A dull ringing filled Xun's ears.
His head throbbed, each pulse sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull. The world around him felt obfuscated, sounds bleeding into one another. His limbs were heavy, his mind sluggish.
Then came the voices. Muffled at first, then clearer.
"He's waking up."
Xun groaned, his eyelids fluttering open. The bright morning sun illuminated the space around him—a medical tent. Wounded were all around him, some moaning in pain, some sound asleep, and some eerily still.
"Are you alright, private?"
A gruff voice asked. Xun turned his head slightly, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through his skull. A man in a stained grey uniform stood beside his cot, arms crossed. His face was lined with exhaustion, but his dark eyes were sharp, assessing him.
Xun swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper. "Where...?"
"You're in a field hospital," the man replied, shifting slightly. "We pulled you from some ruins after the last skirmish. You're lucky to be alive."
Memories crashed into Xun like a tidal wave—the battle, Kolya's bleeding body, the ambush, the boy's terrified face, and then... darkness. He instinctively tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed against his shoulder.
"Easy," the man warned. "You took a nasty hit. Concussion, at the very least."
Xun exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling under his skin. "What happened to me?"
The man, a medical officer – judging by the insignia on his sleeve, sighed. "You were found unconscious in a ruined house, barely breathing. Thought you were dead at first." His gaze hardened. "I still don't know how you survived."
"D-did-"
Before Xun could continue, another man swiftly entered the tent. He spoke to a doctor, who pointed towards his direction. The man approached. Xun forced himself to focus, blinking away the haze clouding his vision. The newcomer wore an officer's insignia, his uniform still dusted with dirt and gunpowder. His expression was tight, unreadable.
"You're Private Xun Aleksandrovich Alatyrtsev, aren't you?" the officer asked, his voice low and firm. He muttered something under his breath.
Xun swallowed, returning a weak salute.
"Yes, sir."
"I heard that you took an entire artillery unit out by yourself. Is that true, private?"
"N-no sir. I had help from a friend."
"A friend?" The officer asked in a curious tone.
"Yes, sir. But he was heavily injured during the fight." Xun cleared his throat. "D-do you perhaps know if he's alright? His name is Kolya – Kolya Andreyevich Lyubimov."
The man turned towards the doctor. "Is there a Kolya Lyubimov in this tent?"
"I'm afraid not sir," he said, checking a clipboard. "Perhaps in one of the other tents."
Xun's heart dropped. But there was still a chance.
The officer turned back towards Xun. "Does that answer your question?"
"Yes, sir."
He placed a medal on the nightstand beside Xun's cot.
"For your valor in battle. Good work out there."
He turned and left as swiftly as he had come.
Xun stared at the medal beside his cot. The metal glinted dully in the light—small, cold, incomparable to the weight in his chest. He let out a slow exhale.
The doctor beside him noticed. "You should rest," he said quietly, jotting something on his clipboard.
"I need to find him," Xun murmured.
"Your friend?" The doctor asked, unsurprised.
Xun nodded.
The doctor hesitated. His expression softened, the edge in his tone fading. "You can barely stand."
For a moment, silence filled the tent. The air carried the faint smell of antiseptic and blood. "Take it slow. Don't push yourself too hard, or you'll end up back here. If you collapse, I'm not dragging you back. "
He helped Xun sit up, keeping him balanced as he swung his legs over the cot. The floor was cold against his bare feet. Every movement sent a pulse of pain through his skull, but he clenched his jaw and pushed through it.
The doctor handed him his coat and an old pair of boots. Although torn and bloodstained, with streaks of grime covering the boots, they were his.
Xun winced, images of what he had done in that shattered house flashing through his head.
"Try not to rip the stitches," the doctor said, breaking his trance. "We're low on supplies out here."
Xun managed a faint, grateful nod. "Thank you."
Outside, the morning air was sharp and cool. Rows of tents stretched across the dirt field, soldiers moving between them with hurried steps. In the far off distance, artillery rumbled faintly, like thunder across a plain.
He scanned the rows of wounded being carried in, his heart pounding with each step, but to no avail.
Each face he passed blurred into another. Ashen, bandaged, and bloodied; their names were being shouted, orders barked, stretchers rushed by. But none of them were Kolya.
Xun's steps grew unsteady. The world seemed to sway with him, the ringing in his ears deepening into a hollow drone. He steadied himself on a tent post, breath ragged. The cold air bit at the sweat on his skin.
A nurse brushed past, carrying a tray of gauze and morphine ampules. Xun stopped her with a trembling hand.
"E-Excuse me... Kolya Lyubimov," he rasped. "Has he been brought in?"
She frowned, shaking her head. "No one by that name here. Check the western line, where the overflow tents are. That's where they send the new arrivals."
"B-but he should've been brought back yesterday afternoon. That was when he got hurt."
The nurse hesitated, glancing toward the rows of tents beyond the main line. Her voice lowered. "If he was brought in yesterday, he'd either been moved... or recorded... elsewhere."
Xun stepped back, throat burning. "Thank you," he managed.
She gave a small, pitying nod before hurrying off.
The ground became muddier as he trekked across the field. The tents here were older, the canvas patched and frayed. The smell hit him first. Disinfectant, decay, and iron.
Two soldiers passed by with a stretcher draped in white. Xun halted. The shape beneath the sheet was still, a bloodied stump protruding out of the sheet where a hand should've been. His stomach churned.
He turned away and kept walking.
At the edge of the row stood a small tent, its entrance half open. A clerk sat by a folding table stacked with ledgers, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
Xun approached the clerk. "I'm looking for someone," he said. "Private Kolya Andreyevich Lyubimov. He was with me during the last engagement yesterday."
The clerk sighed, stubbing out the cigarette. "Name again?"
Xun repeated it.
The man flipped through the worn pages, his finger dragging slowly down the lists. The sound of paper rustling filled the silence. Finally, he paused.
"Lyubimov... yes."
The clerk exhaled through his nose, closing the ledger softly. "Third tent past the supply wagon."
For a moment, the world stood still. Xun didn't speak. Just turned, and started walking. His head throbbed harder with every step. He could feel the dried blood tightening on his temple, the dull pulse of pain behind his eyes.
Each step sank into the mud with a wet squelch, the weight of exhaustion dragging him down. The world seemed to drag in time with the pounding in his head, distant and distorted. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, steam curling in the chill morning air.
A supply wagon came into view, its rusted frame containing crates and barrels, its wheels half-buried in the muck. Just beyond it stood the third tent, its entrance flaps fluttering faintly in the wind.
Xun stopped for a moment to steady himself. His knees trembled. His vision wavered at the edges, colors bleeding into grey. The world around him blurred. Voices turned to echoes, movement to shapes.
He forced himself forward.
The interior of the tent was dim, despite the sun. Lit only by a few oil lamps hanging from the center support rod, rows of cots lined the narrow space, each one holding the broken remains of what once were people. The air was thick with the stench of rotting flesh and the moans of those close to death. A singular doctor moved between the beds, muttering to himself, changing bandages, adjusting blankets. He looked up briefly as Xun stumbled in, but said nothing.
Xun's heart hammered as he scanned the faces. He stepped past one cot, then another, and another. A boy barely younger than Xun laid on a cot, breathing and sweating heavily, his face pale, a bloodstained rag tied around his wrist. Another soldier whimpered softly in delirium, twitching occasionally, like he was being attacked in his dreams.
"Kolya..." Xun's voice cracked. "Kolya!"
His words came out hoarse, desperate. The medic turned, a faint crease forming between his brows.
"Quiet," he muttered. "You'll wake the whole tent."
Xun ignored him, staggering between the rows. His legs shook with every step. He searched each face, his breath quickening, panic clawing up his throat.
Then he saw it.
A faint movement at the far end. A hand, weak and trembling, reaching to pull a blanket higher over a thin chest.
Xun froze. His heart seemed to stop.
He stepped closer, the mud and blood-streaked floor crunching softly beneath him. The cot at the end was small, the blanket rising and falling shallowly.
And there, pale beneath the dim lamp, was Kolya.
His face was gaunt, lips cracked, eyes closed. A bandage wrapped around his head, another across his chest. And where his right leg should've been, there was only a mound of cloth beneath the blanket.
But he was breathing.
Barely.
"Kolya..." he whispered. "I-It's me. It's Xun."
The boy's eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then widening slightly as recognition sparked. His lips parted, forming a faint smile.
"...Xun?" His voice was weak.
Xun nodded, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.
"Yeah... it's me. You're alright. You're alive. Thank you... for staying alive..."
Kolya blinked slowly, the faintest suggestion of a grin tugging at his cheek.
"Told you... I wouldn't die."
Xun let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking halfway through, tears flowing out like a waterfall. He bowed his head, shoulders trembling. Relief, raw and unbearable, washed through him.
"I-I'm sorry... Kolya... Y-You're leg... It's because I... I wasn't quick enough..." Each word escaped Xun's mouth with a choking gasp.
"Don't cry... We survived... That's... What matters..."
"He's right." Xun looked up towards the owner of the voice. It was the medic from earlier. "Even I'm not sure how he's not dead. When he was first brought in, I thought he was gonna kick it in the first hour."
Kolya managed a frail smile.
"Your friend is one tough bastard, though his leg was beyond saving. Infected like hell, fuck... one of the worst amputations I've had to go through." He grimaced at the memory.
"S-So... when can he be discharged?" Xun asked, hopeful.
"A week, minimum. I need to watch for any changes in his health, but he should be stable after that."
"Thank you... Thank you so much..."
"No need, I'm just doing my job. Anyways-"
A cheer rang out from outside the tent.
"You should... go check on that..." Kolya said.
Xun hesitated, still gripping the edge of Kolya's cot. The noise outside grew louder; cheering, clapping, voices shouting indistinctly through the thin walls. The air inside the tent seemed to tremble with the sudden life outside.
He looked back down at Kolya. The boy's breathing was shallow but steady now, his hand still weakly clutching the blanket. Xun brushed the edge of it closer to his chest, careful not to disturb the bandages.
"I'll be back," Xun said softly.
Kolya nodded faintly. "Don't... let me keep you waiting."
A faint smile ghosted across Xun's face before he turned and stepped outside.
The cold struck him immediately, sharper now, biting through his coat. A crowd had formed near the command post at the center of the camp. Soldiers and medical staff all gathered in a rough circle. At the center stood the same officer from earlier, holding something high in his hand.
"Perm is ours!" He thundered.
"The Western Line held!" someone shouted from the back. The words rippled through the crowd, growing louder until it became a roar. "The enemy's retreating!"
Men began to laugh and shout, some raising their rifles, others throwing their caps into the air. For a brief moment, the entire camp felt alive again.
Xun raised a hand to his temple, the throbbing pain still there, dull but constant. His gaze fell to the medal still tucked inside his coat pocket. He pulled it out, staring at its dull gleam.
Worthless.
He turned away from the noise, the celebration, and made his way back toward the rows of tents. The sounds of laughter and shouts faded with every step, replaced once more by the quiet groans of the wounded and the low hum of flies.
As he entered the tent, Kolya immediately asked about the noise.
"What... Was that?"
Xun's lips curved in a faint, tired smile.
"We won."
He sat down beside the cot, resting the medal on the nightstand next to him. "You should've been the one to get this," he murmured.
Kolya shook his head slowly. "We both... made it out... That's enough..."
The lamp above them flickered, casting long shadows across the tent walls. Outside, the cheering was already starting to die down.
"I'm... Going to take a nap..." Kolya said, quietly.
Xun nodded.
Quickly, Kolya drifted off into a deep slumber, relaxing his body.
Xun sat there in silence, his eyes fixed on the dirt between his boots. His thoughts churned beneath the stillness, slow and heavy like mud after rain. The rest—the cheers, the commendations, the idea of 'valor', it was all noise pressed over the ache in his soul.
The medal glinted faintly beside the cot. His gut turned at the sight of it.
Valor. That's what they called it.
But it didn't feel like valor. It felt like failure objectified as a useless hunk of metal.
What are they celebrating? That we survived another day? That we lost fewer men than they did? That we killed more of them than they killed of us?
...
I'm tired.