XXXI. Fear and Trembling

Three months passed, and the capital of Elestie stirred most fiercely.

Soren continued to receive letters from Francois, detailing the chaos within the Church as news of his return had begun to spread. Bishop Willaine convened with the other bishops who, upon hearing Soren’s very name in the same sentence as “alive”, flew into a fury.

Probably an embellishment, thought Soren, though it was a fine one.

Soren eventually returned to his old home, which had been boarded shut and mostly left as it was. He saw signs of vandalism, some of his furnishings gone, replete with dust and must, but it looked still as if it had not been opened for much of the time since his death.

This was fine.

And Francois recounted the great houses in an uproar, the factions forming within the Church, Serville’s fending off the accusations against him—

House Hautin preserved the documentation we needed for your case. Those letters were, let’s say, rather incriminating. But of course also, this alone does not absolve you. I believe you know this already, but I felt it must be reiterated.

Remain quiet. No one in the kingdom will lay a hand on you as long as you remain quiet. You are yet a pawn—I despise such a use of that word, but you are well familiar with these matters. I remember that, too.

Though I must say, the peasantry are divided too, but much less so. They remember you rather fondly. The military remembers you no less fondly, perhaps even more so. They are becoming something of a vanguard for the Church factions aligned with your return. That may indeed become the breaking point we need.

And the killings within have begun. I find there isn’t a very polite way to say that. The houses have become vicious, as the Crown has become as well. I hear even a bishop is missing.

Please. Keep quiet. For the sake of that girl, too.

Your friend,

F. Delacroix

Soren set the letter down.

He looked over at Cybele, who sat on the edge of the bed with him. She wore a clean, white linen bodice with a gray skirt. She seemed to be observing him.

“So? Any news of importance?”

Soren’s expression became pensive as he looked away.

“Yes,” he said. “Some good, some… grim. Such is politics. But I cannot fathom how someone like you can bear such pressure.”

Cybele took the letter, read it herself before setting it down. She became plaintive.

“I don’t know either. I suppose I became used to it.”

“You are strong, too. And kind,” he said. “That you could yet keep yourself together, after… everything.”

Cybele reached over and held Soren’s hand. Soren looked back at Cybele, who now smiled gently.

“You should not say that to me without acknowledging yourself,” she said.

And for a brief moment, tears welled in his eyes. He smiled in turn.

“If I must,” said Soren.

“Much better,” said Cybele, who fell back against the bed.

“Perhaps I can return home too, once this is all over and done with.”

Soren’s body tensed.

“I know…” continued Cybele. “There’s no telling what will be left. My family has made many enemies very quickly. But they were generous donors, both to the peasants and to chapel-hospitals and homes for military veterans. They have allies too. That must mean something.”

She curled up, shutting her eyes.

“And I have you,” she said, quietly.

And she began breathing the rhythm of dreams.

Soren covered her with a blanket, rose, still smiling, before he saw, not for the last time, a small glass vase upon a small a bedside desk.

The lily had long wilted, yet he retained the petals, and left the stem inside of it, dry, cracked, but still there.

And God did not speak.

And he began to tremble at the thought, the sight of the maw of God—

And he fell back against the bed.

From this moment, he thought, to the next.

He smiled, and fell asleep.