The midday sun found Ezril walking the grounds of the fort alongside Lenaria. She’d sat in on the morning mass but had only served to assist as priests do. Apparently, priestesses did not have the power to preside over masses. They possessed only as much veneration as priests.

Ezril felt fatigue at the thought of the morning mass. There was a pain in his thumb and fore finger, a side effect from his duties. Pinching Olufemi discreetly had been all he could do to keep his brother’s eyes open through the course of the celebration, an act made tasking by the nature of the situation and the realization that the force required was far greater than that of their time in the seminary. His tolerance for pain can be infuriating.

“It’s not long enough.”

Ezril turned to Lenaria. “What?”

“Your hair.” She motioned to it. “It’s not long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” he asked, touching the hair absently.

“For me to braid it.”

Ezril sighed. “And why would you want to braid my hair?”

She shrugged. “Gives me an excuse to touch it.”

“You touch my hair whenever you want, Aria. You’ve never needed an excuse.” He frowned. “You’re touching it right now.”

“True.” she agreed, smiling, her hand lingering a while longer. “But braiding it’ll give me an excuse to pull on it really hard.” She tugged on his hair painfully, soliciting a grunt from him, before retrieving her hand.

Ezril massaged the sore spot, a scowl on his face. “And why, if I may ask, do you want me to feel pain?”

“I don’t know, Ezril.” She shrugged. “A girl can’t just want a boy to feel pain?”

“No.”

She reeled back, hand on her chest in mock hurt, and yet, she continued smiling. “Are you saying you can’t feel pain for my sake, Ezril?”

Ezril smiled and shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Not for your simple pleasure.”

They walked a while longer, engaging in a trip leading them to the infirmary.

The fort rarely bore the brunt of the little skirmishes since the establishment of the camp. Still, the fatally injured were brought back for treatment.

“Why do you like it so much?” Lenaria asked as they stood at the door. “I understand the beauty in death, but it’s just death.” She paused to look at him. “And I doubt that’s what brings you here.”

He watched the mild chaos of the place. “It’s the struggle,” he told her. “Each man knowing very well that he may not survive.” He motioned into the room with a nod. “You see those two men?”

They laid at different places, absent of aid. One had a blood stained bandage running the full length of his torso, its stain growing steadily. The second, the larger of the two, had a bandage across his head, however, the gash in his thigh seemed recently set upon by rot and was stained with whatever puss it had once been leaking. The fact that Nixarv left the man with his leg meant one of two things: either he didn’t want to live an amputee or it was too late.

Lenaria nodded.

“They know they’re going to die,” he continued, eyes fixed on the latter who had just now spotted them. Lenaria followed his gaze. “Do you know what makes them different?”

“One has accepted it, the other has not.”

Ezril’s eyes flickered to her. Of course you would know… “How do you know?”

“I’m not sure.” She shrugged. “I just do.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

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“Because the battlefield is my specialty,” she answered, a sad smile on her lips. “It’s only normal that I know this too.”

Ezril nodded, his gaze returning to the man bandaged across the torso. “You see how his eyes are shut, and his lips keep quivering?”

Lenaria nodded, eyes fixed on their new observation.

“It’s not muscle spasms.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s almost like he’s… praying.”

“Begging,” Ezril corrected. Lenaria looked at him. “The way his lips are moving,” he explained. “That’s desperation, and not the kind born of a man running out of time. It’s the desperation of a man who wants more. He’s begging Truth. He doesn’t want to accept it.”

“He could be afraid. Probably fears for his sins, and wants Truth to accept him.”

“That’s not fear, Aria.” His nostrils flared mildly. He felt it as he always did. The man’s own was so palpable he could almost smell it, taste it. “That’s terror.”

He gave the man a final look before casting his gaze across the room. “They probably told him about the fatality,” he continued. “He would’ve probably thrown a tantrum when they told him, if his body would have allowed it…”

“Like Fren whenever Olnic refused to give him extra sweets.”

He turned to find her watching him, a smile on her face.

“Yes.” He smiled back. “Just like Fren.”

The room erupted in a panic then. Healers rushed. The aids left whatever duty they deemed insignificant. The chaos drew their attention to the far end of the infirmary. They spotted Alanna amongst the early responders, face held in a mask as she worked.

The man who caused this laid on his bed, his body fighting violently against those who pinned him down. It was clear it was an involuntary action as the healers fought to stop the bleeding in his side. The man’s eyes looked from one person to another. Not imploring, simply looking in a daze as his body fought.

“He’s given up,” Lenaria commented. “Do you feel it?” Disdain clipped the edge of her words. She had something against the man for the simple crime of giving up.

Ezril nodded. “It’s also in his eyes.”

They remained a while longer after the man’s death, observing in silence as the other patients struggled to survive. Their exit was made only at the arrival of Alanna.

She walked up to them, hands cleansed of whatever blood they had accrued. She stopped in front of Ezril. “A word, Father Antari.”

They stepped away from the infirmary, Lenaria walking a distance behind. Ezril had noted the lack of grief of any form in Alanna’s eyes when she’d walked up to them. She did not mourn the loss of a patient. She did not feel the guilt or grief of the death. If she did, she did not show it. Healers need as much resolve as a solder, Ezril thought, maybe more.

The soldier that had caused the panic had watched his attendants as he’d died, eyes perhaps subconsciously ignorant of one. It was in his final moments his gaze had settled on her. She was a woman barely in her twenties. Ezril had faintly recognized her as the woman who had been dressing his wound before the chaos.

His eyes had accused her in his final moments. Accused her of her actions. Whatever mistake she had made had cost the man his life. He knew it, and, from the look she refused to return, she knew it, too.

Alanna spun on her feet, abruptly, rounding on Ezril. Anger lurked within her eyes. “Send her back!”

Ezril stopped in his tracks, almost walking into her. He rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger and sighed. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t.”

“Won’t.”

“You would have her cast insult on the hierarchy of the church?” she asked, infuriated. She reduced the distance between them by a step. “Father Ezril Vi Antari, you will send Priestess Lenaria back to the encampment. You cannot keep her for your selfish reasons. This is what she was bred for!”

“So you would have me send her to war, to blood and carnage, when I do not have to?!” he demanded. He stepped towards her, hands clenched at his sides, forcing her retreat by two, and possessing no knowledge of what was about to happen. Anger bridled his next words. “You would have me send her to death?!”

Alanna recomposed herself quickly. She stood her ground now, unmoving, simply staring at him.

It was a moment before he noticed it. She didn’t stand her ground; it was something else. She looked at him in a manner he had seen most do. He stopped himself. There had been too much fury. There was too much fury. He could feel it crawling out from the recesses he kept everything he didn’t want coming out, and he fought to rein it in. He met her eyes and saw something he had seen countless times, but never in hers: Fear.

The shock of the guilt that washed over him threatened an apology from his lips, but he offered her none. His mood tempered with guilt, and with a tinge of regret in his voice, he said, “If you were in my position, Lana, would you send me back simply because I was bred for this?”

There had been a look in her eyes at his words, very minute. He found himself not wishing to know it as he left her.

Ezril and Lenaria walked in silence for a while before arriving at one end of the tower.

Shade welcomed them with a lack of enthusiasm, as it often did whenever he came with her, limiting its excitement to a tail wag and a silent pant. The silence continued as Lenaria groomed the wolf, Shade seated on all four, giving her access to its back. Eventually, she broke the silence.

“I’d completely forgotten,” she said, without taking her eyes off her task.

Ezril’s gaze focused on Shade’s stare. Its eyes blinked after a period, allotting him enough time to observe himself in its reflection. There was no doubt it enjoyed Lenaria’s grooming, however, its eyes seemed to bear a sadness. They had fought no battles for more than a month. Ezril wondered if the sedentary was taking its toll on the creature.

“Forgotten what?” he asked finally, when it was obvious Lenaria wouldn’t continue.

She turned to look at him and her voice was sad.

“…How scary you can be.”