside. Some were screams of joy, and some of pain. The trotting of horses on the ground. The rest of the Army had returned.
He looked towards the entrance. He should go and tell them all would be well. He should go and tell them what their sacrifice meant. What winning the battle meant.
He found he could not move.
Something he had not realized crossed his mind. What if it was too late? What if General Zain-Reil could not be saved? What if he had failed?
"Go," the healer told him. "Go to them. I will take care of this man."
He looked at the old man, really looked, for the first time that day. He needed to know. "Will he live?"
"He lost a lot of blood. It will be difficult to close the wound. But I will do my best."
He shook his head. "If you can't, let me know. But do it before it is too late. There is one more thing I would like to try." Something he hoped would not be necessary.
Zehi was confused. Of course, everybody knew about his training. All knew that he was Dreak. But only his closest friends knew that he was Dreak not only by title.
He smiled. "If you doubt your own powers, call me. You understand?"
The man bowed reverently. "Yes, lordship."
He struggled to get up. He left the tent and looked around him, trying to see the results of the battle.
Two riders came his way. Tempesta and Owen. Unavoidable.
"What happened?" the woman asked after she dismounted. "You went after that horse and for an instant we thought you were lost to us."
"You two looked like you come from a bloody battle," he tried to joke.
"And we won, too," Owen answered casually. But at what price?
"Alright. Casualties, wounded, prisoners..."
"Already taken care of," Tempesta cut him off. "I figured you'd be too weary to do it yourself. Besides, it was my duty in the first place."
"How many have we lost?"
"Not by far as many as they did," Owen smirked. "I think we might have wiped off about a third of their army!"
'A third?! Oh, Drako, you have been cruel to them this time!'
The two officers fixed him. The question was obvious, and it did not need to be asked.
"Right," he sighed. "The man I brought in."
"General Zain-Reil." Tempesta spared him the utterance of the man's name. "Ignis, we have no right to question your decision. You always seem to have some obscure plan we're not aware of. But I really hope you know what's at stake, this time." She sounded tired and weary.
The setting sun gave him the notion it was nearly dark. Time had passed so quickly, he hadn't even been aware of it. Many torches were being lit, to provide the necessary illumination for the incoming troops. There was a lot of movement around the tents where the healers were quartered. Tired soldiers walked passed them, in search of their own bunks. After the storm, nobody gave a damn of what would happen later. Most of them were probably in some sort of trance.
"Did you manage to capture the rest of the General Staff?" he suddenly asked.
"The four lords were coward enough to stay out of the battlefield. We caught them trying to sneak past our lines. They were no real problem," Owen informed him. "Captain Mah-Kel put up one hell of a fight, though."
"So I figured." He looked at them, checking for injuries. Nothing major. "Keep them with the others for now. We can assign everybody separate quarters after a good night's sleep."
Just then, Kheerah interrupted them. "Healer Zehi says you have to come, milord. He says there's nothing more he can do. The Angelian is dying."
"And there goes my sleep," Ignis sighed. "I'll be right there, Kheerah." He looked at his two friends, studying them for a moment. They had no clue about what was going through his mind. Should he at least give them a hint of what he was planning to do? They knew him well enough to figure it out immediately, with a little help.
He smiled at them. "So, have a nice sleep, then. I will, too. After I make sure the general will not pass over on the other side, of course."
Ah, yes. That got them.
"You aren't planning..."
"Ignis, you can't possibly..."
He lifted his right hand, in a sign that meant to cut off any reproach or warning. "I will. There is no other choice I have left."
"But the last time you tried this, it nearly killed you!" Owen remembered it just as well as he did, the day he had last used that power on a dying man. It had drained him of almost all his energy. But then, it had been his teacher. Would he risk the same for an enemy?
"He must not die today, do you understand?"
'Damn her for being right! Why am I always put to the test in critical situations?'
"I will do this; you cannot stop me. And that is the end of this conversation." Those words being said, he returned to his tent, determined to do what he had to.
Healer Zehi was still bet over the Angelian's body. He heard Ignis come in, and bowed his head. "I am sorry, but I could not..." His voice trailed off.
"You did well," Ignis assured him. "Go help your kinsmen with the injured. I shall take care of him."
The man rose, and bowed again. "Should I send someone to help you with the body, your lordship?"
"There will be no body, Zehi. This man will live."
The voice in which Ignis had said those words had been calm and determined. The old man stared at him, in disbelief. He was none of his fellow Dreak. He could not understand what was bound to happen soon.
"He lost too much blood. He cannot live."
Ignis smiled. "May Drako's will be done."
Those were the ritual words for the beginning of the healing process. All regular healers knew them, and what they were for real.
A key. They were a key to unchain the raw power hidden in the members of the Order.
The Dreak were no healers. They were warriors. But their gift was a great one, and it required a lot of training to be controlled. Using this often was not recommended.
But it was the only chance the Angelian general had. And it was also the only chance Ignis had to prove to himself once and for all that he knew what his real potential was.
He guided his hands over the wound on the general's shoulder. He would start there, for it was much easier to cure and he had not used this power in a long time. 'Don't touch it yet!' He felt the force building up, the chill that spread through his body announcing the surge of energy. The eerie glow around his hands would soon be visible.
An awed whisper came to his ears. "Are you going to...?"
"Heal him?" He looked back at the man, to find him staring in disbelief. "It is in my power as a Dreak to do so. You may stay and watch if you want."
Zehi approached him, reverently. "In all my years, I have never witnessed this. I knew about its existence, but I never dreamt it could take place before my very eyes."
"I am not a research specimen," he said firmly. "You may stay or you may leave. But if you choose to stay, and in any way disturb me during the process, I will have your head. Understood?"
Then, completely ignoring what decision the healer took, he closed his eyes and let the power guide him, like it had many times before.
Marzio slowly started to regain his senses. The first thing he felt was a chill running through his fevered body, taking away all the pain he felt. Numbness engulfed him, and he didn't try to move, knowing full well that he couldn't.
Then he felt the gentle touch of hands caressing his side, and realized they were the source of the pleasantness he was feeling all over. But so soon they ceased their movements, and he was left longing for more.
They were replaced by a soft wet cloth delicately scrubbing his sides and torso. It was soothing, and he welcomed it. And if before he had doubted of his capacity to move, now he didn't dare do it.
He could recall taking a serious blow through the armour, and passing out just as the Demon officer had raised his sword to strike. Then it was all darkness and pain.
The two caressing hands returned, soft fingers kneading the muscles of his shoulders, then trailing down his arms and back up again. They continued the exploration of his upper body, sinuously moving over his chest, lingering over his flat stomach. His body started giving him unsettling signals, and he suddenly caught himself wishing the hands grew bolder and went lower down.
They did not. Instead, they moved back up again, stealthy trailing over both sides of his neck. One ended up tangled in his hair, and the other caressed his cheek, smooth fingers barely touching the burning flesh. A faint breeze passed over his face - the whispered breath of the one leaning over him. Two silken lips met his, as shy and fleeting as the hands had been, afraid they would get caught stealing a kiss.
The Angelian general forced himself to open his eyes. It was easier than he had expected, and as his sight accommodated to the near-darkness around him, he caught glimpses of the angel that had been leaning over his body. It had drawn back slightly, and its wide burning eyes were fixed on him.
He had to be either dead, or delirious, for the angel resembled someone he could only dream of. Long red strands framing a beautiful face, slender white shoulders; eyes lovingly blinking at him in surprise; even the broad black-feathered wings were there. Indeed, a wondrous dream angel it was, a faithful image of the original.
A fleeting smile crossed the fine features, and the angel drew near again. 'Yes, kiss me again...' Marzio tried to say, but no words came out.
"You are safe now," the angel whispered, its face so close to his they were nearly touching. Long fingers caressed Marzio's cheek once more. "Nobody will hurt you. I won't allow it. Go back to sleep..."
His eyelids closed again, and a content sigh escaped his lips as he sank back into blessed oblivion.
"What you are planning to do is absurd," whispered a high-pitched voice that brought Marzio back into awareness. "You cannot possibly keep him with you for the rest of the journey back home!"
"He is not well enough just yet," a familiar voice replied. There was shifting and rustling, and the sound of feet quietly walking away.
Marzio half-opened his eyes, and dim light inundated his sight. He blinked in order to clear his vision. Then he tried to raise himself up and take in his surroundings. He succeeded, with little effort.
He looked around him and discovered he had been lying on a dozen or so large black satin cushions and covered with a warm blanket made of fine crimson-dyed wool.
He was in what seemed to be the tent of a superior officer. From what he could see, it was not very large, yet exquisitely set up to accommodate its owner.
There was little of the furniture one usually expected to find. A heavy mahogany chest on the left side, with a heavy lock on it. A smaller one, of the same material, that supported what he thought was armour and shield. To the right, two chairs, one empty and one loaded with various clothing items, and a small table with a washing basin, soap, a towel and a mirror.
The low illumination was due to a heavy curtain hanging a few feet away from the improvised bed, parting slightly in the middle to allow access to this section of the tent. Voices could be heard on the other side, silently arguing, probably trying not to wake him up.
He noticed he had been stripped to the waist while he had been unconscious. He remembered the wound, and instinctively touched his palm to his right side. Smooth skin met his touch - no pain, no blood, no scar. Like it had never been there.
Marzio tried to stand up and managed to fight back the dizziness he felt. Staggering, he made for the chest that supported the golden armour, and took a better look. It was plain and unadorned, the crest of Demonis the only ornament he could spot on the shield. He was a prisoner, then.
He touched his hand to the shield, taking in the coldness. If he thought about it well, he could still hear the sounds of battle, weapons clashing violently, metal against metal...
He drew back. Slowly, he approached the small table at the other end of the tent. But, when he had almost made it, a wave of nausea swept over him. He fell on his knees, closing his eyes and gripping the end of the table for support. The small polished mirror fell on the ground with a bang.
An instant later, two strong hands caught hold of him, lifting him up and forcing him to sit down in the empty chair nearby. Marzio leaned back, allowing the queasiness to fade. Since there was no escape, he decided he might as well face his captor.
His eyes first fell on a woman of medium height, with long curly hair and dark eyes, who returned his scrutiny standing in the shadows a few feet away. He could not make out much of her face in the dim light, but the cut of her clothes indicated she was wearing a uniform. Also, her right hand rested leisurely on the hilt of her sword, and the Angelian was certain she would not hesitate to use that weapon against him if she considered it necessary.
Then the woman turned and spoke to someone who was at Marzio's right, someone whose presence the general had been aware of but whom he had yet to see. "I see your guest has awakened," she told her companion. "I'll leave you two alone, then."
Marzio's eyes followed her abrupt departure, and then searched for the other Demon, most likely the owner of the tent. A little smile and a familiar face met his gaze, and the general found himself breathing sharply as the Demon closed the distance between them and placed a slender palm on Marzio's forehead.
Nodding, the Demon leaned back against the small table, crossing his hands over his chest and looking down at Marzio again. "Your fever has dropped. That is very good news."
The general blinked. "Where am I?" he asked.
"My tent, obviously," the young man replied, visibly amused at the silly question. "Where else did you think you were, General?"
"The battle..."
"... is long over. I have warned you. It would have been better for you and your army to turn back."
"What happened to my men?" he inquired on a worried tone of voice. "I can't recall..."
The Demon seemed to indulge him. "About one third were either killed or severely injured. I am really sorry, I had hoped it would not go this far."
He nodded, grieved. One third! What a carnage!
"The rest surrendered after you were injured. All of them were taken prisoners. However, I can assure you they are treated as humanly as possible. Although you have lost, there is no reason to humiliate any of you."
He seemed convinced of his words. Marzio wondered if it was because he really cared, or if it was just a mask displayed for the sake of his captive.
Meris Ignis straightened his body and took a few steps past the general. He picked up a shirt from the pile of clothing on the other chair and handed it to Marzio. "Put it on. It would not do to have you walking around camp half-naked."
Marzio pulled on the blue silk garment. It was clean and smelt of freshness and lavender. His boots appeared in his hands out of nowhere, and he put them on as well. He was offered a hand up and he gladly took it.
"There's more light on the other side of this curtain; I like to see the faces of those I speak with," the Demon said while he gently guided Marzio past the heavy curtain, into the part of the tent he had not seen yet.