Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Fieran strolled between the groups of elves and humans as they lounged about the parlor and foyer of the mansion. He occasionally stopped by one of the groups to talk before moving on, never staying for too long.
They’d had many parties over the months they’d been a squadron. But this one beat all the previous ones. Perhaps it was the impending losses—the coming fracturing of the squadron—that had all of them savoring the night more than ever before.
To one side of the foyer, Stickyfingers was snorting soda out his nose as Lije pounded his back.
Pip was leaning out of the splash zone as Mak tossed a towel at Stickyfingers.
Tiny had gotten a care package from his girlfriend, and he was passing out the donuts she’d made, doling them out in pieces so everyone got a bite.
Aylia led some of the elven pilots in singing a song that was as raucous and loud as an elven song ever got.
A group of both human and elven pilots were setting up some kind of contraption around the grand staircase, and Pip and Mak were supervising them when they weren’t making sure Stickyfingers didn’t choke.
Stepping into the somewhat quieter parlor, Fieran leaned against the wall next to where Rothilion had stationed himself well out of the chaos. “Are you going to miss this?”
Rothilion opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. “I want to say no, but strangely I fear I will.”
“We’ve gotten under your skin.” Fieran elbowed Rothilion’s arm.
“Like a fungus.” Rothilion gave Fieran a flat look, although he couldn’t quite hide the slight twitch fighting to break into a smile.
Fieran snorted and shook his head. “But you don’t know what you’d do without us.”
“No.” Rothilion settled more firmly against the wall behind him.
Fieran let the silence lengthen for a moment before he spoke again, the smile dropping from his face. “Stay safe doing whatever my uncles will have you doing. It’s going to be dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than your mission into Mongavaria.” Rothilion’s eyes searched Fieran’s face.
“I’ll be with Pip and my dacha. We’ll have enough magical power along to destroy an army if necessary.” Fieran rolled his shoulders in an attempt at a nonchalant shrug, although he didn’t think he was fooling Rothilion.
“Still, take care of Pip and yourself.” Rothilion reached out and clasped Fieran’s shoulder. “We will meet again once this war is over.”
“I have no doubt.” Fieran clasped Rothilion’s shoulder in return. “Take care, Saranthyr.”
“And you, Fieran.” Rothilion nodded to Fieran before he dropped his hand.
Stickyfingers appeared in the parlor doorway, a few wet splotches on the front of his uniform shirt the only indication of his soda-spewing. “All right, everyone! Time for the show!”
Fieran pushed away from the wall and gestured from Rothilion to the crowd of pilots heading for the door to the foyer. “Now if you think I’m going to let you keep hiding in the corner…”
Rothilion sighed and shoved away from the wall. “Fine. I suppose I will have peace and quiet on my flight in the morning.”
“That’s the spirit.” Fieran fell into step with Rothilion, making sure he wasn’t about to back out.
The two of them stepped into the foyer, only to be ushered to a line of the cushioned chairs that had been lined up facing the grand staircase.
Pip took the other seat next to Fieran while Merrik was ushered to the final seat, a footstool placed in front of him with an extra flourish, as if the flyboy were presenting it to the king.
Another flyboy had a towel over an arm and a tray in hand as he formally offered each of them a glass of the finest vintage of soda found in the latest supply shipment. Apparently this was what Stickyfingers had been taste-testing.
All the lights were dimmed except for those that had been turned to focus on the grand staircase and the area immediately in front of it.
One of the flyboys, who had a resonant voice, stepped to a landing where the two wings of the staircase met. “Give your attention to this, the first performance by the Half-Breed Players.”
“We agreed to be the Half-Breed Acting Troupe!” one of the other flyboys called out from somewhere just out of sight.
“No, I thought we were the—”
“Ahem.” The flyboy making the announcement shot a look over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. We’re getting started.”
The others fell silent.
One of the male elven pilots who had a similarly deep voice joined the flyboy on the landing. “Behold, the story of the Half-Breed Squadron.”
With that, the two announcers retreated farther up the two wings of the stairs until they were nearly out of sight.
Around each side of the staircase, the human flyboys and elven pilots marched forward, dressed in their uniforms. While the elf and human narrated the story, the two halves of the squadron pantomimed flying and training in a clumsy version of the acting-dancing of that elven entertainment troupe.
Rothilion gave a satisfied sigh as he stretched out his feet in a more comfortable sprawl than Fieran usually saw from him. “It appears my work here is done. Your humans have gained a taste for culture.”
Before them, the narrators reached the part where the two halves of the squadron arrived in Dar Goranth, which apparently everyone had decided to portray as a collision.
Flyboys and elves ran into each other, some stumbling and falling down.
It was chaotic and messy, the two sides turning away from each other with huffs, crossed arms, and noses in the air.
Rothilion gave a small groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Never mind.”
For some reason, the sight had Fieran reaching for Pip’s hand, holding her fingers tight. The squadron had come so far since those early days. The ragtag, disjointed Flights had melded into what was now the finest squadron in the Alliance.
And now he would be leaving them.
Rothilion would leave first, flying out bright and early tomorrow morning. Fieran and Pip would leave a few days after that to head into the danger of the skies over Mongavaria.
Fieran glanced over Pip’s head to where Merrik sat, a slight smile on his face, his gaze focused on the stumbling attempts of the flyboys to match the graceful elven movements.
At least Fieran was leaving the squadron in good hands.
If Merrik could keep Fieran more or less out of trouble growing up, then surely he could keep the squadron safe and in line.
The squadron told the story of the Battle of Dar Goranth, then the battles over Fort Defense. When Fieran and Merrik crashed, two of the flyboys went so far as to tumble down a few stairs to represent crashing.
Then there was his triumphant return. The introduction of the flygirls to their numbers. Merrik’s return. The Wall coming down.
For their grand finale, the elves climbed on the shoulders of the flyboys, all of them gripping each other’s arms until they formed the semblance of an aeroplane.
Fieran grinned and clapped while Pip gave a cheer beside him. Rothilion’s and Merrik’s clapping was less raucous but both of them were smiling broadly.
He would miss this squadron fiercely while he was in Mongavaria. But he had to go. For them.
Fieran strolled between the parked aeroplanes, resting a hand on a fuselage here, tracing the line of a wing there. The artwork emblazoned on the aeroplanes was as individual as each of the pilots who flew them.
This was a farewell, of sorts. A moment to linger among the aeroplanes, surrounded by the twinkle of fireflies dancing among the mechanisms of war, as the quiet of the evening settled into his soul.
Boots crunched behind him before Merrik strode from the gray of the deepening night and halted beside him.
Fieran rested his hand against his aeroplane’s fuselage, his palm resting on the elf ear painted there. “I never thought we’d end the war like this. You going one way, me another. I thought I’d end this at your side.”
Merrik shook his head, staring off into the night. “I always knew it would be like this. You were destined to outgrow me and the squadron. You are Laesornysh. The squadron was just your stepping stone to become a warrior capable of fighting at your dacha’s side.”
“The squadron is my strength.” Fieran nudged Merrik with his elbow. “I wouldn’t be Laesornysh without all of you.”
He wouldn’t have become the warrior he was now without the Half-Breed Squadron.
They were the ones who had followed him into battle time after time.
They had pulled off his plans, no matter how crazy.
His magic wouldn’t have been half as potent if he hadn’t been wielding it with the help of his squadron.
“No. But it is time for you to be Laesornysh as you were always meant to be.” Merrik finally turned to Fieran and clasped his shoulders.
“That is not a bad thing. The Alliance needs its next generation of Laesornysh warriors. You and Adry will be the ones to win the war. I am just glad I got to be a small part of it.”
“Merrik…” Fieran clasped Merrik’s shoulders in return, giving him a small shake. “Do you know what finally made me decide to go on this mission to Mongavaria?”
Merrik huffed and rolled his eyes, dropping his hands from Fieran’s shoulders. “No. Despite our long years of friendship, I have not yet learned to read your mind.”
“Just as well. The number of far crazier plans I think about then discard before settling on a plan that is merely a normal-level of crazy would drive you into insanity.” Fieran grinned as he, too, dropped his hands and instead lounged against the aeroplane behind him.
Merrik tilted his head back as if searching the stars for patience and good sense. “Spare me, I beg you.”
Fieran chuckled, letting the conversation pause for a moment, before he spoke again. “I took this mission because I need to get out of your way. It’s beyond time you stepped out of my shadow to become the captain of the Half-Breed Squadron that you were always meant to be.”
“Fieran…” Merrik straightened, shaking his head as his gaze dropped. “I cannot be the captain you are.”
“No. You will be a far better captain than I ever was.” Fieran lightly punched Merrik’s arm. “You actually have sense. I know the squadron will be in good hands.”
“You’re leaving intimidating wings to fill.” Merrik’s shoulders hunched as if under the weight of the responsibility that would soon fall to him. “And with the way the Alliance generals are planning to push hard in the next few weeks…”
Fieran swallowed. Adry and Merrik would bear the brunt of that fighting. Any day now, the invasion push would reach the Empress Line and face far fiercer fighting than any they’d encountered in Mongavaria so far.
And Adry would no longer have Dacha at her side.
Merrik slumped even more, his hands in his pockets. “I do not know if I am enough. If I am whole enough. I have barely learned to walk again. I do not know if I can be what the squadron needs me to be. What Adry will need me to be.”
Fieran rested his hand on Merrik’s shoulder again, but for a long moment, he didn’t speak.
This wasn’t a time for quick, thoughtless words but for thinking everything through before he opened his mouth.
“You will be strong for the squadron, and the squadron will be strong for you. You won’t be doing this alone. ”
Merrik released a shuddering breath, but he raised his head, his shoulders straightening.
“You will have a hard-fought battle ahead of you. But you will protect my sister and the squadron, and they will protect you.” Fieran gave Merrik a slight slap on the back. “You will be a great captain. I’m only sad that I won’t be here to see it.”
If he was here, then Merrik would never have this opportunity to step forward. Without being prompted, Merrik likely wouldn’t put himself into such a leadership position.
But he would be good at it. Excellent, even.
“Linshi.” After a moment, Merrik’s smile returned, even if it still had a melancholy tilt.
Together, the two of them kept a peaceful vigil, even as the night grew deeper and the stars burned brighter overhead.