by Michael Mood
He looked down at his glowing forearm and covered it with his robe.
Maybe he was blessed.
But he sure didn't feel like it.
-6-
Otom knew that as he traveled to the Temple of Sin'ra he would relive his past no matter how hard he tried to keep it out. Thirteen years. He didn't forget. He had only buried the thoughts. He would have to pass through Kilgaan. That place would dredge up memories from him like bodies from a lake.
He would also have to travel past Pakken, the place where he had grown up. He would have to be reminded of his parents.
And he had no doubt that thoughts of her would come rushing back to his head.
He had been fooling himself for a long time, tricking himself into thinking that he could run from the past.
No.
He could never forget her. Could never forget Allura Finny no matter how hard he tried.
And he could never forget how thoroughly he had failed her.
Chapter 3 – A Woman of Faith and Scars
-1-
Cleric Domma walked down the dimly lit hallway, her slippered feet making no noise. She had been to this hospital many times in the past, and she was always sad to see that not much ever changed. It was cold and shabbily build, the structure cracking and falling apart. The city of Haroma could certainly afford better than this, but the money always seemed to go to other places. There are always more exciting ways for the rich to spend their gains. She chastised herself for thinking that way, but couldn't help it when she saw this place.
Domma pulled her hood lower so that it fell halfway over her eyes, leaving just the lower half of her face visible. She had found that the art of the reveal was the most important part of helping unwilling patients.
Her robe was blue with golden borders and was the standard garb of a Sunburst Cleric. Underneath it she wore a simple shift and, under that, bandages that wrapped her from stomach to neck. Without her robe on she would have looked somewhat like a hospital patient herself. The bandages weren't because she was injured, though; they were part of the trappings of her Order.
“But I don't want to see her!” someone shouted from a side room.
“Cleric Domma is different,” another voice asserted. “She-”
“I don't care if she dances naked for me!” the other person screamed. “I don't want a woman of God in this room with me! Prayer won't help me! Nothing can help me!”
Domma winced. So it's another case like this. Through all of her work with the mentally ill she had come across almost every scenario one could think of. She had been threatened numerous times, screamed at, cried to, attacked, sexually assaulted, and even proposed to.
She peeked her head into the room. She'd never been in this particular one. It was dark, but a few torches allowed her to see a rickety bed that was fitted with chains, the thinnest and most tattered of sheets stretched across it. The walls were padded with some kind of straw or grass, probably to keep the room's occupant from harming himself, but also possibly because this hospital had been converted from a barn. The sweet smell was rather pleasant.
The patient sat on the edge of the bed, not chained up at the moment, although Domma had dealt with patients who'd had to be restrained for her safety. A Warden in a brown robe stood in front of the patient, blocking his view of the door. The patient had not seen Domma enter. That usually worked to her advantage.
Now that she could see a part of the patient she was able to Delve him, spending the tiniest bit of her power to give her a slight advantage. The tiny snippets she could learn from his mind might give her the edge she needed to build rapport with him. Delving was random. Images and phrases would stream into her mind, most of them nonsensical, impossible to comprehend or grasp onto. But sometimes, if she used her gleanings cleverly, it could be enough.
Gzzt.
The sound, like a static shock, let Domma know that her Delving had begun. The thoughts flowed into her brain. Small, small things. Pieces of the patient's mind. Random. Unsorted. Mostly irrelevant.
She stepped fully into the room.
“Oh, shit!” the patient yelled, clearly startled.
“Please, Stipson,” the Warden said. “Cleric Domma is a woman of God and does not need to hear such words.”
Now that Domma was inside she recognized the Warden. His name was Potter and she'd worked with him a few times over the years. He was a man in his mid thirties, making him just a bit younger than her. He had a handsome face and dark brown eyes, still kind and understanding even after the abuse he took from his patients on a daily basis.
“It is quite alright, Potter,” Domma said, her voice silky. She tilted her head to the side, giving Stipson a quizzical look from inside her hood. “Stipson,” she said. Gzzt. “A dockworker were you?”
Stipson looked at her dumbfounded. The thin bed covers that he had been clutching in defense fell from his hands. “How did you know? I haven't told the Warden . . . I . . .”
Domma took a step forward. “That is a proud lineage; the name Stipson. I know most of the family lines of the docks. Haroma would be crippled without our sea trade.”
“Yeah, I used to work for my da' on the docks.”
Gzzt.
“A ship called Seastorm Blessing?” Domma took another step forward. “She ran cargo up and down the coast and even, very very rarely, to the island nation of Trirene. Have you ever been there? To Trirene? I hear there are very few that have.”
“Look, I don't know what you're doing,” Stipson shouted, “but I don't want you to come any closer!” He scuttled back on the bed.
“Stipson, please,” said Potter, ever the polite one. “If Cleric Domma is bothering you-”
“I am not bothering him,” Domma said firmly, giving Potter a look that she hoped would tell him to stay out of this one. “I know so much about you Stipson because God has told me.” Gzzt. “You love cats. Admirable, for they are important creatures.”
“Warden could have told you all that! Wait. No . . . You're a spy! A witch of some sort!” She hadn't lost him, not yet. He was just taking a moment to drop his guard.
“Come now,” said Domma. “Witches are a fantasy. I assure you my powers are very real, granted from God himself so that I might do work on this earth. If you could relax a bit, and with the Warden's permission, I think we should pray together.”
Stipson frowned. “I don't know,” he said, but he seemed to waver. Domma said nothing more. She stood silently in the center of the small room.
“It's what she does, Stipson,” said Potter. “If you try it and you do not like it, you don't have to continue with it. I simply asked her to come because I thought . . . you could benefit from her guidance.”
“I never needed no God before,” Stipson grumbled.
Domma took one more step and then she saw it. On the side of Stipson's head there was a gross indentation. The hair around it was just starting to grow back; some of it probably never would. The poor man was suffering from some kind of massive head injury. It wasn't a wonder he had ended up here.
There weren't many that did what Domma did. If Domma and her sisters hadn't fought for these hospitals to be put up, people like Stipson would most likely have led painful lives, possibly never fully recovering from their ailments. Stipson only looked to be about nineteen. He had many years ahead of him and being in this condition was no way to spend them.
“That's a nasty wound,” Domma said. “Did Potter here patch you up?”
“He did. I been here a few months, I guess. Time's funny. Slips in and out.”
"In and out like the tides."
"Yeah," Stipson agreed. "Like the tides."
“Warden," Domma said, turning to Potter, "you may leave us and attend to anyone else you see fit. You do have other patients, do you not?”
“You know that I do, Cleric,” Potter said. His eyes met Domma's as he left and there was something in them that Domma recognized. She heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
<
br /> He's quite taken with me, she thought. I will have to be careful with myself around that one. But he wasn't bad looking. He always kept his beard trimmed and his head shaved so clean. And he had always done incredible work here.
“May I sit?” Domma asked, abandoning her thoughts of Potter.
Stipson almost jumped to oblige her. It was odd how a few well-placed and much-loved facts could put someone almost under your power. Domma and Stipson shared the bed, she at one end and he at the other. Domma almost never got nervous anymore.
“You are a woman of God?” Stipson asked.
“I am,” she said.
“How do you know, though? When I was younger I think I used to believe. I don't know.” Stipson put his hand to his head. “Sometimes it hurts so much I just want it to stop. How do you know He's real? Can you . . . can you . . . or can He . . . help me?” He had a pleading sort of look on his face, his words coming out slowly.
Domma reached up slowly and lowered the hood of her cloak. She revealed a head that was completely devoid of hair. In truth her entire body was like that: no eyebrows, no eyelashes, nothing under her arms, or below her waist. The hood worked for the reveal. That was one of the reasons she always wore it.
Other times she was simply ashamed.
In the center of her forehead was a large, round, swirling scar. There was no skull in that spot underneath the scar. Her head was soft there, much like a baby's soft spot. She'd had a tattoo inked to outline the scar: a Sunburst, the symbol of her order.
“I know God is real,” Domma said, “because He has healed me. And yes. He can help you.”
-2-
“That scar,” Stipson breathed. “There's men on the docks got cut by knives and swords and such, but . . . what the he- . . . what happened to you?” He swallowed hard.
Domma smiled gently. “A childhood injury. I remember little of it, myself. But those who witnessed it tell me that I was shot by a bandit. The crossbow bolt stood out a good foot from my head.”
“And you didn't die outright to that sort of attack?”
“It seems obvious that I didn't,” Domma said. “And, though I remember a lot of pain, I survived. All but my hair.”
“Where did it all go?” Stipson asked, taking a drink of water from a clay mug that he kept on the floor near the bed.
“The physic thought the bolt was poisoned,” she replied.
“There is such a thing? I never heard o' no poison like that on the docks.”
“I'm sure it meant to take my life. The fact that it got only my hair is a notion I'm fine with.”
“That's horrible,” said Stipson. “You've had a . . . lot of problems?”
Domma nodded. “The worst part is how the wound has affected my memory. A lot of my past is a blur. No matter how much I talk to God he won't tell me what my past held. I can remember my early, early childhood, then there's a large, patchy gap, then it fades back in on the steps of the Sunburst Temple.”
“God won't tell you?”
“If you've ever talked to Him, Stipson, you would know it can be exceedingly frustrating.”
Stipson frowned again, a face that Domma was now starting to associate with him thinking. “How come we don't all have the powers of a . . . what are you called?”
“I am a Sunburst Cleric of the First Grace,” she said, “but I think what you are referring to is the fact that I am a Devotee. We are sometimes called Faithful Mages, but we don't prefer it. And, of course there are many other names, some nasty like Prayer Witch or Godswhore. I prefer Devotee over those.”
“Yes,” said Stipson nodding his head. “Devotee. How did you get your powers?”
“Would you really like me to explain? The details – the good stuff - may take a while and I want to hold prayer with you before my time here is done. I have many others to attend to.”
“Maybe the prayer would be best. But don't you think it's unfair that you have powers and . . . and I don't?”
“I don't think you honestly believe in God at this point,” she said. “That makes a huge difference. And besides, not everyone who is truly Faithful turns out to be a Devotee. I don't know why I was selected to gain these powers, but I will use them to the best of my ability. There are things you can do that I can't, you know?”
Stipson frowned.
“I am talking, for example, of knowing how to load a cargo ship,” she continued.
“You could learn,” said Stipson, pointing a relaxed finger at her.
“I might be able to,” Domma conceded. “But I didn't grow up with it. And besides, I am weak. Look at the arms you have.” Domma smiled. “I hear some of those ships can hold some seven-hundred fully packed crates. I would never be able to keep track of them all or even help lift a single one.” She held up her skinny arms and shook them gently.
Stipson smiled. That was better.
“We need you to get well,” Domma said, “because you have skills, Stipson, and you can be much more than just a bed-weight. May I lay my hands on you?”
Stipson closed his eyes and leaned forward towards Domma. She placed her hands on Stipson's head and began to draw power from God. Now that she had physical contact with him she could Mend him a little, but it took incredible amounts of magic and drained her quickly. She began the process anyway, reaching into the web of his mind.
Mending allowed a Devotee to find glitches within a consciousness. Domma found plenty within Ormon.
Pieces of his thoughts were wrapped and twisted about, looped tightly many times over like an incredibly complicated series of knots. This was something she found sometimes, and it was never easy to deal with. She began to whisper a prayer as she pulled a few of the easier knots apart.
“Praised is God,” she intoned. “We who are so like him. Cast in his image and formed from clay and air. Help Stipson to find himself again, Lord. He is lost at sea and only with Your light – with a Sunburst – can he find his way back home.”
“And a strong wind,” added Stipson, with his eyes closed.
“A strong wind,” Domma agreed. It was always better when the other person got into it. “And an abundance of cats. Til'men.”
She had only untied seventy of the thousand or more knots in his mind, but Stipson would notice the difference, even if just barely. He would feel more balanced, might even be able to sleep easier.
She stood up.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked.
“I am afraid so,” said Domma. “There is little rest for a Cleric, and our visits are always too brief. I will be back to see you, Stipson.”
“Please,” he said. “Call me Ormon.”
Something twinged in Domma's brain, but she didn't know what. There was something familiar about that word. “Ormon it is, then,” she said. "I hope you are feeling better." She smiled as she pulled her hood back on.
“I am,” Ormon said. “I am.” His eye twitched and he held his hand to the side of his head. “Just a little pain sometimes,” he explained.
Domma nodded. She would have to trust Potter to take care of this one until she could visit him again. She would mull over his knots on the way back to Sunburst Temple, perhaps try to really lay into them next time when she had more power.
“You are beautiful, Cleric Domma,” Ormon said suddenly. “Even without any hair.”
“We are all beautiful,” she replied, with a gentle smile and a wave. "Until I next see you."
Domma turned to go. She felt good. It was good to help people. Her eyes watered a little as she left.
He said I was beautiful.
-3-
Innnnnnnnnn Nonnnnnnnn
The voice grated and churned. The words were distorted and sometimes made her teeth hurt. The noise was sometimes infuriating, but it was part of her world.
Domma knelt in a darkened section of the Sunburst Temple. Night had fallen and it had been several hours since she had been with Ormon Stipson. Ormon. Ormon. Ormon. Something. Something.
Grazzzzzzzzz N
onnnnnnnn
She had built up some power during her Healing of Ormon. Devotees could do that sometimes: if they used their power to do something good they could build it at the same time that they spent it. Domma chose now to put that power towards Communicating with God, but it was little better than trying to talk to a stone wall. People often believed that the powers of a Devotee put them in direct contact with the Lord, but it couldn’t have been much further from the truth. Domma sometimes felt no better off than anyone else who was trying to make God talk to them. The sounds she heard as answers were creepy sometimes, actually making her skin crawl as she prayed alone.
Isssssssssssss Nonnnnnnnn Korrrrrrrrrr
That was Him. Her. It. She concentrated harder, the power she had built ebbing away in the effort of contact. Sometimes she could glean tiny things out of the astral babble, and sometimes she couldn't. Today, like most other days, was one of the latter times.
Ormondomindominormonon
Domma looked up at the high ceiling of her room. “His name is Ormon Stipson, Lord. I am praying for him and for myself. I visited a few other patients today, but none that touched me as he did. Why . . . why do I put myself through this?” Domma wasn't nervous in the presence of the ill anymore, but she still felt a powerful sadness. She began to weep as her power dwindled to almost nothing.
Helping others meant you had to see their pain, and that could be hard, especially when you had so much of your own to cover up.
Fivvvvvvvvvvvvve Sunnnnnnnnnnnnnzzz
“Five suns?!” she shouted. “Five suns?! That's all you have for me today? Instead of babbling nonsense how about you heal those who are sick! Save all the orphans! Help me feel the comfort I seem to be able to instill in others! Help me remember who I was!”
Her voice echoed, bouncing five times off the walls, and God was silent.
