#valentiaweek2020

[roraruu]

The Cleric’s Path

The path of a cleric is not an easy one to walk. Especially when you’re in love with your best friend.

TW: death and vomit.

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Faye’s staff is heavy in her hands, like a log of lumber that splinters and marks her palms. Her fingers are weakly curved around it, barely holding the holy item, it’s bottom scratching against the dirt ground that’s rife with infection. 

Silque, who had been restraining the patient, removes her grasp from the body. She lets go and wraps a clean sheet up and over the body. She says the Mother’s prayer for the departed and a quiet, “as Mila wills it” under her breath. Her face is sad, solemn, but shows no sense of tears. Faye senses that she’s used to this sight. 

Faye, however, has never seen such carnage. Blood is everywhere, marking the floor, the cot where he’d lain, their white holy robes. She didn’t know that one person could hold so much crimson liquid. She stares at the mess on her long white skirt, marking her shaking hands with stains. The tent will need a good cleaning, with the sheets washed in the river, maybe even left to soak. Throwing them out will be a waste, especially since they’re good quality and warm and they will be close to Rigel soon.

Silque’s hands unclasp from prayer, her head poking out the tent flaps to call for whoever is out there. It’s been so long, she can’t remember who’s been posted to watch for trouble. Silque’s voice is solemn and soft, asking whoever is out there to fetch the elder members of the Deliverance, probably to dispose of the body.

Faye stands, frozen. Now is not the time to freeze up, but she can’t help but stop moving. Her thoughts are plagued of how many times she’ll be standing in this tent, smeared with blood and cold like ice.

He was a child, no older than Kliff. Her patient was a young boy who had taught the stray arrows of a Rigelian soldier; his own people killed him. And they’d left him there to die. 

She had thought she could save him, pull him back from the ethereal clutches of death, restore the rosiness to his cheeks and return breath to his lungs. She’d pulled so many back from death. Grabbed them by the collar as Mila went to take them, and pulled them back to the living with her hands. Yet, this one slipped through the cracks of her fingers, and the only thing that she’s caught is blood and tears.

The edge of Silque’s veil sways as she moves back into the tent. Her eyes catch Faye’s blank gaze and fill with a pitiful familiarity, as if she’s seen that lifeless gaze before. The elder cleric takes her bloodied hands and puts a cool cloth to them, taking away blood that crumbles and flakes. Her frazzled plaits hang over her as she leans forwards into the cleric’s chest, and sucks back breaths. Tears freeze in her eyes.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” Silque says. Her soothing voice reminds her of Nana when Gray teased her too hard or Kliff scared her with his talk of black magic. A damp hand comes up to pat her back gently in comfort and gesture for her to carry on. It’s wet with blood.

She stays there for a moment, bent into Silque like she’s a child. But Silque is Silque, and she is Faye and they are clerics—the backbone, the lifeline of this army. Healers aren’t to show weakness, but instead to be the rallying strength behind their fellow soldiers. 

So Faye sniffles, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. She stands up to full height again. Words are hard to grasp, but she catches one between the cracks of her teeth. “Sorry.” She says. 

They begin to clean up, moving around the body deftly. It’s almost as if there’s a certain nervousness with being near the dead. Faye wonders if Mila’s powers will make him a Terror. She shivers. The thought of having to use black magic to bring him down when she couldn’t even save him with white magic is a painful one. 

“What will we do now?” Faye asks, quiet and unsure. She does not look at cot.

“I’ve asked for Sir Lukas and Forsyth to dig a resting place.” Silque says. Her head is lowered, her veil shadowing her face. “I’ll clean him up.”

Faye has the feeling this is not the first time Silque has had to do such a thing. 

“Faye, you do not have to stay.” She says, stepping over soaked gauze. 

“I feel like I can’t move.” Faye breathes out. Silque holds her blank gaze for a moment. “Is that normal?”

“It’s not unheard of.” Silque says quietly. “But you need food and rest. Stay here.”

Faye sits down on the little stool they have in the corner of the tent. She clenches her hands around her staff. It’s an empty feeling. No anger at herself for not trying hard enough, no sadness at the loss, just emptiness. She feels sour bile climb up her throat and she swallows it back.

She feels so small, so childish. This is her job, right? Her vocation was to be a cleric, even when she was a child, stuffing her little bag with gauze and pins and little bottle of alcohol in case her friends scratched their knees while they played. If she can’t even keep her patients alive, what’s the point? This was the path she chose to walk though. The one of a healer, one who would have to bury those she couldn’t save. Her hands would give and even take. Her Nosferatu spell took life with several simple words and she felt nothing. Yet a youngun dead on the table left her shaking. 

Her eyes linger to the white sheet that begins to puddle with blood. He was killed by his own countrymen. She thinks nervously, reminded of how close they are to Rigel—no, not even that. That this young kid was murdered by his own country. The same could happen to them... The Deliverance was a rebel army, and Zofia was under rule by Desaix...

Her eyes wander down to the mess of her robes. The usually-light pink cloth is now stained red from blood, running from her forearms down her chest, stomach and skirt. She wondered if they’d pulled her robes off a dead cleric. Probably. In a land of sorrow and depravity, clothes were hard to come by.  

The tent flaps sway again as Silque renters with the watchmen. Tobin follows in behind her, his eyes growing wide when Silque steps towards her and pulls the staff from her hands. She’s become the rag doll she’d had in her childhood—the one she’d played cleric with, diagnosing fake ailments and stitching on patches to mend broken bones from play.

“Could you see that she gets something to eat and goes back to our tent?” Silque asks him quietly. Tobin’s eyes linger on the red stains on her robes. “She’s overworked herself.”

Bile rises again. 

He nods quickly. “Yeah, of course.” He says in a soft voice. She knows it well—it’s the one he used with his siblings when they had hurt themselves and he insisted that the pain would subside. She feels like a child, all numb and tired.

“Hey Faye,” he says as quietly as he can. Her eyes meet his and embarrassment attacks her. She’s snotty and teary-eyed and acting like a child who refuses to put on her shoes. “I’m going to take you back, okay?”

She wants to say no, that she can handle this. That she brought this death upon herself. But instead she bows her head and leans into him like she did to Silque. “I’m sorry,” she breathes. She stares at the yellowy paladin’s armour he wears in spots. He must’ve been training still, even at the arc of moonlight. 

“Come on,” he says. He takes the same rag that Silque had in her hands, unfazed by the blood that speckles the fabric. Tobin takes her hands with the same tenderness that one has around a child, wiping away the drying blood with slow, tender strokes. She focuses on him, studying his features. 

He glances up to her, meeting her intent, almost confident gaze. He tilts her chin downwards with just a few fingers. He wipes away the snot, the tears and the smears of blood. His touch is gentle, like she’s made of porcelain and will crack if he applies even the slightest pressure.

He throws the rag into a bucket full of like fabrics. “Let’s go,” Tobin says, pulling her back to him. His hands take hers, pulling her to her feet. She sways and wobbles, his arm snakes around her back to steady her.

She takes an unsteady step, then another, leaning into him for support. His hand is strong against her hip, holding her in place. They push past the tent flaps, the cool night air hitting her face. She realizes how warm she was.

Their pace is slow, also trudging from the tent. She notices Forsyth and Lukas return from the edge of camp, shovels in their hands. 

Her feet drag, suddenly made of lead. The day’s battle, standing for hours, reciting that horrible spell that revives the dead. She can feel sour bile rising in her throat and she stumbles past him, retching several times beside a tree. Her hand grasps the bark for dear life as she pants for a breath. 

There’s a hand on her back, another gently holding her plaits back from her mouth. He’s gentle, kind, comforting her with an embrace that reminds her of a child with snowflakes. She sees now how good of an older brother he is. 

Her hand comes over her mouth to hide embarrassment as she shakes her head, almost magnetizing to him for support. He stumbles back, regains his footing and feels the back of her hands against his chest. He pulls her close for a second, embracing her tightly, tethering her back to the earth. A feeling, even though it’s uncomfortable, brings a flush to her cheeks. It only serves to make her feel worse, that the boy in the cot could have been him. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. It’s quiet, hangs in the air like the rusty stench of blood on her. 

She manages a small “thanks”, out of obligation more than anything. She buries herself in his collar, struggling to catch a breath that she can barely muster. She’s covered in blood, vomit on her breath and headache pounding in her temples. 

“He died.” She says at last. She knows Silque had probably told him what happened; but she needs to hear the words from her own mouth. Their trudging steps stop as they come up to her tent.

He lets a sigh out, pushing the canvas back with his arm. “People die, Faye. It’s not your fault.”

“But it is. I didn’t try hard enough.” She says, staring at the ground and her unsteady feet. Her eyes gloss over, tears blurring her vision for a moment. “I took his life.”

“You did all you could. Your hands weren’t meant to take life.” He says quietly. “They give it back and you try to give back what’s gone.”

“I had him in my grasp.” She says, meeting his gaze. Her eyes are red and puffy from tears.

“He slipped through. You can’t save them all.”

“But I’m supposed to.” She says quietly. “That’s my duty, right?”

She buries her face into her knees, her back tiredly rising and falling.

“He was just a kid.” Faye says. “Like us.”

Tobin can’t respond to it, letting the words hang in the air as he continues to peel the orange. He pulls apart the sections and pith, placing it into a sad little pile. He holds a piece out of her. “Come on, eat.” He says.

“I can’t move.” She says, her voice is muffled by her knees. “I’m broken. I’m not good.”

“You are good.” He argues. She feels his hand on her back. “How are you going to heal us when you’re sick and tired?”

“I can’t protect you.” She cries. “I’m not good.”

“Then I’ll do my best to heal you. I’ll do my best to make you better, Faye.” He promises, his voice soft and gentle. His hand moves to her shoulder, lifting her chin. Tears streak her face as she collapses into him, holding him tightly as she can.

She still feels so weak, so tired and numb. But he’s a comfort. His voice, his touch, the impossible promises he offers to her in hopes that she’ll perk up. 

She reaches for a section of the orange, slowly chewing down on it and cringing at the sour taste. She rests against his shoulder, against his uncomfortable armour. Somehow, those few words—make you better—instil comfort in her.