Your fault.

Don't look at them. Look at me.

You don't have to go! Mom, tell him!

She never lied about it.

Your fault.

The time grows near.

If you can't find us. I'll find you.

She never lied. Not even at the end.

I think I could fall for you. Maybe I already did.

Alarion jerked awake in a cold sweat, hand already halfway to the weapons on his wrist before he recognized the shape squatting beside him. Despite the threat of violence, Bergman looked more apologetic than concerned.

"You were c-crying out," the boy explained quietly. "The others have enough reasons to dislike you without you waking half the camp."

"Ah," Alarion murmured, doing his best to relax as he laid his head back down on his pack. "What time is it?"

"Nearly evening. L-last watch is to wake you all in about fifteen minutes, either way, but you c-can go back to sleep." Bergman told him as he moved back toward the crackling fire.

Alarion shook his head, steadied his breathing, then sat upright with a grunt. Nightmares were nothing new; he'd suffered from them almost as long as he could remember. Some nights were good, others bad. The only thing that ever really seemed to change was the content. As a boy, most of them had been about his father, about the thing Eloim, and that horrible night. These days, he saw Sierra more often than not, or the revenant Lamesh. He never saw his mother, but Atra was always there; her sky blue eyes flecked through with violet and brimming with tears.

"Are you okay?"

"I will be," Alarion answered as he worked his way out from his simple tent and began to deconstruct it as quietly as he could. He never dreamt but for nightmares, so as bad as the memories were, they were a mixed curse. He got to see Atra. Sierra. Sometimes, they were so real that he could swear he could touch them. His mood was sour when he woke, not for the grim content of his nightmares, but that he had to wake at all. "Did they find anything else while I was out?"

"N-no more identifications, but one of the bodies you incinerated h-had Central District military pins. Half-melted ones, anyway. Gave me the idea to check the e-eyes."

Alarion looked quizzically over one shoulder. "The eyes?"

"T-to see if any were Vitrian blue."

That got Alarion's full attention. "How many?"

"Y-you're sure there were any?" Bergman asked with a sly smile.

"You would not have brought it up if-"

The young man conceded defeat in his teasing gambit with a wave of his hand. "Four."

That was too many. Far too many.

As of their departure, there had only been reports of a single lost patrol. That meant one Vitrian officer, perhaps two if it had been someone with enough status to warrant an adjunct or an equerry. To find four in this group alone should have been impossible.

"Just what are we walking into?" Alarion asked as he abandoned his work on the tent and moved to join Bergman near the fire. A pot of something dubious was simmering above the fire, and Alarion scooped out a bowl of the thick stew despite his better judgment. "Assuming we still are?"

"I-it seems that way," Bergman offered him a spoon from a nearby stack of utensils. "The sergeant sent t-two runners back with news, but we're expected t-to resume the march as soon as everyone is up."

As much as Alarion hated to admit it, the decision made sense. Between the deaths and the runners, they'd lost a quarter of their fighting force, but the urgency of the situation hadn't diminished. If anything, it had increased. This infestation was not only strong but atypical. Even if their unit couldn't tackle the boil itself, they could work on containment and locating the boil before things escalated further.

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"Has he even slept?" Alarion tipped his chin toward the far end of camp, where Kali was sitting on a mound of soil like an ivory statue. "He was sitting there when I went to sleep."

"G-godborn don't sleep."

"Really?"

"R-really. It h-helps compensate for their shorter lifespan."

Alarion gave Bergman an odd look around a mouthful of shockingly delicious stew.

"Y-you didn't know?" Bergman seemed genuinely surprised, but took Alarion's expression as a request. "The Incarnates l-live decades longer than a normal human, e-even with no rejuvenation, but their children are not s-so lucky. Divine essence is t-too powerful for a mortal body without t-the Mother to act as a mediator. Direct descendants only live for thirty, maybe forty years. Each new generation a-adds a couple of years."

"He said he was the seventh generation. So that would be… what, sixty, seventy years?"

"I-if he is lucky. It is hard to say how old he is, thirty-five, m-maybe pushing forty. Hard to believe that half his life is already gone."

They sat together for a few minutes, digesting that information, along with a healthy helping of stew. It was Alarion who broke the eventual silence.

"You said your name was Ivor, right? Mine is Alarion."

"N-not Orphan?" the other boy asked with a wry smile.

"No, that was the name I picked when I was promoted to specialist. Yours?"

Ivor scratched at the bridge of his nose, a bit of color touching his cheeks. "Bergman."

"Your family name?"

"It was b-better than the alternatives my old unit s-suggested."

"Let me guess, Stutter?"

"A-among others." The older boy deflated somewhat and dug back into his stew, devouring a few mouthfuls before he continued. "T-that was why I tried to talk to you. Misfits have to stick together, right?"

Alarion smiled despite himself. "It is still not a good idea. Once you learn about my reputation-"

"Y-you're the Trinity survivor, right?" Bergman said to Alarion's surprise. "I read the papers. I l-listen. I also know you're strong. And that you punched an officer for trying to attack the l-locals. You seem like a g-good friend to have. Besides, I think the rest of the section will come around, even grudgingly. You saved our lives and all. Or, well… someone did."

Alarion felt a spike of panic run through him at the insinuation. In all the chaos, he'd forgotten how things had kicked off. That ZEKE had revealed himself. He stood abruptly and turned toward his fellow soldier. "That was just-"

Bergman held up a hand. "It is fine. I owe you, so I didn't s-see anything. If you want to tell me about it later, that is fine."

The tension in Alarion's shoulders eased, and after a quick study of Bergman's face, he sat back down with a heavy thud.

"Thank you."

"W-what are friends for?"

Alarion snorted in amusement despite himself. Then he polished off what remained of his food before asking, "Bergman is a family name, right? That'd make you nobility?"

"Venal nobility," Ivor clarified. "My g-grandfather was rich enough to buy his way into office. I would have been the f-first of our house to enjoy birthright nobility, but then we lost the war. The Vitrians saw the practice as b-bribery, outlawed it, and abolished my father's position as well. They let us k-keep the name, though."

"So you were drafted becau-"

"I v-volunteered, actually."

"For this?"

"They don't send a-assessors to rich houses, much less those they c-consider collaborators. They trust us to be h-honest. Well, as honest as any merchant. Maybe I could have slipped through the cracks or followed my grandfather's example with some marks. But like it or not, this is Vitria now, and n-noble kids go through induction like anyone else."

Alarion's skepticism remained palpable. "Was this your decision? Or your parents?"

"A bit of both," Bergman admitted sheepishly. "The logic was sound. O-our family looks better to the Vitrians if we follow their customs. I just… I wouldn't have m-minded a little more time to work off some of this. N-not a lot of fat Auxilia."

Alarion did his best not to laugh and failed miserably. It felt good to laugh, and even better, as he saw Ivor chuckling alongside him.

"I'm g-glad my predicament is funny to you."

"I am sorry, that was-"

"I-it is fine. I like who I am. I bet you half of them can't say t-the same," Bergman jerked a thumb toward the sleeping Auxilia. "How long do you have left?"

"Sevente-" Alarion frowned deeply as he corrected himself, "Twenty-three months, after the recent extension."

"S-six months for giving him what he deserved seems unfair. My sympathies."

"You?"

"Twenty-five. Y-you'd think I'd have slimmed down by now, but I spent most of it on garrison duty, and my cooking is still too good." Bergman smirked a little and tugged off his cap, fiddling with the brim. "This is only my second field engagement."

"You did well."

"I was terrified."

"And you still did well." Alarion retorted. "Your magic is language-based?"

"I am a Sympathetic Word Smith," Bergman confirmed. "Reality, sound, enchantment, and m-mind. Put together, I can call on the name of something and make it more powerful, or I can speak words of power to conjure barriers and attacks. It is v-very flexible magic."

Alarion nodded along at the explanation, doing his best to be polite without drawing attention to the elephant in the room. Sadly, it was still evident on his face.

"You can just ask. I w-won't be offended."

"You have a massive stutter," said Alarion. "There must have been a better choice."

"A-actually, it strengthens me. Think of it l-like any other casting r-restriction." The young man paused and took a steadying breath, his face stern with concentration as he spoke clearly and concisely, "If I put effort into it, I can speak clearly and enunciate every syllable, almost without fail." He let out a heavy breath and then finished, "I-it is just exhausting and requires a l-lot of concentration."

Alarion glanced down at his wrist and smiled. He could practically feel ZEKE's interest. It was precisely the sort of unusual class that the Steelborn loved to learn about.

"I stand corrected." Alarion smiled.

"W-we should compare notes," Bergman said. "I-if we end up on the same squad, that is."

"I don't think that will be a problem." Both soldiers shot upright at the sound of the sergeant's booming voice, but he waved them away dismissively. "It's too late… or early, for that. Go wake up the others. It is time to get moving."

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