Short Story Collection

The Healer's Mercy

The Healer's Mercy

The blades of grass tickle my bare feet as I ghost across the field. The smell has long since stopped bothering me. Overhead, the moon shines brightly, illuminating the graveyard. Bodies surround me on every side, in piles or just left where they fell. This is the reason why I am here.

I descend the hill and begin my search. I probe the battlefield for weak, pained auras that are barely clinging to life. I may be too late; the battle took place this morning. I pass three fallen soldiers in a row, and I read their name tags as I go: Hernandez, Johnson, and Dwyer. The ground beneath them is soaked in blood. I am too late to save them.

Something catches my attention then, and I tear my eyes away from Hernandez. A faint aura calls to me. Hurriedly, I walk in the direction of the poor soul. I find him lying half-underneath another body, rasping in wet, shallow breaths.

I kneel at his side, move the soldier from on top of him, and read his name tag: Jimenez. "Jimenez, can you hear me?" I ask, touching his arm.

"Who are you?" He pants, pain piercing his aura.

"Shh, I am here to help," I say.

"My leg," Jimenez groans, and his hands twitch as if to touch it. His eyes squeeze shut and he continues his labored breaths. I am lucky to have found him.

I tear the fabric of his pants and expose the wound on his leg: a deep, jagged cut that looks to be showing early signs of infection. I place my hands on either side of the wound and, ignoring Jimenez's cry of pain, begin to channel healing energy into him. The muscle, fat, and sinews of his leg begin to knit back together under my touch. Jimenez groans and twists underneath my hands as his body repairs itself.

When the process is over, I stand and turn to go.

"Wait," Jimenez says.

I look back at him. He's sitting up, studying his leg incredulously. He looks up at me with childlike wonder in his eyes.

"How did you do that?" He asks softly, like he's afraid of scaring me away.

"It is a gift," I reply.

"Thank you," Jimenez says sincerely. I give him a nod and continue walking the battlefield. I have been doing this for centuries. I have found, over the course of my painstakingly long existence, that soldiers are the most rewarding to heal. They are often young and, like Jimenez, grateful for a second chance. Sometimes I come to the battlefields dressed as a nurse, and then they don't ask so many questions. Tonight, however, I am just myself.

I continue searching for survivors for another hour, but it has become clear to me that I should have been quicker in getting here. I have just decided to leave when I sense it. It is the faintest hint of an aura, very pained and fading fast. I turn and rush into the woods. This soldier must have been retreating when he was hurt. Please let me get to him in time. I have never successfully brought someone back from the dead.

I see the soldier lying in between two trees and I pick up the pace. I am ten yards from him when his aura goes out. "No!" I exclaim. I kneel next to him and search for his wounds. There are minor scrapes and bruises going up and down his arms, and there's a bullet hole in his side that's still leaking blood.

Hastily, I lay my hands on his side and desperately summon healing energy. I funnel it into the soldier's body, but it does nothing. His body cannot heal itself if it's dead. But I am not willing to give up on him just yet. I concentrate harder and push more healing energy at him.

Suddenly, a strange feeling comes over me. I feel my own life force leaving my fingertips and channeling into the soldier beneath me. It is a terrifying feeling, but I look down and see his bullet wound healing, so I persist. I begin to grow faint as I surrender my life force to the fallen soldier. I watch him carefully, willing my eyes to stay open. I see him take a breath and I lift my hands from his chest.

I sit back on my heels and try to stop my head from spinning. I just brought someone back from the dead! I tuck my long black hair behind my ears and take a good look at the soldier. He had greyish-blond hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose. He looks to be young, about twenty-five. As I study his face, he opens his eyes and fixes me with a soft blue stare.

"Are you an angel?" He murmurs, sitting up slowly.

I have to laugh, but not because his comment is funny. I have been called an angel before. I laugh because I am in shock, and am, quite frankly, exhausted. "I am not an angel," I say.

"Then what are you?" He presses.

"A healer."

"I was dead," he shakes his head. "I remember dying. I was gone. But then there was this bright light and this warm feeling... did you bring me back?"

"Yes," I reply. "I had no idea I was capable of it."

I take a moment to sense his aura. It is strong, bright, and growing brighter. I cannot sense my own aura, but I know instinctively that this soldier is like me now.

"What is your name?" I ask.

"Patterson. Sergeant Tripp Patterson," he tells me.

"Well, Sergeant Patterson, welcome back." I smile and get to my feet. Immediately, a wave of nausea rolls over me.

"Are you alright?" Sergeant Patterson asks me.

"Yes," I murmur, trying to steady myself.

"Sit down," he urges. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, but then I sit at his side. My knee-length white dress fans out around me. "You don't seem well," He says, touching my shoulder in concern.

"I am fine," I reply. "Just weak. I gave you some of my life force in order to bring you back. Do you feel any different?"

"I feel stronger," Sergeant Patterson says.

"Good."

"Am I a healer now, too? Like you?" He asks.

"I am not sure," I reply. "But I do know it will be much more difficult for you to die again."

Sergeant Patterson takes a moment to let the full impact of my words sink in. He is an immortal now: he must be. The same life force resides within both of us. He fixes me with deep curiosity in his blue eyes. "Forgive me for asking your age," he ventures.

This makes me smile. "I am four hundred and fifty-one years old, Sergeant Patterson," I say.

"Please, call me Tripp," he corrects, staring at me in awe.

"Alright, Tripp," I concede. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm scared," he admits. "Am I going to live forever?"

"Is that not better than dying?" I ask.

"Not if I'm alone."

I study Tripp's face. He is genuinely afraid. It would be wrong of me to resurrect him and then send him off into immortal life to figure everything out for himself. He has my life force within him, and as far as I know, we are the only two of our kind in the world. We ought to stick together.

"Come with me," I say.

Tripp looks up in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." I give him a small smile. "You have a lot to learn about this life. Plus, I do not want to be alone for all of eternity, either."

I get to my feet, steadier this time. Tripp is quick to follow suit. "Can I ask another question?" He says as we begin walking through the forest, away from the battlefield.

"Go ahead," I nod.

"What's your name?"

The simple question takes me by surprise. No one ever asks my name. I look up at my companion, who is a few inches taller than me. He waits patiently for a response.

"Aemilia," I tell him.

"That's a pretty name," Tripp muses.

"Thank you," I say in surprise. We fall into silence as we continue through the forest. I am unexpectedly grateful to have Tripp by my side. Already I feel less lonely. If I have to face all the ages of the earth, I think, Sergeant Tripp Patterson is not a bad person to do so with.