Deception for Solace
The moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out. ~ James Baldwin
She is everything Ermelian will never be. Anna of wherever-she-is-right-now. Anna of the Temporary Defensive Fort. She smiled at Cleon sweetly as she brought him his first drink and sashayed through the rest of his men, still dirty sweaty from patrol, handing out big cay mugs of warm beer and cider.
Cleon knows she is a favourite amongst his men, has joined in conversations about her sea of wavy blonde hair that hangs down to her waist in interwoven braids, her pale skin and the rose pink accents that the cockier men say taste sweet as buttermilk when they're kissed. As Cleon watches her he realises she looks more Scanran than many of the young men they have been fighting against since the snow's first thaw.
The last two weeks of patrol have been brutal. Cleon is grateful that he will not have to visit the infirmary tonight as the healers have informed him that the five men sent home wounded after a clash with raiding parties on the second day of riding had been discharged and would probably be in the mess hall tonight. The graves could be visited tomorrow.
Cleon called for another drink and Anna brought it over, bantering with men as she brought it to him. Despite having always believed that civilians had no place on a front line fort such as this, he had always had a soft spot for Anna. She was tall, strong and she seemed like she would just as uncomfortable in a parlour as he was. He had thought at first that she reminded him of Kel, and that had probably sparked his curiosity about her, but he soon realised how different she was.
Anna certainly wasn't a riddle that needed solving. She tumbled onto the bench next to Cleon, still carrying two frothy steins of larger, "Love, you needn't wave your hand like an over-eager boy at lessons every time you need a fresh drink. With that ginger mop I reckon I'd be able to spot you in amongst all this muck even if you weren't going on seven feet tall."
Cleon chuckled, happy she would sit with him a while as she smelt a good sight better than any of the men he'd been on patrol with. He decided to attempt some of Neal's charm and see what gossip she'd spill, "I feel like a boy at lessons when I see you Anna, you've all the sweetness of morning and bright as a pin to boot. Now you're here you'll have to stay and teach me my letters."
Anna giggled, "You'd better drink that beer before your silver tongue falls out of your head, milord. I know full well all you young knights got all of your lessons in gossip and girls by running around the palace and learning from our handsome King himself." Anna paused to poke Cleon lightly in the chest, "Then you think you can come up north and charm the knickers off any of the boondock girls you take a fancy to. Well to that I say, you can pull your head back in, drink up and at least tell me some heroic stories from your adventures in the lap of luxury if I'm going to gracing you with my company."
Cleon laughed outright at this, enjoying Anna's replying grin more than knew he should and launched into a tale about Prince Roald's first (utterly disastrous) flirtations with the beautiful Yamani princess.
Cleon was not drunk when he invited Anna back to his rooms that night. He always thought that was important, when he recalled the event. It was a decision made by a sober mind. A desperate man, willing to cling onto any happy daydream that would take it away from the faces of the three young men that had died under Cleon's command and the countless he had killed.
Undressing Anna felt a lot like undressing Kel had felt – hurried and somehow happening without Cleon having anticipated it. He was kissing Anna's chapped lips as she ran strong hands over his chest. Moments later her fingernails were trailing lightly over his bare skin, causing his muscles to tense. Cleon's lips broke with Anna's as he scrambled to pull her dress over her head, revealing supple limbs and milky skin flushed pink.
Cleon kissed down past Anna's earlobes and, for a moment, forgot.
The drug didn't last long. Those young faces rushed back as Cleon rolled away from Anna, his breath easing as the feeling of guilt leaked in. His pretty wife's face joining that of Alex, the butcher's son who Cleon had always doubted was old enough to enlist; Joss, who imagined romance into Cleon's marriage and teased his commanding officer with the arrival of any letter from home; Scifleet, whose little children had sweetly posted their favourite toys to the front line to comfort their father. Three men had been betrayed because eight years of Cleon's training held firm when he was called upon to stand and fight. Ermelian had been betrayed because he could not be the man he had been trained to be, to leave those bodies in the Black God's peaceful realms.
Cleon stood and pulled on his breeches and shirt before looking back to Anna, lying at ease on his bed.
"Don't go out just yet. It's cold outside, but it's warm in bed with me."
Cleon sat on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to grasp Anna's calf reassuringly, though it felt more an act than his brash confidence ever had. He did not feel awkward bedding Anna, but nor did he feel tender. Somehow, through the creeping feelings of guilt, Cleon knew he must hide the encroaching hardness that was developing.
He spoke softly, "I'm just going out for some air. You should get some sleep, keep your face the prettiest in camp."
Cleon bent down and brushed his dry lips against hers, stood again and fetched coins from his purse to leave on the mantle. He was unsure if he was glad or ashamed that he knew the going rate by heart. He felt wrong to be doing this in his own rooms, sneaking out of his own rooms. Cleon didn't know when he had become a man ashamed of himself.
The men on the wall did not question Cleon's late night stroll, they would not have been interested in what he had perceived as a scandal. He had heard other men say it, after one sickening act or another, after killing a man or handing a boy over to Tortall's spymasters as playthings until they spilled every secret they knew, 'The cost of war.' And it is why in every generation of Tortallan men there are many who are trapped within themselves, unable to confront the savage side of themselves.
The soldiers' graveyard is lit up by the light of the moon and stars from Cleon's vantage point on the wall. In the past year it has grown considerably, but Cleon is still able to make out the three fresh graves marked by rough headstones. They stopped holding funerals very early on. Boarder patrols could not be abandoned for the amount of time it would take to properly honour the dead.
Cleon wonders how Kel's chivalry is holding up under the injustice of refugee children being kept on the front line, if Neal's sarcasm will harden to cruelty after failing to treat enough dying soldiers, if Owen's fervour for justice has died after confrontation with the reality of war. Cleon thinks of Kel especially and wishes he had the strength of character and self-control she embodied as an eleven year old, alone in the palace.
Anna no longer reminds him of Kel, their height now the only similarity he can find between the two women. He realises, as he sees her fetching drinks for the men again the next night, that she is opportunistic in a way that belies cold instinct for profit, for survival, that many merchants would envy. But she is also kind where she needn't be and Cleon feels that perhaps, if she was offered the privileges that his own social station offered, perhaps she would be more likely to be Ermelian's ally than Kel's.
He visits Anna again after particularly gruesome patrols, taking comfort from the knowledge of another's body that he never really achieved after a month with Ermelian. And feeling the lights in his eyes go out.
This chapter comes with some homework and some questions. The homework, first, is to compare the propaganda-like war sonnet of Rupert Brooke with any of the war sonnets of Siegfried Sassoon or Wilfred Owen. The question is: How do you feel active service affects Kel's friends?
Siegried Sassoon, "On Passing the New Menin Gate", "Remorse"
Wilfred Owen, "Anthem for Doomed Youth", "The End", "With an Identity Disc"
Rupert Brooke, "The Soldier"