No. 8: Overcrowded ER & No. 9: Mistaken Identity

Nikolai slipped in the mud and went down, narrowly avoiding a sniper's bullet through the skull. The battle which had been raging for hours now had drenched the already damp ground in blood, turning the mud into a sickening sludge that sucked at boots and clung to everything. He fumbled with his pistol, which had gotten clogged after another fall. Frantic, he shoved it back into its holster and searched for another weapon lying in the muck. His leg gave out again—he'd taken some shrapnel from a nearby explosion, and he landed on his side with a wet splat. Gritting his teeth, he tried to push himself up again.

All around him, gunfire and screams peppered the air. Nikolai twisted in search of his regiment, but then a sharp pain punched through his shoulder, knocking him flat on his back. He lay in the squelching mud, body rigid from the shock of the pain, his lungs seized up. Sounds became muffled, then distant. He wondered if he was going to die out here. He wondered if his family back in Os Alta would even mourn him. Nikolai Nothing, spare son to the king and queen. Vasily would be pleased.

The world narrowed to a haze of pain and misery, until the silence was broken by scuffing sounds. Nikolai was too out of it to fully register the men bending down beside him. They wore the olive uniform of Ravkan soldiers, at least, and when they discovered he was still alive, they called for a stretcher. Nikolai tried to open his mouth to speak, but his throat wouldn't work.

Men came, and he was roughly dropped into a stretcher and then carried into the infirmary tent, which was already overcrowded with wounded. Someone gave him a cursory look-over and then barked for him to be put in the back. He was unceremoniously transferred to the floor and left there. A moment later, someone came and tied a hasty bandage around his leg and shoulder, but that was it.

The moans of the injured and the stench of blood and sweat and suffering was cloying, almost worse than the gruesome field of battle. Nikolai wanted to get out of here, wanted air. But he was too weak to move and the few times he called out for someone, he was ignored. And so he lay there, once again lost in a miasma of misery and waiting for death.

"Nikolai!" a voice pierced the pained fog.

Nikolai couldn't open his eyes but he instinctively lolled his head toward the familiar sound.

"Get a medic, now!" Dominik bellowed.

"Mind your place, soldier."

"This is Nikolai Lantsov!"

There was a beat of uncertain silence, then a rush of movement, and Nikolai felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher again.

"We thought he was a common soldier," someone said plaintively.

"He's not," Dominik growled.

"His uniform is sullied beyond recognition," someone else said in explanation.

"It's fortunate none of you answer to me," Dominik replied tersely.

Nikolai was laid on a hard surface, and then several hands were pulling at his clothes and running wet cloths over his mud-caked skin.

"Hang in there, Nikolai," Dominik whispered in his ear.

He had no energy to respond or even open his eyes. He was only vaguely aware of the activity around him, the manipulation of his limbs a distant, detached sensation. When they started on his wounds, however, the surge of pain finally sent him over the edge of oblivion.

When next he regained awareness, he was lying on something soft, and there was a heaviness on top of him. It took him several moments to orient himself and realize they were bandages and blankets. He struggled to open his eyes and found himself in one of the commander's tents.

"Hey." Dominik was suddenly leaning over him.

Nikolai blinked at him lethargically, trying to focus enough to make sure his friend was okay. "Thought I was done for out there," he finally rasped.

"So did I." Dominik picked up a tin cup and held the rim to Nikolai's lips.

The water was cool and his throat was parched, but he choked as he tried to gulp it down.

"Easy," Dominik coaxed. "A Healer from the Second Army has been summoned. Just lie still until they get here."

Nikolai grimaced as the pain of his wounds began to make themselves known again. "Are you in dereliction being in here?" he asked worriedly.

Dominik snorted. "No. After I saved the captain from being responsible for losing the prince, I was given charge over you until the Healer heals you."

Nikolai let his heavy eyelids slide closed again. "Good. Don't want…you out there…without me."

A warm hand settled gently on his shoulder. "Same here."

"You were always more of a brother to me than my own blood," Nikolai murmured.

Dominik leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Nikolai's brow. "Rest, my brother."