The Balance (Revised)

Chapter 4 (Morana): Part II

Her heart stopped in her chest. "No," she said quietly. "No, no, no, no—"

He couldn't be dead. He wasn't dead. Who could have matched Davor? He was strong, one of the best; who could possibly... Aleksander, she thought, closing her eyes. Her fists clenched tightly and she took a shuddering breath. She wouldn't open her eyes. If she did, she would cry until there was nothing left of her but a hollow shell.

Her nails dug into her palm hard enough to draw blood, and she welcomed the pain as a distraction. Still, she couldn't get the image out of her head, the idea of him lying there, his time in the world leaking from him, slipping through his fingers like rainwater as he stared up at the man who killed him, as his vision blurred and darkened until all he could see was the malice in those eyes...

Distantly, muffled, she heard herself ask, "Was it...?"

Another pause. "No."

Now she looked at him, vision blurred by tears. "Did they... did they bring back the body?"

"No."

The entire room was silent. To lose a soldier was terrible enough, but to leave him in enemy territory, to not bury him beside the church as was proper... She wanted nothing more than to demand that they go and retrieve his body, but it wasn't possible. There would be no way to find him and even if there was, they would be immediately set upon by Brevfjord's citizens.

"We will make preparations for a funeral," the commander said. He stood and nodded once before leaving. Morana listened to the sound of his boots against the wood floor until she couldn't hear it any longer.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The day passed in a surreal haze, silent and slow, as the inhabitants of Pevnost Zvozová milled about aimlessly or otherwise sat motionless, all range of motion stolen by news that seemed as physically crippling as it was emotionally devastating.

Morana sat in front of the fire in the dining hall, mindlessly flicking crumbs from the morning meal into the flames. She wanted to bring Davor home, where he belonged. She wanted to march on Brevfjord and raze the city to nothing. She wanted to sprint all the way to Rjustad and beat Aleksander and his brother until they were no longer recognizable. But she couldn't, and so she settled for doing nothing, not even picking up a spoon as a bowl of garlic soup was set in front of her or retiring to her quarters once the sun had set.

At the sound of a wail, she bolted upright and started for the door. Before she reached it, a young boy came stumbling in, eyes red and face damp from tears. She sighed and held out a hand to him, helping him into the chair next to hers.

So he told them, she thought, and had the absurd desire to laugh at the idea of the commander trying to gentle his voice as he addressed the children.

To the boy, she said nothing, merely letting her hand smooth his hair as she hummed a soft tune. There was nothing to say that could make the situation better, no words that could assuage the pain, but maybe he could at least find some semblance of peace in sleep. His eyelids drooped, and finally, his head lowered until it rested on the table.

She waited a few moments before scooping him into her arms, taking care not to wake him. The quarters for male soldiers were closer to the dining hall than those for females, something she had found terribly unjust when she was younger and raced Vladan and Ivo to the table, but she was grateful for it now. The boy was hardly light.

Once she found his, Morana laid him out on his bed and tucked him under the blankets before leaving. She couldn't bear to return to the dining hall, couldn't bear just sitting there, but she knew that she needed to eat something— all she'd had was two rolls, and even though the idea of food made her stomach roil, she couldn't let herself starve.

When she stepped back into the dining hall, she noticed Vladan and Ivo seated where she and the boy had been, Ivo with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, and Vladan nursing a glass of borovička. Morana wrinkled her nose. To her, it tasted like a pine forest smelled, but she couldn't fault Vladan for wanting everything to fade away.

Sitting across from him, she grabbed the bottle from him and took a swig, wincing at the flavor. She would regret it later if she continued and spent the night retching yellow bile, but it was borovička or cold garlic soup. Reluctantly, she pulled the bowl in front of her.

"This..." she mumbled, staring at the soup, "this is awful."

Vladan took another drink. "I know."

"How did he know Davor was there? He shouldn't have known..."

"I want him dead," he said. "And Marek too— the man is too much a coward to actually step onto the battlefield himself, but he was involved. Of course he was."

Morana nodded, pushing the spoon around in her bowl.

"It was brutal," he continued. "Like an animal. I... I couldn't stand not knowing, so I asked. Chest caved in, arms and legs askew, snow around him just... dark. Everything at every angle, one soldier said. And the two of them, they arranged it—"

There was the screech of wood against wood as Ivo shoved his chair back and walked away, letting out a low sob as he did so.

"Ivo," she called. "Are you...?"

All she heard before he left was a muffled "be alone". She settled back in her chair and closed her eyes briefly. Why now? she had to ask herself. Why Davor? Why Aleksander? Losing a friend, a brother, would have been horrible even if he had died at the hands of a common soldier, but this was far worse.

"I want him dead," Vladan repeated.

Morana looked up at him. It was possible that he would get the chance, but she hoped that he did not. She clasped her hands together. Please, she prayed. Keep him far away from Aleksander. Not only to keep him safe— although that was the most important thing— but also because she knew that if Vladan found him, he'd try to kill him.

And that was what she wanted to do.

Borovička (boh-roh-VEECH-ka): juniper brandy, native to Slovakia. 

And yes, yellow bile-- if you're going to drink, don't do it on an empty stomach.

So, uh... here's the thing. I'm due for surgery pretty soon (everyone say yay), which means post-op recovery will involve either a lot of free time to write, or a painkiller-induced haze of nothingness/crappy TV shows. Just letting you know that there's the possibility of delay, because I really don't know.