Page 43 of Fly to Fury (War of the Alliance #3)

Chapter

Twenty-Four

P ip’s stomach knotted as she, Pretty Face, Lije, Stickyfingers, and Tiny made their way to the hospital.

Mak had offered to come along, but she insisted he remain behind this time to continue fixing the aeroplanes.

If the Mongavarians realized that Fieran had crashed, they might attempt another aerial attack sooner rather than later.

She and the flyboys had waited long enough to eat breakfast that morning, but none of them had wanted to delay more than that to make another attempt to see Merrik.

The long wooden hospital building stretched along one side of the main headquarters area not far from the elven commanders’ quarters. The bustle surrounding the building did not seem as frantic as the day before.

The troll warriors standing guard at the door let them enter as far as the desk at the front. When Pretty Face leaned on the desk and asked if they could visit Merrik Loiatir, the clerk summoned an orderly, and they were led up a set of stairs to the fourth floor and into a long ward.

Identical metal-framed beds lined each side of the long room, each of them with a wounded male human, elf, or troll. A few of the beds had curtains drawn around them for privacy while others had the curtains pulled back.

The many windows lining the room were open, letting in a fresh morning breeze that somewhat cut the scents of blood, urine, and stringent cleaners that filled the room.

Pip crowded closer to the rest of the flyboys as the orderly led them down the long aisle between the beds until they reached the bed all the way at the end of the room.

The curtain was only partially drawn, and beyond it Merrik lay on the bed, his face several shades even paler than his normal skin tone while his long hair straggled over the pillow and blankets. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling as if he slept.

Colonel Loiatir sat on a chair beside him, a book in his hands, though he stared off into space rather than at the words on the page.

The orderly paused by the curtain and cleared his throat. “Colonel Loiatir. Some of the men…er, members…of your son’s squadron are here to see him.”

Colonel Loiatir straightened, his gaze finally lifting to them as if he’d been yanked from a deep reverie. After sweeping a glance over them, he gave a nod, set his book on a nearby table, and rested a hand on Merrik’s shoulder. “Merrik. Some of your friends are here to see you.”

Merrik must not have been as deeply asleep as Pip had assumed, for he stirred at his dacha’s touch, his head turning and his eyes opening.

As Merrik’s gaze drifted past his dacha to lock on them, his eyes widened, something almost like panic, maybe even horror, twisting his expression. He shook his head. “No. No, I do not want to see them. No. Make them go away. ”

Pip blinked, her feet rooting to the spot. What was wrong? Why would Merrik refuse to see them?

Colonel Loiatir sighed, patted his son’s shoulder, then stood. He strode to them, pulling the curtain the rest of the way closed behind him to block Merrik from their view. Or perhaps block them from Merrik’s view. She couldn’t be sure which it was.

Lines grooved through Colonel Loiatir’s forehead while dark circles ringed his eyes. With a burdened set to his shoulders, he seemed to have aged overnight in a way elves only did toward the end of their lives.

“What—” Pretty Face began, but Colonel Loiatir shook his head.

After a glance over his shoulder at the curtained area, Colonel Loiatir tilted his head toward the aisle the way they’d come. “Not here. Come.”

Pip hugged her arms to her stomach as Colonel Loiatir strode past them and led the way back through the ward. He only paused once he stood in the stairwell, out of sight of the ward.

“What’s going on?” Lije glanced from Colonel Loiatir to the door to the ward, hunching his shoulders as if to appear smaller. There was something hurt and confused in his tone.

Pip braced herself. Something must have been terribly wrong if Merrik didn’t want to see them, his friends. She should have let Mak come along. She really could use one of his hugs.

And then Colonel Loiatir told them, and his statement had Pretty Face muttering words under his breath that Pip had never heard from him before.

Tiny faced the wall, pumping his fist as if to punch it before he halted himself just short.

Stickyfingers clenched and unclenched his fingers on his crutches, his eyes just a bit too wide while Lije just kept shaking his head as if to deny what he’d just heard.

Pip blinked and swallowed, fighting a losing battle against tears that rose all too easily to the surface.

As the others turned to go, trudging down the stairs with even more burdened steps than the ones that had carried them there that morning, Colonel Loiatir held out a hand to her. “Miss…”

She turned, swiping at her face to try to conquer her tears.

“You saved his life yesterday.” Colonel Loiatir met her gaze, not flinching at the sight of her tears. “Without your help, I never would have gotten him out of his aeroplane before he bled out or the engine exploded. Linshi.”

He didn’t say it, but in the latter case, he likely would have died as well. He never would have left Merrik’s side to save himself.

All Pip could manage was a nod before she turned and followed the others down the stairs. It didn’t feel like she’d saved him. All she could see was him lying there. And after…

She cried silently as she stumbled down the stairs.

The Half-Breed Squadron would never be the same again.

“Your friends are here.”

Dacha’s words and gentle shake to his shoulder brought Fieran out of the light doze he’d fallen into after the nurses had come by to see to his needs and wrestle him into a shapeless hospital gown. A rather exhausting and humiliating experience .

He blinked his eyes open as Pip stepped into the room, her arms hugged to her stomach, her face drawn.

He had some vague sense that she’d visited before. But it might have been a drug-induced dream. Most of yesterday was shattered pieces of things that might have been memories or might have been hallucinations. He couldn’t be sure.

“Hey.” He smiled, hoping the expression reassured her. It didn’t feel quite right with the way the bruises puffed his face.

She worked up something like a smile, though her eyes flicked from him to Dacha sitting in the chair beside him.

It was an act of courage on Pip’s part to visit Fieran with his dacha sitting right there. Fieran had better distract her before she froze up completely.

“Dacha, do you have that shrapnel piece I wanted?” Fieran thought he’d asked for one somewhere during that half-remembered healing in the field hospital.

Dacha reached down and picked up something off the floor. He handed it to Fieran, his eyebrows raised as if he wondered why Fieran would want a piece of the shrapnel that had nearly killed him.

Fieran took the piece, which was about ten inches long and appeared to be some part of the metal of the engine mount. Thankfully, someone had cleaned up the blood and gore so it was bare metal. This would have really been an odd gesture if it had still been coated in his blood.

He held it up as if presenting it to Pip, trying to keep his tone as light as possible. “I brought your aeroplane back in one piece.” As in, it was the only piece left.

Dacha’s eyebrows rose farther, as if he found Fieran’s romantic gestures highly suspect. Then again, Dacha had no way of knowing there was anything at all romantic going on between Fieran and Pip, so maybe that was judgment on Fieran’s friendship gestures.

Though there was that vague wisp of a memory amid all the fog…

Pip rolled her eyes, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “You know that wasn’t what I meant.” Yet she reached out and took the shrapnel.

Fieran shrugged, then winced as he remembered that moving hurt. He dropped his hand back to the blanket.

The smile dropped from Pip’s face as she glanced at the open doorway, focusing on something or someone Fieran couldn’t see. “The others are here as well. Are you up for seeing everyone?”

He nodded. Of course he was up for it, even if he was grateful they’d sent Pip in first. Although, what that gesture said, he didn’t want to examine too closely just yet. “Send them in.”

Pretty Face strode inside first, missing his characteristic smirk. He was followed by a hunched Lije, a limping Stickyfingers, and a shuffling Tiny. Aylia and Lt. Rothilion halted in the doorway.

And that was it. No one else stepped inside.

Fieran’s stomach sank, a sudden and sure panic filling him. “Where’s Merrik?”

His friends glanced among themselves, then at Dacha. As if everyone wanted someone else to tell him. But none of them offered reassurance. Instead, their faces twisted in nearly identical expressions of pain.

“No. No. Where is he?” Fieran’s magic burst around his fingers, burning a hole in the blanket and sending shafts of pain through him as the magic ate away at the numbing healing magic.

“Easy, sason.” Dacha placed his hand over Fieran’s, his magic keeping Fieran’s contained before it lashed out further. “He is alive.”

Alive. But if he was alive, then where was he? He’d be here if he was all right.

“He was guarding where you fell.” Lije spoke up, his voice rough. “Three Mongavarian flyers would have strafed you while you were down. But Merrik kept them away.”

No. Fieran was shaking his head, still unable to reel his magic back.

“We couldn’t get there in time. We tried. But we just couldn’t.” Pretty Face clenched his fists at his sides, not meeting Fieran’s gaze. “They shot up his aeroplane pretty badly. He limped it back to the airfield but then…”

“He crashed.” Pip eased a step forward, a tear trickling down her cheek. “His dacha and I got him out, but…but…”

She trailed off, and no one took up the thread of the story.

“What? What happened?” When Fieran searched their faces, no one looked at him. No one spoke.

Finally Dacha heaved a ragged breath, his head bowed. “He lost one of his legs below the knee. The healers saved his other foot, but it remains to be seen if it will heal well enough for him to walk on it.”

No. No, it couldn’t be true. This was just another drug-induced nightmare. He’d wake up and this would all fade away. His heart pounded, a rushing in his ears as if he were falling from the sky all over again.

“I need to go to him.” It was an all-consuming thought. Merrik was hurt, and Fieran needed to be there for him. Needed to get to his side to face this together, as they always had.

Fieran struggled to shove himself upright, but one of his arms wouldn’t cooperate, stiff and bandaged as it was. The constrictions around his waist and legs held him prisoner to the bed. Fieran couldn’t seem to push himself upright enough to get the elbow of his one good arm beneath him.

Dacha placed a hand on Fieran’s shoulder and held him down. “No, sason. You need to rest.”

“I need to go.” Fieran fought, gasping for breath. Pain stabbed through him, shaking through his limbs, until he finally collapsed against the pillow, what little strength he had fully spent.

Dacha didn’t understand. None of them did.

This was all Fieran’s fault. If he’d taken the time to let Pip check his propeller for fractures, if he hadn’t just rushed into battle without waiting for the rest of the squadron to arrive, then he wouldn’t have crashed.

Merrik wouldn’t have been left in the sky without a wingman to guard his back.

Beyond that, Merrik had only joined the Flying Corps because Fieran had dragged him into it. If not for Fieran, Merrik likely would have fought this war safely on the ground at his dacha’s side.

“No.” It seemed to be all Fieran could say as he shook his head, the only movement he seemed strong enough to make. “No.”

He was only dimly aware of the others leaving. Of Lije saying he’d fetch the healer. Of Pip’s final, aching glance before she followed the others out.

He turned his face away, and this time he couldn’t blame all the tears on the pain and morphine.

Merrik had lost his leg—might lose the use of the leg he had left—and it was all Fieran’s fault.

Their friendship would never be the same again.