THE FIRST ARMY encampment near Ulensk was a ragged, worn down mesh of small tents and roughly set up perimeter defences. Everything was monotone and bland. A mixture of browns, greys and dark olive greens. The only lighter colour was the white canvas tent with a red cross on it, marking the medical tent. Everyone would notice it from miles away.

Harshaw was immediately taken there, his unconscious body carried away on a stretcher. A heavy olive green coat had been used to cover him at some point during their three-day journey. They had hoped to keep him as warm as possible. Chase away the fever by getting him to sweat it out. His state hadn't changed. But he was alive, and what more could Freya ask for in a situation such as theirs?

The ground she walked on was muddy and slippery and she had almost fallen thrice by the time they stopped. Her legs were sore and her feet had blisters all over them. She could sleep for four days straight.

Luckily, it had stopped raining and only grey clouds remained. She prayed for the sun to show itself for even a moment. Its rays of sunlight would warm her freezing skin better than the worn down and torn kefta she was wearing. The clothes beneath that were even thinner. Peasant's clothing that Leanne had lended her so she wouldn't have to walk in dirty and blood-covered clothes. The appearance of it was similar to what the Grisha usually wore beneath their kefta, but the material was far more worn down.

Despite the General wanting the Grisha to keep up appearances as ordinary people, he certainly did not let them dress like them.

"Come, girl," one of the soldiers that Freya had found out was named Vladimir, beckoned towards Leanne. She shrunk away from him, pulling the thin shawl around her shoulders tighter around herself. The piece of fabric was so torn and used that it hung like a spiderweb from her body. It was the best thing she had had in her home. "There are men who will take you to the orphanage near here."

Freya stepped quickly towards Leanne, gripping her hand tightly and tugging her towards her body. Nikolai, who had been walking beside her basically the entire journey to the camp, gave her a weird look. He raised one blond eyebrow.

"She stays with me," Freya proclaimed loud enough for the other soldiers to hear. "She is Grisha and should be brought to the Little Palace." Some of the soldiers instantly stepped away from Leanne, their nostrils flaring as they curled their noses. Contempt rose inside of Freya at their reactions. Of course. As long as Leanne was a sweet and innocent peasant girl, it was alright to be near her, feed her and joke around with her at the campfire. But the moment she was Grisha... well, she was worse than the devil.

Even if Ravka was safer towards Grisha than most other countries, it was far from perfect. Prejudice was common enough in the north that Freya would be afraid to venture into a town alone on a day off. It could be the blending of cultures this close to the border. Or it could simply be what it always was. Vile hate.

Freya was glad that she was stationed at Ryevost. Though the largest river city was located farther north than most, it was nowhere as bad as Ulensk. She felt the shift in the air every time she travelled farther and farther away and towards the border. The careful and sometimes worried smiles of the common people in the villages she passed through slowly melted into loathing.

They detested her more than most other Grisha. She was not just Grisha to them. She was something new. Her kefta bore colours they had never seen on any other soldier of the Second Army. And she was foreign. The blood of the Fjerdan people was stamped vividly onto her. It flowed through her veins plainer than day.

"You should report to General Raevsky," Nikolai told her when the other soldiers began to disperse. "He may not be Second Army, but he should know of the situation. I'll take Leanne to get some food." Freya nodded. He was right, of course. He usually was. That was a fact before he joined the army, but it seemed his view of the world and its people had become even more refined in the past two years. They had a lot to catch up on, she knew. Things were left unsaid in the company of the other soldiers.

She patted Leanne's soldiers and gave her a small reassuring smile before letting her go. She looked unsure of whether to go with Nikolai, but when he threw her one of his charming smiles, she acquiesced and followed after him.

The walk towards the General's tent was far more gruelling than the entire journey to the camp. Now that Freya knew she wasn't fighting for her life, her body wished to collapse in a warm bed or a rickety cot, whichever was closer. Instead, she made her way through the camp with her thighs and calves burning and her ankles aching.

She was let into the General's tent without much fuss. The man was sitting at a desk loaded with paperwork and maps. He looked to be around his forties, maybe a little more. There were dark bags under his eyes and when he looked up at Freya, the whites of his eyes were more red than anything else.

Freya wondered how much sleep a general got, especially one that fought in the field. General Kirigan often looked exhausted when he was at the Little Palace. Freya had never seen him out of it, so she did not know how the weight of the war bore down on him then. Surrounded by his soldiers, most injured or forever afflicted with Soldier's Heart, was a most humbling experience.

She recounted what had happened at Mosova as quickly as she could. She did not want to recall what had happened that day. Or the days that followed. It had all become a blur to her, yet at the moment she least expected it, memories would flash in her brain as vividly as if she was seeing them again.

The General asked only a few questions. Missions gone wrong were not an uncommon thing. If they were, the war might've been won by now. He sent her away after about fifteen minutes. Freya was glad about it.

The sky had begun to darken at that point. She would get to rest soon, hopefully. First, she needed to eat though, and probably go see one of the medics. The stitches that kept her wound from tearing again were done in the spur of the moment. Harshaw had been injured himself and had sown her shut with a bleeding wound of his own. Freya could imagine the sight they had made.

With a sigh, Freya made her way towards the medical tent.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The air in the medical tent was tinged heavily with the smell of camphor, hard alcohol and the metallic tang of blood. It had gotten easier to breathe the longer Freya sat there, watching the medic that was tending to her move around the small corner of the tent where they were. The privacy curtain was drawn, making the tight space feel at least a little bit more private.

In reality, every single thing that was said could be heard by everyone else. Her silhouette was probably visible through the thin white sheet as well. It did not matter though. No one in the medical tent truly cared what was happening around them. They were all either too hurt or too tired to do so.

"The stitches are not that bad," the young medic said, rubbing some kind of balm over the healing bullet wound. Freya hummed sardonically. She had seen it many times to know that it was. The medic was just trying to make her feel better. That was only confirmed when her face twisted apologetically and she said, "It will most likely scar badly."

The way she said it made it sound like the worst thing ever. Yes, it would be an ugly and gruesome thing to look at, but what did that matter? Freya was a soldier, not a princess that had to be kept pretty. And well, if she ever felt bad about it when alone, she would have to bite her tongue and accept it. She had done so with the burn scar on her jaw years after she had decided to keep it unhealed. When the want to keep a memory of her home, however painful, had only become a nuisance. A thing that made the girls in the Little Palace curl their noses in disgust and the boys look the other way.

Freya had grown so used to it that she barely had time to feel bad about this new wound. She had long gotten over the desire to be noticed by boys. They would have all gone flocking to Zoya anyway. She was much prettier than her. Freya had never beheld such a striking beauty before. In the end, Freya did not mind. She had time to focus on her abilities. And who needed young boys to fawn over them when they had the General giving them private lessons?

Zoya could keep the boys' attention. Freya had gotten something more.

"I do not mind," Freya told the medic with a firm shrug of her shoulders. The young woman gave her a small smile, as if she did not entirely believe her, and stepped away from Freya. She gestures to Freya's rolled-up shirt. With a sigh, Freya let the white fabric fall over her abdomen, hiding the gruesome sight from view.

"I suppose you will have it taken care of by one of your Healers?" The tone of the medic's voice was curious, but at the same time, it was underlined with something a little more malicious. The way she raised her brow might have seemed cruel to anyone else.

Freya was used to such taunts. Many First Army soldiers made them. They did not enjoy the powers that Corporalki Grisha had. More importantly, they did not enjoy that they were not offered their services. It was a rare occurrence for a First Army soldier to be given cosmetic treatment by a Healer.

"Our Healers have better things to do than wipe away my scars for me." Freya waved her hand loosely over her jaw where the skin was still tight and obviously scarred. The medic grimaced as if she realised her taunting had been noticed. If you do not have the courage to go through with it, do not say it, Freya thought disdainfully.

"I heard the battle in Mosava turned into a bloodbath." the medic quickly tried to steer the conversation in another direction. "You, the Inferni and the little girl were the only ones that survived."

A bloodbath was a good way of describing it. It had been nothing short of carnage. The blood of friend and foe had turned the ground soft and red. Freya gulped as she thought of it, feeling suddenly cold. The shiver that ran down her spine made her want to curl up under a warm blanket.

"We were," she confirmed, not sure what else to say. The medic did not seem pleased that Freya had not elaborated further. She took it almost as entertainment. That made Freya even angrier. She had sat in frigid water with a dead boy's head in her lap. His blood had spilt over her thighs and turned the water crimson. She herself had bled all over the wooden floor of Leanne's home. The dried puddle still marked the floor back in Mosava.

"Your Inferni will live if he makes it through the night," the medic said with a sigh, moving around the small tight space that they were in. She was pacing, Freya realised. Either she was bored or agitated. Maybe a little bit of both. Eventually, she reached to pick up the fresh bandages laid out on a small side table.

"That is good." Freya nodded. It was barely good news. Still, better odds than Harshaw had had the day before, and so Freya allowed herself to relax at least a little. He would make it, she told herself. Harshaw was bred and made of fire. A fever would not be what killed him. He would go down in blazing glory and nothing short of that.

The healer opened her mouth to speak again, but then the privacy curtain was pulled aside. She turned around, hands on her hips, ready to scold whoever had dared impose on the privacy of her patient, but she stopped short when she saw who it was. She quickly dropped into a short curtsy. The movement was too quick, too inelegant, but Nikolai did not seem to mind the clumsiness.

"Moi tsarevitch," the medic stuttered the words. Her eyes were wide as saucers. For a moment, Freya was sure they would fall from her skull. She dropped the bandages back down on the side table and folded her hands quickly behind her back.

"Please, just call me 'major'," Nikolai said, "I am not a prince here." That was not entirely the truth, Freya thought. He wore the olive green uniform of a soldier, he was built like one as well and his skin was not as clean and polished as it might've been had he still been at the Grand Palace, but Nikolai would never be anything but regal. Something about him screamed royalty and he exuded a certain power that his father and older brother did not. He commanded respect, maybe that was it. The soldiers he had interacted with during their trip to the camp had spoken to him as if he was their friend, but also with regard that Freya only ever saw with a few other officers. "I must speak to your patient here. Would you be as kind as to leave us for a moment?"

The medic nodded hastily and then scurried out of the way, disappearing into a different area of the tent. Nikolai pulled the privacy curtain shut behind him again. His eyes bore into hers with a sudden intensity when he looked at her again. Freya felt as though her skin burned. It was not a painful burn though. No, it was pleasant and it sent tingles all over her body. She craved more of it.

To her horror, she realised she wanted to pull Nikolai closer to herself. To feel his skin on hers. She shook her head slightly, hoping he would not notice the blush that painted her cheeks and ears bright pink. When she let her eyes meet his again, the intensity was gone, replaced by a softness that Freya hadn't experienced from anyone in a long time.

He reached for the bandages on the side table, picking them up carefully. He nodded towards her shirt.

"May I?" he asked and waited patiently for an answer. The air around her felt thick. Despite the deepening blush and the speed of her heart rate, she nodded and gingerly lifted the hem of her shirt. She grimaced when Nikolai's gaze fell down to the scar on her abdomen.

Suddenly, she did care that it was ugly. She wanted it wiped clean. Wanted it to disappear. It was a horrendous sight. He would surely turn away from her now. She was not as pretty as other girls, regardless of any deformities. The scars only added to that.

Stop it, she cursed herself. She was eighteen years of age. Insecurity was something she had long left behind. Except she clearly hadn't, because she felt like crying. Not about the pain of the injury or the circumstances that had led to her acquiring it. But because a boy she thought handsome was looking at her, she found it ugly.

She hoped that later she would laugh about it. Call herself foolish. Realising she had only lost herself to the exhaustion and the stress and the sudden relief. What she was feeling was nothing more than a consequence of her usual self-shattering. And she would glue herself back together very soon.

"I am sorry this happened to you," Nikolai muttered. He said it so quietly that Freya barely caught it. She had half expected him to curl his nose like the girls at the Little Palace, to turn and leave as any other boy would have. Instead, he stepped closer and between her spread knees and began wrapping the new bandages around her abdomen.

When his fingers brushed softly over her skin, Freya's muscles clenched and her breath caught in her throat. If he noticed her reaction to his touch, he did not say anything. She hoped that he would think it was because of pain, and not the growing need that turned her gut molten.

He worked quickly yet carefully, his skilful hands tying the bandages and smoothing the edges before he carefully stepped away. Not fully, though. He was still close enough that she felt his breath on her collarbone. If she reached out and bade him to come back, would he do so? She was tempted to try.

"When news came that your team did not return from its mission, I was terrified we would find you dead," he admitted, looking away from her. His jaw tightened and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I thought you would be dead. And I would never see you again."

The admission was not one she had been expecting. Honestly, she was not sure what she had been expecting. She just knew that it was not this. And she did not know how to react. Her eyelids fluttered and she ached to lean closer to him, to pull him into a warm embrace and simply feel him against her. But those were thoughts she should not have. He was the Prince of Ravka and they were only friends. Barely that, if she was being honest.

Maybe they were more though. He clearly had been afraid for her. His voice was punched from his gut. As if the thought of whatever he had felt was hurting him even now. Could there truly be more? Could she allow herself to want such a thing? She did not think she could. But Djel, she wanted to.

"And you... wanted to see me again?" Nikolai's eyes snapped back to hers. There was no sound except for their breathing for a few long moments. Then he stepped forward again and one of his large hands enveloped her waist. He tugged her slightly forward, arching her back into him slightly.

Freya's breath caught and stuttered in her chest. He leaned towards her, lips brushing softly over her ear. Freya let out a rough exhale. Every muscle in her body tensed.

"I would have been a broken man had I not been able to," he whispered huskily into her ear. Freya's eyes closed and she arched her back slightly more. She wanted more. More, more, more. Her body screamed for it. Her heart just as much. But before she could ask for it, he was gone from her proximity.

Her eyes snapped open. She was cold again. Freezing without him near her. He stood in front of her, shoulders rigid and eyes wide. As if he had only then realised what he had done. How close they had been to breaking a barrier between them. He blinked once, twice. Then he shook his head.

"Get some rest," he said, taking a step back. "I will see you tomorrow."

And then he was gone.

Author's Note

Soldier's Heart is an old term used for PTSD. I thought the term suited the world better than the actual medical term we use today.

Freya is lowkey having her sexual and romantic awakening right now. Good for her 😌