After the meal, Blayden headed to the chapel.
He walked past the prayer stands that smelled of ancient wood, their surfaces worn smooth by countless hands, and stood before the altar where the Ark of the Covenant lay, its sacred presence almost palpable in the dim light.
The smoke rising from the incense burners, strategically placed to guard the Ark, seemed to coil and writhe, a purification that finally began to cleanse the lingering, cloying smell of blood that clung to his body, a phantom reminder of recent skirmishes.
As he stood, his gaze fixed on the imposing stone wall adorned with a large, serene statue of the Virgin Mary, a faint, almost imperceptible whisper of soft footsteps approached from behind.
The gentle sound, barely disturbing the chapel’s solemn stillness, brought a subtle tension to his shoulders.
“I’m relieved you still believe in God, Sir Rehart.”
Mother Superior Ericanine’s voice was a soft murmur, yet it carried an unexpected resonance in the quiet space.
She stood beside him, her presence radiating a calm benevolence, a faint, compassionate smile gracing her lips, as if she had anticipated his presence here.
“I’m merely showing respect,” Blayden replied, his voice a low, gravelly tone, devoid of any genuine reverence.
“One shouldn’t underestimate the enemy.”
The Mother Superior’s smile widened slightly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Are you planning to wage war with God?”
Blayden’s gaze shifted from the Virgin Mary to the flickering candlelight.
“God is a monarch. He bestowed upon me the title of ‘human’ and the dominion of ‘fate,’ and yet…”
He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a confession barely audible above the gentle crackle of the incense.
“I think I’m going to become a traitor.”
Mother Superior Ericanine replied without a hint of surprise, her voice unwavering, as if such weighty declarations were commonplace to her.
“Such confessions should be whispered to the wind.”
Blayden’s head snapped up, his eyes sharply scanning their surroundings, a practiced, almost instinctive assessment of any potential eavesdroppers.
The chapel, however, remained empty save for the two of them.
A small but firm hand, surprisingly strong for its delicate appearance, patted his arm, a gesture of reassurance.
“It’s a night when the generous moon doesn’t obscure the stars,” she murmured, her eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement.
“Shall we take a walk?”
With a fluid, almost imperceptible movement, Blayden and the Mother Superior vanished around the corner of the cloister, their figures swallowed by the deepening shadows.
From behind a colossal angel statue at the chapel entrance, its stone wings casting long, imposing shadows, Leni sighed, a frustrated puff of air.
She had followed Blayden, her heart thrumming with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, but before she could properly hear his cryptic conversation with the Mother Superior, they had moved, their voices fading into the distance.
“Where are they going? Did they notice me following?”
Her mind raced, a flurry of unanswered questions.
She hesitated, her gaze darting between the empty chapel and the dark, winding cloister, uncertain whether to continue her pursuit.
As she wrestled with her decision, other footsteps sounded, distinct yet soft, echoing on the cold stone floor, growing closer around the corner.
“I should get out of here for now. If I’m caught hiding, it’ll look suspicious.”
Leni calmed herself with a deep breath, consciously slowing her racing heart, and then, with a natural, almost nonchalant air, emerged from behind the statue, as if she were simply leaving the chapel after a moment of quiet contemplation.
In a dimly lit corner of the cloister, where the faint moonlight struggled to penetrate, a light and a human silhouette flickered.
Gabriel was holding a single candle in one hand, its small flame casting dancing shadows, as he stood captivated by a painting on the wall.
“Where did Blayden go?”
Leni craned her neck, her eyes straining to peer into the dark corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Captain.
It was impossible to leave the cloister without being seen by Gabriel, whose presence effectively blocked her exit.
She decided to abandon the tail for now and wait for another opportunity to pursue Blayden.
Having made up her mind, Leni approached Gabriel, her footsteps soft on the stone.
The candlelight he held illuminated a large painting on the wall, its vibrant colors and dynamic lines a stark contrast to the gloom of the cloister.
Even in the faint, flickering light, the artwork seemed to burst from the canvas, a powerful presence in the quiet space.
In the center of the canvas, people were entangled in various poses, their forms contorted in a silent tableau of emotion: a young girl kneeling in prayer, her face upturned in hopeful supplication; a boy with arms outstretched, looking up at the sky as if seeking answers; an old man with his mouth wide open, caught in a silent scream of agony or despair; a knight weeping, his head bowed, leaning heavily on a sword stuck in the ground, a symbol of defeat or sorrow; a lavishly dressed middle-aged man clutching a lump of gold, his expression a mixture of greed and fear; and a woman in a black veil, her face obscured, her presence an enigmatic shadow.
The candlelight, held steady by Gabriel’s hand, illuminated the inscription written above the entangled figures: “What you sow shall be your demise.”
The words, stark and ominous, seemed to hum with a quiet warning.
Moving the candle slowly, as if tracing the lines of the painting, Gabriel said, his voice a low, reflective murmur, “It’s a painting of Purgatory. People waiting for the moment of judgment.”
Knowing the title, understanding the context, made the painting even more unsettling, a little frightening even, as Leni imagined the unseen horrors of that liminal space.
“My dream was to be a painter,” Gabriel continued, his voice laced with a subtle melancholy. “But war changes lives.”
Gabriel’s voice sounded mournful, and Leni, her own thoughts about the painting momentarily forgotten, stopped and turned her head to look at him.
Gabriel’s gaze was fixed on the painting, his expression distant, as if his mind was far away, lost in a world of brushstrokes and unfulfilled dreams.
Perhaps he was paying homage to art through contemplation, a quiet moment of remembrance for a path not taken.
Either way, this seems like my chance, Leni suddenly realized, a jolt of recognition passing through her.
Opportunities to be alone with Gabriel were rare, especially in the midst of their tumultuous journey, and she wanted to clear the air, to address the lingering awkwardness between them before it was too late.
“Um… Gabriel.”
She opened her mouth, the words catching in her throat, refusing to come easily.
Would she worsen the situation? Had Gabriel already forgotten, and would she just stir up old troubles for no reason, reopening wounds that had perhaps already begun to heal?
She hesitated, only a soft, uncertain sound escaping her lips, when Gabriel turned his head to look at her, his gentle gaze calm and inquiring.
His eyes seemed to say, Speak your mind freely if you have something to say, a silent invitation to honesty.
Leni decided to be brave, pushing past her apprehension. “I… I wanted to apologize for running away in Foret Forest last time. I heard you were disciplined because of me. I’m sorry.”
The words tumbled out, heartfelt and sincere.
Perhaps her sincerity reached him, for a soft, gentle smile spread across Gabriel’s lips, illuminating his face even in the dim light.
He’s even more radiant in the dark, Leni thought, a surge of admiration for his gentle nature.
And then, almost inadvertently, she made a promise, a vow born of genuine regret and newfound resolve.
“I won’t run away again.”
Gabriel wasn’t overtly touched, no dramatic display of emotion.
He simply gazed at her with a calm, serene expression, blinked once, a slow, deliberate movement, and then whispered softly, his voice a balm to her anxieties, “Thank you.”
I’m more thankful that he’s thankful.
He’s simply someone you can’t hate. Is it because he’s a doctor?
Even his voice seems to heal the heart, Leni mused, a sense of quiet wonder filling her.
Unable to believe how easily she was forgiven, how readily he accepted her apology, Leni checked Gabriel’s expression, searching for any lingering traces of anger or resentment.
Are you really not angry?
As if answering her unspoken question, Of course not. I’m not angry, Gabriel blinked again, a subtle reassurance, and then turned away, his gaze returning to the painting.
Facing the canvas once more, he moved the candle as if gently caressing the painting, his hand gliding along its surface, and said, his voice softer now, almost wistful, “It seems the Captain wanted me to see this painting at the convent.”
“Is it a favorite painting of yours?”
Leni asked, curious about his connection to the artwork.
“It’s my father’s work.”
His words were quiet, almost a confession.
A shadow, fleeting yet profound, flickered across Gabriel’s face, caught in Leni’s peripheral vision.
His features, usually so serene, were deeply etched with a sudden sadness, a hint of a hidden story, a profound loss.
“My father was a renowned miniaturist,” Gabriel continued, his voice a low, melodic cadence.
“I believe King Odin commissioned this.”
Wait, a renowned miniaturist?
Leni’s mind raced, a forgotten piece of information suddenly clicking into place.
She remembered Gabriel’s surname, a name that had once held great renown, and gasped, a small, involuntary sound of recognition.
“Gabriel! Is your father… that… that…”
She stammered, the name on the tip of her tongue.
Gabriel confirmed the name that had sprung to her mind, his voice tinged with a faint weariness, as if he had spoken it countless times before.
“Yes. Raphael Patero is my father.”
“Oh, my God!”
Leni exclaimed, a wave of excitement washing over her.
She eagerly grabbed Gabriel’s arm, her grip firm in her astonishment.
“Raphael Patero! How much I love his paintings! He illustrated a collection of stories for children, didn’t he? I used to read that book before bed, tracing the beautiful lines with my finger! How happy I was on nights when those beautiful pictures appeared in my dreams, vivid and full of wonder! I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it! To meet his son! I’m sorry for not recognizing you, Gabriel!”
Her words tumbled out in a rush, a torrent of admiration and apology.
Gabriel’s face flushed with embarrassment, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m nobody, really.”
His modesty, so genuine, only served to deepen Leni’s admiration.
“Ah!” Leni wanted to bite her tongue, to snatch back her thoughtless words.
She finally understood why Gabriel was looking at the painting with such profound mournfulness, why his voice held such a sorrowful undertone.
Raphael Patero was dead.
To be precise, he was executed.
The truth of it, stark and cruel, hit her with a fresh wave of understanding.
After King Tigrinus had brutally conquered Chiabec, he, with a twisted sense of patronage, had commissioned Raphael to paint portraits of himself and his beloved, a testament to his new dominion.
Raphael, ever the artist, had poured his soul into the work, his brushstrokes capturing the very essence of their likeness.
The king, amazed by the lifelike figures, their faces seeming to breathe from the canvas, had bestowed lavish gifts of gold upon him.
He had even built Raphael a sunny studio in the bustling city of Clavil, a haven for his artistic endeavors.
The problem, the tragic turning point, was what came next. Raphael, driven by an artist’s conscience, began to capture the people of the fallen kingdom of Chiabec on canvas, their suffering etched in every line, their resilience in every shade.
He depicted their harsh, desperate lives as slaves, their faces haunted by loss, and the once-beautiful but now ruined landscapes, scarred by war, transformed into desolate stretches of sorrow.
“Do not paint Chiabec. Do not turn it into art.”
The king’s warning had been clear, unequivocal, a direct command from a ruthless ruler.
Despite the king’s explicit prohibition, Raphael did not stop painting.
He stubbornly, defiantly, continued to depict the raw, painful reality of the conquered land and its subjugated people.
Enraged by Raphael’s defiance, Tigrinus had arrested him, his fury knowing no bounds.
He had Raphael burned at the stake, a brutal, public execution designed to send a chilling message. All the paintings in his studio, priceless works of art, had also vanished in the same inferno, consumed by the flames, a final act of erasure.
In a world where the painter was gone, his physical presence extinguished, only his fame now lingered like a legend, a whispered tale of a defiant artist.
When did Raphael die?
Leni tried to recall the exact year, but the details were hazy.
It must have been more than ten years ago, a distant tragedy in the annals of history.
How old was Gabriel then?
Leni looked at Gabriel’s face, trying to guess his age, to estimate the depth of his childhood loss.
He looked closer to twenty than thirty, his youthful features belied by the profound sadness in his eyes.
He must have lost his father when he was even younger than me, she realized, a wave of empathy washing over her.
The unexpected realization sent ripples through her heart, a shared understanding of profound grief.
“If I could meet my father again, I’d sell my soul,” Gabriel spoke, his voice a low, mournful poem, a lamentation.
“If I could see him even for a moment, I think I’d commit any evil deed.”
The desperation in his words was palpable, a raw, unvarnished confession of longing.
“Gabriel…” Leni was at a loss for how to comfort him.
What could she say?
Was it because her father was alive, well, and, to her certainty, she could meet him again, could embrace him at any moment?
She had never thought of going down a path of evil, of sacrificing her soul, to save her father.
The thought was alien to her, a testament to her own good fortune.
“It’s a good thing I can’t meet my father. Sometimes, impossibility feels like a blessing,” Gabriel gave a bitter smile, a flicker of dark humor in his sorrow.
Then, he turned to her, his voice a little brighter, as if shaking off the heavy shroud of his past.
“So, Leni, I don’t blame you. If I could meet my father, I’d run away too.”
“Oh! How do you know my situation?”
Leni asked, surprised by his sudden insight into her desperate flight from Foret Forest.
“The Captain told me,” Gabriel replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He then added, as if providing further clarification, “He gathered the unit members and informed us. That Leni is a member of the Skalson Troupe and the troupe leader’s daughter.”
“When?”
Leni’s voice was a whisper, a sudden chill creeping down her spine.
“Before we left Clavil Castle. Because we needed to know who we were accompanying.”
Leni’s wavering heart froze, a sudden, stark realization hitting her with the force of a physical blow.
No way.
In hindsight, it was obvious, painfully so.
Although small in number, Kinolf was clearly a unit, a cohesive group of individuals under the Captain’s command.
It was a group governed by military discipline, even when not in combat, and it would be imperative to know the identity and background of everyone who had joined the unit, for safety, for strategy, for cohesion.
Still, for everyone to be so calm about it, to have known all along while she had painstakingly, foolishly, tried to keep her identity a secret.
Leni felt that all her efforts had been in vain, a pointless charade.
She also felt pathetic for being so foolish, so naive.
“So, Leni, you can now speak and act freely.”
Gabriel’s words, intended perhaps as reassurance, felt hollow to her, almost mocking.
“Should I consider this a good thing?”
Leni asked, feeling a bit disgruntled, the unfairness of it all chafing at her.
“But are you allowed to tell me this?”
Gabriel smiled broadly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a genuine warmth radiating from him.
“That, too, is the Captain’s will. He said it’s time we were honest with each other.”
Be honest with each other.
The significant words, resonant with a deeper meaning, sent a chill down Leni’s neck, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold stone of the cloister.
Before the assassin had appeared, under the moonlit sky, Blayden had asked, his voice low and intense, “Tell me, what are you, if not what you seem?”
How would that conversation have unfolded, Leni wondered, her mind replaying the scene, if the assassin hadn’t appeared, if the sudden, violent interruption hadn’t cut short their profound exchange?
What secrets would have been laid bare, what truths revealed, if honesty had truly been allowed to bloom in that tense, moonlit moment?