The Luriket Veterans home was a sight to behold. Its red vine-covered siding, gently sloping roof, and decorative wooden shutters stood out against the desert on the city's northern edge.
Despite being close to an endless sea of shifting ivory sands, it was surrounded by a lush and well-maintained garden.
The verdant greenery wrapped around three sides of the small high-rise apartment building, leaving the fourth open for a path onto the Field of Heroes.
Unlike the royal gardens, which had hundreds of small plots for flowers, statues, and fountains, this one was practical, meant to be used and not just gawked at by nobles who had never had their hands soiled in dirt their entire lives.
Spattered around the greenery were gazebos, park games, and vegetable gardens. These forms of entertainment were intended to help the veterans by giving them something to do to keep themselves in shape, entertained, and happy to be here. From what Conor had seen, they put them to use.
Dozens of former soldiers and Ladies who had lost their Champions to war mingled around the trees. Some painted, others enjoyed a beautiful brunch, and a few ran classes that looked like yoga.
The Lost Ladies mainly attended those classes, but a few participants were old soldiers. Given how unabashed the men were with flirting, it was obvious why they were in the class. The retired soldiers might as well have been removing the flowing robe-like clothes with their eyes.
Not many of those men would ever get a chance to convince those ladies to give them a chance; they were Lost Ladies.
The Lost Ladies were women whose husbands had died in the line of duty or through other means. They were a form of protected class in the Kurlatra empire; it was considered a horrible tragedy for any Lady to lose their Champion. It meant that the life coil tattooed on their neck no longer had the accompanying man.
They were a lock without a key, a woman who lost someone who swore to always be there and now left them alone in the bitter existence of living out their days without a part of their soul.
While Conor could not directly empathize with them, having never had a wife, bonded pair, or Lady of his own, he did comprehend having lost someone who should always be there.
The Kurlatra Empire handled the basic necessities of life for the veterans and the Lost Ladies until they bought the farm.
Eivaley explained to Conor how she had procured enough money to ensure that they were cared for and had extra pocket cash for the remainder of their lives.
Through careful legislation and using thousands of veterans and Lost Ladies as her advisors, Eivlaey concluded that the stagnant workforce should be employed and have their efforts sold to the public or the government should they have an excess they did not wish to retain.
All across the planet, each veteran center had adopted its own money-making methods, adapted to the environment, the products manufactured in the region, and, of course, what the new workforce wished to do.
Down in the Velityan forest, they mostly grew fruit and grains and prepared them for shipment. While the badlands sun-scorched mountains, veterans acted as hunting and hiking guides for the most adventurous sapients.
Here in the capital, it was a whole other struggle. Eivaley and the locals had difficulty deciding what they could do. Inside the bustling metropolis, what could they do? Open a shop? Sell Stulk? Perhaps maintain a museum?
All of those ideas were pondered and scrapped. None of the veterans here wanted to own a shop, nor could they corner the market well enough to make their efforts viable. As for a museum, the royal family maintained one outlining all of Kurlatra history near the city center as is, so another would be redundant.
They struggled for years to devise a solution until Rokoyu came along. He was the son of a prized Waiye vintner. In fact, the khaki-scaled veteran was the last in a line of vintners who had produced some of the most renowned Waiye for nearly five hundred years.
However, one of the most recent rebellions destroyed his vineyard and the rest of his family. They had all gone up in flames when the rebels decided that his father, a loyal citizen of the empire, would not bow to their will.
After watching his father die fighting the rebels fang and claw in the vineyard, Rokoyu was alone. With nothing left, he joined the army and fought like the devil for ten years, suppressing the rebellion before losing an eye and being retired here.
The man, a skilled quidnunc with nothing else, approached Eivaley with a solution: Open a Waiye production facility on a nearby vacant hillside.
Now, the succulent, sweet odor of countless rows of Grutal fruit filled the air. Across the street, spreading out for several square kilometers, was his new vineyard, the only production facility for the newly christened Royal Ruby Waiye.
Eivaley saw the irony of the name, but workers chose it, and the production gave hundreds of the veterans something to do.
They tended to and harvested the Grutal and then, through meticulous traditional methods of crushing and fermentation, made bottles of Waiye, which cost an arm and a leg and were considered the most sought-after drink on the planet.
Conor teased Eivaley a bit about how she did not think what she had done was remarkable–in private, at least. That she did not hold her accomplishments in high regard was insanity. She was in every way the remarkable woman Conor knew she was, and he was not alone in that regard.
Every Kurlatra who lived in the veterans center dropped everything when they saw her arrive, swarming like insects trying to feed from a radiant flower. Initially, Conor wanted to shield her like he typically did, but she reached up, rubbed his cheek, and smiled. “It’s alright, they are friends.”
“But,” Conor started to argue, looking up at the soldiers waiting at arms reach for his permission to come closer.
They were battered, all covered in countless ancient, long-since-healed wounds. Some were missing limbs, others eyes, and a few had massive burns.
The Lost Ladies looked at Conor with overflowing pain in their eyes. The yearning look almost reminded Conor of some of the strung-out junkies he had seen in Heavalun. They wanted to even have Eivaley acknowledge them as if her doing so would be a fix more potent than Visage.
Accepting that Eivaley had to be who the Veterans had expected of her, Conor let her go. Stepping away from Eivaley almost hurt; now that Conor had started to accept his life with her, not being in contact felt like he was exposing himself.
As Eivaley started to laugh with her people, the commoners, who granted her the title of Lady of the People, the Human could not help but smile. She accepted gifts before passing them to Vitul and Cer’sh; she was given flowers, drinks, candies, and dried meats, all the product of her people's labor.
Blooming like a flower, Eivaley petalled out and ensured everyone saw that they were not left wanting. She smiled at each and spoke to them all by name, recalling everything about them without fault.
Eivaley knew their names, dreams, families, and hopes. She was a woman of the people to her core. To her, her title did not ring hollow; she was their princess and lived each day to exceed their expectations.
As much as the potential danger of the people scared him, Conor supported her by stepping further back and resting under the shade of a tree.
Soft footsteps came to his side as Conor watched the crowd absorb his woman's radiance. If someone approached from where Conor could not see, he would throttle them, but seeing Eivaley in her element put him at ease.
Her ability to tenderly calm the monster in his soul extended to this distance. Even though they were not touching, a warm, soothing feeling in his chest assured Conor he and she were safe.
“You know, she saved me too,” the man who walked up to his side said. “Master of War,” he finished like Conor’s title was an afterthought.
The man's accent differed greatly from what he had heard around the palace or the town. He spoke flowingly, seeming like each word was a soothing assurance. His vowels extended unnaturally as if his tongue had never touched his teeth while talking.
The manner of speech gave his T’s almost a z-like twang. If Conor had spent time on Earth, the man would have reminded him of a Frenchman who spoke galactic standard.
Looking over his shoulder, the man. Unlike many of the others nearby, this unappealing tan and khaki-scaled Kurlatra was clad in grey overalls covered in countless blue Grutal fruit stains.
The man took a deep swig from a shiny tin flask he produced from one of his many pockets. Dribbles of golden amber rolled off his chin, glistening in the sunlight and adding more stains to his attire.
“That’s the good stuff,” The man inhaled before offering a drink to Conor.
“What do you mean?” Conor asked before taking the flask and sipping from it.
The amber liquid burned like fire going down Conor's throat, like a thousand-degree oil flowing into his gullet. A warning flared in Conor's HUD that the drink was flammable and had an incredibly high alcohol content. Too much of this drink could quickly put Conor on his ass if he was not careful.
“By Urla,” Conor coughed and handed the flask back. While Conor had drank plenty in his life, this was otherworldly potent.
The man laughed, enjoying watching a man of regard nearly brought to his knees by a simple drink. “Will you be alright?”
“Yeah,” Conor waved him off before looking back to Eivaley as one of the Lost Ladies hugged her. “What do you mean she saved you?”
The man fell silent for a long moment, as if he was allowing the hours to pass, and drifted off to a otherwhere even he did not entirely understand. Conor had been around enough war-torn souls to recognize the pause; he did not need to look at the man to see the tired recollection of long-since-dead memories in his eyes.
“She gave me back my passion. My desire to live. When the Fifth Princess was scurrying about, looking for something to do with us—” The man paused and sighed, looking at the other soldiers. “I was ready to die, punch my own ticket. You know?”
Conor did not understand the feeling of wanting to kill yourself but shifted slightly to get a better look at the man, observing other veterans tending the steep hillside as the man took another drink. “But she seemed desperate for something us to do. I had seen that hillside and remembered my days as a kid; I would frolic around as my father and mother would see to the tending of the fruit. I also remember the passion my father would explain: fermenting, growing, tending—it was an art to him—to us.”
Conor thought of interrupting the old salt and telling him to get on with it and make his point already, but something about the man gave him pause.
It was like Conor was back with Brakul and learning a lesson. He wanted to know more and learn at the pace his oh-so-wise instructor would inform him, so Conor held his tongue.
“Eivaley,” The man continued hauntingly. “I hope I am not overstepping by calling her that,”
Conor shook his head and gestured to Eivaley for him to continue.
“She listened to my idea to start a vineyard, grow fruit, make Waiye, and give us purpose again. Before she arrived, we were in squalor, ignored, stepped on, and forgotten. But she saw us; we just had to see her back—you get it?” The man finished before handing the drink back to Conor.
Conor sipped again, the light fruity notes breaching the harsh burn. It was like he had heard a glimpse of the story of the creation, given by who Conor knew had to be Rokoyu, and he could appreciate the subtle complexities of what happened to bring this drink to him.
The Human paused and looked down at the flask, his reflection staring back at him. The reverse image of him judged him, staring back with untold honest understanding. For months, Conor had been lying to himself about how he felt about Eivaley. Sure, he had taken some steps to show her his feelings, but accepting his feelings himself was still a struggle.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
A firm guiding hand landed on his shoulder as the mirrored surface screamed and mocked his inability to admit how he felt. Rokoyu patted the man's metallic shoulder, silently assuring him that he was in safe company and that whatever Conor said next would not leave them.
Brakul and Conor had made similar gestures to one another over the years. Granted, it was mostly Brakul handing them out, but Conor had his moments. When Brakul had to be fished out of a Colbyuri’s tentacles after he seduced her, she decided they were destined for one another, for example.
“I think I do,” Conor smiled, watching his paramour embrace a soldier missing an arm.
“Good,” Rokoyu replied. "Then you had better act on it. We never know when it's time to clock out of life, right"?
—
Rokoyu and Conor stood under the mighty tree in silence, neither needing to speak. There was a weightful understanding that only two wounded men could share. The air was heavy, similar to how humidity weighed down on you just before a thunderstorm.
They shared pain and care for one another, one that transcended their species and circumstances. Despite the differences, they knew the other was like company.
Being near someone who understood him in such a way was disarming, enough so that by the time Eivaley returned to Conor, stood on her tippy toes, and nuzzled into his collar, Rokoyu had vanished without the Human noticing, leaving Conor with a half-full flask.
“Come on, my paramour,” Eivaley purred, “We have two more people we have to visit today.”
“Who?” Conor raised a brow.
From all that Eivaley had told Conor, there should not be anyone else for them to visit. All that they had planned was to visit the Field of Heroes. But knowing Eivaley, it likely was another key local political figure.
But it was sometimes difficult to tell who was a high roller and who was not. Eivaley treated everyone as if they were the most precious thing on the planet. She valued them all, from the eldest veteran to the youngest babe fresh from the clutch.
“You will see,” Eivaley replied, taking Conor's hand and leading on, "but you will want to see them."
The soldiers lingering around returned to their work, having gotten their fill of Eivlaey and being entirely aware of what was about to happen.
While all of the soldiers or Lost Lady were welcome to join them at the Feild of Heroes, most decided not to; those who were going to attend the service had left earlier to get into their dress uniforms and arrive at the gravestones the fourth princess told them about.
Those not attending did wish to be there but would not; it was not because they did not wish to welcome Conor and show him Human support in what he had lost; from what Evialey had told them during their conversations, he needed it. They simply wished to allow Eivaley and her family, who had been transported in from an angle Conor could not see, to be his mourners.
They were merely run-of-the-mill soldiers and their windows. They could never compare to a noble's support in the Human's time of need.
The nobles could be far more articulate in their words and be far more capable of giving the man the aid he needs. The soldiers all had their own losses. None of them could comprehend the empress and her loss—someone Eivaley had informed them would be in attendance: both her and the First Champion.
The empress would do more for the Human than their words and gestures combined with just her presence.
Eivaley led Conor along a small path of duracrete beneath bows, similar to palms waving overhead, around the building. Many of the soldiers wearing their dress uniforms with chiming metals followed at a respectful distance. Conor saw them, and they saw him. It was a respectful glance at one another.
They were wounded animals glancing at one another who inherently understood neither had a need to fight. Besides, Conor had another thing he had to focus on. Eivaley wanted him to meet someone, so he had to put his best foot forward for her sake.
But none of his preparation mattered; what Eivaley had planned would break him down.
That this gesture broke him down was an understatement. Conor had lived his entire life without the warmth of love, care, and concern. His mother died when he was less than five, and Brakul, while a fatherly figure, was like him desperate, so they did not give symbolic gestures of care.
Conor listened to Brakul in fights and training because neither could escape Heavalun. Conor could understand this; Brakul loved him as a brother and battle buddy, but the feeling differed from what Eivaley was about to show him.
As the pair breached the hillock leading to the Field of Heroes, the troopers trailing behind Conor and Eivaley flowed past the pair, including Vitul and Cur’sh.
Like a flowing mist, the hundreds of soldiers flowed through the graveyard toward a waiting crowd.
The mass of tenders to Conor's soul flowed through the countless white gravestones. The pillars of memory blocked Conor from seeing their pained looks as they congregated around a new memorial.
The tombstones did not seem to be anything special at the distance. At a glance, they were just rows of white pillars rising from the endless grass fields.
It was as if they were the stumps of once proud trees, cut down well before it was their time to go. Conor understood what a graveyard was, but Heavalun did not use them; there, you burned the dead.
To Eivaley, however, this was more than a graveyard. It was a memorial and a statement of sacrifice. Each of the white stones represented a life: a brother, a father, a farmer, and a mere man who died for what he believed in.
Each of these stones was a soul who should be remembered. They gave everything so all the living could still be here and live their best lives.
As Conor and Eivaley approached the crowd of well-dressed soldiers and Lost Ladies, they parted, revealing Vuraley and Eyurali standing beside two new tombstones that had only been placed an hour earlier by Vurraley and Burlai.
Soldiers carried Kurlatra tombstones by hand. It was a tradition for them to make the weight of someone's passing a very literal thing.
The Kurlatra army had soldiers carry the stones to remind them what it cost to pull a trigger and end an enemy. Sure, you might kill them, but they were still a person struggling to fight against a never-ending battle for what they thought was justified.
Behind Eivaley's parents, Burlai and Mulaney waited. They were the only other members of the royal family in attendance, despite a half dozen others being only a few hours away and having been encouraged to show their sister and Conor's support.
Conor was not aware of it at the time, but this memorial service was looked down upon by many of the nobility. They believed sanctifying an alien's loved ones on the Field of Heroes was wrong and insulting to the memory of those who had given their lives in the name of the empire.
Anyone who verbalized this opinion was promptly uninvited and told to stay away, or they would have the empress to answer to.
The High Champion stood tall, the greys and golds of his uniform and the uncountable awards dangling off his chest, fitting someone of his status.
The look he gave Conor was calm and reserved yet equally caring. The man was a true stoic, but with his experiences of having buried dozens of his own daughters and hundreds of soldiers, he knew the strife Conor was about to endure once he stepped away and allowed the Human to see the graves.
Eyurali stood by his side, wearing a white dress that flowed gracefully off her curves. Accenting her beauty were several bouquets of flowers she clutched tightly, like they would run away if she let slackened her hold.
Like her husband, she had done the song and dance thousands of times. But it never got any easier. If anything, each memorial only got more painful. If Eyurali could go the rest of her life without hearing the wails of a Lost Lady or the quiet sobbing of a warrior missing his brother, she would. But life was never that easy.
No one ever wanted to say goodbye to someone they loved and cared for but for the sake of those you still have, letting them go but not forgetting the fallen was important. You could never truly care for those still with you if you could not look to the future.
Eyurali waited for Eivaley and Conor to breach the crowd. The moment they did, she hushed the mumbling crowd with a simple flick of her tail.
A wave of respectful quiet flowed out over the attendees, all aware of what was about to transpire. Anything they had to say could wait.
“Come on, Conor,” Eivaley whispered, squeezing his hand tighter.
Eivaley had been planning this funeral for months, the seeds of it being planted the moment they had escaped Havalun. At that time, it was just a passive thought; she believed it would be a caring gesture for Conor. Now, her reasoning was vastly different.
Conor, her paramour, needed this. Every day, while training, eating, or just lounging in the gardens, he frequently went to that other place in his mind. Somewhere that she knew was him replaying the events of extracting her in his mind.
Conor had told her that much. He was desperately trying to find something else he could have done to save Stitch and Brakul. Conor questioned every step, breath trigger pull, and tactical pause he made; there had to be something he could have done differently or better.
But no matter how much he tried, he could not come up with an answer. He was killing himself, burying all he was in guilt. Conor was so hungry for answers that he even privately spoke to Vuraley about what he had done.
Eivaley knew she was likely not supposed to have overheard their conversation, but she listened in that night anyway. While she had sneaked out of her room late at night and was going to watch a movie with her sister, she overheard them through a cracked door.
Conor and her father were in the library, flanking a glowing three-dimensional holographic map of Heavalun. The wan light of the sand table made them look like demons overlooking soon-to-be prey.
Conor meticulously walked Vuraley through the events of that night as they unfolded in front of him in the past. The Human left no detail out of the recounting—each footstep, shift in his weight, and shot fired—it was like he was trying to justify the events to a High Judiciar, who had a gun to his head, ready to pull the trigger if anything about his answer was found wanting.
Vuraley could see through Conor's act. The Human was not trying to explain the night's reasoning to convince Vuraley he had done the right thing—the Human wanted to convince himself he had given his all.
But like a wise warrior poet, Vuraley helped the Human heal and answered Conor's questions by explaining what he would have done at each phase of that impromptu operation. To Conor's dismay, Vuraley's solutions to the Voodal, the locals, and even the police were nearly identical to his own.
They repeated this process hundreds of times, changing details, options, and tactics. But no matter how the pair of warriors broke it down, Brakuls's death was a universal constant. There was just too much distance, too many targets, and not enough time.
Conor was not found lacking. That day, he lived by the creed of the royal guards. His actions were the embodiment of "never shall I fail." All the Human had to do was see it.
“Come on,” Vuraley patted Conor's shoulder and shut the holographic projector off. “Let's go get a drink.”
“But there---” Conor tried to argue, wanting to give it another go to find an answer to what he had done wrong, but Vuraley stopped him.
“Son, beating yourself up for having done everything right is not healthy,” Vuraley replied, his voice as strong as duracrete yet as warm as the winds of the desert. “I've done it; hundreds of my men have done it. Good men die in war. Sure, it sucks when our friends go, but killing ourselves over their deaths is not what they would want.”
Vuraley looked up from the dark table, where Conor's vision was still trained. He looked right at Eivaley through the ajar door and smirked. “All we can do is not forget them and ensure others know of them.”
Eivaley knew that message was not just for Conor, they were for her as well. That was the moment she knew for sure that making sure Brakul and Stitch were remembered was what she would do.
They stepped up to Vuraley and Eyurali. Conor's confusion about the situation grew. There was no one here he had not met earlier in the day or knew well after having been in the capital for months.
“What's going on?” Conor asked no one in particular. He had pieced together that this would not be a typical meeting like Eivlaey had insinuated.
“Conor, please come here,” Eyurali said.
Eivaley let Conor's hand go and nudged him forward. Euyurali wrapped Conor in a gentle hug. The same kind of embrace one would give to someone who had been hurt and needed assurance that they would be safe where they were.
“Eivaley, she arranged this for you,” the empress whispered to the Human. “But there is some procedure for a funeral. Will you and Eivaley stand across from us?”
“Who is it for?” Conor replied, not aware anyone had died since he arrived at the palace.
“Your friends, Brakul and Stitch,” she replied, stepping back and looking over her shoulder at the tombstones.
Without missing a beat, Conor moved. The Human disregarded all forms of protocol, procedure, and, of course, courtesy. He did not care in the slightest. He had to see the truth for himself. No one moved to stop Conor; if anything, they empathized with his need to see the graves for himself.
Vuraley, Mulaeny, and Burlai stepped to the side to let the man see his friends.
There they were, plain as day on the two white pillars, Stitch and Brakul. Not only were their names on the memorials, but a depiction of each was painted on the surface just above a short bit of text regarding each as a hero of the empire who should not be forgotten.
The depictions were a bit off, likely because Eivaley had to describe the men she had known for hours. But it did not matter.
Conor hesitantly ran his hand along the cold pillar, caressing the images. As he recalled the pair, it felt like a rope was tightening around His neck. In an instant, he relieved every laugh, scream, and moment with them.
They were there and not as far gone as Conor had imagined them to be. The onlookers watched as the warrior was given his moment to say goodbye to his friends. Most attendees saw it as just that, but from the close distance the royal family was, they could see far more.
A shimmering tear rolled down Conor's cheek. He made no noise as more quickly followed and fell onto the grass. In silent mourning, they let Conor cry, accept the reality of what was before him, and forgive himself, even if it was only a little bit.
Eivaley walked to Conor's side and leaned on him, wrapping her arm around his waist. That embrace pulled Conor back from the otherwhere he had just gone. He looked down at Eivaley with a sharp motion as if she had just appeared at his side.
Eivaley did not mention what she saw to Conor; he did not need to know his stoic facade had slipped. She gently reached up and wiped the tears off Conor's cheek. “I'm here, Conor.”
Clasping Eivaley's hand, Conor leaned over and hugged her. Eivaley, without hesitation, returned the gesture, ensuring Conor understood he was not alone. She and the rest of her family were there for him—now and always.