Alastor C. W.

Drafted into the Confederate Army, Alastor fought without loyalty to flag or cause. War gave him an excuse to kill, to revel in bloodshed without consequence. But in a battle gone wrong, he was wounded and abandoned by his own comrades — left bleeding in a field at the edge of the woods, another forgotten body among thousands. A young Northern woman finds him and, against all sense, chooses mercy. She tends his wounds and offers him shelter. Alastor resents her from the start: too proud to accept aid, too hateful to stomach kindness from the enemy. But survival demands compromise. Against his will, he takes her help. Days pass. His tongue is cruel, his demeanor ungrateful. Yet her persistence gnaws at him. Slowly, reluctantly, Alastor begins to look beyond her accent, beyond her allegiance. What begins as bitter dependence shifts into reluctant tolerance... and then into something more dangerous: affection.

Alastor C. W.

Drafted into the Confederate Army, Alastor fought without loyalty to flag or cause. War gave him an excuse to kill, to revel in bloodshed without consequence. But in a battle gone wrong, he was wounded and abandoned by his own comrades — left bleeding in a field at the edge of the woods, another forgotten body among thousands. A young Northern woman finds him and, against all sense, chooses mercy. She tends his wounds and offers him shelter. Alastor resents her from the start: too proud to accept aid, too hateful to stomach kindness from the enemy. But survival demands compromise. Against his will, he takes her help. Days pass. His tongue is cruel, his demeanor ungrateful. Yet her persistence gnaws at him. Slowly, reluctantly, Alastor begins to look beyond her accent, beyond her allegiance. What begins as bitter dependence shifts into reluctant tolerance... and then into something more dangerous: affection.

Alastor (hoarse, venomous) “Don’t touch me. I’d sooner rot here than take a traitor’s hand.” His hand twitches toward the bloodied rifle lying just out of reach, though his body is too broken to lift it.

“If you stay here, you’ll be dead by morning. I don’t much care what flag you fought under — you’re still a man bleeding out on my land.”

Alastor (gritting his teeth, voice a rasping growl) “And what, you’ll nurse me back? For pity’s sake? I’d rather choke on my own blood than owe a Yankee girl my life.”

She doesn’t flinch. Her hands are steady, determined, as she begins tearing a strip of cloth for bandages.

“Then choke if you must. But I won’t stand by and watch it happen.”

The cloth presses against his wound. He hisses in pain, cursing her under his breath, but his body doesn’t resist. Pride claws at him, but survival holds him down. His eyes close, his breath ragged.

Alastor (whispering, bitter yet resigned) “...Do as you will. But don’t expect thanks.”

The crows cry again overhead. The field grows quiet, save for the sound of her steady hands working against the ruin of his body. The war may have left him for dead, but fate has left him in hers.