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The smell of blood and smoke hung thick in the air, almost enough to make you choke on it. Earlier that day, with adrenaline still singing through Rodrigue’s veins, the sounds of steel on steel and the shouting and grunts of men and women clashing on the field of battle had been invigorating.
Then, Rodrigue had not flinched away from the blood spraying on his face when he beheaded his opponent, and had only felt the satisfaction of winning the fight. But now the fight was done, the adrenaline had left him, and the blood was sticky and tainting his armor an ugly brown.
The mud squished beneath his feet as Rodrigue made his way across the uneven ground. Lambert had dismissed his commanders from where they had gathered to look down at the Srengi Plains.
Most of the bodies had already been removed, but pools of blood had been left behind. Rodrigue ignored them to the best of his ability as he made his way to his tent where his squire had set up a bowl of water for him to clean.
Rodrigue was thankful.
He cleaned up as quickly and as efficiently as possible, intent on returning to Lambert’s side to support his friend and King. But the water kept becoming pinker and pinker, and his hands would not stop shaking.
His father had called him soft once, with something akin to pity in his eyes. Rodrigue had bristled then, angry that his father could not see what a great knight he would be, how dutifully he would serve the Kingdom. Rodrigue had set out to prove his father wrong. He had fought in numerous skirmishes, made his first bones before even Lambert when defending the villages from bandits. Not once had Rodrigue faltered when the time came to draw his sword and step into battle. Not once had he hesitated in eliminating the enemies of the Kingdom. He was stalwart and true and had great martial powers. After one week of battle, the Srengi had come to fear his lance and the banner of his House.
Rodrigue should be proud. Should be able to laugh alongside Gautier and Lambert, boast about his fights and the enemies he had slain. And yet.
He could not help but feel like his father might have been right.
Rodrigue was not made for war, and the thought—and the failure that it represented—made bile rise in his throat.
The water was almost blood—red now, and still his hands would not stop shaking.
.:⛉:.
Another failure: Lambert noticed, he worried—Rodrigue could feel his friend's gaze rest heavily on his back. The King had enough on his plate, without Rodrigue adding to it. But Rodrigue’s troubles had caught the King’s attention, and Lambert was unlikely to let it go.
How could Rodrigue tell him that their glorious victories made him sick?
Instead, he distanced himself from the other Lords, insisting on overseeing their soldiers and the cleanup. In a way, it was a fitting punishment. More suitable even when instead of coming over dead bodies, Rodrigue stumbled over a dying soldier.
The man’s livery marked him of the kingdom, one of Gautier’s troops, and at first glance the man—almost a boy really—had seemed dead. Yet when Rodrigue stepped past him, he grabbed his leg with desperate strength.
Stumbling, Rodrigue stared down and found wide terrified eyes staring back.
The man was trying to say something. Blood bubbled at his lips.
Transfixed, Rodrigue stared at him. More blood dribbled from the man’s mouth. Rodrigue felt curiously removed from his own body, almost as if he was standing next to himself.
He did not move.
“What are you doing!?” A woman snapped behind him, and, in the next moment, Rodrigue was violently shoved aside. An older woman wearing church vestments—stained with blood and mud—pushed past him. She fell to her knees beside the man, her hands glowing with healing magic.
The frenzy in the man’s eyes faded away, and the woman sighed.
“You,” she snapped again, fixing furious eyes on Rodrigue. But instead of saying anything else, she clicked her tongue and turned away, dismissing him as if he was nothing but a particularly annoying insect.
She directed some of the soldiers milling around to carry the man back to the healing tents, not sparing him another glance.
Rodrigue did not know how long he stood there, staring blankly at the spot where the young man had lain. It must have been a while because, eventually, Lambert found him.
“Rodrigue,” the boisterous voice behind him called, “There you are! I looked at you in your tent, but-”
Rodrigue turned around, and Lambert trailed off staring at him. Rodrigue straightened his posture and attempted to give his King a smile, but by the tightening of Lambert's lips, he had failed. Instead, Lambert reached for him, his hand landing heavily on Rodrigue’s shoulder.
“Are you well, my friend?”
The weight of his hand was an anchor, and Rodrigue took a deep breath.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” The smile came easier now, “What is it you wanted with me?”
Lambert uncharacteristically hesitated, clearly unconvinced. Thankfully, he let it go and nodded. The grip he had on Rodrigue's shoulder tightened, blue eyes flickering down to the pool of mud and blood. Then, Lambert stepped forward and past Rodrigue without letting go. The weight of his hand forced Rodrigue to turn as well, almost stumbling, but his friend's arm slid across his back and pulled him into Lambert’s side instead.
It was a comradely hug. A friendly gesture. Yet, it made shame flush through Rodrigue all the same. Something must have shown on his face because again Lambert’s hold tightened momentarily. The hold turned into a good-natured clap, and Rodrigue opened his mouth to—
Explain. Excuse himself. He wasn’t even sure what, but he did not manage to say a word before the King’s laughter boomed across the field. Pressed against his side as he was, Rodrigue could feel it vibrate through Lambert’s chest.
Around them, soldiers turned to look at them. At the sight of their King, vibrant and alive before them, a smile on his face and his back straight and proud, they seemed to relax.
“I wanted your opinion on tomorrow’s maneuver.” Lambert answered the question Rodrigue had almost forgotten he had asked, “But you are right, we should eat something.” Rodrigue had said nothing of the sort, but the King went on, his voice projected to carry. “We need to take care of ourselves after all. It will do us no good to survive the battle, only to have it be for naught because we don’t take care of our injuries.”
Lambert’s eyes flickered to a young soldier pressing a rag against his arm—young, but there could be no more than four years between them—and the man flushed, before giving the King a sharp nod and turning towards the healing tent. The same direction they had carried off the other boy.
Rodrigue swallowed bile and hid the shaking of his hands by clenching them into fists. Hands that were strong enough to break bones, to wield weapons with deadly intent. He could write orders that affected the lives of thousands. And despite being unsuitable for war, Rodrigue had never faltered before, not even in battle. He had never been truly helpless, not until that man—boy—had reached for him with shaking hands. All his education and training had been useless in the face of someone fighting to live, begging Rodrigue to help him. But Rodrigue hadn’t. Couldn’t.
He did not argue when Lambert dragged him to the royal tent and summoned a servant to bring them a light meal. Nor did he argue when Lambert started to talk about their old classmates. He could not bring himself to bring up the topic of tomorrow’s battle.
After their meal was finished a messenger arrived to inform Lambert that Margrave Gautier wished to talk to him. There was still plenty to do, so Rodrigue decided to return to his own tent to look over his papers.
Together they stepped outside, and Rodrigue bowed before making to leave.
“Rodrigue.” Rodrigue turned around and met Lambert’s gaze. For once, he could not identify the emotions in it. “Take care of yourself.”
Rodrigue smiled. “Of course.”
If only he knew how.
.:⛉:.
Rodrigue didn’t know why he went to the healing tent. Instead of returning to his tent, he had walked past it, straight to the busiest part of the camp.
By now the healers were no longer working on the field. All those who needed to be treated had either been seen to or transferred to the healing tents to await treatment.
Rodrigue stepped up to the entrance of the tent and brushed the curtain aside. Inside, the smell of blood and sickness mixed with the scent of herbs and the heavy tang of healing magic. It wasn’t a pleasant combination; if anything, it was faintly nauseating.
Rodrigue found himself hesitating in the entrance, not quite daring to step inside. He let his gaze wander across the room, lingering on the wounded and avoiding the bodies in the back with cloth covering their faces.
Despite the clear business inside the tent, things were orderly and clearly structured. The healers were hurrying back and forth, but there was none of the low panic that had thrummed through them when they had rushed onto the field after the battle. Their patients were less injured, the positive part of Rodrigue’s mind noted. More dead and beyond help, the other added. The healers were clearly exhausted after hours of work—only a few of them still seemed to have the energy to call up healing magic. They had been working for a while.
Rodrigue had attended the war council and had heard the reports from his commanders. He had scrubbed his hands so many times that there should be no blood left on them, been watched by the King of all people, and yet—
And yet, he felt useless.
Rodrigue let his hand fall from where he was still holding open the tent cover and made to step back, to finally return to his tent as he had originally intended, when a commotion broke out behind him. Startled, he froze, and found that most of the people had turned their attention to the entrance of the tent—to him.
A woman in church clothes stepped away from her patient and approached. Rodrigue stiffened as soon as he recognized her. It was the healer from earlier, and from the frown that appeared on her face, she seemed to have recognized him as well.
With something close to dread, Rodrigue watched as she opened her mouth, but whatever her questions would have been, she never asked them.
The commotion behind him, that had drawn their attention immediately, hadn’t settled. Instead, it seemed to have gotten worse. Worse, and closer.
Heavily armored footsteps and panicked voices approached quickly from behind him, and Rodrigue turned to see what was happening. A group of soldiers was approaching them, a healer hurrying beside them. Most of the soldiers were still dressed in armor, carrying a man on a stretcher between them, and the blood made it evident that something was wrong.
Rodrigue made to move aside and allow them to enter, but the healer was quicker. Heedless of who he was, she simply pushed him into the tent. In the bustle that followed, Rodrigue found himself pushed aside, standing next to one of the corpses covered with cloth. Several times he almost made up his mind to leave, but something about the way the healers were treating the still-bleeding man kept him spellbound. At least, until it was evident that even the power of the faithful was exhausted, and their magic, sputtering and flickering, was not enough to make the man whole.
Rodrigue bowed his head, and maybe that was what drew the head healer's attention to him. She turned away from the dying man, her hands covered in blood, and met his gaze. Her eyes flickered over his clothes, and at last, took in the signs of his rank. She swallowed, then straightened her shoulders.
“Your Grace.” Her voice was sharp but composed. “Have you had the basic healing lesson in the Academy?”
Rodrigue nodded. And just like that, the healer gave him a sharp nod, her eyes determined. “Then assist me,” she commanded, and Rodrigue, the Duke of Fraldarius, who only took orders from the King, stepped forward and did as he was told.
What followed was a whirlwind not unlike a battlefield, but the feeling that lingered in the aftermath of it was very different. When Rodrigue returned to his tent later, he was shaking, his hands covered in blood, but he felt lighter.
The healing tents weren’t a place for a Duke.
He returned the next day all the same.
.:⛉:.
If asked why he kept returning, Rodrigue would not have an answer. As one of the chief commanders of the Faerghan forces in the battle against Sreng, there were plenty of other matters that needed his attention. Going to the healing tents where he was told to fetch and carry bandages and heat water was not one of them.
But he spent his evening doing it all the same.
Blood coated his fingers. Familiar, yet different at the same time.
Like on the battlefield: brisk instructions, not a word wasted.
And not like it: the feeling of magic sparking in his hands, different from the healing spells he had been taught in the academy. Flesh knitting below his hands. Putting it together, instead of ripping it apart. Actual healing instead of just clotting blood and giving the strength to fight on. Not just making someone fight, but making them whole.
Rodrigue had never much thought about the difference before. What use did a future Duke have for healing?
None. It was supposed to be the job of other people, people working for him, but Rodrigue kept returning. He struggled, hesitated every step of the way, but he had returned all the same. It haunted him.
When he had first entered the tent, the healer he had assisted the day before looked up at him in surprise. Something had flickered through their brown eyes, and their gazes had met. Rodrigue had frozen.
The woman’s head had tilted to the side, eye contact broken, as she studied him, and Rodrigue had almost stepped back. He had felt trapped, as if by stepping back, he would lose something.
Then her lips had pursed, and a challenge appeared in her eyes. She had risen from her seat, and gestured for him to come to her. Rodrigue did.
The curl of her lips could have almost been called a smile, “Fetch a washbowl. The healers are already exhausted. You will help me close the wounds.”
There had been no question whether he was willing, no asking for permission, and Rodrigue had followed her instructions without pause.
Day after day he returned, and day after day the healer commanded him, as strict a taskmaster as any of his trainers had been.
.:⛉:.
The first time he used his advanced healing skills outside of the healing tents was naturally on the battlefield.
Rodrigue hadn’t realized how much he had improved until Lambert, instead of drawing back to get properly treated after Rodrigue healed him, surged forward and brought an end to the battalion they had been fighting.
The change from the norm was so startling that Rodrigue faltered for a moment and almost didn’t manage to catch up to him in time.
Once the last enemy fell, he turned to his friend and King, anger bubbling in his chest, only to falter when he was greeted by a wide smile instead. The grin was nothing like the magnanimous expression Lambert usually wore, instead it was the boyish grin Rodrigue had thought lost the moment the crown had been placed on Lambert’s head.
“That was amazing!” Lambert exclaimed, “I was sure I would have to pull back!” He laughed and slapped Rodrigue’s shoulder. Standing before Rodrigue hale and whole. Rodrigue could make out the cut in his cloth, but the skin beneath it—slightly red—was whole and unharmed.
Rodrigue swallowed.
The feeling that incident left him with was a strange one. He found himself in his tent staring down at his hands. They were still covered in blood, but it felt different now.
After a moment, Rodrigue made his way to the healing tents. The healers barely paused at his approach, and the lady in charge—his teacher, Rodrigue might call her—assigned him his work quickly.
Rodrigue spent the afternoon with his hands covered in blood, magic sparking at his hands, and slowly but surely putting people back together.
And maybe that included himself too.
.:⛉:.
Seeing castle Fraldarius rise from the morning mist was almost surreal. Rodrigue had only been gone for half a year, but it felt so much longer. He felt so much older.
They rode into the courtyard quietly—there was no welcoming committee, but given the early hour that was to be expected. Welcoming committee or not, they were spotted quickly, and the servants bustled into action. Rodrigue had just dismounted when the main door burst open and his sons stumbled out. He handed the reins of his horse over to the groom with a nod and turned to Glenn and Felix who were running towards him.
Rodrigue drank in the sight of them. They had grown.
“Father!” Glenn called. He was beaming, and Rodrigue found that his answering smile came easily.
Glenn laughed and sped up, easily leaving Felix and his shorter legs behind. Warmth bubbled up inside of Rodrigue’s chest as his youngest made a sound of frustration and ran that much harder.
Chuckling, he decided to meet them halfway. He had barely made it two steps towards them when Felix, trying very hard to keep up with his older brother, stumbled and landed flat on his face. The noise of distress his youngest let out caused Glenn to stop his run and turn around.
Felix was still for a moment, then he sat up.
His eyes were already welling up with tears and his whimper was loud enough that Rodrigue could hear it. But what froze Rodrigue weren’t the tears or the evident distress, but the blood on his son’s face.
Heart in his throat, Rodrigue crossed the distance between them, probably more hurriedly than was appropriate for a man of his station. He couldn't bring himself to care.
He was on the ground beside Felix in a heartbeat. After months on the battlefield, his hands sparked with magic before his knee even hit the ground. He reached for Felix’s face and his son almost leaned back, unwilling to have someone touch his hurt. So Rodrigue grasped Felix’s chin with his other hand. Felix tensed, but then relaxed once the healing magic sank into his skin.
After he felt the wound close, Rodrigue released his son.
Felix blinked at him. “Wow!” the boy exclaimed, eyes still watery with mucus on his face, but smiling. The distress and pain were gone from his expression. “That was amazing!”
He touched his face, smearing the blood, but no sound of pain left his lips, not even when Glenn bent over to poke his cheek.
Rodrigue’s heartbeat calmed, and he found himself chuckling as his sons squabbled. His hands were still shaking, but his heart felt so much lighter.
The dead were still dead and beyond his reach. Healing would not erase the blood from his hands, nor would it bring back the people he had already failed, but it wasn’t nothing.
In the future he would spill more blood—his life, position and dedication, his own personal belief, would allow for nothing less—but Rodrigue would not let it be the only thing he would do. Not the thing that would define him.
Maybe the only hurts he would be able to heal would only be the small ones. A bruise, a scratch, a scraped knee. But he would heal them all the same.
It might have been a selfish sentiment, yet Rodrigue would not let go of the pleasure he felt when he put something together, instead of tearing it apart.
He needed to look forward not back.
And so he would.