Hands That Bind Breath
A red light flowed from El's fingertips as she clung to life. Blood-soaked cloth, torn flesh, splintered bone. With every brush of her hand, the wounds knit back together. Not perfectly smooth, though. Like a flame snuffed out and reignited, charred black marks lingered in spots.
"...He's alive."
El murmured softly. The demon on the cot heaved a slightly larger breath.
"Next."
An assistant demon called from the foot of the bed. Nova's central treatment zone. Red tents and stone walls mingled with the stench of blood and herbs everywhere. El turned to the next cot, her face hardened with familiarity.
"Arm."
The demon on the cot extended his left arm, still unhealed. Almost nothing remained below the elbow. El stared blankly at the stump for a moment.
"No need for delicate finesse."
Red light spread from her fingertips. Flesh and bone wove back like a hasty sketch. The palm and fingers regained their shape. But hardened ridges like calluses remained at the joints, faint scars etched over the new skin. The demon blinked.
"...Can't you fix it all the way?"
El looked down at him briefly.
"I fixed it all. Just couldn't make it pretty like before."
Her tone was dry, but her knuckles lightly patted his shoulder.
"That's enough to fight with on the battlefield."
"If you plan to come back alive, I can fix it more later."
The demon snorted in response.
"Hah, got it."
"Next."
El said again. Within ten meters, light flickered around every cot in her vicinity. One chest mended, another's torn waist rejoined, someone on the brink of death pulled back just once more. El showed no sign of fatigue. It was a power she'd wielded too long, too often. In the early years, her hands trembled with each mend; now, only a heavy familiarity remained. Still, every time someone drew breath again, a faint ache stirred deep in her chest. It wasn't a lack of power preventing full restoration. If she truly willed it, she could make arms, legs, even hearts smoother than before. She simply chose not to. The line was drawn at pulling them back from total ruin—just once. No further. Nova could barely spare even one Raksha beyond that line.
"El."
A calm voice came from outside. It was Navriel.
"A few more from the front lines incoming."
The tent flap lifted as three demons were carried in on stretchers. One had half his head caved in, another's waist downward nearly gone, and the last had lost an arm and side to red mist—flesh vanished without trace. Assistants set the stretchers down.
"Last one."
El walked toward the one missing flesh.
"Outer perimeter experiment gone wrong,"
Navriel added briefly. His voice was polite as always, but softened slightly for El.
"Near the new defensive line and processing zone border."
"Shrapnel grazed the awkward spots."
El didn't reply. She simply chose the one closest to death first. The one with the missing side. She placed her hand. Red light spread from the side to the chest. Flesh pushed up. Bones interlocked. Pain like dying and reviving twisted the demon's face.
"Agh...!"
Breath burst out. El didn't remove her hand. Flesh not perfectly smooth, but twisted in patches.
"Done."
El said.
"You can head back to the battlefield now."
"If you ask for more, that's just code for not wanting to go."
The demon let out a hollow chuckle.
"...I'll go. You'll just drag me back anyway."
His hand fell limply. El glanced at her palm. Stains of blood and dried light marred it.
"...We'll keep testing the perimeter?"
El finally asked. Navriel nodded.
"Yes. Outer zones aren't fully divided yet."
"Raksha's watching a bit longer to assign territories."
El's lip twitched faintly.
"Then cut down the numbers carried in from now on."
She said curtly, turning back to the next cot.
The next day, Nova central treatment zone.
"...Where's Rak?"
El asked, scanning the red curtains. Navriel replied quietly.
"Inspecting outer first defensive line with Balrag."
"Gart and Mokan reorganizing combat demons."
"Kama's testing high-rank demons in live combat."
El furrowed her brow slightly.
"Kama's out slicing who now."
"Just his own demons today, from what we know."
A faint jest laced Navriel's tone.
"Raksha will rein in the excess."
El snorted.
"Rak's got a headache coming."
Even as she said it, her gaze drifted to the entrance again. Would he return soaked in blood, or a little less broken? Neither option appealed, so she flexed and unflexed her fingers idly.
The treatment zone door opened quietly. Rak entered. He swept his eyes over the cots inside the red curtains, stopped beside El.
She noted he was alive first. Then, the fresh breaks. El disliked that order.
"How many are you sending back out today?"
Rak asked. El gave the number.
"Around thirty-something."
Her voice was steady as always, but her glancing eyes kept tallying his breaths and chest rises. Rak nodded shortly.
"Good work."
El looked at him. Faint but certain scars marked his body—already healed. No need to explain the feeling of mending his ever-bloodied back. Sometimes, the fleeting thought that this back might not return pierced her chest.
"Rak, too."
El said quietly.
"Anyone can see who worked harder—it's not me, it's you."
Rak looked at his hand instead of answering. Calluses, scars, marks of shattering and mending repeated.
"Soon, more will be carried in."
He said.
"Once heaven finishes preparing."
El drew a short breath. Her chest tightened briefly, then released.
"Then I'll send more back out."
She said lightly, but knew more blood and breaths would flood this tent. Even then, can I send you back here again? The unspoken words rose to her tongue's tip and swallowed. Red light flared deeper from her fingertips. Rak watched it briefly, then smiled faintly.
"If I fall later,"
Rak said.
"Patch me up a little more then."
El's fingers clenched unconsciously. His habit of joking about it irked her most sometimes.
...Don't say that ahead of time.
She wanted to say, but her words differed.
After a brief silence, "...We'll think about it then."
She replied very softly. Rak turned.
"Navriel."
"Yes, Raksha."
"Heaven's movements."
Navriel closed and opened his eyes, summarizing.
"Holy relics, holy orders. None assigned yet."
"Gabriel reviewing Raphael's battle records again."
"Calculating scenarios: block some of Satan's interference this time, or cut power from holy orders and troops instead."
His tone was cautious and polite as ever. Rak glanced beyond the curtains. The red city, Nova.
"Here."
He said.
"Preparations to take the hit are nearly done."
El glanced at Rak's profile. Calm as always. But his words always leaned toward sacrificing his body first.
"Don't die instead."
Her ending was even, but the tiny please within was for her ears only. Rak chuckled softly.
"No plans to."
El had long known that answer unsettled her more. Those who said they had no plans to die rushed to it first—she'd seen it countless times. Then, his lips pressed as if a different conclusion was set. El ignored the expression, turning back to the cots. The short talk between Rak and Navriel behind faded slightly, while the wounds before sharpened.
Under the red sky, Nova caught its breath. Balrag slammed his weight into the ramparts once more, Gart and Mokan realigned the front lines, Nas sorted lines and numbers, Jan extended lines somewhere in the red canopy above, Astamar quietly rotted the outer corpse piles. And in the central treatment zone, El's hands prepared to bind breath today too—sending them back out. For the heavenly hand soon to descend. And for hell's first counterstrike to break those fingers.