Capillata squatted down and found a cluster of passion flowers within a fallen hollow tree.
Just as described, the ten petals resembled ten white-robed monks, and the numerous radiating filaments resembled thorny crowns. Capillata reached out, plucked the flower, and placed it in a wicker basket filled with poppies, valerians, and passion flowers.
He shouldered the heavy herb-laden basket and started his journey back. The sun teetered on the eaves of the horizon, casting a cold and icy light. Anything that entered his mind froze like frost.
Upon returning to the makeshift camp by the stream, he purposely avoided looking at the altar formed by the bonfire. Quine, with his sleeves rolled up, continued his work on the altar as if he hadn't noticed Capillata's return.
Capillata placed the basket on the worktable. Vit’via's wet nurse wiped away tears with her handkerchief and accepted the basket filled with poppies, valerians, and passion flowers. Capillata and Quine understood the purpose of these herbs without speaking a word. Without Vi, it seemed that silence was the only connection between the two.
Quine spat to the side. Although he still didn't harbor good feelings toward the young boy, on this peculiar and hazy day, no flame could be truly ignited except the divine fire. Lowering his head, he kicked at the ground and, against his nature, patiently said, "If you want to see her one last time, now is the time."
"No, I've already bid her farewell," Capillata politely declined but couldn't help but inquire, "How does she look?"
Quine glanced at him with horizontal pupils, then lowered the brim of his flat-topped hat and took a deep breath. Opening his mouth, he recounted, "She looks as if she had a date with the goddess of tranquility, Soineanta. She's adorned in a plain white dress, lying in a reddish-brown coffin." His broad nostrils trembled with emotions. "The fever has subsided, and her expression has eased. Her icy skin appears somewhat transparent, like glass waiting to be filled with life." Finally, he lifted his chin with a hint of pride, although his tightly clenched mouth failed to conceal the sorrow. "I placed a windflower in her hair."
Two village women supported Vit’via's wet nurse as they stepped onto the pyre. In her hands, she cradled a spinning wheel, the needle of which was dipped in a sleeping elixir made from poppies, valerians, and passion flowers that had been boiled down.
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"After this, what will happen to you?" Capillata asked.
"It depends, how much the witch can do." As the sun set, the silent ritual gradually shifted towards a blood-curdling climax. As he mentioned Vit’via, Quine's voice softened. "She may not erase our horns; although Vit’via is a witch, she cannot compare to a virgin in that regard." He pondered for a moment. "But perhaps she can negotiate with the Sacred Flame on our behalf."
Capillata remained silent, and Quine continued, "Maybe she can implore the divine flame to burn away our humanity, to burn away our 'holy wisdom'." Quine's eyes, clouded and murky, sparked with fervor. "Perhaps she can help us embrace our primal nature once again, including the pain brought by the curse."
A chilling gust of wind swept in, and the sun seemed to have finally given in, descending from the eaves of the horizon. The earth was then painted crimson by its silent outcry.
"Is it the right thing to do?" Capillata raised his face from his disheveled golden hair.
"There is no right or wrong, only consequences, and we exist within those consequences. You do too, Capillata," Quine said, glancing sideways at the young man. "Even if Vit’via believes you can defy the arrogance of the goddess of fate, let me remind you: before you set out, you had already succumbed to fate and offered your beloved to it."
Capillata raised his hands, and a dazzling radiance shimmered within his palms. Crystals resembling quartz pillars grew from his hands, kindling orange-red flames within them.
He would never mistake the sensation he felt at this moment. The sparks dripping between his fingers were like bleeding from his heart. But Capillata had promised Vi, that he would never yield to the feeling of disillusionment within his heart. He temporarily shut out Quine's words, unsure how long he could keep it up.
"The time has come. She touched the spindle," Quine finally said as the boy’s hands began to tremble. Behind Capillata, the others knelt down one by one, and Old Foy also managed to free himself and prostrate on the ground. Finally, Quine lowered his shoulders and knelt on both knees. He closed his eyes, opened his arms, seemingly prepared to receive or relinquish something.
Capillata slowly half-knelt, gently placing the flame gem in his hands on the ground. The transparent crystal melted into the sand like ice. The divine flame, Flamma Varmah, like a beast returning to the wilderness, initially seemed hesitant, but upon hearing the call of pure blood and catching the scent of chastity, it surged forward like a ferocious flood, greedily engulfing the base of the pyre.
Soon, a wall of fire ignited at the base of the altar, and the fiery wind began to rampage in the clearing.
The orange-red flames reflected on Quine's face, and he smiled faintly.