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[Mikhail]
Three years passed with Aedion steadfastly, resolutely refusing to let himself love anyone. It didn’t work, of course it didn’t, but if he pushed people away enough times they left on their own. Lone Wolf , his captain called him, a lovingly bestowed nickname from a man who managed to see past Aedion’s arrogance and short temper.
Mikhail had taken on the role of father-figure (against Aedion’s best interests) and as much as he resisted, he found himself turning to the older man, seeking his approval.
It was ridiculous. Aedion was the best warrior in Adarlan’s army, a Demi-Fae, bastard-born son of Terrassen who should have been slaughtered on that field with the rest of the men. Now, he looked to the King’s captain for comfort.
He was sixteen, for gods’ sakes, far too old to be doing this, but when blood-drenched memories pulled him from sleep he made his way to Mikhail’s tent before he knew what he was doing. The soldier welcomed him in, eyes tight with worry, looking far less imposing without his usual armor.
What happened in the interim, Aedion didn’t know, hazy with sleeplessness. However, when he once again remembered to catalogue his surroundings he found Mikhail’s arms around him, calloused hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. Much to Aedion’s embarrassment, his arms were around Mikhail’s torso, hands bunched in his shirt, cheeks wet with tears.
It was the first time he’d been held like this since Rhoe had been alive.
Aedion moved to pull back, to apologize and salvage what was left of his pride, but Mikhail caught him by the shoulders before he could get far. “You’re allowed weakness, Aedion,” he said. “No man can shoulder this kind of life alone, and pardon my saying this but you’re not even a man grown.”
Feeling the way Aedion tensed at his words he shook his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “I mean no offense. You’re sixteen, Aedion, you’re a boy.”
Mikhail had a son, he recalled, a black-haired, gray-eyed youth only a few years older than Aedion. Perhaps the elder man saw his own son in Aedion.
“I’ve been at war since I was thirteen,” Aedion offered. He felt strangely little as he said this, it was simply a fact of his life, but Mikhail’s eyes filled with sorrow.
There was little use in mourning what was long since gone. Aedion had never had a chance at innocence, but he didn’t consider that a loss. In war, it was only a matter of time before boys became men, before their innocence was carved from their chest, their soft edges honed sharp. He said as much, too, Mikhail’s lips tightening into a thin line.
“They took your childhood,” he said, “don’t let them take your heart. I see a fire in you, I see good in you.” One scarred finger prodded Aedion’s chest, right over the rapid staccato of his heartbeat. “Do not let them put that light out, Aedion.”
These were the last words Aedion ever heard from the man. At dawn that morning he was sent on a patrol mission: when he returned at dusk only two days later, Mikhail’s son met him in the middle of camp, face grim. Aedion knew, before he even spoke, what had happened.
Sharp stones dug into his skin as he dropped to his knees and resolved, once again, that this would be the last time. He hadn’t protected himself well enough but he would, from now on, he would really, truly love no one.
-:-:-:-:-
[Kuraq]
It became much harder to not love once Aedion joined the resistance. There, he was with his own people, the rebels and sympathizers, no longer surrounded by his enemies.
Aedion and Kuraq had told themselves it was nothing. Two friends helping each other out. After all, the few women in war camps were more servants than anything, and Aedion worried that if he expressed interest in sleeping with them they might agree only out of worry that refusal would invite rape, invite violence. He would never consider it, but there were too many men who would simply force these women if they refused.
They reassured both themselves and each other that it meant nothing beyond friendship, those nights pressed close, swallowing down the other’s sounds of pleasure with a kiss.
Until another man had put his hand on Kuraq’s thigh and Aedion, without hesitation, broke his nose.
In Aedion’s tent that night, Kuraq dozing beside him, he realized he’d failed once again.
“Failed what?”
Aedion blinked in surprise, glancing over at Kuraq who was watching him closely, eyes glittering in the faint light. He realized too late that he’d spoken aloud.
“When this war started, I lost too many people. I told myself I wouldn’t love anymore. If I don’t love anyone then I can’t suffer their loss.”
Kuraq sounded amused, but there was an undercurrent of something harder as he said, “For such a brave man, that’s some real cowardice.”
“Cowardice?” Indignance flared in Aedion’s chest.
Sitting up, the blanket slipped from Kuraq’s shoulders. He studied Aedion for a long moment before he spoke again. “Yes. Cowardice. You’re so afraid of heartbreak, of pain, that you would rather live isolated from everyone.” His voice, thick with the rolling accent of the northern tribes, was gentle, and Aedion knew he didn’t intend for his words to hurt. “Is the grief of being left behind truly so much worse than the ache of loneliness?”
Aedion tried to respond. It took a long moment for the words to come. “No, I suppose it’s no worse.” He couldn’t say what else he was feeling, that he still feared losing Kuraq same as everyone else, but the warrior must have read it in his eyes. He took Aedion’s hand in both of his own, pressing it to his throat where his pulse beat steady and strong against Aedion’s fingers.
“You feel that, Aedion? I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
Now, Aedion’s hand was once again pressed to Kuraq’s neck, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood. He was gasping for air around all the blood, one hand gripping Aedion’s wrist like a lifeline. Those eyes, black in the dimming twilight, fixed on Aedion’s face in one last moment of recognition.
“I’m sorry,” Kuraq managed from the ruin of his throat. “I’m so sorry.”
He was dying, the life slipping out of him second by second, and he was the one apologizing. Aedion wanted to reply, wanted to reassure him, but before he could Kuraq’s hand loosened on his wrist, his gaze fixed on the swaying pine boughs above them, seeing nothing.
Surrounded by dead soldiers, both Adarlan and Terrassen alike, with late autumn winds whipping through the trees, Aedion cradled his lover’s body. He took a deep, shuddering breath, blood’s coppery scent filling his nose, tears cutting through the grime and gore on his face.
The anguish that tore a scream from his throat…it was no human sound.
This time, however, he knew better than to make any promises to himself. He would love again and he would lose again and he could do little about it.
-:-:-:-:-
[Ress]
With Ress, there was no time. No time for thought, for goodbyes, for mourning.
The King’s men had come out of nowhere, ambushing Aedion, Ress, and the dozen villagers they were escorting to safety.
Three villagers died before anyone even knew what happened, their blood dying the snow red. In the ensuing chaos, most of the villagers fled into the woods. Those who had weapons fought, but bone spears and old, notched swords proved no match for the steel plate of the King’s men.
Aedion didn’t have time to count the bodies on the ground. He didn’t know who was a soldier or villager, didn’t know how many of his people were safe or dead. Ress’ voice broke through the carnage. “I can handle them, go find the children!”
At his words, the two villagers still fighting ran, racing into the woods after their neighbors and families, but Aedion hesitated, glancing to his lieutenant. Four of the King’s men still stood, and if a single one survived and took what he’d found back to the King… it would spell disaster for the Bane.
“Go!” Ress tossed his head impatiently in the direction the villagers had fled. He turned back to the King’s men, eyeing up his enemies, and added, “I’ll catch up in a minute. This won’t take long.” One man scowled at the insult, at the laughing arrogance in Ress’ voice.
With a few choice words Aedion turned away, heading into the woods at a dead run. One man moved to follow and found a dagger between his shoulder blades before he took two steps. Aedion didn’t have a chance to thank Ress.
He followed tiny footprints to the base of a tree, glancing up to see four of the five children perched on various branches. Recognizing him, they clambered down and he herded them, quick as he could manage, away from the battle. “Where’s your sister?” he asked one boy.
“With ma and pop,” he answered, sounding surprisingly level headed for such a dangerous situation. “Where’s Ress?”
Aedion winced. “He’ll catch up to us later.” He will. He’ll find us, he’ll be okay…
“And my parents?”
Aedion smiled down at the young girl even as he tried to usher her along faster. “They know where we’re heading, and hopefully they can make their own way there. Right now I’m going to focus on keeping you all safe, but I can’t do that if you don’t stay quiet, okay?”
Four small heads nodded solemnly.
As the sunk sank lower the children grew exhausted, but Aedion didn’t want to stop moving. When one of the younger ones kept stumbling he perched her on his shoulders while the oldest, a boy of about fourteen, carried the youngest, barely four years old.
When they finally did stop, a rocky cave offered shelter from the wind. They risked a small fire, if only so they didn’t freeze to death, huddled almost close enough to singe their sleeves. Aedion distributed the few supplies he had left, food and furs, and settled against the stone wall, resigning himself to a long night. He could handle the cold and hunger better than a child and someone needed to keep watch.
He thought they were all asleep when two hands wrapped around his wrist. “Papa stayed to fight. Is he dead?”
Aedion glanced down at the young girl. She was whispering as though she didn’t want to wake the others, and her lower lip wobbled despite her steady voice. He smiled sadly. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Is your friend dead?”
Aedion let his eyes fall shut for a moment, stopping the tears that threatened. “I don’t know.”
Liar.
“Are the bad men dead?”
“I hope so.”
Without another word the girl clambered into his lap, tucking herself into his chest. Aedion sighed, wrapping his arms around her in as comforting a gesture as he could manage. It was only when she was finally asleep that he let himself cry, silent tears of mourning for his officer, his friend.
-:-:-:-:-
[Viria]
Unlike Kuraq, unlike Ress, unlike his family, Aedion didn’t lose Viria to war. War might have been preferable to the wasting illness that slowly drained the life from those warm brown eyes, leaching color from her fiery hair.
It was too similar to his mother’s death for comfort. Aedion began to wonder if he might be cursed, if the gods were playing a cruel game. How much pain can one man take they asked each other, laughing, as swords and arrows and sickness and age and poison stole Aedion’s friends and family and partners.
The day I cross over, Aedion vowed, is the day the death-gods will face their reckoning.
But for now he could only wait, pressing his lips to her fevered skin, clutching her hand tight. She was barely conscious, incapable of summoning the energy to speak, but she smiled weakly when Aedion, somewhere in his long string of incessant rambling, said something amusing.
He smoothed her hair away from her forehead and she turned into the touch with a soft exhale.
Then nothing. The rise and fall of her chest had stilled.
Aedion buried his head in his hands. He had no more tears, nothing more to give his grief.
-:-:-:-:-
[Lysandra]
When Lysandra lay on that beach, scaled veins bleeding red into the seafoam, all Aedion knew was that he wouldn’t lose her. Not today, not ever.
Fuck the gods, fuck fate, fuck curses, and fuck the neverending loss. He was done with it, all of it, and he would take on Aelin herself if that was what it took to get a happy ending for both of them.
If Lysandra didn’t want him, if she wanted to live her life with another man, Aedion wouldn’t begrudge her that. As his friend, as his wife, neither mattered; what mattered was that she would be more than a memory and an unmarked grave, more than a life forfeit to a needless war.