Dawn's first light crept through the frost‑veined canvas as I stirred awake, still cocooned in the warmth of Shashwat's coat. Last night's festival echoes lingered in my chest—the crack of sparklers, soldiers' laughter, the metallic scent of gunpowder mingled with pine-sweet air. For a few precious hours, hope had blazed brighter than any star.
But morning's hush carried its own weight. I traced his profile by lantern light—storm-gray jaw relaxed in sleep, scar-lined cheek soft as moonlight. I pressed a kiss to his temple and slipped from the cot, careful not to wake him. Outside, the clinic tent glowed like a beacon against the thawing snow. I moved to my station, retrieving fresh journals and pens for the day's trauma sessions, each coil of anticipation tightening in my chest.
First light brought a flurry of arrivals: soldiers returning from the festival outskirts with frost-nipped limbs, volunteers shivering with adrenaline, and a handful of new casualties—shrapnel grazes, frozen toes, panic attacks triggered by celebratory gunfire. I greeted each with practiced calm, offering tea sweetened with honey when hands trembled too fiercely to hold a cup.
By mid‑morning, Shashwat joined me for a co‑led workshop on "Finding Breath in Chaos." He demonstrated deep inhalations from belly to collarbone, exhalations that released tension like winter's thaw. We moved in tandem, a dance of healing breaths: In... hold... out... until the room's tension eased. Soldiers closed their eyes, guided not just by protocol but by our shared presence—two hearts aligned in service of peace.
In the lull that followed, I found him at the tent's rear, repairing his rifle with meticulous care. I approached silently, offering him a cup of tea. He accepted, fingertip brushing mine. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For every moment you give, I feel stronger."
I pressed the mug into his hands. "We're stronger together."
He nodded, resting his forehead against mine. "Promise me tonight we'll lie beneath fewer lanterns and more stars."
I smiled. "I promise."
Late morning, Colonel Rajput returned—his gait even, eyes cradling care beneath steely resolve. He presented us with new intelligence: enemy forces were massing near Dead Man's Pass, planning a night‑time assault under cover of storm. The ridge we held would be tested again. He looked at Shashwat. "Major, your unit leads the defense."
Shashwat squared his shoulders. "We'll hold."
Then he turned to me. "Dr. Malhotra, I'll go into battle. Be ready."
I steadied my voice. "I will."
He grasped my hand, the heat of his palm a promise. "Hold my heart while I hold the line."
That afternoon, I prepared the emergency station for the worst. I organized supply crates in neat rows: bandages, morphine, antiseptic, mental‑health packets, extra blankets. I reviewed casualty flow protocols, rehearsed triage algorithms, and rehearsed the words I'd say to terrified eyes: "You will survive."
By early evening, storm clouds gathered on the ridge above—gray billows swirling with promise of wind and ice. Lanterns around the clinic flickered as the first gusts hit. I tucked my journal and letters into my coat pocket, locket at my throat, and donned gloves.
Shashwat found me at the grove's edge. He wore full combat gear now—helmet, flak vest, rifle at sling. Frost traced his brows. He looked every bit the warrior I loved and feared.
"I'll see you at dawn," he said.
I swallowed around knotted fear. "I'll be here."
He pressed a gentle kiss to my wrist. "Your lantern will guide me."
I held his gaze. "And your voice will carry me."
He turned and headed into the gathering storm, each step carving distance across my heart.
As night fell, the rumble of engines and marching feet drifted in. Soldiers formed ranks beyond the clinic perimeter, faces masked in snow and resolve. I stood in the tent's lantern glow, waiting for casualties I hoped never to see, praying only for his safe return.
At 2200 hours, the assault began: distant gunfire crackled, tracer rounds arced against the black sky, mortar thuds rolled like thunder. The clinic's doors burst open as the first wounded arrived—bleeding, broken, begging for breath. I leaped into action, the world narrowing to pulse points and suture needles.
Each body that passed through my hands was a testament: to courage, to loss, to the fragile line between life and death. I secured tourniquets, applied hemostatic dressings, murmured calm into earshot of panic‑stricken panic. Orderlies moved stretchers with silent precision. I felt every heartbeat, every ragged inhale, as though tracing the ridge's battle through flesh and bone.
Through it all, my mind sang his name: Shash—Shash—Shash. Each pulse of grief and dread became a Beacon of Love guiding me through the night's storm.
The torrent of the night's battle raged beyond the clinic walls—rifle fire staccato against snow, mortar bursts like tortured thunder, and the anguished cries of the wounded carried on the wind. I moved from cot to cot in a relentless trance, each stitch and tourniquet a prayer for Shashwat's survival. Every casualty bore a fragment of my fear: What if he is the next to fall?
At 0100 hours, a fresh wave arrived—soldiers dragged in by their brothers, blood seeping through frozen uniforms. I recognized a familiar gait among the stretchers: Shashwat's unit. My heart thundered. Without thinking, I rushed toward the open flap, shouting above the chaos, "Bring him here!"
Orderlies obeyed instantly, bearing him in on a stretcher. Time fractured: distant surgeons' voices blurred, the lantern glow splintered, and all that remained was the sight of him, eyes open, sweat and blood mingling on his brow. I dropped to my knees, pressing my hands to his wound as though my touch could staunch the bleeding faster than any dressing.
"Dr. Malhotra," a medic called, "he needs your attention."
I leaned over him, heart in my throat. The shrapnel wound near his side was deep and ragged, frozen edges turning gray. "Hold him steady," I ordered, voice fierce.
The surgical orderlies lifted his vest, revealing the torn fabric and crimson beneath. I cleaned the wound rapidly, my gloved fingers guided by training and desperation. He met my gaze, pain and relief flickering. "I promised," he whispered, voice raspy.
"I know," I replied, pressing a fresh dressing into place. "I'm here."
I sutured with meticulous care, each stitch a vow. As I worked, he squeezed my hand, a tremor of strength passing between us. When the wound was closed, I wrapped him in blankets and adjusted his IV. He lay still, exhaustion claiming him at last.
I knelt beside him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Tears blurred my vision. "You fought for me," I whispered. "You stayed alive for me."
He managed a ghost of a smile. "Always," he breathed.
By 0300 hours, the worst had passed. The flow of casualties slowed; the ridge held its line. I slumped on a stool, adrenaline draining, mind reeling from each life I had saved—and each I could not. Soldiers filtered past his cot, offering nods of respect. Shashwat rested, eyes closed, breathing easier under the warmth of blankets.
I rose unsteadily and stepped outside into the storm's final gasp. The sky was charcoal, snow swirling in eddies around me. I closed my eyes, letting the cold bite my cheeks, and breathed in the world's raw reality: that love and war dance too closely, that every victory carries a cost.
Returning to him, I found the colonel and Daiwik waiting. The colonel's eyes held gratitude and sorrow as he approached. "He owes you his life," he said, voice low. "We owe you ours."
Daiwik stood beside him, face drawn. He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Thank you for waiting."
I met Daiwik's gaze, tears shining. "We wait because we love."
The colonel offered a solemn nod and slipped away. Daiwik lingered, sharing a look with Shashwat's stretcher, then turned to me. "Get some rest," he urged. "I've got watch."
I hesitated, torn between duty and exhaustion. Finally, I allowed him to guide me to a spare cot. He tucked a blanket around me and brushed my hair back. "I'll wake you if he needs you," he promised.
I nodded, exhaustion folding me into sleep.
Morning dawned uneasy—gray light trembling through the tent flaps. I roused, heart pounding, and hurried to Shashwat's side. He lay awake, eyes bright with concern.
"How are you?" I asked, voice thick.
He sat up with my help, wincing at a twinge in his side. "Better now." He took my hand. "Thank you for fighting through it."
I smiled wanly. "You fought for me too."
He pulled me into a gentle embrace. "I'm here."
Over the next hours, we worked side by side to stabilize the last of the wounded. Our movements fell into an unspoken rhythm: I tended wounds, he comforted soldiers—the healer and the warrior united in purpose. Between cases, he whispered plans for our next return to the grove, dreams of maple trees and summer light. Each promise echoed like a lifeline.
By midday, the camp declared a fragile calm. The ridge's patrols resumed routine watch; artillery fell silent. Shashwat and I shared a quiet meal in the mess, simple broth and bread. We sat close, shoulders touching.
He reached across the table, brushing crumbs from my lapel. "We survived," he said softly.
I nodded, warmth flooding my chest. "Together."
That evening, as the sky bled into rose and charcoal, we walked the perimeter hand in hand. The ridge stretched before us—dark silhouette against dim light. He paused at the grove entrance, turning to me.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
I gripped his hand. "For anything."
He smiled, lifting my chin. "Then let's go home."
We stepped into the grove beneath lanterns we relit together. Snow whispered around us like a benediction. He pulled me to the stump and pressed a kiss that tasted of battle's end and love's enduring victory.
In the hush of the grove, beneath flickering light, we made a final promise:
No matter the shards of nightfall, no matter the distance or danger, our hearts would beat as one—a fortress against every winter.