Mama had told them to stay far away from the war, to keep braiding dandelions into their flowy, golden hair at the beaches of their homeland and not worry about a thing more. But mama is no soldier, even if she once used to bare her teeth at her enemies with the ferocity of a drowning millipede, millennia ago. Mama doesn’t have the roar of war singing to her in her blood.

 

Her son does. They always have, ever since they were born sixteen years ago. War calls to them like danger calls to sailors, calls to them with the same voice the ocean does. As they examine the jagged, bloodied gash running down their chest, red with irritation and purple with bloating, they can’t help but think their body looks more natural with it. As if it’s actually real, instead of something that exists only within the confines of a marble sculpture or some painting stuck in a museum.

 

Zephyrine hears the scuffling of boots behind them, knocking aside pieces of cracked pavement and rubble littered all across their little spot in Manhattan, but they don’t raise their head. One of their hands presses a sterilized wipe soaked in isodine to the wound, and if there’s a wince forming at the back of their throat, it never fully grows.

 

A boy comes into view. a face, marred with red freckles, a face belonging to someone who’s barely grown out of child-sized clothes. Fire-colored curls, stubbornly branching out away from his forehead, just like their own. His hair is the same color as the blood soaking his shirt, dyeing the bright orange a tempered maroon. As he collapses on their lap, seemingly unable to hold himself up with his own strength anymore, they put the wipe down, caressing the boy’s cheek with the gentlest touch they’ve managed to procure in the middle of this i'll-fading battlefield. They’ve seen and healed enough cuts with their own two hands to know that the way out for him has long gone. Instead, they hold the boy’s hand, humming something low under their breath.

 

“Andor, you’re the bravest person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.” It’s a talent that’s been granted by their mother, the ability to keep their voice steady even when the fire-haired child bleeds out on their lap, staining their skin with his blood. A talent, to sow trust into others with only their words, to change the fate of entire battles with just their tongue.

 

Andor’s head lies slack on their lap, his mouth agape. No words come out of it, only traces of what was once a voice that could make birds stop in their tracks to listen to this thaumaturge’s tune. He’s been reduced to nothing but hollowed out skin and broken veins, and no bird will ever stop by now—not anymore, not like this. When his grip on Zephyrine’s hand tightens, using the last pieces of his strength, they feel as though they’d march down to hell itself, would lay waste of entire islands at sea, would rake cities with their rage, just for this kid.

 

They pass their tongue over their lips, staring into the doe brown eyes that look up at them, just as so many have before. Zephyrine brushes Andor's hair out of his face, gently folding it behind his ear like a fawn lapping at her newborn.

 

It’s a quiet sound, at first. They don’t sing often, not since the war started. But what would anyone not do for a dying child?

 

“Everyone’s born as clean as a whistle, as fresh as a daisy, and not a bit crazy; staying that way’s a hard row for hoein’, as rough as a briar, like walking through fire.”

 

Andor’s bloodied lips curl upwards into the hint of a smile, and by the glow in his eyes, they know he knows he’ll never smile again. “M’... m’ papa used to sing to me too. ‘Bout the rolling… rolling fields out west, right—right by m’ window.”

 

Their bicolored stare remains firmly locked onto his. “this world, it’s dark, this world, it’s scary; I’ve taken some hits, so, no wonder I’m weary.” The birds have never stopped for them, not in the way they did for Andor. No angel, no god, has ever looked their way. “It’s why I need you… you’re as pure as the driven snow.”

 

For the first time since they started, their breathing threatens to shudder, but they don’t let it. “This world, it’s cruel, with troubles aplenty; you asked for a reason, I’ve got three and twenty, for why I trust you… you’re as pure as the driven snow.”

 

They notice andor’s grip on their hand begin to falter, his eyes begin to droop. “Have… have I served you well, general?” Zephyrine’s mouth is etched into a perfect line now, emotionless save for the way in which their thumb continues stroking the boy’s cheek. “With great courage.” Andor nods, seemingly satisfied with himself. Then, his head slouches, his fingers release Ziggy’s hand.

 

They gently lay down his head, closing the kid’s eyelids, feeling his blood trickle down their legs. It takes them only a second to finish disinfecting their wound, haphazardly dressing it as best they can. The boy’s body is nearly weightless as they heft it up with their arms, cradling it close to their chest.

 

Perhaps it was a monster, getting in one last swipe before its defeat, or even one of the soldiers on the other side, blinded by their hatred. They’ll find out later, they decide.

 

“It’s why I trust you.” Their voice is hoarse, now that they’re alone. But nobody else sees.

 

“You’re as pure as the driven snow.”