Brokehorn thought water was a fine idea, and thought to say as much. All that came out was a tired wheeze, his throat far too tight to make noise and activate his vox harness.
A warm hand touched his face, and he could see better now. A dark claw with a figure in white in front of him. As he focused, he saw it was a human woman who attended him. An older woman; her hair was flecked with silver, and she had many lines around her eyes. She found a smile for him though, and placed a hose into his mouth. “Swallow as much as you can, and if some of it runs out, well it’s no problem. Cleaning up is part of the job, and we certainly don’t mind doing it for heroes,” she told him.
He didn’t register what she said, as the feeling of cool water gushing down his dry throat was a wonder that captivated him. He drank eagerly, only stopping when pain deep in his gut forced him to. Brokehorn saw the nurse’s eyes squint and she nodded. “Pain?”
“Yes,” he managed, his voice still rusty. “In my stomach.”
The nurse nodded again. “That’s to be expected. I imagine the flesh there is still healing, even though they took the stitches out a week ago,” she explained.
“How long have I been out?” he asked.
“Nearly three weeks now. We... we didn’t think you were going to make it when they brought you here,” she admitted. “But here you are, and that’s what matters.”
“How bad was it?”
She shook her head. “I’ll let the doctor talk about that. I don’t want to get into specifics,” she told him. Brokehorn had a feeling that was her final word on that subject. “I’m sure your friend will want to talk to you about it though, so you can ask him. I’m Nurse Sera, and please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”
“Is there food? Can I eat?” he asked her, trying to rise but pain forced him back.
There was a guffaw from above, and Sera looked up for a moment, scowling, before turning back to the Lancer. “I’ll see what I can get for you, but it’s likely going to be nutrient fluid for a bit until your gut heals up a bit more,” she told him, and then turned to the other being present in the room. “You have ten minutes with him, but he needs his strength. Don’t make me come in here and have you forced out again,” she told the Tyrannosaurus.
“I don’t think I have ten minutes of conversation in me,” responded Ripper.
The nurse shook her head and left, leaving Ripper and Brokehorn alone.
Brokehorn was able to take stock of his surroundings now. The two were in a cavernous, white room with one wall dedicated to a haptic chart of his vitals, which showed his improving medical history over different timelines. Above him hung a large piece of cloth; he couldn’t make out what it was, but didn’t care. Instead, he turned to Ripper.
“You just happened to be here?” Brokehorn asked.
“I did, but...”
“You were here every day?”
The Bladejaw nodded, opening his mouth several times before finding words. “It was bad. I arrived just as the other Khajal arrived and well, I finished off the two of the three survivors.”
Brokehorn tilted his head at this. “I killed six. I was nearly dead when those three arrived.”
“So you were. But the humans convinced themselves you killed seven, so that’s what they told Dhimion Cruzah,” explained Ripper. “They survived, though some were injured when you rammed the truck. They were very effusive in their praise of your valor.”
There was another pause. “How bad was it?” Brokehorn inquired softly. This realization of his own mortality was a new thing to him.
“You died,” said Ripper. “I remember the lead medic telling me that as they began working on you.”
“If I died, why would they try to bring me back in the middle of an active battlefield? Especially when surrounded by Federation troops.” Triage procedures of the Dominion military prohibited resuscitation.
“Maybe they decided an effort was better than answering to an enraged Bladejaw.” Ripper responded.
The two Old Bloods locked gazes for a moment, and it was Brokehorn who spoke into the silence. “But why all that for a dinosaur you just met?”
“Because I think...” Ripper paused again, as though searching for the words. “We understand each other. Not just being Separated, but we understand the reasons we fight. Call me selfish but I was not ready to lose that, not after finding it so soon. I would not have the promise of a friendship taken away from me.” There was none of the light acerbic wit in Ripper’s words, and Brokehorn found himself touched.
“Besides,” said Ripper quickly, nodding toward the banner above them. “This is the kind of thing you don’t usually see at all.”
Brokehorn followed Ripper’s gaze. It was a banner – gold on black. There was a lion in profile, scaling what looked like a pile of dead hyenas. Red slashes were stitched all over the lion, who seemed to be roaring, likely for the final time.
“They give that to those who died in battle,” said Brokehorn, remembering what Ripper had said but speaking the words all the same.
“So you did. Your actions were heroic, believe it or not. The Order of the Fallen Lion, and you the only living member,” said Ripper. “I am impressed, not just for the deeds you accomplished.”
“What else would impress you?”
“That you did believe in the ideals we expressed before that battle to spend your life in pursuit of them,” said Ripper.
“That was the mission,” began Brokehorn.
“No, the mission was incidental. You died as true as you lived. So few beings ever do,” said Ripper.
A small door opened, and Nurse Sera stood there, her hands on her hips, glaring at the Tyrannosaurus.
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Ripper grumbled, turning away from her and heading toward the large doors on the other side of the room.
“You’ll...” Brokehorn began, and then forced himself to ask. “You’ll be here tomorrow?”
“I will,” promised Ripper. “Sleep well, friend.”
Brokehorn watched him go, and he was left alone with Nurse Sera as she went about her tasks. He was tired, but he had slept for weeks and had questions. “Nurse,” he said, and she turned toward him.
“Lancer, what can I do for you?” she asked him.
“The humans I saved, do you know where they are now?” he asked her.
She frowned, and gave a small shake of her head. “Hopefully they found their parents and are trying to recover, physically and mentally, but I truthfully don’t know. Children are tough though – they bounce back faster than you think.”
“That’s good then,” Brokehorn said, thinking of how the young humans had looked at him while he ripped apart the Khajalian. How many nightmares would that bring on?
Sera paused, visibly thinking, and then moved closer to Brokehorn. “May I ask a question?” The Lancer nodded for her to go on. “Why did you do that?”
“Because he was trying to kill me,” said Brokehorn, and then realized that he had been thinking of the Khajali that he had slaughtered.
“I know that,” began Sera, misunderstanding, “but you killed yourself saving human children. Why though? It’s obvious the Illurians don’t care – the ones who aren’t fighting, that is. So why do you? You could have left them to their fate and no one would have thought less of you,” she said. Her voice was soft, and she had moved closer to him, resting a hand on his crest and looking him in the eye.
There was only one answer he could give her that would be true, and to voice it would be to accept his status as Separated and no longer simply Old Blood. “Because it was the right thing to do,” he said, meeting her gaze evenly. As he said it, he realized there would be no mate from the garden worlds for him. He would never be part of a herd of Lancers, and would remain forever ignorant of that which bonded his own kind.