"Thank you, my—"
You interrupt him as politely as possible and say, "Just 'Marshal' is fine." He nods. "If you insist, Marshal."
You nod in return. "So what brings you 'ere, then?"
"Someone must give the men their last rites. Some dignity in their final hour," the monk says. His voice is shockingly deep, but calm and even. He sighs. "My work is… morbid. As is yours."
You chuckle grimly. "Morbid is one way to put it." You look out at the battlefield. Most of the bodies have been hauled away. At least, the bodies of your own men.
After a moment of pause, the monk asks, "How many, Marshal? Or… how many do you think?"
Too many.
You shrug. "Twenty, give or take."
"That's… awfully few losses, given the circumstances."
"Twenty alive, Father. The rest are dead or dying."
He closes his eyes and lowers his head.
"Why ask, anyway?"
He replies, "I need to know who to pray for tonight."
He nods. "I know. So I pray for their souls, friend. And for the lives of the rest of us."
Both of you fall silent. After a few moments, you say, "I'd best get to camp. I shouldn't have been out here in the first place."
The priest nods and turns to you. He extends a hand. "Good meeting you, Marshal."
You shake it. "Aye."
You turn around and head for camp.
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