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Of all the new soldiers to get back again, Ferre was unsurprised for Clown to be the one in his tent, betraying nothing except everything, because Ferre could read him with a glance.
Which, right now, he wasn’t giving. He was giving Clown a taste of what he should learn, what it was best to learn, right now, at his weakest. That sometimes people didn’t care. That surviving the war was only half the battle, sometimes he would come back, full of childish triumph and adrenaline, and he’d have to sit still and wait for his next orders.
Like a good little soldier.
Ferre cleaned one side of his sword, then the other. He hadn’t been there to see his prodigy be launched into the fray. He’d been in the strategy tents all day, dispatching a single assassin they’d found around the back and leaving their body for recruits not much older than Clown to clean up.
He hadn’t even thought about Clown, all day. He’d dealt with the grief early in the morning, as he made sure his armour remained undamaged, and was briefed on how their position had changed overnight. These were changeable times, in the Great War this was promising to be.
Best to get all the difficult parts out of the way now.
So, Ferre had already mourned. He’d woken up, and he’d sat on his bunk, and he’d imagined, with what little of his mind could think beyond the battlefield. Today was more likely than not the day Clown died. He was a child, after all, and a wonderful, genius, gifted one, but child took so little to kill.
Perhaps, if Ferre had been weaker, if he’d been a soft-hearted mentor, if he hadn’t seen enough bloodshed to be prepare Clown for it adequately, he’d have felt it unjust. Clown would grow to be as good as him, better, even, if Ferre had his way. If he’d been more quixotic, he’d have argued to the officers he could have argued with—and won—that Clown should be protected. He was better than the rest, he was good, he was a resource they should guard as his instincts called to protect an egg he hadn’t had a chance to make in eons now.
War took time away, from such inconsequential things as biological imperatives.
And it took time from Clown. It had taken his childhood, even if that wasn’t so much of a loss, really. Ferre was a weapon, same as the golden sword beneath his golden claws, and he saw nothing wrong with raising Clown to be the same. He’d be a good one. It would be a better life than he’d ever life as a person. He’d go down in history.
Weapons couldn’t be protected. They were there to be used, and no one cared if a sword might be made from an unearthly metal yet to be exposed, not when they could work-harden it now and reach for a new one if it snapped.
Clown couldn’t be protected, not without Ferre undermining every machiavellian inch of his reputation he’d forged like his own armour, the one that had lifted him above the ranks as he soaked his hands in slaughter with his golden wings shining like a downed angel.
Clown should learn that. Now. Before he had a chance to feel betrayed, rather than merely disappointed.
Ferre would be more tolerant, of his mentee being disappointed in him. He was disappointed in himself, sometimes, and that was all his mourning had come out to. Disappointment, at the theoretical, at himself, for failing to protect Clown, and at Clown, for not having been worth protecting.
It had only been disappointment, in the end, because if Clown hadn’t come back from a war he’d been raised for, he clearly wasn’t the boy Ferre had raised to do so. Cause and effect. A closed loop. Clown was born for bloodshed, and he’d die in it.
But not today.
Ferre breathed out, softly, and his breath dusted the reminder of his own persistent vitality across his silver-bronze blade, reflecting like molten sunlight under the lamp hung from the centre of his tent. He angled it, and wiped it down. It was long since clean of that assassin’s blood. This was nothing more than his own ritual.
“Ferre.”
There was his Clown. Brutal. Demanding. Work-hardened, just like they’d wanted him, and in some way, all Ferre could think was that now it would be near-impossible to chip through that shell, and find out if there was anything beautiful underneath.
His bitter smile reflected in his sword, as he set it down, and flipped the protective cloth back over. He could afford to be careful, with his weapons.
“Clown. You’re back.”
“Yeah. I’m back.”
Ferre looked up. He looked at the wall of his tent, undecorated, because there was no space for such frivolities as that, in war. He’d been the one to bring Clown’s comforts, because no officer would care for explanations, no matter how patiently or threateningly Ferre offered them, when they came back to the plainly ridiculous idea of letting a meaningless teenager take his collection of trinkets with him to a battlefield.
Ferre would only have done it for Clown. Because he knew Clown, knew what he could do. There was little Ferre wouldn’t have done, to get Clown to the front lines. If he didn’t have his trinkets, if he didn’t have comfort, if he didn’t have recognition, his talent would be wasted.
Sometimes, Ferre wondered how many other diamonds in the rough there were. How many other kids were like Clown, and had no dragon general to bring their childhood toys for them.
It made him smile, in the way he always had, when something proved a type of difficult he couldn’t run a sword through. Ferre didn’t care, if life wasn’t fair. He had what he wanted and it called to something sadistic in him, to take brutal satisfaction in the unworthy not having the same luxury.
There was no fairness, out here. Oh, the monarchs would say there was. Everyone died equal in the mud, or some equal bullshit. But only the kids who weren’t old enough to ride a horse died down there, and only the idiots who couldn’t afford armour died at all, and only the ones who went out first even had a risk of it, and it was just bodies, last in, first out, and none of it was fair. There was no way back, from the front lines, and no way out of the fast-track there.
That was what he liked about Clown, in a way. Clown didn’t want to break the system. He’d have been happy to be shuttled straight out there with a layer of leather padding and a short sword, and Ferre still had faith he’d have come back alive. Clown didn’t protest the unfairness, because he was the balancer. He was the thing that broke the mould, whether he cared to or not. The shining example that kept the rest in their place.
“How was it?”
Clown’s armour creaked, as he shifted. It didn’t clink. Wasn’t silent, like Clown usually was.
Ferre couldn’t quite explain the dissonance, between Clown the boy, who moved like a cat and sat cross-legged on the floor of his tent to dictate him his books in his monotone, and Clown the soldier, who stood in armour clearly too caked in blood to even sound like metal, and demanded Ferre’s attention like a microcosm of the war itself.
“Loud.”
Both were his Clown. Ferre had created both, in a way. Clown hadn’t known how to be a child, when Ferre had found him, hadn’t known how to be anything. So Ferre coaxed him in two, gave him somewhere safe to be himself, and gave fuel to the embering fire that burnt painfully in his chest. A child, and a weapon. And Ferre could have both.
“I’ll bet.” Voice quiet, Ferre turned around, and leaned back against his workbench. He raised one eyebrow. “How were you?”
Clown looked like hell. Like he’d just come back from it, more like, and Ferre didn’t think it as an insult. To look like he’d seen that much shit meant that he’d seen it and lived to tell the tale. Ferre would never be one to look down on a war wound.
Still, the injuries looked so much worse, on his small form. Clown had the body of a child, lanky in odd places and a little too short to command attention alone. It had been a struggle, for Ferre to find armour that would fit him. He’d had it custom-ordered, in the end, but made sure it matched the aesthetics of the standard-issue crap perfectly. It wouldn’t do for him to look like a favourite.
It would do down his image, when he emerged as an underdog miracle. Ferre had absolute faith in Clown alone, but it would be stupid, not to offer him what help could be given. And yet, if, when he rose to glory and heroism, it came out that he’d been spoilt by the greatest general that had come up until him, people might cry foul. Ferre didn’t want to damn Clown’s legend, before it was even made.
So, his gifts were disguised. Clown would win anyway, but Ferre made sure to give him a chance. Why shouldn’t he? Clown was his mentee, his prodigy, his hand-crafted weapon he wouldn’t want to see damaged unduly.
And Ferre could see his own marks, his own distinctive sun-glazed silver peeking out from under Clown’s fitted armour, providing a little extra protection to his vulnerabilities. Clown deserved to die a hero, not skewered like a rabid mutt. If someone found a vulnerability, then they’d have proven themselves worthy of it.
Clown’s gloved fingers yanked his helmet off, and Ferre watched as it slipped from his hands, and landed on the floor, disappearing behind Clown’s step.
“I survived.” Clown’s eyes were shining, a fresh sheen that only came from seeing blood, from knowing the connection between your hands and it. They were eyes that could see blame. Could see the cause of death. “I didn’t give up, and I did it. Everything you wanted, Ferre.”
And now, he offered himself, like a loyal knight to a king, and Ferre pitied his naivety. To think that special treatment was an eternal promise. The childish certainty, in Clown’s eyes, that he would never be abandoned, like there was something stopping Ferre from dismissing him right now, and letting him dull in the annuls of history.
Yet, perhaps Ferre was the childish one. To think such jealous things, such petty ideas, of a weapon he would never let go of. Clown wasn’t naive, he was more aware of himself than most of Ferre’s fellow generals. He knew his worth. He knew Ferre hoped for his glory, for both of their sakes.
That brilliant mind of Clown’s was always working, and right now, he’d decided that he was demanding a little compensation from Ferre. Ferre had been the one to put him in that battle, and now, he had to deal with the fallout. He’d crafted Clown himself, instead of letting Clown forge his own way, and that meant he dealt with the damages and the boons of his perfect weapon.
“And now you want… what, Clown?”
Ferre was daring him to demand more. Coaxing him out, into the realisation that he could. He was a proven soldier now, an inducted killer, a weapon, broken-in. He may still be a child in Ferre's eyes, but to the world, no longer. He could demand.
One day, he would command armies.
Ferre hoped he lived to see it. It would make it all worth it, to see the burning ire in Clown’s mismatched eyes levelled at battalions. To see his fist raise, clenched, and his voice, honed as it had been for the task, to yell out over countless men and bring them to order.
Clown would make a good general.
“I want…” Clown’s hands hung at his sides, listless, not yet trained to rest on the hilt of his sword, yet not innocent enough to be unaware of its presence. “I want a nap.”
“Good choice.” Ferre nodded, a hint of a grin showing through, and he closed the distance. Up close, it was more his Clown than ever, thin scars to prove his upbringing slicing through his cheeks and brows. Those unnatural eyes, raised in challenge, yet with an exhaustion that was no more than what could be forgiven, for one his age, no matter how special. “Food, too? I can get you sweet bread.’
Clown’s eyes fluttered shut, and his nod turned into a new stillness, like his joints were seizing up, his forehead pressed against Ferre’s chest. He whined, softly, and it had sounded like a mewling kitten, before his voice had begun to break. Now, it was deeper. Some part of Clown had broken forever, out there.
“Yes. Please.”
Ferre’s hand ran heavy, through Clown’s hair. He’d wanted it tied up, for battle, but it must have come loose. Perhaps it had tugged on his scalp, in that way he hated, even if Ferre was disappointed to see he hadn’t managed to find a hairstyle that made that impossible.
Now, it was down, even if it was hard to call it loose, when every strand was clumped with another. Blood, Ferre realised, as he pulled his hand away, and stared at it. It made something in him twist, in a way he hadn’t felt since when he’d had no more than Clown’s years to his name.
To realise that any being had such a potential for injury was one of the first, and worst, things Ferre had learnt on the battlefield. Everyone could bleed. Everyone could die, but that was easy to understand. Sometimes, it was worse to see what people could survive. The man with three limbs ripped off, still screaming as he was carted back to camp. The guts spilling from a friend’s chest, as they eyes found yours and begged for you to do what their body refused.
“Nothing to worry about?”
“Not my blood.”
Clown’s voice was muffled by Ferre’s shirt. His breath was warm through the fabric, his blood warmer still, and his voice still had the warmth of youth.
“Good. Good work, owlet.”
Clown wasn’t an owl. They didn’t really know what he was, something with short horns that had been growing into themselves, and a tail that fought by itself, whipping with those deadly barbs through the air. It curled around his leg when he was scared.
Ferre saw enough dragon in him for his instincts to coo, and enough violence to make his teeth sharpen in a grin. Clown was an unknown, but he remained everything Ferre could ever want.
Removing his hand, Ferre wiped the dark-red crust off on the grass floor, as he lead Clown to his own cot. It was familiar enough. Clown was demanded, more often than not, with his regiment, with his direct superior, but Ferre had strings he could pull. He’d brought Clown here earlier than he’d been meant to be, and they’d had a handful of days, just to train together and familiarise Clown with the terrain.
During those, Clown had napped in Ferre’s bed, because he hadn’t felt comfortable enough to sleep at night. Only when Ferre had been nearby, pouring over maps and reports and supply orders. Then, he’d knocked out cold, one arm, leg, and tail drooping off the side of the cot, his face visible as his breathing stayed regular and smooth. Calming, Ferre had found. Clown didn’t make a bad roommate.
Ferre was already wording the order to request Clown to himself for a few more days, as he stroked down his mentee’s back, guiding him to unfold his tightly-wound joints and lower himself to the soft blankets Ferre had kept just for him.
Clown was a difficult sort of weapon to take care of, at times. A little too honed, if Ferre could say such a thing. Difficult to cleanse of the blood, when he didn’t want to let go of it.
He’d need to learn to do that. To wash off, so his blade could stay sharp. There would be no getting rid of some stains for good, but Ferre would be remiss, to let him think he could wear the dirt like trophies. The real things to be proud of would survive soap and water. Those would be the scars he should remember.
But, less literally, Clown needed to unwind too.
Ferre ran his fingers along the edge of Clown’s hair, where the blood wouldn’t catch, and caught his eyes instead, blinking up at him like the bird he’d been nicknamed for.
“I-“
“Shush. None of that, owlet. Save the kill counts and the war stories for the morning.” Ferre bent down, as if to kiss Clown in some parental display of affection, but his thumb merely wiped away a smear of blood from beneath his eye. “It’s a good start.”
“You don’t even know what I did…”
Clown’s eyes closed, again, and Ferre moved his touch down and back towards Clown’s hair, swiping under his ear. Avoiding his neck.
“I don’t need to. You came back.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s enough. For now. It’ll get harder, but-“ Ferre sighed, and it came out a laugh, because it was hard for anything he did not to be tinged with a little joy, when Clown looked so calm, wrapped in his blankets. “But you’ve done good. First try.”
“First kill…”
Clown’s lips twitched, and a real smile was such a rare thing from him. Ferre had learnt to treasure it, to store the memories in the soft part of his mind that refused to callous under the endless bloodshed. He had little to fill it with, apart from Clown.
“Proud?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Patting Clown’s face in an over-affectionate way that never failed to get a noise of protest and flushed cheeks out of him, Ferre kneeled down fully beside the cot. It was a comforting position, when Clown seemed this wiped out. He’d probably want the assurance that Ferre was near more than usual.
“Sleeping now…”
“Good plan. Want some time off?”
Clown’s face screwed up, and it was there, in that tiny motion, where Ferre knew something was right. If the idea of being away from the atrocities he’d been thrown into too young put such disgust on his face, then he’d found what he was meant to do. Ferre had been right.
“No.”
“With me. I’ll introduce my little soldier.”
“I’d… rather fight, Ferre.”
Clown’s eyes slipped down him, clinging to Ferre’s face earnestly, and childish desire radiated from his bloodstained sincerity. He didn’t want to be parted from his new playground.
Really, Ferre couldn’t have expected anything less.
“Well, if you want, owlet.”
For Clown, Ferre was no hard-hearted general. He wasn’t a dragon of myth who enemies quail to see emerging from the smoke, wings carving through the thin mist of blood that seemed to evaporate in the heat of the battle. He acquiesced, for the boy trembling under his hand, wrapped in his blankets, soaked in other people’s blood.
“Thanks.” A smile wavered on Clown’s lips, as his body wavered between the need to stay awake, to be ready to be thrown back into the trauma he’d suffered, or to take the rest while it was offered. “Not... today, though…”
This would be his life now. Waiting for the next blow. Always ready to lash out, to defend his title. He’d carve out a name for himself, but it would be gruelling work.
Clown was strong enough for it.
And, at the end of the day, he could be Ferre’s baby owlet again, and drift into the last peaceful sleep he might ever have.