As much as Clyde wished that the fight was over after reaching the gates of Fort Dunn, he knew that wouldn't be the case. While it wasn't immediately fatal, the wound on his left thigh was deep. He'd need to make his way to the infirmary, or at the very least close enough to be heard falling. If he can make it that far, then he had hope that someone might think he's more living than dead. But that was still only an 'if' for now, so he needed to limp forward and endure.
Past the guard stations, follow the stone path to the right around the courtyard.
Early on, when both sides were still feeling out the other with skirmishes, at the very least there would be a free set of hands able to help support the wounded. By now all that's left is the dying, patching up the nearly dead. And they were hopelessly outnumbered. Clyde didn't need to waste strength raising his head to know that he was just one of many stragglers hobbling, limping, or crawling back from an unlucky engagement. While he had found himself in this position more times than he could remember, this trek back from the field was a much different experience.
Into the corridor at the far end of the gate.
He had never found himself moving towards something rather than away, embarking on this small task given to him by that gnashing maw. His steps were labored, shaky, and uneven - but they held purpose in them. Clyde knew better than to delude himself into thinking it would sustain him for long, but for him purpose at all was more than he had previously.
Half way down the path turn right, just past a soldier who will soon be a corpse, who almost fought hard enough to live.
Exhaustion began to cause his thoughts to become unfocused and trail off, but before his consciousness was wrested from his control, his mind returned to his desperate slow march. Not many of the poor souls in a similar position make it this far, and none can know if they have enough time left.
Into the medical hall, through a door beyond the empty reception.
Clyde lets out a weak laugh before his vision fades, the sudden exhale enough to break the tender balance his consciousness relied on, leaving a single thought: 'A trickle of patients that can't wait.'
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Clyde barely approached consciousness before agony immediately overtook him, and he began gasping and pleading to whoever might be able to hear for some form of relief. His blood felt like it was boiling, and his leg might've been better off completely severed, judging by the writhing thrum of misery radiating from his wound. After what felt like an eternity, he finally began to hear what might be distant voices.
Tears began streaming down his cheeks as he strained his eyes in an attempt to find them and get their attention, to beg them for something, anything, that could ease his suffering. The beams of light streaming in through the stone windows of the chamber were blinding, piercing Clyde to the back of his skull. His head throbbed as he finally spotted three figures in white robes quickly approaching, passing between the otherwise quiet beds that lined the infirmary bay.
Hope quickly turned to despair as two of the few remaining field medics firmly press down on Clyde's left knee and hip, amplifying his torture. He instinctively contorted his body to try to escape the vice like grip, trying desperately to slip from his restraints and escape. The third quickly produced a large syringe from a wooden case, and before Clyde could brace himself, pierced it directly into the source of his anguish. Ice immediately began pouring out from his injury as his breath was forced from his body.
As ice and fire war within his veins, the little strength Clyde had left was scattered. He barely noticed as the three medics refasten his restraints, pack their medical supplies, and depart from the room. When his consciousness finally began to fade, Clyde gratefully accepted the peace offered by the darkness.
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While Clyde couldn't remember how many times similar situations occurred during his recovery, he had no intention to attempt to regain those experiences. At some point he found himself once again able to form thoughts and proper words. Later, he slowly became able to hold a conversation.
The three medics assigned to monitor his ward became familiar faces. The most commonly seen of the three was the larger man that had held down Clyde's hip, who's frame was more fitting for a greatshield than a scalpel. From what Clyde could gather, he monitored the infirmary during the day, brought in medical supply shipments, and addressed most of the manual labor needed to keep things running. The one Clyde saw the least was the night monitor, a spindly man that had held down Clyde's knee. While he was grateful to have medics nearby at all times, the telltale signs of fire powder made for a haunting image when drifting in the hazy chasm between dreams and reality. Initially his sunken eyes and jagged motions sprouted worry in the fertile ground of a delirious mind, but the uneasiness faded as time passed.
The last medic, an older woman with a shaved head and a tired smile, was the only one that Clyde consistently spoke to. Clyde didn't consider himself very talkative, and the warfront had long been devoid of a medic with time or energy to spare, so their exchanges seldom left the topic of his treatment. Suns came and went, and as others were admitted, treated, and discharged, the number of wounded dwindled around him. As his condition improved, he hesitantly began to ask about the current state of the front.
It had been 63 suns since the battle, marking today as the 15th sun of Galvadum's (gal-vay-doom) Partition. Just over two Partitions had passed, and Clyde lets out a cold laugh at the irony.
"What a fitting occasion for the Feast of Pride. I'm sure the Pantheon is raising a toast to the great feat of sitting up without aid."
The quiet scratching of the medic's metal quill against parchment continues, only half listening and half responding to not fall behind on her work.
"If you ask me, that's more than enough to celebrate. Many aren't so lucky."
Clyde scoffs, thinking back on what decisions led him to this. Maybe he would've chosen differently, if he had known he'd end up a cripple with nothing to blame but his lacking ability.
"Luck, huh?"
Despite his better judgement, spite started to contort his face. Before he could stop himself, the words began to pour out of him.
"Was it luck, then, that refused to let me rest through 16 cycles of nightmares? Did luck guide the enemy's steel to my thigh? Did I get lucky dragging a half dead body through those doors?"
Clyde felt a cruel smile grow at the indignance of it all. He looked away from the medic, avoiding the hurt he knew would be in her eyes as he poisonously spat the words:
"Then what a gift it is to be blessed with luck."
He expected there to be a rebuttal, some sort of retaliation for his harsh words, but none came. Unable to bear the silence that lingered from his statement, he looked back to the woman to find eyes that weren't filled with pointed chastisement, but rather reflective pools of deep understanding. The deep crows feet above her cheeks bore years of hardship, the smile lines beside her mouth recounting the stubbornness needed to continue to know joy, even when in pain. Clyde felt his resentment escape him, leaving only the shame of lashing out. Unsure of what to do with the guilt, he turns his head away, to once again run from her gaze.
"Yes... In a place like this, I would call that luck."
The words she spoke were warm and soft, with an air of understanding that left little room for debate. His heart wrenched in his chest, wanting so badly to believe that the words were true.
"Even through this, you can-"
She cuts the words short as Clyde raises a hand, gesturing for her to stop.
"Please, just... Don't."
The words weakly tremble over the lump growing in his throat. She slowly nods, though her brow remained stuck in a furrow of worry, and pursed lips held back words of compassion.
The sound of scribbling on parchment resumes for a short time, each scratch driving her words to further shake his foundations as he tries to push them from his mind. When the scribbling finally stops, the medic takes an uncharacteristic pause before collecting her supplies.
"I looked into the unit you asked about. Most of them didn't make it back to the fort, and as for Ben... I'm sorry."
Hearing the news, the numbness began to seep back in, poised to deflect the impact.
Clyde nodded. It made sense. They were deployed to the same front as Clyde. This is what he should've expected. It was the right choice to stop learning the new recruit's names when he did. At least he knew this wouldn't happen again.
"I ... see."
He forced the words out, the strain obvious in his voice. Before he realized, his eyes drifted to his sword. He forced the futile emotion from his mind, using the distraction to drive his thoughts forward.
"... You said most? What happened to those that returned?"
If the fighting was bad enough to decimate the unit, then those that returned were likely to be injured. Maybe his 'luck' would hold, and he could quickly repay his obligation to the Greenhorn and set off on the long journey ahead. The medic shuffles through a number of additional sheets of parchment before responding.
"It seems there were 3 with minor injuries that returned. They were stabilized here before being transferred out to Fort Tenebray (ten-a-bray) for further treatment."
Clyde was taken aback by the statement. Fort Tenebray was one of the only locations on the front that still had fully trained medical professionals, but average soldiers could never hope to receive treatment there. The Tenebray family made substantial financial contributions to the war, using their power and influence to establish various facilities available only to noble families. It was sold to the country as insurance that would save our 'most valuable' individuals, and guarantee the safety of our 'best and brightest'. In practice, an upset stomach could keep some precious heir away from the conflict for their entire deployment, having them return to cheers and admiration for accomplishments they didn't even witness. They'd return shortly after with a far higher rank, immediately utilizing their extensive lack of experience to substantially cut down allied forces.
This posed a number of challenges. Clyde had hoped he would be able to find what he wanted to know asking others in the infirmary. Fort Tenebray was more than two days' journey north, too long of a trip to go unnoticed. If anyone realized his absence, it would heavily impede his unannounced journey home, and that's assuming he could even get inside the Fort to begin with. He considered abandoning his goal, but the sword refused to release his gaze, and he couldn't drag his heart away from its conviction. Before he could fully reorganize his thoughts, the nurse's voice pulled him back to reality, chilling him to his bones with another grim surprise.
"... What?"
"You've been transferred to another unit following the loss of your squad. The powers that be decided on a demotion due to the casualties under your command. You have orders to meet with your new captain after an early discharge at his request."
Clyde felt his mind strain to accept this new information. After all he's done? After all he's lost? In desperation he once again looked towards the medic, trying to find some hint of dark humor he hadn't noticed before.
What he saw was not the grim smile of a dark joke, but it was also not the pity and hopelessness of following a disastrous order. The medic, though small, frail, and tired even beyond her visible years, looked at Clyde with the sort of conviction that once spurred him to action all those years ago. A kind of conviction he had long since lost, which she preserved through every malicious dissent and tempered through the conflict surrounding a heart refusing to harden.
"I've given you your field instructions, as ordered. But first and foremost, you are my patient. While you're in this room, I alone am responsible for your life, and I will not shy away from my responsibility. Your leg will never fully recover. You're more liability than asset, regardless of command's desire for larger numbers to boast of."
Clyde's brow furrows as confusion washes over him.
"Officially, Clyde Bayrus (bay-roos) will pass away due to a resurgence of infection during the 17th sun of Galvadum's Partition. He will be quickly cremated to prevent further illness from spreading. That night, the medics will gather to reflect and mourn for those we've lost while we prepare for the battles ahead. I'll bring the glasses and drink for the toasts myself, we've been overdue for an occasion to raise morale. I'm sure we'll cause quite the commotion."
Clyde's eyes welled with tears as the medic rose to her feet, gathering what materials she had brought with her to Clyde's bed into her wooden supply case. As she makes her way back to her facilities further in to the infirmary, she pauses before closing the door behind her, turning to face the sobbing mess of gratefulness.
"In the end, luck isn't happiness. Luck is knowing you still have the opportunity to be happy. One day, I hope you find what that could mean for you."
Watching through bleary eyes, Clyde's final image of the kind medic was a face of compassion, pride, and worry. It was strange and foreign, but he couldn't recall anything else that felt so warm.