Rain washed away the aftermath of the violence at the monastery. The water leaked through holes in the walls and ceiling, helping to carry away the blood and viscera from that terrible battle the previous night.

The remains of Vermin, headless-men, rats, and those bodies the Vermin had launched at the monastery were gathered in a pile, where tree branches shielded them from the rain. There, the surviving Crows heaped hay and pitch upon the pile and set it aflame.

The Crows who had died in the battle, including Melcher Fitz, were given a Christian burial in the graveyard behind the monastery. The number of wooden crosses in that gated cemetery tripled that day.

But while most at the monastery attended the collective funeral for their fallen commrades, Fulk, Shlomo, and Sir Emeric did not leave St. Giradin's side.

After Fitz stabbed him, the saint had spent all his time in the infirmary, lying in bed. The few actual physicians in the monastery had died in the battle, so Shlomo did what he could to push Giradin's entrails back inside and sew up the wound. Even so, blood and bile squeezed through regularly, and all three men were sure the fluids were still leaking inside the saint's body.

Sure, the Crows had sent for a physician, and they had no doubt the Church was sending one as fast as they could, but barring a miracle the physician would never arrive in time.

Sir Emeric had far from lost hope as he knelt beside St. Giradin's infirmary bed, holding his hand.

In a somewhat delirious state, Giradin said to them, "Thank you... it's not good to be alone..."

Shlomo leaned forward in his rocking chair, twisting the end of his beard on one finger. "You'll never be alone, Giradin. You've become like a brother to me, Giradin Ha'Tzadik."

"What does that mean?" Giradin asked.

"Like a brother to me?" Shlomo asked. "Well--"

"No... that word... Hazadik..." A fit of wet coughs took Giradin for a moment, and Sir Emeric held him down, hoping to prevent him from tearing the stitches.

"Ah, you want to know what Ha'Tzadik means..." Shlomo tried to turn his eyes away from the red and brown spots accumulating on the sheets around Giradin's stomach. He knew there was nothing more they could do until the physician arrived, and didn't yet want to face the reality that Giradin was going to die. "Well, the rabbis say that every day, God looks down at all the sin in the world, but among all men he notices thirty-six who are righteous. The thirty-six Tzadikim Nistarim. For their sake, God holds back the destruction of the world. You may not be a Jew, Giradin, but there's little doubt in my mind that you're one of the thirty-six."

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"Thank you," Giradin wheezed.

"What happens if there's only thirty-five?" Fulk muttered.

Shlomo ignored his question for the time being, but knew he would have to give the murderer an answer eventually. "Is there anything we can get you, Gir?"

Giradin shook his head.

Sir Emeric looked up at Fulk and Shlomo. "Would you two mind if I had a private moment with Giradin?"

Shlomo was about to agree before Fulk jumped in, "Of course we mind! Our friend is dying, Templar. A friend we've known longer than you have. Why should you have the right to hear his last words?"

"There's something I want to tell him," Sir Emeric said, giving both of them a pleading look. "Please, just a minute alone."

"Piss on that," Fulk said, folding his arms. "Whatever you have to say to him you can say in front of us."

Sir Emeric looked both of them over, considered it for a moment, then finally said, "Fine." He turned to Giradin and said, "There's something I want you to know... You see..." Sir Emeric sighed, "I know it doesn't matter now, but it's the truth and... I love you, Giradin. I mean... I'm in love with you."

Fulk grunted his disgust and turned away.

Shlomo whispered, "I knew it..."

Giradin reached up and touched Sir Emeric's cheek. "If many things had been different..."

"Save your strength," Sir Emeric said, sniffling and forcing a smile. "The physician's on his way. Maybe..."

Giradin weakly shook his head, and his eyes wandered over all three men in the room with him. "I love you all."

How precious, though sad, this story would be were those Giradin's final words. Or, if they had not been his final words because he'd miraculously recovered.

But no. Giradin grew more delirious after that. Most of what he had to say was nonsense, as if he'd become a baby again and knew not how to speak.

Yet, even amid all the gibberish, Shlomo said he caught one final word.

"Rebirth..."

On the day that the Church came to claim Giradin's body, to be interred in a tomb fit for a saint, Fulk approached Shlomo and asked, "What happens if there are only thirty-five?"

"Pardon?"

Fulk sneered at Shlomo. "You know what I'm asking, damn it! You said Giradin was one of the thirt-six zad... tzad... sod it! One of the thirty-six good people God looks at when he decides not to destroy the world. What happens if there are only thirty-five?"

Shlomo had been dreading this question for a long time. In his mind, he kept refusing to think about it. Had Fulk asked that question years ago, Shlomo might have said they didn't have to worry, for there were bound to be more than thirty-six. Or, perhaps, as one passed away another would rise to take his place. But given all the wickedness he'd seen in the past year alone, he knew what lay on the horizon.

He glanced over at Sir Emeric, who had been standing with the other Templars but was now on his knees, weeping uncontrollably, as the priests and monks loaded Giradin's body into a stone coffin in the back of a wagon.

At long last, unable to hold in the horrible answer any longer, Shlomo said, "The world ends."