Mujahid and the plague doctors who'd gone with him to hunt Fulk returned to the monastery, having completely lost track of Fulk's trail long ago. They'd asked at every town near the witch's hut, but no one had seen a badly-burned man and a darkly beautiful woman traveling together. Or, if they had, no one was willing to say anything.

Mujahid steeled himself for the tongue-lashing he was sure to receive upon entering the monastery with that news. Melcher Fitz was not the most understanding of men. His years as a plague doctor had made him hard, precise, the sort of man who demanded absolute perfection. And why shouldn't he? He led a chapter of an order dedicated to saving all of Christendom from a deadly plague. They could not afford mistakes in this endeavor.

Yet, as Mujahid drew near the monastery, he spotted a figure in gray robes exit the front doors and start on his way toward the outhouse. On a second glace, Mujahid noticed his face was wrapped in bandages, and the familiar way he walked with shoulders back and fists clenched at all times.

"Fulk!" he called out and spurred his horse to bring him closer.

The man with the bandaged face looked up at Mujahid as he approached, clearly responding to the name.

"It is you, Fulk!" Mujahid cried. "What are you doing here? Melcher Fitz sent me to find you."

"And kill me," said Fulk. "I know. But Giradin pardoned me. He can do that now, being a saint and all."

Mujahid blinked twice and rattled his head. "Pardon?"

"Giradin's back from the Vatican," said Fulk. "And he's a full-fledged saint. You might want to prepare yourself..." Fulk pointed to the monastery doors. "That place is swarming with Templars now. And Zealots who think Giradin is our only hope to survive the Black Death."

Mujahid cringed at the thought of entering a place which was abundant in Templars. Though the Templars he'd met in Elekvaz seemed kind enough, despite knowing he was a Moor, he had hear enough stories to know that many Templars held onto prejudices they'd had when they left on Crusade. There was sure to be at least one who would hate Mujahid simply for existing, and one was enough to feel nervous.

"Thank you for the warning," Mujahid said. He dismounted from his horse and walked over to Fulk, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Let me just say, I'm glad you've been pardoned. I wasn't looking forward to dying while trying to kill you."

Fulk pushed Mujahid's hand away. "This is real touching and all, but I really have to shit." Without another word, Fulk continued on his way to the outhouse.

With Fulk out of sight, Mujahid tied off his horse's reins, took a deep breath, and entered through the front doors of the monastery.

He found himself glad he was still wearing his uniform and mask, for the moment he stepped inside he saw the familiar white tabbard with a red cross of a Templar knight, and not one of the three he'd met in Elekvaz. He gave a polite nod, trying to hide any outward sign of nervousness as he passed through the crowd of men in gray robes. They were all chattering away, exchanging gossip and rumors. The once quiet and peaceful monastery was now over-stuffed with men and nigh-deafening. The heat in the room was intense from all the bodies shoved so close together, and sweat dripped down Mujahid's nose.

Mu squeezed through, gently brushing aside those in his way with his hands. Some proved easier to move than others, as there were those among them who required a firmer push to get them to move out of his way.

On his way to Fitz's office, Mujahid spotted Giradin, Shlomo, and the Templar with red hair in the meeting hall, exchanging jests and laughter. For a moment, Mujahid considered stopping to see Giradin, but he thought it likely that Melcher Fitz might consider that an insult. After all, Fitz was his leader, not Giradin, and it was protocol for returning plague doctors to report to Fitz before doing anything else.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

So, Mujahid continued on his way, until he arrived at the door to Fitz's office. He cleared his throat and knocked on the door.

"WHAT?" came a furious reply from within.

"It's Mujahid, master," said Mu. "I've returned and--"

"Come in!" Fitz snapped.

Mujahid hurried inside and closed the door behind him.

Fitz sat behind his desk, clad in his gray robes and holding a quill in hand. He stabbed the quill into the inkwell and folded his arms. "You didn't find Fulk like I ordered you to."

"I didn't," said Mujahid, removing his mask. "But, he's back and ready to serve again. I'd say that problem solved itself."

"The Hell it did!" Fitz grumbled. "Need I remind you that Fulk is a criminal? A murderer? Father Hewlett wanted him to make his penance as a plague doctor, but I was always against it. Letting such scum into our ranks. You simply can't trust someone like that... someone who's... who's done the sorts of things Fulk has done."

"I understand, master," said Mujahid.

"I don't think you do," said Fitz. "After a time, I thought that Fulk had proven he could be loyal to our order first and foremost. I thought he was well along his path to redemption. But then he ran off to consort with a witch. Now he's back, having received no consequence at all for his actions. We have no way of knowing if he'll be loyal to us."

"With all due respect, master," said Mujahid, "Are forgiveness and redemption not a part of your faith? Is the Church not made up of sinners seeking to be saved?"

"Christ had a thief among his disciples and it was that very thief who betrayed him," said Fitz. "Forgiveness isn't the issue. It's about whether or not it's wise to trust such a person. Right now, because of Giradin, I'm forced to put my trust in a cold-blooded killer. If you'd killed Fulk like I told you to I wouldn't be in this mess."

"I see," said Mujahid. "If... if you don't mind me asking, master, I know you've had people performing experiments with my medicine in a few cities."

"Yes, I have," said Fitz, his arms folded.

"How have those experiments gone?" Mujahid asked.

Fitz's expression softened just a little. "Clever. You're reminding me of the one thing you've done right lately. The medicine you brewed seemed to work in small villages, but not so much in big cities. I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with the amount of miasma in the air in the cities. Your medicine can only fight so much."

"Well, that's good news!" Mu grinned. "Even if it just works in small villages, that's still better than where we were before."

"There's a problem, though," said Fitz, shaking his head. "A lot of those people out there, the ones who joined because of Giradin, they're the sort who mistrusts Moors. When they either saw or heard that the medicine didn't work in the big cities, they spread word that 'that Moor's medicine doesn't work at all.' They're calling you a charlatan, and worse."

Fitz stood from his chair and started pacing the room, his nails clawing at his temples in frustration. "Some have already refused to give people in small towns your medicine, claiming that it's heathen witchcraft. I've already had ten men flogged for insubordination, and I've seen those men talking with each other, no doubt conspiring against me. Then there's a duke who's spreading plague to his servants, whorehouses in cities all over making it worse, more and more people refusing to adhere to our cleanliness guidelines because Jews came up with those guidelines... It's all going to Hell so fast, Mujahid. You'd better watch yourself."

Mu sighed and shook his head. "This all sounds terrible... but things have been worse than this before."

"How? When?" Fitz snapped.

"Before we had the right of conscription we had almost no plague doctors to work with," said Mu. "Now... well, just look aroung the monastery some time and really think about it. We have more help than we ever dreamed we'd have. Those people out there may not be as cooperative as you like, but in their own way they are trying their best to help us."

Fitz sneered at Mujahid. "Get out."

"Pardon?"

"Get out of my office," Fitz said, pointing to the door. "Take your fairy tale approach somewhere else. I've no use for bright-eyed, naive children."

Without another word, Mujahid left Fitz's office at his command. The moment he'd stepped outside, a Templar with hair cut short greeted him. "What did he say to you in there?" the Templar asked.

"I'm sorry," said Mu, "Have we met?"

"Sir Cristoff," the Templar said. "In Elekvaz, remember?"

"Ah! Yes," said Mu.

"What did Fitz say to you?" Sir Cristoff insisted. "I'm starting to worry about his mental state."

"Follow me and I'll tell you," said Mujahid. "I'm going to say hello to Giradin. I haven't seen that lad in months."

Mujahid made his way through the crowd, all the while regaling Sir Cristoff with the details of his meeting with Fitz, and how unpleasant it had been. When finally he reached Giradin, the young saint embraced him like a long-lost brother. He, Giradin, and Shlomo laughed and joked together, as men who had known each other for years. Even Sir Emeric joined in the conversation, he and Mujahid enjoying each other's self-deprecating jokes.

As far as I've been able to gather, from all the people I've interviewed about that night, that is the last time anyone will admit to seeing Mujahid alive.