An enormous thanks to makapedia, chaoticlivi, and rebornfromash for betaing this for me. I cannot thank them enough. This is a fic that was born of hard times, but under pressure, diamonds are formed, and I hope you enjoy it. Please read and review. Submitted for Resbang 2016.


CHAPTER 1

Wes sat down next to his brother with a heavy thud. The elder brother handed him a small metal bowl full of something steaming and brown, and he began to wolf it down before he could really think about what he was eating.

"Always stuffing your face there, Eater?" asked Harvar as he sat down across from him, wearing an inscrutable look.

He rolled his eyes over the top of the bowl, but didn't answer. Ox sat down on his other side, carrying his own dinner and a bottle of whiskey for the group. Kilik reached for the bottle with a nod, and Ox passed it to him.

In another world, another lifetime, the brothers would not have known the men around them. He and Wes were the sons of a nobleman, destined for diplomacy and travel. Kilik had been a blacksmith's apprentice, arms thick with the knowledge of many hammers. Ox was a scholar at the university in the capital, and his frame had the look of a man who had lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time. He didn't know what Harvar had done to occupy his time before the war, but something about the faraway look his eyes took on every once in a while had prevented him from ever asking.

Before the war. It seemed like ages ago and seven leagues away; the petty squabbles of the kings around them had faded to a dull buzzing, like the horseflies that plagued the soldiers in the fields. The war had claimed countless lives and hundreds of acres, hills of carcasses dotting the landscape, a swath of corpses stretching in the wake of the armies' waves. All efforts of the country had turned to the way, all able-bodied peoples recruited. The villages they passed through were haunted only by the thin, wraithlike bodies of those afflicted with illness or injury. The soldiers would swoop down on a village like an eagle and carry off anything they could: horses, carts, spare tools, and every scrap of food. The war was like an open wound on the country, bleeding it of all its resources.

He used his grimy finger to scrape the edges of the bowl, looking for the last drop. Kilik hit his shoulder with the bottle of whiskey, and he paused to take a swig.

"Save some for me," teased Wes.

He snorted into the bottle and took another gulp out of spite, then passed it to his brother. Wes's smile was shadowed by the dark circles under his eyes and the deep hollows of his cheeks.

Ox chewed thoughtfully, though there was no need; the stew was devoid of any meat. "I just don't understand," he said, and Harvar groaned. "No, I truly don't." Ox sounded peevish. "If the country is in such dire need of mages, why would they have a test that prevented some from joining the army as such?"

"Ox, just accept that your magic wasn't powerful enough," said Kilik with a clipped tone. He too had not been accepted as a mage for the army.

It was well known that being a mage granted far more protection than being a foot soldier in the king's army: the mages were often on the back lines, casting spells and performing enchantments from behind rows and rows of those with no magical aptitude. Those adept with healing magic were most coveted, and protected even further; they did not even see the battlefield until the corpses began to smell. Wes had been tested for magical ability when he and his brother were first forced to enlist, but despite having had enough magic to Charm every person in the village into his bed, it apparently wasn't enough to spare him from the front lines. He had had none at all, and wondered sometimes if Wes had dampened his own abilities to go with him into the army, though he always dismissed these thoughts. Wes had never hidden his talent at music when it was clear he was incapable of matching his talent; why should he do so now?

"Weapons check," came a delicate voice near his ear.

Despite a few wolf whistles directed her way, the weapons expert Tsubaki stood tall and proud behind him, hands clasped gently in front of her. Though Wes and Ox ogled her slightly, all the men around their campfire handed over their weapons without complaint. Her gentle demeanor hid an expert eye and extraordinary skill with weapons of all kinds. Even Kilik, who had forged his fair share of swords, admitted this. She held each blade and weapon aloft, eyes searching for the smallest imperfection, and applying oil and whetstone as needed. She lingered over Wes's knife, as always - it had been their great-grandfather's, and it was a work of art, delicate etchings carved into the blade and precious stones affixed to the handle - but like always, she passed it back without a word of praise.

"You are too forceful with your swings," she admonished Kilik, her slightly accented voice carrying over the calls of the men behind her. "Be careful to not hit a shield too hard; I will no longer be able to fix it. And you," she said, addressing him. "You must be careful. Your blade bears all the hallmarks of a man too willing to step in front of a sword."

He nodded, quailing slightly under her steady gaze. But without elaborating, she moved on to the next fire, a gentle "Weapons check" floating through the air back to them. Some of the men made a proposition to her, but none dared lay a hand on her; there was a multitude of blades hidden within her garments, and she had already proven she would not hesitate to remove a finger if the owner had offended.

"Would that there be more pretty faces like hers down amongst the rabble," said Wes, leaning back and putting his feet closer to the guttering flames.

The younger brother looked around. There might have been pretty faces had it not been for the near constant starvation and exhaustion that plagued the soldiers. There were women who fought as well, but everyone was almost indistinguishable, faces dirty and gaunt, hair stringy and limp. A cough had recently ravaged their numbers, and left the surviving soldiers weak and shivering. As they marched across the countryside, they often had to leave the sick on the side of the road, coughing up blood and stripped of their shoes and weapons.

It was a slow march towards death, and he took another swig.

After an hour or so, Wes, arms crossed behind his head, began to sing one of the songs their mother had never approved of, a song about a man missing his beloved and looking forward to what activities they'd get into when he returned. It was one that the other soldiers knew well, and soon the voices around their fire chimed in, and those at the neighboring fires rose to join them, and soon the song drifted throughout the entire camp, resonating among the many tents.

Well I had a girl and she had me

And we lived together in our merry way

But when I had to leave she cried me to sleep

And sent me along with naught but to pray

But as I did sleep she came to me

As a dream down the river of wine

She carries two bowls of sweet milk and h'ney

And her hair is held up by gold twine

And she brings me berries all stained on her lips

And a pie baked golden and brown

And my bonny wee baby she bears on her hips

And on my head she does place her wide crown

The bottle made its way around the fire, and then another appeared, its contents sloshing as it was passed from hand to hand, soldier to soldier, men and women who knew their lives could end tomorrow, who chose to drink and sing by the dying embers and pretend that there might be more ahead.


Many of their lives did end the next day.

Before dawn, there was a scream at the edge of the camp, and a trumpet call soon after, rousing the soldiers, high pitched and urgent. His eyes shot open, and any lingering alcohol in his system was washed away by the flood of adrenaline pounding through his veins, blood loud in his ears. He grabbed the weathered scythe they had seized from a farmer many weeks ago and sprang from his bedroll. The camp was in chaos: soldiers ran between the tents in various states of undress, some clad in armor, some wearing only cloth. Kilik was nowhere to be seen. Ox and Harvar were standing back to back, already ready for battle.

He was about to shout for his brother, but the words died in his throat as Wes appeared from one of the tents. His blue eyes matched the sky above, laser focused on his younger brother as he drew his cloak around him. "Stay with me!" he shouted, drawing his sword.

The enemy had struck without warning; there were no battle lines, only a seething mass of warriors undulating like waves. He followed his brother, eyes darting left and right. It was almost impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Both armies had barely any standardized flags or armor left; most soldiers on both sides wore haphazard collections.

Ox and Harvar disappeared into the crowd. The elder slashed at a man's back, and the younger drove his scythe into him as he fell. The tip of his blade stuck a bit in the blond man's ribcage, and he struggled to release it as Wes leaned over and relieved the corpse of the shield it no longer needed. "In formation!" cried Wes, and he fell into step with him, ducking behind the shield to avoid blows dealt by oncoming soldiers and whipping his scythe out behind Wes's back into their sides.

He had to blink the perspiration out of his eyes several times; the early morning sun was rising hot and high in the sky. He could see rivulets of sweat drip down Wes's neck and stain his shirt.

A woman with long, scraggly hair and blackened teeth attacked Wes and managed to drive her knife into his sword arm. He yelled in agony while his brother tried to drive the blade of his scythe into her skull, but she was nimble. She charged forward, too close for the range of the rusty scythe, but Wes gave a grunt and drove his knife into her inner thigh as she passed him. A banshee scream tore from her lips as she collapsed, the ground below her stained red.

"Wes!" he bellowed over the sounds of the battle.

Kneeling, he tried to examine the wound. Wes was left-handed, so he bore his sword in his dominant hand and guarded with the other. The knife was not deep, and he pulled it out and handed it to him. "Keep on!"

Their bloody duet raged on. He felt his swings grow slower and less accurate with every blow, and the pilfered shield that protected his back hung heavily against his neck. Wes's blows were quicker now that he had just the knife, but his arm was bleeding freely. Around them, men and women shrieked and cried, attacked and collapsed. The air was thick with the scent of blood and viscera, and his boots were soaked through with it. He concentrated solely on moving forward, following Wes's lead: the battle appeared before him only in flashes. A man wearing the enemy's colors begging for mercy, one leg missing. A woman wearing a familiar shield face down in the dirt, her skin as pale white as the bones poking through her arm. A young teenager of indiscernible alignment with a pretty face save for the half that had been caved in. He tried to swallow the bile in his throat and focus on Wes, on surviving, on swinging his scythe.

A sound, unmistakable in its foreignness.

Someone was laughing. Amidst the groans and gurgles and screams, a rumbling laugh made its way to his ears. He pivoted, distracted, and a tall man stood in front of him. Long black hair hung into the man's face, almost obscuring an x-shaped scar across the bridge of his nose. His grin was wild, teeth crimson with blood.

The man raised his sword over his head, glinting in the sun. He could only stare dumbfounded.

"Watch out!"

In an instant, Wes was in front of him, shield clanging in the morning air with the sound of the blade bouncing off of it, ringing like a church bell. The man gave a sharp, harsh laugh that was more like a yelp, then brought his blade down again. Wes parried each blow with the shield, grunting with exertion. He raised his scythe, looking for an opening.

But the man was relentless, and despite his wheezing, his laughter continued. He drove his body between the brothers, chortling with maniacal glee. Wes tried to step out of the deadly rhythm, tried to gain an upper hand, tried to use his knife, but nothing seemed to be working. The man seemed to have an unlimited font of bloodthirsty cheer.

Wes clearly must have been tiring, because he did not deflect the blade well that time, and the man took the opportunity to backhand it at him again, and it cut straight across his throat.

"WES!" shrieked the younger brother. The red smile across Wes's throat grinned and gurgled, staining his front. Wes fell to his knees. The man laughed hysterically until he whipped his scythe blade through the man's neck and his head fell to the ground, his lips still stretched wide in a triumphant grin. He bolted forward, throwing his scythe to the side.

A child stepped in front of him.

For a brief moment, He was shocked that a child so young could fight in the army, their skin dirty and pale, their hair a filthy blonde, glowing pink in the rising sun. But then the child soldier, eyes dull, raised a black blade, and the young man, who had thrown away his only weapon, could do nothing but take the blow.


The sky was as blue as Wes's eyes.

He stared into it, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. He wanted to shout, to scream at the heavens above, to beg for some sort of release or vengeance or hellfire, but his chest was ruined, lungs exposed to the air and filling rapidly with blood. Turning his head allowed him to see his brother's body next to him, painted scarlet but otherwise untouched, the yin to his yang, curling towards his brother as his life drained from his body. He could smell blood, his own blood, iron heavy on his tongue, and he knew his chest gaped open, like a mouth in surprise, a silent scream to the beautiful blue sky above. A matching demonic grin to the smaller one across Wes's throat.

He would die here.

He tried to stretch his fingers to reach his brother's hand even as a darkness gathered around the edges of his vision. The smell of carrion was strong in the air. Around him, the sounds of the battle had receded, most of the soldiers lying broken on the ground. There was birdsong.

He couldn't reach, fingers scrabbling uselessly in the moist dirt.

As the world grew black around him, something moved in the corner of his eye. He thought he saw a flash of straw against the azure, and felt the tiniest of feather touches on his cheek, surely the last thing he would ever feel.


Everything felt like it was burning, a mess of red and licking blue flames.

Then it was black.

He was drifting under an endless wave, dark sludge slowly coursing over his fingers, threading into his hair, getting into his nostrils. He floated aimlessly in this cold womb, the thing that might transport him away from the living. The opposite of birth. His death.

Were it not for the bit of light hovering at the edges of his vision.

It was like a small nagging voice in his ear, an uncomfortable itch he couldn't scratch, wings fluttering that he couldn't swat away. Persistent. His chest burned.

Stay with me, commanded a voice, but why? What was the point?

Let me sleep, he wanted to say. Let me go.

Everything was black, until it wasn't.