Sandor made his way back from the village skirts, having completed his task. He hopped over the knee-high stone fence demarcating the temple grounds, mocking the feeble obstruction. A proper temple, like the ones he’d seen on rare occasions in larger towns, would have actual walls with but a single gate to allow entry into the complex. It’d have a separate church, a dormitory, and a pagoda to house various treasures. And a large yard for a groundskeeper to tend to.
But a small village had no need for such grandeur. Only the church itself and an annex about the same size, if not slightly larger, connected to it. The latter looked like any regular family house and served as the local priest’s home. As well as lodgings for his occasional clergyman guests.
In stark contrast to the annex, the main hall was an unremarkable stone building marred by time, with paltry windows that would barely let any light seep inside. One could easily mistake it for a warehouse if not for the statue of a flaming torch on its roof. A relatively recent addition.
The church itself had been built hundreds of years, perhaps a whole millennium ago as a humble chapel where simple folk would visit on their own time and pray to various gods of the pantheon. Now, some 300 years after the Uprising, it was solely dedicated to the patron goddess Cysenthia.
He examined the small patches of colorful flowers at the entrance’s sides. All healthy and vibrant, just as he had left them. With not much of an actual yard to maintain but for a small lawn that barely demanded his meddling, he could pour all the more effort into the flower garden. And so he had done, often admiring his own handiwork; perhaps enjoying the fruits of his labor even more than the recognition he received for it.
Though he came to see the priest, he did so in an official capacity—as official as errands in such a small community get—for he also served as Father Alphus’s assistant. Since the temple had no need for a dedicated groundskeeper, nor a full-time acolyte, it only made sense to assign both duties to a single person. Between his lacking the drive and zeal to be anointed, and Father Alphus’s preference to have a home for himself as opposed to a dormitory shared with another clergyman, the decision as to which would be his main title had been simple.
Though the priest’s office was technically in the annex, Sandor would enter through the church’s main hall, as official matters demanded. He wouldn’t want any outside observers, should any lurk nearby, taking note of him for indecorum.
Passing the gates and walking down the nave, he watched the holy symbol placed atop the altar in awe. A stone torch, much like the one on the roof, except it housed an actual flame trapped within an oval steel cage. A golden fire that shone bright enough to illuminate the hall perfectly, spiting its tiny windows.
A violent fire, ever unsettled, lashing out in all directions. Though the flame couldn’t ever reach past its prison’s bars, the shadows creeping in all directions felt as its ethereal extensions. They danced around the groundskeeper to the flame’s own beat, as if practicing how infernal whips would abuse him once they finally broke free. Each flicker a pulsating heartbeat, threatening to unleash a mighty wave of destruction that could end his life.
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Yet these were nothing but impotent outbursts of a power safely trapped within its cage. A constant reminder of the destructive nature of the goddess’s power, but also of the church’s tight control over it.
Woe to the apostates who would spur the orthodoxy and attempt to wield such powers for their own. Woe to the heretics who would confer with demons and become vessels for forces even more volatile. Woe to them indeed, he thought, and held back the urge to spit on the floor. He stepped with wary confidence but a steady pace.
If only Cysenthia knew of all the work I do for her around here. Well, the paladins sure haven’t noticed, he thought as he reached the door to the altar’s left.
A voice bade him inside after he knocked. He obliged, and upon confirming that one of the priest’s esteemed guests was also present, greeted them with a half-hearted mix of a nod and a bow. “Lord Estan. Father,” he managed.
He glanced at Estan, the guest lounging on the couch. The special couch, jarringly ornate for an otherwise puritan office. Reserved for the most important of visitors. He wondered why the priest hadn’t asked for his help to haul it here from the storage room.
As for the guest himself, Sandor found his appearance less illustrious than he’d expected. He wore the cloth tabard of the paladin order, sure enough. Pure white with a golden trim, and the order’s symbol proudly displayed over his chest; a gold-filled circle, cut perfectly in the middle, its halves separated by a silver stroke.
Yet partially hidden under the tabard, he wore a casual tunic—casual for a townsperson, that is, obnoxious red-and-green as it was. Nothing like the earthen colors of the villagers’ plain but sturdy everyday clothes.
Sandor focused for a second and could just barely make out the sharp outlines of the paladin’s eyes, cloaked by a curtain of blond hair. But then quickly lowered his gaze, lest he incur any scrutiny in turn. A paladin’s pupils lighting up with Cysenthia’s fiery orange was the last thing Sandor wanted to witness. He turned to Father Alphus.
The priest was a round-faced man of good humor, who carried himself with a vitality that belied his pudgy appearance. Those who knew him saw the fat on him for what it was: a façade hiding a robust hands-on man, just as ready to partake in physical labor as offer spiritual guidance.
He put up a familiar smile—manufactured, yes, but with genuine warmth behind it. His eyes reflected the attempt to soothe and welcome the groundskeeper; the kindly invitation his deliberate smile was only meant to accentuate.
“I just got done talking to little Bran,” Sandor said, his shaky voice raspier than usual.
He made sure not to direct so much as a single glance toward the paladin as he spoke.
“Was playing in the fields with Agnes and Hollow, like you said he would. I met them on their way back, told him to wash up and come see you presently.”
“Thank you, Sandor. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Father. My lord,” Samson said, head hung, and swiftly made to leave. For his part, he was thankful to be dismissed so immediately. He found pontiffs, paladins, and other such illustrious personages of the clergy more delicate than flowers, and the consequences of mishandling one severely more dire.