"Would you tell me a story?"
It's the kind of question that Philo would usually dodge. He knows that no answer he could give Portia would do anything but hurt her, so most of the time he changes the subject. Looks away. Pretends he doesn't see that she's unhappy, because he knows that whatever pain his refusal causes her is nothing compared to the pain brought on by the kind of stories he could tell.
But today is different. She's not asking for entertainment, for some idle talk to fill the silence on nights when they lie side by side in bed, naked beneath the sheets. It's late afternoon, and they're in the kitchen together on one of Philo's rare days off. They sit across the table from each other, a bowl between them as they peel potatoes. It's warm and quiet and Philo knows he should refuse, that saying yes would ruin this little shred of peace. He knows this, but he had a nightmare last night. He woke up before dawn with the sound of shells exploding in his ears and the taste of blood and gunsmoke in his mouth, and for the first time he can remember, he wants to say yes. He wants to tell her a story.
"All right then," he says. He keeps his eyes carefully trained on the task at hand, the slippery vegetable and the knife he's holding. He doesn't look up to see the suprise he knows will be all over Portia's face. "What kind of story?"
"Whatever you want," she says, like she never expected to need an answer to that question. "Something about your life. Something that's stayed with you."
He's quiet for a moment. He finishes peeling the potato in his hand and drops it in the bucket of water to keep it from going brown. Picks up another one from the steadily shrinking pile on the table.
"It was '63, I think," he begins. "March or April. I remember it was rainy season. My unit was stationed with the main force in High Bresail for a couple months, then we got orders to head south, up into the Highlands. Problem was, the only way through the mountains was Blakewell Gap, and the Pact held that. Word was they'd moved through and left the valley empty once the Burgue started advancing south, but we hadn't had any reports from there in more than a year. We weren't quite sure what we'd find, so when we got up into the foothills a couple of us went on ahead to scout things out while the rest of the unit made camp. It took us maybe a day's hike to get into the valley. Terrain was no good for horses, so we left them back at camp. Rain finally stopped- it'd been pouring for days before that- but then overnight this fog rolled in, so thick you could barely see five feet ahead. Anoun's a strange place. Beautiful, landscapes like you've never imagined, but unpredictable. Hard to navigate in the best of times, let alone when you're walking through the middle of a cloud. Took us less than a day to get completely lost.
"The fae call that valley the Forest of Stone in their language. Didn't realize why until I was standing in it: the whole valley's full of these great rock spires, tall as trees, just sticking straight up out of the ground. The fae who named it were right, it's like a forest, but dead silent. No leaves, no animals. Nothing grows there. It's eerie. Didn't take long for us to start panicking, thinking we saw things off in the mist. Finally Darius got the idea to have one of us climb to the top of one of those pillars, see if we could get up above the fog and have a look around. All we needed to know was which direction the entrance to the valley was so we could find our way back to the rest of the unit. I've got a good head for heights, always have, so I said I'd do it. We didn't have any ropes or anything, so I just started climbing. Nearly gave the others a heart attack to see me so high up, I think, but I didn't fall.
"I was barely at it ten minutes before I looked down and realized I couldn't see the ground anymore, the fog was too thick. Couldn't see the top either, but I thought it looked brighter up above, so I kept going. Just below the top I grabbed hold of something sharp. Cut my hand. Didn't know what it was at first, thought maybe I just got hung up on a bit of broken rock. But it was barbed wire. Don't know how the bloody Pact managed to get barbed wire up that high, but they did it- maybe they got help from a couple fae who didn't mind hurting their own kind. Because that's what the wire was for- I could see it then, the fog was thinner up there and there was a bit of wind, cleared things out, and I could see there was this net, a barbed wire net, strung out between the rocks. Couldn't make out how far it went, but must have been at least a mile across. And caught in it-"
Philo hesitates here, the words catching in his throat, before he brutally shoves the horror away and forces the words out.
"Caught in the net there were fae. Dead. I'd heard stories about the Pact, this strategy they liked. Wasn't sure if I wanted to believe it. Wanted to even less once I'd seen it for myself. See, they pick a spot, a tight one, kind of a bottleneck. A place they know a group of fae is going to have to pass through, like the valley. It's the only pass through the mountains for miles. They string up barbed wire overhead, then they just sit and wait, and when the fae come through they start shooting. Best way for a faerie to win a fight is to get up in the air, so when they're attacked their first instinct is to fly- right into the wire. Then the Pact can come through with sharpshooters and pick them off one by one. Like sitting ducks."
Portia looks horrified. Almost crying. Philo wonders if he should have kept quiet, but it's too late to stop now. He doesn't think he could.
"I don't know how many of them were up there. More than I could count, anyway. Not soldiers. Refugees, I think. Some of them..."
He stops, because he's already said too much. He's sure this isn't what she had in mind when she asked for a story. She doesn't want to hear that the bodies had been up there a long time and that the vultures had been at them, tearing at blackened skin and picking out eyes. He knows he won't ever forget the way intestines look when they've been hanging out of a dead woman's shredded belly for weeks, rotted and dripping, and he doesn't want to put the image in anyone else's head. Especially not Portia. She doesn't want to know that he and the other soldiers had been smelling rot for days but hadn't been able to figure out where it was coming from, or that some of the bodies were far too small to be adults. That some of them had been carrying little bundles in their arms, and that he'd seen tiny hands and feet and bloated gray faces peaking out from between the blankets.
He realizes his hands are wrapped so tightly around the knife he's holding that the handle is biting into his skin. He forced himself to loosen his grip and set it down on the table. He straightens up, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat, and shakes the memories loose.
"It was clear enough up there to see where the mouth of the valley was. It was only about a mile off. Turned out we'd been going around in circles for hours. I went back down and told the others what I'd seen, and we went back to camp. Gave the report. Moved out the next day. Fog still wasn't cleared, so we couldn't see anything, but we all knew what was hanging above our heads. It was a long march through that valley. Don't think I've ever been happier to leave a place behind."
It takes him a moment to gather the courage to look up once he's done. He doesn't want to see the horror on her face, or worse, pity. He peels another potato and drops it in the bowl, then finally lifts his gaze to meet her eyes.
"Philo," she says, and there are tears in her eyes. His throat tightens and he finds he can't say a word in reply. His punishment, maybe, for saying too much. For hurting her. "That's terrible," she whispers. "I'm so sorry, Philo."
"It's not me you should be sorry for," he mutters, looking away. "I came home. I still had a home to come back to." That's more than can be said for most of the fae. He's reminded of that fact every time he passes the war memorial in the city center, carved with the names of Burgishmen whose whose bodies rot beneath the blood soaked ground of Tirnanoc, far away across the sea. There are too many to count, but not one faerish name is on that list, despite the fact that more fae died in the war than Pact and Burguish soldiers combied. He thinks of that every time he sets foot on Carnival Row, sees the refugee ships crowding the harbor, or catches sight of a pix with short brown hair out of the corner of his eye and wonders what might have been. Wonders if she's still alive out there, somewhere.
A gentle touch on his hand brings him back to the present, and he realizes he's gone still and silent for too long. It used to happen far more often when he first came home from the war. The first couple of months, before he started working at the constabulary, he would sometimes sit for hours, not making a sound, staring at nothing, thoughts lost and wandering over a battlefield that he'd left behind. It happened less and less as time passed, and now the memories mostly confine themselves to his nightmares. But it seems that his storytelling brought on a relapse, and Portia is looking at him with concern in her eyes.
He tries for a smile. It's a small, weak thing, but it's there, and Portia smiles in return.
"I'm glad of that," she says, squeezing his hand. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too," he says quietly, trying hard to mean it. Portia smiles and goes back to peeling potatoes, and after a moment he does the same.
Philo repeats the lie to himself as he works, turning it over and over in his thoughts. I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad I'm here. The kitchen is quiet again, quiet and warm, lit by the soft orange glow of the afternoon sun in the window. It's peaceful, and Philo thinks that someday, the words won't be a lie anymore.