A Seed Planted In Blood

by imperialvirtue

Spring 380. During the siege of Overton, Mournwold.

The blood and the noise is constant, a crimson tsunami threatening to choke her.

Within the walls of Overton, their make-shift triage tent is only a few feet from the defences, so that men and women literally fall at their feet. Their bones shake with the bombardment, physical and magical, and Heidi stumbles more than once.

Streams of dying soldiers pass beneath her hands, like a flood without end, until she can barely whisper to them as they writhe and plead for their lives. Some she can keep from the Labyrinth, while others have their passing eased by her ministrations. Too many die. Far too many. More than she has ever seen.

She had thought Death reigned at Anvil, at the Spring Equinox. But that had been a mere gesture compared to this devastation. Yet she cannot think, cannot do anything but heal, her stitching clumsy but secure, her relief for the dying not more than a hum from her lips and a smear of poppy juice on theirs.

There is no rest for the living, either. They must return to the fray, to the defence of Overton. They cannot be spared for even a moment’s respite. And neither can their physicks.

Finally, it ceases. There are no cheers, no songs of victory. Only a mute realisation that they are not dead yet. Heidi bandages the last wounds, claps the last shoulders, and bids farewell to the last soul – and then she makes her retreat.

She is sharing lodgings with half a dozen physicks, crammed together in one of the small Marcher houses kindly given up for them. But she does not want to see them, to see anyone. She slips into the back of the tent, where Beatrix has based herself, and slumps behind the rudimentary field desk – no more than a couple of crates balanced over barrels. Here, she is hidden. Here, she is alone.

Though never quite alone, not now.

Heidi pulls away her sodden apron and ghosts her fingers over her abdomen. She has tried to ignore it, but even on their meagre rations, it continues to swell. How could she have been so careless? How could she have been so foolish?

The tears are hot on her cheeks, her body shaking silently with the force of them. For all the dead soldiers waiting to be burned, to be buried, and for the exhaustion that will not leave her. For the child who will belong to her mother’s house because Heidi could not remember how to brew a simple tea. For the Earl who will have to wear the shame of having fucked a yeoman, the evidence of his dishonour plain for all to see. Will it matter to them that she’s now a lady, his betrothed? Will they believe that he never slept with her when she was a member of his House?

As the soldiers shuddered and bled beneath her hands, she thought of Geraint. Was he wounded, bleeding, dying? Was a physick was there to save him, as she should be there?

She cannot stop crying. She tries to cover her mouth, to stifle her sobs, but she inhales the ichor still coating her hands and gags. She will not be sick, not here, not now. She has to gain control of herself.

She has to stop falling apart.

~

When it is over, when they tend to their fallen and count their dead, Beatrix stands on the rubble beneath the broken walls of Orchard’s Watch. Forces a smile as the last returning soldiers troop past her. An encouraging word. A gentle hand. Yet way too near she can see the flames of the Jotun fires, can smell the stench as the black smoke rises into the darkening skies.

Crows’ Clouds.

On her hands, the blood of too many patients, too many dead mingles with her own. Her wound rended hours ago. The Marrowort is bitter in her throat.

“Captain?” She turns to her Second.

“Yes, Claudia?” Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, it amazes her how steady her voice sounds. How cold. That her hands are not shaking, that she is still standing, her steps still firm.

I am nothing but physick. My heart is nothing but a muscle.

She signs the bill and sends the runners to report. She carries soiled bandages to the pyres and washes her hands in spirits, again and again, until they are dry and raw.

Only when all is done, when all her physicks have gone to their chambers, or to the nearest cask, when she has seen Andrea, thanked the General and hugged her friend, does she return to the corner of the infirmary tent that serves her as an office as well as a bedchamber.

Beatrix pushes the curtain aside – and freezes. Heidi looks so small. So broken. How strange it is, to see those who have not grown up in this. Who can still cry.

“Heidi.” Now she curses herself for how cold her voice sounds. How dead. She takes a breath, tries again. “Heidi…”

Slowly, she comes closer, kneels in front of the crying girl. A sharp pain in her side reminds her the Marrowort is fading. In a moment, she will take care of this. She extends a hand. “I am here…”

Heidi flinches away from Beatrix. She doesn’t want to be seen, not like this. Not when all her strength has failed her, not beside Beatrix’s calm, cool expression.

“I’ll…I’ll…”

But she can’t form the rest of the sentence, her tears overwhelming her again, and her blood-darkened hands trembling in her lap as the curse grips her in the strength of her feeling.

All her control gone. Her professional veneer crumbled. Exposed and ashamed.

Bit by bit, Beatrix inches closer, until her hands lie atop Heidi’s, soothing their trembling. “It is alright.” It sounds wrong in this voice without feeling and Beatrix hates herself for a moment. She wants to will herself to feel, to show compassion, understanding, but inside herself, she finds only numbness.

“It is hard, and it is horrid. It is alright to cry.”

Heidi looks up into Beatrix’s face. It is impassive, as unreadable as if overlaid with lace or fine-spun gold. How she wishes she could be as a serene as Beatrix, to wear her mask day and night without even covering her face.

“You’re not crying,” she mumbles, trying to catch her breath, desperate to stem the tears.

Beatrix cannot help but smile, quietly. “I wish I still could.”

Slowly, as if dealing with a startled bird, Beatrix moves from her squat to sit next to Heidi on the low, hard bed. Blood is still seeping through her chemise and she absentmindedly reaches into one of her belt pouches and pulls out a small vial, swallows the contents in one swift movement. It will do for another while.

Gently, then, she begins stroking Heidi’s back. “Breathe. Just deep breaths for a moment, alright?”

But it’s the sight of blood on Beatrix, how she drinks down the potion, that grabs Heidi’s attention. She is suddenly alert, her physick’s instincts taking over in a moment. She has to cleanse her hands, inspect the wound, renew the stitches.

“You’re hurt,” is all she says, before trying to shift away, to start her work again.

“Yes,” Beatrix replies simply, her hand staying on Heidi’s back. “So are you. We have done enough work for today. More than that. It is alright to stop. You need it.” For a moment, there is almost something like weariness in her voice. “So do I.”

“I can’t leave you like this,” Heidi says, suddenly solemn. “I can’t.”

She is suddenly aware that she is still covered in blood, the blood of dozens, hundreds staining her skin, her clothes. She is so tied up in her own grief, her frantic worries for the future, that she has forgotten even to wash away the blood from her hands.

“You are not leaving me in any way.” Beatrix strokes Heidi’s back once more before getting up and disappearing briefly back into the infirmary tent. When she returns, she is holding a bowl of water. It has been boiling, at some point, and some wisps of steam still rise from it. Placing the bowl on the ground, she kneels in front of Heidi again before soaking a rag in the lukewarm water and gently beginning to wipe the blood off the girl’s hands.

Heidi looks down at her hands as they tremble in Beatrix’s soft grasp. “I’m meant to be looking after you,” she mumbles, but she is too tired to fight, to question.

The water is soothing, the touch even more so, and she lets her head fall back against the barrel she’s resting against. Uncurling her body, forgetting to hide. Letting Beatrix take care of her in the way she wishes she was strong enough to look after her mentor.

“You are not.” Beatrix works gently yet methodically, cleaning away the stains of those who have passed into the Labyrinth, and those who could be saved. And somewhere between the soft touch and the warm water, the steely mask over her soul begins to soften, to melt away. The ground becomes harder under her knees, the ache in her side sharper, the world is in focus once more. Beatrix breathes a sigh and looks up at her student, glad to see her lean back, relax.

She pauses.

The thin wool of Heidi’s dress is stretching across her stomach in a way it did not do when they were travelling from Holberg. The rations of the army are meagre, time for the physicks to eat almost scarcer than for the soldiers. Yet, she reflects, Heidi has been looking well throughout. Tired, yes, but not as worn as many others, as Beatrix herself, who knows Garravaine will be tracing her ribs in Anvil and then drag her off to eat. The thought of her own beloved brings on the thought of Geraint. Of his curse, how long ago, of the content of his letters.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

In silence, Beatrix finishes her work, before setting aside rag and bowl and sitting back down next to Heidi, lightly placing a hand on her arm.

Heidi rouses from her stupor. Her thoughts had been far away, somewhere in Dawnguard, seeking out a bed piled high with furs. Seeking out a man she longs to hold in her arms. She didn’t have time to reply to his last letter before the movement of soldiers and the threat of the Jotun had overwhelmed them, making all communication impossible.

She gives Beatrix a weary smile. “May I tend to your wound now?”

“You will not let me get away from this one, will you?” With a soft smile, Beatrix leans back while pulling up bodice and soiled chemise. The wound she reveals is ragged, torn from stitches reset after too many times with too little rest, too much Marrowort and grit teeth and another life saved. Yet her eyes never quite leave Heidi, watching her movements, only ever so slightly encumbered. She is good at hiding herself. A servant’s skills. But now that she knows, obvious to see.

Heidi fetches what she needs and deftly cleans the wound, before stitching it up once more – double the usual number, hoping that this time they will hold. “Will you go away with Garravaine, after the wedding?” She leaves the rest unfinished: To rest and recover?

The wedding has come so soon. Yet their Tests of Ardour have taken a year to complete. Heidi knows hers will take at least that long, on Geraint’s part if not her own. No time to be married before their child is born. No way to stop those inconvenient questions being asked.

The stitches sting in tender flesh and Beatrix flinches, only a bit. “I believe he will ask Andrea to have me seconded to the Pride for a season or two. To get their physicks into shape. Not that I expect her to agree. We will see what will happen.”

She sits up, slowly. Cocks her head. “I assume you will return to Astolat and stay until the child is born?”

Heidi freezes, the bandage unspooling in her hands. “The child. I…I don’t know what you mean.”

Oh sweet virtues, how can Beatrix know about the child? She had been so careful. She had taken such pains to hide herself away. Yet she ducks her head and flushes red, the lie burning through her. She knows exactly what Beatrix means. She wishes she did not.

Beatrix reaches out, gently takes the bandage from Heidi’s trembling hands. “Please do not lie to me. I would consider myself a bad teacher if you did not know you were with child.”

She sets the length of linen aside, reaches to take Heidi’s hand instead. Holds it gently. “You have no reason to lie.”

Heidi looks up at her, both hopeful and afraid. “You are not ashamed of me? You do not think that I…that I should’ve known better?”

Her face crumples. “I have not told him. I do not know how to tell him.”

Beatrix blinks in confusion. “Why would I be ashamed of you? No matter what the reason is you came to be with child and kept it, it is your choice.” She smiles and wraps an arm around Heidi’s shoulders, gently stroking her back again. “You hardly had the opportunity lately, and it might not be something to say in a letter. You will be with him again soon, and you can tell him then. I am sure he will be delighted. If… in need of a bit of training to be a father. But I am sure he will manage.” Beatrix squeezes Heidi’s shoulder briefly.

Heidi rubs at her forehead, overtired now. “I do not doubt him, not like so many others. Yet, if they can but count…” She blushes again. “I was a yeoman and he was an Earl, when the curse was upon him. We should never have been so careless.”

She strokes her hand gently across her swollen abdomen. “This child will belong to House Seren, and not their father’s House. That is my shame, and his.”

Beatrix’s forehead creases as she tries to understand the intricacies of Dawnish society. “You were with each other. There is no shame in a child born out of that. None at all. And…,” she smiles wryly, “it is true in Dawn as much as the League that most people do not look further than their own noses, or coin pouch. They will not count. They will see a Lady of Dawn, bearing the child of an Earl. Nothing else.” Gently, she pulls Heidi towards herself, lets her lean against her shoulder.

“Apart from the strain of the campaign, are you feeling well? I cannot say I would have worked you less hard had I known earlier, and I cannot promise I can work you less hard until we depart for Anvil. But every physick is responsible for their own safety first and foremost, so if you need to rest, tell me.”

Heidi closes her eyes and accepts Beatrix’s comfort. “I am well,” she tells her. “The sickness is easing and I am sleeping when I can. I will not be a burden to you, I swear it.”

Not for the first time, Heidi wants to possess Beatrix’s certainty. That all will be well, that Dawn won’t view them as a scandal. Igraine warned her at the Pledge Ball that they were being too obvious, that it would be noticed. Now it will certainly be noticed.

“I am not worried about you being a burden. Not in the slightest. You are a sensible young woman and a capable physick. I know I can rely on that.”

She smooths a strand of hair away from Heidi’s forehead. There is a dangerous smile in her voice as she continues. “And if anyone would like to discuss the details of your relationship, they are welcome to talk to me. If someone brings shame to Dawn, it is certainly the Leaguer marrying into a House for money, is it not?”

Heidi laughs at Beatrix’s words. “You are in love,” she says simply. “No one in Dawn ever looks beyond that in a marriage. The Dawnish gossips are far more interested in Enchanter Vexille bedding a Marcher.”

She raises her head slightly from Beatrix’s shoulder. “You should be resting. I will not keep you from healing while you can.”

“Oh that is certainly true.” Beatrix grins menacingly for a moment before nodding. “Yes. So should you.” She lies back on the makeshift bed, seemingly uncaring about the fact that she is still wearing her bodice and skirt, her soiled chemise. The tiredness she has pushed back until now is starting to creep back into her bones. But before she settles to finally rest, she once again reaches for Heidi’s hand.

“I am here for you. You have seen that I am willing to take a curse for you if I have to. If there is anything I can do to help, to ease your mind, in whatever matter, I am here, and I will always be.”