Category: Journal Entry

Aquila, The Cathedral of San Corvo d’Aquila di Cyanihim

How old was I when I lost my faith? Fifteen? Sixteen? Or was I younger? The Testimonium teaches that we are a brotherhood. That all of mankind is Of God. It tells us that all that is wrong with the world, and with mankind, are holdovers from a broken world, ruled by the followers of the Triumvirate, or by the Witchkings. No, I think I was younger.

The Cathedral stands at the center of the Church District, a massive landmark, dwarfing all around it. It rises 230 feet into the air, and the duomo even higher still. It is a monument to the glory of God and a testament to the ingenuity of mankind. Outside, members of the Ordo dell’arte operate small puppet theaters, putting on morality plays or tragedies. Not far there is a circle where they perform mummer’s plays, their faces hidden by the elaborate masks they where. The walls of the cathedral are adorned with murals, painted by masters of the craft, they depict stories from the testimonium, and tales of the many venerated saints. Most notable among them, my namesake, the patron saint of Il Ordo dell’arte, San Corvo d’Aquila. Light filters in through the stained glass faces of holy men and, the images of angels carrying out their mandates from God almighty. The light is warm and it paints the interior of the church in hues of green and blue, and yellow and red and I would be lying if I said that the entire thing weren’t beautiful. Rumors filter through the city that the cathedral is riddled with secret passages and false walls which lead to rooms, repositories for all of the secrets that the Cyanihim have learned, and those they keep to safeguard mankind on the path to a perfect, sinless world. It is all beautiful and mysterious, and though I feel small in the near empty cathedral… I am not moved. I do not feel the ever watchful gaze of Cyaniel upon me, watching me, and why would I?

As I sit in silent contemplation, staring up at the masked visage of the archangel,I hear another enter through the heavy cathedral doors. I hear the footfalls long before she comes to take a seat beside me. She is tiny by comparison, her dark ringlets cascade about her shoulders and frame her face. She smiles softly and that smile brightens her face, her green eyes, shrouded in charcoal dust as is customary in our homeland, sparkle like polished emeralds. It is all a stark contrast to the elegant black dress and the high collar which she wears. She is my closest friend, practically my sister. We have known each other for ten years now, and few make my heart swell the way Lady Genevieve Baines does..

“Corvo, mIo caro amico,” her time in Rogalia has not changed her Hestrali accent, “I think this is the last place I expected to find you.”

“Si… Mi bella, amica, it’s good to see you. I didn’t realize you’d returned to the country.” I smile warmly as we share a hug, “It is good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Corvo. How is Marco?” she asks as we separate from our embrace.
“Marco is Marco. He does everything he can to keep himself busy. He hates his mind being idle, he gets bored too easily. Of course I am the same way.”

“Is that why I’m finding you in a church? Because your mind hasn’t been idle?” She smirks, but her voice betrays only the slightest hint of concern,

“No… maybe… I just wish I knew what determined if we were worthy of their attention or not…”

“Corvo, why would you think that?” suddenly, her smile is gone, “Why would you, of all people, think you aren’t worth the attention of the divine? Before my father acknowledged me, when I was living on the streets, you made sure I was safe! You made sure I had food and clean water! How could you think you’re not worthy?”

“Do you remember when I told you about why I came to live with Marco?” I fold my hands, head bowed slightly as I look at them as I that night.

“You told me your parents had died in a fire.” Only the slightest hint of uncertainty edges her otherwise sympathetic voice.

“Si… they died in a fire.” I say the words and it’s as if I’m once again that ten year old boy, “What I didn’t tell you is that I was there, in the house when it started.”

Genevieve’s face is serious, her eyes are like cool jade stones, as she fixes me in her gaze, “What are you saying, Corvo?”

I turn my head to face her, “I had been downstairs, working on my letters and my numbers and… I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat, and there was fire everywhere. At first I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Heat and light and smoke… it was all so disorienting. I heard mama scream for help and… I ran to the stairs. The wood collapsed between the stucco. I heard papa yell down to me, to go get help.” My voice cracks, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I barely register the tears that threaten to spill over, staining my face, as I continue. “Immediately I ran from the house. I pounded on the doors of the neighbors, I screamed for help… people came with buckets as quickly as they could, drawn from the well or from rain barrels… but it wasn’t enough. I kept trying to run back inside and people held me back. I screamed… I begged God to do something, anything. I pleaded to help them but they held me, grabbed my wrists and refused to let go. It’s likely the only reason I survived that night at all.”

Genevieve’s face is still, but in her eyes, I can see the shock, Only a handful of people knew the story, and she is only the first to know who is outside of my family, and the church who’d taken me in, “I’m sorry, Corvo… I didn’t know. Is that why you feel like you don’t… deserve divine help?”

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, “How can I think anything else? If a ten year old boy, begging God for help to save his parents isn’t worth the attention of God or Angels, why would it be any different when that same boy is grown and is more capable?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, smiling softly and she placed a hand over mine, “For what it’s worth, God’s never given me anything either. All the good anyone ever did for me came with prices attached, or it came from people like you. People who gave a damn.”

“Marco… he’s the same way. When I got here, he told me not to lose faith in God, not to abandon the church or it’s teachings, but to recognize that we cannot depend solely on God. He told me that each of us, by virtue of action or inaction, are responsible for the state of our souls. Our salvation is ultimately our responsibility.”

“It makes sense,” she said as she placed her hand on my shoulder, “What do you say we get out of here? I’m supposed to meet my father for dinner and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind hosting one of the ‘infamous’ di Talmerin family.” She stands and offers me her hand up, I take it, gratefully.

“Si… I think I’ve spent enough time in the church today.” Rising to my feet, I clear my throat, and smooth my coat, before we make our way outside. Stepping out into the early evening air, we can see the sky is painted in hues of pink, orange, and violet and it silhouettes the ships down in the port and the isles of La Sorelle in the distance. I cannot help but smile at the beauty of that sunset as a voice, obscured by an ornate mask drifts over to me.

“Perhap then, these tragedies which strike us, seemingly at random, are actually the hand of blessed, all seeing Cyaniel, setting our feet upon the path we are meant to tread, that without such a push we could not have found.” Genevieve and I look to where the voice is, and we see a pair of masked men at a puppet stage. The stage adorned by pebbled painted white, against a deep blue backdrop, and one of the puppets alone on stage, monologuing. The two of us share a look and look back to the puppet show. I wander over and drop a handful of silver into their donation box.

“Grazie, signore. May Cyaniel guide your feet upon the path.” whispers the masked priest who, for the time, is not acting.

“Buona sera,” I say, turning away. “I think I’ll take my chances on my own,” I leave unsaid as we leave to join Count Baines for supper.

-FIN-

Suggested Listening:

Aquila, The Cathedral of San Corvo d’Aquila di Cyanihim

How old was I when I lost my faith? Fifteen? Sixteen? Or was I younger? The Testimonium teaches that we are a brotherhood. That all of mankind is Of God. It tells us that all that is wrong with the world, and with mankind, are holdovers from a broken world, ruled by the followers of the Triumvirate, or by the Witchkings. No, I think I was younger.

The Cathedral stands at the center of the Church District, a massive landmark, dwarfing all around it. It rises 230 feet into the air, and the duomo even higher still. It is a monument to the glory of God and a testament to the ingenuity of mankind. Outside, members of the Ordo dell’arte operate small puppet theaters, putting on morality plays or tragedies. Not far there is a circle where they perform mummer’s plays, their faces hidden by the elaborate masks they where. The walls of the cathedral are adorned with murals, painted by masters of the craft, they depict stories from the testimonium, and tales of the many venerated saints. Most notable among them, my namesake, the patron saint of Il Ordo dell’arte, San Corvo d’Aquila. Light filters in through the stained glass faces of holy men and, the images of angels carrying out their mandates from God almighty. The light is warm and it paints the interior of the church in hues of green and blue, and yellow and red and I would be lying if I said that the entire thing weren’t beautiful. Rumors filter through the city that the cathedral is riddled with secret passages and false walls which lead to rooms, repositories for all of the secrets that the Cyanihim have learned, and those they keep to safeguard mankind on the path to a perfect, sinless world. It is all beautiful and mysterious, and though I feel small in the near empty cathedral… I am not moved. I do not feel the ever watchful gaze of Cyaniel upon me, watching me, and why would I?

As I sit in silent contemplation, staring up at the masked visage of the archangel,I hear another enter through the heavy cathedral doors. I hear the footfalls long before she comes to take a seat beside me. She is tiny by comparison, her dark ringlets cascade about her shoulders and frame her face. She smiles softly and that smile brightens her face, her green eyes, shrouded in charcoal dust as is customary in our homeland, sparkle like polished emeralds. It is all a stark contrast to the elegant black dress and the high collar which she wears. She is my closest friend, practically my sister. We have known each other for ten years now, and few make my heart swell the way Lady Genevieve Baines does..

“Corvo, mIo caro amico,” her time in Rogalia has not changed her Hestrali accent, “I think this is the last place I expected to find you.”

“Si… Mi bella, amica, it’s good to see you. I didn’t realize you’d returned to the country.” I smile warmly as we share a hug, “It is good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Corvo. How is Marco?” she asks as we separate from our embrace.
“Marco is Marco. He does everything he can to keep himself busy. He hates his mind being idle, he gets bored too easily. Of course I am the same way.”

“Is that why I’m finding you in a church? Because your mind hasn’t been idle?” She smirks, but her voice betrays only the slightest hint of concern,

“No… maybe… I just wish I knew what determined if we were worthy of their attention or not…”

“Corvo, why would you think that?” suddenly, her smile is gone, “Why would you, of all people, think you aren’t worth the attention of the divine? Before my father acknowledged me, when I was living on the streets, you made sure I was safe! You made sure I had food and clean water! How could you think you’re not worthy?”

“Do you remember when I told you about why I came to live with Marco?” I fold my hands, head bowed slightly as I look at them as I that night.

“You told me your parents had died in a fire.” Only the slightest hint of uncertainty edges her otherwise sympathetic voice.

“Si… they died in a fire.” I say the words and it’s as if I’m once again that ten year old boy, “What I didn’t tell you is that I was there, in the house when it started.”

Genevieve’s face is serious, her eyes are like cool jade stones, as she fixes me in her gaze, “What are you saying, Corvo?”

I turn my head to face her, “I had been downstairs, working on my letters and my numbers and… I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat, and there was fire everywhere. At first I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Heat and light and smoke… it was all so disorienting. I heard mama scream for help and… I ran to the stairs. The wood collapsed between the stucco. I heard papa yell down to me, to go get help.” My voice cracks, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I barely register the tears that threaten to spill over, staining my face, as I continue. “Immediately I ran from the house. I pounded on the doors of the neighbors, I screamed for help… people came with buckets as quickly as they could, drawn from the well or from rain barrels… but it wasn’t enough. I kept trying to run back inside and people held me back. I screamed… I begged God to do something, anything. I pleaded to help them but they held me, grabbed my wrists and refused to let go. It’s likely the only reason I survived that night at all.”

Genevieve’s face is still, but in her eyes, I can see the shock, Only a handful of people knew the story, and she is only the first to know who is outside of my family, and the church who’d taken me in, “I’m sorry, Corvo… I didn’t know. Is that why you feel like you don’t… deserve divine help?”

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, “How can I think anything else? If a ten year old boy, begging God for help to save his parents isn’t worth the attention of God or Angels, why would it be any different when that same boy is grown and is more capable?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, smiling softly and she placed a hand over mine, “For what it’s worth, God’s never given me anything either. All the good anyone ever did for me came with prices attached, or it came from people like you. People who gave a damn.”

“Marco… he’s the same way. When I got here, he told me not to lose faith in God, not to abandon the church or it’s teachings, but to recognize that we cannot depend solely on God. He told me that each of us, by virtue of action or inaction, are responsible for the state of our souls. Our salvation is ultimately our responsibility.”

“It makes sense,” she said as she placed her hand on my shoulder, “What do you say we get out of here? I’m supposed to meet my father for dinner and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind hosting one of the ‘infamous’ di Talmerin family.” She stands and offers me her hand up, I take it, gratefully.

“Si… I think I’ve spent enough time in the church today.” Rising to my feet, I clear my throat, and smooth my coat, before we make our way outside. Stepping out into the early evening air, we can see the sky is painted in hues of pink, orange, and violet and it silhouettes the ships down in the port and the isles of La Sorelle in the distance. I cannot help but smile at the beauty of that sunset as a voice, obscured by an ornate mask drifts over to me.

“Perhap then, these tragedies which strike us, seemingly at random, are actually the hand of blessed, all seeing Cyaniel, setting our feet upon the path we are meant to tread, that without such a push we could not have found.” Genevieve and I look to where the voice is, and we see a pair of masked men at a puppet stage. The stage adorned by pebbled painted white, against a deep blue backdrop, and one of the puppets alone on stage, monologuing. The two of us share a look and look back to the puppet show. I wander over and drop a handful of silver into their donation box.

“Grazie, signore. May Cyaniel guide your feet upon the path.” whispers the masked priest who, for the time, is not acting.

“Buona sera,” I say, turning away. “I think I’ll take my chances on my own,” I leave unsaid as we leave to join Count Baines for supper.

-FIN-

The Reaper Festival is over. It certainly feels like things have been reaped. This city of Stragosa reaps more than it sows. More have died this forum. Some tales of those hunting herbs in the forest to a bear spirit wielding a sword, and the personal troubles of the air mage Balthazar which claimed his wife and later himself. Some of the deceased were brought back on the Miracle, perhaps the most important of the reasons this city draws people into its maw, but not all. It never brings back all of the people that venture here and die. This city reaps more than it sows.

Even getting here had reaped the group I started out as part of in Capacione. Having just come from my adventures in Sha’ra, it seemed natural to return to my home country and investigate the court. The trade goods I brought back from the Shariqyn Empire were sold for the money for the proper clothes and proper introductions and my contacts and the spices they provided made me useful in hosting feasts. I gravitated into the entourage of Lady Gale of Rogalia. Lady gale’s entourage was was abit more intellectual than the others, or at least she was, and I was drawn into it. Then, she was called back to Rogalia by her father. She lost many of her entourage then. Locals who had no interest of investiture in following her to Rogalia. It made sense enough for me to venture along as I was as well acquainted with Rogalia as with my home, Capacionne. There, when it became evident that her next destination would be Stragosa, even the Rogalians left. Our party consisted of Just her, her governess, Ramsey, myself, and a few servants. Now, Ramsey and our servants have hopefully left us without saying goodbye. The other option is that they have disappeared like so many others in Stragosa, never to be seen again. This city reaps more than it sows.

Upon arrival to Stragosa, I was reunited with my old childhood friend, Jean-Duquesne. He and I had grown up together and followed similar paths even to the point of arriving here in this city. We had always been interested in the same things and even took up the same vocations. His family was poor enough that we met due to him stealing sausages so he could eat while mine was a merchant family well off enough to send their youngest son to the Rogalian university. Now I find him in Stragosa and he was the Master of our profession, a Master of a guild, and in possibly even better fortunes than myself. It was good to see him as such. It has been almost a year since I had said goodbye to him when an ill storm moved into the Stragosa valley. The valley filled with the snow and ice that I traveled through a week later to his house. I found the dogs near starved but still alive in the kennels. In his abode, I found his possessions still there, a table set with the food he spoke of cooking after we parted that was never eaten, a fireplace with nothing but cold ash, yet no Jean-Duquesne and no tracks through the snow coming or going or even signs the doors or windows had been opened. It has been a year, and there has been no sighting of him still. This city reaps more than it sows.

So far, both Alexandra’s fortunes and my own seem to have prospered. She is a District Magistrate and I am a Master of my trade and member of the city government. Things seem to be looking up for both of us. However, if Alexandra were to disappear from Stragosa one day, what would I do? Would I flee this wretched city, finally free of it anything that would hold me here. Would I search the Throne to find her and make sure she is still safe and not the victim of some Rogalian plot? Or would I stay till I or it disappears, trying to convince myself that she deserted me here without a word and that this city does not reap more than it sows?

Around him there was darkness, but that wasn’t really right it was an absence of even darkness. Word, Meaning, and Acts spiraled into one another building things around filling thoughts with Form. Aretaeus realized he was part of all of this as things grew, his awareness seemed to be on everything as Existence was. Purpose, spent meaning, intent, the weight of Judgement and the trauma of war slammed into Everything limiting what he was experiencing.
He could feel the weight of God on his brow, the scorn of God in his heart, and suddenly the voice of God to his ear. Even as he heard, he felt himself being poured into Form and felt its limitations, its uniqueness. As Meaning filled as the Form was, it changed his perspective so much, it was hard to think of what he had been aware of just moments ago, and at the same time the Firmament and the land became so much more clear with feet on the ground and the sky above him. The valley around him being defined even as he was watching there were leaves and needles, stones and seeds which more was lost to view as they became parts of trees, mountains and plains.
It was the Valley he Felt himself in, he was not sure when though, Time had yet to attach. All aspects of humanity began to form around him;
– Feet began to walk trails and roads, cross paths where they came together it slowly made something of a grid.
– Mouths and ears shared words, what it wasn’t clear but it felt of laughter, anger, all manner of feeling
– Hands sculpted stone, wrought iron, and worked wood. These hands assembled what was and would be the Great City of Stragosa, what was and would be the Husk of Stragosa. The hands of man swarmed and ebbed building all that would be seen.
Some of these were connected, others were not, feet with no earthly bodies worked off and on to the stage of the area, hands floated free as they did their work. It amazed Aretaeus, but at the same time he was not overly surprised. All too often what he had seen when looking beyond did not fully match what his eyes might see, his ears might hear. Even so knowing it was hard to tell and be prepared for what was real and what was reality.
Aretaeus closed his eyes, to take in all that was around him, and even as he did so the sounds and feeling around him changed and shifted. Ser Percival was beside him, and they were walking towards the Miracle when his mentor brought him to a stop, “Listening and what else? It has been to long since the church has committed to decisive action. You will decide what it is you are committing to, and tell me by evening. “ The Knight masters words were curt but not harsh, but even those shifted at the ends of it flowing into a time at the tavern, “Now is not the time to Act, but to learn more first” Other times began to connect and as chaos started to grow Aretaeus let go a bit with his mind that particular focus and tried to focus in general.
Opening his awareness once more Time seemed more solid, as did the Manor house he often met with the Leadership of Silbran in, still in the valley but no longer where he had stood once moments ago. Splashed colors this way and that showed the touch of magic everywhere in the city. Little stood truly warped, but just looking you could see where colors were off, creating a space that one might expect after enough herb to change the world around them. Entire paths stood out in odd coloration, a concern to the Paladins heart as they lead different directions.
What stood out the most walked into the manor, as the Baroness stepped within mouth moving as she talked to others in to room but that was not something Aretaeus was aware of as he looked on. The colors that made the Lady Drake stood out so much, evne as they were perhaps warped like a spoon in a glass of water, or light through a crystal. Broken, warped, and changed in a way that struck at part of the root of Aretaeus desire for divinity to spread. –How, how do we fix this? To shepherd this lost Meaning back to its purpose and form? Let this not be something that give up on so quickly. What must I do, I have learned as I have felt needed to understand more, what do I do now as the next step toward bringing her back to the flock? What next?-
The world came to a pause, it turned to Grey through area “She Must Die”, and it rocked him to his very core. Still he kept enough mind to try and understand; Did she need to be purged by the Fires that Cleanse? Did the words feel of Ash and Heat? No, the purge of heresies was not the demand. Cold, simple death. That the Gates open before her where all are judged equally. But there was not much more depth beyond the command, the next step.
The cold was around him now not just in him. He felt the oncoming winds of winter, an empty war camp around him and looking on to the Kaurlite stronghold as it stood standing. The Empire had an army at its gates, but it was not clear to keep to his own timeline that he had sworn to. More so Aretaeus was here, an empty camp and not leading the charge. The cutting edge of despair biting into him like the worst of bitter winter winds. Looking around him he saw the Butcher serving children at the edge of camp, but they always seemed further than he could get to and further still as the crest of Lurian fell from his shoulders.
“What else Will I get wrong? When people look to me as a source of direction, what do I show them if I feel lost? You have shown me so much darkness recently. From the Rituals hidden ones are doing through out the city, a follower of Laziel behind me, that my next steps must be a bringer of Death and what else do you give me? A Candle, which might hold the Hope of Man within it? A light that flickers so weakly at times. A light that seems to go dark when needed the most. Being a guide to others, to give them hope and direction where has that gone? Laziel, Tarraniel and Kurian all have sunk their talons so deeply here, surely those of your Intent don’t need the amount of suffering that is here? Do they? How do I show those at the edge that they should come to us and vest everything into the Faith? There is so much Discontentment here, so much for the Thorns to take root in. And … “
Suddenly he realized he was just yelling at himself, angry at himself. The loss, the pain, his own and that of which he had seen in his vision and his experience. A deep sigh came across him, and he awoke with a start, his bed a tussle from fit filled sleep.

Care bella madre,

We have arrived at last to Stragosa, perdonami that I have not written much during the trip. Please to let padre know Veronica has been placed safely and is pursuing her studies at a good pace. I also have met with our various venture contacts, and will be pursuing them forthwith, so he does need to be worry.

Stargosa is not as terribile as we had expected. The morale e traditions of the area are rigorosa but manageable. Even the church services, though lacking in proper fire, juggling, and artistry, are proving surprisingly enjoyable. I know, sì, please do not tell papà I have said this. As expected, many here still seem more prudente than is healthy. Others are allowed to speak though, within reason of course. Also, the priests have not been nearly as burn-at-stake crazede as we had feared. On my first night I may have done something… impulsive? What it is, it is non molto importante, do not worry. What is importante is that they absolutely have not burned me. In fairness, they Did try to sacrifice another because they were afraid her magic was a threat to her immortal soul, so… not completely diverso than we expected.

Ze locales are for the most part a very friendly sort so far. I have finally gotten to hear The Bandit Kings in person, performing ‘Vendetta’. You remember this, sì? It was the one we thought was about your sister’s cousin? I must attest that original prestazione is much better than the copy-cats. A fantastic Njordr storyteller comes through here also – we should invite someone like him to Le Sorelle. Very engaging stories, our clienti would be very entertained!

There is much more I wish to say, but I can already see your eyes with the tiredness, and I am certo that you most want to know about il pericolo e my studies. There is nothing to worry about. I have heard stories of terribile creatures and some have encountered them here. This, it is true. My only encounter however has been un poltergeist that fed me some prelibatezze – I was greatly entertained! A ghoul also attempted to break into the taverna as I was drinking, but it was dead before it made it could do any harm. It was ‘more’ dead? Other monstri came by later (it was some provincial holiday called the ‘Night Lord’s Feast’ – something about monstri e spirit) but I was attending to Veronica and missed it all. I understand it was all very exciting. I have some directions for my studies and la baronessa has agreed to steer them, so that is also progressing well. There is nothing for you to worry about.

I will cut things short as I know that you do not like me to go on and on. Please let me know how things are playing out there, and when they quiet down enough that we may return home. Things were certainly blown far out of proporzione, as you well know. Give our love to papà and to zia Mariana, they are in our hearts.

Ti voglio bene,
Maurizio (e Veronica – her letter is attached)

Alonzo finished writing for a moment, brushing off the sand to help dry the ink of his letter to Emeric.

“Such an unexpected thing,” he mused to himself. “I’ve been blind.”

To discover the good where he expected only oppression and paternalistic pandering, to look behind the mask for a moment. If anyone knew masks, it would be himself. But for this one moment, what if it is True?

The conversations with Ansel and Emeric, the feeling that perhaps the Goal is the same after all. The assumption of authority. The burdens that will bring. Still, Alonzo smiles. It is right and good that the world is moving towards Perfection, even in its most shattered pieces.

“I’m going to act as though it IS True. I can at least do that. I can watch them with new eyes and reveal the next part of my work.”

He thinks of Renatus, returned to the World nearly destroyed by it and of the others who fell and would never return. So much to do. So many minds to soothe and then to trouble and then to soothe again.

He writes a new phrase on the inside of his Mask, under where the old motto lies.

“Rivela la verità che brilla” – Reveal the Truth that Shines

The Shield now has a Sword

Marius drinks from his cup before staring at me with a look that I can assume is trying to read my soul.

“Leonce, the conversation we had last night with your friend was so interesting. He seemed like he knew a lot. How did you come across someone like that?”

I tell him how I was ambushed near his home after I fled from the Njord invasion here, how he saved me, how I almost poked him with a firestick when I woke up in his home because I was so sure he was going to kill me, how he nursed me back to health without asking for anything.

“Sounds like he’s an important friend to you.”

I chuckle at the word friend. For a moment I want to express all my feelings about the man to anyone that would hear them but I stop myself. I used to hate when people got mushy with feelings and I don’t intend to be one of them now. At least not to other people.

“He is someone very dear to me.” I reply with a tone that I hope sounds final.

Marius seems content with that response as he goes back to taking care of the tavern customers.

————————————————-

[[Two years ago]]

Something’s off today Leonce thought

Leonce tried to get a look at Alistair’s face but he couldn’t read any emotion as the man checked his ankle two months after Leonce had woken up in his cabin.

The first few weeks had been rough, Leonce trying to escape while Alistair was away. Once he got cornered by wolves right outside of Alistair’s land and had to call for help. Alistair was there so quickly that Leonce wondered how that was possible. Another time he got further but was caught in a blizzard and nearly froze to death before thankfully Alistair was able to find him. This rose to suspicion, how did Alistair knew where he was at all times while he wasn’t even in the cabin?

“It’s actually quite easy to follow your tracks…” Alistair had commented bemused after Leonce had angrily asked him when brought back from his second failed escape attempt, “you ARE dragging your injured foot through snow or mud, it leaves a trail.”

Slowly he started to trust Alistair. He figured that if someone had given him his house (and bed) to recuperate…they were one of those noble idiots that were trying to make everyone’s lives better. Leonce had met them before, and he wasn’t opposed to taking their generosity as long as they didn’t ask for anything in return.

They had a routine, Alistair would come in the morning (where he went during the night, Leonce didn’t know nor cared), checked his bandages, they would have breakfast and Alistair would write from his desk. Sometimes Leonce would ask questions, not anything that invaded the privacy of the man that helped him. Just questions of where he was, or what was the closest city. So far he hadn’t been able to check if the man had been right but something behind his answers told him Alistair was being truthful.

But there was something about today though, the air felt heavy with words unspoken.

Leonce was snapped from his thoughts as Alistair came over, a gentle hand picking up his ankle and inspecting it closely. Alistair’s eyes were furrowed, something he did when he was thinking hard about something.

Finally he let out a drawn out breath.

“Looks like it’s finally healed…” his voice sounded somber but the boy had no reason to believe Alistair felt that way “I’m guessing that you can be out of here by tomorrow if you want, though I would recommend another day…that way you can go into town and get things for your journey back home.”

Leonce felt his stomach drop. Leave? He hadn’t thought about that in more than a month. The older man’s company had been so…comforting that the idea hadn’t resurfaced again since his last escape attempt.

“Oh…right…” he messed with the hem of the shirt Alistair had let him borrow, staring intently at his hands. He hated that there was disappointment in his voice and could feel the man’s stare on him.

Alistair cleared his throat as he let go of the boy’s ankle, patting it softly before going to his desk to write.

The silence was tense, they could both feel it.

“I’ve never asked you where you were going, but I’m curious now that you’ll be leaving.”

Two months ago Leonce would have answered with a snark remark and refused to give him any information. But time had passed and trust had been gained little by little. Nevertheless he was surprised with how much ease he was able to answer the man.

“Away from Stragosa, possibly back to my country. There were people following me, just wanted to run.” he pulled the covers, around himself…feeling comfortable in the warm and realizing with disappointment that soon that comfort would be swapped for uncertainty. “I never really thought where I was going, just that I needed to leave that city.”

Alistair stopped writing, and Leonce waited to see if the man had something he wanted to say. If there was an idea though, he kept quiet about it and resumed writing. There was a small smile on his face, barely seen.

“It’s been nice having you around, Leonce.” he glanced up from his parchment, a true smile now on his face “but I understand the need to run, we all have our demons after all.”

Why was his heart beating so fast? There were no words that came out, the Cappacian merely nodded silently and pulled the covers over his face…trying to sleep comfortably one last night and trying to hide the heat that was coming on his cheeks at the moment.

—–

It took Leonce two more days to decide to leave. He kept putting it off, lying about his ankle was not feeling up to travelling yet. He was sure Alistair could see through his lies but indulged him anyway…something Leonce was grateful for.

There was a constant struggle in his mind-

One side was telling him that what he had here was special…reminded him of Ciro, his father figure. Hadn’t his best moments been with Ciro? Hadn’t these last four months felt like a weird dream? When was the last time Leonce had felt safe before meeting Alistair? When was the last time that he had felt this comfortable with anyone? Or rather when was the last time anyone had been this kind to him?

The other side was more insistent though. It was the side that reminded him how he had trusted Bouchard, a noble of Stragosa and what had happened then. Bouchard had broken that wall first, Leonce had grown an idiotic sense of loyalty towards the Capacian noble and that had ended up in the worst two nights of his life. He remembered calling for his lord and not seeing him come to his aid. He didn’t want to have that feeling again, to feel betrayed and alone.

The latter side had won in the end, and he packs food into a bag given to him by Alistair.

He walks towards the door, aware of Alistair’s silence and for a moment he wants to ask if he can stay. But the idea of rejection keeps him from opening his mouth. Alistair’s gaze feels burning on the back of his neck, he wants to ask Alistair if he is sad to see him go but doesn’t. It’s none of his business, and part of him thinks it’s maybe better not knowing.

Standing at the front door, he turns around to face the older man. There is a knot in his throat that he’s trying hard to ignore.

“I…” he clears his throat, trying not to look at Alistair or else he thinks his resolve to leave will waver “…..thank you…”

It’s not something that comes out of his mouth very often, but it feels strangely satisfying to say it to the man in front of him.

“I was glad I was able to help you…” and again there’s honesty in Alistair’s tone “If you are ever around these parts, my home is always open to you. I rather enjoyed your company…”

He nods, his heart beating fast as he turns away without another word. If he doesn’t leave now, he knows he won’t. But he can’t stay, he can’t be vulnerable again. Leonce walks without turning back, knows the cabin has disappeared from sight as he enters the forest.

“On the road again…” he whispers, and the hopelessness that escapes him takes him by surprise. So do the tears that he didn’t even know were already streaming down his face. Why now? He leans against a tree, hiding his face in his hands. These had been the best two months of his life, why was he so eager to end it? Was cautiousness really worth being unhappy his whole life?

He looked up at the sky, remembering a specific moment in time with Ciro that he hadn’t thought of in a long time.

~“Are you happy Leonce?”~

~The small young boy nods as he cooks a fish in front of a small fire. “I wasn’t before, but I am now.”~

~“This is what we live for, to prolong the good times as much as possible and to remember them when bad times try to suffocate us. Don’t seclude yourself from what makes you happy. Remember that.”~

He’s a mess now, tears seem a downpour and he’s not sure how to stop them. He wanted to be happy for once, wasn’t he always saying how selfish he was? This is the selfish thing he wanted above all, and damn it all he deserved to be selfish after the last year in that cursed city.

He doesn’t realize he’s running until he is gasping for air.

—–

The rain is heavy, sound soothing outside. Yet it somehow sounds hollow today.

There is a knock on the door and it startles Alistair as he drops the quill he’s been writing with. He moves cautiously towards the sound, unsure of what he will find at the other side.

His breath hitches as he opens the door and glances at the soaking boy staring up at him.

There’s nothing to be said, he simply smiles and moves aside to let Leonce in. The boy steps in without a word, panting and soaking wet from the rain outside.

Alistair closes the door as Leonce takes off his backpack and throws it in a forgotten corner.

The rain doesn’t sound so hollow anymore

-I should tell him.-

Stepping outside she snuggly wraps the scarf around her, feeling the brisk air of early autumn nipping at the town. She inhales and begins walking down the street- opening two jars, one empty and one full of rose petals. Grabbing a few petals she then places them into her mouth.

-Should I tell him?-

She chews the petals slowly and nods at those nearby. After passing Florence then holds up the empty jar and allows the tinted liquid to leave her mouth, swallowing the rest of the flower. As she continues her journey she would replace the petals and repeat the process, filling the jar with the rosey color. It is around this time of year she finds herself with less to do. The season of growth fading.

-I should tell him.-

Florence stops at the doors of a church and swallows the last bit of petals. She takes hold of the handle and walks inside. The room is warm and silent- few people are seated or kneeling in prayer. She quietly takes a seat on one of the empty pews and closes her eyes-mimicking those around her.

“Excuse me.”

Florence stirs from her thoughts as a hand is placed on her shoulder, a priest stands before her. His tone is hushed as to not disrupt the prayers of others.

“Are you alright?”

He gestures a finger towards the corner of his mouth tracing down his chin. She lets out a quiet, “Oh” and scrubs her chin with her scarf.

“Yes,” she whispers back at him, “a little bit of dye.” she points to the jar of liquid in her basket for him to see her truth. His gaze follows and he briefly nods, releasing her shoulder.

-Tell him.-

“Wait.” her voice is less of a whisper as the priest had already begun to move away. He halts and returns, “Yes?”

“Confessions are private?”

His eyes close as he bobs his head.

“I, uh, would like to make a confession.”

She stands from the pew and follows the priest towards the back room. Her hands clasped together- clutching hard at the handles of her basket. Knowing whatever she says will only alleviate some of her stresses but will never help her wicked guilt.