Between Cross and Raven Chapter 5. Healing a lamb for slaughter
Thank you @ivarthebadbitch for sharing your thoughts and willing to be my beta for this fic <3
.-.-.
When Magdalena approached the room the next morning, she saw at once that something had changed.
Two unfamiliar soldiers stood guard outside what had once been her sleeping quarters, their posture rigid, their hands close to their weapons. They did not belong to the quiet rhythm of the convent; they carried the road with them, mud on their boots, suspicion in their eyes.
Old Matthijs lingered nearby, his usual calm demeanor unsettled. Their gazes met briefly, his lined face tight with unease, before he looked away again.
Brother Amandus spoke with the soldiers before being allowed to pass. The exchange was hushed and it stretched longer than it should have. Magdalena could not make out the words, yet she felt the tension in it; the quiet resistance of men unused to being questioned, and the steady insistence of a man who would not be dismissed. She kept her gaze lowered, as she had been taught, her basket of supplies held close against her chest, as though its weight might steady her.
At last, the soldiers stepped aside.
She entered without a word.
The air inside was warmer, thick with the scent of healing, sweat, and damp linen.
The raider lay where they had left him, but the fever had broken. The flush that had once colored his skin had faded, leaving him pale–too pale. His features were drawn now, the sharpness of bone beneath skin made more pronounced by blood loss and lingering pain.
Brother Amandus moved to his side, offering support as he helped him sit upright for what would follow.
The next ordeal.
Magdalena set her basket down and began her work. The bandages came away more easily than before, loosening without the resistance she had braced herself for. There was less seepage, less of the dark, clotted stain that had marked the earlier dressings. Beneath her careful tending, the swelling had begun to recede.
It was a small victory. A fragile one.
The wound itself remained severe. The barbed arrow had torn more than pierced. The flesh along his upper arm was ragged where the head had been forced free. The edges of the wound were inflamed, though less fiercely than before, the angry redness dulled but not gone. Beneath it, the deeper tissue lay exposed in places, darkened where blood had settled, the healing uneven and uncertain.
It was not a wound that closed easily. Not one that forgave carelessness.
Magdalena worked in silence, her attention fixed entirely on the task. She cleaned the wound with measured precision, her movements steady despite the strain it placed on him. The raider shifted beneath her hands, a tightness entering his breath as pain moved through him, his body reacting despite his efforts to remain still.
She pressed her palm briefly against his forearm: firm enough to steady him, not harsh enough to provoke.
But it was enough. His eyes flicked to her face. And remained there.
Magdalena did not acknowledge it. She reached for the mixture of honey thickened with crushed garlic that she had prepared and applied it carefully along the torn edges of the wound. The scent was sharp, medicinal, clinging to the air as she worked it into the damaged flesh.
Outside the half-open door, voices carried low.
“… he shouldn’t even be here,” one of the soldiers said.
Magdalena did not react. Her fingers continued their work, slow and meticulous.
“Where else would they put him? You saw the state he was in when they captured him.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “…you know who he is, don’t you?”
Another pause.
“Of course I do.” The voice lowered even more. Almost a whisper before continuing.
“The Boneless.”
Magdalena’s hand stilled. Only for a fraction of a second. Barely enough to be seen. She resumed slowly. Without lifting her gaze.
“…Ragnar Lodbrok’s crippled son,” the voice continued. “Led half of England to its knees.”
A faint scoff followed. “And now look at him.”
Magdalena tied off the linen with steady hands. But within her, something shifted. Pieces that had not yet found their place began to settle. The way the soldiers watched him. The guarded tone in their voices. The urgency that had surrounded his survival. She had known he was important.
She had not known-
Her gaze lifted and met his.
Piercing blue eyes. Watching her, waiting for her reaction.
He had seen it: the precise moment the soldier's whispers settled upon her; the faint, involuntary stillness that betrayed her before she mastered it again.
He had followed every word of the conversation between the soldiers.
Not in fragments, not in guesswork, but in full. The careless ease with which the soldiers had spoken, the names they had used, the truths they had let slip in a language they believed safely beyond him: none of it had been lost. He listened and kept that knowledge to himself, allowing them their certainty, their underestimation.
Until now.
Because now he saw it reflected in her.
Not just comprehension, but the shift that followed it; the quiet rearranging of what she thought she knew him to be.
He held her gaze, watching closely, as though weighing what she would do with that understanding.
A sudden sound broke the stillness of the infirmary; a choking gasp from the far corner. Sister Agnes stirred violently in her sleep, struggling to breathe through the phlegm that had built up during the night.
Brother Amandus turned at once.
“Stay with him,” he said, already moving towards Sister Agnes’ pallet. “Finish the bandage.”
Magdalena did not answer. She held the raider’s gaze.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, Magdalena quietly dared to trust her voice again.
“You are not a common raider.”
It was not a question.
The corner of his mouth shifted. Not quite a smile.
“No.” He mouthed.
Silence stretched between them. The room felt smaller now. Closer. More dangerous.
Not because of what he might do. But because of what he was.
Magdalena reached for the fresh linen. Her movements remained steady, practiced, unchanged.
But something within her had shifted.
“They should have told me,” she whispered.
His brow lifted faintly.
“Would it have changed how you cut me?”
Her hands paused, only for a breath.
“No.”
She secured the final wrap around his arm, firm, ensuring the binding would hold without placing further strain on the wound.
When she finished, she did not step back at once.
Instead, she met his gaze again. Clear. Unflinching.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then she turned away. But the shift remained.
He was no longer just a patient.
And she was no longer just a nun.
.-.-.
The infirmary lay in an unusual quiet. It was late; well past the evening meal, when the convent had settled into its slower rhythm and even the last sounds of work had faded from the corridors. Night pressed softly against the walls, and within, only a few dim lights remained.
In the patients’ chamber, the three occupants had finally succumbed to sleep. Their breathing, uneven but steady, rose and fell beneath rough blankets, the worst of their suffering, for now, held at bay by exhaustion. They slept. But not peacefully, not without being watched, as both soldiers still remained guarding the door of Magdalena’s quarters.
Beyond that room, separated by a narrow passage, a smaller chamber held a low-burning hearth. The fire had burned down to embers, its faint glow casting a wavering light across the stone walls. Here, the air was warmer, thick with the mingled scents of dried herbs and clean linen.
Magdalena stood at the worktable, grinding yarrow into a fine powder. The steady motion of stone against stone had always calmed her. But in this instance, it did not.
“You are not with your work.”
Brother Amandus’ voice came from behind her, quiet but certain.
Magdalena did not turn immediately. She finished the motion she had begun, set the pestle carefully aside, and only then faced him.
“I am, Brother.”
He regarded her in silence, his gaze not unkind, but unyielding in its clarity. Years of tending both body and soul had taught him to see what was not spoken, and Magdalena knew, before he said anything further, that he had already seen through her.
“Come,” he said at last.
There was no reprimand in the word, and no comfort either. Only intent.
He crossed the room to the small table near the hearth, where a worn Bible rested, its leather softened by time and use. He opened it with care, the thick pages whispering beneath his fingers as he turned them, then stepped aside.
“Read,” he said.
Magdalena moved to stand beside him. She did not ask why. She had learned that questions were not always welcome, and often not answered.
Her eyes fell to the text.
“At that time, God tested Abraham…” Her voice was steadier than before, as she knew it was never Brother’s Armandus intent to judge. “…and said unto him: Take thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and go into the land of Moriah…”
The words unfolded with quiet inevitability. “…and offer him there for a burnt offering.”
Magdalena’s voice did not falter, but something within her stilled, subtle, uneasy, like a thread pulled too tight.
“So Abraham rose early in the morning…”
Amandus listened, his expression unreadable, though his attention did not rest solely on the page. It lingered, instead, on the reader; on the faint tension in her shoulders, the unintentional tremble of her voice.
“And Isaac spoke unto Abraham his father…”
Magdalena’s gaze moved more slowly now across the lines.
“…My father…behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?”
Her breath caught; so slight it might have gone unnoticed by another.
“And Abraham said: God will provide Himself a lamb…”
The words lingered in the air. Magdalena did not continue. She knew what came next. The binding. The altar. The knife raised without certainty of what would follow.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
“Finish it,” Amandus said quietly.
She swallowed and obeyed.
“And Abraham bound Isaac, his son, and laid him upon the altar…”
The image formed too clearly in her mind.
“…and stretched forth his hand, and took the knife-”
“Enough.”
The word came gently, but it carried finality.
Magdalena closed the book, her fingers lingering against the page as though reluctant to release it.
“Do you understand what you have read?” Amandus asked.
“Obedience,” she answered, though the word felt thinner than it should have.
Amandus inclined his head slightly.
“Yes. But not only that.”
Magdalena waited.
“He is asked to surrender,” Amandus continued, “without promise, without understanding, without knowing whether it will be returned to him. That is faith; not in the outcome, but in the will of God.”
Magdalena’s gaze lowered again to the book in her hand.
“Brother…” she began, her voice quieter now, less certain. “Why this passage?”
Amandus did not answer immediately. When he did, his tone had changed subtly, but unmistakably.
“The soldiers took me aside after Prime,” he said quietly.
Magdalena stilled.
“They spoke of orders from the crown. When he is strong enough to travel, he will be taken to Utrecht.”
The words settled slowly, leaving a brief, heavy pause in their wake.
“He is to be charged,” Amandus continued, his voice steady. “And judged.”
He did not soften what came next.
“And publicly executed.”
Silence filled the space between them, thick and unmoving.
Magdalena did not stir. She did not speak. Her gaze remained fixed on the Bible in her hands, though she no longer saw the words upon the page.
“So we are healing a lamb for slaughter.”
The words left her before she could stop them.
Amandus’ expression did not change.
“I would say a wolf,” he replied evenly. “But yes.”
Magdalena’s hand tightened against the edge of the book. Something in her chest resisted; sharp, immediate, instinctive.
Amandus saw it.
“It is the way of the Lord, my child,” he said, more quietly now. “We are not given to decide who is spared and who is taken. That belongs to Him alone.”
Magdalena swallowed.
“You gave me the task to save him,” Magdalena said at last, her voice low, as though the words were being drawn from somewhere she would rather keep closed. “To save his arm…to keep him alive. Why-” She stopped.
Because she had no ending for that thought. Because there was none that did not unravel something she was trying to hold together.
Amandus stepped closer. “It is not for us to judge,” he said, his voice steady, unyielding in its quiet certainty. “Only to heal.”
The words settled between them. Before, they would have steadied her, reminding her of her purpose. Once, they would have closed questions before it could take root.
But now, they did not.
.-.-.
A/N: I don’t think the reason my parents put me in a Christian school was to use the knowledge for fanfiction. And yet here we are. Thank you, eight years of weekly bible study. I liked how they had a little moment and how Brother Amandus ruined the party by dropping this bomb.
Love to read your thoughts
Xoxoxo Nukyster
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