Fic: Favourites

[rusakko]

Set at the end of chapter 10.

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The first rule of being a good captain is “don’t have favourites”. A simple rule, but difficult to follow. There’s always that one soldier doing their damnedest to get on every superior’s nerves, or that one lieutenant who is so quietly competent and easy to work with that you can’t help but like them a little bit more than the others. And that’s something that people sense, no matter how careful you are to treat everyone exactly the same.

Sigrun Eide has found that the best solution to this problem is making everyone on your crew your favourite something. Even the most hapless, lily-livered, and lazy soldier has something that makes them stand out. Something that you can take hold of and decide to like, no matter how small and insignificant.

Of course, it’s easier with some crew members than with others. Twig earned the title of favourite grumpy forest mage almost immediately, and it didn’t take long for the Swede to become the favourite little pyromaniac Viking either. The kitten, too, proved herself as Sigrun’s favourite troll detector at an impressively young age. The doctor was trickier ‒ “favourite mutineer” isn’t really ideal ‒ but “favourite brainy muscle man” has a nice ring to it. As for the Icelander, she’s still working on finding something better than “favourite troll bait”. (Unfortunately, the kid has been pretty good at attracting trolls so far. Sigrun has the stitches to prove that.)

However, sometimes you have to admit that one of your favourites is, well, a special favourite. Favourite bookworm, favourite little weasel, favourite grease monkey, favourite fluffy-hair… And that’s where, as a captain, you have to draw a line.

Ideally, Sigrun should have drawn the line even earlier. Tuuri managed to sneak up on her, though. In hindsight, she should have realized that she was in danger from the moment the tiny little Finn looked up at her and squealed in excitement about her height. Sigrun enjoys being admired ‒ who doesn’t? ‒ and the glow of Tuuri’s wide-eyed wonder is very nice to bask in.

So nice that it’s hard to resist showing off just a little. Sigrun may have bent the truth somewhat when recounting the story of how she became the captain of their mission (though to be fair, her version was pretty good and much more interesting than the bare facts). Maybe it also wasn’t, strictly speaking, completely necessary to open the gates of the Drogden Tunnel on their first evening in the Silent world. Worth it, though, to see Tuuri’s mouth turn into an “o” at the sight of the ruined city before them. Not that Sigrun wasn’t excited herself, but it’s a different kind of excitement for someone who has lived her entire life behind gates and walls.

Which is really an injustice. Tuuri, if anyone, would have deserved to be blessed with immunity. It’s a cruel trick of the gods that such curiosity, determination and enthusiasm have to be hobbled by fear of the Illness. That even when there are no physical walls around her, Tuuri’s life is still restricted by breathing masks, quarantines and safety protocols.

All the more reason, then, to admire her for being on this expedition. Because yes, the admiration definitely goes both ways. It takes courage for anyone to face the Silent world, especially on a mission like this, with a tiny crew and no backup if something goes wrong. Still, if you’re immune, your death will most likely be relatively quick, and there’s a feast waiting for you in Valhalla afterwards. If you’re not immune, you’re risking something much, much worse.

Tuuri knows that. Nevertheless, she’s here. That, in Sigrun’s opinion, makes her the bravest member of the crew.

It also makes her the crew member Sigrun worries about the most, and that is part of the problem. You can’t allow yourself to be afraid for your subordinates. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t care about their safety and wellbeing ‒ you should, very much ‒ but fear is going to cripple your judgement, and that’s no good at all when you’re the one whose job it is to make decisions. When people depend on you to lead them. Ultimately, fear is what’s going to prevent you from bringing everyone back home alive.

So you’ve got to trust your own judgement, but you also have to trust your crew to do their jobs without babysitting. Give them responsibility, even the young and green ones. That’s the only way they can learn, and the only way they’re going to be able to make it if, one day, you’re not there to guide them anymore.

That day may very well be tomorrow.

The last pale glow of the sunset is rapidly fading away, and Sigrun is biting her teeth together to keep them from chattering. Mikkel’s coat is warm and dry, but her feet are already numb with cold, and she doubts whether her frozen fingers would be able to get a proper grip on a knife. Besides, she’s pretty sure that she’s managed to rip a few of the stitches on her arm. It’s throbbing and itching like hell. If something attacked them right now, Sigrun would be all but defenceless, and tonight has not strengthened her confidence in Emil and Mikkel’s fighting skills.

She’s also tired, tired to the bone. For the first couple of kilometres, the dregs of adrenaline from the fight against the Sjødraug gave her a boost, but that’s long gone, and only weariness is left. Her feet feel heavier on every step.

So to distract herself from the shivers racking her body and the way her fingers are slowly losing feeling, she’s indulging herself with thoughts that she’d ordinarily stow away as unprofessional. Such as imagining the way a certain Finnish skald is going welcome her when they finally reach the tank. (The possibility that they might not find the tank, or that Tuuri might not be alive to greet them, is one that Sigrun is refusing to even consider.)

She’ll see the lights of the tank first, just a tiny pinprick of light in the distance that will gradually grow larger and brighter as they approach. The tank will be parked in a field, perhaps, or on a small hill, a beacon of warmth, safety and rest in the darkness. As they get closer, Sigrun will be able to make out the windows, too – and a round face pressed against one of them, eyes anxiously searching for movement outside.

Tuuri will squeal when she sees them, of course, and almost fall face first into the mud in her haste to scramble down from the driver’s cab, leaving the door wide open behind her. She’ll crash into Sigrun so hard that they’ll almost topple over, Sigrun will laugh and Tuuri will grin up at her, and Sigrun will pick her up, the pain in her arm forgotten, and kiss her, crush Tuuri’s solid weight against herself and refuse to let go until neither of them has any breath left. No trolls or ghosts will dare interrupt them, and Mikkel and Emil will have conveniently faded into the background…

Sigrun doesn’t notice that her eyes have fallen shut until she stumbles and nearly loses her footing. The shock of almost losing her balance is a rude jerk back into reality – but the pale glow of the tank’s floodlights is still there, ahead of them, reflecting off the water between the railway tracks.

At first, Sigrun can’t quite make sense of what she’s seeing – they’re not even near the edge of the city yet, how can they have reached the tank already? – but then the door of the driver’s cab is opening and a fuzzy head is peeking out, and Sigrun’s knees go weak with relief that Tuuri is safe, that they’re all safe. She can barely keep her voice steady as she interrupts Tuuri’s babbled apologies, and her half-hearted reproof for the way the Finn ignored her orders comes out gruffer than intended for all the suppressed emotion behind it.

There’s no kiss, of course. Tuuri is wearing her mask, as she should, and in any case, Sigrun is wet and filthy and probably covered in rash-germs. Besides, Mikkel is already pushing Sigrun and Emil into the back of the tank and telling Tuuri to get back behind the wheel and keep driving. Then Sigrun has to focus all her energy on staying awake and alert enough to help Mikkel strip off her cold, damp clothes and sit still while he tries to salvage the stitches on her arm. She can barely keep her eyes open by the time Tuuri parks the tank in a spot that is hopefully safe (and that will have to do even if it isn’t). But there’s still decontamination to go through, and the camouflage tarpaulin has to be set up, and when Sigrun finally stumbles back inside the tank, she’s fully expecting Tuuri to be fast asleep in her bunk.

She isn’t, though. She’s huddled on the floor by the entrance to the sleeping quarters, but springs up when she sees Sigrun.

“I couldn’t go to bed before seeing you, Mikkel said you were going to be fine but I –”

Sigrun pulls her into a one-armed embrace before she can finish the sentence. She’s so tired she might fall off her feet soon, and her arm is stinging with pain, but Tuuri is soft and warm and her voice is unexpectedly tiny as she asks: “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Sigrun says into her hair. It’s not completely true, but it will be soon enough. “Thanks for waiting for us, fuzzy-head. You shouldn’t have, but it would have been a pretty long way to walk.”

Tuuri mumbles something against Sigrun’s sweater and wraps her arms tighter around her waist.

“What was that?”

“I said that I’m happy you made it.” Tuuri’s voice is still muffled, but Sigrun thinks it might be trembling a little.

“Me too,” she mutters, trying to mask a similar unsteadiness in her own voice.

Then, because she’s too exhausted to stop herself, she bends her head and lets her lips land softly in Tuuri’s hair. It’s a very brief kiss, and Sigrun isn’t even sure if Tuuri notices it.

But when she settles into her bunk later, eyes trying to slide shut even before her head meets the pillow, she can still remember the softness of it on her lips. It’s a good memory, one that she’s going to hang on to. It’ll have to last her until their mission is over. Until she and Tuuri are no longer captain and subordinate.

But when that day comes, she’s going to make more memories like it.