The darkness that claimed him was slow to recede, clinging like a frozen tar to the edges of his mind. The first thing he saw was heat -- a small and bright, vibrant warmth that chased away the bone-deep chill that had been his only companion.
Then came the smell of other things: woodsmoke, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood and the stale air of a confined space.
'Where... am I?'
His body was a battlefield of aches, his head a throbbing drum, but the warmth that he felt was real. He forced his left eye open, groaning. His vision was a blurry mess, however, it was slowly resolving into the silhouettes of twisted metal.
He was inside the broken aircraft, the one that had loomed like a fallen god in the snow. It was utterly transformed now. Snow had piled high against the gaping wounds of the fuselage, effectively burying it and turning the wrecked interior into a makeshift cave, surprisingly sheltered.
In the center, almost miraculously, a small campfire crackled, casting light on the frost-infested cold metal walls.
Across from the fire, sitting cross-legged and perfectly still, was the boy who had just minutes, or hours, ago plunged a knife into his eye and kicked him into oblivion.
His dark, unruly hair was a wild halo. His long, tattered coat blended into the deeper shadows beyond the fire's reach. The boy's hand was lazily waving through the air above the flames, seemingly lost in thought, or perhaps drawing some unseen warmth from the heat.
A jolt of pain shot through the Darsion soldier's head as he tried to shift, and his hand instinctively went to his face. His right eye was a void, covered now by a rough, makeshift bandage. It was surprisingly tight.
His left eye, wide and disoriented, snapped open fully and fixed on the boy across the fire. The attacker.
A raw, animal sound escaped from his lips, mainly from the pain and utter terror. He tried to scramble back, away from the silent figure.
He thrashed, trying to escape the confines of his pain and the terrifying presence of his assailant. The boy across the fire, however, remained still, his hand ceasing its slow wave above the flames.
He simply watched the Darsion soldier, his expression unreadable in the light. Then, slowly, the boy held up a hand, flat and open. There was no obvious aggression, just a deliberate gesture.
He then, even more slowly, reached beside him and picked up a packet. He tore it open with his teeth, revealing the bland, pale nutrient paste within, and extended it as an offering.
"My name's Nicolai, more simply: Nico. What about yours?"
The offered paste was bland and unappetizing, even to a starving man. The Darsion soldier stared at it, then at Nico's gaunt face.
Suspicion warred with a hunger so profound it gnawed at his very bones. Was this a trick? A cruel joke before the final blow? But Nico's hand remained steady. The soldier's stomach clenched with an animal growl that shamed him, but the hunger was too strong to deny.
With a trembling hand, he reached out, snatching the packet. His fingers, stiff and cold, fumbled with the seal before he simply tore it open with his teeth, mimicking Nico's earlier action.
The synthetic gruel tasted like ash, but it was food.
He watched Nico across the fire, who had resumed what he was doing, his dark eyes never leaving him, yet without menace. It was strange. One moment, a blade in his eye; the next, a lifeline in a frozen hell.
The Darsion soldier, whose name was Leoill -- thought Nico did not yet know it -- finished the first packet and then, driven by an instinct he couldn't name, slowly, hesitantly, offered the remaining two packets back to Nico.
Nico's gaze flickered to the packets, then back to Leoill's injured face, a barely perceptible nod acknowledging the offer. He took one, leaving the other for the wounded boy. No words were exchanged but an unspoken understanding began to form.
Leoill, his senses returning more fully, glanced at Nico, who, after finishing his ration, had moved to peer through a narrow crack in the fuselage, his posture tense.
Then, faint at first, barely a vibration through the metal, Lysander caught it too: a low, persistent thrum. It was a mechanical hum. It was the sound of engines. Aircraft engines.
Luckily, it was too distant to be a direct threat yet, but unmistakably present. The sheer size of the sound suggested more than just a single patrol.
"Leoill," he blurted out, the sound barely a whisper above the engine's thrum. "My name is Leoill Begurechaff."
Nico, who had been about to push off the wall and prepare for movement, froze. He stared at the younger boy, genuinely oddly stunned for a split second.
'He... just said a name. A full name on top of that,' Nico thought.
In this desolate, dehumanizing place, such a simple act felt monumental. His name, Nicolai, felt like a relic from another life.
"You can just call me Lai," Nico replied, choosing the simpler, more used moniker he'd picked up among his doomed division. "Just Lai."
A tremor ran through Leoill's body, whether from the cold or terror, Nico couldn't tell.
"I grew up in the slums of Drenic," Leoill continued, his words tumbling out, as if confessing everything might buy him another moment, another breath. "Never, not once, have I respected or loved my nation. Not after... not after the gruesome moments I experienced. Just endless hunger, forced marches, beatings."
He shivered violently.
"I'm seventeen. They dragged me from the streets, forced me onto the frontlines. I had no choice."
Seventeen. Nico listened, absorbing the bitter words. He saw genuine torment in Leoill's face, a mirror of his own, albeit with different scars.
"I'm fourteen," Nico said, quiet but clear.
Leoill went utterly still. His good eye, already wide with desperation, seemed to dilate further.
"Fourteen?" he questioned, the sound barely audible.
He stared at Nico, a wave of disbelief washing over him.
"You... may as well be the youngest soldier in the world."
Nico sighed. He pushed himself off the wall, moving closer to the fire, then glancing at the exit:
"We're both just tools, Leoill. Broken by a war we didn't ask for. They put us in uniforms, told us to kill each other, but we're just children caught in their game."
He met Leoill's gaze directly.
"We're victims of war. And if we want to survive Fjellheim, we need to work together."
Leoill flinched, pulling back instinctively. His injured eye throbbed.
"No," he choked out. "If Darsion finds out... betrayal... they'd hunt me down. My family... they'd make an example of them. The horrors they do..." He shuddered, an unspoken terror in his eye.
"Ilbaris takes in refugees of war, Leoill," Nico pressed, though the words felt strange on his tongue. "No matter their nationality. They don't send them back. They give them sanctuary."
He held Leoill's gaze.
"You don't have to go back to them."
The words hung in the air. Leoill stared at Nico, at the small campfire, at the dark shadows beyond. The distant thrum of the Darsion patrol grew louder, forcing the choice.
He searched Nico's face for any sign of deception, any hint of a lie. But there was only the desperate truth. He looked at his own bandaged eye, the pain a constant reminder. He imagined Darsion's retribution. Then he imagined the freezing, endless snow of Fjellheim.
Slowly and carefully, Leoill nodded.