XIX. Candlelight

Soren had nary a moment to begin thinking.

He recalled the flashes of death in the knight’s cloister, the portentous words of Tennieson—the battlefield near Leutere.

But this was not his blood, nor was it drawn by his hands.

Cybele sobbed, groaned, choked on his tears as he knelt on the floor. He vomited, hit his head with his fists, hurling the dagger at the far side of the room.

Soren rose, saw the young man’s corpse in the bed. Eyes half-slit. Dried tears on his cheeks. Blood drooling from the mouth. The open wound in his neck—

And the candlelight proceeded, unwavering. The storm had calmed to torrential rain and nothing else.

But for Cybele, and his crime, Soren would have looked away. All nerves in his body had started a revolt. His nausea made him retch and keel over, but no, no he could not.

For Cybele, he could not. For his wife, somewhere in this blasted hellhole, he could not.

For himself, he could not.

He moved a little closer to the bed, sat upon its edge, and gently pulled the sheets over the young man’s head.

“Why… Normaine…”

Soren looked upon Cybele barely managing to speak these words. He looked upon his hands, faintly trembling.

And he felt himself begin to cry.

For sorrow, Soren thought, need not be borne alone.

He knelt beside Cybele, placing his arm around him.

“It was at this moment I knew what I was capable of.”

Cybele spoke through a quavering voice, yet clearly.

“If I could do something like this… wha—what else did I not know about myself? Was it the gelding? My family, who decided to raise me as—as a lady? This God-damned war, that bitch of a queen? I—”

Cybele snickered.

“I—I am a bitch, too, aren’t I? That feels appropriate right now…”

He sat back against his lower legs, looked downcast, wiping blood, tears, and mucus from his face.

“And yet… here you are. Betwixt myself and Normaine’s gored throat.”

He began to cry again, quietly.

“I—I had no choice. I had no choice. What wou—would have become of me? My friends, my family—our house? What was he thinking? The damned fool, blasted idiot, head between the queen’s legs! By God—”

Soren continued to kneel in silence. He stared at the floor in front of Cybele, where blood, tears, sweat, and mucus had all collected into disparate, muddied little puddles, each of which looked like a misshapen flower in blossom, alive in this place, rotting in that one.

This, after all, was part of the nature of man; and Soren was, after all things, just a man like anyone else. He was of the flesh, no matter who speaks or what is done, now or in the past or in the future.

What would he see in his own cloister? What?

Yet—a crime against man, it remains.

Soren’s arm tightened as he looked at Cybele, who looked up at the body beneath the sheets. Soren looked with him, saw the crimson stain upon them.

“It—it is said we all have a shadow. What fucking nonsense. Is there supposed to be a kinslayer inside all of us?”

And Cybele looked downcast again.

“No, there is not,” Soren said. “But we ultimately remain of the same flesh before God, even if—He does not speak. This must never be forgotten.”

Cybele raised his head, looking directly at Soren. Blood, sweat, tears, mucus smudged across Cybele’s face.

And Cybele swiftly, tightly embraced Soren.

“Just… don’t leave me,” Cybele said, voice quavering again. “Please. No matter what happens, I know that is not fair, but you—you can’t. For Normaine, I can’t—I know I shouldn’t have, but—”

Soren embraced Cybele in turn, as Cybele began to sob quietly.

“I will not leave you,” he replied, softly, “I said we must face these things together. So we will, no matter the cost. And we…”

Soren’s voice trailed off. He tightened his embrace.

“We owe this to ourselves as much as to God. We… need not seek absolution alone. Neither of us.”

Cybele’s hands around Soren tightened ever so slightly, and they spoke no more as Cybele’s sobs receded.

And Soren, reflecting upon Cybele’s reasoning, knew that he did not yet have an answer to all of his questions, either.

What is any man or woman to do under such unbearable weight?

And why? For what purpose?

But a child—

And God did not speak.

Soren sighed deeply before gently pulling away from Cybele. He looked around for anything that might help clean up Cybele, before stopping at the doorway.

Sophia and Maria stood just beyond it, light cast in their hands. Both with black eyes. Maria was downcast, while Sophia was looking at Soren, pensively, yet somberly. Her expression was relaxed, and tired.

“We must keep moving. Gather yourselves,” said Sophia.

“The Library of Antinomia awaits; it will allow us a brief respite and cleaning,” added Maria.

Both spoke in subdued voices.

“We apologize,” said Sophia. “But there is no choice. Come.”

Soren rose, gently pulling Cybele up with him. Cybele was calmer now, wearing a plaintive expression. Blood stained his bodice and skirt. He removed the silver scabbard from his waist, holding it in his hands as he stared at it, before reattaching it. He walked briskly to the other side of the room, collecting and sheathing the silver dagger, which was stained with blood. Soren looked away from him.

And Soren saw the Sisters looking at the bed, turning back toward Soren and Cybele. They blinked and their eyes turned white again.

“It is at the seat of despair where both the soul and the cloister become one,” said Maria. “That is its nature.”

“For another time, Maria,” said Sophia. Maria nodded, yet looked pensive.

Cybele was staring at his brother before Maria gently took his hand. He looked up at her with that same plaintive expression, nodding before turning downcast.

They exited the room, walking down the corridor to a doorway in the darkness.

Soren could not help looking back. The torches were dying as they left the cloister.