Chapter 7 - continued

"Hello young man. It's good to know that you survived," said the voice. The deep bass resonance of the words reverberated in Donovan's ears. The man's voice sounded tough, hardened, and very guttural.

The man, dressed in full Protectorate armor, introduced himself. "My name is Nox. I am a captain within the guard. I believe we might have met before." Captain Nox was easily past the midpoint of his life and his hair was graying along the edges. Upon his face was a long white mustache, and it trailed off his chiseled chin like two twin waterfalls. Several wrinkles could be seen around the corners around his eyes. Pock marks and other small spots of color dotted his sullen face.

"I am here to personally thank you for your services to the town. Your actions during the previous battle are to be commended like those of a hero. Your masterful attack that brought down the evil creature saved hundreds of lives. Both the lives of civilians and the lives of those in the Church were spared because of you. It is valiant warriors like yourself that make a good example for the other soldiers.

"Protect that which matters most at all costs. You live that mantra to the fullest my boy!"

Donovan lay there in his bed silent. He was most certainly awake, but he did not welcome this new visitor. Reminiscing about previous battles with a veteran captain was not something that he was in the mood to participate with on this day.

"As you can see around you, the Holy Protectorate has paid a high price for this victory. Many of your compatriots were either killed in battle, or they lay beside you in this hospital gravely injured. It is with good fortune that you were not harmed any further than you are. It is also lucky that you weren't killed from that explosion within the square for that matter."

Donovan gritted his teeth; not from pain, but from frustration. Images of the bakery being utterly destroyed ran through his mind. This discussion was not helping Donovan's morale in the slightest.

"Of course, with the loss of your eye you will not be able to serve the Church as you once had.

"It's a shame too. You were on your way to becoming a great warrior. The Protectorate most certainly need every well-bodied soldier we can get. Losing someone as yourself is a heavy blow."

A temper within the injured warrior grew. He thought to himself, "Was he now worthless with only the sight from his single eye remaining? Couldn't he still fight with the vigor of a raging bull should the need arise? Why was the loss of a single eye the death of his career?

"And what did he mean by 'on his way to becoming a great warrior'? Wasn't he already a great warrior? He had slain a great Pontia!" He continued to listen to the captain, the anger within him brewing.

"We still don't know quite what we're gonna do with you yet, but we will. We have to let you heal some more before we can determine where you would be of the best use for the Church. We have to see whether you are actually still fit to carry a sword, let alone swing one with any accuracy. I'm certain that you will be able, but we'll just have to wait and see.

"So get some rest my boy, the Protectorate needs you! Heal up and we'll talk again."

Without Donovan speaking a single word, the lopsided conversation was over. Captain Nox left Donovan's bedside and walked over to one of the other men sitting in a bed further down into the barracks. The wounded soldier had lost his entire right arm from the shoulder down. Large cotton bandages wrapped his upper torso; they were tinted a faint red, presumably from some bleeding that was still taking place underneath. Donovan could vaguely hear the captain talking, his speech strikingly similar to the one he had spoken to Donovan. Donovan's anger within him grew even further.

Donovan stayed in the hospital for several more weeks after his talk with Captain Nox. The warrior was plagued by ghoulish nightmares as he slept; nightmares that made him twist and turn in his bed, screaming. Sweat would bead down his face, and his hair would become drenched with perspiration.

Each time he had one of his nightly episodes, several of the threaded stitches along his body would break open. Fresh blood mixed with the glue-like sealant would stain his clothes and bed linen. Each broken stitch necessitated repair, a painful process requiring the use of a long iron needle. Each time his injury was mended, the length of time required to stay in the hospital recovering grew even longer. The skin around the wound also had to be pulled tighter and tighter with each procedure in attempts to seal the lesion. The physical pain as well as the mental anguish never dissipated.

The only uplifting hours of his days were when the nurse Bella would come to tend to him. Since most of the other non-gravely injured soldiers had been able to leave the hospital by this point, she was able to spend more of her time caring for Donovan. She consoled with the hurt warrior the best that she could, but most of her herbal remedies had little effect on the soldier.

One of the few things that did in fact help him forget the pain was her smile. It was because of her company and because of her smile that he began to look forward to her presence.

Since it had been over a month since he had seen the outside world, she would often talk about what she had experienced each day during her travels between her home and the church. She would describe the common red sparrows that congregated on building gutters, and how they would chirp and jump at each other when scavenging for food. She spoke of the different smells: first the sulphuric fumes of the blacksmith's forge, followed by the aromatic fragrances of the herbalist shop where they kept healing supplies. She retold tales of children playing in the street, chasing each other during games of tag. The joyous activities in the town outside, compared to the misery of this crudely constructed hospital, fed Donovan's will to get better.

She often offered Donovan cups of Ifriit leaf tea in futile attempts to calm his pain. Donovan still despised the bitter taste; but if it pleased her when he drank the putrid liquid, then drink it he did.

On more than one occasion, she had caught him staring deeply into her eyes as she recounted her daily travels. His single remaining eye did not blink and he did not shy away. This always made her cheeks blush a little and her smile would grow a bit wider.

One day, Bella did not return to the hospital. Donovan at this point was the sole resident still living within the reapportioned hospital barracks. An older parish member came and spoke with him on this morning.

He was told that with the new spring recruits arriving soon, Donovan would have to relocate back to his old barracks which he had occupied prior to the attack. The space that was being used for the Church hospital had to be transformed back into living quarters for the new students.

Donovan however was not yet fully healed. Within the past week, he had been able to get up and walk around the building, but he still wore the stitches along his front side. With the eviction, he would simply have to make due, possibly having a nurse remove them at a later date.

When he arrived back at his barracks of old, memories and thoughts flooded into his mind. No Protectorate members other than Captain Nox had come to see him while he lay in the hospital. With Sidney dead, he had no other friends within the Church that would have visited him. In fact, he did not really know whom he might be sharing his current quarters with, especially with all the deaths the Church had experienced.

The depression that had subsided due to Bella's presence bubbled to the surface. Reclining in his bed of old, tears began to flow from his right eye. At first it started as just a whimper, but progressively his fragile emotions grew into a steady cry. He rolled onto his side and curled up his body into a ball. He lay there, sobbing in his bed, completely and utterly miserable.

Continue to Chapter 8