Mélange

Here there be drabbles. I may expand on some of them later, but for now, enjoy the ride. First up is . . .

Chapter 1

Hold the Line: 1241

Notes: Heinrich = HRE. Bernard = Knights Templar. Mongolian Empire = largest contiguous empire the world has ever seen, larger even than Rome. They beat six kinds of crap out of China, Eastern Europe, the Caliphate . . . The rest of the West was spared mostly because of a few lucky coincidences.

Feliks is the first to wake up, and when he does, he wishes he hadn't, because he becomes aware of the arrows sticking out of his back. He feels like a porcupine. And that isn't much fun at all.

He grits his teeth and clambers to his feet, and roots around for a few minutes in the stinking field of corpses for a stick or something. He finds a spear, way taller than he is, but it'll work as extra support. He hobbles away. His armor is heavy, and his face is streaked with blood.

He finds himself standing–okay, slumping–over the prone body of a miniature Templar, with curly brown hair and wide grey eyes that stare right through him. He kneels down, ignoring the pain in his back. He pokes the Templar in the cheek. "Bernard?"

Nothing.

"Bernard, you gotta wake up now."

Blink–and Bernard draws in a choked breath. He's pale as the bodies surrounding them, and he spits blood as he props himself up on his elbows and manages to focus on Feliks. "W-we lost?"

"Yeah."

Bernard spits again, coughs miserably. Then his eyebrows go up. "Feliks, you're–"

"Eh, I'm okay," he says.

"Turn around!" Bernard orders, motioning with one hand. Feliks obliges with a put-upon sigh, and then yelps as the other boy tears one of the arrows out, heedless of the damage it does as it exits.

"What are you doing?" Feliks demands.

"You'll heal," Bernard grunts. Yank. Feliks bites back another cry of pain.

"Did you, like, see what happened to Gilbert and Heinrich?"

"No."

"Then–ow!–I'm gonna go looking, okay?"

Bernard removes the last arrow and spins him around so they're facing each other. The taller boy looks very serious and very solemn and very, very scared. "What about . . . him?"

"I'll deal. C'mon." Feliks wobbles a bit as he steps over a Mongol horse's snapped neck, and then stumps forward, scanning the ground for familiar faces. There are some. Too many. Polish soldiers and knights. All dead. All of them. Dead.

They find Gilbert and Heinrich under another horse, this one European. It looks like Heinrich was in the way as it fell, and Gilbert either ran into him or tried to push him out of the way or something, so they wound up falling together and getting squashed together, and Heinrich's legs are at really awkward angles and one of Gilbert's arms is bent backwards.

Bernard circles to the other side of the horse, biting his hand to hold back a cough. "Grab one of them and pull," he says, taking the saddle and tugging on it. He's weaker than usual–he isn't quite a nation anyway, and he took quite a beating yesterday, so it takes him a minute to get his feet under him and the leverage just right, but after that the horse moves enough for Feliks to drag Heinrich out from under. Bernard lets go to catch his breath, and it flops back onto Gilbert. There's a nasty cracking sound that probably isn't the horse. They repeat the process, and Feliks stumbles backward with Gilbert in tow, and falls over on his backside and wheezes for a few minutes.

"Well, that was fun," he says.

There's a groan from Heinrich. He opens his eyes and stares up at Bernard, who peers down at him, and he shakes his head. "We failed," he croaks.

"Yes," Bernard says dully.

Heinrich glances at Feliks. "We're going to die," he says.

"Nuh-uh," Feliks says fiercely. "No way we're letting that happen, m'kay? You can be all weepy and depressed if you want, but, like, count me out."

"How can you–"

"Have a little faith!" he cajoles, with more enthusiasm than he really feels. They lost. But he isn't going to panic. Nope. Not gonna happen.

Gilbert's coming to, groaning. He hisses in a choked shallow breath and clutches at his arm–and his ribs–and glares at Feliks as if it was his fault he got squashed. But all he says is "Goddammit."

"Language," Heinrich says, because that's what he's expected to say.

"I can swear if I want to," Gilbert grumbles. "Not like it's gonna matter for long. 'Cause we are dead."

Green, red, blue, grey eyes flicker in the dark. It smells like fear and like death. Filth, blood, the beginnings of rot. And that urge to panic is rising, gibbering. Because Sadiq and Gupta and Ivan were destroyed by all this–they stuffed the caliphate into a sack and had horses trample him until he was so much bloody pulp and that was them being nice . . .

No. Panicking is stupid and it won't save them.

Feliks sees the others fighting the same battle, and while at any other time he'd gladly chuck at least Gilbert under a wagon given the chance, he's unwilling to let them lose it. Not now. "Okay, guys. Let's, like, chill out. These heathens don't have anything on us."

"Look around," Bernard says wearily. Before Feliks can come up with a reply, he adds, thoughtfully, "Although this isn't the end. We are not the gateway to all Christendom. That . . . honor falls to Vienna."

"Roderich," Gilbert says.

"I heard Elizabeta was gonna try and head these guys off before they get there," Feliks puts in, unsure just where the conversation is going. He injects a little confidence into his tone. "She'll do fine."

". . . I said that yesterday, about us," Heinrich says. He shifts his legs and winces in pain.

Feliks senses a downward spiral in the mood. He slings an arm around Heinrich's shoulders and smiles, despite the fact that it hurts a lot and it can't be too pleasant for Heinrich either. "Scared?" he asks. "Everyone's scared, right? But we've totally got God on our side. We'll pull through."

"Have a little faith?" Bernard mumbles.

"Like, yeah."

There's silence. Well, not quite silence–a few of the wounded are still moaning, in the distance a horse is screaming, and there's a light breeze sighing, but it's close enough. A hush, a lull, as if the world is drawing breath. Bernard speaks then, voice low and strong and steady. "Our Father, who art in Heaven," he begins, "hallowed be thy Name."

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven," Heinrich says softly. Their voices make a kind of harmony, a good kind, and Feliks joins in as they continue, "Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us . . ."

"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," Gilbert murmurs with them.

"For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.

"Amen."

And though the Hungarians may fall, perhaps, maybe . . . If the khan dies in a few days, if the Mongols retreat at last, if the walls of Vienna hold . . .

The walls must hold.