Page 79 of Fly to Fury
“Yes. They all fit. Barely.” Dacha rocked back on his heels. He glanced toward the door yet again before he reached toward a canvas-wrapped bundle he’d set near it. “But these would not.”
Dacha laid the bundle next to Fieran on the bed, as if he expected Fieran would want to hug the bundle like a comfort blanket or something.
Fieran could feel the familiar weight and shape of his practice swords beneath the wrapping. The gesture of giving him his swords likely meant far more to Dacha than receiving them meant to Fieran, so Fieran wrapped his good hand around the bundle. “Linshi.”
Dacha nodded, clasping his hands behind his back again.
Seconds ticked by, stretching in a painful silence. After allthe heart-deep truths they’d shared in the past day, this temporary farewell shouldn’t be this awkward. But…it was.
Fieran cleared his throat. “Dacha, I…”
A knock sounded on the outer door before it opened. “General Laesornysh, sir, we’re here to collect Capt. Laesornysh.”
Dacha pushed the door between the two rooms open and stepped aside as four orderlies filed into the small space. Two of them carried a stretcher between them.
Fieran clenched his teeth as the orderlies transferred him from the bed to the stretcher. The various splints kept his healing bones from shifting, but every hand gripping him ached against all the bruises covering his body.
But he tried his best not to cry out. While he was still pumped full of healing magic, he wasn’t too drugged up at the moment. Having his mind mostly back was worth some pain, as long as it didn’t get any worse.
Once he was settled on the stretcher, gripping his swords to his chest so they wouldn’t fall off, the orderlies maneuvered the stretcher out of the tight space.
As they entered the main room, Dacha stepped forward, and the orderlies paused.
Dacha rested a hand on Fieran’s shoulder, giving him a slight squeeze in the elven hug. “Take care, sason.”
“You too, Dacha.” Fieran clasped Dacha’s forearm, since he couldn’t quite reach his shoulder for a proper elven hug.
Then the orderlies were carrying him outside, and he squinted into the brilliance of the morning sunlight.
“Rest well, nirshon.” Uncle Weylind’s silhouette appeared against the sunlight.
“The healers will have you fighting fit in no time.” Aunt Vriska had her fist clenched, as if she had intended to punch his shoulder but had thought better of it. Her white hair wasgathered at the nape of her neck while her gray uniform was only a shade lighter than her skin.
Fieran forced a grin. “I thought I heard you leading the attack to rescue me.”
“Not much of an attack. We were just cleaning up behind your dacha.” Aunt Vriska sounded almost disappointed by that.
Uncle Julien stepped to her side, his red-brown hair and beard neatly trimmed despite the dark circles beneath his eyes. He’d likely been in headquarters with the other top generals, directing the strategy while Aunt Vriska took care of the field tactics. “Take the time you need to heal.”
Fieran nodded, even though there seemed to be more meaning to the words than he could discern.
His family stepped back out of his view, momentarily leaving only a blue sky overhead and the warm rays of the sun bathing his face.
“Fieran.” Lije’s voice came from nearby, then he, Pretty Face, Stickyfingers, and Tiny were crowding around the stretcher. They trotted alongside as the orderlies didn’t pause for them the way they had for a king and the generals. His friends talked over each other, several of them handing him packets of letters to mail.
Which face wouldn’t he see, when he returned? Who would fall because he wasn’t there with his magic to protect them?
A lump clogged his throat, but he forced it down as he grinned at them, shaking each of their hands in farewell. “Watch each other’s backs up there.”
As his friends stepped back, other flyboys from his squadron hurried forward to shake his hand and wish him well. Then the elves of Flight A were there, including Aylia whose bright smile was likely as falsely cheery as his was.
Lt. Rothilion appeared at the stretcher’s side, the others falling away. His long hair lay immaculate down his back, his face set in a stoic expression that gave little away.
Fieran held out his hand to him. “Take care of the squadron for me, all right?”
Lt. Rothilion gave a sharp nod. “I will look after them until you return.” Then without so much as a curl to his mouth to betray his disgust at the human gesture, he took Fieran’s hand and gave it a single, firm shake before he let go, spun on his heel, and marched away.
Strangely, something eased inside Fieran’s chest. As if he actually trusted Lt. Rothilion with his flyboys.
