Page 41 of Fly to Fury (War of the Alliance #3)

Chapter

Twenty-Three

F ieran dragged himself through the layers of darkness, his mind foggy. He wasn’t sure how long he drifted, slowly breaking through the haze.

His bones hurt . That was the first hint of clarity. A throbbing that ached in his chest, his hips, his legs, and even one of his arms.

When he drew in a breath, it was like every inch of his body had been pummeled with a hammer. Even the weight of the blanket over him ached against his skin.

Voices spoke somewhere nearby, the words slowly coming into focus as Fieran clawed his way out of the depths of the cloying darkness.

Dacha’s voice, pained and broken in a way Fieran had rarely heard. Uncle Weylind’s deeper tones, steady and unyielding.

“Victory…”

“…changed the nature of this war today…” A heavy, ragged sigh. “…only Escarlish general…Julien…never use me as a mere weapon… ”

The mention of Uncle Julien dragged Fieran closer to wakefulness.

“Now Escarland’s generals have seen what death I can unleash. They will not soon forget.” Dacha spoke in tones made low with weary despair.

“You are under my command, shashon.” King Weylind’s voice rang hard as the blades Dacha carried. “I will never allow them to use you in a way that would break you.”

“Yet how can I refuse? Today I killed as I have never killed before to save my son.” Dacha’s voice shattered for a moment, breathing shaky.

“How can I tell the families in Escarland, in Tarenhiel, in Kostaria, that I will not do the same for their sons and daughters? I fear what I will be called upon to do before this war ends.”

“Shashon…” Uncle Weylind trailed off, as if even he couldn’t find the words to refute Dacha’s fears.

“Worse, I fear what they will ask of my children. They have seen what I can do. What Fieran can do. So far Adry and Louise have been spared, but for how much longer?”

“Adriana is not pleased to have been spared.” Uncle Weylind’s voice rang dryly. “Her commanders are growing weary of her campaign to be stationed anywhere but in the safety of Estyra.”

Dacha sighed again, but he otherwise didn’t respond. Which, perhaps, was response enough.

The sensation of light glowed against Fieran’s eyelids. He probably shouldn’t be listening to this conversation, but it hadn’t occurred to him until then, as the fogginess somewhat cleared, that he shouldn’t.

His back ached where he lay against the bed. He tried to shift to relieve the points of pain, but the movement sent stabbing agony throughout his body.

He gasped, and his magic rose within him, crackling through his limbs in a way that added strength but also burned away the last of the numbing sensation, leaving the full force of the pain behind. He couldn’t help the moan that rose in his throat.

“Fieran?” Dacha’s voice was even louder now, as if he’d leaned over. A hand settled gently on Fieran’s shoulder.

Fieran somehow managed to open his eyes, the scene above him blurring as he tried to remember how to focus.

Dacha sat on a chair beside the head of the bed, leaning over him as he gripped Fieran’s shoulder. Uncle Weylind sat on another chair beside the foot of the bed, though he stood and stepped closer.

A fresh wave of pain had Fieran clenching his teeth. He muttered something he probably shouldn’t have with his dacha and elf king uncle in the room, but he didn’t have the presence of mind to censor himself right about then.

“I will fetch the healer.” Uncle Weylind spun and disappeared out the door.

“Breathe, sason.” Dacha’s grip and tone were both firm. “Keep hold of your magic. Unleashing it will consume the healing magic faster.”

Too late for that. Fieran bit back more words as the agony somehow built. He would have writhed against it, but most of his body seemed pinned in place, as if in a splint. He cried out, his gasping breaths coming faster and faster.

He lifted the one hand he could move. “Dacha…Dacha, please…”

He wasn’t sure what he was begging for. His dacha to make the pain go away. Or hold his hand. Or just tell him it would be all right.

Dacha gripped Fieran’s hand and brushed something wet from Fieran’s face with his other hand. “Deep breaths if you can, sason. The healer will be here soon. ”

Fieran squeezed his eyes shut, more tears streaming down his face, as he tried to follow Dacha’s instructions. Breathe through it. In and out.

“My…my squadron…” Fieran somehow got the words out.

There was a long pause, then Dacha’s voice, low and threaded with something Fieran didn’t have the energy to decipher. “Alive. Your friends visited earlier.”

Fieran tried to get his mouth and tongue to form a reply, but he couldn’t manage it.

Somewhere, distantly, a door opened and shut. Then more people filled the room, sensed rather than seen as Fieran couldn’t seem to peel his eyes open just then.

A hand rested on his chest, and healing magic flowed into him. For a moment, his magic crackled to meet it, and Fieran’s mind and body felt torn as he struggled against his own magic’s natural reaction.

More healing magic poured through him in a soothing wave, and he could finally relax enough to draw in a decent breath. The crackle of his magic subsided deep within him again, no longer fighting the healer.

When Fieran got his eyes open, he found a female elf healer bending over him. She had her own eyes still closed as if to better concentrate on whatever she was seeing with her magic.

She’d pulled the blanket down to his waist, giving him his first look at the blue-black bruising covering nearly his entire chest. Starting at his waist, he seemed to be splinted and bandaged, keeping his back and hips in line. Perhaps his legs were splinted too, given their heaviness.

Behind the healer, a male human orderly in the basic green scrubs waited with a case in his hands.

Dacha had returned to his seat beside Fieran while Uncle Weylind remained in the doorway, not adding another person to the already crowded room.

After a moment, the elf healer gave a nod, opened her eyes, and withdrew her hand. She turned to the orderly. “He will need another dose of morphine as well. The magic of the ancient kings destroys the healing magic too quickly otherwise.”

The orderly nodded and began preparing the needle and dose as the healer gave instructions.

Fieran swung his gaze away from them to the wall next to him, finally registering all the pictures tacked there.

He wasn’t in the main hospital as he might have expected.

No, he recognized his brother’s artwork.

He was in Dacha’s quarters, though he had no memory of being moved there from what he assumed was the field hospital below the bluff.

He kept his gaze fixed on Tryndar’s innocent drawings as the elf healer administered the morphine into the vein in his arm.

Once that was done, the female healer poked at a few spots along Fieran’s chest, then peeled back the bandages to check the wounds beneath.

She kept nodding, as if satisfied, before she changed the bandages.

She reached over him and picked up his arm, the one wrapped in a splint. “Wiggle your fingers.”

Fieran stared at the hand. It took him a moment to remember which hand was which, but he finally moved those fingers.

“Good.” She set the hand down. Then she reached over and lifted the blanket over his feet. “Wiggle your right foot.”

Which foot was his right foot again? He had to think an even longer moment before he moved his foot back and forth.

“Now the left foot. ”

Since he’d already figured out the right foot, the left foot was easier. He couldn’t move the rest of his legs—more because of some kind of constricting wrapping pinning them in place—but he could move his feet.

“Very good.” The healer set the blanket back into place as the orderly behind her scratched notes on a clipboard.

When the healer turned, she glanced between Dacha and Fieran.

“Despite the extent of his injuries, he appears to be healing quite well. I do not see any reason to think he should experience anything less than a full recovery.”

Dacha released a sigh, the set of his shoulders easing.

Fieran relaxed against the pillow, relief flooding him. He’d been too out of it to even consider the danger of never walking again—never flying again. “How bad?” When the healer glanced at him, he struggled to get more words past his dry mouth and strangely thick tongue. “How bad are my injuries?”

He needed to know what he faced. He would walk again. He would recover. But he knew how deeply he hurt. Even elven magic couldn’t banish this in a single day.

“Two fractured legs, several broken ribs, a fractured pelvis, and a fractured arm. A small spinal fracture, but that has not damaged your spinal cord. Bruised internal organs. A punctured lung, which we repaired in the initial healing. Not to mention several wounds from shrapnel, which we removed.” The healer’s catalogue of his injuries was spoken rather briskly, as if reciting from a list. “Both you and your father experienced what seemed to be a mild exposure to that chemical the enemy unleashed, and we were able to heal the damage in both of you.”

Dacha’s shoulders tensed, then hunched, as the list went on.

Fieran swallowed. How had he survived all that ?

If he’d been fully human, he wouldn’t have. As much as he always felt too human, it seemed in this case, he’d been too much of an elf to die.

“But as I said, you should make a full recovery.” The healer tilted her head toward the orderly and the clipboard. “I believe you will be stable enough to move in a day or two, and we will send you to Aldon to finish your healing.”

Home to Aldon. Home to Mama, Louise, Ellie, and Tryndar. Home to the refuge of Treehaven.