I place a hand gently on her jaw — a terrible intimacy, I know. Unforgivable? Perhaps. Certainly unnecessary. I could touch her anywhere to take her pain. We could be fingertip to fingertip or palm to palm. Usually, I set a palm on a shoulder. But touching her shoulder feels like a bad idea, somehow. So, I cup her jaw, annoyed with myself when my fingertips choose to memorize the way the delicate bone is cradled under soft flesh.
I exhale out all thoughts of myself and my own pains, my own wants. I offer them up to the God.
Take them. And take her pains and infirmities. I will bear them in my flesh. I will bear them and hold them close until you will me to release them. I take them up willingly.
I feel the familiar rush.
The power of the God whipping through my heart is like a hot wind rushing into dark caverns. One quickening touch, and then, from the other direction, the ooze of molten turmoil rolling into me. I feel the slick of the infection that I’m taking, the sharp jagged edges of trauma, and the queasy feeling of bodily uncertainty. They settle over my bones as if the structure of my body has been gilded by these new sensations. And when, finally, I manage to take in a fresh inhale of the crisp forest air, I am breathing in every last scrap of her misery, and with it. I breathe her physicality in, too. All her scents, all her feelings, all that makes her her for just a heartbeat, is me, too.
I know her like I know myself. Know the sensation of living in her body, of her quick mind and sharp emotions. Know how it feels to be Victoriana for just one fraction of one second.
I wonder sometimes, in the quiet of the night, if the God feels this all the time. Does he dwell deep in our sorrows and joys every moment? Do I feel but a hair of it when I heal in his name? And if he feels all this at every moment … what does that mean? Does he treasure each pearl of sensation, or are they just like the drops of a river falling over a great drop — momentary, sparkling, beautiful, and then erased in the blink of an eye when they crash back into the river, no more individual or precious than drops of water?
Don’t forget me, I beg in my mind. Don’t let me be washed away.
Is it faith that wrings the heart of a paladin and makes him certain he is worth keeping as an individual pearl, or is it the most sublime of arrogances?
When I exhale again, it is all gone, and what I feel is the twisting ache of new pain in my flesh, the wave of nausea from the infection I took, and the human warmth of skin under my fingertips. I snatch my hand back before it can curl around tantalizing flesh and tangle into silky hair.
I flex my fingers and step deliberately backward, in firm control of myself.
Lust is a choice. So is attraction. Well, not the first blush of it that sparkles like a diamond on the wave of the sea. But we need not look at a thing simply because it exists. We need not long for it. The heart can be directed, just like the thoughts and actions.
I do as I always do and carefully set aside every whisper of desire. They have no hold on me if I give them none. I allow warmth in my smile even as I withdraw all longing from my heart. The heart flows like a river and it goes where you channel it. I do not allow it to channel toward a woman who I know perfectly well I do not know at all. Any allure I feel is a combination of the false closeness of healing and the memories of another woman that I am painting onto this one. Forgery, all of it.
Only a fool would fall for a forgery.
“Thank you,” she gasps and I harden my heart to the beauty of her voice.
“It is a gift of the God, not of me,” I recite, grateful to lean on the formal words.
Her mouth quirks. “Then why do I see you favoring your left side in the same way that I favored mine?”
I straighten against the pain, unwilling to admit what has already been discovered.
She doesn’t push the point, busying herself with dressing layers over her newly healed flesh and gathering her things.
I gather myself in a similar manner, pretending to be unnecessarily concerned over the wellbeing of the horses. They’re all well and they snort at me in horsey annoyance at my fussing.
I cast a single glance at the pillar, still forcing distraction on myself. It confirms our suspicions. This monastery is a place for the creation of Saints. What shall I make of that? I don’t like it, that’s what I make of it. It doesn’t feel right for people to try to manufacture what ought to be only a gift from the God. It feels like hubris to me.
She wouldn’t have lied about what was said there … would she? I glance quickly at her dog. It trots along ahead of us as we leave the horses by silent agreement. The dog’s tongue lolls out cheerfully, as if it didn’t just brutalize my flesh. I don’t trust the creature. Not just because my leg burns with pain and makes me feel hot and flushed. Something dark lurks beneath that dog’s short fur. I can’t put my finger on what it is.
We return to the camp in silence. I know why I say nothing. Words right now would only make me slip. I don’t look at the lady paladin long enough to determine why she is quiet, though. By now, I am well-practiced in the art of snuffing out attraction. The key is not to dwell. Not to spend time beyond the practical with whoever kindles interest in you. If I must, I will kneel in vigil in the cold, but I do not think it will come to that. The pain of the dog bite and the festering wounds that I took from her during healing are enough to quickly quell any rising tide.
I focus instead on the puzzle of a ruined monastery on the edge of the world.
It’s cold here, but not as cold as I expected. The Rim must still be receding, bringing warmth as it rushes away. Already, the air is merely chilled rather than frigid, the sun a little brighter, the tide a little less grey.
What kind of place was this monastery? Usually, holy places have a sense of light to them, but I’ve never visited one abandoned for a thousand years. Can I expect the same from such a relic? Even so, something about it does not sit right within my heart. It goes beyond the cold. It goes beyond the strange group gathered here. It finds a place at the base of my spine and sits there, cold, hard, and ominous. What does this place want with my dust and my blood? Surely those are the God’s alone.
We join the others as the sun leans to kiss the earth.
Hefertus has set up his pavilion. He nods briefly to it and I throw my gear under the silken shelter. Others may bring oiled canvas or wax-seamed leather. Hefertus mocks them all with his waxed silk, painted with cranes and a soft setting sun in a way that bleeds through on each side. It looks more fit to shelter ladies at a picnic than knights on a quest, but I agree with him that two are better than one in a pit of vipers.
And make no mistake, these others are our brothers, but they’d slay us if they thought we’d stepped off the path. They might even have orders to take us by surprise, though the amulets our betters agreed to distribute suggest they planned for us to work together at least in part. Mine is simply a stamp of the Cup of Tears. So are the others. The edges are even, no hidden code or key there.
Honestly, I’m at a loss as to why I am here at all. It’s not a plague-ridden town or battlefield, and if this is an argument to be won by negotiation or by battle, I’m outclassed in both.
