Megan E. Parmerter
“Healer!”
“Yes, I’m here.” Sadie’s voice sagged with weariness. She looked up from her patient to see her sister Trish calling from across the inn’s makeshift infirmary.
Trish flushed and smiled as she dodged through the crowded room with her arms full of linen bandages.
“I need a Healer,” Trish said, her eyes bright and teasing.
“Rest now,” Sadie said, squeezing her patient’s hand. She stood and looked her sister over. “You need me?”
“No, not me, someone else. Here, take these.” Trish pushed her load of bandages into the arms of a startled young man, then snatched up Sadie’s arm in her own. “Come, he needs you.”
Sadie’s legs trembled; the many Healings of the morning were taxing her strength. But her sister swept her out of the crowded common room of the inn, dodging townsfolk tending to the wounded soldiers who filled the benches and floor. Sadie was secretly glad for a break. Her role as Healer for the town of Windheath usually only demanded she tend to the occasional broken arm or fever, not the wounds of an entire company of soldiers and their commander. But the war had found its way to the quiet backwater of Windheath, and now her Healing abilities were being pushed to their limit.
Outside the inn, soldiers erected tents on the village green while others lined up with trenchers for stew and bread from the formidable townswomen. Sadie’s stomach growled as the smell from steaming cauldrons drifted her way.
“C’mon!” Trish tugged at Sadie.
“You know I won’t be able to heal anyone if I don’t eat.”
Trish gave a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ll feed you and your patient.”
“Who’s my patient?” But Sadie received no answer.
As they approached the largest tent, the young women passed their mother. When the older woman saw Sadie, a smile bloomed on her tired face and wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes. “He’s here, Sadie.”
“Mother!” Trish protested.
“Who’s here?” Sadie asked, but a faint voice whispered in the back of her mind. Dear Guide, could it be . . . no.
“Sorry.” Their mother blushed. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” She squeezed Sadie’s shoulder. “Go on.”
“But . . .” Sadie’s voice was lost as her sister pulled her to the large campaign tent. They walked to the entrance, where a pair of guards eyed them.
“Here she is,” Trish said breathlessly. “The Healer!”
The guards studied Sadie, and she squirmed. Her blond hair, usually in a neat braid coiled around her head, had come undone hours ago, and sweat plastered stray strands to her forehead. Her strained eyes had to be bloodshot, and her green dress was splattered with dirt and Guide knew what else.
But she pulled herself together. “Who needs my attention?”
“Our captain,” said one guard, then opened the tent flap for them to enter.
Sadie ducked inside, her sister close beside her, gripping her arm and bouncing with each step. The interior held a table covered with maps; three men bent over them. The youngest man, a bloodstained bandage around his head, tapped the map with a finger.
“I’m telling you, this ridge here would provide ample cover for the bowmen. We would have the advantage.”
“But these trees here . . .”
“Trust me, I grew up here, I know . . .” The young captain looked up and met Sadie’s gaze.
Sadie’s breath caught. Beneath the bloody bandage, she recognized the dark curly hair and brown eyes of —
“Kenric?”
“Sadie,” he murmured. “Of course you’re the Healer.”
“You’re hurt.” She stammered the words, taking a step forward, hand outstretched.
She caught herself, flushing as the military men looked first at her, then their captain. The men’s weary faces split into smiles.
“We’ll give you a moment, captain,” said one, and they left.
Trish squeezed her sister’s hand. “I’ll get dinner for you two.” She gave Kenric a wink as she slipped out of the tent.
Sadie closed the distance between them, her hands reaching for Kenric’s face. “Let me Heal you.”
“Sadie, I’m all right. It’s just a knock on the head.” But even as he said it, he wavered on his feet.
“Sit down. That’s an order from your Healer, captain.”
He smiled but obeyed, sinking into a wooden chair. Sadie reached out with trembling hands to brush at the black curls hanging over the bandage.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Kenric said softly.
“I couldn’t leave home.” Sadie pressed a hand firmly against the bandage, and Kenric winced. “Sorry.”
His brown eyes studied her. “I missed you.”
Afraid to speak, Sadie focused instead on the Healing. She closed her eyes and used the Healer’s Sight. Her vision shifted. She saw the wound, the deep cut in Kenric’s scalp, the blood vessels and skin that needed to be stitched back together, his heart pumping faster at her touch. She drew from her power, what little was left, to Heal the wound. The skin closed beneath her hand, and she opened her eyes to see him still watching her. She lifted her hand away, and he reached to take it.
His fingers were rougher than she remembered. “Thank you.”
Sadie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Weariness and emotion hit her, and she swayed.
Kenric stood and wrapped his arms around her. “Steady now,” he said, his voice close to her ear. “Do you need to sit?”
“I need . . .” The words stuck in her throat.
“Yes?”
“I need . . . you. I’ve missed you. I’ve wondered every day of this war where you were, where you might be fighting, if you were all right, if . . .”
He kissed her forehead, his lips warm.
She sagged against him, relief sweeping through her. “You came home.”
“I did.”
“Will you stay? With me?”
Kenric placed a hand under Sadie’s chin, tilting her face up. “As long as I can.” He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers.
Trish swept into the tent carrying a tray of steaming food. “Dinner’s ready–oh! Who’s Healing who now?”
She squeezes writing into a schedule filled with loving on her husband and two kids, taking care of a growing homestead, and trying any and every crafty thing she can get her hands on.
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Spark Flash Fiction 