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A healer’s work was never done.

Much as there would always be powers that be and speakers to carry their message, as there would be water that fell from the heavens, and as the sun would rise, there would always be those coming into this world and leaving it, and enduring the sicknesses and ailments that came with living in the in between. Many of the Sisters and Brothers of the Sanctum believed that the powers of the church and the powers of physicians were two hands connected to the same body. Those who tended to the ailments of the physical form the gods had chosen to carry each soul, and those tasked with tending the ailments of the soul itself and enabling deeper understanding, connection and communication with the divine beyond.

Zekiel was inclined to agree, though he didn’t think of it in quite so many words or with as much distinction. So far as he saw it, he was a healer to whatever degree the world would allow him to be, a vessel to service all those brought into the world under Dafiel and Lurin, through which the gods could act at will. Thus, when he was selected and tasked with making prayer rounds in one of the local medicinal facilities, to shadow one of the healers-in-training there and give ritual blessings to the patients, he couldn’t have been more delighted.

Though he had witnessed the common blessings given a hundred times, it would be the first time he bestowed such a service without the watchful eye of Brother or Sister of higher rank. He was still, however, escorted by Sanctum service patrolmen to the site of the clinic, and upon arrival — seeing no one else immediately available to ask — he strode forward, approaching what appeared to be a single, slightly-dozing guardsman at the front of it.

“Pardon me and blessings be upon you,” Zekiel greeted cheerily, sending the man snapping to a startled, more upright position. After waiting for his grunting and head-shaking to cease, Ze smiled, hands folding before him. “I have been sent to meet with Tacrith, to give the common blessings to the patients here at your wondrous facility. I am most sorry if I disturbed your resting, but might you know where I’d find him if I looked? Or if you would prefer it, I could look myself, but I would not want to go looking and not find him and he think that I never—”

“‘N who’re you?” the guard interrupted, squinting as though the light overhead were especially bright, his words slurred at the edges. His eyes dipped though after he voiced the question, skimming over Ze’s robes and then to the Sanctum escorts. “Priest…mmm…”

“Zekiel,” Ze provided. “Or ‘Ze’, if it would please you more to—”

“You c’n…” The man waved his hand vaguely, scrunching his eyes shut and yawning. “Head on ‘nside. He’s prolly…ask one o’ them girls at the front desk, aye?”

“Very well!” Ze perked up, smile spreading. “I will do just that, thank you greatly and may you enjoy the rest of your resting, gods be at your back.” To the parting tune of the guardsman’s muttered grunt, Zekiel strode inside.

After the first girl scurried off, Zekiel waited patiently, his eyes wandering free about the place as he did and absorbing the details with interest. Being a place that saw both the coming of new life and the passing of those into the next world, it seemed to Ze to be at a pivoting point, wreathe with tremendous energy and home to many workings of the gods—of all varieties, giving, and taking. It put a prickle of excitement beneath his skin, and he hoped that performed well in an area where, more surely than anywhere except perhaps within the walls of the church itself, the gods were always watching.

When returning footsteps sounded, his attention perked, and his expression warmed immediately into a return smile at the boy—not that much older than he, if at all. “I am,” he said, “and blessings be upon you. You are Tacrith…?” His attention darted sidelong at the extra question, landing momentarily on his escorts before he gave a minute shake of the head. “It is only me. Though they may continue to follow me if that would please you more? They accompanied me through the city,” he explained, “as I am not to walk it alone. They serve as ‘a mortal hand through which the gods offer their divine protection to the Sanctum and its keepers.’”

The line had been recited to him enough times that it rolled off the tongue as though triggered by a tripwire, but Ze smiled nonetheless and stepped nearer to his guide.

“It is wondrous to meet you, in any case. Have you served the facility long? I imagine it must be so exciting.”

“It does take all sorts to fill a world, and so do the gods create all in variety,” Ze agreed, any sourness or disbelief in the other boy’s tone rolling off of Zekiel’s oblivious nature like rain from an oil slick. “The world does also seem to need a great deal done on paper, though I struggle with such work myself and hope it comes easier to you than I. Need…?”

Zekiel blinked for a moment. It was this place and the people here who were in need, not the other way—?

And then just as quickly he understood, expression snapping back from bewildered to pleased and reassuring as he shook his head hastily. “I need nothing,” he said. “Everything that must be done requires only what I have on me, though…” He paused, catching lightly at the cloth of Tacrith’s sleeve in an instinctive gesture, only belatedly realizing it might be taken as invasive and thus dropping the grip a moment later. “We must begin with the east rooms and progress to the west, if we might?”

“Well, we ought,” Ze corrected himself, smiling with a pinch of sheepishness, but pleased at least that the words had earned a chuckle from his company even if it did come at his expense. “We ought to begin there if it’s to be done correctly. But you know the way of things here, not I.”

Still, when Tacrith moved, Zekiel followed, happy to note that the direction of things didn’t seem to matter one way or the other to Tacrith. When the other boy paused though, expression pinching in a wince, Ze blinked, blanking for an instant.

“Squeam…?”

His mind flicked, drawing helpfully from the backlogs of past experience and dropping to the forefront a memory in which someone had been brought to the church. A person, surely, but barely recognizable from shape alone. One of his fellow prentices who’d been called forward to help with the process of moving, cleaning, and cleansing before delivering the body to the mortuary had collapsed on the spot, and a number of others hadn’t been able to stand the sight, eventually leaving only himself, Sister Mortrem, and one of the older acolytes to carry them in.

His smile was small, almost flat when he shook his head and answered. “No.”

Having drawn to mind at the word a face or body parts unrecognizable from their original form, to see the curtain pulled and a man — for the most part — all himself but for a deeply damaged leg, Zekiel’s smile returned, warming perhaps a touch beyond what was appropriate all told, but hopefully not edging to the point where persons took offense. He stood back at first, waiting until Tacrith had calmed the man before progressing in.

At the plea he blinked, but immediately after nodded. “Of course,” he said, “though you are steeped in blessings already.” If the man looked miffed and disbelieving when he scoffed, Zekiel continued without feeling its effect, reaching instead to the train of smooth, tapioca beads held hanging at his waist and folding them into his grip. “You have one magnificent leg, a mind, a tongue, your breath, your beating heart, and Tacrith’s loyal and hard-working company.” His mouth curved a fraction more up at the corner. “And you have the blessings of the gods through my word.”

With a soft but clear voice, Zekiel recited, “Blessed be those under the divine beyond and in humble askance we beseach comfort in our tribulation, mercy in our times of suffering, patience through our fiercest trials. By Lurin, Father of Light and divine grace, may those in pain find relief and stronger fortunes in their future for what they have endured; by Dafiel, Mother of Night and divine protection, may those suffering the storm rains find shelter in your deliverance. In light and in shadow ever may we find our way to you.”

Gesturing in a practiced motion over his chest, Zekiel closed the prayer and glanced to the bedded man. “I think you will find yourself in good hands here…but I pray that you needn’t linger much longer. May your recovery be swift. Do you truly fear a curse?”

Zekiel watched with interest when Tacrith went about his work, though his eyes flicked immediately back to the patient when he spoke, and he smiled. “Perhaps a stepping stone?” he suggested. “The gods give lessons in ways sometimes difficult to understand, or painful in the experience, but often we cannot know their value until the lesson has passed and we have come to the other side to appreciate its boon. Your wife will surely be pleased both to know your truth and to see you well again. I hope you send her my blessings also and come to visit the Sanctum when you are well enough to make the journey with her.”

When Tacrith had finished his work, Zekiel bid the patient farewell as they departed, and once beyond the walls of that room, Ze let his gaze wander to the boy at his side, curiosities budding.

“If I might and it please you to answer,” he began at length, “…what lead you to understand that this was your path? To serve the gods through tending to those most in need and pain is a kind and noble task, but not an easy road to walk or suited to everyone…and you do it with heart.”

Zekiel’s attitude remained warm, not so much as wavering at Tacrith’s initial flat reply. Though of course a church and thus a religious organization, the Sanctum worked with and to serve persons of all sorts, and in the process — though most of Yael’s citizens were faithful in varying degrees — had dealt frequently enough with those who either struggled with or had renounced their faith. In many ways, however, it was Zekiel’s belief that those were the ones who could benefit most from the church’s message.

“To serve the gods’ children is a service to heaven,” Zekiel said, but he put no pressure or malice in the words. To him, it was as much an agreement with Tacrith’s assertion as anything. Tacrith was serving the people. Whether or not he did so with any intent to serve the gods mattered little beyond that; it was still a blessing and a gift. “You have healed well, but carry it with you still,” Ze noted. “Your soul does seem at peace here. It is pleasant to be near, and I am sure it does its own wonders for those you service.”

As they approached the next room, low, rasping groans could be heard from within, and Zekiel wondered what all states of critical need the facility accepted, and how many — if any — of those within the building were already set on an unalterable course to meet the gods.

Zekiel nodded. Of course the damage would not feel ‘healed’ to Tacrith until it had been restored to its initial functionality—or, as close to that as could be achieved. Some things never fully healed, but Zekiel spared silent hope and a momentary prayer that Tacrith’s was in the former category and that eventually, full range of movement would be his again.

When a mask was offered, Ze took it, situating it carefully before pulling it on and securing it. “What ailment do they suffer here?” he asked, quietly enough that hopefully his words wouldn’t carry to to the patient—just in case such an inquiry would be seen as rude—and further muffled by the cloth, but still audible.

Though he hadn’t spared much thought to it before, that particular risk—of being ever-exposed to the many diseases suffered by their attendees—was one borne especially heavy by those in the healing sector. Ailments of the mind and spirit were rarely catching.

Ailments of the body, however, were another matter altogether.