Nixarv studied Ezril with the scrutiny of a confused man. It was almost as though the man refused to believe his eyes. It should’ve been strange but Ezril found it mildly irksome.

“How?” Nixarv asked, his eyes fixed on Ezril’s torso.

Ezril shrugged. The how did not matter, what mattered was if the man had a solution to his problem. His scars kept growing. What had once been burnt flesh on his shoulder blades was trailing a path down his arms. Now, somehow, they had crawled down to his abdomen. Luckily his cassock was sufficient in covering up all of them. But at this rate he was beginning to wonder just how long he could contain them.

“Can you do something about it?” he asked when Nixarv remained quiet.

The doctor scoffed. “Like what?”

“Anything.”

“There’s nothing to be done, Father Urden. You were burned and they’ve healed, poorly but aesthetically, might I add.” Nixarv poked the line that ran down the left of his side to end on his stomach, then stepped back. “Nothing I can do. But if you ever do find someone, let me know. I’d like to know what skill they possess.”

“And your hair,” Nixarv continued. “Some locks are white now. They weren’t the last time I saw you. Does it have a relationship to it?”

Ezril shrugged in response.

Their conversation done, he shrugged his cassock back on and buttoned it. If Nixarv had no solution, he doubted anyone he knew would. He rose from his chair and looked around. The infirmary was still the way he remembered it. The dying, however, had increased greatly. It smelled of death, and fear was a constant emotion; fear and rage. He could hear it all around him.

He shook off a new bout of fear as it rolled over him, prickling at his skin, ignored the noise it made, and stepped forward. Nixarv, however, hadn’t budged. He waited a moment, certain the man had more to say concerning his scars. When the doctor spoke again, it wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

“What happened?”

Ezril cocked a brow. “I believe its self-explanatory to any doctor: shadow fire.”

Nixarv shook his head. “No, not that. I mean, you left, so did my best aid. But when you came back, she did not.”

Neither did the priestess… “Not everyone comes back, doctor.” Ezril shrugged a shoulder. “Some people simply aren’t meant to. We accept it and move on.”

“Have you?”

“We move every day.”

“Even from the priestess?”

Ezril’s mood dampened, the voices that were silenced mumbled in the background, but when he looked at Nixarv, he saw a man who’d lost something too. There wasn’t much to say in response, so he said the little he could. “We move.”

Ezril spent a little longer in the infirmary after that. He watched the dying men—for there were only dying men—and wondered how much more would come. A quick glance made it clear why Nixarv missed Alanna. None of his aids moved with the precision the former nun had moved with. None of them were capable of as much certainty as she’d been.

Oddly, sometimes he caught himself missing her too. But not enough to hold regret. He wondered how Nixarv would respond to the truth of what had truly happened. What he would say if he found out she was no more. What he would do if he found out who held responsibility for it. His curiosity left him wondering, but he knew the man would never know, at least not from him. Perhaps one day the church would deem it fit to make certain announcements. Or he might hear rumors.

In the corner a man was dying from some kind of poison. Ezril ignored the rest of the room and focused on him. There was something that kept him apart from the rest of the patients. He was terrified as the rest of them were, but there was more. It was almost as if he sought to mask it; sought to hide it from his companions. But Ezril could taste it beneath all the fear; hear it like a child snickering in the corner. Hidden in away where none was supposed to find it, he heard satisfaction. He heard peace. He heard bliss.

He heard joy.

Perhaps this was what he’d been looking for. That feeling people held in death. Perhaps this was the one thing he sought to understand; a person who found joy in death. It was hidden all over the man’s face. The mild twitch of his lip in a concealed smile. The dim light in his eye. The carefree way with which he watched the nurses panic over him. He seemed amused, even.

“My apologies, Father.”

Ezril turned away from the man and looked at the nurse beside him.

“You cannot be in here,” she added. “It’s not safe for the patients.”

It took Ezril a moment to realize he’d been approaching the man. He almost laughed at himself. Had he been so enamored by the state of the man that he’d moved without knowledge?

He offered the girl a simple smile and she took a step back. In her face he saw fear and wondered what he looked like for a smile to scare a nurse.

The nurse bowed her head quickly, seeming to think she’d done something wrong. “My apologies, Father. You surprised me.”

“How so?”

He saw the hesitation in her eyes but he was willing to wait. He doubted she was.

After a long breath, she spoke. “You aren’t known to smile.”

Ezril laughed now. “I’m not known to smile?” he sputtered.

The nurse watched him sheepishly. “Yes, Father.”

“And now?” He stepped up to her. “How do I look now? When I smile.”

The nurse turned a beet red and Ezril realized he’d drawn them an audience.

“Don’t worry about them,” he told her. “Worry about me.” He’d meant it to be appeasing, but from the look on the nurse’s face it had come out perhaps threatening. He ignored the error and waited.

When she said nothing, he spoke again. “How do I look, child?”

This seemed to get her attention, because she met his gaze, or at least she did for the briefest moment before looking away. Her answer was not as meek as she was.

“Human,” she said. “You look human.”

Ezril wasn’t sure how he felt about her answer. It was perhaps a compliment and an insult at the same time. Regardless, it said a lot of things. If he looked human only when he laughed, he could only imagine what they truly thought of Olufemi.

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He scratched the scar on his abdomen over his cassock. His scars had been humming a familiar tune since he’d returned to the fort, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He gave the briefest of attentions to the dying man and his scars itched more. It was all he could do not to scratch his arm. It seemed the man wasn’t just Tainted, but even while dying he was employing his touch. Ezril found himself wondering what the man’s touch could possibly be, and why he would be using it even now.

“What’s his name?” he asked the nurse.

She looked around, puzzled. “Who?”

“The one dying.”

The nurse cocked a sarcastic brow and Ezril almost laughed.

“The one dying of poison,” he clarified.

Respectfully, she said, “That doesn’t narrow it down very much.”

Ezril sighed in resignation and pointed. “That one.”

The nurse’s gaze followed his finger and, apparently, so did a good number of people’s. When it happened, the itch in his scars stopped. Ezril almost smiled. It seemed even at death’s door the man was still afraid of getting caught.

The nurse frowned beside Ezril. “I don’t know,” she said. “He hasn’t been here long.”

“How long?”

“A few days.” She shrugged. “Maybe three?”

Ezril looked at her. “Are you asking or telling?”

The nurse frowned. “Telling.”

Ezril nodded. “Good. And you don’t know his name.”

She shook her head.

“Have you ever attended to him?”

Again, she shook her head. “I’m not well versed in poisons.”

“Does it matter?”

The nurse turned to him. “It certainly does.” She seemed appalled. “Why would I be there if I cannot help.”

Ezril shrugged. “But you can.” He cocked his head to the side. “Right now, anyone can.”

“Even you?” she challenged.

Ezril thought of it for a moment, then answered. “Even me. But I won’t.”

The nurse snorted and Ezril wondered if she was aware of it. She was losing her manners, losing the fear he’d heard moments ago.

“Do you have some magic cure Doctor Nixarv is not aware of?”

Ezril didn’t justify her sarcasm with a response. Instead, he returned his attention on the man. Now that his scars did not itch, he couldn’t hear the amusement he’d heard from the man moments ago.

“My apologies, Father,” the nurse said.

Ezril turned back to her. “For what?”

She looked down. “I was rude.”

Ezril returned his attention to the man but spoke to her. “Yes, you were.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But that’s not important. Tell me, what do you think about our poisoned patient?”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

“I don’t think—”

Ezril cut her off with a frown. “Indulge me,” he said, but didn’t smile. “Ignore ethics and tell me what you think.”

“He doesn’t think we can save him.”

Ezril dismissed her answer. “You can’t. Tell me something that isn’t obvious.”

“We can,” she protested almost immediately.

Ezril turned to her and offered her a solemn smile. “You cannot save him, child. None of you can. Accept it now. It will make it easier.”

The nurse frowned but her lips trembled. Sadness rolled over Ezril and he ignored it.

“So,” he continued, “tell me what you think of him.”

The nurse took a moment to compose herself. “He doesn’t want anyone to help him. He wants to be left alone to die.”

“He doesn’t want to be prodded and pricked trying to look for a solution that won’t save him,” Ezril said, giving the specificity he sought.

“But it might save others.”

“But not him.”

“Why won’t he want to save others.”

“There’s isn’t a good reason to want to suffer for people you don’t know.”

She turned to him, confused. “You are a priest.”

“So?”

“You suffer every day for people you don’t know.”

“So?”

Her jaw dropped. “If anybody should understand this, it’s you.”

“Why? I protect people I don’t know because I can. Because I have chosen to. He doesn’t because he cannot.”

“He can,” she protested. “If we can find what’s killing him, we might be able to find a way to save… others.”

“Alright,” Ezril conceded. “Then, he’s chosen not to.”

“And you understand how he could do such a thing?” She shook her head in refusal. “Doesn’t Truth teach of sacrifice; the necessity to do what has to be done to protect others?”

“Yes, and that’s why people like me exist.”

“People like him should strive to do so too.”

Ezril laughed. “He just fought a war for you, child. What more could you possibly want as proof of his will to sacrifice. He’s given his life already.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Saying what?”

“Insinuating that we cannot save him.”

“You can’t. You just want to toy with him to find a way he doesn’t want to have found.” Ezril shook his head. “You can’t save him.”

“Yes we can,” she bit out, her voice a threatening whisper.

Ezril sighed. “Will you weep when he dies?”

The nurse frowned. “It is not ethical.”

“Perhaps,” Ezril agreed. “But even if it was, you wouldn’t weep after his death.”

The nurse opened her mouth but nothing came out and he nodded.

“Don’t ask a man you care nothing about to sacrifice more for you than he already has.” He offered the dying man a friendly smile. “It’s not ethical.”

“But—”

“He’ll die. Sadly, might I add.” He turned to her. “And you will move on to the next man to sacrifice for the good of others. Truth taught the realm sacrifice, then he gave it priests, because he also taught the realm free will, and people have to use their free will. Besides,” he returned his attention to the man who was now watching him with nothing but fear, “I don’t think he’s a child of Truth.”

“We are all children of Truth, Father.”

Ezril smiled. “Even the Tainted?”

Her silence gave him his answer.

He left her standing there and made his way to the man. Nurses and aids cleared his path despite how busy they seemed, bustling about. He sidestepped an aid with a tray of bloodied bandages and avoided a nurse who held a sharp knife, one of those small ones only those doomed to hospitals knew how to wield.

With each step that drew him closer to the man, the hum in his scars dulled and the man paled. If the man wasn’t already dying he would have worried the man would die soon.

“Hello,” he greeted, standing beside the man’s bed. It was an odd reaction but he hadn’t even needed to say anything for the nurses to abandon their patient to him. “How is it?”

“Bad,” the man muttered.

Ezril fought back a frown. Where was the mild amusement? Where was the mild light in his eyes? Where was the joy, however little?

“Do you want to die?” he asked, discarding further preambles. “Tell me truth and I will bless it.”

The man looked at him, and mixed with the fear in his eyes was worry. Still, he nodded. “I do.”

“Alright.” Ezril leaned down so he could whisper into the man’s ear. “Now that we’ve established you want to die; I have an offer to make. You are Tainted—”

The man stiffened.

“—Don’t try to deny it, I already know.” He paused for the man to catch his breath, then continued. “Now, my offer is simple. You can die happy on your bed to your poison or—”

“I don’t want them to poke me anymore,” the man interrupted. “They say it will help but I don’t want it. I won’t do it.”

“I care nothing for what they want,” Ezril replied. When the man relaxed, he added: “Neither do I care for what you want. Thus, do not interrupt me again. That said, you can either die here or I can have you burn at the stake. The poison won’t save you from it, or stop it from happening.”

The man paled further and Ezril shivered from the quantity and quality of fear that washed over him. It was so loud it was all he could do not to close away his senses.

“My offer, however,” he continued, “is this. Use your touch, and I will spare you. Use it till the moment you die, and you will have gotten to choose how you die.”

The man looked at him in confusion. There was distrust in his eyes and Ezril cared nothing to assuage it. The man could think and worry for all he cared, it wouldn’t change his offer.

“You were using it a while ago,” he pointed out. “You simply have to resume.”

The man wet his lips and Ezril heard a sliver of gratitude within the man’s fear. “Is that all?” the man asked.

Ezril nodded and rose to his full height. “Regale me, poisoned soldier,” he said. “Leave this world as who you are.”

No sooner was he done when a wave of joy choked the fear in the man’s emotions, washing over his skin and pricking his ears stronger than any emotion he’d ever heard. What had once been concealed to a mild twitch was a full smile. The light in his eyes returned with a vengeance, and now his eyes were lit up with ecstasy. He was like a man drugged. Ezril took a step away from the soldier as his scars flared in recognition. He hadn’t truly seen this coming. He’d expected a variety of things, but nothing so…

…Pathetic.

He’d thought the man was special for a moment. He turned and walked away from him while nurses rushed to the man, panicked beyond what Ezril thought possible. It was a wonder that they were panicked that a man was happy.

Before, he’d come to the infirmary simply to see what became of people when death was so close. He’d never truly found what he’d sought—whatever it had been—but since his return, watching them did nothing for him. It didn’t even educate him, as it once had. There was nothing of it. And now that he was done talking with the poisoned soldier, he knew that there was nothing for him here.

The nurse he’d been talking with stood before him. “What did you do to him?” she asked, mildly defiant.

He paused beside her briefly to whisper in her ear. “I reminded him of what he is.” Then he passed her.

“And what is that?” she shouted so he would hear her.

She had amused him for a while so he would give her an answer. He turned his head, and over his shoulder he said, “Human.”

Then he left, before the emotions became less loud and the voices returned.