EMBERS (Marcus Acacius)

VII | Eye of the Storm

I had been up all night, tending to the injured and mixing salves and poultices, to the point where my hands were stained green and my eyes were barely able to stay open. The camp around me was quiet; everyone had gone to bed. I was the only person mad enough to still be awake, but I couldn't sleep. Instead, I sat outside the medical tent, elbows on my knees as I drew them up to my chest.

This seemed like the first moment of calm I had experienced in ages. Every day was chaotic, with soldiers running around and injured people entering the tent in search of my care. Once the day was over, I fell straight asleep, then when I woke up the next morning, I immediately headed to my station.

I breathed in the warm summer air, closing my eyes in contentment. I could've stayed here forever—in the serene night, with the occasional warm breeze gently caressing my face—but my wishes were rarely granted.

"What are you doing out here?"

I raised my head as Acacius appeared from around the side of the medical tent, the faint outline of his figure illuminated by the campfire's dying glow. He was still bandaged from his recent injuries—looking a bit worse for wear—but he was not broken. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if unsure whether to intrude upon my quiet, but I—sensing his internal conflict—patted the ground beside me.

"You're not supposed to be on your feet." I scolded him quietly as he carefully lowered himself to the ground beside me. He grimaced slightly at the action. "You'll tear your stitches—"

"—I'm fine," he muttered, leaning back against the wooden doorframe of the erected tent. "Just a little restless."

I watched as he brushed his hand over the tender spot on his side. It was clearly bothering him, but he was determined not to let me see his discomfort. I shook my head patronisingly. "Don't push yourself, Acacius." I drew my knees back up to my chest, returning my gaze to the camp before us. "It's not worth it."

We lapsed into comfortable silence, Acacius' steady breathing from beside me, lulling me into a sense of calm. It was nice to sit here with someone and not feel the need to talk. After what felt like hours—but was really only minutes—Acacius disturbed the silence.

"It's strange, isn't it?" I glanced up at him through my periphery. "All this fighting, and yet, we never really get a chance to stop and breathe."

I let out the breathiest of chuckles in response, letting my arms wrap around my calfs as I looked up at him. "It's hard to see the end of it. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever get a moment where we don't have to think about the next battle."

He hummed in agreement, his head lolling to the side to return my tired gaze. His eyes scanned over my face for a moment, before he reached up to brush a strand of hair off my cheek. My lips twitched upwards at the gesture, but his hand didn't linger. It was gone just as fast as it had appeared.

"I know the feeling. But I think..." As much as I wanted him to keep his hand on my cheek, I was satisfied with the look in his eyes as he looked over at me—so many emotions, yet I could decipher none of them in the dark. All I could do was return the gaze, the smile not leaving my face. "I think if we ever get that moment, we'll have to fight for it."

I nodded in agreement, breaking eye contact to glance down at my stained hands. I absentmindedly picked at the skin around my finger, dislodging gunk and dirt from underneath my nails.

"I've never asked..." I glanced up at Acacius, his eyes filled with genuine curiosity. "Why do you do this—the healing, I mean? It's hard work, and you never get to stop. You must feel it too—the weight of it all."

I didn't answer immediately, turning my focus back to my fingers as though they might provide a distraction from the question. In truth, I had been asked this before, but never like this—never with the kind of care and curiosity that was in his voice.