Their shared story

*Calliope*
It was the third day after I had arrived at the hospital when I caught my first glimpse of Captain Zac Dragan, sitting up in a corner, feverish. His arm had become infected, but he had stubbornly refused any sort of treatment until those around him was tended to. By the time he finally relented, the physicians wanted to amputate. He had been as determined to keep his arm as he had been to keep his leg. He had proven to them that he still retained use of it, convincing them to work to save it.

“I could treat two more men in the time it’ll take me to try to save that arm," One doctor had pointed out.

“Then treat them," Zac had retorted. “And come back to me when you're done. But I swear to you that I'll make saving my arm worth the military’s bother."

I had assisted as another doctor cut away the dying flesh. Zac had grunted only once, when the doctor had begun his work, and he had remained stoically silent after that, his jaw clenched so tightly, I was surprised he hadn’t pushed his teeth
down through his chin.

He was my first close look at bravery. I suspect the seeds for my admiration of him had begun that cold, dark night.

I had wishes that I could devote all my time to him, but far too many men required attention. But as he recovered, I sought him out as often as I could, wiping his brow when he was feverish. I had studied his face, memorizing every line and curve, so I recognized now that he now sports more creases and deeper furrows. Patting the cloth along his throat, across his chin brings to mind a long ago night when I had been doing the same. His eyes had suddenly sprung open, his mouth had curved up slightly.

“Hello, sweetheart." He had mumbled.

His voice had been rough, scratchy, but my heart had reacted as though we were at a ball and he had invited me to dance, beating a steady staccato like that of a drummer pounding the drum before battle.

“Would you care for some water?” I asked breathlessly, embarrassed that I seemed unable to control my reaction to him.

“Love some.”

My hands had trembled as I poured water from a nearby pitcher into a glass. With a great deal of care and gentleness, I had slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and lifted him slightly, cradling him, and bringing the glass to his parched lips. “Only a bit,” I had admonished, pulling away after he had a few sips.

He was breathing heavily when I laid him back down, as though he were the one going through all the effort.

“I have … my arm.” The words had been a statement and a question.

“Yes,” I had reassured him. “I believe it was your threat to murder whoever took it that convinced them.”

“I cannot be held accountable for what I may have said under the influence of pain, although I daresay I did want to bloody well murder someone.” His words sounded weary, but I had no doubt he meant them.

I had chuckled lightly. “It would serve better to murder the enemy, don't you think?”

“What’s your name?” He had asked.

I had send him a shy smile. “Calliope.”

“Calliope … Callie.” His eyes had began to flutter closed. “Now I have a name for the lady who visits my dreams.”

He had drifted to sleep, and I sat there far longer than I should have, wiping his brow. When I had finally left his side in the early hours before dawn to retire to my bed, it was he who visited my dreams.

That evening, as I was returning to the hospital to begin my duties, I spied him leaning against the wall outside. I knew that to be caught alone with a man outside the hospital was grounds for dismissal, knew I should carry on as though I had not seen him, but I couldn't seem to help myself. I had approached cautiously. “Captain, you should not be out here.”

“Miss Callie.” He had murmured my name as though it was the gentle refrain of a sonnet. I couldn't deny the pleasure it brought me. One of the other nurses, Miss Whisenhunt, had told me that home in our Capital he was known for his charming ways.

“Be careful,” She had warned me. “He’ll have your skirts raised before you even realize he's tossed you onto your back. Not that
any lady objects, if they are fortunate enough to get his attention … from what I hear.”

I knew a great deal about him already back then. That his family is dragon nobility. That he was a second son. That marriage was not a word
that would ever cross his lips. Still, I could not help but be intrigued by him.

“Captain, please, you must return to the ward,” I had coaxed.

“Do not deny me a few more moments. I needed to be rid of the foul stench of that place.” He had said softly.

No matter how much we cleaned, the air remained heavy and rancid. Was it any wonder so many men worsened, became ill, even as their wounds were healing? “Very well, but do not stay to long.” I had turned to leave.

“Don't go,” He had pleaded with a near urgency.

I had glanced back at him.

“I could do with a bit of company,” He had added.

“A moment, perhaps. But then I must see to my duties.” In the dim light, I had been able to see that he was wearing his trousers. Someone had laundered them. He also wore a new white shirt. When the ladies were not in the hospital, we sewed clothing for the men. We could never hope to clothe them all, but those who would be returning to the front lines needed to do so in
uniform.

I had moved into the shadows so as not to be spotted, although few people were moving about that time of night.

Those who could find solace in dreams slept.

Those who couldn't stares at the ceiling.

“Why ever did you come here?” He had asked.

I had answered the obvious. “To be of service.”

“You should be at a dance.” He had scoffed. “And I should be pheasant hunting. I told my brother I would be home for the season. What naive fools we were.”

“All of the country thought this would be over quickly,” I had reassured him.

“I daresay it will continue on much longer than any of us thought.” He had sighed.

I had not wanted to talk of war or the price we paid for it. “I understand you have two brothers.”

He had flashed a grin. “The dragon Lord of West cliff and the Prince of . Not many second sons are bookended by such esteemed men.”

“Surely, with their influence you could be returned home.” I had mumbled.

“I’ve no doubt. Do I strike you as the sort who would ask for such a favor?” He had asked.

I had slowly shaken my head. “No, Captain, you don't.”

We had stood in silence for several long moments before he had asked, “Do you miss home?”

“Remarkably so.” I had admitted.

“Well, then, I shall make it my personal mission to recover in haste, return to battle the vampire hordes, and bring an end to this war so you can once again be dancing in a ballroom.” He had said valiantly.

Silly girl that I was, I had imagined dancing with him.

A nightly ritual began. Before he was discharged, I would find him waiting outside the hospital each evening, and we would talk about the most mundane topics, but they all centered around home. We spoke of parks, gardens, and the wonders we had seen when visiting the Great Exhibition. We might have even walked past each other, two strangers then, who now were brought together by war. Food had been scarce in the hospital, and we had reminisced about our favorite dishes. He has a fondness for pork. I prefer poultry. He has a weakness for chocolate. I favor strawberries. He enjoys reading Dickens, while I prefer Austen. Two months after he had returned to the war, I received from a bookseller at home a leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice. The note that accompanied it said simply: Sent at the request of Captain Dragan.

I had given far too much credence to the gift, and had assumed he saw me as more than an anonymous nurse. Yet comments made and more important, words left unsaid since my arrival at the castle indicates that I had been easily forgotten. Based on his reputation, I shouldn't have been surprised, I suppose. But still, the yearnings of my heart refuses to abate.

Lightly I trail my finger over the scar that runs the length of his ruggedly handsome face. It still looks fresh enough that I assumed he had acquired it during the final battle in which he had fought. I remembered how I had wept in that small room in the boardinghouse half way home when I had seen his name on the list of dead. Zane had been in my life a mere fortnight by then. I had held him near and rocked him. With tears streaming down my face, knowing he was too young to understand
any of my ramblings, for my sake as well as his, I had told him about his father.

The strong, the dashing, the courageous Captain Zac Dragan, who had kept his promise and returned to battle the vampires. The soldier who had saved countless lives. The man whose subsequent rise to major came about not through a paid commission but through endeavor. The man who had stormed to my aid one cold and rainy night outside the Barrack Hospital.

Our night together had been brief, important to me, nothing to him. I comb my fingers through his hair. The man I had known would not have forgotten. How could I have judged him so poorly?

Do I really desire as a husband a man who could forget me so easily? I fear I do.