The Private was on watch, and I listened to Sarge's labored breathing. A strange sickness had made camp outside the old soldier's seemingly impregnable defenses, threatening a long siege.
"Sarge seems to be resting better now," I commented, eyes only half open, attempting to find myself a comfortable spot on the floor in the chill, dim common room.
"Hopefully The Lizard is resting too. She doesn't need to worry about one of her soldiers, or be turmoiled while performing her duties with the other leaders on the morrow." The Bishop was uncharacteristically calm and forgiving after being woken from our deep sleep.
I remembered The Lizard's worried sobs earlier in the night as she attempted in vain to minister to her old friend. Normally decisive, worry clouding her mind, she had asked us if we should take Sarge, in the dead of night, to The Triage. "They helped before, when wounds were great," she had reminded us.
The Bishop had looked thoughtful, assessed the situation, and noted to our compatriot: "Sarge is not in as dire circumstances as she was then, and all might be best served if we hold action till morning. Let Genghis and I watch over her till sun-up, so that you might rest for your day." And The Lizard had relunctantly agreed.
I gazed over at The Bishop as he drifted off to sleep, covered by a mismatch of blankets and cloth on the floor. He could be difficult, and bitter at times, but his actions this night were evidence of why I kept company with him.
I turned one last time and offered a salute to my fellow soldier, her breathing still rough, before laying down to ride out the vigil to daybreak.
