He-Thing awoke

to find the sun

seeping into the horizon,

its waning light

painting the clouds

and the Hospital

in limpid green.

He could hear the

pained moans

and despairing chatter

of the people around him,

each a polyptych

of unknowable suffering.

How far had these pilgrims travelled,

just to huddle in desperation

outside the Hospital,

counting the anguished minutes

like petals falling from a flower?

Vaila sat cross-legged next to him,

her eyes closed, her breath

in rhythmic but alert meditation.

“I know you are awake,”

she said, smiling.

“Come on,” said Vaila,

“It is time a nurse

sees to you.”

He-Thing’s eyes lingered

on a nearby cloud

of mayflies.

“I cannot walk, and Zolantos is gone,”

he said.

“I am too heavy

for you to bear.”

Vaila got to her feet.

“Alam,” she said,

“If you were heavier

than the entire Omniverse,

I would still

bear your weight.”

Vaila threw He-Thing’s arm

across her shoulder,

and he strained to lift himself,

struggling beneath the weight

of his body

and his shame.

They slowly meandered

through the crowd,

towards the Hospital,

until they came to

a monk,

accompanied by a memory slave,

cataloging the sick and wounded.

The monk was short and old,

with a weary, sleepless face,

and his memory slave noticed

our heroes first,

his eyebrow raised in suspicion

when he saw Vaila’s

complexion

was similar to his own,

but she wore no control collar —

unlike himself.

“Father,”

Vaila addressed the monk,

“my friend is gravely wounded.”

The monk scanned them

with his potent eyes.

“We have many wounded,” he said.

“And then there are

the diseased, the cursed,

the blighted. We have...”

The monk looked to his slave.

“One hundred twenty-four,”

the memory slave spoke.

“One hundred twenty-four patients,

waiting to be seen by the nurses,”

the monk continued.

“Your friend will have to wait.”

“He could die!” Vaila protested.

“They all could die,” the monk replied.

He-Thing rallied his strength

to remain on his feet.

Just let me die,

he thought.

“Milady,” said the monk,

seeing that Vaila

had a sword on her hip,

but no control collar,

“I battle for the greater good.

Decisions must be made.”

Vaila felt a drop of sweat

run down the side of her face.

He-Thing’s weight seemed

to increase by the second.

But if she did not act,

Alam would die in the waning sun.

Still bearing her old friend’s weight,

Vaila rapidly drew her rapier,

and jabbed it

precisely

against the monk’s neck.

Vaila’s voice thundered over the crowd —

“I am Vaila, daughter of

Zolantos the Merciless Cripple,

Champion Huntress and wife

of the Divine White Light!

This is He-Thing, son of Leotas the Third,

Emperor of Asmodel and all these lands,

and you will heal him NOW!”

She expertly drew a drop of blood

from the monk’s neck.

The monk gestured to his slave,

who clapped his hands, and

attendants took He-Thing onto a stretcher.

Vaila withdrew her sword.

The monk touched his neck.

“My apologies, Huntress,”

he whimpered. “I did not know.”

She said nothing

as she sheathed her sword.

She could hear the crowd grumbling.

She could hear the word,

“Grag.”

to be continued...