Disclaimer: Don't own anything!

Author's Note: I started reading A Farewell to Arms. It's definitely given me another way to write war scenes, so there's gonna be some of that influence. My friend got accepted into 2 out of 12 colleges that he applied to, so a great big congrats to him. It's also given me a bit of a boost since I'm still working out college essay and visits. The Art Institute of Tampa seems like a good bet, as does Flagler over in St. Augustine.

Guardian Spirit Raina: Hey, sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. I have horrible memory. I actually haven't seen the original Seven Samurai movie—it's an utter sin, I know, but it's just one of those things that I never get around to.

-/-/-

War. The dark time of valour, loss and hope where a man is controlled by his gun; where a gun is controlled by his hatred. Completely uncontrollable.
~Daniel Ha

-/-/-

It had been two years since they first heard that the human army had broken through the northwestern border and a little less than a year since they were sent to the front lines. Martel had fought at first, had insisted that Mithos should stay behind, that he was still too young despite being ten years old.

The General (Because Viren and the General are different men with the same face) shook his head, the beads clacking. "I'm sorry, Martel." And she believed it because Viren the General wasn't a man who lied. "But he has to go. He's too skilled not to send out. I have to do this for the good of everyone."

She hadn't so much as spoken to him for months after that and, when he went in for some stitches, she 'forgot' to dab to numb the area first.

Viren hadn't known that the gentle, quiet, sassy woman he'd known for a year and some change could be quite so vindictive. Yuan had just grinned and said that "Martel is good at surprising you like that."

Her hands were almost constantly painted with red now, the wounded are so many. And even though she wasn't the only Healer on duty, there simply weren't enough of them to do these kinds of healing quick enough. Myra had taught her stronger offensive spells, had made sure she could do them without thinking.

Of course, Myra had never trained her with live people who stared at you just before they died (She heard once that the last thing you see is forever etched onto your eyelids. It seems a strange thought to her because she thinks that the last thing she'll ever see is the faces of her boys because they were constantly there in ways that she doesn't want to imagine not having).

"Martel?"

She glanced up at her little brother. Only, he didn't seem so little anymore. Mithos had been growing in leaps and bounds lately and he was only a few heads shorter than her now. And there were shadows in his eyes, shadows that should never have had to be there. He was too thin as well. Not from hunger—though that was partially it. They were living on lean rations out here—but from that baby fat being transformed into lean muscle.

"You look exhausted." If that was the case, then Martel looked better than she felt. "You need rest."

"I can't rest, Mithos. There's too much to be done."

Mithos shook his head. His hair needed a cut, Martel thought absently. "Not right now. And have you been eating?"

"Shouldn't I be the one asking that?" Martel smiled and she knew it came out more as a grimace. "I am the older one."

"Then how about we both eat and get some sleep?" His smile was tired, but genuine.

"…Alright."

-/-/-

The humans had gotten too close. Some of them were in the camp. Martel could both hear and taste Yuan's lightning, like sweet pomegranate and sour plums. Mithos' magic was more subtle—most of the time—but she could still taste it, bittersweet grapefruit on her tongue. Kratos' was sporadic, but she knew his too. Gently spicy with hints of sweet.

She could hear the boots hitting the rocky ground with ease, could hear pebbles clattering and slipping, could hear the shouts of unfamiliar voices. She kept her patients calm as much as she could, particularly Tarrent, who was one of those half-elves who was older, but still looked so very young, as young as she did. Scars, pale white and thin as thread, had been traced along his face, along his cheeks, down his jaw and throat. They were old scars and Martel didn't like to think about what must have happened to him because now, whenever things got to excitable, he panicked, got his knife—small sword would be a better description—and wouldn't hold back on what he considered a threat.

(Tarrent is a good man, but his smiles are broken and sometimes, she hears him talking to the fiancée he never got to marry. "Engaged for eight years." He told her once, looking down at the ring he never takes off. "But she got killed when them humans dropped bombs in on her little village. Halen, it was called. Beautiful place. Trout in the spring and ice fishin' in the winter. 'S not there anymore. No one's there…")

The tent flap opens and Martel's grip on her staff is tight, her knuckles clenched until they're white. It could just be one of the boys, checking to make sure she was alright. But the person stepping inside wasn't anyone she knew and they're built big and there was nothing unthreatening about the broadsword in his hand.

Martel didn't think. Her staff was swinging up and her voice shouting words before she ever thought about it. Light—brilliant in the darkness of the night—speared from her staff and lanced itself in the man. Martel's stomach twisted at what remained of the man, little more than red meat and burnt bones.

There's a familiar flapping and Noishe was inside the tent, lovely silver feathers flecked and stained that terrible terrible red, hazel eyes flashing.

It took her a moment to recognize a buzzing sound as someone shouting her name as they got closer. When she was next aware of what was going on, Yuan was there, eyes crackling blue-violet like his lightning and double-headed spear in one hand.

"…rtel?"

"Yuan."

He narrowed worried eyes at her. "Are you here?"

"Yes. I-I'm fine." She'd been smart enough to take away Tarrent's knife-sword and give it to Kratos, who would know what to do with it, before all the excitement happened. "Where's Mithos? And Kratos?"

"They're fine." He assured her, though he truly had no way of knowing. They'd been fine the last time he'd seen them, up on the front lines, but that had been nearly a half hour ago. "Noishe was getting antsy and heading over here, so I came with him."

Martel refused to look at the meat-and-burns remains. She couldn't think that that used to be a person or she'd lose her stomach. "Are we pushing them back? Do you need me out there?"

People were shouting for her, people carrying or helping the injured walk, people sitting and yelling for somebody, please, anyone. Yuan shook his head. "They need you here." He kissed her cheek swiftly, easily, as they'd gotten comfortable doing to each other after so long. "I'll be back after it's over."

-/-/-

"Martel?"

He found her sitting on a boulder, arms wrapped around her stomach. The war was painted on her face, both literally and figuratively. Blood and worse were smeared in her hair and cheeks and exhaustion had created new angles of her face.

He sat beside her, setting his spear on the ground. She looked up then, but there was no recognition yet. "

"Martel?" He repeated.

Her expression cleared and she was once again the woman he knew and loved. "Yuan."

"It's over." For now, he added silently and he knew that she knew that, but there was no point in speaking about the obvious. These skirmishes weren't just skirmishes anymore. Things were getting slowly worse.

"…I saw a kid die today." Martel said quietly, voice hoarse. "Blown to pieces." Yuan swallowed his horror. Kids were the worst. "And you know the most awful part? Kid probably wasn't much older than Mithos. And he just…"

Yuan wrapped an arm around her, tugging her close. These last two years in particular had been difficult on everyone. Times had been leaner, the war too close to home. "I know." He told her, leaning his head onto hers. And really, there wasn't much more to say.

Martel surveyed the land, blasted and burning by the destructive magics and technology. She imagined Heimdall, with its wash of greens and sturdy, ancient trunks; blue streams and warm sunlight like this place. The very thought made her want to cry. "…I don't want to have to keep killing. That's not what magic is for."

Yuan disagreed, but only to a certain point. He didn't like this mass murdering, the children dead on the street, but magic was a way to fight. He knew that and he would use magic to protect these people. Even if it meant someone pain.

"Where are the others?" She asked.

"Dunno. I couldn't find them after I went back."

She whirled to look at him, jarring his head from its resting place atop hers. "You're telling me that you don't know where Mithos is?"

The fire in her eyes was rekindled. Knowing that loosened a knot that Yuan hadn't known had formed in his stomach. "Wherever he is, he's with Kratos. He's safe."

Martel relaxed a little at hearing that. Yuan was right—Kratos would protect Mithos with his life, she knew that. Yuan let out a breath and stood up, holding out a hand. "Come on. Let's go find food."

"You're not going to look for Kratos?" Martel was always surprised at how very close Yuan-and-Kratos were much of the time.

Yuan grinned at her. It lacked his usual exuberance, but some of the charm remained. "Right now, food and Kratos are going to be in the same place."

-/-/-

He was right and Mithos ran to hug her tight when he saw her. She embraced him back tightly, never wanting to let him go. He was here, warm in her arms and she could feel his chest moving with every breath. (Not like the kid…blown to pieces…a piece had gotten on her dress and she remembers screaming, or at least, wanting to scream…)

They huddled close to each other, all four of them. They stayed near the fire and the pot of stew, which was thin and watery, but they devoured it and the hard biscuits that were being passed around. Kratos was the most exhausted of all of them, his body not meant to wield the magics that it did. He leaned against Yuan's shoulder, half-dozing, but too awake to go to sleep.

One of the other half-elves sitting around their fire was staring at them. They didn't recognize him, not even vaguely. He probably wasn't part of the capital's contingent. "So you're the human in the half-elven army?"

Kratos blinked at the man, tiredness dragging at every muscle in his body with deadened fingers. "Yeah. Why?"

"Why ain't you over on the other side of these mountains with yer people?" There was bitterness in his voice, but no hatred. A compromise.

Kratos' brow furrowed in the way it always did when he was confused. "I am with my people."

Yuan tilted his head at the half-elf, a subtle challenge despite him not really having enough energy to do much about it. "He's my brother."

The half-elf frowned just a little, thinking about it, before taking another long look at them. Finally, with a reluctance that Kratos couldn't blame him for, he said, "Welcome."

Kratos managed a smile—a mere upturning of the corner of his lips, really—and held out a hand, which the half-elf shook after a moment of hesitation. "Thanks."