*37 Years Before the Fall - The Disputed Lands*
Marcus Greysteel was twenty-three and thought war was glorious.
That lasted exactly until the first arrow went through his shoulder.
Not a clean shot. The orc archer was dying, last shot fired wild. Caught Marcus as he turned. Went through mail, leather, muscle. Stuck out his back like a flag.
He fell. In mud. In blood. In shit. War was all three mixed together.
"MEDIC!"
But the medics were dead. The first wave of orcs had targeted them. Smart. Cruel. Effective.
Marcus tried to stand. The arrow shifted. Pain went white. Black. White again.
Someone grabbed him. Dragged him. Every movement was agony incarnate.
"Stop moving, you're making it worse."
Elven accent. Marcus tried to focus. Silver hair. Violet eyes. Young for an elf—maybe ninety. Ancient for a human.
"Who—"
"Shut up. Save your blood."
The elf—Theron, though Marcus didn't know the name yet—examined the wound with clinical efficiency.
"Through and through. Missed the lung. You're lucky."
"Doesn't feel lucky."
"Lucky is relative. Hold still."
Theron snapped the arrow shaft. Pulled it through. Marcus screamed.
"Babies scream quieter," Theron said, but his hands were gentle as he packed the wound.
"Fuck you."
"Maybe later. Now we move."
"The battle—"
"Is lost. Orcs broke the center. Your general's dead. Anyone with sense is running."
"I don't run."
"Then you die."
"Honor demands—"
Theron slapped him. Hard. Elf strength behind it.
"Honor demands nothing from corpses. You alive can fight tomorrow. Dead, you're just meat."
He hauled Marcus up. Surprising strength in the slim frame.
They ran. Or Theron ran, half-carrying Marcus. Through the broken lines. Past dying soldiers. Over bodies that had been friends.
"Leave me," Marcus gasped. Blood loss making him weak.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you're young and stupid and someone should survive this stupidity."
They made three miles before Marcus collapsed. Theron caught him. Laid him under an oak. Started a fire despite the danger.
"Orcs will see—"
"Orcs are busy looting. Besides, you're going into shock. Fire or death, choose."
Marcus chose fire.
Through the night, Theron tended him. Changed bandages. Forced water down his throat. When fever came, the elf sang—not healing songs, just songs. Elven melodies about trees and time and things that lasted.
"Why save me?" Marcus asked during a lucid moment.
"Why not?"
"I'm nobody. Just another soldier."
"Everyone's nobody until they're somebody."
"That's not an answer."
Theron looked at him. Really looked. Past the blood and mud and shit.
"You remind me of someone."
"Who?"
"My daughter. She has the same stupid honor. Same need to stand when she should run."
"How old is she?"
"Not born yet. But I know she'll be like that. I can feel it."
Marcus laughed. Hurt to laugh. Did it anyway.
"You saved me because I remind you of a daughter who doesn't exist?"
"I saved you because saving is better than killing. Even in war. Especially in war."
Morning came. Marcus lived. The fever broke.
"I owe you—"
"You owe me nothing."
"Life debt—"
"Is human concept. Elves don't believe in debt. Only in choosing."
"Then I choose to repay—"
"Then choose to live well. That's payment enough."
They parted at the crossroads. Theron going east to Crysillia. Marcus north to regroup with survivors.
"What's your name?" Marcus called back.
"Theron Silverleaf."
"I won't forget."
"Everyone forgets. Time makes sure."
But Marcus didn't forget. Carried the scar. Carried the memory. Carried the debt even if Theron didn't believe in it.
Twenty years later, he heard Theron had a daughter. Ora. Wild child who wouldn't sit still for lessons.
Sent a gift. A wooden sword. Note attached: "For when she needs to stand instead of run."
Seventeen years after that, he stood in Ironhold's council.
"Ora of Crysillia," he said to the corruption-touched girl who was Theron's daughter. Theron who'd died before she was born. Theron who'd saved him for no reason except it was better than letting him die.
"Your grandfather saved my life. A debt unpaid. Until now."
He'd thought he was repaying Theron.
He didn't know he was saving the world.
Or maybe damning it.
Same thing, ultimately.
War taught that lesson over and over: salvation and damnation were just perspective on the same arrow.
The one through his shoulder had seemed like damnation.
It had been salvation.
Meeting Ora seemed like chance.
It was destiny.
Or maybe just an old soldier paying an older debt to a dead elf who didn't believe in debts.
But believed in choosing.
Marcus chose to help her.
The world would burn for that choice.
Or be saved by it.
Same thing, ultimately.
War was shit and blood and mud.
But sometimes, in the shit and blood and mud, you found something worth saving.
Someone worth saving.
Even if they didn't want to be saved.
Especially then.
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*End Chapter 4.5*
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