Bøger i Healers of Nowhere serien

He was never my father. He was forever my daddy. And I was his little girl. I swam in the pleasure of his presence from within my dear mother's womb. In later years when I would see him caring for unborn children, his gentle touch felt so familiar. I would imagine him holding Mother by her swollen belly and his touch coming to me, the fingers of his senses melting through her body, finding me, stroking me with tearful care, and tickling me with teasing play. Each day he strolled within my thoughts, forever holding the hand of my soul. He caused the Healing to engulf me Her tranquil mists, and at no time in my life can I ever recall being unaware of Her. I giggle remembering how She twirled my pigtails when Daddy and I played games with Her in the backyard.Our Liege of Wings made Himself known to me through him. Daddy looked at me with His eyes, caressed me with His compassion, and lifted me in His arms. I knew what love was to my spirit just as I know what breath is to my body. Though I do not stop to think, I am breathing; I nonetheless understand the motions and meaning as self-evident truths. Though I did not stop to think, I am being loved; resting in quiet on his chest or swimming with him in the Nitstsah or listening to instruction in Devotion, the motions and meaning of love were to me wonderful self-evident truths.

As the GrandMaster's Lady, I lived under the shadow of the man called to be our shepherd, the one who would draw our Healers back to God. The breadth of his presence spread upon us so far and wide from the repose of his wheelchair, so all encompassing and inescapable. It reminds me of sitting on a hillock of thick green grass, reclining against a fir tree, and resting beneath the comfort of spring shade. Curled on his lap, lost in the care of his arms, a glimpse of eternity was mine. Even as our Kingdom Rose Atonement bore witness to the many wonderful works Our Liege of Wings performed through him, he reserved His cherished touch for me. Writing these words and thinking of those days, I feel his fingertips lifting my chin and his lips pressing my cheeks. The touch of his deep mahogany skin pressing against mine indwells me. When people saw him riding through the congested City roads atop his faithful Stag Mibtach, Healers bowed, Riders saluted, and the townspeople cheered. They knew of his unfailing love for them as surely as they knew the warmth of the midday sun. They remembered and could never forget that though years ago a wild-dragon had broken him in half (back on that horrid day when, to save his friend, he stood tall and selfless, long-sword in hand, against the creature) on another day, a similar day, my only heart and love faced yet another one, this time bearing neither sword nor armor, and he felled it by his faith alone, saving an entire Stag division under his charge. They knew that only his devotion to Our Liege could have allowed him to possess and wield such power. Whether riding strapped to his saddle or wheeling his chair through the bleak halls of Curing House, with the wink of his eye, they felt the embrace of his care, the depth of his love, and knew that he would never fail them.