(no subject)

[aut_nihil]

The daemons take up resources that sometimes the group just doesn't have to spare, it makes the hunger greater. So the dogs are the first thing to go. Everything the dogs could do, Pope tells them, the daemons will do instead.

Even though it means greater risk to each person, orders are orders.

He's fair, though. He sends Elidi out to scout ahead for his boys and girls, he sends her into the fray when there's a battle near enough to base to warrant it. He is still on the ground, he insists, even if as the commander he has to be kept apart from the fray.

Elidi can travel farther from him than the other daemons do. This is because their bond has been tested and strained and tortured into something that can withstand the pain and the brain fog, and he insists he's going to train the rest of them to do it, too. Just as soon as they have a place stable enough to hold.

A place like the camp Elidi comes back and reports on, so he calls his leaders in to discuss. "It's not big but they've got walls. Thoughts?"

Comments

[fortitudosalutis]

Sila’s hurt. Carver can feel the ache echoed deep in his chest, a sharp pain whenever he breathes. A rotter tried to grab her when she was out scouting, ended up squeezing her in its grasping hands. It didn't bite her but she's small, and it hurt her bad enough that she can't move right, that she can't draw a full breath without pain. He thinks it might have cracked her ribs. It echoes in him, that ugly pain, and he forces himself to stand up tall to compensate.

She's perched on his shoulder, her claws dug in hard. There's a job to do, regardless, and it isn't going to kill her just yet. There'll be time to tend to the wounds later.

"They've got sentries on the wall," Carver reports, back perfectly straight. "But they're young. Half of them fell asleep on their watches. We could scale it. Take 'em quiet. Don't need to bother with the gate."

[aut_nihil]

"How many on the inside?" He feeds Elidi a strip of venison. He then eyes Carver, seems to find something there worth rewarding, and gives him a strip for Sila.

"We going to have another fuck up like we had in Eastcliff?"

[fortitudosalutis]

"Counted twenty-eight. Twenty look like they can fight."

The others are younger, or hurt. Not threats. Sila's tail whips back and forth, ears pricked as Carver takes the strip of meat and hands it to her. She growls and shakes it hard, even though it hurts her. She's hungry.

They're all hungry. Maybe, if they're worthy, they'll get full rations tonight.

Eyes ahead, Carver thinks, and he stands up straighter. His fingers twitch, but he stills them. "No, sir."

Not like Eastcliff. He'll be careful this time, he'll be so goddamn careful and cover every contingency.

[aut_nihil]

He looks at Sila. They're all hungry; the rations have been low. Lower than he's let his people know.

"No, sir, he says," he might be talking to the daemons or maybe to himself. He does that sometimes. "You ready to bring your brothers in against twenty unknowns? You want to take that risk again, Carver? They have food to make it worth it?"

[fortitudosalutis]

"They got winter stores in an outbuilding. More in a root cellar. Sila got in, saw it."

Her tail whips back and forth. She doesn't speak, just digs her claws into Carver's shoulder. She doesn't talk much at all these days.

He keeps his eyes ahead. Back perfectly straight. "Give me a squad. We don't need everybody, we can take 'em in the dark. You give me Jenson, it won't even take long. He's got the one silencer left that hasn't worn out yet."

They hold their snipers back most of the time, and he knows that, understands why, but they could take this place. They need this place.

[aut_nihil]

He reaches out and touches Sila. He does this with all the daemons, tests them, makes them endure it: gentle touches, rough touches, they must take it all quietly.

"Take Jenson," he finally agrees and steps away. "Take who you want to make sure we all get fed."

It's a second chance. He rarely offers those.

[fortitudosalutis]

Sila doesn't growl or bite. Her fur twitches under Pope's hand and it hurts, it hurts, it twists ugly in Carver's chest, but he keeps his eyes ahead and he doesn't say it. Doesn't say a word or let his breathing hitch. It's a test, and he's thankful for it even if Pope doesn't look at him, doesn't offer anything else but this: do your job, and do it well.

There's nothing else. Either they take this place, and they get everyone back on full rations, or they're going to start getting weak, getting sick. Can't have that.

"Yes, sir," he repeats. "We'll go in the dark."

It hurt when Pope touched Sila, but part of it felt good, too. Like trust. Proof that Pope still thinks he can do this, that they haven't fucked up so completely there's no coming back from it. Sometimes it doesn't hurt so bad, when he and Sila do a good job. Sometimes it's not about drowning, or the tests. But this time is, and pain makes the lesson stick. Praise God.

Sila's hurt, but she'll be okay. He'll give her some of his rations, and she'll be okay. He'll keep her tucked into his jacket and she'll get some rest. They'll have a hard fight to take the other community, to time everything just right and kill those fuckers before they scatter, but that doesn't matter. This is what they do. Pope made them good at it.

[aut_nihil]

Twenty is a lot for a small group to take on, but this is what they were trained for years ago and it's what Pope has honed them for day after day after day. When the order is given, Pope comes out to see them off.

It's a bloody fight but they prevail. They prevail and no life is lost, not a single Reaper life, which are the only ones that count anymore. It's daylight before Pope and the others move in, and he grins at Carver and he looks him up and down and claps a hand to his shoulder.

"I knew you had it in you, son. Get some rest. We're eating today. Full rations!"

[fortitudosalutis]

Dawn comes up red by the time they’re done with the work, and it’s a bloody goddamn mess but they win. Carver directs the others, gets them in position, pairs with Bossie and Turner for the quiet shit while Jenson’s up in the trees covering from a distance. The silencer only holds out for a couple shots but that’s all they need. That’s all they fucking need.

They get everyone this time. No stragglers, no one they’ll have to hunt through the woods. Just corpses on the ground, and soon—soon, there’ll be food in their bellies.

And then Pope comes to see what they’ve done and Carver stands up straighter, tugging his mask off. Pride blooms in his chest—he did good. He can’t help but grin, even as Sila comes darting up with blood on her muzzle, tail lashing, the adrenaline not yet faded.

“Yessir!” He nearly laughs, all energy, thrumming with it, but he holds back. “They got booze too, you wanna see? Think they were making it.”

[aut_nihil]

"Well I will be damned." He loves a good drink. They all do; they've all drank themselves to sleep countless nights in their lives. "If anyone's earned it, it is you," he says, and motions Carver to follow him.

"Come get a drink while you debrief me."

[fortitudosalutis]

Sila does a running leap, busted ribs and all, who fucking cares. Carver scoops her up and tucks her safe into the crook of his arm, holding her close. She’s bloody and brutal and they got this shit sone. No casualties, not even a serious injury among them.

It’s a good day. Praise God.

“I will,” Carver promises, eyes bright. He’s not running manic, no, it’s different like this. There’s cause for celebration. They did good. They’ll eat good. They made that happen.

He follows readily, stepping over a corpse without really seeing it. Sila tucks herself into his jacket and he lets her; she’s nocturnal, when she can be, and sometimes she gets antsy and overstimulated after a fight. It doesn’t mean much.

[aut_nihil]

It's a good look on Carver. Pope looks at him with undisguised pride, the first time he's favored him with such a look in weeks now. They find the booze and he pours them both a drink.

"How's your cat? Good? She get roughed up?" It's the first he's shown concern for Sila, too.

[fortitudosalutis]

It’s been a long time since Pope’s had a drink with him. Even now, Carver remembers the old warnings: first from Leah, then from Pope himself. Clean yourself up, kid. Because they wouldn’t take him on jobs if he was stupid drunk and sloppy, couldn’t risk it, and he knew better. He had to step up, and he has, and isn’t this proof? Pope trusting him again—really trusting him.

“She’s okay.” He takes the glass, lifts it in silent toast, but he won’t drink until Pope does first. “Busted some ribs, but she’ll shake it. Got food now, she’ll heal up quick.”

Sila’s tail lashes inside his coat. She doesn’t talk much these days, not even to him. Sometimes, Carver wonders why.

[aut_nihil]

Pope's daemon rarely speaks either. When she does it's a hiss, it's to get the others in line. Pope barely seems to know she can talk. Perhaps, then, he views Sila's withdrawal as natural. It's a sign Carver is becoming the sort of leader he can really be.

"Good girl," Pope says brusquely, and then takes a sip. It's strong and it's homemade and it's awful but it's booze and they fucking earned it.

"You're going to get some rest," he tells Carver. "You and the boys you brought out with you. And then when you wake up there's going to be food. A real feast. Like we haven't had in months. And it's all thanks to you. Your call was right. How's that feel, son?"

[fortitudosalutis]

It’ll be moonshine, Carver knows, even before he takes the first sip. And then he does and his expression mirrors Pope’s, but it’s the good sort of burn. It aches in him, a distraction from the echoed hurt from Sila’s ribs. She’s tucked into his chest, calming herself down, and this is good. Shit’s good. They won. And Pope’s proud of him again, like he never even fucked up.

“Yes, sir,” he agrees, brightening. A feast—won’t that be something? Enough for all of them to eat their fill, and their daemons too. “Feels good. I knew we could do it quiet. God still loves us.”

And Pope still trusts him.

Sila twitches, burrowing deeper into his coat before abruptly turning and popping her head out. She regards the bottle, and the glasses, and then she pulls herself out completely and begins cleaning the blood from her muzzle. Life is good, Carver thinks, and something in him settles.

Life is fucking good. Maybe he’ll even get some sleep.

“We gonna stay here?”

[aut_nihil]

"For a while," Pope decides with a nod, looking around. "Can't get too comfortable, that's how the enemy gets in. But we can hold this place down a while. Keep it through the winter, no doubt."

There's enough they won't starve. And he does not want his people to starve, doesn't want all those needless deaths. If they don't fuck it up they can hold it down here and move on to greener pastures in the spring.

"How'd they do, the young ones?" Bossie and Turner, he means. They're so young compared to the rest and Pope is always watching them for fractures.

[fortitudosalutis]

Part of Carver wants to ask if maybe—maybe—they could fortify it better. Build up the defenses and set down some roots for a while. They damaged the walls a bit in the fight but not too badly. And there’s good hunting in the woods, a water source. They’re away from the remaining roads, the highway, they could make this place work.

But Pope’s right. Pope’s always right. They can’t get complacent.

“Good.” Carver meets Pope’s gaze; he’d been watching them too. “Turner’s been showing off, but they got the coordination down. They were solid.”

They tend to be in the moment. It’s always the aftermath that gets Bossie. Carver knows better than to say that, though.

Sila freezes, spotting a rat, and then she’s off like a shot. Pouncing and shaking it, her teeth in its neck. Crunch.

She drops it by Pope’s foot without a word, and goes back to grooming herself. Pleased, and a little smug now that her manic energy’s burned off. An offering for Elidi now that the humans don’t need to be eating rats.

[aut_nihil]

Elidi swoops down on that rat and rips off a strip of flesh. She croaks something that might just be an animal sound or might be a Thank you, depending on how you hear it.

"Turner's showing off," Pope echoes, swirling his moonshine and taking another bracing sip. "Sounds like he could use a little humbling. Keep him safe that way. You know it's the arrogance of youth that gets 'em shot in the head."

Bossie used to show off. He doesn't anymore, unless it's just for play, and just with Carver and Turner. Pope knows this and he allows that much because when it's time to be in the field, Bossie is focused. No bravado, just business.

[fortitudosalutis]

The arrogance of youth. Carver nods slowly, accepts it. The lessons are important. Otherwise, they'll die. The hospital in Rockville was Carver's, or at least one of them. Shaw saved him when he got cornered, got cocky. It turned out okay but there's no guarantee of that anymore. Even God's love is temperamental, something that's earned and never assumed. "We'll straighten him out."

Make sure Turner knows what he has to do, keep him focused.

"It'll help having walls. We can do more drills in here."

[aut_nihil]

It's a thought that's occurred to him, but a new idea sparks and he looks at Carver thoughtfully. "I want you to come up with some of those drills. Keep your family nice and sharp. You think you can do that?"

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver sits up a little straighter. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

It’s a rare thing to be asked for input, even more so to come up with a whole new set of drills. Maybe here it’s a reward for a job well done—proof that Pope still trusts him, can rely on him. Years ago, long before the world ended, Carver went up for sergeant and got shot down so hard his head nearly spun from the whiplash. Doesn’t matter, he told himself, and it’s not like they do rank anymore. Not like in the old days. But here’s Pope giving him more responsibility—it has to be a sign of trust.

Maybe he couldn’t have made a good sergeant, but Pope always made a place for him. This is proof of it.

“We need more archers,” he adds, meeting Pope’s gaze head on. “Austin’s got good eyes, but he likes being up close better. I can work with him and a couple others, get ‘em more comfortable with a bow.”

Austin’s a crack shot with a pistol, almost uncannily so, but the sad reality is they haven’t got the bullets to sustain it. They need more archers. They can make their own arrows.

[aut_nihil]

"Austin likes the blood," Pope says, his voice approving and amused. "He's always liked the ones that fight. But he's got to learn to do what's best for all of us. You get him up to snuff on the bow, and don't tolerate any of his griping."

Austin will gripe. All the younger ones do, except Bossie. Pope tolerates it until he very much doesn't.

[fortitudosalutis]

“Yes, sir,” Carver agrees, because Austin does complain sometimes, sure, and has a tendency to get distracted when he’s stuck on a task he doesn’t like, and they can’t have that. There has to be unity above all else. If they fracture, they fall.

But of course, they never have. Not once, not like everyone else in this miserable world. They survived the fires. God loves them, and Pope will lead them through. Everything else is a detail.

“Thought I’d pair him and Bossie. Nobody shoots better in the dark, and Bossie could use the boost,” he adds. Win win, as far as Carver’s concerned. Build up Bossie’s confidence a bit, let Austin learn from him. “Turner’s good, but he’s not ready to teach.”

[aut_nihil]

"Turner..." He has a soft spot for Michael Turner. Just about all of them do. The difference is that he can't give in to it; it's a sign he needs to come down even harder on the boy. "I'll handle Turner. Give him something to think about next time he wants to show off for the enemy. When we're done in here, tell him to bring me his daemon."

[fortitudosalutis]

Something twists in Carver’s chest. He hasn’t meant for Turner to get tested—not like this, not just for showing off a little—but it’s too late to take it back. And it’s for the best, he tells himself. They need to be strong, they need to be focused. There’s no room for mistakes in what they do.

And it’s not like Pope does this for fun. His is the greatest burden of them all.

“Yes, sir,” he agrees. It has to be done. “Anything else?”

He finishes the glass. It burns in his throat but he doesn’t flinch.