To Bind and Break (Tales of Eldora #2)

1

Hadrian Thorn was tired of death.

But as he walked the Plains of Splendor, death was all he saw. No one called this valley by that name anymore, not since the war. They were just the Plains now. They’d covered any splendor they once had in blood.

The war between magic users and rebels had been raging in Eldora for a hundred and fifty years before Hadrian was born, and it had continued to rage for a hundred and fifty years since.

War was all Hadrian had ever known. He was still young by Eldora standards, but he felt as ancient as the mountains beyond the river right now.

All magic users joined the war effort when they came of age, but healers like Hadrian were especially coveted.

With so many magical talents being forgotten in place of the more violent ones needed for war, healing was becoming rare.

And with the rebels growing ever more creative with their own violent means, it was one of the few advantages magic still had.

But it did not feel like an advantage to Hadrian, as he looked out across yet another field of death. The valley floor littered with those that couldn’t be saved. Pain and suffering framed by majestic snow-capped mountains and the wistful colors of sunset.

It was one of the saddest things he had ever seen.

He walked farther into the field, letting his weary legs lead without real direction.

He had spent nearly all his energy healing those magic users and their allies that he could.

The battle was over for now. Until the morning when they found someone else to kill or kill them.

He was supposed to be looking for any he could help, but there were none to save here, and he was so weak he would be little help anyway.

And yet he walked on, taking in each body he saw. Or at least some small part of them—a tunic darned with care, red curls, boots with a hole worn through. Magic user or rebel didn’t matter. The dead had no sides.

He’d walked farther than he should have, nearly to the edge of the neutral ground.

Sunset had turned to twilight, and he could see the remnants of an old farm, long abandoned, not far in the distance.

He was bone-weary but still had no desire to return to the camp.

The others would be eating now, pretending to care about the things they discussed that weren’t fear and regret.

Their leader, General Draven Valen, would be there, huge and terrifying in his midnight armor but always ready to listen and encourage.

But even General Valen had started to show some cracks in the last few months.

He was nearly twice Hadrian’s age and could remember a time before war.

Maybe that helped him go on with this fight. Maybe it made it worse.

Hadrian sighed and turned away from the darkening mountains, and his eyes fell on a man laid out near a tall ashberry tree. He walked closer. He didn’t know why. Just something for his tired feet to do. To avoid the inevitable a little longer.

The man lay on his stomach, his face turned away and one hand outstretched, as if he was reaching for the tree in his last moments.

His skin was the color of the earth where it wasn’t angry red from burns.

The fabrics of his clothes were familiar, but the cut was not.

A rebel then. People who had once walked in the same city streets as him until they decided magic users would be better leashed.

Now they might as well live in another world instead of just across a valley for all they knew about each other.

Hadrian knelt beside the man, curiosity getting the better of him.

He rarely saw the enemy up close. Not like the others.

He was a healer. All he saw was the aftermath.

Were the people now as different from them as their fashion?

Surely a simple stretch of land and less than a generation wasn’t enough to change them that much.

But maybe hate was. He reached out a hand to turn the man, but took it back before his hand met the leather of his vest. What good would it do to see him?

He was either the monster they were taught or he was not.

Either way, it didn’t change a thing for him. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“Please.”

Hadrian nearly jumped out of his skin at the ghostly voice in the otherwise silent field. Panic crawled up his spine, and he nearly turned and ran until he saw the man at his feet move. Then a new panic set in.

He knelt by the man again, and this time knew to look for the signs of life.

The steady but shallow rise and fall of his back as he breathed.

He leaned over and looked at his face, softened in the half-light of the failing day, and saw it was twisted in pain.

His eyes were closed, and he made no more sound.

The gasp must have been all he had the strength left for.

Hadrian didn’t know what to do. He was a healer. His instinct was to heal. But this was a rebel. It was forbidden. He could be charged with treason for just being here. For not ending the enemy's life. But he couldn’t do that. It was against everything he was.

He wished General Valen were here. He would say something in his gravely voice that would make him see the right way. Make him see that killing one man was for the greater good. But Valen wasn’t here. And there was no thought that could bring Hadrian to pull his knife now.

And why should he? What if it were him lying in this field, using the last of his strength to beg for help? This man didn’t care if he was a magic user. He cared that he was human and trusted him to do the right thing.

Hadrian was tired of death. Tired of fields of men he could not help. Here was one he could.

The rebel’s injuries were severe, and there was no way of telling if there were worse he could not see.

It would take all his remaining strength to heal him, if he even could.

He rolled the man onto his back. The man didn’t make a sound as he did.

Not a good sign. Blood coated his leather vest, but it was impossible to tell if it was his or someone else’s.

“Well, staring won’t help,” Hadrian mumbled, still half hoping someone would show up and tell him what to do.

He took a deep breath and drew magic to him.

When he was younger, trainers would ask him how he healed.

What his process was so that they could guide him.

He started making things up when he realized they didn’t believe his answers.

But that didn’t change the fact that for Hadrian, healing came naturally.

And not just for people. But they weren’t supposed to concentrate on magic that didn’t help the cause, so he didn’t talk about that.

It became apparent that while the rebel’s injuries didn’t go far beyond what he could see—the burns were the worst, but there was also a wound to his shoulder, close to his heart, that would need to be closed—they were still extensive enough he would not be able to heal them completely and still be standing when he was done.

Hadrian had no idea what he was going to do after this, but he was pretty sure he needed to be conscious for it.

So he put in enough to make sure the man would live and could be moved without causing further issues, then drew back.

Even that drained him enough he had to sit down in the dirt to keep from falling over.

“Now look at us,” he said to the still soldier.

“What a pair we make.” He didn’t respond but Hadrian thought his breathing looked better and his color more natural, although it was hard to tell with only moonlight now to see by.

“I suppose it’s not so cold we can’t just stay here for a little while.

” No one was likely to be out looking for him.

General Valen didn’t like to send the men out after dark.

He could rest enough to heal him completely before dawn.

And then…he had no idea what he would do then.

But he had started down this path, so he was going to see it through to the end.

Hadrian had his blanket out of his pack and was about to wrap it around the rebel when he froze at the sound of voices coming from the east. First, a sharp bark of laughter, then muttered conversation. It was impossible to tell how far, but they were definitely getting closer.

“Fuck.” If they were rebels, he was done for.

If they were magic army, the man he saved was done for.

He could always keep quiet about the man if they were allies.

But he would have no reason to stay in the field, and the rebel would likely be too weak to make it to his own allies in the morning. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The voices were growing louder. No matter who they were, it was going to end badly for either him or the rebel he had saved.

He quickly folded the blanket and shoved it back in his pack and took the man under the arms. He would have to carry him, as dragging would make enough noise to draw attention.

“Of course I would find the one rebel made of muscle,” Hadrian grunted as he lifted the man over his shoulder.

He may have been a healer, but he was still in good shape.

The army made sure of that. But between the fatigue from the healing and the dead weight of the unconscious man, he wasn’t sure he was going to make it far.

He set out in the direction of the farmhouse he had seen earlier in the distance.

He couldn’t see it now, but it was still there in the darkness.

It was shelter, and it was inside the neutral ground.

Neither side was allowed to fight there.

Not that both sides hadn’t broken that rule a thousand times for one reason or another.

That was the reason most of the farms and homes in it were abandoned now.

But it was still better than the openness of the battlefield with soldiers searching about.