The Real Battle
By: Manna

…xOx…

The Fire Emblem 100 Challenge!
Theme #73: “Sweat”
Starring: Serra, Priscilla
Genre: Friendship, Introspective
Warnings: Rated T

…xOx…

Battle had a tendency to leave the senses dull when the action ended, when those who declared themselves victorious held their tattered banners high in an extraordinary wave, one that spoke of the clang of swords and the fact that their men had been more fortunate than the enemy. Enemies, indeed, those who lay scattered across the ground, their broken corpses already home to insects that would feast on their remains.

Those who fought and lived slapped one another on the back, boasting of their victories as their chests puffed out with pride. How very fortunate they were to live to fight another day!

For them, the battle was over.

For others, it was merely the beginning.

The smell of sweat was never as pungent as it was in the healers’ tent, where the injured lay, the dying, writhing and groaning as their wounds seeped through makeshift bandages. Hurry, hurry, became the mantra of the after-hours. One man might have a broken arm, but another man’s legs might have been crushed beneath his own horse, and yet another might have an arrow in his side, or the tip of a javelin in his back.

Priorities were realized, but rarely mentioned. The men who were lucky enough to survive the skirmish with few or only minor injuries were called in to assist.

Hold him down, pull the arrow out of that one, and how would you feel if you were the one lying there, hurting, bleeding, writhing in agony, and all this prolonged because one soldier thought that he was above offering his assistance?

Serra sighed and brushed her hair back from her face, the rose-colored strands damp with sweat. Her legs folded neatly beneath her as she took a seat next to a bedroll. Almost as if the occupant knew she was there, a head turned toward her, the man’s forehead a mess of lines as the motion made him groan in pain. Sighing as a person who had the weight of the world on their shoulders might do, she took the time to gently brush her fingertips over his temple; he immediately fell silent, somehow calmed by her simple act of kindness.

Looking up, she noticed Priscilla standing beside her, tears in her eyes, but a smile on her lips. She looked like an angel fallen from heaven, Sain had been sure to say earlier, both of them did.

But with so many injured and still in pain, Serra could hardly believe the silly knight’s sweet words, no matter how much she wanted to.

“Sir Oswin will be just fine,” the redhead murmured, reaching down to twirl the younger woman’s pigtail around her fingers.

Somehow, she found comfort in it, enough to give her friend a strained smile. “I know,” she answered, not fully believing it, but wanting to with every fiber of her being. So many had been lucky, so lucky, but that was all it was, just plain old stupid luck.

She brushed her fingers across Oswin’s face again before she stood and left the salty air of the tent for the coolness that could be found outside the canvas walls. The moon was out, and it wasn’t long before Priscilla joined her, wringing her hands in a towel as she stared up at the glowing white crescent in the sky.

“It almost looks good enough to eat,” she said softly, and smiled again, using the towel to wipe her eyes. It wouldn’t do to let the others see how badly the sight of the injured could hurt.

“I don’t think I can eat anything tonight,” Serra replied, a harsh laugh erupting from her chest as she crossed her arms and leaned against one of the poles that Bartre had helped to drive into the soft soil.

“We were so very blessed, today.”

A small nod, a sigh, and the young woman shook her head, casting her gaze to the trampled grass at her feet. “It was so close.”

“We almost lost Sir Kent. I think that Lady Lyndis will stay with him forever, if need be.”

Her lips curved upward slightly as she acknowledged her friend’s words. It was true, so true. “If not for Sain’s flattery, I don’t…”

“It’s always hard to—”

“I… I never wanted to be on a battlefield, Priscilla. I wanted to be a real lady, one that never had to see…see this.” She gestured to her modest white dress, and the blood that was splattered all across the front of it, at the dirt staining the hem. “I like helping people, but…”

“It’s hard to help them when you know them. To see them lying there, to know their name, their face, the shape of their nose, to see that hole in their side, knowing it doesn’t belong there…”

“Sir Oswin will pull through.” This time, it was Serra who spoke the words. “He is a very determined man.”

“He’s better off than Sir Kent, and I am sure Lady Lyndis’s knight will be fine.”

The rush had died down, the dying now among the living, the injured sleeping, and the healers left to watch over them through the night, making certain that nobody rolled over in their sleep, or bled through their bandages, or went too long without water or food.

“How many more days like this do you suppose we’ll see?” She posed the question as she pushed away from the pole and stretched her arms over her head. “Ten? Twenty?”

“One at a time.”

She laughed, the first genuine one all day. “We don’t get enough credit, do we? I should get paid more to save lives, you know?”

“At least new clothes,” Priscilla said lightly, brushing her hand down her own stained garments. “Not everyone realizes it, but the work that we do is strenuous.”

“Tsk,” she answered, waving a hand dismissively as she turned to enter the tent again. They had bandages to change, cool cloths to administer, and she’d promised Sir Oswin that she would give him more of her time. “What they don’t realize is that the real battle occurs right here in this tent.”

…xOx…

Author Notes:

Ain’t it the truth?

Up Next: “An Orphan’s Life”
Theme #75: Night