Zasha's Capture (manxman)

Chapter 8

Fifty Three Cycles Later

Zasha knelt and packed a poultice into the soldier's wound. When the soldier grunted in pain, Zasha wished for the countless time that he could use his healing on every injury. 

Even after seventeen cycles of war, he still was not used to sounds of pain from the injured soldiers surrounding him. Unfortunately, healing took a great deal of energy. He needed to save that for those soldiers who would die without immediate healing.

He found it a bit ironic that he worked in such close proximity to the soldiers, considering the experience he had in the past. He had long ago forgiven the two men, understanding they were mistaken. He had come to realize that they had meant him no harm. Besides, he was a healer and his gift was needed.

Many of their race were granted the powers of healing, some directly from the Goddess herself, and others with the knowledge of herbs. Out of all those blessed by Areala with the healing touch, Zasha was easily the most powerful. He knew why. 

Once, long ago he had been Touched by the Goddess herself. He pushed that memory back inside him, refusing to dredge up those painful thoughts. There was enough pain and misery around him without adding his own personal demons. He prayed that today his healing would not be required.

He moved down the line, cleansing and treating the various wounds. No matter their pain, the soldiers always thanked him. Zasha smiled at each of them, sometimes he recognized those he had healed before.

"You look stunning again today, Zasha." The speaker was one of the soldiers Zasha had healed more times than he cared to remember. A few of them barely in time.

Zasha laughed. He was covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. He had not been able to really cleanse himself in weeks, and his hair was a filthy, tangled atrocity.

"Strange, Taran, your eyes seem to be uninjured. Did you take a blow to the head?"

"Perhaps." Taran grinned. "I hear that a kiss from a Princess can heal almost anything."

Zasha smiled. Taran did not know how close to the truth he was with that bit of flirting. It was a well kept secret that he was royalty. It would be a dangerous thing if it were to fall into the hands of the enemy. 

Zasha remembered how hard it had been to convince his sister that he should be involved in the war. She had argued that he was next in line for the throne, but Zasha had told her that her children could take his place if something happened to him. He had been blessed by Areala, and though no one knew he had been Touched, he knew his place was where he could help those who needed it most.

As the eldest twin, Cora had become ruler after his parents had been killed in the first wave of attacks. By some tragic coincidence, they had been out touring the region where the enemy's portals had opened unexpectedly. Their peaceful nation had been dragged into war.

It had been a disastrous time. Cora had to take the throne, and command of the army, at the young age of sixty four cycles. She, like Zasha, had been nearly helpless with grief and shock in the beginning. Thankfully, there were trusted advisors there to help her. Even so, she had proved to be an amazing queen, holding the Faerian together, as they fought against the invaders.

The attacking race were from a planet near the end of the same galaxy as Zasha's people. There had been no warning of any impending war. The Faerian and the Garkian had never had any contact at all, due to the conflict of their basic beliefs.

The Garkian worshipped the dark Goddess, Vrasam, who was Areala's sister. Areala was the goddess of peace and healing. Vrasam was the goddess of strife and death. It seemed that both goddesses blessed their followers with power. Where Areala granted the gift of healing, Vrasam granted the opposite. Her gift was the ability to withdraw the life force of others. 

Thankfully, it seemed Vrasam granted very few her gift, and those blessed with it had to be able to physically lay hands on their victims, skin to skin. In the first few months of fighting, this had not been known. The results had been catastrophic. Entire troops had been wiped out. Zasha shuddered in revulsion at the memory of what had been left of those killed by the cursed touch. It was an atrocious way to die, the life force being drained until nothing was left but a shell.

After the discovery, Cora had ordered every warriors to be coated with a substance that clung to their skin, preventing direct contact. It was easy enough to remove with water mixed with certain herbs, but that formula was a cherished secret, even Zasha did not know the compound.

His niece and nephew had actually invented it. Mora and Naban were also twins. Naban was the eldest, but they looked almost identical. The two of them were gifted with herbs. At only twenty two cycles, they were already more skilled than the elders.

Long ago, when Zasha had first realized that he was blessed with the gift of healing, he had gone to the temple to seek guidance and answers. A priestess had told him that Areala watched over the needs of her people, granting her blessings to the benefit of her followers. 

He believed it. He wondered how many soldiers lives had been spared due to his own gift. That was a fraction of the numbers spared by the medicine of his niece and nephew.

Mora and Naban had been born five cycles before the war had started. His sister had married a common soldier, the Faerian did not believe in arranged marriages, and they had been blessed soon after their union. Dafa and Cora had been ecstatic at the birth of the twins, and Zasha remembered the boundless joy he had felt as he had touched the tiny pairs of hands.

It had been a rare moment of happiness amidst his feelings of loneliness and abandonment, but even that had been disturbed. He remembered the stabbing pain he had felt a mere second after the bursting joy. It had felt as if his right eye were splitting open, it had been so intense he had actually lost consciousness. He still had a phantom ache there now and again.

"Thank you Princess."

The voice pulled him from his musings. Taran was smiling at him. Zasha was finally done dressing his wound.

"You are welcome, Taran. I hope I don't have to see you for a while."

"Ah! How sad! If you would accept my advances, I wouldn't have to resort to being wounded just to see you."

Zasha just grinned and moved to the next soldier. It was true, Taran would probably offer for Zasha seriously if he gave the man any indication that he would accept. But he would not. Zasha might have been abandoned, but he would not accept another in place of the one he loved. Even now he remembered in detail what had transpired fifty three cycles ago.

It had been a long time. He had come to accept that he would never be united to another. So many cycles, watching and waiting, visiting the secret chamber over and over, looking for any sign. After twenty cycles had passed, he had slowly begun to despair. 

After thirty, he had resigned himself to his fate. When Mora and Naban had been born, he had felt himself beginning to live again. They were the light of his world, along with his sister.

For many cycles after the initial separation, Cora had urged Zasha to find a mate. She had introduced him to many suitors, both male and female. Some he would have been seriously interested in, if not for the one already in his heart. 

He had finally told his sister that he was only interested in one person, and if that person returned to him, then and only then would he bind himself to another.

Cora had told him that she knew he meant it, and that she also knew he had been different since the day she had found him in the woods. Zasha had only looked at her; he had refused to answer the unspoken question. After that, she had never mentioned it again, and she no longer pushed him to get married. 

It still pained Zasha sometimes to see how happy Cora was with Dafa and their children, but he pushed those thoughts away when they came to him. He did not begrudge his sister's happiness. One must take what little bit was granted in these times.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind and set to treating all the soldiers who had been left to his care.