Nephele and Faye

This short story / novella is a lesbian romance and a war story. It is a work of fiction, and the characters and setting are completely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

It is a slow burn and it is more on the romantic rather than the erotic side. But there is erotica, I promise! If you'd still much rather just read the smut, shoot me a message and I'll tell you what page it's on!

Special thanks to my wonderful beta readers, Nicole, Candy_Kane54, and Nellymcboatface. The latter two are also literotica writers with many beautifully written stories. Check them out!

Nephele and Faye

Prologue -- Black Roses

The wind that howled over the canyon stung me. It was painful. But that sort of pain was merely a physical discomfort. That sort of pain didn't bother me much anymore. It was nothing compared to the hell I've already been through since the start of the war.

We were high on the canyon wall, right above a sharp bend in a thoroughfare that cuts through the mountain east of the city of Alexandria, the capital of Estea and my hometown. To get here, we hiked up all night on a grueling trail nicknamed the 'Stairway to Heaven'. It was a hike I've done many times growing up. I could walk it blindfolded if I needed to, which was essentially what we did on that moonless night.

Regan, the leader of the Black Roses Liberation Front, was to my right. Noah, his seventeen-year-old nephew, was to my left. There were three Black Roses in the canyon below. There, they waited in the storm drains beneath the road. A hundred yards from them, an IED was planted. Our plan was simple: when the first vehicle in the convoy triggers the IED, our guys in the storm drain will ambush and destroy the rear vehicle with thermite grenades to trap the convoy in the bend. Those of us topside would provide cover fire. Hopefully, the Donavian soldiers would realize quickly that they were outmanned and outgunned. Hopefully, they would surrender without a fight. But I suspected they would fight. They often did. And we may have to kill every last one of them. It may be a massacre, which sounds terrible, but they'd do much worse to us if the circumstances were reversed. They had done worse to us. In any case, the main objectives were not the people that drove those trucks but the fuel and ammunition they transported.

The night was cold. The leaves rustled frantically. But the crickets still chirped peacefully at each other, ignorant of the violence about to be unleashed. Their songs were a pleasant thing to listen to. I could listen to them sing all night. Funny how simple things like the chirping of crickets become more precious to you when you fight a war.

"Faye, look alive," Regan hissed at me, snapping me back to reality.

The low throaty rumble of diesel engines echoed off the canyon walls. Shortly, beams of light lit up the canyon walls, revealing the red colors of the canyon. Then, the cold clacking of rifle receivers along the length of the canyon top. A hushed excitement electrified the air.

I clicked the safety on my rifle and set it from 'safe' to 'fire.' If you asked me two years ago what a 'safety' was, I'd give you a dumb look. Now, I found it automatically and switched it over as if it were as natural as breathing.

I turned to Noah and whispered,

"Noah. Never leave my side. Stay close to the ground and stay behind cover. Don't peek when they fire. You understand me?"

He only stared at me wide-eyed and trembling. He was too frightened for words.

"Nod, if you understand."

He nodded.

"Good. We'll get through this," I said.

The convoy came around the bend, trundling through the canyon like a slow worm. There were ten vehicles in total. Eight cargo trucks. A Humvee in the front and one in the rear, each adorned with a.50 caliber machine on the roof, but no one to man them. Likely, they weren't even loaded. It had been months since they had taken Alexandria, and though we gave them fierce resistance at first, that petered out within a month when our ammo all but ran out. So, they had gone complacent. How eager people are to return to a state of complacency when survival is not on the line.

Regan gave the signal to the men below. A series of green flashes from a laser pointer -- small enough that you would have to look precisely at it to see it and bright enough that the three men waiting down in the storm drains, keeping their eyes up at Regan's spot, could see it. Three clicks of the laser pointer to tell them to brace themselves. Then, a huge explosion popped my eardrums and sucked the air violently out of my lungs. A bright flash and a fireball. The first Humvee jumped into the air like a massive metal cricket. It hit the ground on its front grill, then rolled off the road. That was the first time we used improvised explosives, and fuck was that overkill.

The rest of the convoy came to a lurching stop, followed by shouts of confusion and fear. The rear Humvee attempted a three-point turn to escape. But as the road was too narrow and with steep embankments on either side, it gave that up quickly and tried instead to go in reverse. Our three men hiding in the storm drain came out, firing their rifles several times out of exuberance and to intimidate the Humvee occupants. Bullets ricocheted off the Humvee's armor with pings and brilliant sparks. They closed in quickly and rolled their thermite grenades beneath the vehicle, and a few seconds later, a blast with the white-hot brightness of an arc welder blinded me.

When my vision returned, I noticed three soldiers stumbling out in a daze from the destroyed Humvee. Our trio walked calmly toward the disoriented soldiers, walking towards them with their rifles aimed steadily.

The Humvee soldiers came to and, realizing their trouble, began to fumble for the rifles slung to their bodies.

"Put down your weapons!" One of our guys yelled. They didn't listen.

As soon as the first one raised his rifle, a barrage came from our men. The soldiers on the receiving end jerked like marionettes on frantic strings before collapsing into ragdoll heaps.

Noah flinched at the sight of the execution. I touched him on the arm to calm him. He breathed rapidly. He was trembling. This was the first killing he's witnessed, I realized. I pitied him for it, but this is what he wanted. This is how he gets to be a freedom fighter.

The truck directly in front of the still-burning Humvee tried ramming backward into the Humvee to push it off the road. One of our three men ran up to the driver's side, pulled the door open, and dragged the driver out of it.

Regan stood up on the ridge and shouted down into the canyon,

"Get out of your vehicles, put your weapons down and your hands above your heads. You are surrounded and outnumbered."

For whatever reason, the soldiers in the convoy trucks did not obey. Some got out of their vehicles, aimed their rifles at the ridge point where Regan stood, and began shooting. Bullets snapped and whizzed by. Regan stayed staunchly standing and fired back. Then the others on the ridgeline opened up on the convoy. We fired at where we could see the bright muzzle flashes. I glanced over and saw that Noah stayed frozen. His gun was aimed at the enemy soldiers, but he had not fired a single shot. I don't blame him. But I would have to lecture him about that after this. If he wants to fight, he needs to fight.

The return fire soon died down.

"Ceasefire! Ceasefire!" Regan shouted and waved his arm to either side of him. The gunfire stopped, and the air was filled with a heavy silence. The crickets had stopped, and so had the wind, it seemed. When the acrid gun smoke cleared, I spotted a few soldiers walking out from behind their trucks, their arms held above their heads. Others that were hit were left on the ground, groaning.

Our three guys rounded the soldiers expeditiously, laying them out in a row on the asphalt behind the burning Humvee. When they finished, they signaled for us to come down to join them.

We were down there quickly, using Jacobs ladders we had already set up to climb down.

"I'll give it ten minutes before their air support shows up. Light a fire under your asses. One charge on each truck. Stick 'em right on the fuel tanks. Let's go!" Regan barked at us.

A large duffel bag of C4 explosives was thrown onto the ground. The charges were passed out, and in short order, they were placed on every truck. Then we gathered around the soldiers splayed out on the asphalt. All but one of them were men. The woman didn't look much older than Noah. Barely old enough to serve in the military, I imagined. She shook with fear, like a doe cornered by a pack of wolves.

"Now, then, let's deal with these assholes," said Regan.

Those words sent a shock through my body.

"What the fuck do you mean, Regan? We're done. Let's go," I replied.

He shook his head.

"Noah, come over here," he said.

Noah looked at me uncertainly, then walked over to Regan.

Regan draped an arm around his shoulders, craned his neck down to say into his ear,

"Do you know how wars are won, Noah?"

Noah didn't answer. He looked to me with paralyzed eyes.

I tried distracting Regan from whatever sick notion of mentorship he had in mind for his nephew.

"Regan cut the shit. Let's get the fuck out of here."

Regan ignored me. He kept his unblinking, intentioned eyes on Noah.

"Quite a simple thing, actually," Regan continued. "With fear, Noah. Deep-cutting fear."

He unholstered his pistol that shone mercurial in the moonlight and placed it in Noah's hand. Then, he walked over to the young female soldier and hoisted her by her collar to put her on her knees. Her eyes were red and puffy. Tear streaks glistened on her face. She was indeed very young. Blonde hair. Freckled cheeks with baby fat in them. Her uniform was two sizes too big for her. A private. Maybe only months into service. She mouthed a frantic pleading for her life. Words were meant to come out, instead, only terrified squeaking.

Noah's eyes went wide. His hands, white-knuckled as they gripped the pistol, trembled fiercely.

"W-w-hat?"

"You want to be a soldier, Noah?"

"Y-y-es, b-b-but --"

"Do you want to win this war?"

Noah began hyperventilating. His eyes darted frantically to the other Black Roses. Some of them looked away or shut their eyes. These were the younger ones. The ones that had only known peace until two years ago. The older ones, who had fought in this war and in wars past and had seen their fair share of death and suffering, watched him with despondence and passive acceptance of this ritual. Far worse already haunts their memories.

"That soldier isn't human, Noah. She's a fascist. She killed your people. She killed your parents."

"I don't know her," Noah muttered.

"You DO know her! Look at her."

Regan spoke through clenched teeth, his voice soaked with hatred. His hand gripped Noah's jaws harshly to hold his head fixed on the sobbing girl soldier, gripping Noah like a puppy who had done something naughty.

"Regan, it's time to go," I tried again.

"We're not done yet," Regan growled. "Fear wins wars, Noah. Are you a soldier, or are you afraid?"

I could see in Noah's eyes that he wouldn't do it. He would never do it. Nevertheless, he raised the pistol and straightened his arms, aiming the pistol at the girl's head. She shut her eyes too, sobbed louder, and buried her face in her arms.

Noah's index finger went slowly to the trigger and squeezed ever so slightly. The smile on Regan's face grew wider with every millimeter Noah depressed on the trigger. I could tell that Noah wasn't going to do it. It wasn't in him to do it. And if he managed to do it, it would be an act that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He would enter hell, just like the rest of us.

"Fuck it," I muttered and took the pistol from Noah.

A few of the Black Roses raised their guns at me.

"Fuck, Regan. I knew we shouldn't have brought her!" One of the others said.

Regan motioned with his hand for them to lower their rifles. The smile was still on his face.

Noah doubled over and vomited.

Regan shook his head.

"We agreed, Regan. No unnecessary deaths."

"The rest of them live," he responded. "But they live to take home a message."

I stared him down. He kept his smile. The others menaced me with their stares, waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting for the opening to pounce like a pack of hyenas. I was never their friend, but now I was one misstep away from being their enemy. To them, I was only here because of Regan. I heard the rumors. I was only here to many of them because I was Regan's bitch. They never considered that there was any other reason for me to fight. They never knew my husband, who fought with more honor and courage than all of them combined. And that I fight for revenge. And because I have nothing more to live for than that.

The unmistakable sound of helicopter blades came chopping through the air.

"Regan, we need to leave now!" One of the others shouted.

His eyes narrowed on me. He wouldn't let us leave until I was duly punished for my transgression. An unpleasant bridge, his temper, and I had no choice but to cross it. I turned to the girl on the floor. She looked up at me with despairing eyes, her mouth cocked half-opened, and her lips trembling.

I pointed the gun at her. Unfortunately for her, unlike Noah, I could not empathize with her plight. My soul was already lost.

The Squadron Bar

Two years before the day the grey Donavian uniforms darkened the vibrant colors of Alexandria, I watched my husband, Eli, die on the TV. A memory that still burns in me like a raging fire.

They had called him back into service because he had once served as a pilot in the Air Force. They put him back into a jet. They put him in a jet that he was not familiar with to fight against an overwhelming foe.

Back then, I was unsure if the war would last only a day or a thousand. For me, the moment was singular. No past, no future. I sat on the couch, my hands clenched to my knees and a tight knot in my throat, watching, horrified, as a blue sky filled with the white contrails of his fighter squadron meeting the enemy.

They appeared as only dots in the distant clear blue sky, drawing dizzying circles as if to dance the waltz. They danced elegantly, but some exploded and spiraled in flames into the ocean below. Some pilots were fortunate enough to eject and float down safely. Others would not. Eli was one of the ones that did not.

There was talk of a Donavian pilot who had shot down five of our pilots singlehandedly in that waltz of death. They called her the Widowmaker. It was a suitable name. I can't be sure it was her, but I can almost be sure that she had been the one that killed Eli. Her plane had purple tailfins painted with a pattern of white lotuses. I remember it vividly.

Losing Eli to the war was the hardest thing I had ever had to go through. But for many reasons, it never felt real. The lightning speed of the war, for instance, never gave me the room to comprehend his death. And the mass of tragedy that fell all around me made his death seem like only a single raindrop in a torrential downpour.

I remember it was a particularly pleasant day when he died. The apricot blossoms were falling then, in that gentle way they do, a rain of soft gems.

***

The Donavian occupiers often insisted to us that they were liberators. Likely, they really believed it. They said it invariably with a proud conviction. It didn't matter if they believed it with all their heart. It didn't even matter if it were true. These days, fantasies carry more weight in our lives than truths. In a nightmare, truths weren't worth much at all.

Shortly after the ambush on the convoy, they cracked down ruthlessly on the resistance. They rounded up anyone that even looked at a soldier the wrong way. Many disappeared, some had their bodies strung up in the public squares. The purge campaign was brutal. It was meant to break our will to resist, and it worked. The Allies stopped sending us weapons. They stopped because to do so seemed only to condone self-immolation.

Yet Regan insisted on continuing the fight. But what more was there for us to do? Without the supplies we needed, we were David without a slingshot.

Before the war, Eli and I ran a bar together. It was his father's bar, which we took over after Eli had first left the Air Force.

When the Black Roses scattered after the purge, I returned to the bar and brought it back to life. It wasn't a very fancy bar. It was an old dive, but it had its charms. It had red brick walls covered in ivy, and I painted its window shutters yellow like the summer sunflowers that grew in the fields surrounding the city. I painted them that way to make the bar cheerful among the grey ruins of war and because I remembered that Eli was fond of the sunflower fields surrounding Alexandria. It was in a good location too for customers -- right on the waterfront, across from the old promenade.

I took Noah with me to help me run the bar. Mostly, I took him to keep him away from Regan.

My regular customers never really came back. They were replaced mainly by the grey uniforms. They made the bar feel like purgatory, but at least they gave me an income. At least I was able to put bread on the table.

***

It was mid-summer and a windless and oppressively humid afternoon when the Skybreakers first walked into my bar. The bar was already full of soldiers. As usual, the soldiers in the bar were a miserable bunch. They sat sullen and still in their chairs, like mollusks clinging to rocks, feeding on beer like water. Most were conscripts. Most just wanted something cheap and strong and were as angry about being here as I was about serving them.

But the pilots were a different breed. They were boisterous and jovial when they came bursting through the door. They drove out the soldiers. One of the soldiers muttered, "fucking flyboys," as he stumbled out the door.

A mousy young lieutenant among the pilots came to me and introduced himself as the 'squadron adjutant.' He announced that this bar was now officially the squadron bar of the Skybreaker squadron, whatever that meant. I challenged him. I crossed my arms and told him,

"No, I don't think it is. Now go fuck off and find another bar to be your squadron bar."

Sheepishly, he provided papers to prove that there was, in fact, nothing I could do or say. Else, I preferred imprisonment and confiscation of my bar.

It really was not such a bad deal, as the adjutant promised me whatever budget I needed to keep the alcohol flowing, and the pilots would be constant and frequent customers.

One pilot, in particular, caught my attention immediately. She was the only woman in the group. But something else about her besides being a woman caught my attention. Something that made her quite different than the men around her. It wasn't that she was a woman or beautiful (though she was beautiful). She was different than the other pilots in the way she carried herself. Her uniform sleeves were rolled up casually, revealing arms full of colorful tattoos. Her flight suit -- zipped only halfway up her chest, revealing a white tank top and dog tags that dangled into the space between her breasts. Her jet-black hair was short and swept back chaotically as if swept that way by the wind. She starkly contrasted the crisp, starched flyboys surrounding her, exhibiting a rebellious disdain for military standards and regulations. She reminded me of what my dad once told me: "The clothes you choose to wear are an extension of your character."