The Hunt

Chapter 5- Rabbit and Hawk

Alma Reebank leaned over the dying man, her steady hand gripping his.

"It'll be all right," she told him, her voice ever so quiet. "May Sheek-Ala, goddess of the battlefield, accept you into her realm, brave soldier. You fought well."

The man, blood coming from the right side of his mouth, missing both of his legs, and laying a a pool of his own blood, gave the small medic's small hand a squeeze. A thank you, before passing on.

"Alma," her adoptive mother said, resting a hand on her shaking shoulder. "He's gone."

The girl, no older than sixteen, bobbed her short blonde hair, cut to her shoulders as to never get in the way of her work.

She gave a little sniffle before the elder woman turned her to get a better look at the girl.

Clothed in white bloodstained robes that fell to her feet, the girl was the peak of saintliness when it came to body and size. Small, no real curves, and perfect untouched skin, as far the the Saints robes she wore let anyone see.

Her face, however, was a different story at the moment.

She was biting her thin bottom lip and trying to keep the tears from rolling out of her eyes. She failed miserably.

"You couldn't have done anything else, dear," her elder cooed, bringing the girl into her embrace. "Now come, you've been in here for two days. Let's get you some sun and maybe some food before you wither into nothing."

The girl let her adoptive mother escort her out of the medical wing of the palace and towards her own room.

She put the small, fragile being on the bed while her own delicate hands shifted through the girls clothes. It took a minute, and then two, until she had what she was looking for.

Robes, of course, as the Saints were a modest group of healers, but a nicer pair. One that was more like a cloak. She slide on a pair of paints and a plain t-shirt before pulling the white robe around her, not bothering to button it.

The elder medic happily took Alma's clothes and dumped them down to the laundry.

Alma slipped into some comfy sandals before letting the older woman take her to the food court.

Packed, as usual, they were forced to eat outside.

Not that it was such a bad thing, her mother said. She needed the sun.

So, lounging in the grass outside of the magnificent stone palace, staring at the street filled with cars and hover cars alike, they began to talk.

"I know you still feel bad about the man," Alma's mother chirped, "but there was nothing more you could've done. Missing both legs and most of his blood when he came in. That's a dead man biding time. You should be proud you gave him the chance to smile before he passed into Sheek-Ala's realm."

Had he smiled?

Alma couldn't remember it. All she could remember was him dying while she sat there, helpless.

Her mother had clearly seen how upset she was, so she tried again. "Alma, dear, no one has saved as many lives as you have. You're a walking goddess if I've ever seen one. But even you can't bring back a man who was already dead."

"But he wasn't dead," she'd replied, her voice soft and small. "I felt his breath and I felt him squeeze my hand and I felt his-his life." Her big blue eyes found her mothers small brown ones. "And I felt him die."

"You're like this every time you loose a life, you know. I don't have time to sit around and console you. I have a job to do as well."

"I know," she replied, her round place cheeks puffing a bit. "But I can't get used to watching people die."