Gracium Hospella

The sick clotted the corridor. Every room was swollen with patients. Ramshackle beds lined the walls, each one shared by at least two ailing patients. Others slumped upon chairs, cushions, and boxes, clutching their hurting bodies and moaning weakly. Many more lay on the floor. By their sides, buckets overflowed with vomit and dung. The dreadful stench of a hundred maladies wafted down the hallway despite the windows having been thrust open for years; their hinges so rusted that they might never close again. Burning incense fought a futile battle against the foul odour. Yet despite the dreadful conditions, Gracium Hospella was a beacon of fleeting hope for those who rotted in its walls.

Every hour, the caretakers would arrive. They would remove the putrid buckets, wipe away the stains that clung to the floor, and replenish the burnt out incense. In spite of their tireless efforts, the building would always be steeped in filth. Then, in their wake, the healers would arrive. Their salves and ointments eased the pain and slowed the infection, but they could hope to achieve little more. Once immaculate white cloaks were now discoloured, smeared by countless hours beside disease-ridden patients. Attempts to wash away the stains had been fruitless. Across their faces, they wore cotton cowls dyed sunrise yellow, so that the weary could glimpse daylight in their darkest days. Flower-strewn necklaces hung about their necks. They were the devoted of the Kindly Deity, Ovias'Trintane, who had been two and now was one.

A golden glow began to bathe the dreary corridor in a gentle light. Its radiant rays strangled the shadows, igniting the eyes of the damned with hope. Nariel had arrived. The angel's presence alone was a soothing balm. All at once, the foetid stench was routed and the dying groans became feeble murmurs of admiration. His skin was polished marble and his hair was as brilliant as gold. Two great feathery wings were tucked behind his back. With his arrival, the devout healers were assailed by a legion of grasping hands. Desperate pleas grumbled from the hordes of ailing bodies, each begging to be selected. They knew most would be denied. From the ranks of the sick, a small number were brought forth before Nariel. They were horrifically frail, resembling a bundle of sticks cradled in the healers' arms. Hisses of spite rattled from the crowd; those who had not been chosen would be fortunate to survive the night. Those who had been chosen would shirk their maladies entirely.

Gaunt, shaking fingers reached towards Nariel. Gently, he offered an open palm to each of the bed-ridden before him. As their spindly digits prodded into his holy flesh, a small spark of incandescent light began to smoulder. Warmth rolled over the patient's body who gasped as if she was taking her first breath in days. One after another, the selected were remedied of their ailments. With their newfound strength, they began to worship the angel's mercy, falling to their knees in reverence. He humbly declined such adoration as the caretakers escorted the cured few from the building. As they left, the others began to crawl towards Nariel. Outstretched hands groped the air as if they were to snag some invisible rope attached to his person. Unease filled his face. He had little time to steep in this discomfort before a healer grabbed him by the shoulders. He needed to leave.

The sounds of despondent moans flooded in from all around as they navigated the corridor. The floor's filth retreated at his every footfall, but would not be gone for long. It would never be clean. Before him, the healer cleared a path, gently ushering the throngs of sickly patients out of his way. Despite the abject misery that swelled in every face, Nariel pushed on, pushing down his benevolent nature. He could not help them all. Then, Nariel stopped. There was someone he could not ignore. A child, a boy no more than three years old, hauled himself out from beneath a pile of rags. Trembling arms crawled forward as his legs sagged uselessly behind. Grime coated his face as if he had burrowed up from under the dirt, and his hair fell from his tiny skull in clumps. He babbled something incoherently, but it was unmistakably a plea. Tears welled in his beady eyes. At that moment, his escort's back was turned. Nariel reached down and offered a cleansing spark to the child. As she turned around, the healer whispered a nervous admonishment. Nariel knew that his decision was unwise, but he did not regret it.

The boy clambered to his feet with a jubilant shriek, before a caretaker scooped him from the floor and escorted him away. Nariel did not see this. The moment he imparted the blessing, his vision had blurred and his balance had faltered. He watched as the world began to teeter to one side and then the other. Beneath him, the ground seemed to lower and rise erratically. He hid his nausea well. Any other children who may have begged for his aid had their requests fall on deaf ears, for Nariel walked in a stupor. Fleeting vestiges of consciousness served to maintain a facsimile of awareness. Only when he was brought back to his own quarters did he allow himself to fall.

If it were not for the tireless healer at his side, his skull would have clashed with the tiles. Exhaustion seized his body. The countless days and nights he had spent attending to the infirm and enfeebled were taking their toll. He could not bestow as many blessings as he once did; his gracious patron themself weary from centuries of ceaseless war. The healer enquired if they could help to ease his pain, but Nariel dismissed her - she was more needed elsewhere. Nearly every fibre of his being was tired and yearning for respite. He could not afford it. The oath was clear. Whilst his body and mind begged for reprieve, the tiny shred of divinity within his chest demanded that he must carry on. Such duty is not easily denied.