Liodain dreamt of war. Of an endless sea of men and their machines, meeting the remnants of the Unseen Empire. Everywhere, she heard the sounds of metal meeting flesh, the screaming of men's artillery rounds as they cut wounds in the soft earth. She dreamed she saw Nuada Silverlance, his armor shining, his sword and lance glinting in the light.
She woke gradually to pitch, suffocating blackness, in intense pain. Liodain tried to sit up but couldn't-her ribs felt like they were on fire, her head stuffed with cotton-wool.
She was enveloped in soft furs, and distantly she could hear the wind and the chirping of crickets, but the moon and stars were missing.
All around her was the faint scent of spice and smoke, a heady mixture she associated strongly with the fiery Eire autumn. But that scent was familiar in a different way, also, something more immediate that she couldn't place, but seemed important. Dry leaves and cold air…
Liodain spent long moments in disoriented silence before she heard footsteps approaching. There was movement, and for a brief moment she saw the bright stars beyond a dark figure, and the tent's curtain closed again.
There was the sharp sound of a match being struck, and the flame of a candle suddenly displaced the darkness. Slowly her eyes adjusted, and she saw an elven man. They were indeed in a tent, but it was certainly not hers: it was far too big. Big enough that he was standing upright inside it, next to her prone form.
The man's hair was short-cropped and shock white with age, and his face had a weathered, well-scrubbed look. He didn't wear the tunic and trousers of a warrior, but the long scarlet robes of the scholar. When he saw her he smiled, and sighed in seeming relief.
"Ah. My lady." He gave her a tiny, polite bow. "I am Gwydion, the Prince's personal physician."
The sound of another's voice shocked Liodain back to her senses.
"Goddess!" She exclaimed, while all the memories of the day returned with the sudden ferocity of a thunderclap. "The battle! What of the battle?"
Gwydion bowed again.
"The battle is won, Lady. Runners just reached us moments ago. A victory more stunning than the last. Now drink this-for your wounds."
The doctor sat by the edge of the cot, propping her up carefully and handing her with a small ceramic cup. She downed the sickly-sweet contents in a single gulp.
The doctor let her lie back again. The fluid burned down her throat but when it hit her stomach the pain almost immediately began to recede. Warm darkness was grasping at her again. It was difficult to focus suddenly. Liodain's eyes slid closed, then opened again abruptly.
"The Prince's physician?" She gasped.
Gwydion pulled up the long tunic gently, inspecting her bruised ribs. She was distantly aware that her wounds had been cleansed and bandaged in cloth, and her bloodied cotton garments replaced by a silk tunic. Above her, Gwydion smiled.
"Yes indeed. I was dosing off when I heard the commotion. I emerged from my tent just in time to see you nearly bleed out all over our commander. I understand we owe you our victory."
Liodain was speechless, but did let out a hiss when Gwydion put gentle pressure around the wound on her hip. He replaced her tunic, and the bedclothes.
"At least all that bleeding cleaned the iron from your wounds. Overall, thought, I'm a little shocked that you lived. Silverlance will be pleased."
"Silverlance?" She said breathlessly. Herself a mere page, and suddenly of import to the Prince himself? Yesterday she'd been dispatching the dead after the warriors quit the field, and now..?
Gwydion chuckled softly.
"Rest now. All can wait until you have slept." He said, and pinched out the candle.
Liodain fell into a bottomless sleep. She drifted, dreamless, until a familiar sound startled her awake again. From across the moors: boots on soft grass and the sharp sound of metal armor and men's voices. Her legs felt like lead, but she still managed to go to the flap of the tent and pull it back.
Beyond, the army of the Unseen was returning. The half-moon illuminated their silver armor and golden hair and ivory skin. Their weapons were sheathed, their upturned faces clean and unmarred.
At their head was Silverlance. She could see him even from the distance: he was taller than most, and the royal seal on his armor reflected the wane light like a coin in the sun. He looked tired but resolute, drenched in sweat and vibrant blood but unhurt. He was straight-backed and proud, regal without any pretense. Two days and nights of hard combat had not dimmed his presence.
Abruptly, the camp came alive. Pages and medics emerged, fires were lit. The men dispersed into the little settlement and suddenly there were voices all around. She lost sight of the Prince somewhere, but it didn't matter. He lived, and so did their cause.
Liodain slipped unnoticed through the night, though the groups of tired warriors and pages fetching water and cleaning armor. The tunic she wore was oversized enough to be modest even though she had no trousers, but she'd forgotten to find her boots. She distantly felt wet grass and cold stones under her feet, but she was unconcerned.
At last she found her tent and crawled inside, listening to the quiet sounds of a long battle won: men uttering soft prayers to the gods, washing their hands and faces, and finally going to rest. Soon only the chirping of insects and the crackling fires could be heard.
Liodain drifted, but she could still perceive distantly the sweet smells of autumn that had permeated the bed she'd left behind, and the beautiful silk tunic she still wore. Then it occurred to her where she'd first smelled that scent of spice and smoke: it had been in Silverlance's arms.
Nuada finally returned to his tent, bone-tired, every muscle screaming. He was drenched to the skin in sweat and blood and a few other things he didn't care to identify.
Inside there was a candle already lit, and his eyes quickly took in the features of his current home. There was a wooden chest for clothes and another for arms and armor. A tapestry on one wall with his family crest was the only concession to his status. Gwydion stood silently to one side, arms crossed. Nuada saw the somber look on his face, then his eyes fell on the empty bed and stayed there.
He exhaled sharply, pulling off his helm and dropping it.
"Dead?" He asked calmly, his eyes shifting to the doctor.
"Oh no, the girl lives!" Gwydion said, blinking. "I cut four bullets out of her and she bled the other wounds clean. Remarkable!"
Nuada stared back at him uncomprehendingly. The small part of his battered psyche that still functioned was grateful that she'd lived. He'd put the thought of her out of his mind during the battle as best he could, but it had been a struggle. It was never pleasant for a woman to die in your arms, and it was the sort of unpleasant feeling that lingered.
Gwydion pursed his lips. He knew what he was thinking.
"She's alive, but I'm not sure where she's gone to. I gave her a tincture for pain, and she was sleeping when I left."
Nuada's numb fingers successfully undid the buckles of his breastplate, and it fell, landing with a hollow sound on the ground.
"What was her name?" He said, stripping off his tunic and sitting to untie his boots.
"Hmm." Gwydion said. "I don't know. You'll have to ask her yourself. If you can find her."
"I'll find her." Nuada said, stretching out on his cot. It could have been his imagination, but he thought it still felt warm.
"After I sleep for about four days." He added, then set to doing just that.
