Work Text:
I. ANGEL
It was all rather absurd. Incongruous. Silly, even. That his mind would even drift to something as romantic and banal as Valentine’s in the midst of war.
A war that had distorted all his perceptions of normalcy.
Unwittingly he thought back to all the celebrations in Luwen, punctuated by the pop s of fireworks and sparklers, raucous yelling… and how the same thing would now be perceived as another shrill alarm for disaster. Even the ordinary wasn’t that way anymore. The skies were always a little smoggier, whorling with gray, the trees barer, more skeletal, the clouds a little less white. Where flowers might have once been associated with birthdays and celebrations, he could only now envisage them on graves, wilting and limp.
Such was the case in the makeshift cemetery just behind the makeshift hospital too, where he was now recuperating in, and where he’d had the fortune of reuniting with his dearest friend. (A friend from simpler years, and a friend whom he’d deceived from the beginning, with a fictitious name he’d plucked from a novel.) The little muddy lumps behind were host to an assortment of wildflowers; petals thin and drooping, battered by wintry winds, devoid of life. Not unlike the corpses under. Roland–or Loid, as Yor once knew him by–failed to see how they could still be seen as a gesture of romance. Adroit confession.
It was all rather silly, that he was even pondering the meaning of flowers with such depth at a time like this. Surely his time would’ve been better spent strategising.
But he knew just how fond Yor was of them. She’d always had a soft spot for soft things, after all. Vulnerable beings. Weaker creatures. It was hard to forget how she’d tenderly nursed every injured kitten, every crippled fledging, every flightless canary back to health—back when they lived just across each other, divided only by a simple, crystalline river.
That same river now stood as a firm, liquid wall between two nations. And that same leap of faith across, once innocent and without consequence, would’ve been met now with condemnation and a firing squad.
“Hey, little lass,” someone called, from a few beds down. Judging by the soft, measured footsteps that inched closer, it was likely directed towards Yor. He affected an expression of a dreamless slumber and listened close. “Got any plans?”
“Um, sorry…” Yor said, the question thick in her tone. Even now he fought to recognise her voice as something from reality’s uglier realm, rather than something entrenched in the pits of his imaginations. “What do you mean?”
“Plans for Valentine’s.”
Loid clenched his blankets a little tighter, wincing inwardly at the pain that lanced through his broken knuckles. “Um… no,” she responded, still with that querying lilt.
“Well, what’s a pretty lady like you doing, spending it alone?”
“I–well, um, I’ve got my hands full,” she laughed, awkward and strained. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“Hey…” he called, voice brusque with what Loid strongly suspected was the sting of rejection. All the same, it was hard for him to not feel relieved. A little gleeful, even. Schadenfreude . “Hold up. You’re Ostanian, aren’t you?”
His hackles rose, and his nails dug deeper into his bandaged palm.
“I am too, you know,” he continued. “One day, when the war is over, we can go back home, and build ourselves a nice little home together–”
“Please refrain—um, please kindly refrain from discussing politics here. This is a neutral zone, and all soldiers are entitled to care regardless of their affiliations,” she said mechanically, but no less politely, as if reciting a script.
“Aw, come on.” At last Loid cracked an eye open—the one that wasn’t wrapped up in gauze—to glance at the despicable man, a burly, grotesque thing with a scar gashing down his left eye. “You can’t seriously believe that crap. We all know Westalis is losing. All those scrummy cowards do is run off with their tails between their legs and feed useless people with useless intel, and—“
“It’s not crap,” Yor muttered, quiet, but not without conviction. “Excuse me, sir. I have other patients to tend to.”
“Wait, come back—“
But she’d already vanished from their ward, leaving Loid-or Roland, he couldn’t be too sure these days, after shuffling between identities like a deck of cards-alone with the weight of his own thoughts.
And disdain. Disgust. Revulsion. Just to name a few.
“These younglings,” the man scoffed. “Think they’re such nightingales, don’t they? Just wait until the war ends and the victor’s clear. I bet even those Westalian chicks will come crawling to us, and—”
Rage flared in him tenfold, blinding and sharp. It was precisely men like him that gave Ostania a bad name and made the entire nation so easy to hate. And annihilate. If he weren’t so languid with morphine he might’ve gone over and personally planted a facer. It wasn’t like his face was salvageable, anyway. But he knew the kind of trouble it would bring Yor, and so fervidly held himself back, resigning instead to glaring holes in the wall and seething quietly as his blood boiled.
Yet he couldn’t shake off that fateful encounter with that strange, curly-haired soldier either.
They tell us to hate each other. So we fight. And then we die.
It’s the most pointless thing in the world.
Wasn’t that exactly how he’d been feeling for the past year? Pointless? Some days it felt like the only light awaiting him at the end of the tunnel was death; inviting oblivion his only paradise. For so long now he’d been fighting, opening fire at every enemy soldier indiscriminately. It did not matter if they were a brother, or a father, or a son. All that mattered was that they bore the insignia of the enemy state on their uniform. That alone was enough to warrant a swift death at his hands.
In the east, they say it was the west that started it.
Or his own demise, in their hands.
Loid pursed his lips, contemplating. The dried blood crusting on his mouth didn’t bother him much. But every drop of propaganda fed to his young, impressionable mind began to drip in the back of his head, diluted, ignorable. Trickling out of his thick skull like blood. Would he have turned out the same way, parroting that lout’s narrative if he’d been born just across the border, as an Ostanian? Who was he to say that he wouldn’t have succumbed to the same brainwashing?
And what about Yor?
Would things have been different, if he hadn’t known her from before? Would he have met her compassion with inured wariness instead of warmth? Would she have shunned him? Loid doubted she would’ve, devoted nightingale that she was. (He hadn’t detected a trace of deceit in her earlier speech, either.) It was himself that he was worried about. Without their history as foundation, Loid suspected he might have held her at arms’ length, possibly even regarded her with acute suspicion. And perhaps he ought to, even now. There was no telling what she truly thought of Westalians like himself, after all the propaganda that had slowly but surely infected the country and its citizens like a virus.
Yet how could he ever begin to conceive her an enemy, when she was the only angel roaming this hellish plot?
II. DAWN
Once more dawn broke like a bone the next day, clean and sharp. It marked another day closer to home—or whatever was left of it.
(Home, in his memory, was increasingly patchy these days. Some days it was little more than a smattering of explosions and rubble. Other days it was a carnival, fuzzed up by time. Mostly it was a barren wasteland with echoes of his mother’s voice—a sound he was starting to forget.)
It also meant separation was imminent. Regardless of whether Westalis was advancing, it was standard protocol to round up every soldier, dead or alive, and shove them into another pocket of utility. With his injuries, he’d most likely be stuffed into infantry to peel potatoes and chop up onions. Or a medic. If he was lucky.
But that didn’t guarantee that he’d be with Yor or anywhere close either. Every dawn might well be the last. He’d always known, of course, that this reunion would be short-lived - much like every other reprieve on the frontlines - but there was still so much he wanted to say and do… so much he wanted to make up for, like every special occasion missed: birthdays, and Christmases. Valentine’s.
It was all rather silly. Incongruous. Absurd, even.
But surely there was no harm in a gift like flowers as a token of appreciation?
… or was it affection? With Yor it was sometimes hard to distinguish between the two. He was grateful for her and all that she’d done up to this point: her friendship, and her dedicated care, which had ensured his speedy recovery.
Yet it was impossible to deny the inexplicable fondness he’d always held for her. A soft spot. The kind that made his younger self swell with fuzzy feelings, that made him want to run around vast fields and pick apples in a dead man’s orchard for the apple of his eye.
The kind that would get him killed at war.
Loid sighed and stared morosely at the tattered ceiling. He’d been out on the battlefield for so long now that he hardly knew any other way to operate or behave. Especially not in the soft, gentle way that Yor carried herself. The wild, tender joys he envisioned for her future was a far cry from the man he’d become… and yet such self-loathing, such ruminations were again pointless. Futile endeavours. It would neither end the war nor guarantee her happiness. It would not bring them closer together, either.
But it would bring a smile to her face, would it not? And in war, that was sometimes more than enough to drive a man to do the unspeakable: pulling the trigger, simpering, or gathering flowers.
Loid, or Roland - whichever the situation required - had already done the first two. Repeatedly. Neither had gotten him anywhere, but he’d be damned if he missed out on an opportunity to brighten her day. Even with just a tiny, fleeting morsel of joy. She liked floras as much as faunas, which was a great deal.
That alone was reason enough. And so when afternoon came around, and everyone had fallen back into their recuperative siestas after finishing their bowls of gruel, he slipped out of the hospital unnoticed - it was a good thing he was trained to sneak around like a rat, as his enemies so liked to say - and shambled off towards the graveyard. A small meadow sprawled beyond, doused in brash light. Much of the plot was however dotted with lumpy, improvised graves that collectively gave the impression of irregularly-spaced anthills, sprinkled with bits of lilac. Wildflowers.
Then, like an oasis in the desert: a row of hardy roses, redder and brighter than blood amidst the snow.
He was half-sure it was a mirage. Nonetheless, he limped towards it uncertainly, feeling its stem for thorns. That small prick of pain was enough to verify its realness. Spark his greed. A lone rose felt paltry, and two inadequate, and by the time he’d lifted a number he deemed enough he had a small bunch nestled in the crook of his good, unbroken arm. A remarkable luxury, in this time of strife. It was a wonder roses survived better than crops in this weather.
Then, at last, in what he deemed an act of pious faith, he laid the bundle of roses to rest on the closest grave and bided his time. He wasn’t typically one for superstition, or bad omens - a crow was a crow to a man like him, who prided himself in logic and rationality - but a small part of him wondered if this act of pilfering roses in a graveyard might somehow amount to a morbid foreshadowing of some kind.
Roland shook his head, and with it that stray thought. It was just that: roses. Valentine’s. Just a nice gesture. It didn’t even have to mean much. Perhaps one day, when she’d settled down with a good man with a stable job and a sizable inheritance, she’d look back on this day and think herself worthy of roses, and romance, and everything good in the world; not simply thorns and thistles and poor, lying scoundrels.
Perhaps one day he’d muster up the courage to confess the true depth of his feelings. But for now tomorrow awaited—which even then was a privilege, a variable, a magnificent unknown.
Though they were, at least, still lucky enough to witness it.
III. ROSE
It was all rather absurd. Incongruous. Silly, even. That something like this would be capable of ruffling his feathers, after he’d been on the frontlines for countless months, fighting tooth and nail for his life, with only a plasticky helmet to prevent his brains from getting blown out. He’d endured far worse: dehydration, dysentery, near-death. There was no reason why he should be all jittery and tense now over the mere prospect of gifting a girl flowers.
So Loid - no longer Roland now, for there was no need for pretense with her - steeled himself, and discreetly approached Yor when he spotted her alone at breakfast, absently spooning gruel.
“Lo—Roland,” she whispered, catching herself. “What are you doing? You should be resting,” Yor fretted, already rising from her seat with every apparent intention of ushering back to bed.
Loid grinned sheepishly, hoping it betrayed none of his nerves. “I’m alright. I just get a bit restless.”
“Well, yes, but…” she trailed off. It was barely five in the morning. The light was scant, the sky was gray, but Loid preferred this to night; that would only have an eerier effect on the cemetery, and he knew just how terrified Yor was of ghosts. At least her younger self was. “Did you need—um, a nightcap, maybe? I can make you some warm milk, if you’d like…”
“No, no,” he interjected hastily, gesturing towards her bowl with his good hand. This was quickly turning awry. “I don’t need anything. Although…”
“What is it?” she persisted, eyes unblinking and wide, two scarlet moons. Her gruel lay on the table, forgotten, barely a dent in it. Though the standard fare wasn’t particularly appetising. If only his two hands were working… and if only he’d access to the kitchen, and a steady supply of fresh produce. He’d make her something magnificent, like her favourite southern stew; something that would nourish both her body and soul. “Are you alright?”
Loid blinked, a little dazed, lost to his reckless daydreaming. “Yes. Sorry. Don’t mind me—please finish your breakfast. I only wanted to… to bring you someplace, if you don’t mind. To show you something.”
“Where?” she gawped.
“You’ll see,” Loid smiled, hoping his usual knack for suave persuasion wouldn’t let him down now. He could feel his eye twitching beneath the bandages. A normal itch, he told himself. Not a nervous tick. “It’s nearby, I promise. I’ll be back in bed before sunrise.”
Yor frowned, evidently rattled by an inner conundrum. “But… that’s not the point. You shouldn’t be out of bed, even.”
“All sleep and no play makes one a dull boy,” he joked lightly.
Expression now awash with mirth, she finished the rest of her gruel and beckoned him quietly towards a hidden exit. One he’d have to catalogue for the future. Just in case. It didn’t hurt to be prepared.
“You’re still as stubborn as ever,” she whispered lowly, supporting him with one arm as he flailed and hobbled beside helplessly. He felt not unlike a wildebeest taking its first wobbly steps. “Does your leg hurt?”
“No,” Loid replied. Judging by the frown that followed, she wasn’t convinced by his act of bravado. Not in the least. “I promise. Really, I’m fine.”
“Please tell me if anything hurts,” Yor insisted. “I’m violating every measure of protocol right now…”
Loid grimaced. He hoped he wouldn’t get her into trouble; that’d be some Valentine’s gift. Memorable, but not in the way he liked.
“I’m sorry. I hope I won’t get you into trouble. It’s just… this probably isn’t the ideal setting.”
She nodded in understanding, and followed his lead without further protest.
Vaguely and in passing, and drugged up on morphine, he’d thought about simply bringing his gift to her than the other way round. But sense had returned just moments after: it would only rouse a great deal of feeling, and the unpalatable sort—envy, ridicule, incredulity. Scoffing. Especially since good things were in tremendous scarcity at war. It was better for gifts to be given in total privacy, or not at all.
The meadow in the graveyard simply happened to be the most secluded space here.
“Here we are,” Loid announced with a slight wheeze, a little winded from the effort of limping to and fro. Out of nervous habit, he ran a hand through his hair and surveyed their surroundings, relieved at least that there wasn’t a soul around. Maybe ghosts, but not the living. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not ideal, but…”
“It’s… well, it’s not, but it’s the best we’ve got here, I suppose,” Yor mumbled, wrangling her hands a little as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Did you–um, did you want to talk about something?”
If Loid were a little less observant, he’d have missed the hint of trepidation in her voice, like she was afraid he’d give in to some baser instinct and harm her somehow. But he knew her, better than he knew himself these days. And he’d rather shoot his own brains out than lay a finger on her.
“Yes. It’s nothing serious or bad, I promise,” Loid reassured, now mentally kicking himself at having brought her here. “I only wanted… well, maybe it’s easier if I show you, instead of telling you.”
He felt her eyeing him warily, as he scuttled through brambles and stray branches in search of his shoddy gift. It was much harder to navigate that bundle of red in the dim horizon, though the sparse spread of stars did help. As did the moonshine. Nonsense, in another universe.
“What is it?”
“Roses,” he breathed, thrusting it shyly towards her, the way she’d nudged an egg towards him during their very first meeting. “For you. For Valentine’s.”
And there it was: the slow upturning of a glossed mouth, resplendent as the winter moon.
“Y-you got me roses?”
“I didn’t really get you roses,” he explained awkwardly, shuffling a little when she took the stalks from his hands, and marveled at them like he’d presented her with the sun. Or diamonds. A new world, better than this doomed jewel. “I found and gathered them, but I thought you might like it. I know how much you’ve always been fond of flowers, and I thought it could—well,” Loid paused to suck in a breath, belatedly noting that he was rambling. “Bring you some joy, at least.”
“I adore them,” she breathed, voice laced with reverence and awe. “Thank you so much, Lo-Roland, I mean. Sorry. Old habits die hard.”
Through the scant light, he could see that bashful quirk of her mouth, and withheld a grin of his own.
“I’ll always be Loid to you, Yor.”
She cut him a look, eyes quivering with wonder. Hope. Possibly a trace of despair, knowing that there was no guarantee of always in times like these. Stolen moments, clandestine meetings, and longing glances—these were about the closest approximations to heaven in times like these.
“You will?”
“Yes,” he whispered, breath falling in dense little puffs. “I promise.”
How absurd, and perhaps even audacious, that he would dare make a promise like this, when the balance of the world rested on a thread stretched beyond its limits. But he meant it. And despite everything that had unfolded between the two states, he could tell she felt his sincerity, and any hint of suspicion she might have held melted away like frost in spring when Yor leaned in close.
“I trust you.”
In the warmth of her gentle embrace, and the feel of her flushed cheeks pressed against his front, Loid thought that he might yet persist in living—if only to uphold such a vow, and trudge towards a future that had yet to unfold and cement itself as entirely bleak.