In the middle of the night, in the eerie quiet of the cathedral's hospital ward, Lumière arose from his bed. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were heavy with dark marks. The sheets of his bed had fallen to the floor, and the cold air nipped at his skin.

His tired eyes widened. There was a putrid scent on the air. It was sickly, sweet. Almost as if fruit from the kitchen had grown rotten. Lumière slowly got out of bed. His body still had a residual ache from the fight that had happened over a week ago. However, he ignored his weakness and cautiously snuck past his companions, the White Roses, who slept as still as rocks in their beds. A window was ajar, and a cold chill had crept into the room.

Lumière walked to the edge of the large room where they had been staying and quietly opened the door. As he entered the long ornate hall, the scent of blood thickened. It was like fire within his nostrils- a harshness threatening to burn away his skin. His hair, untied, swayed as he waltzed with fervor through the halls of the cathedral. As it was the dead of night, no nuns or priests walked about. However, if they were to have seen the man in ragged clothes waltz through the dark halls with such a messy, terrifying aesthetic, they would surely have cried out. A specter was out of place within a cathedral.

A door lied at the edge of the hall- among many such doors, with ornate carvings of myths and legends; they were tributes to religious accolades and tales that had been told to Lumière countless times by the elder Father Benedict- Ainsworth's father, a man who had taken Lumière in when he had no home to return to. Lumière swung open the door, clutching at the firearm tucked at his side.

He expected carnage- another plot of the Nameless, perhaps. However, what he found was the trailing of blood droplets that spilled across a room. At the corner of the room where a wooden bed sat, Ainsworth Benedict was leaned up against its side, clutching at his arm while staring blankly at the wall. His blade, which had grown dull and weathered, was covered in blood; His arms, which were usually plain and pale, were littered in crimson, lines like tally marks along his flesh.

As Lumière glanced further upon the sight, he realised that it was not just his arms. Ainsworth had removed his shirt to reveal that every inch of his torso had been littered in the marks- tallies that counted endlessly, until there was nothing more to count, or until there was no room left to do so.

"Why?" Lumière asked simply, releasing his grip on the gun. His face was filled with worry, despite him trying to keep a calm demeanor.

"I feel like I must, but also because I want to…" Ainsworth replied blankly, his voice trailing off. "…I feel like I have to count- to keep track of all the people…"

"What people?"

Ainsworth pointed towards a set of marks. "Meraline Avelis."

"The people that died? Do you count them all?"

Ainsworth nodded slightly. "I remember all of their names. Every single comrade, innocents who died to mysterious means I could not solve- every person I've been unable to save… I remember them all."

Lumière, who was slightly shaken despite his recent endeavours, sat down on the floor beside Ainsworth.

"Is this what you've chosen to do to honour them?"

"Do you think it's strange that I would mutilate myself in the process of doing so? Do you think it is a product of my grief? I assure you it's not. I'm not a crazy man, not a lunatic who should be locked up. This is just my way of remembering. How could I forget them when I see their remembrances every day?"

"You don't seem ambivalent about it. Why would I judge you for your choices?"

He grasped hold of the wounds on Ainsworth's skin tightly, tearing a portion of his robes to bind his flesh back together. He was a poorly held-together man. It was fitting.

"Centuries ago, the tribes who settled in the sand dunes of Baruunlan would decorate themselves with scars. It was a testament to their survival- losing blood meant losing water, the very source of their lives." Lumière spoke softly. 'To deprive oneself of life- to gamble survival- to them, it was like spitting in the cruel face of fate."

"In recent days, I've begun to understand your hatred for how the world turns. I see how sunlight lacks, and cruelty is abundant." Ainsworth's lip trembled. "I can see that now… why must people die? Why can't I do anything about it?"

On the floor in the dimly lit room, Lumière embraced Father Benedict- his childhood friend, Ainsworth. His hands and clothes became covered in blood, but he didn't care. In his friend's warmth, Ainsworth's mask finally began to crack. Gradually, that persona of the stand-up priest began to vanish. All of the expectations he carried; all of the weight and sorrow, worry and anguish began to seep out. In Lumière's embrace, Ainsworth began to cry. Long, uninterrupted bawls filled the quiet air. He surely woke many people within the cathedral. He surely didn't care.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"Don't sinners deserve punishment?" Father Benedict cried ruefully.

"Where has your rationality gone? Have you abandoned it because you received power? Who said you needed a punishment?" Lumière's expression tensed slightly.

"Why talk poetically now?"

"Don't you like when people talk poetically? Aren't you secretly a romantic, despite your position?"

"Don't joke. It's not a time for jokes."

"It's always a time for jokes. If you're not smiling, then it's definitely such a time."

With bloodied hands, Lumière placed his fingers on Ainsworth's cheeks, curling up his lips into a forced smile.

"I miss her, Ainsworth. I grieve her every day. If I were to arrive to the monastery sooner, perhaps I could have saved her. Does this make it my fault?" Lumière smiled pitifully. "I know it doesn't- deep down. It's the same for you, isn't it? You know it isn't your fault, but still you choose to carry it with you."

"Elise?" Ainsworth mumbled in response.

Lumière nodded. "Yes. So, I understand. You're not alone in this feeling. I have also grieved and despaired. It grew to the point where I thought I had to change completely to avoid breaking apart- it still feels that way."

'How couldn't I? Killing that man was the moment that I had to change, to avoid such grief. I had never killed anyone prior to that- I wasn't a soldier. I had seen the world's cruelty, but not its violence- not like that.'

"It was so sudden, that the only way I could deal with it was to not be Lumière so much anymore."

'Really, in a way, all this acting in a way unlike me has been to put a barrier between me and my grief, isn't it?' Lumière ruminated. 'It's simple to make someone smile, but curing your own sadness is a harsher challenge.'

"So then, if you weren't Lumière, who did you try to be?" Ainsworth asked, his gaze turning to stare at the ornate glass window above them that incessantly spilled moonlight into the room.

"Someone better."

Ainsworth smiled slightly. "It's been the same for me. Climbing the ranks of Heaven's Roses… it's been all of my heart to change my ways… to be better, to save the lives of more people…"

"Do you think this is a way you can honour Elise's memory?"

Ainsworth nodded. "Maybe if I continue to save more people, I'll forget that she's gone. It's been really hard, trying not to forget her, but wanting to."

"It's hard to forget a piece of yourself."

There was silence between them. It was as if they had not said all that they wanted to say, but couldn't bring themselves to speak out.

"Isn't it strange? We've known each other all of our lives, but there's this inherent wall between us." Father Benedict chided painfully.

"She was the bridge between us, wasn't she?"

Ainsworth reached into the pocket of his jacket that lay beside him and pulled out a small paper carton. He opened the carton and produced a cigarette before placing it between his lips, Lumière looking at him strangely in the meanwhile.

As Ainsworth lit the cigarette, Lumière spoke. "Smoking in the Goddess's sacred monument, aren't you a bit out of your depth, Father?"

Ainsworth raised the carton towards Lumière. "Don't call me Father when I'm sinning, and don't pretend you're a Saint."

Lumière hesitated before reaching towards the carton and procuring a cigarette, placing it between his lips. It wasn't often he smoked. The air within the lower borough was already of subpar quality. He didn't imagine there was any reason for him to make it worse. However, they were residing in the middle borough during their stay at the hospital, and that surely changed things.

"You've been acting strange lately- that makes sense now. But then again, I…" Ainsworth began to speak. "I still think she's there, sometimes. Her presence has become habit."

Lumière was silent for a moment, before responding in a hushed tone.

"Yes, I have been strange since Elise was killed, haven't I?" Lumière lips curled up slightly into a smile. "I think of her often… often enough that it makes it hard to be anything but sad."

"So why are you still going? When you take a step forward, what drives you to do so?"

"Are you having a hard time moving forward?"

"I'm just asking." Ainsworth smiled pitifully.

Lumière tilted his head back against the stone wall, his blood-soaked hand drawing the cigarette back to his lips. "I can't really forgive the world anymore. I can't understand some people either. If they're not sticking to the mold society has forged, then they're impossible for me to fully comprehend. I wish I could say that the reason I want to move forward is to be a better person- to try and do good things via good means… but it feels like I'm slipping farther and farther away from that ideal path."

A puff of smoke escaped his lips. He let out a slight cough, but he wasn't sure if it was the chill of the air or the sting of the smoke that brought it about. It was painfully grounding.

"So, what is that path that you want to move towards?"

"Somewhere between here and then, I want to grow stronger." Lumière replied with a coy smile.

"You sound like a storybook character. Have you chosen to live in fantasy now?"

Lumière ignored his remark and continued. "Then, after the fact, I want to perform on the grand stage."

"A grand stage?"

"Not in that sense. I mean that stage where those who pull the strings stand- like marionettists who cause the world to move."

"It's a tall order- a far journey to the end of that goal. How can you accomplish such a feat?"

"That's also what I hope to discover." Lumière reached his hand towards the window in the distance, the moonlight peering through the space between his fingers. "A way to change… is it even feasible for me? To turn violence into kindness, and hatred into acceptance- a world where no one goes hungry, and where…"

Lumière's words were cut short, as if they hung at the edge of his throat. "…where a child grows up with his parents."

Ainsworth didn't respond immediately. For a moment, he stared at Lumière silently, as if he was contemplating something. His hand which had once held a lit cigarette had extinguished it, and now tapped against the crimson-red stone beneath him.

"That's a fine goal."

Lumière's eyes shimmered slightly, turning his head towards Ainsworth. "Do you think so?"

"I do. Even if it's a bit unrealistic, that's how you've always been. Even then, you've always succeeded. You're not someone who will let something go so easily." Ainsworth leaned back against the wall. "You'll make sure that it happens somehow. I believe that much. I look forward to your world, Lumière."