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Off-days were few and far between among the ranks of the Little Palace. With the war raging on at least two fronts (just Fjerda and Shu Han, if one was generous or perhaps naïve enough to discount West Ravka), every soldier, from the most fresh-faced cadet to General Kirigan himself, was vital. Even high-ranking officers among the general's elite were seldom afforded the privilege, and when they were, it was more often than not due to rather… unsavoury circumstances.
Ivan considered getting nearly mauled by a volcra to fall squarely under that category, and while he hadn't been the one to face the beast's claws and fangs, the Heartrender had seen first-hand what those could do. He'd seen many a corpse of a comrade, torn to shreds beyond recognition, if their unit managed to even bring a body back in the first place. Volcra were quite protective of their prey, and saving one's own skin usually took precedence to bringing back a brutalised corpse just for ceremony.
The need for survival hardened one’s heart early in Ravka.
Most of the times it did, that is. Because there were exceptions- exceptions like Fedyor Kaminsky, his sweet Fedyor, who may fell three druskëlle by causing their hurts to burst and blood to squirt out of their eyes and nose without so much as a blink, but who would also place himself squarely between a ravenous volcra and the panicked young Inferni who was about to become its next meal.
Granted, the volcra itself had been small, little older than a youngling, really, having picked a target its own size as the girl floundered, tripped, and fell on her own ass, rather than go for a fully matured adult Grisha and risk being burned to a crisp, made to choke on its own breath, or have its heart ripped to shreds from a safe distance.
Of course, even small, it would have spelled certain death for the startled girl, had Fedyor not intervened. In this specific case, intervening consisted of Ivan’s idiot husband careening full-tilt onto the volcra as it made landing on the skiff’s deck, already slippery with Grisha blood, and using the contact to pinpoint the precise location of the beast’s heart and tear it apart with a few swift, skilled gestures.
However, even that had taken a fraction of a second too long, and had cost Fedyor dearly; the volcra’s jaws had clamped right over Fedyor’s left shoulder, all but tearing the limb out of its socket while its clawed hind legs kicked restlessly, gouging deep furrows onto the Heartrender's abdomen and left thigh. It had blessedly let go as it thrashed fearfully in its dying throes, but by then the damage had been done, and the skiff had barely managed to make landfall at Camp Ulensk in the westernmost side of the Fold and get a Healer, before Fedyor could have bled out to death.
Ivan himself had arrived a day later, returning from Chernast; he had been on the Northern front for two months and had more than looked forward to reuniting with his husband, but then a camp aide had rushed to find him with a dark, almost fearful expression in his youthful eyes, and for a few seconds Ivan had all but lost the world under his feet.
‘He's alive,’ the boy had hurriedly assured him when he'd seen the colour drain from the older man's face- Ivan's reputation largely preceded him among Grisha and otkazat’sya alike, and the boy must have feared for his life. Ivan had pursed his lips until they were thin and bloodless and has pushed the lad out of the way, finding his way to Fedyor by the latter’s heartbeat alone.
And what a weak, sluggish heartbeat it had been. Even with a day at their disposal, and with a Grisha’s natural accelerated metabolism at work, Fedyor looked about as lively as a cadaver. Lying isolated in the very furthest corner of the medical tent and with blankets heaped on him, his skin was about as white as the canvas of the tent as he smiled weakly up at Ivan.
“Hello, Vanya,” he breathed out tiredly and attempted to sit up. Immediately, his features tensed with pain, and he gave up on the effort. His left arm lay lax over his chest, a wide swathe of bandages wrapping around his shoulder, chest and abdomen and disappearing underneath the blankets. They were spotted red at places.
Ivan wanted to do many things right then; yell at Fedyor, shake him until some sense returned to his thick skull, heedless of his wounds, kick his ass for scaring Ivan as such, and so on.
Instead, the fearsome Heartrender sank to his knees right next to his beloved’s bedside, took Fedyor’s good hand in his with indescribable gentleness, and pressed to his lips with a breathless sigh.
“You're alive,” he murmured dejectedly, the index finger of his right hand slipping against Fedyor's pulse point almost unconsciously, out of a sheer instinct to verify the statement. “Fedya… my love, what did you do?
“She was young, Vanya,” Fedyor whispered in lieu of a proper answer, trying to excuse himself to Ivan of all people, as if Ivan would ever judge him. “It would have swallowed her whole. It was her first crossing…”
‘It’ , Ivan assumed, referred to the creature that has reduced his love to this condition, but ‘she’ could have been anyone, First or Second Army alike. Later, he would learn about the young Inferni, and he'd even be privy to witnessing her run about behind Fedyor for the next few months like a lost duckling, pledging herself to his service as payment for her life, even after Fedyor had assured her that there was no need for such extremes.
But for now, he frankly gave not a single damn about anything other than his Fedya. Letting the younger Heartrender's words go unanswered, he released the hand he was holding only to bring his together and perform a quick scan of the invalid's condition; torn shoulder ligaments, lacerations to abdominal and quadricep muscle, but no internal organ perforation and seemingly no lasting effects of any of the damage. Already the Healers at the camp had performed admirably, and most of the lacerations had scabbed over to shallow cuts, although the skin and muscle around the freshly mended wounds were still tender and sensitive. The ligaments on Fedyor's shoulder were not entirely whole yet, and Ivan assumed the Healers had not wanted to overtax the Heartrender's system by further accelerating any healing since he was now fully out of danger. He reached the same conclusion as to why the blood loss had not been fully remedied, leaving Fedyor haggard and exhausted, but alive.
Blessedly alive.
Ivan bent down and touched his lips to Fedyor's almost desperately, a man drowning for air after having been deprived of it for so, so long. Fedyor, in turn, made a small sound that sounded a lot like pleasant surprise, and parted his lips so Ivan's tongue could slip inside for the first time after two whole months apart. The relief, the sheer feeling of this being right , of the world settling on its predetermined axis rather than tilting slightly off it, almost rend Ivan in half. Still, he kept his wits about him as much as possible and brought up his hand, cupping Fedyor's cold, smooth cheek in it.
“Moya lubov,” the senior Heartrender murmured in Fedyor's mouth, and the latter chuckled softly.
“Come lie beside me, Vashenka,” he beseeched, patting the lumpy infirmary mattress with his unimpeded hand. “It's cold out there.”
So Ivan did just that; he shed his road-wrinkled kefta, his boots and his riding trousers, and slipped under the mountain of blankets only in his linen shirt and braies. Mindful of his beloved's injuries, he pulled Fedyor close and wrapped him in his arms, letting the other man squirm and huff until he comfortably settled with his head resting on Ivan's shoulder, legs tangled under the sheets and injured arm propped up on Ivan's side. Only then did Fedyor hum with an air of profound comfort and satisfaction, and relaxed in Ivan's embrace. Ivan rolled his eyes with a small, fond snort and pulled the blankets up until they were both covered to the nose.
“I missed you so much, Vanya,” Fedyor murmured once snuggly tucked in, and nuzzled Ivan's stubble-peppered neck, right under his chin. Ivan couldn't resist the overwhelming urge to close his eyes and sigh, leaning into the affections.
“I missed you too, solnyshko.” He tucked his chin in, pressing his lips chastely to the crown of Fedyor’s head. The latter's hair was silken-soft and gleamed almost black in the flickering candlelight, smelling vaguely of the Fold's acrid sands and the Healer's herbal tonics. “I'm sorry- if I'd been there with you…”
“Oh, no, don't start!” Fedyor let out a small, indignant snort, although his lips twitched into a small smile into the skin of Ivan's throat. It was so wonderfully intimate, and a sentiment familiar as Ivan's own heartbeat. “You're not my nanny, Vanya, I can hold my own in a fight. Besides, you forget… I'm the second strongest Heartrender of the Second Army. It was only bybchance that this one volcra got the better of me.”
That, Ivan thought, was true; Fedyor was in no means weak or incapable, and even against an amplified Grisha like Ivan, he'd be a formidable opponent. Volcra normally stood no chance against him, and this was only the second time throughout their long lives as soldiers that one had gotten close enough to him to tear past kefta and into skin.
Still, once was more than enough for many; the sands of the Fold were famously powdered with thousands of bones picked-clean, after all, and for good reason. The fear that gripped Ivan's heart at the thought of Fedyor, stripped of flesh and muscle, his beloved heart withering away to nothing as his skeleton languished on those cold, lonely sands for all eternity, was almost enough to choke him.
“I know you're strong- one of the strongest,” the gruff Heartrender murmured with his eyes still closed, his beloved held tight in his arms as if he were afraid the shadows would leap out of the night and into the tent, snatching Fedyor away from him. “But… I cannot help but fear. If I lost you-”
“You won't,” Fedyor cut him off smoothly, his voice firm but reassuring and full of love. “Nothing will tear us apart, Ivan. I made that promise to you the day we married.”
He had, indeed, and Ivan had echoed it. But the world they lived in was harsh, and as soldiers they had been raised by death and misery and loss; and fear of that loss had always accompanied love for both of them, from the moment they'd become old enough to realise that in Ravka, there existed no miracles, no fairy tale endings.
And yet, was it too much to think, to pray with their entire beings that the two of them would be one of the few exceptions? That they would live to see the end of this, to grow old sitting on the rickety wooden stairs of some remote porch in southern Ravka, watching the birds fly off towards the sea as the encroaching summer scented the air?
Was it too much to hope?
Before Fedyor, before the ray or warmth and sunshine that had salvaged his broken, desolate soul from nothingness, Ivan would have answered ‘yes’ without a doubt. But love had made him soft and pliant, for better or for worse, even if it was a side of him that he only let Fedyor witness. And now, hope had begun to bloom in the withering ruins of his heart.
Hope that he and Fedyor would survive. Together. No matter what.
So Ivan wrestled with his very nature and pushed the fear and the uncertainty down, down until it was (almost) out of sight and out of mind. He pulled Fedyor impossibly closer, taking in his scent, his warmth, the feel of the other man's body moulded against his like pieces of a puzzle meant to fit together.
“I promised, too,” he whispered, trailing his fingertips gently up and down Fedyor's bandaged back in a slow, tender caress. Fedyor shuddered under it, and went all but boneless in his arms, fully content.
“Then we'll keep our promises,” the younger Heartrender murmured tiredly, eyes closing until his dark lashes brushed his pale cheekbones. “But for now… I would like you to stay, Vanya. For a couple of days, until I'm fit for duty again. Please? Surely the general will allow his best soldiers the privilege…”
Ivan couldn't help but snort again, humoured by the concept and yet humbled by the idea of having to ask General Kirigan of a few days off, not because of injuries of his own, but so that he could look after his husband. Yet mortifying as the thought was, Ivan decided that Fedyor was worth it- more than worth it, always. Besides, his dearest was right; they had more than earned it, not only by virtue of being the strongest, but by keeping the front lines in any direction standing with their very blood.
Yes, Ivan thought distantly as both he and Fedyor slowly drifted into a deep, restful sleep. He was certain the general would grant them a few days off, this time.