"Hold him down," Clef says through gritted teeth. "I can't do this with him thrashing about." He manages to keep his voice even for his Brothers' benefit. Lucas and Arryn are barely keeping it together as it is. Clef can't blame them; they've probably never seen something like this before.
Clef is wrist-deep in their current patient, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The man's fevered struggling is only making Clef's job more difficult. He's trying to find the arrowhead that broke off inside the wound before it causes irreversible damage. The stomach wound is producing more blood than Clef knows what to do with. No one had been able to tell him how long ago the man had been wounded.
"He's s-strong," Arryn says, throwing all of his weight into keeping the soldier down. "The grip of death has given him strength."
"That's good," Clef says, feeling around the warmth for something foreign. "He will need that strength to help recover from this." He continues to grope, praying to the Lady that he has not pushed the weapon deeper inside the patient.
The man chokes and gurgles, prompting Lucas to gasp. "Elder Brother, he is—he looks—"
"Stay with me." Clef spares a desperate glance at the man's face. His eyes are wide and full of terror, and he is sweating profusely. "Soldier! Stay with me. " They are but a single horror story in a church full of epic suffering, but Clef shuts out everything else—his assistants, the other patients—and focuses on this one man.
Please,
he pleads, to both the Lady and any deity who is listening.
Please give him strength. Give
me
strength.
"Elder Brother," Lucas says, hand clamping hard around Clef's bloodied wrist. The urgency in his voice makes Clef hold and look at him. "Elder Brother, he is gone."
"Lady save his soul," Arryn says, sitting with his head bowed. He is gripping fistfuls of his soiled robes so hard that Clef can see his hands shaking.
The soldier is indeed gone, skin rapidly losing color. His insides are warm still, and Clef withdraws his hand. It's stained dark red, slick with the man's blood. Not for the first time, he feels anger. Anger at the North, the South—at every person who raises weapons against another. On the heels of this rage comes the despair, bubbling up to his throat and threatening to escape in a sob. Clef barely manages to swallow it. Even then, he only succeeds because of Lucas and Arryn.
What he says is, "We have tried our best. It is all we can do." Even to himself, his voice sounds devoid of emotion.
"Elder Brother," Lucas says, but stops. He is young, still—barely sixteen. Clef hates how his soft wisps of blond hair are colored with dried blood.
Clef feels overwhelmed. The weight of it all is crushing his chest.
I can't,
he thinks fervently.
I can't afford to…
Soldiers depend on him to mend their injuries when someone gets past their armor. Clef mustn't let anyone see the chinks in his own armor; he has to be strong for the rest of them.
He stands up suddenly, startling Arryn and Lucas. "Find out who he was," he says. "I will need to send word. I'm going…" he looks down at his dripping hand, "… I'm going to wash up."
Clef is moving before either one of them can reply. He walks away, away from the death and the blood. He has to weave his way around pallets and makeshift operating tables. Haggard Brothers and Sisters barely acknowledge him when he squeezes by. Clef can see the exhaustion plain on their faces, and it breaks his heart.
In a bustling field clinic, it is impossible to ever truly be alone. Clef finds a washbasin to scrub his skin clean, ignoring everyone around him. Then he ducks into a storeroom under the pretense of searching for supplies. Much of the walls are lined with shelving and holding baskets or barrels of splints and bandages. One strip of stone is still visible near the door. Once Clef is shut inside, he punches the wall hard enough to hear his knuckles crack in protest. It does little to suppress his frustration, so he does it again. And again.
Soon he is panting, leaning one hand against the door to keep it closed and cradling his bruised one to his chest. His knuckles are stinging, blood pearling in the scrapes. His vision is blurry, and Clef realizes he is crying.
What is it for? What is any of it for?
Embergrass is in the same position it was weeks ago. The only news of the war Crestfall is getting is the influx of injured and refugees. Some days, it feels like people are dying for nothing.
Several minutes tick by before Clef is able to compose himself. He wraps his own hand before leaving the storeroom, noticing that they have already started using torn bedsheets as bandages.
*~*~*
Autumn becomes winter. Prairie winters in general tend to be temperate, but the Red Mountains have biting cold seasons. Clef waits anxiously for some word that the North has withdrawn from the war, but this never happens.
Many of his patients recover and return to the field. Many of them die. Clef takes pains to learn most of their names, if only to send word to their families. One month, there are so many fatalities that Clef cannot even write them all down. His wrist twists up into one sore muscle, and he has to ask Julia to finish it.
Handling the high volume of injured continues to take all day and all night. It is impossible for Clef to be awake all the time, but he is the only surviving Elder Brother stationed here so he tries his very best. Between administering medical aid, handling sensitive correspondence, and coordinating supply runs with the captains, Clef has precious few hours to himself. The fatigue threatens to overwhelm him, but he cannot afford to rest. He takes to using powders to disguise the dark circles under his eyes. Clef does not want his Order or his patients to see their foremost cleric coming apart at the seams.
He is the only member of the Order with his own room in the basilica. Clef takes advantage of this one morning, stealing a few moments by the open window. The chilly winter air is helping to keep him alert. He's watching the frigid waters crash upon the riverbank when the winds carry the telltale sound of trumpeting to his ears.
"No," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "No, impossible."
Clef is moving before the next blow, hiking his robes up so he can run faster. He calls for his Brothers and Sisters, already brainstorming how they are going to evacuate hundreds of injured from Crestfall.
It will not be like Baron Falls,
he swears.
I won't allow it.
Julia and Lucas meet him at the foot of the stairs. "Elder Brother." Julia's voice doesn't even waver; the months have done much for her resolve. "The Captain has sounded the alarm. Something about a causeway?"
"Causeway?" Clef blinks, mind racing. They couldn't mean… they were under siege from… "They're coming across the
river
?"
Lucas rubs his face with his hands, making a mewling sound. "Elder Brother, what are we to do? The basilica is right by the river."
Clef rounds on him. "I know where the basilica is! Back to your stations," he adds in a calmer voice. "Keep this to yourselves until I know what exactly is going on."
Julia and Lucas scamper off, leaving Clef to stew with his own thoughts. Despite his order for silence, they will not be able to keep a secret like this. The trumpets can be heard throughout the city. The troops will be amassing along the river. Clef needs to speak to the Captain himself.
All of his exhaustion vanishes in the wake of this news. He moves as fast as he can without appearing to be panicking, leaving the basilica for the first time in a week. He gets not fifty feet from the grounds when something crashes into a distant bell tower. The sound of shattering stone is deafening, evoking shrieks and pandemonium. Clef finds himself frozen still, staring at the cloud of dust rising into the air as civilians and soldiers alike flee the collapsing building.
Catapults.
He can feel his heart rise to his throat.
How am I to defend us against catapults?
Captain Renale ends up finding Clef, instead of the other way around. Her white armor is easily recognizable atop her black stallion, but she isn't wearing her helmet. Her black topknot whips about in the wind. "Take shelter, Brother," she says, reining her steed next to Clef. "Their catapults are as dangerous as our mobile towers."
"Who is attacking?" Even as he asks, Clef wants to bury his face in his hands. Woe to be Embergrass, trapped between two empires.
"Tendoves," Renale says, pointing vaguely across the river. "The South sent a contingent to bank us along the west. The river is calm this year; they thought they could tame it and build a causeway while the Red Mountains keep our attention elsewhere."
"They did build a causeway," Clef points out, wrapping his robes tighter around himself. "They're close enough to shoot at us."
As if his words had called the South to action, another huge boulder sails into one of the larger buildings. He ducks out of reflex, covering his head. The sound is horrendous—to Clef, it's as though civilization itself is crumbling to the ground.
Renale takes a moment to relay a series of instructions with hand signals to a party of troops across the road. Clef does not know any of the meanings, but the soldiers set to their tasks quickly enough. When Renale turns back to Clef, it's with a stern expression. "It's not over yet, Brother. Please stay indoors. We have enough to worry about out here without our most valuable cleric stumbling about."
She turns to go, but Clef calls after her. "And what of the basilica? The building is huge; it's a prime target. I need to get all of those people out and somewhere safe."
"No warrior worth their blade would attack a church of the Order," Renale says over her shoulder. "It's the safest place for you and the injured."
"Safe like in Baron Falls?" Clef asks, balling his fists up in frustration. More rocks are falling now—each crash striking fear into Clef's heart. But they are smaller, all landing far away, and with luck they are striking vacated buildings. "Don't mistake me for one of your troops, Captain. I obey the Duchess and I serve the Lady. And I swore an oath to give everything I have to protect the injured and ill. If I must move them all myself…"
Renale does turn around then, fixing Clef with a baleful glare. She marches her horse back over, and then leans over, armor clinking as she moves. Clef wills himself not to quail beneath the weight of Renale's gaze once they are eye to eye. "Have you gone mad, Clef? Do you have any idea what's happening out there?" She gestures sharply with one hand. "We've got the North coming down and to our left, and the South marching up and to our right. We're forty thousand strong and yet are barely holding our own here. Crestfall is even more valuable than Baron Falls was, and I
refuse
to lose it—but I need to focus on my soldiers and what
they're
doing, not minding wayward townsfolk and willful clerics." She sits back up in her saddle once more. "Now return to the basilica where you're needed most, and trust us."
Clef does as she commands, face burning with both shame and anger. What if the Tendovians don't realize the basilica is where the injured are kept? What if they don't care, like in Baron Falls? How are they going to stop the South from coming over the causeway?
When he re-enters the basilica, Julia nearly trips over herself running to him. "Elder Brother," she says with a gasp. "What shall we do?"
He weighs his options, but ultimately decides to heed Captain Renale's words. "As you were. Tell everyone to keep to their duties." He plows on in the face of her concern. "They aren't targeting us. The Captain tells me they have a plan." When Julia hesitates, Clef says, "Do it, Sister."
"Yes, Elder Brother," she says, as obedient as ever. Clef can tell she does not agree with him though. He doesn't blame her.
Clef tries setting a good example. He sets bones, cleans wounds, and sews people back up. Miraculously, very few are brought to him over the course of that day. Moreover, several wounded soldiers actually recover enough for active duty. All the while, sounds of a barrage from the air echo through the basilica's walls. Clef does his best to ignore it; the others follow suit. He makes a note to commend them all tomorrow.
Then, around the midday mark, the barrage… stops. The silence is unsettling after a morning of attack. Clef finds himself pausing in the middle of a stitch, listening for the worst that must be yet to come.
Lucas brightens, looking up at Clef from where he sits, helping hold the patient's wound closed. "They've done it then, Elder Brother? They've stopped them on the causeway?"
Clef hesitates, not knowing what to say. "So it would seem." But how? They certainly did not build their own causeway. Such a thing would take days if not weeks to complete.
"Lady be praised," Cerie sobs from somewhere across the room. Her exclamation is echoed by several others.
For his part, Clef is full of more curiosity than he knows what to do with. He certainly cannot stop working to seek out the Captain, so he busies himself with surgeries instead. Once things have calmed down a bit, he will find out for everyone.
Despite the reprieve, things do not calm down. Infections arise and wounds fester. Clef works until sunrise, until he has nothing left to give. He works until his vision blurs and he nearly pierces himself with a needle. He makes a graceful exit at this point, dead on his feet, and barely makes it to his bed before losing himself to sleep.
*~*~*
Clef rouses from his slumber only a few hours into morning. He stumbles to the wash basin, stealing a glance at himself in the small, cracked mirror. Oh, he's certainly a sight to behold. What kindness the powders afford him cannot conceal the drawn, haggard countenance of his face. Clef washes quickly, and throws on the last of his clean clothes and his worn robes. He makes a note to assign one of the Brothers to the laundry.
The basilica is as busy as ever. Clef offers encouragement and comfort to the other clerics when he passes them in the halls. Some of them are so young, and yet look so old. The war has aged them. Others are older than Clef's twenty-six, but appear no less haunted by what they've seen. Every day, it gets worse.