“Lydia! Get back in line! Lydia! Oliver, not you too, for fuck’s sake. Hold the fucking line! Bloody bastards.”

Lydia could barely hear Magnus over the pounding in her ears, and she wouldn’t have cared if she could. The fight wasn’t over as long as even one fool was still holding a weapon.

“Michael! Oliver! Lydia! Get your arses back here this instant!”

It wasn’t over. Not while there were enemies still standing.

“I order you to stand down!”

Who cares that they were running?

Lydia slashed a Jornaian across his left hamstring. He rolled, coming to a halt against the body of one of his fallen comrades, squealing like a stuck pig. She wouldn’t bother finishing him. Michael was still a few paces behind. He would take care of that.

One of the stragglers was sporting a limp. She got him through the ribs quickly enough.

She caught another with the edge of her shield, staggering him long enough to nick him cleanly across the throat with the notched edge of her bastard sword. The smithy was going to give her another earful back at camp; her sword looked like a caterpillar had munched his way along its length. No matter.

She looked around for her next mark. They were too far. The Jornaians’ lighter armour was much better for running than it was for fighting. Cowards.

Oliver was fencing with the last man in the line, fighting like a cornered dog. The Jornaian was jumping back from each swing, always a slither ahead of his death. Oliver was snarling, sweat streaking down his face and pooling in his ginger beard.

Lydia dug her sword into the ground and unhooked her hatchet. She caught Oliver’s combatant in the chest. The man looked down at the axe, and then lost his head to Oliver’s sword.

Oliver screamed at the sky, and then levelled the tip off his weapon at Lydia, “He was mine, cur!”

Lydia watched the last of the Jornaian regiment retreat. She knew she would never catch them in her plate mail. That pissed her off.

“Should have been faster,” Lydia said between slow, deep breaths.

Oliver lowered his weapon. He laughed.

“You three are in deep shit!” Magnus barked when he caught up with them.

The sergeant’s rope of black hair was plastered to his shoulder-pad with someone else’s blood. His brow was wrinkled in fury - That characteristic half-Jornaian brow of his.

Lydia collected her sword and wiped the blade on one of the dead. She didn’t bother responding to Magnus.

“Gather the wounded and get back to camp,” Magnus waited for acknowledgement that never came, “Now Lydia!”

She watched the Jornaians until the last of them had disappeared into the forest they had thought to ambush the Faiser infantry from. They weren’t coming back today.

She turned back to her unit.

---

“Wahey, there’s the wench of the hour!” Horn called from across the mess tent, pouring a tankard for Lydia from their quickly dwindling pitcher and sliding it across the table in invitation.

“Call me a wench again and I’ll slit your throat,” she said to the bald, chinless prick.

Horn sniggered like a hyena, “Magnus give you much crap?”

“Just the usual,” she shrugged, slotting herself in besides Milo, a dark, rugged looking man who was fairly new to the company, and Valour, a stocky brunette woman who tested her name on a daily basis.

“The fucker docked my pay,” Oliver said with a curse.

“Same here,” Michael echoed glumly, sweeping back his greasy brown fringe.

“You lot will be lucky to finish this campaign with even a couple of coppers to your names,” Horn tittered.

“You’ll be lucky to finish it alive,” Lydia retorted.

“Thank fuck we don’t get charged for the beer,” Oliver grinned, “To another glorious fucking victory.”

They raised their mugs and drank deeply. Oliver yelled to one of the camp followers for a top up.

“Some of the seniors reckon this was the end of it,” Michael said, looking to the others for confirmation, “They reckon that last bout broke their spirits.”

Lydia carried on watching the young man as the others dismissed him. He was handsome.

No.

She was misremembering.

He wasn’t handsome. She’d known that at the time. He was naïve, though, and she’d liked that.

“Isn’t that right, Lydia?” Valour said.

They were all watching her. She’d missed something.

“Hm?”

She missed it every time.

Valour rolled her eyes, “I said it won’t be over until we burn every one of their crappy shacks to the ground.”

Lydia took a long draught, “Let’s hope the cravens don’t quit before that.”

That evening, they drank long into the night. This was nothing special, they drank until the early hours more often than not. It was a pretty ordinary night.

“Hey, Lydia,” Michael said as his head bobbed limply on his neck, “you know, you’re actually kind of pretty. Like, in a scary kind of way.”

Lydia smiled.

Wait, no.

He didn’t say that.

“How about we get out of here?” Michael winked, suddenly sober.

No, that was wrong too.

She had asked him.

“Come on, you,” she hauled Michael to his feet, “Why don’t we get out of here and leave these pissheads to their drinks?”

Had she asked? Maybe she told him.

That was also pretty ordinary. Everyone slept around. They’d all shared a bed roll at one stage or another. The men did it, why should it be different when she did it? What made them so fucking special? It was good stress relief. She was the same as them.

Except she wasn’t. There was one key difference.

Had that even been the night?

She’d always thought that had been the night. Why was she unsure now?

No, it was that night. That’s what she’d always believed. That’s what she had to believe. It had been that night, and it had been Michael. It had been that sniveling little shit, Michael.

---

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lydia seethed.

The medic was unphased, “No I am not. I think you know that. Gods, Lydia, it must be obvious, even to you!”

The medic was cleaning some utensils. He was old. He’d been in the front line once, but now he just tended to the real soldiers after the fighting was done. She hated that he was useless, it reminded her that she would be too one day.

She shook her head, “It’s something else. Fix it.”

“I can’t ‘fix it’, Lydia,” he sighed, “It might not be such a bad thing. Did you expect to fight forever? This could be a good opportunity for you.”

“Being a slave to some sniveling brat?” she clenched her fist, “That’s not my fate.”

“Are you telling me you’ve never even considered it?” the medic said.

He was a patronizing fuck.

“Never. I’m not some braindead housewife.”

The doctor steeped his fingers, “Well, you and the father have some decisions to make, it seems.”

Her jaw was starting to ache, she was clenching so hard.

“You do know who the father is?” he asked in that same condescending tone.

She wanted to tear the tent down.

“Lydia?”

She saw the whole camp burn.

“Lydia, are you listening to me?”

---

Lydia had tunnel vision. The world was white noise around her. Maybe people had tried to talk to her. Had she seen anyone else? She must have done.

She found Michael playing dice with Oliver and Horn. They were having fun. They didn’t look up.

Lydia punched Michael in the side of the head. He skidded a horse’s length. She thought he might lose consciousness.

“Bloody hell, Lydia!” Oliver exclaimed, “What in the aether was that for?”

Michael hoisted himself onto his elbow. He spat blood.

He was tougher than he looked. She had mixed feelings about that.

“You crazy bitch!” the ugly, spotty bastard screamed.

He sounded like such a fucking child.

“This little shit left his fucking seed in me!” Lydia hissed.

“I did what?”

Oliver put his hand on his hips. He was looking away.

“Lydia, are you pregnant?” the ginger warrior asked carefully.

“He did this to me!” she was pointing with one hand. Her other hand was on her sword.

Michael was dazed, in more ways than one. The young man shifted until his legs were crossed beneath him. She wondered if he was even able to stand right now.

“No,” Michael was shaking his head, “Lydia, that’s not possible. We haven’t even. I mean. We didn’t. Did we?”

“Don’t play dumb, of course we did! The medic told me how many moons it’s been. It was you. You’re responsible for this, and you’re going to fix it.”

“Gods, Lydia, if we did then,” he snorted, “how fucking drunk was I? You expect me to believe I would, you know, with you?”

Lydia coloured. She couldn’t say why she did, but she did.

“Fix it!” she said again, but it sounded desperate even to her.

“Fix it how? I’m not ready to be a fucking dad, least of all with you! You’re a fucking psychopath! What, am I supposed to marry you and make you a kept woman? Is that what you want?”

She was shaking her head. She was shaking, and shaking, and shaking.

She felt her eyes burn.

“This is your mess,” she told Michael.

“You don’t know that,” he was getting bolder, “You don’t fucking know that! It could be anyone’s! How many cocks have you taken, you fucking slut?”

She kicked him in the chest.

She kicked him hard.

She heard his ribs crack.

“Calm the fuck down, Lydia!”

It was Oliver speaking. He was pulling her back.

Horn half-heartedly stepped between Lydia and Michael, “Best you listen to him, Lydia.”

There were hands on her. That was a bad idea.

“You’re fucking crazy! She’s fucked in the head!” Michael wailed through rattling gasps, hugging his torso, “Fucking kill the bitch before she kills us all!”

“Lydia,” Horn said gently, his open palms waving her down as he took one step back, and then another, “Put it away, Lydia.”

She looked at the sword in her hand, seeing it for the first time.

Oliver had unhanded her. He was also backing away.

Lydia sheathed the sword and walked away.

No.

She ran away.

---

“You’re sure this is what you want to do?” the medic said.

It was not the first time he’d asked.

“Yes,” she croaked.

The old man looked disappointed. She hated that look.

“Here, he said,” take this, “Take all of it at once, and wash it down with a mug of three parts vinegar and one part spirit.”

“What is it?” she said, taking the small satchel. She could smell its dank contents without opening it.

“Soldier’s Solace,” the old medic explained, “It’s a pain killer, but in large doses it has some,” he looked at her somberly, “other side effects.”

“And this will do the trick?”

“It will achieve the desired result.”

“Good.”

“Be warned, Lydia, this stuff will affect you in other ways as well. This root has a number of uses, and not all of them are,” he hesitated, “strictly medicinal. Make sure you get plenty of rest after taking it. I mean plenty of rest, Lydia,” he made sure she was looking at him when he finished, “Don’t expect to be fighting anytime soon.”

Lydia tucked the bag under one arm, and left without saying a word.

---

That night, Lydia saw the gods. They had a million faces, and they had none.

The gods of Fire and Water caressed her skin, burning and soothing. The god of Wind howled her laments, while Lightning painted the sky for her in all his glory.

The virtues watched on, smiling their judgement.

Lydia saw a girl. It was an ugly thing, just like her. The girl was broad and big, not at all feminine. Lydia hated that, so she wished the girl away. The aether complied. It was hers to command.

This was not a place for people. This was a place for her, and she would not share it.

There was a cacophony of sound and light to embrace, and a universe of purpose and pointlessness that shattered and reformed in her hands.

Her dreams were a symphony of pain and beauty.

She sailed the aether and was swept along by it. She tumbled and rolled, and it was ecstasy. Her suffering was minute in the hands of the Solace, and all of her insecurities, all of her rage, everything was music to her dance.

In this place, she could even love her hate.

In this place, she could even love herself.

---

The next morning, the 4th Faiser Heavy Infantry gathered their gear and marched to the frontier.

Lydia marched with them.

The journey was a blur. Marching normally resolved into a haze of mundanity, but this time it was different. Lydia floated along the road without ever taking a step. The battalion was a murmuration of insignificant souls, and she was an eagle soaring far overhead.

Her friends gave her a wide berth that day. That was good. She had no words for them. Even if she did, she would have no way to communicate them.

When the Jornaians assaulted them again, a small regiment of guerilla troops, Lydia felt the familiar jubilance flow through her. There was fighting to be done, and that was what Lydia did best. In battle, Lydia was not just equal, she was exceptional.

The rest of her troupe was busy doing as they always did, doing as Magnus and the other officers bid. They were advancing in one long, iron line, shuffling slowly, so painfully slowly. So frustratingly slowly. She would not let them hold her back today.

Lydia didn’t understand why they couldn’t move faster. The enemy would get away. They would test the infantrymen’s shields and then they would run away, just like always. Did the men and women of the 4th not want to fight? Had they always been craven and she’d just never noticed it?

When the Jornaians came close enough to loose their javelins and ready their axes, Lydia decided she’d had enough. She would lead by example.

They must be afraid to fight, she decided. She would show them how.

After all, she was invincible.

She carved her way through the enemy troops with relish.

Lydia surged forth like a tidal wave. Her blade flashed before her, moving with perfect ease. She didn’t feel the usual strain on her back and shoulders as she hefted sword and shield. She didn’t feel the exertion of her swipes or the weight of the armour upon her back. She was feather-light, and as graceful as a bird in flight.

It was glorious.

Never before had she killed so many. Never before had she been allowed to.

Her comrades were hesitant, and then, one by one, the fervour took them too. They broke rank, and they charged. Oliver, Horn, Valour, the swarthy Milo, even Michael, poor excuse for a man that he was. Each of them fought their own battles, and each of them killed indiscriminately.

There, each on his or her own battlefield, each of them got swamped.

The Jornaians were numerous, and they were quick. They huddled around the isolated soldiers and harried them from all sides.

Javelins flew, axes fell, and members of the 4th Heavy Infantry perished.

The Jornaians became emboldened with each kill. A victory against the invaders was rare, and for once they could taste it.

Lydia couldn’t care less as her battle brothers and sisters perished around her. Their screams sounded the same as the enemy’s to her. It was all just noise. It was just a backdrop to her heroinism.

There was one death she did see, though. There was one death she did take note of.

Michael was on his knees like a beggar, a javelin piercing his throat. Blood trickled from his liar’s mouth and his palms were open to the sun as if in prayer. He died without a weapon in hand. It was the most despicable way to die. It was deserved.

Lydia didn’t know how long she stood laughing at the dead boy, but it was long enough. When next she swung her sword the enemy was closer than expected, and there were more than there had been.

She killed two with clumsy strokes before she was finally struck. She had overreached, trying to skewer a twirling idiot who thought to avoid his fate. The misjudgment cost her dearly, and another fighter hacked his axe into her extended arm, catching her just above the elbow, where there was no iron to protect her vulnerable flesh.

She lost her arm there, on the battlefield. It was trampled into the mud to rot with the leaves of the autumn trees.

Magnus eventually rallied his troops and restored order. He advanced his men in practiced, orderly fashion, dispatching foes cleanly as they progressed across the field. He gathered his rogue soldiers into his ranks as he reached them, and all of them gratefully tucked themselves back into the shield wall or staggered behind its protection to tend to their wounds, or reflect upon their failures. Not Lydia, though.

When Magnus finally reached Lydia, he found her waving her sword at invisible demons. She had felled the last of her combatants with her shield, and then retrieved her bastard sword to finish them off. Even when they were all lying dead at her feet, the frenzy refused to leave her. She growled and swung and growled and swung and shouted her challenge to men, women and gods alike.

---

Lydia awoke to a myriad of pain.

Her right arm ached along a length that wasn’t there. She studied the bandaged stump with indifference, surprised at how little she cared. It was the least of her suffering. Her whole body was gripped by fever, and her skull rattled with agony worse than any physical wound.

“What have you done to me?” she demanded of the medic.

“Not I. I simply stopped the bleeding.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

The medic licked his lips, “I haven’t done anything to you.”

“You’re supposed to give me something for the pain,” she said through gritted teeth.

“That would not be wise.”

“I need it!”

“I can’t.”

“If you think I can’t kill you with one arm-”

“Enough, Lydia!” she hadn’t even noticed Magnus standing in the corner until he spoke, “I ordered him not to give you anymore of that evil root.”

“It made me better.”

“It made you a fool.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lydia whispered.

“I know that there are men who would still be alive if it were not for you.”

Lydia burned with her fever, “I didn’t kill him.”

“Are you sorry he’s dead?”

“No,” she answered quickly.

Magnus was gripped with sorrow, “You have cost us dearly. You have cost yourself dearly as well,” he said, indicating her arm.

“I can still fight.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I can still kill.”

“This I am sure of.”

“I’ll be back in the line in no time, if only this fucking quack would give me the root!” she was near frothing.

Magnus had his face in his hands, “Listen, Lydia, I known you’re the best fighter I have. You are a warrior beyond compare, and I worry that rank and file is beneath you.”

Lydia grunted, “About time someone said it.”

There was a change to the quality of the air. It was as if a storm had just rolled through and suddenly they were left in clear, still, silence.

Magnus raised his head slowly.

“That’s not what I said, Lydia, is it?”

All of the emotion was gone from Magnus’ eyes. He was watching her patiently, impassively. A statue. A memory.

“You said that-”

“I won’t let you lie to yourself again, Lydia, not this time. What did I really say?”

They were both watching her, Magnus and the medic. They were unblinking, unwavering. They would wait for eternity.

“What does it matter what you said?” she whispered.

“It matters because you keep denying it. You keep making excuses, Lydia. Not this time,” the memory spoke with Magnus’ voice, “Tell me what I said.”

Tears trickled down Lydia’s cheeks, “You said that I would never fight for Faiser again.”

“And?”

“Please.”

“What else, Lydia?”

“Please, no,” she sobbed.

“You have to hear it. You need to hear it,” he said with paternal sternness.

“You said I wasn’t fit to be a soldier,” she reminded herself, her voice hoarse.

“Yes. And?”

“You said,” she screwed her eyes shut to stem the flow of tears, “you said I’d never been fit to be a soldier.”