Kenan sat on the bed, a strange one. Unknown. There was no familiarity in the sheets. Not that any amount of comfort was useful to him.

He looked out the window. Beyond the harsh obscurity of the clouds, Carth crossed the earth with its azure glow in the pockets between. Not even the close celestial had brought back any measure of assurity.

Fire licked, pain eroded and the screams sounded out. Death. Blood. Kenan felt his neck tighten as he began to choke. It was too much, too soon, too many…

The visions were knocked away. Kenan locked down the sudden emotion and what was left was a subtle shake of his body.

He looked at his arms and flexed them. The same was done with his legs. The scientific research on the body and its mechanisms has gotten to a point of medium degree over a span of hundreds of years. In that same period, the effectiveness of magic had far eclipsed that knowledge. Because of that potency, Kenan's wounds were almost non-existent.

There was pain, despite his health. A soreness that hasn't been released. It was fanatical. Like a burning hatred crawled beneath his skin and ravaged his body. It felt like a shiver as it shot up and down his spine with a fury that didn't abate. It was a constant burn too. For the past week, it had pestered him.

Then the night broke. Or rather, it's domain of silence. The hinges of the door yelped and let it known that someone had entered. Kenan didn’t care to look behind him. “The sisters tell me that all you do is sleep.” A woman's voice said. It was aged, refined. But there was a hint to it, familiar. An accent. Feint, washed away from the time in The Village. “But I’ve been told you enjoy your time with Luarlia.”

“It’s only Carth tonight,” Kenan mumbled. The lady stood next to him, she looked out the window towards the blue monarch. Parts of her garb were in stark contrast red, the other two parts were white and gold. She had a very long single braid that went all the way down to her thighs, intertwined as a set of tri-colored beads to match her get-up.

“I find that the sibling is never far off. May I sit?” Kenan did not respond with anything vocal, but he did scoot over. “They have been buried. Would you like to go see th…”

“No.”

There was a stark silence after that. If the woman was offended by the interruption, she did not show it. Neither did Kenan take any culpability for the rude cut-in. He did not have the emotion to feel guilt or admonishment.

“Are you from the west? You sound like…” Kenan petered off and his sentence left finished in the quietude.

The woman smiled. “Yes. That dialect can be hard to get rid of. I moved here… 13… maybe 14 years ago. How old are you?”

Kenan turned for half of his face to meet hers. Flame-like marks peeked through his clothes, up past his neck and it touched like wicked tattoos around his eyes. “You're The Parson? Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you have gone back?”

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Her grin upturned just a bit more. “Parson is a bit outdated but it will do just fine with you. I have found this town…well, in my age the strictness of the church wears you down. And The Village was in need of some piousness.”

A moment burned where Kenan stared at The Parson. Like he had more, deeper thoughts. He let them and the conversation go in a grunt.

Then again, the absence of sound fell upon them. But despite the want of Kenan or the awkwardness of the situation, that stance did not last long. The Parson sucked in air and the exhale came with more than just breath.

“When I was young, after my time as an acolyte. The clergy wanted me to take a confession, they were going to try to make me more… personable. I was attending to my studies in the pews, and a boy came in wanting to display his sins. Not long after he claimed to have prayed to another god.”

“You called him heretic?” Kenan swallowed dry. It felt all too familiar and he cringed. But the emotion was represented with irritation instead. “Then hung him up for the whip?”

“No. Kenan. I didn’t. It is not all of the church that denies other god-lings. Only the factions that have twisted the dawn's grace. Besides, what of day and dusk, his brother Amaunator and younger sister Leira?” She huffed. “Those fanatic, zealous types always get me in a tiffy. For the dawn, what of his wife?”

“The point. Parson.”

“Ahh. Yes. Sorry.” She adjusted her long dress in some sort of displacement behavior. “Well. I asked to whom. It’s not out of the realm that some sort of creature would use tricks to receive someone's faith. The boy told me had given a prayer to Ilmater.”

“The slave god? Alfaria outlawed that. Hadn’t?”

“Yes. But our kingdom doesn’t lack hardship. I took some time after that boy left to take council on Ilmater. His faith is typically with slaves, yes. But he is so much more. He is the crying, the broken, the racked. But he is also the one who endures, he is perseverance and preservation personified. He is righteous, good. He loved all. For those that fall he would take their pain and lift them back up. Ilmater is the God of the Fallen…” Her speech fell, hung. She let go of her passion and deflated. “Ilmater has been known to share the burden of beings in agony. The creatures only need to let him.”

“Let him possess you, you mean?”

“No. Kenan. Help. Help is all he ever wants. I'm not saying that you have to pray to Illmater. But, help is only a thought away. You only have to let it come.” The Parson paused. Then continued. “Your father knew when help was needed.”

“Why do you say that?” Kenan looked at her for the first time. “What are you saying?”

“For the farm, the physical, emotional too. Tyris asked for help. He was too worried about your mother and asked me to accompany him to The Village. He asked me how to raise a son when you were born. He came to me. Some odd thirty years ago for a confession.” She smiled. “If your father did one thing, it was endure. Now gods will jump over each other to invite him to their grace.

“Do not mistake me, Kenan. I am not saying idle words. There is a purpose. Think about them. Your pain goes deeper than flesh and it seems only a scant few of us understand. You can bide as long as you want. Until you're old and gray. You can die while you wait. But that pain will only rest once it comes to light. That was a lesson Tyris never truly grasped.”

The Parson stood. Her grin faltered. “Get some rest.” And then the twinkle returned as she faced him. “Dawn comes.”

She left and the door creaked close. He did not know if it was a coincidence or some influence of the divine. But the blue glow twisted its colors, warped and flexed as a red tint turned everything a light violaceous.