William

No one knew what to expect of the Deadlands. The Generals sent scouts as soon as the battle was won. They didn’t waste time waiting around the ruined Lockehold citadel. As soon as the scouts returned with news on a better location for encampment, the Generals called for a march.

Montgomery and the other Head Medical Officials agreed the wounded could not stay on the festering remains of a battlefield nor follow through the pass. Come morning, surviving soldiers guarded the caravan of injured south to the last city before the Dread Peaks. There they could heal. The soldiers would catch up to the rest of the army moving into the Deadlands. They may pass a few friends along the way, too.

Soldiers celebrated too enthusiastically that night. Three had made life ending decisions and now found their corpses hanging from trees. The word traitor had been carved crookedly into their bare chests, no doubt while they were still breathing, and their severed hands lay at the ground beneath their feet.

“Were we truly in need of more dead?” Charmaine’s teeth chattered from the morning frost.

Oscar huddled close to her. The young soldier followed William around most of the night, then Charmaine upon realizing she was more chatty than her friend.

“They laid with fae, didn’t they?” Oscar sniffled and rubbed his hands against his flushed cheeks. “During training, everyone said fae and mortal ain’t meant to be together. Folk said you’d meet a bad fate, but I never expected that.”

“The consequences aren’t always so bad,” Charmaine explained. “Sometimes it’s nothing more than being ignored, but after this battle, I am not surprised by the violence. Fae are known for their mistreatment. I doubt the men were fond of their friends laying with those known for treating us worse than the dirt beneath their boots.”

“Mortals have always found the act more egregious than fae,” William chimed in. “I’ve overheard the lying scum treating bedding mortals as a fun game, seeing who can deceive the most in a single evening. I wouldn’t be surprised if the very fae they laid with were the ones who revealed to everyone what had transpired.”

“Well, I ain’t going near one of ‘em with a twenty foot stick,” Oscar grumbled. “I never saw much of the lot till now. Never had fae in our ranks, only heard they were no good. I would rather not learn that the hard way.”

“No, you certainly do not.” Although it would be inevitable. Eventually, every soldier had a fearsome fae story to tell. Nightmares plagued William concerning his. A year was not long enough to heal that wound, if any time was enough.

The march continued on. Though they proceeded past the remains of battle, the stench never dissipated. The Deadlands had a fitting name for they came across nothing living. No birds sang. No rabbits frolicked through the snow. The sea of evergreen trees lurched forward. Many having snapped to lay strewn across the cracked earth while the remaining threatened to follow. Snow piled high. Clouds blocked out the sun, coloring the world a dull gray. Soldiers coughed and hacked. William, and other medical officers, swiftly ordered everyone to cover their faces. There was no telling what they breathed in and the scent of sulfur had grown during their long walk.

“We’ve yet to cross any monsters,” Charmaine said at his side.

“With how many held Lockehold, Fearworn likely assumed they didn’t need more near the keep,” he replied, though wouldn’t deny how odd he found that to be, too. Not seeing monsters didn’t mean they weren’t around.

“Or they fled,” Oscar offered. “After what happened, they could have retreated and regrouped elsewhere.”

“That could be true. I’ve heard Nicholas Darkmoon acquired a tremendous artifact from Lockehold,” Charmaine whispered as if this gossip hadn’t already spread through the troops. William heard the tale thrice already, though didn’t interrupt. “A tome, of sorts, something very secret. The beasts may have known this and fled to their master. We’re close. Not just to Calix, but the end of this damned war. I can feel it.”

“Are you sure that feeling isn’t indigestion?” William remarked, wincing when Charmaine pinched his earlobe.

“Don’t mock me,” she chided. “Your optimism may be dead as a poisoned rat, but I carry mine wherever I go.”

“I am more than aware of that, though that will not prevent me from reminding you that we’ve been told for years that the war is almost at its end.”

“And we never had a genuine reason to believe that until now.”

William allowed Charmaine her hope. Not as if he could ever douse it, nor did he truly want to. However, Calix Fearworn had gone two decades without anyone paying his devious plans any mind. Then almost another decade before humans and fae agreed to fight together. Within all those years, Fearworn showed himself only when absolutely necessary. It’s how he has survived this long, how the fight continued because the leader remained pulling the strings from the shadows.

Even if they defeated Fearworn, the world had forever changed. There are more Shimmers, portals that once joined only Terra and Faerie, the mortal and fae realms. Fae called them Scars, probably because they considered humans a scar upon their lives. Now, there are Shimmers to the unholy plane Calix opened to summon monsters. Those portals will never close. Their lands will forever be infested. Even his Mother, across the sea in Heign, has suffered from the monsters invading their backyard and tearing apart crops.

William pressed a hand to his chest. Beneath his jacket, tucked in one of the interior pockets, was one of her many letters. Matilda wrote to him often. Far more than he replied. He knew that hurt her, but he ached after reading every word and asking himself if he remembered her voice correctly. Did he even remember her face? Was he a bad son if he struggled to remember all of them?

Matilda always sprayed the paper with perfume, though by the time the letters reached him the scent had dulled. He barely got a whiff of honeysuckle. Then the moment the scent hit his nostrils, he had the urge to cry. To scream. To beg. To run home. And fear overtook him because his family would not recognize who he became. He’d be reminded that home hadn’t changed, but he did, and that meant life would never be what it once was.

Plucking the letter from his pocket, William flipped open the pages to read over a fifth time. Matilda shared updates of their family. Arthur married two years back. They recently welcomed a daughter. William ached over missing his brother’s wedding and the birth of his niece, but Matilda always wrote in great detail. Even that charming dolt, Richard, started courting a lady. Matilda and Robert were hopeful that they would receive news concerning an engagement soon.

During the brief moments reading over her letters, William felt at ease. Though that ease shattered upon hearing the horns proclaiming the troops were to make camp. A shrill noise reminding him how far from home he was and that there was always a chance he’d never go back. Not even as a corpse.

William never questioned the General's choice of location. His job was to set up the medical tent and inspect soldiers suffering from fever, fatigue, and potential Shimmer sickness. Though they hadn’t come across a Shimmer for days, some were more sensitive to the portals than others. They became dazed and loopy, stumbling over their feet, forgetting to eat and drink. These were simple cases where giving them a little more food and water eased their symptoms. The more severe cases left people laying motionless in bed, as if the Shimmer called for their souls and trapped them in limbo. The only solution was to take them far from any Shimmers and hospitalize them. Most woke up eventually.

Between inspections, William took breaks to write Matilda back. He never shared much. It was doubtful Matilda wished to know how many limbs he severed or fingers he reattached. The least he could do was let her know he was alive. With the sun about to set, he searched for the postmaster. Another soldier pointed him in the right direction. The postmaster would not come past the Dread Peaks, it seems. Four soldiers had been put in charge of tossing duffle bags of letters into a rickety old carriage. William’s letter was shoved in there too, then they set off.

He watched with an ache in his heart for he didn’t know if he’d hear from his family again for a while. If they went further into the Deadlands, it was doubtful the Generals would risk lives sending letters back and forth.

While lost in thought, a figure approached at his back to declare, “The insubordinate medic.”

William rolled his eyes at the sound of that grating voice. He faced the fae smiling vicious as a rabid dog.