Page 63 of Winds of Death
“Yes.” And it wasn’t that hard, once Fieran convinced them to throw a welcome back party in the hangar to keep everyone busy. Fieran pushed to his feet and pointed to the folded-up wheelchair. “Will you want this?”
Merrik glanced up from buckling on the prosthetic. “Yes, but I can carry it.”
“I got it.” Fieran picked up the wheelchair once again.
Merrik rolled down his pant leg. “I am not an invalid. I can carry my own wheelchair.”
“I know.” Fieran kept a firm grip on it. “But I wasn’t able to be there for you for the past six weeks. Please let me do this much.”
“Fine.” Merrik sighed, shook his head, and headed for the flap of his tent. “Just do not make a habit of it.”
Fieran hurried after him. They might be good, but he still wasn’t sure what to do with this new, more prickly Merrik. “I’ll try not to. Besides, this isn’t just me helping. It’s practical. You’ll need your hands free once we get to the hangar for all the hugs, backslapping, handshaking, and, well, you’ll see.”
Fieran wasn’t quite sure how to explain the current sourdough situation, except that he was pretty sure the squadron had gone half-crazy in the past few weeks because of all the raids. Too much stress and too little sleep made people do interesting things.
Easing the step down from the platform to the ground, Merrik grimaced more at Fieran’s words than he had at the spithandshake. “I do not suppose we could sneak in and just skip all the attention?”
“Nope. Sorry.” Fieran fell into step with him, the dead grass crunching beneath his boots. “The only way I could distract everyone long enough to give you these few minutes was to let them go all out in putting together a welcome back party. Like I said, everyone is very glad to have you back. Prepare to be mobbed.”
Merrik heaved another sigh, though a hint of his smile returned. “I guess I can put up with it for a few minutes.”
At the road, they had to pause to let a column of army trucks go by. Fieran covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, even as he took in the stretch of grass and the gravel road that lay between the tents and the hangar. How difficult would those be for Merrik to navigate with his wheelchair? The grass was dead, the earth hardpacked, but Fieran wasn’t sure how easily the wheelchair rolled over anything that wasn’t concrete.
It was a new way of looking at the world. One Fieran would have to learn, for the sake of his friend.
As the last truck rumbled past, Fieran hefted the wheelchair higher. “You know, it wouldn’t be that hard to add a small magically powered engine to this.”
“Do not even think about it.” Instead of bristling as he’d done earlier, Merrik gave Fieran’s arm a slight shove. “The only ones I would trust to do that would be Louise and Pip. Perhaps Bennett and Uncle Lance. But I would break my neck for sure if you were the one to do it.”
Fieran exaggerated a wince. Hehadgotten an image of a wheelchair speeding through the hangar. Perhaps Merrik had a point. “You wouldn’t trust Adry? She has the same experience and degree that Louise, Pip, and I have.”
Merrik snorted, true mirth in the sound, as he set off across the road. “Not a chance. I love her, but I would trust her to fiddle with it even less than I would trust you.”
Fieran had to work hard not to react at the casual way Merrik used the l-word in regards to Adry. Yes, she was Fieran’s sister. But it was fine. It wasn’t awkward. Much.
“True. I wouldn’t trust either of us with something like that.” Fieran gestured at the hangar ahead of them. “Ready?”
“Not really.” Merrik shared a lopsided smile with him, braced his shoulders, and stepped through the hangar door.
Grinning, Fieran followed.
“Merrik!”
The shouts came from around the hangar, which had been mostly cleared of aeroplanes to accommodate the party. Flyboys, flygirls, and elven pilots swarmed from every direction, and many of them held jars of the dubious-looking and somewhat noxious smelling sourdough starter.
Lije reached Merrik first and thrust a jar at him. “Please say you’ll adopt George the Twenty-fifth.”
“No, take Trevor. He’s far superior.” Stickyfingers lunged past Lije and shoved a jar at Merrik.
“Don’t listen to him. Beatrice the Beautiful is the best.” Tiny presented Merrik with one of his jars, this one decorated with a scrap of silk from a torn scarf.
Merrik gaped from the flyboys to the jars and finally shot Fieran a glance as if begging for help.
Fieran just waved his hand helplessly. The sourdough situation was well out of his hands at the moment. The stuff just kept growing and growing and dividing, and a few of the flyboys had become downright obsessed with tending their jars of it. Tiny’s girlfriend was supplying some of the flour, but Fieran could only guess where the rest was coming from. He wasn’t quite sure how to get things back to a normal level of crazy.
But Merrik was back. That was all that mattered right now.
A bottleof soda in each hand, Pip wound her way through the various groups of flyboys and flygirls as they lounged about Bay 4, which had been mostly cleared for Merrik’s party. A large banner made of scrap paper proclaimed “Welcome Back, Merrik” while a table held a bounty of donuts and the sodas they’d scrounged.
