The Healer’s Touch

This is the Flash Fiction version of my Novella of the same name. Enjoy!

The Healer never died.

How many soldiers had died in his arms? He didn’t remember.

How many slipped past his guard through the gate? He’d lost count.

The Healer never died.

Out on the battlefield he labored, mending ruptured veins, severed muscles and broken bones or easing the pain of the slipping.

All those wounds — shafts of arrows in craters of flesh, slices of blades gaping like valleys, pierces of spears, wells filling quickly — so much blood. Every time he was amazed by the pain. An ocean of pain covering the battlefields like thick, dark, suffocating waters.

Dozens, hundreds, thousands and thousands more perished, devoured by the hunger of war.

But the Healer never died.

He had stood in rains of arrows, been overran by cavalry onslaught, fallen into flaming furnaces. No arrow had ever hit him, no horse ever ran him over, no flame ever burned him.

He seemed invisible to death.

The Healer never died.

People had begged him to save them. He’d pulled back as many as he could from the threshold of hell’s gates.

People had begged him to let them pass. He had learned to make hard choices.

At days, he wanted to follow them. On better days, he loathed this wish.

The Healer never got injured, he never bled.

Until the day he did.

The Killer lived no longer.

She saw her arrow enter his chest beneath the right shoulder. Time froze with equal impact.

He saw her. A look of such intensity. Surprise and pain flickered on the surface, but the depth beneath swallowed her whole. His eyes locked hers, an inescapable grasp, strong, but soft — like a gentle touch.

The feeling started to fade — ever faster the more she tried to hold onto it. Because …

The Killer lived no longer.

The pain had been too much. It had broken her. Never again had she allowed feeling to enter her heart.

She had become a killer, lifeless, taking from others what she had long lost. Death couldn’t reach her in battle, because he had won her already.

The Killer lived no longer.

Swords and spears and axes never hit her. She was as invisible to them as to their owners. For years, she hadn’t been noticed, emotionally starved to death for not being seen, touched, …

The Killer was dead.

Until the Healer saw her.

The arrow stuck in his chest. The Healer looked at it, stunned. Then he saw the Killer. Never had he seen a soul so void — so shattered.

Thick walls around her inner core kept the tempest of pain at bay. He saw it all.

Then his legs gave in and he fell to his knees.

His eyes saw right through her walls and heavy gates. No lock or chain or door or stone could keep him out. The Killer’s heart started beating, fueled by the heat of new life.

It was pain, it was salvation.

Then she saw him fall. Their eye-contact broke, and with it the long-forgotten spark of hope faded.

She rushed to him.

The Healer woke to physical pain — a feeling which had floated in oblivion for long.

She was there with him, staring at him, caught up in an inner wrestle.

She had removed the arrow and cleaned the wound. He needed to rest, she’d said, and would recover eventually. He felt the damage in his chest, the rattling ache in his lungs, the numbing weakness. He had healed enough wounds — he knew better.

But there were more important things at stake. He reached for her hand and opened his soul to hers.

The Killer dared to break down her walls.

At first, the pain soured through her like a stream of fire, akin to great pressure released all too sudden, threatening to devour her. But the Healer took it in, absorbed it, fighting to free her.

Day after day he gave room for her grief, listened, shared her torment, took it upon himself.

Day by day, her wounds healed further.

Day by day, he got weaker.

The Healer could see her feelings return like sprouting buds, heralding the end of winter. Spring was at hand. The scars detached from her identity. He prayed for the strength to heal her fully.

The Killer watched him sleep. He had healed her enough to allow the rich feeling of love flow through her veins again. Gratitude melted the frozen stasis in her heart. She prayed for his survival. He mustn’t die!

He awoke — he knew, for the last time. He could feel it. Slowly, weakly, he grasped her hand.

She saw it, denied it. Tears streamed down her face, hot, soothing.

He saw her pain, this time rooted in love. He smiled.

She leaned forward, her eyes drowning in his. Their lips touched but for a moment of eternity.

As he exhaled his life, she found hers again.