Penitent-Chapter 53: Limit

Bayle took them down a short hall, and onto a narrow staircase. On the second floor of the tower were five narrow bunk beds, and on the third were five more. The ceilings were low and Ollie was forced to hunch over as they stepped out onto the third floor. The floors were dirty and rickety, the beds more like pallets filled with hay and covered in thin fabric, and five other men were sitting in the center of it rolling dice. They were wearing dirty gray uniforms and regarded them with cold stares as they entered. These were normal Penitents, not lifetakers like Michael and the rest. These were citizens of Stent that had committed crimes and now had to serve as Penitents. Their training wasn't as good, from what Michael understood, but many of them would've served previously and that experience likely made a difference.

“You’ll be bunking in here with these other Penitents.” Bayle said. “No orders right now while the fresh bodies get acclimated, but there’ll be work by the time the week’s out. Meals are at first of sun, fourth of sun, and sundown. Just follow the crowd and you’ll find your way. Don’t be fools, and don’t leave the fort or your brands will be activated. Understood?”

They all saluted in unison, prompting a snort from the Penitents already in the room.

Bayle looked at Michael. “Dump your things and meet me downstairs.”

He nodded, and started toward the nearest empty bunk as Bayle walked back down to the first floor of the tower.

“Fuck you think you’re doing?” asked one of the other Penitents, a fat man with long greasy hair, the jacket of his uniform undone.

Michael looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Putting down my gear.”

“Leave him be Arl,” muttered one of the other Penitents, a thin man with graying hair.

“That’s my bunk,” said Arl, ignoring the other man.

Michael looked at it again, seeing there was no gear on it, but not wanting to start trouble, moved to another bunk to place his gear down.

The fat man stood up and stepped toward him. “The fuck are you doing? I said that’s my bunk.” The other native penitents laughed.

Michael looked at him and sighed. “Are we going to have a problem?”

Ollie, Davi, Marcus, and Pyotr who were also placing their things down turned to look at the other Penitents with hands on hilts and brows furrowed.

The fat man raised his hands up. “Course not, course not. Just a bit a fun among us filthy criminals, you know?”

Michael didn’t respond, just placing his pack down and looking at Marcus.

Marcus returned the look and nodded at him. He’d look after his things while he was gone.

Michael made his way down the stairs to find Bayle standing at his desk writing more. Looking closer he realized that there were a number of maps on his desk along with detailed notes written in what looked at a glance like coded Hume.

Bayle closed his books and gestured for Michael to follow, which he did. They walked out of the tower and into the square that made up the interior of the fort.

“The notes I received showed that you can only heal physical injuries, not disease. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir.”

He shook his head. “Shame. Disease curing would be far more useful. They won’t let those with that blessing leave the capital too often, and a Penitent at our disposal with it… Oh well. Always good to have a healer in any case.”

They reached one of the large wooden buildings built against the concrete wall. MIchael marked the infirmary symbol, channeling some magicka and whispering “aqui,” as he did so. The interior of the infirmary was like a dark mirror of the one back at the academy. The layout was the same, as were the beds and tools that were scattered around, but that’s where the similarities ended. Here the beds were full. He could hear screaming, vomiting, and even sobs carrying throughout the entire building. There had clearly been attempts to keep things clean, but in spite of that there were bloodstains and patches of grime everywhere. The worst thing was the smell. The coppery scent of blood, the oddly sweet scent of infection, and the reeking stench of vomit and sweat.

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Michael whispered a short prayer to the divine, a habit he realized he’d developed over the last couple of weeks, and followed Bayle as they walked further inside toward a man with his sleeves rolled up cleaning a metal saw in a small metal basin.

“Medic Holt,”

The medic turned and gave a sharp salute, made even sharper by the saw in his hand. “Knight Lieutenant Bayle, what can I do for you sir?”

“We have just received a Penitent that is also a healer. Thought you might want to put him to use.”

The medic eyed the saw in his hand with a frown. “Shame you two hadn’t gotten here just a few minutes sooner.”

“Are there not other healers here?” asked Michael.

Holt nodded. “We’ve got two. They prioritize officers, specialists, and knights though. By the time they reach us they can only manage to heal one or two before they’re too tired to continue.”

“Since you’re a Penitent, you’re obligated to be on the front. We can just put you straight to work on the grunts,” said Bayle with a small smile.

Michael looked around, absorbing all of the misery around himself for just a moment. “Just point me in the right direction.”

Bayle looked at Holt. “I leave him in your care,” he looked at Michael. “Holt has a control brand. Keep that in mind.”

Michael nodded impatiently, wanting to get started.

Holt gestured for him to follow, and they moved to the far end of the infirmary. Michael focused, feeling the heat in his hand build as it began to glow gold, and got started right away.

The first man he healed had a shoulder wound from a spear, the second a broken foot, and the third two arrow wounds in his back. Michael healed them without issue, then restored the sight to a man that had been too close to a fireball, and healed some burns on the leg of someone else from his squad.

“These are all minor wounds. Is there anyone close to death that needs treatment?”

Holt shook his head. “We need to prioritize men we can send back to fight. Don’t worry about the others.”

“I can heal them now, and these others later.”

“No,” said the medic, his hand drifting to his brand. “Not unless everyone else is healed. It’s a waste.”

Michael clenched his teeth. He was already starting to tire from the constant healing, so the man may have had a point. He’d already healed more people than he’d ever done before at the academy, and many of them had more complex and severe injuries. If he was going to try to heal those near death, he’d need to heal everyone else first, and he’d need to do it quickly.

Holt stopped directing him to individuals and began just sending him to different sections. He healed a dozen more arrow wounds, burns from fire thrown by enemy mages, and slashes from enemy blades. Once he was through with them, he moved on to some broken limbs, a man whose face had been half caved in by a mace, and another who had a scar that looked to be the result of being struck by lightning.

He was breathing heavily as he watched a man’s jaw pop back into place, and nearly collapsed when he started working on those wounded by bullets. The enemy seemed to have had their own squad of dragoons and there were more than a dozen men wounded by gunfire who’d developed infections that required amputation. Michael was directed to heal only those who had been shot, but hadn’t yet had anything amputated. He did so, grimacing as he looked at the amputees he was directed to ignore. Feeling their eyes look at him with desperation, though they were far too weak to say anything.

He was shaking by the time he was reaching those who’d taken wounds to their organs. They reeked of blood and shit from unhealed gut wounds and leaking kidneys, but Michael healed all of them, watching their wounds seal and feeling their organs return to function even as his vision started to darken at the edges.

There were occasional mumbles of gratitude or curses spat at him whenever he healed anyone, but he ignored them. He was too focused on what he was doing. Finally, he was able to heal the direly wounded, those who were merely being made comfortable as they waited for death. He started with the amputees he’d been forced to ignore earlier. He was unsure of what would happen when he healed them, as he’d never tried to fix anyone who’d lost a limb before. He placed his glowing right hand on the first of them, and watched as the color returned to his cheeks and his breathing strengthened. He felt it as the wound on the man’s leg sealed closed. Michael was disappointed, he’d hoped that he’d be able to restore limbs, but it seemed that was beyond what he was capable of. He healed another, and the blackness at the edges of his vision closed completely.

He awoke on the ground, still sitting up somehow, and Holt moved to help him stand.

“That’s enough for the day I think. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone heal so many as you did today.”

Michael looked around, realizing that he was being watched not only by Holt, but also by nearly every medic and patient. He’d reduced their workload by quite a bit very carefully, and their faces had looks of awe tempered by confusion and hate.

Michael stood up, and took a deep breath.

“I can do more. I know I can do more.” He stumbled over to the next bed, a feverish man whose freshly removed forearm was still bleeding through the bandage. He placed a golden hand on him, and sealed his wound. This time when he was about to lose consciousness, he instead reached out, and took on some of the pain of the next nearest patient. The pain rocked him, feeling as if his own foot had been sawed off, but it kept him conscious, and drove the darkness encroaching on him away. He moved onto him, and repeated the technique. Once he was done with the amputees he healed the men so close to death they were barely breathing, feeling as if he was dragging them away from death through a pit of thick mud.

When he healed the last patient, he wasn’t sure how he was still standing. He was well past his limits, exhausted beyond all of his gifts and abilities, but he’d done it. He collapsed to his knees.

“Thank the divine,” he muttered to himself, and let the comfortable darkness take him.