X. Rain Upon a Dark Window

The first thing Soren could think of saying was a question, yet, and not without a little ruefulness, he held his tongue.

With the stone door shut behind them, he watched Sophia while she began work on the wooden door’s lock. Soren looked at the emblem upon the door; it looked to be a coat of arms, and upon it, there was an amber cross against a solid gray background, with seven black stars beneath the left arm of the cross, and six beneath the right.

“Even in death does Lucienne leave behind this ridiculous contraption. Damn it all,” said Sophia, as she placed her burnt palm against the keyhole beneath the door handle. Lines of white light bled a few inches from around her hand, crossing each other in various ways before receding completely, then beginning anew into another arrangement. Soren saw Sophia flinch ever slightly.

“Lucienne… of House Livia?” asked Maria.

Sophia nodded with a slight smile, yet focused on her hand. “I would have been most disappointed if you had forgotten her.”

Maria sighed. “Lest we forget about what transpired just now—”

“Yes. I know, for goodness’ sake—“

“That—thing. Will we be safe in here?” Soren asked as he turned to stare at the stone wall behind them.

“Oh, yes,” replied Sophia. “It is a cowardly beast, trapping itself beyond the choir screen. It knows it’s fortunate that I don’t return to finish erasing it from existence.” Sophia’s free hand curled into a tight fist before loosening moments afterward.

He would not soon forget that spear of light, after all.

Soren sighed. He looked down at Cybele, who had curled up slightly in his arms. He looked at the bright red bruises, which he knew needed further mending to prevent the risk of hemorrhaging, and to make the pain of them at least tolerable upon her waking. Then at her face.

He wondered how a creature like this child could find themselves in a place like this. Soren collected his thoughts, and while still somewhat uncertain of them, they would explain why he arrived in his own way. He remembered the last thing he could recall when he first woke up in this world, or whatever the Hell this place is: the metal blade.

He was cast out of his world. He was accused, judged, sentenced, executed. What had been done to reduce him to such a state? The crime of desertion was unimaginable to him. Then also, these memories must be his, for he believed, nay, he knew, beyond this God-forsaken cathedral-hell, that his healing powers did not come to him out of some daemonic “miracle”; they were absolute in their holiness, and an extension of the service he could offer others.

Though it could not possibly be true, he thought, accusations can well be contrived. But for what, he did not know, for that was not important… at least, not yet. A chasm of despair could yet be filled with glorious faith—so, he thought, I will have faith.

But a child? No older than fifteen years? Pierced and nearly killed by an abomination he could not have conjured in his worst nightmares?

Soren gritted his teeth. He imagined the monster’s destroyed head again—his nerves having settled, the image increasingly frightened him. Am I remembering something else, he thought. What?

Then a shiver as a flash of blood and screams upon a grassy plain beneath the high sun echoed in his mind—shutting his eyes tightly, he prayed, silently, that the vision would recede. So it did.

Yet, he recalled in the Hall of Life, God did not speak to him…

He focused again on Cybele, who continued breathing peacefully, steadily. The healing process had left Soren conspicuously tired, after all Maria said about no longer needing to eat or sleep. All he wanted to do now was set the girl to rest, and watch over her.

Cybele twitched slightly. “Ah… thank you, Soren,” she said, in a barely audible whisper, eyes still shut as she breathed steadily. The girl must still be sleeping.

Soren’s immediate astonishment quickly led to tears. He felt one leave his chin and land on Cybele.

“Done,” said Sophia, as the door made several unlocking noises before being opened. “Quite a bit for a modest keyhole, but Lucienne was always strict about these things. Come along, now.”

Soren sighed deeply as he caught Maria’s gaze toward him. She smiled slightly, yet warmly as she followed Sophia beyond the door. Soren entered behind Maria.

Soren vaguely recalled a structure like this before, some time in the past, yet he could not recall the name.

“And what kind of place is this?” he asked.

“A side chapel,” replied Maria. “This particular one belonged to the House of Livia.”

Ah yes, he thought. All four walls of the chapel were made of smooth, polished, ivory-colored stone. At the northern wall, twenty or so feet ahead of him, there was a stone bench attached to the wall, upon which an emerald green cushion lay, adjacent to a window that was level with the bench. Beyond the window there was only darkness, in which the light of the chapel revealed nothing. The patter of rain against it was rhythmic, steady, and calm.

Soren wished he had not noticed the window first. He took a deep breath and collected himself.

To the west, there was a bed upon a polished mahogany wooden frame, large enough to fit one person, against the wall. And to his east, there was an altar at the center of the wall, one niche on each side of it; whatever statues once lay within them, they were now destroyed. At the end of the east wall further from him, there was another wooden door.

A metal shield, upon which the apparent coat of arms was painted, hung over two crossed steel shortswords, next to the window, yet a few feet above the bench.

“Oh, how I miss them,” said Sophia, sighing. “Lucienne and I could talk for hours over tea and snuff.”

“Quite,” said Maria, rather quietly. “Some would say too long at times.”

“Oh, my dear, but you know me well enough. I had my refuges for when Mother was being difficult.” She sat on the stone bench by the window at the northern wall of the chapel.

“So it seems,” Soren said, as he took a seat next to Cybele after laying her upon the bed put against the western wall, “this… place was quite lively.” He spoke in a soft tone as he observed Cybele’s bruises.

“’Lively’ isn’t quite how I would describe it,” said Sophia, facing the window while resting against the sill. “What say you, Maria?”

Maria had knelt to pray before the altar, silently. After a minute or so, Soren watched her rise to her feet. Something within him felt pricked by the whole act.

“It was—is an institution. A great and vast one for lost souls. Indeed, many have come and gone over the cycles,” Maria said, joining Sophia on the bench next to her, away from the window.

Soren suddenly became aware of himself, more than usual, as he looked over Cybele’s clothing and body for any other scratches, nicks, cuts, bruises, bumps, and injured joints. When he was certain she was a bit roughed up but otherwise quite all right, he saw his hand stretched out in front of him over the bruises on the poor girl’s thigh, felt around his body for what he might be wearing. Then he remembered the black cape on his back, tattered at the ends, draping his shoulders down to his knees; the grayish beige tunic he wore, made of linen that was not terribly coarse, but not very fine, either; the ash-dyed wool hose starting from the waist, then down to the ankle; and at the end of all things, for he had, somehow, forgotten about this, it seemed he never had shoes. His feet were covered in dust.

He continued patting around himself. Pockets? Satchels? Bags? Medicine? Nothing, thought Soren. He had nothing. He cursed that it had taken all this time to even consider this inspection.

With nothing else that could aid his magic, he thought of the incantation that came to him when fate had threatened to cut them loose from its threads. He could just remember a variation of it that produced a milder form of healing without having to penetrate the flesh for surgery.

And he was confident these incantations were indeed powerful, risky for even master healer-surgeons.

“Soren,” said Sophia, looking out the window. Soren turned to look at her, before he returned his focus to Cybele. “If I may.”

“As you have all but said aloud before, I have no choice. You may,” said Soren, placing his palm against the worst of the bruises, closest to the inner thigh. Cybele twitched, moaning quietly in her sleep; without a second thought, Soren placed his thumb against her forehead again, incanting “sleep” for her once more. He knew this spell was not as effective as laudanum, and though it could be made stronger, this risked disorders of reason and emotion, so it would have to do—

“You have a considerable talent. You seem to realize that now,” continued Sophia.

Soren paused, briefly, before he placed his palm against the bruise again.

“Whatever one wants to call it, it is the only thing I seem to have done with my life above the ‘Firmament’ thus far,” he replied. A silvery light, dimmer than before, resonated outward from his palm over the bruise.

“Yes; ‘thus far.’ You also seem… calm. Despite everything, that is.”

As he incanted with a soft whisper, beneath the light he saw the bruise receding, now but two or so inches across, and somewhat lighter in color. He moved his palm to the next one.

“What of it?” said Soren flatly. “After Halliferd, how shocked could I be that such an aberration exists in this place?”

“Stop,” said Maria, almost yelling as she held her head in her hands. Soren and Sophia quickly turned to Maria, while Soren yet left his palm in place as it healed the second bruise.

“Please… just—I would like some quiet. Let us breathe, and let Soren continue his work.”

Soren waited for a response from Sophia, but nothing came.

He returned his focus to Cybele, and listened to the impossible rain pattering against the impossible window. Whatever was beyond the darkness of the window, he prayed, for the first time since waking up under that patch of light, that he could listen to the rain for as long as time would allow him.

The second bruise receded, and he moved on to the third.

And for a moment, as they sat in silence, there was peace.