Chapter 21: A Fragile Respite
Kaspar had, in his own cryptic way, quickly become part of the hospital staff.
It had been just over 24 hours since they'd arrived, yet Kaspar already seemed to belong. His quick learning and vast knowledge made him an invaluable asset to the overworked staff. Whether assisting in procedures or offering prayers to the God of Steam and Machinery, Kaspar's presence was everywhere.
When they first arrived, the staff had eyed him warily—his odd speech and devotion to a controversial deity clashed with many traditional workers. Some mocked him, calling his prayers blasphemous, while patients, especially those who mistrusted his god, verbally attacked him.
But something had changed. His unorthodox efforts were paying off. His prayers comforted those in need, and the staff, initially skeptical, now sought his help more often. Kaspar had become, almost unnoticed, a fixture in the chaos, and the verbal assaults had slowed. Even some nurses treated him with respect, seeing him as a valuable ally.
Meanwhile, Asher took a more passive role, often observing rather than contributing. He tried to help when he could, but he preferred to stay in the background.
While wandering, nearly getting body-checked by a doctor, Asher found himself outside the room of the man with intestinal issues.
Peering inside, he saw the man sitting up, pale but calm. The man looked up as Asher stepped in, recognition flickering across his tired face.
"Hey," Asher said casually, leaning against the doorway. "How's it going?"
The man gave a weak chuckle, voice hoarse but steady. "A little better now that they figured out what's wrong. You're the one who kept telling the nurse to check me out, right?"
Asher shrugged and moved closer. "Yeah. Glad they listened."
The man nodded, expression softening. "I owe you for that. Name's Alex, by the way."
"Asher," he replied with a faint smile, leaning against the bedframe. "So, what'd they say?"
Alex's face fell, but he kept his tone steady. "Cancer. Lower intestines, they think. They're prepping me for surgery soon. Doc said… if they hadn't caught it, it could've gone bad fast."
Asher let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. "Damn. At least they caught it in time."
"Yeah." Alex hesitated, glancing at Asher with a mix of gratitude and nervousness. "Your eyes make you seem a spiritual man. Or at least, you're with that guy who is. Think you could… I don't know… pray for me? For the surgery?"
Caught off guard, Asher shifted on his feet. He wasn't the religious one—that was Kaspar—but he couldn't bring himself to say no. He nodded, voice softer. "Yeah, of course. I'll say one for you."
Alex's smile returned, faint but genuine. "Thanks, Asher. I mean it."
Awkwardly, Asher stood by the bed, closed his eyes, and mumbled something that barely resembled a prayer. His words tumbled out, a mix of vague sentiments about health and strength, ending with a clumsy motion of tracing a triangle over his chest.
Alex watched him with a flicker of amusement but said nothing, holding back a chuckle as Asher opened his eyes.
"Thanks," Alex said again, voice steady but kind.
Asher gave a small nod, patting the bedframe before stepping back into the hallway. He couldn't shake the feeling he'd embarrassed himself—but at least he seemed to have lifted Alex's spirits.
The faint hum of activity filled the hospital as Asher stepped into a quieter room. The boy with the brain inflammation lay there, his small chest rising and falling steadily.
A nurse nearby whispered updates to a colleague, mentioning the use of ether to sedate the child and a bark-based anti-inflammatory to ease the swelling. The boy's pale face was calm now, a stark contrast to the earlier vacant terrified stare that had unnerved Asher.
He watched for a moment, letting the quiet serenity of the scene settle over him. At least here, something seemed to be going right.
The tension in the air was momentarily replaced by a sense of fragile peace.
A few rooms away, Kaspar knelt by the bedside of a woman with a heavily bandaged arm, his hands clasped together as he murmured a prayer. His fragmented words flowed softly, his odd cadence almost melodic as he called upon the God of Steam and Machinery to grant the woman strength and healing. A faint clatter of metal trays echoed in the distance, but the room itself remained still—save for the man across from him.
"You're wasting your breath," the man barked, his voice sharp and biting. He sat hunched on a neighboring cot, his face drawn with pain but his scorn cutting through the room like a blade. "That mechanical blasphemy you call a god won't help anyone here. This isn't a factory."
Kaspar didn't respond, his focus unwavering as he continued to pray. The murmurs of other patients grew louder, some shifting uncomfortably while others glared at the man.
"Shut it, will you?" an older woman across the room snapped, her stern tone silencing the murmurs. "Let him do what he needs to. It's not hurting you."
A younger man chimed in, his voice steady but firm. "He's been helping more than most of us could. If he wants to pray, let him."
The dissenting man scowled but said no more, his head turning away as if to block out the sight of Kaspar. For his part, Kaspar remained composed, his fragmented words flowing uninterrupted.
Yet, there was a tension in his posture—a slight hunch to his shoulders, a flicker of something vulnerable in his usually unreadable expression.
In another corner of the hospital, Asher stood by the bedside of the elderly man with the swollen leg. The man's condition had deteriorated rapidly—his skin was pallid, and his breathing came in shallow gasps. The swelling had darkened, spreading up his leg with alarming speed. Asher tapped his forehead again, his Spirit Vision activating, but it offered little comfort. The swirling blackness was thicker now, almost suffocating in its intensity.
He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling within him. For all his newfound abilities, he felt useless in the face of this. He couldn't diagnose the man, couldn't ease his pain, couldn't halt the encroaching darkness.
Kaspar appeared at his side, kneeling without a word. He placed a hand gently on the man's shoulder, his fragmented prayer beginning anew. The cadence of his voice was steady, the words carrying a strange warmth despite their disjointed nature.
Asher hesitated, glancing between Kaspar and the elderly man. Finally, he sank to his knees beside them, clasping his hands together awkwardly. He wasn't sure what to say, wasn't even sure he believed in what he was doing, but the weight of the moment compelled him.
His prayer was clumsy, stumbling over words as he tried to emulate Kaspar's calmness. Yet, even as he fumbled, there was sincerity in his tone—a desperate wish for the man to find relief, for his suffering to ease.
The man stirred faintly, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. His gaze landed on Kaspar and Asher, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face before exhaustion pulled him back under.
Asher exhaled slowly, his hands trembling as he let them fall to his sides. He felt small, powerless against the enormity of the suffering around him.
But in that moment, kneeling beside Kaspar, he found a strange solace in the act of prayer—a beautiful sense of relief for patients even if he himself didn't fully buy it.
Asher slumped into the rickety wooden chair, the weight of the day pressing down on him.
The coma unit he found himself in was thick with the stench of unwashed linens.
To his right, the butcher's wife lay on a narrow cot, her frail body swallowed by a tangle of blankets. Her skin was stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, and her breath came in labored, wheezing bursts—each one a struggle for life.
Across the room, Kaspar knelt at the bedside of another patient, his gaunt figure outlined in the dim light of an oil lamp. His hands were clasped in prayer, but his shoulders sagged, betraying his exhaustion.
Slowly, his head drooped lower and lower until it came to rest against the edge of the bed. The proto-priest had fallen asleep mid-prayer, still gripping the patient's hand.
The room was still, save for the occasional creak of his chair and the rasp of the butcher's wife's breath.
Asher fought to stay alert, but his thoughts wandered to tomorrow—the church, its machines, the comforting rhythm of routine. The thought lulled him into a haze, and before he realized it, his eyelids fluttered shut.
The blood-red moon hung low in the sky, its surface veined with dark cracks like an injured heart.
It loomed over a barren wasteland, casting everything in hues of scarlet and shadow.
Blood and pus oozed up with each step, seeping through cracks in the ground.
A distant howl echoed—a deep, guttural sound that resonated in his chest.
He turned to look for its source, but the horizon was empty except for the moon, growing larger and larger as it bore down on him.
The howl morphed into a whisper. It spoke no words, only feelings: hunger, pain, rage.
The shadows stretched toward him,
Seeing his right arm disappear.
Asher woke with a violent start, his breath ragged and his chest heaving. The room was suffocatingly still, the pale glow of moonlight slicing through the darkness like a cold blade. His eyes darted to the right—Kaspar remained hunched in prayer, and the butcher's wife lay motionless, her labored breathing unchanged.
Then, his gaze snapped to the window.
There, perched like a grotesque gargoyle, was a figure bathed in the sickly moonlight. Its skin was deathly pale, marred by pulsating tumors that oozed pus down its emaciated frame.
Its eyes glowed a faint, malevolent red, cutting through the gloom with an unnerving intensity.
The creature's face was skeletal, with sharp, angular features and lips twisted into an unnaturally thin grin, revealing long, jagged teeth. Without a sound, it slipped through the window, its movements fluid and unnatural, landing with a soft thud beside the frail man lying unconscious in bed.
Asher's gaze snapped to the patient. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, oblivious to the horror now looming over him. The creature hovered above him, its eyes fixed intently on the helpless figure.
A low, guttural sound rumbled from the creature's throat—a mix of a growl and a whisper—as if it was savoring some heavenly scent. Its head tilted slightly, and Asher could have sworn he saw a glimmer of saliva dripping from its lips, thick and viscous, falling to the floor with deadly silence.
The creature's form rippled unnervingly as it leaned closer, inch by inch. Its sharp teeth gleamed, elongating in the dim light, the promise of something darker than hunger lingering in its movements.
Asher's instincts screamed at him to move, to act—but he was frozen, paralyzed by an icy terror as the creature loomed closer, lowering its grotesque form over the frail man.