Murky Water

Over the last hour, the weather had intensified, meaning every step had to be taken with care or a sudden gale might tip us over. Gem Capital never got so extreme during this season. Fortunately, the structures here boasted a skeleton of rock-solid hardwood and a clever architecture of low and triangular shapes that sapped the wind out of its strength.

The temple was the same: steep squat roof with some deliberate openings at the top to balance the air pressure from within.

Silence reigned inside. A crisp scent breezed past my nostrils like a tide carrying the breath of the sea, coming from a select set of herbs that hung in the ceiling.

Despite its familiarity, the smell churned my stomach for some reason.

Perhaps coming here wasn't such a great idea.

I was about to call for Rasbora's attention to excuse myself when the priest approached. He wore an ornate white mask—the likeness of waves adorning its surface—and greeted us by rubbing both palms; left hand above, right one below.

My companion returned the gesture, then politely pointed to the right side of the room. The priest invited her to proceed and she waved for me to follow, but turned forward before I could hint at my discomfort.

The lady headed for the other side of the single-room building, where a few rugs were laid out for meditation.

On the right section rested a long table with a lined set of square clay boxes, some fresh fish and several knives. Rasbora placed a hefty sum of marks in the first, biggest box then looked at me almost with lamb eyes.

Fine, you win.

I reluctantly donated the same amount and we proceeded with the ritual together.

Rasbora handed me a knife and took another for herself. The reflection in the blade stared at me, distorted but recognizable. Its eyes bent in a disappointed expression.

I sunk the knife into the fish—a clean slice through the abdomen to remove the guts. When it came back out, the judging eyes were now buried under mucus and fats.

Oftentimes you could tell how devout someone was by the quality of their cut when preparing fish dishes. I used to be so proud of my skills… at least until two years ago.

Perhaps that was my first real sin, when I allowed the seed of doubt to take root in my mind—the one that would later sprout into my greatest mistakes.

Was it ironic that a Paladin, someone blessed by the Divines themselves, ended up questioning their teachings? Or was it plain stupid?

I chopped the fish head cleanly. Its mouth opened, like it had something to say but was unable to speak my language. Maybe it could and I just didn't want to listen.

As the months went on, the voice that had been blaming me for skipping on my temple visits, my religious duties… faded away. Guilt was replaced by indifference. And faith slowly suffocated like a fish out of water.

Nowadays, even the existence of the Divines sounded dubious at times.

How else was I supposed to make sense of all the contradictions? Blessings on one hand; lies on the other.

What is even worth believing anymore?

The knife knocked on the board louder than it should have. No one said anything, but I knew they were judging me—even Rasbora.

After wrapping both fish fillets around the head, I took one of the bigger knives. This one was used to chop the spine at every vertebrae. One by one, I hacked at the lies.

They taught us the Cursed were the embodiment of evil—envoys of the Unholy, the bane of the Divine. A Cursed's only purpose was to harm humans. If you ever met one and it didn't immediately attack you, it was trying to deceive you—get you to lower your guard.

I sprinkled the spine over the flesh like seasoning and placed the finished plate inside one of the clay boxes. I stared at the offering—stared directly at the lie while Rasbora put the lid on hers. Everyone always put a lid on then let it sink down.

As did I.

At the end of the room, four wood-carved idols awaited: a shark, a sea turtle, an octopus and a jellyfish. Avatars of the Divine who embodied the greatest virtues.

I considered it appropriate to go to the octopus, the symbol of Prudence. Interestingly, Rasbora herself went to the sea turtle, to Fortitude.

We sat on our knees in front of the idols and closed our eyes.

This was the time to pray.

In blatant disrespect, I instead emptied my mind like I was meditating and waited for the process to end. Not too long now.

The sounds of Rasbora moving indicated she was proceeding with the ritual. She opened a floor hatch that led to the bog beneath the village, then allowed the box with her offering to sink in. This type of clay was made to dissolve in water—so eventually the entire offering would decompose, leaving no trace behind. No proof of the lie.

Except for those willing to go deep enough to search for it.

In front of my… in front of the idol where I sat, the hatch opened to reveal murky blackness swaying and mixing the dirt within.

Dropping the box in, I watched it sink down inch by inch until it was lost in the thick green fluid.

Again.

You're doing it again.

Don't you ever get sick with yourself?

An unbelievable sense of repulsion assaulted me—like I'd kicked a friend and spit in their face only to then give an empty apology. It shook me. Made my very bones tremble.

In a blink I got up and saluted the priest, then rushed for the exit.

I needed out of this place. Every extra second boiled oil in my guts.

Yet Rasbora stopped me, she stopped me! Then she signaled the rugs, clueless—asking me to meditate with her.

Gritting my teeth, I very politely declined and left.

She didn't follow.

Outside, the wind furiously shoved me around, but it was also warm—pleasant, even. Which made it all the more repulsive. It would be better if it bit into me like needles, if it punished me for how disgusting I was.

Were the Divines liars? Did they say one thing then do another? Or was it all a misinterpretation of the priests?

I couldn't know for sure.

But what you do know is that you are, without a doubt, that kind of scum.

The door to our cottage swung open and struck the wall, almost breaking off. A single room for the three of us—I wouldn't have much time alone before they arrived.

I shut it with the same intensity, the outside ruckus quieting but lingering.

Then I stood in the dark.

Silent.

Alone.

My hands trembling.

Keep control, take a deep breath and hold it in.

I struck the wall, screaming until my lungs folded.

The winds would hide my voice from the outside, so I screamed again. Ripped the skin of my knuckles against the wall. Beat my head on it until it was dyed red.

Blissful pain filled me—medicine for the guilt; punishment for a fraud who lied and hurt others again and again, then had the nerve to judge the Divines themselves as if he had any right to question anything when he was such an ungrateful shithead that spit in the face of every good thing he'd ever been given.

…

The only reason anyone even talks to you is because they don't know the real you.

No one would accept such a failure.

Not even—

"D-Dori?"

I froze. Through the haze that clouded my thoughts and the red that blinded my eyes, a familiar figure hovered in the corner of my vision.

He saw me.

He glimpsed my worst self—my real self.

Oscar.