Okay... Just like you practised...

You feel nerves bubble up to the surface. This is going to be the first time you've ever healed someone who is even close to the edge of ****. Sure, you've healed people's injuries before, but nothing more than cuts, scratches and bruises. Any seriously hurt person would be treated by the most senior healer at the monastery, your Matron. You stare down at the man's wounds, watching his chest rise and fall in ragged heaves. His breathing is shallow and uneven. Can you even do this? Is there even a possibility that a mere initiate paladin like you can save a man so badly hurt? Insecurity makes a home in your heart, and your hands tremble. Another ragged breath rasps from the wounded man's mouth, and you shut your eyes, and feel them become wet. How can a mere half elf bastard do such a thing? Why are you even here? Self doubt plagues you, and your world seems to be spiralling out of control. You remember that you're the reason this man is lying here on the brink of ****. Your fire wounded him so. Why, if he or his cousin knew, they'd kill you. Why should you even be here? How uncouth and presumptuous you are for believing should try and help a man that you hurt. This was all a mistake. You scrunch your eyes up tight, and a tear rolls down your cheek.

Then, you open them. And you're staring down at your chest. At the holy symbol of Lucretia emblazoned on your chest. Suddenly, clarity. Without you, this man will die. You can do this. White hot determination bubbles to the surface, filling your belly with fire and banishing insecurity. Your hand stops shaking. Reputation is on the line. Not only yours, but holy men and women everywhere. Temples. But the thing that matters the most of all is the fragile life you feel sputtering, like a candle in a harsh wind, below you. You are a paladin of Lucretia. You are Eleanor. And you can do this!

Your lips suddenly open and you chant the soft healing melody that you had spoken many times before. Suddenly, a warmth flows down your arms and spreads to each and every fingertip. This is unlike the harsh, violent power you felt when setting the tent on fire. This is soft, calm and soothing. Not like fire. Like water. Slowly, your delicate, naked hands travel down to press against the burned man's flesh just above his pectorals. He flinches, teeth grit in obvious agony. But he simply doesn't have the strength to struggle. You continue your chant. "Deas berna, ohl auneh." The volume is above a whisper, but isn't as loud as the normal spoken word, as if you are singing just to him. A lullaby to soothe his battered body. Your green eyes are tinged with yellow, the intensity flashing every so often like a lightning storm. You feel the skin beneath your hands slowly start to mend, burnt and ruined flesh starting to regain it's former life, like a desert is finally encountering rain again. "Fohl nerheh, ohl baurna." Your singing continues, singing in the script of Lucretia. The light at your fingertips flashes at your utter devotion. The man below you lets out a low moan once again, and you see the fingertips on his right arm flex somewhat.

You spend the next seven hours knelt at the man's side, hands glowing, moving across his body. You chant until your throat goes raw, and then on until your voice is but a croak. And still you sing. The light at you bring begins to fade, but you will it back to existence again and again. Finally, you feel the power at your fingertips sputter a final time, and then dim to nothing. Your arms flop to your sides, utterly useless. Barely conscious, you bend over to get a closer look. Light trickles into the tent. It must be early morning. The man's dark skin is flawless. From the bottom of his chest up to his collarbone, then back down his right arm. That is when you see the only imperfection. A series of three lines, all atop each other. Each end in a swirl, the lines flowing downward. It reminds you of a wave, breaking on a beach.

You are Eleanor, a paladin of Lucretia. And you did it.

You collapse, and darkness takes you.