If Mahan Could See Us Now

Save yourself.

He raises the gun and it feels a little like time slows right down. The blood rushes in your ears as your heart begins to race. A splash of adrenaline tastes metallic and bitter on your tongue. You flush so hard and so hot that it feels like your face is burning.

These moments between him drawing and raising the gun last a lifetime. An eternity of tension and stress that some small part of you wishes would just end. Let him pull the trigger, let the hammer strike the pin and the pin the bullet and let that little piece of lead tear you out of existence. You've faced the soul rending pain of grievous wounds already, bleeding precious lifeblood onto the dusty ground of Polyapavlosk. But you'd had Sasha to save you then. There was nobody to save you now. This was the terminus.

Save yourself.

A small, magazine fed, brushed steel pistol. You'd faced soldiers with machine guns, grenades and charged into the face of artillery, but this was how it was going to be. A small pistol, a vengeful man and a grubby little room. You'd relied on Sasha for so long, now that you didn't have her, you were going to pieces. You were going to die.

Save yourself.

Your hand is touching something cold. Something metal. Something hard. Your fingers close and lift and it comes up and you're coming up off the floor, his finger is squeezing the trigger.

Save yourself.

The ferocious report of a gunshot.

Save yourself.

A cry of pain, pitiably weak.

Save yourself. Save yourself. Save yourself.

- - -

The battlements of Castello Stralsten are colder, colder still with a gentle breeze that feels like it would be more suited to the warmth of a summer day. The weather has not been so kind though, reflecting the mood of the few remaining attendee's in its nature. The burble of aircraft engines breaks the stillness and a passenger plane, a Caspian Vityaz, lumbers into view from behind the castle. Even more escaping the stink of fear and pain left in the wake of revolutionary violence.

Nothing good comes from it. Violence just causes suffering, and always to the people who deserve it the least. If there is to be a revolution, it would have to be a peaceful one. Systems may be broken, but war, murder and pain? These are worse. Nobody is untouched.

You sniff, blinking back a tear. It's just the cold and the wind prickling at your eyes, you tell yourself. You haven't just stared down death yet again and found it wanting. You haven't just come so close to giving up that you could smell the grave dirt that would have held your corpse.

A door opens with the heavy clunk of a metal latch and closes again. Boots click on the stone fortifications. Two strong arms pull you against a soft chest and lips touch the back of your head ever so gently.

"You have to stop getting shot, my love."

You try to shrug, wincing in pain. The assassin's bullet had clipped your ribs, cracking a few of them and spilling just a little more of your blood. Your smart jacket was ruined, as was the fine shirt you'd been wearing underneath. You'd been lucky he'd only got a single shot off before the paperweight you'd picked up hit him square in the nose. He'd bled a lot more. Even so, you were lucky someone found you before you passed out. The pain was still awful.

"For that to happen, I'd have to stop making enemies."

She hummed her frustration into your hair. She squeezed you tighter, careful to avoid your fresh wound. Gods she made you feel so safe. A small mercy with the shape of the world you lived in. Nothing was truly safe, but at least she could offer you a little comfort in the midst of it all. You hoped that you could give her the same.

"Do you think, maybe, we can have another go at that holiday? One where we don't get caught up in international politics?"

"What's wrong, Liybimaya, are you not having fun in high society?" You tease, taking hold of her hands, "Of course we can. We never did make it into Southern Europa did we?"

"No, you got press-ganged into being a spy, because I fellin love with a notable war hero," She fires back without an ounce of bad feeling. "We could go to the Atlas Games?"

"That sounds perfect! I'll ask the Count-"

"No, sweetheart, let's… let's just find our own way this time. None of the rich and famous to draw attention to us."

"Okay, my love. Okay."

You lapse into a comfortable silence. For a moment all thought of tension and conflict slipped away and you simply enjoyed the presence of your lover against you. In the dark and cold you could forget everything and just exist together. You could imagine a world wherein this was your everyday and not just stolen moments snatched in the darkness. Like here. Like in your apartment. Like on the floor of a concrete bunker where you took shelter from rebels.

You shake your head, dragging your thoughts out of those shadowy places. The Atlas Games, you think, a celebration of athletic potential. A joyful party in the middle of so much tension. And Otrusia was supposed to be utterly beautiful as well, even as politically unstable as it was. A pretty place, a pretty girl. That sounded pretty good to you.

You sigh. How pretty will it be once shells tear up the countryside, once bombs land amongst city streets? Not so nice, you think, remembering the mess that was Polyapavlosk in the days of violence.

"The attack-" You start, but can't find the right words.

"They're calling it an assasination attempt."

"Against who?"

"That depends on who you ask. The only people not claiming it was targeting them are the Akitsukini diplomats and I wonder if that's just because their translator was being polite." Sasha says, tone hardening.

"Hmm. We failed, I suppose."

"I doubt we could have stopped this war. They all seemed pretty set on the idea. Maybe it's not going to start tonight, or even this year, but it's coming."

You knew what was coming. You still had to ask.

"When it does… you're going to go, aren't you?"

"It's my duty, Valya. They'll need veterans."

"I hate that."

"I know."

You stood on the parapet as darkness fell fully, taking solace in each others arms, waiting for the end to come.