Chapter 64: Morning Prayer

Michael was untied and released shortly after Merk and the Sergeant went to speak with the Knight-Commander. Merk looked pale from the conversation and had two guards with him, one of whom was holding a long thin cane, but the Sergeant was smiling slightly as he ordered two men to undo his bindings. “The Knight-Commander was speaking with a young Knight named Tain when we arrived there. He nearly throttled Merk when he tried to name you a deserter,” said the Sergeant quietly after Merk was escorted away. Michael nodded, healing himself to remove the rope burn from his wrists and the bruises from all over his body. He was surprised that he’d received such an emphatic defense from Tain, but given how raw the boy must be feeling he was going to be very unpredictable. Underneath his own pain and exhaustion he was feeling angry himself. Merk was a kid, but he didn't remember his own children having such venom for others. Michael felt he deserved a lot of what had happened to him, but after hours of writhing on the ground in agony, he'd expected a bit more support from the dragoon who he'd covered and healed on more than one occassion over the last several days. Still, he felt too hollow to be truly angry and it bled away as he turned his mind to the others, wondering if they were okay. He made his way directly to the Penitent portion of the camp, looking for his friends. He found Davi sitting on a stump and rubbing his face, exhausted. When Davi saw Michael he stood up with a wide smile immediately overtaking his usually dour face and went to embrace him so tightly that Michael thought his armor might dent. “You’re alive!” he said as he let him down. “In spite of my best efforts," replied Michael as he was put down. "I’m glad to see that you’re alright as well.” “I was lucky, somehow made it without a scratch.” He shook his head. “Me and Ollie had to carry Pyotr and Marcus back.” “They’re in the infirmary?” asked Michael, already starting to move in that direction. “Yeah,” said Davi, falling in behind him. “Ollie is with them making sure they get some attention from the medics. We didn’t have to worry about it before, thanks to you, but they always treat Penitents last.” Michael shook his head. It seemed obvious, but they just hadn’t had to worry about it before. He pushed his way into the tent and saw that the infirmary was more than half full. He didn’t ask permission or see who needed more healing, he just raised a golden hand and started restoring everyone as he walked through the center of it. Arrow wounds sealed, ruptured intestines were mended, burned flesh became new again, and dented skulls were re-sealed. The act of healing a large group so quickly actually made him fall to his knees, but he finished anyway, Davi helping him back to his feet as the heat in his hand faded. He could tell as he was healing that most of the wounded in the tent were from the raiding party he’d been in. He also noted two bodies already covered in sheets in the corner. If they hadn’t spent time accusing him of being a deserter he might have been able to save them. Ollie pulled away a curtain and smiled when he saw Michael coming to give him a hug nearly as painful as the one Davi had given him. “You’re alive you bastard!” he said. “Somehow,” he replied with a smile, making his way toward Marcus and Pyotr in their beds. Both were sitting up, examining patches of skin where wounds had been only moments ago and tearing off bandages. “Thank you, brother,” Pyotr muttered as he tore off a cloth bandage on his forearm with his teeth. “The pain was bad.” Marcus was running a hand over a bald patch on the side of his head. “I guess your healing doesn’t regrow hair? Seems kind of pointless then.” Michael looked closely at the patch. Based on the shape of it, it seemed like Marcus had taken the tail end of a fireball across the right side of his face. Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Michael sighed and sat down, the weariness of everything he’d been through hitting him all at once. “I’m glad you’re all alive,” he said, rubbing his face. “Where’s Crick?” “He’s asleep,” said Davi. “He said something about needing to take his rest where he can get it.” “Did he get hurt at all?” “Nothing major from what I could tell. Michael nodded. That was good, he had found over the last several days that he liked the guy. A medic approached them. “Healer?” he asked. Michael nodded tiredly, ready to be told there were four hundred more soldiers that needed healing in a secret underground tent and all of them had girls back home and children that loved them. The medic handed him a letter, and then went to a nearby Knight to help him out of his now unnecessary cast. Michael undid the twine that held the letter together and unraveled it. Penitent Michael, You are hereby ordered to return to the fort with the other surviving Penitents. Sergeant Farlin will meet you tomorrow to act as your handler. Knight Lieutenant Bayle Michael relayed the message to the others, eliciting a groan. “They truly wish to run us to death, eh?” asked Pyotr, letting himself fall back onto his back in the cot. “Why did he send the letter to you?” asked Davi. Michael shrugged. “I’m probably the easiest of us to find on short notice. Divine knows I seem to make a spectacle of myself every damn chance I get.” “I don’t know,” said Ollie, scratching his chin and looking at Davi. “I think the giant ginger may be the easiest to find of us.” “Says the tall skinny fuck that says things like ‘fair dinkum’ in conversation,” retorted Davi. They all made their way back to the Penitent portion of the camp. Marcus had retrieved Michael’s supplies, unashamedly admitting that it was better for him to have them had he died than no one. He pitched his tent and forced himself to eat a small meal before going to sleep. His mind was sluggish from the exhaustion of hard fighting, hard running, and hard healing non-stop for the last two days. He fell into a deep sleep immediately, but it was plagued with nightmares of a young man being blown to bits, the aftermath of a car accident, the scream of parents losing their child, and the face of a dead five year old hanging from a noose. He tossed and turned for hours until the nightmares very suddenly stopped. He heard the fragment of a name whispered in his ear, and the feel of warm stone against his fingertips. The rest of his sleep was perfect oblivion. ... Michael awoke late morning, crawling out of his tent with bleary eyes and a dry throat. He slammed his canteen back and wiped his face. It was warm that morning. The first warm morning he’d had since he'd arrived in that world. “Morning,” said Pyotr, leaning back and whittling something out of a small chunk of wood. Michael swallowed another mouthful of water. “Morning.” “You okay? Is not like you to sleep in.” He stretched, hearing a number of light cracks as his bones realigned. “I feel better than I have in a long while actually.” He rarely felt any soreness in his muscles, but had grown used to a kind of constant mild fogginess in his head. That day though he had no such affliction, he felt clear and relaxed. He grabbed the divine symbol that hung around his neck and kissed it gently saying a quick prayer to the divine and in particular whatever goddess the shrine he’d encountered was to. He felt a bit lighter after finishing it. “What are you doing?” asked Pyotr with a raised eyebrow. “Praying to the divine.” “Really? A new god?” asked Pyotr a bit of distaste bleeding through, surprising Michael. “I thought you were a lapsed Catholic already?” He held up a glowing hand. “The gods here have proven a bit more real to me.” “What if they turn out to be evil or something?” Michael shrugged. “Won’t make them any less powerful. So far, I just find it comforting.” Pyotr held up both hands. “Fair enough. We all need comfort.” He sighed. “I miss Marcus’s hooch.” Michael laughed. “Nothing would make you pray to the divine faster than the hangover that causes.” Pyotr snorted, and went back to his whittling. After a visit to the latrines and the never-ending stew pot he and the others started to gather all of their equipment for the return to the fort. Michael made one more visit to the infirmary before they left, finding only a few more wicked arrow wounds, compliments of the aelven mercs that seemed so active in the area. After that he met everyone at the camp exit that led to the road back to the fort. They got some surprising nods of acknowledgement. Some from the knights and soldiers that had been with them for the raids, and a few from people Michael had healed. Hard to hate people that bled with you, though plenty of the other soldiers managed it just fine. Sergeant Farlin had secured a wagon that was heading back to the fort after dropping off supplies for them, in much the same way that Michael had done on the way there. He was much more friendly this time, in sharp contrast to the wagon driver that didn’t little more than scowl in their direction. It seemed the healing Michael had done on his knee had made a positive impact. They made it nearly halfway back when the first arrow hit Farlin’s neck.