XI. Capella Liviae

Soren finished his work on the fourth bruise upon Cybele’s right leg. Her feet pointed toward the northern wall, where Maria continued to sit, downcast, next to Sophia on the cushioned stone bench as she continued gazing out the window, the rain pattering against it. There remained only darkness beyond the window. Soren had lost track of the precise passage of time by this point, yet he knew that enough silence had passed to be more than half an hour.

He sighed, turning on his stool to the Sisters. “How do you fare, Maria?”

It occurred to him he had not yet asked either of them about their well-being. This, too, felt more natural to him now, yet a curiously cool distance remained between them; though perhaps, Soren thought, not as curious as one would think. After everything they’ve put us through—

“Fine—quite well, actually. Thank you for your concern, Soren,” replied Maria, who lifted her head to speak with white eyes and a gentle smile. Soren thought he saw tear streaks drying on her cheeks in the strange light coming through the window, soft, pale, not terribly bright, nor too dim.

He wished to wipe away her tears. The light through the window embraced the entire chapel, and he wished to embrace the light, too.

He turned away to hide the plaintive expression he wore. He looked again upon Cybele’s bruises; they remained stable, as did her breathing.

“I was told we would forgo eating, breathing, ‘even sleeping.’ That does not yet appear to be the case,” Soren said, as he looked around the room and saw beneath him two parts of the floor he had missed upon first entering the chapel, but a few feet from where he now sat: two slabs of charcoal-colored stone carved into the floor, adjacent to each other, while the slight cracks around them were filled with mortar. The coat of arms was embossed and colored in the center of both, while the inscriptions beneath them were worn away, indecipherable.

“Indeed, you were,” said Maria, still smiling. “But it is difficult to predict when and how it may happen; that depends on the mind of the lamb, though it is nonetheless inevitable. And still, physical and spiritual exertion, and wounding, can be harmful for mortals here just as it is above the Firmament, requiring rest. After all, you are supposed to leave this place.”

Soren looked up from the stone, mildly astonished.

“Then… you two are immortals?”

Maria shut her eyes. She opened them again as she looked at Sophia.

“That question is not helpful for you,” said Sophia, whose gaze remained fixed upon the window.

“I must concur with my Sister,” said Maria. “Regardless, what I tell you is true. We withhold information as befits your journey, but we are not liars.”

“Then riddle me this,” said Soren as he furrowed his brow, voice rising in volume, “why, in the name of God, were we taken to that place?”

Maria folded her hands on her lap. Sophia turned from the window to look at Soren with black eyes, her own face furrowing severely.

“It is my duty and wont to preserve order,” said Sophia. “The Nave has long been part of the procession for newcomers, and that has long been part of House Livia’s legacy. Thank God Lucienne is not here to see it as it is now—or perhaps, I shouldn’t be thanking God after all, given what has happened.”

Maria quietly gasped. Her brow furrowed in worriment as she sharply turned toward her.

“Sophia, now is not the time to—”

“I merely miscalculated the degree of the threat. Never had I seen such an abomination within—”

Sophia clenched her teeth, holding her head in her hands, before she stood with a frustrated growl, glaring at Soren, whose own brow remained furrowed, yet he felt something plaintive close to his heart.

“That such a disgusting profanation occurred out of my sight has never, in the countless ‘years’ I’ve spent within these walls, countless beyond your feeble mortal coil, happened before. I trust, therefore, that you understand the degree to which this is unprecedented. And bear this in mind, too, Soren,” said Sophia, swiftly striding up to him so that her waist was inches away from Soren’s face as his unbroken gaze shifted upward to her wide, furious eyes.

“My authority remains absolute. Without my guidance, without my dear Sister’s aid, you would now be dead. As would that poor girl you have saved from death in a flash of inspiration from your own memories, engulfed in smoke and flame as they are.”

Sophia crossed and held her arms. “Indeed, we have yet made use of this ordeal. Would you not agree, given your boundless hunger for reason?”

Soren could hardly search for words to speak. A few moments passed and he broke his gaze, turning downcast. He could not decide if she was callous, just, merciful, or all at once. He reasoned, and in doing so, decided that he must concede such a bad situation had become fruitful in some respects.

He thought of his memories, from the metal blade, to the shit thrown upon him, to the executioner, to the deafening silence of God as he looked at his own flock who needed his healing, to—

Sophia gently took hold of Soren’s head, pressing him against her waist. He shut his eyes and drank the silky texture of her tunic, while he felt her skin beyond it cool, devoid of conspicuous bodily warmth. He had not noticed that Maria now stood beside her, eyes black as she folded her hands in front of her at her groin, and looked upon Soren, too.

“We have seen much, Soren,” said Sophia, almost whispering. “The road ahead of you is long, and perilous. So will it also be for Cybele. We see the edges of your mind, how frayed and singed they are, but that does not have to be so. You have quite demonstrated that already. And—you will not leave this place without us. You will not ascend without us. Cybele will need your help, and you will need hers. Be wary; that is all.”

Ascend. While that word was now branded upon Soren’s mind, he let it recede as his memories fell out of a frenzy into order again. So he did the same with Sophia’s blasphemy. He must not forget them, these moments and words.

Nor the others.

“Thank you,” he said. And, he thought, I will retain my “boundless reason.” Maria took one of his hands, squeezing it gently before she released him.

And he heard Cybele shifting behind him. He pulled away from Sophia immediately to look at her. Her eyes creaked open, saw Soren sitting on a stool beside her, Sophia and Maria right beside him, and she sighed quietly before turning to look at the ceiling.

“I hope I haven’t been asleep for too long.”

Soren did not actually know how much time had passed. Having lost this much sense of it at this point, however, he nodded his head.

“I’m not sure. We have yet to be disturbed by that beast in the Nave, at least,” said Soren.

Her eyes then opened wide as she sat up swiftly. “What? Where is it? Did we not kill it?” She clenched her teeth as she shifted the injured leg to move off the bed.

“Be careful. You must needs move the leg slowly and steadily for now,” said Soren, rising to help lift Cybele’s leg back onto the bed.

“But for how long? What use is a maimed leg in this dunghill of a ‘cathedral’, or whatever the damned place is?”

“I hope I will not have to introduce corporal punishment for your blasphemy,” said Maria firmly.

“Ah—forgive me, Sister Maria, but you must understand—”

“I do, which is why I forgive you,” she said, before sighing. “How do you feel?”

Cybele yawned, crossing her arms.

“I don’t know. I hardly remember what happened in there except for the pain. Pain…” Cybele said, voice trailing off.

“We were just talking about you,” said Sophia, smiling. “We must resume our journey soon, so long as you can walk on that leg.”

“About me? What for?” she asked, her eyes darting between Soren and the Sisters.

“Wait—it was you,” she said, looking at Soren. “You… did all this?” She looked upon her bruises, all red-pinkish splotches now no larger than a coin, before returning to Soren.

“I thought… it must be you, isn’t it?” Cybele asked.

Soren raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you mean. We’ve never met before, or at least I don’t recall.”

“You were the ‘living saint’—yes, I saw you in my dream just now. You were… quite famous, weren’t you? The greatest healer our—land had ever known. It was… it was almost as if God Himself had sent you as some—miracle.”

Cybele had begun to cry, quietly. She looked away as she turned downcast.

“And… it’s a miracle that I’m alive now. Isn’t it?”

Soren was utterly speechless, mouth agape. He shut his eyes with pronounced weight. For a moment, he saw again the sick and infirm beneath the precipice upon which he stood. Where God did not speak, he heard Cybele instead; and God’s silence echoed throughout him, yet beneath it, Cybele stood on her injured leg.

Opening them again, he took Cybele’s hand in his own, clearing his throat.

“Perhaps I was. More importantly, I would see that you are well before we go on.”

“Quite a dream, indeed,” said Maria, smiling gently. “This is why they are useful. Would you believe Soren has yet to tell me about his? Though at this point, I think we all would.” Sophia chuckled.

“So, which first? My dreams, or staying here next to that monster in the Nave?” asked Soren, exasperated.

“Yes, of course,” said Sophia. “Help Cybele onto her feet if she can stand. I have something important for the both of you.”

As Soren steadily helped Cybele’s legs over the edge of the bed, Sophia knelt before the altar, folding her hands in prayer. Soren looked more closely at it this time, saw that upon the elevated stone desk, plain and smooth in structure, was a thick tome laid open against a dark brown wooden lectern. He became immediately curious, before turning back to Cybele.

Maria knelt by the dark stone slabs. She laid a hand against one of them, blinking from black to white eyes that glowed faintly.

Soren helped Cybele bring her legs down to the floor as she sat upon the bed, before pausing to watch the Sisters.

“Forgive our disturbance, Gauvain,” said Maria, as Sophia came and knelt beside her.

“I think he was rather annoyed with me while he lived, but he could only be so harsh toward a dear friend of Lucienne,” said Sophia, smiling widely.

Maria’s eyes glowed more brightly, and there was the faint sound of a breeze in the room; then a flash of light around the edges of the slab, blinding both Soren and Cybele. When their vision returned shortly afterward, Sophia was lifting the stone slab with Maria, apparently with just a bit of effort, before setting it down next to the hole they had now made.

Soren and Cybele looked at each other, then back at the hole.

“Is—is that a grave?” asked Cybele. Soren figured it was, and did not know if he should be aghast at unearthing a man’s tomb. Sophia smiled as she slid into the hole. Her head and neck remained visible.

“They agreed to this before their deaths. They understood its importance,” she said, before they heard her move and lift another object made of stone, the top of a casket, carved out in the shape of a body with its hands crossed upon the chest. She held it up and against the edge of the grave, where Maria took it with some exertion.

“Oh, Maria. You must keep your body strong while I am away,” said Sophia from within the grave.

“And I heard you huffing in there when you passed it to me,” replied Maria, as she gently let the stone top of the casket rest on the floor next to the slab.

“Soren, Cybele. Come, and see,” said Sophia.

Having been sufficiently impressed by this absurd display of strength (I suppose as befits them, thought Soren), he stood from the stool, linked his arm with Cybele’s own, and helped her to her feet. Cybele nodded at Soren, and they walked slowly, steadily to the grave.

Inside they saw the skeleton of someone who must have been tall, easily over six feet, wearing armor that Soren knew to be made of silver by its polish and tarnish. It held a shield with the coat of arms in one hand, and a longsword beneath it, centered at the chest.

“Gauvain Livia, patriarch of House Livia, wanted his interment in this rather modest little chapel, next to his wife, Lucienne. He could be quite stern, sometimes even severe, but always fair and just and warm of heart for those he loved,” said Maria, kneeling at the edge of the grave above them. “A terrible, terrible shame that he suffered his death in this world.”

“Yet it was his choice,” said Sophia. “He could not fathom the thought of leaving Lucienne behind.” She sighed as her eyes began to moisten and glisten in the dim light of the window before swiftly reaching for the sword and shield. Maria wiped tears from her cheeks. Soren remained quiet, looking at the sword.

“Death in this world… the ‘second death’?” asked Cybele.

“Not quite in this case, though it is still rather miserable compared to heaven,” said Sophia, who now gently undid the hands’ grip on the sword and the shield’s handle. She passed them to Maria.

Soren remained fixated on the sword.

“Are these arms for us?” asked Cybele.

“Indeed,” said Maria. “Some of the procession ahead may require their use. You are both trained, of course.”

“I am… I think. But I was—” Cybele swallowed loudly enough for them to hear.

Soren stared at the sword.

“I’m sorry, I’m just not very comfortable with proper combat. But I was… rather skilled with a dagger, I believe.”

“You want the dagger?” said Sophia, crossing her arms. “I suppose. It was Gauvain’s most precious arm, too, so please handle it with respect,” she said as she reached for the dagger at Gauvain’s waist. She handed it to Cybele before climbing out of the grave. The scabbard itself was unremarkable, yet Cybele unsheathed the blade and found it red-hot near its point. She quickly sheathed it again.

“Yes, you will want to keep it sheathed unless absolutely necessary,” said Maria.

“Soren? What say you?” asked Cybele, who turned to look at him.

The sword.

All at once he felt his heart racing like it never had before.

My wife, he thought. My wife. My wife—

How? How could he have forgotten her? Why does the sword stir the bowels of his memory for her at last?

How? How? What happened to her? Where is she?

He fell to his knees. Others may have called out to him, but he did not hear them. That did not matter. Not now, perhaps, not anymore—

Did he kill for her? Did he cut someone and disembowel them in the act? Did he decapitate someone? Did he crush someone’s skull? Did he stab someone through the groin? Did he cut off someone’s arms or legs? Did he cleave someone’s head in half? Did he let loose an arrow into someone’s throat? Did he trample someone beneath his horse? Did he impale someone on a spear?

Soren saw himself upon the grassy plain. The city of Leutere peered from beyond a hill not far in the distance, its stone gate and high walls lined with archers, crossbowmen, flameshooters using their hands and extraordinary sight to fire molten rock at soldiers, and the flameshooters were expensive, rare, and deadly men.

He saw the plains drenched in blood and limbs, and then the men still moving upon them, crossing swords, hammers, daggers, spears, axes, maces—all without sound. They fell, and fell, and fell, silently, while their faces writhed, their half-slit eyes unmoving on the ground.

Beneath him, yet, he heard a young man wearing chainmail who held onto his leg, coughing up blood, pleading to be spared the agony of life. Soren knelt, saw the left lung punctured by arrow, a missing arm up to the shoulder blade, a missing leg up to the middle of the thigh, a stab wound through the stomach, and knew these lethal without surgery and time before he would be targeted here—

Dormi profundius. The altar bell rang, resonant, soft and low in tone, as he held his thumb to the soldier’s forehead. Soren took out a bottle of laudanum from a satchel strapped to his waist over hardened leather armor, let a few droplets beneath the soldier’s tongue.

The soldier was quiet, breathing. Then slowly. Then almost imperceptibly. Then no more.

And he heard and felt a blade strike his shoulder from behind, but it did not penetrate the armor. Soren turned and saw an enemy soldier in chainmail, injured at an arm and fatigued. He saw the vanguard comprising his brethren pushing back the opposing army, and Soren summoned light to his hand, forcing the soldier backward a few feet and the soldier fell and lost control of his sword and shield. Soren ran up to sedate and bind him before a fellow soldier plunged a blade through his neck. Upon his ally’s face was fury before he turned to join the vanguard.

And Soren found another soldier on the ground, knelt beside him, and with the vanguard pushing forward he needed but a few minutes—Soren reattached the missing arm, then struck by an arrow, and the arrow penetrated his armor, narrowly missing his heart, and he cried and cursed and faltered and nearly fell before remaining stalwart, helped the soldier to his feet, ordered him to keep his arm still and retreat, and the soldier nodded with eyes widened by terror, and exhilaration, and awe.

And the battlefield now cried out in a cacophony, and Soren heard everything as he looked round himself.

At the top of the hill ahead of the vanguard, ahead of the opposing army facing them, he saw a woman. She was dressed in but a simple white gown. He could not make out her face and body against the sun overhead, the sweat from his brow, the pain in his breast. Soren called to her, that the enemy was in that direction, that she is not prepared to fight.

He saw something glint incandescently in her hand, long, made of metal, before she descended the hill away from him. She was gone.