Five years later

Inside the repurposed military outpost sat Father Bellamy. Despite being converted into a remote mountain monastery, the once dominating fortification still harbored the brutalist aesthetic that made Bellamy’s dormitory his self-appointed prison. His days were spent translating foreign texts, while his soul hung from the windowsill overlooking the peaceful fishing village of Corvid. The village lay nestled among glacial mountains that fed the many woodland streams that called out for adventure. Yet tied to ink and quill, Bellamy could only stare back, experiencing all four seasons come and go like a cool summer’s breeze before the compounding duties of life pulled him back to the parchment.

Beneath him, his primary obligation echoed through the floorboards. The adjoining orphanage, from which his placement was based, needed his attention. One he often neglected, but on this occasion had boiled up the stairwell and crashed through his dormitory door. Even with his back turned, Father Bellamy knew from the sniffles and panting that he was in the presence of the bucktooth child known as Trigbee.

The boy’s voice squeaked with urgency. “Father, it’s true. The devil’s within me. I am sin. Please save me.”

With renewed focus toward his bookwork, Father Bellamy concealed his cringe. With the semblance of calm piety, he kept his back to the boy and said, “That’s nonsense. The devil does not manifest itself in scared little boys who lack the dexterity to hurt a fly.”

“But … Father,” Trigbee’s voice cracked, “I hate, I do. And my hate hurts people.” His eyes brimmed with tears as he fell into a prayer position.

Sighing, Bellamy turned and kneeled, offering the boy a reassuring hand while suppressing his frustration. “A wild imagination possesses you, nothing more. Now, go and do your chores and play nice with the other orphans.”

“But, Father, they won’t play with me. Not after what happened to McCrae.”

“McCrae?”

“Missing, he is.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up for supper. McCrae is not one to miss a meal,” said Bellamy as he attempted to shoo Trigbee out of his dormitory door.

“But it’s been two days, Father. And what of Jacob?”

“What of Jacob? Is he missing too?”

“No, Father. He and that Riddy boy … they teased me, they did. And … and I hate them.”

The veins above Bellamy’s forehead began to bulge as his tone broke a few notches higher. “Okay. Take it to Mother Simonet. She’ll figure it out.”

“He is with Mother Simonet. Sick as a dog, he is. And Riddy. Awoke to a bed of maggots, he did.”

Bellamy paused; his expression shifted to utter confusion as he contemplated his next move. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and said, “You know what? Let’s do this.” Bellamy then lifted his posture, his arms trembled slightly as he looked to the ceiling and shouted, “You hear me, Lord.” With emphasis on the theatrical, he launched his palm like a lizard’s tongue, stopping just short of the boy’s face. The confused sensation sent chills down Trigbee’s spine, causing the boy to tense up and cry aloud. Trigbee’s hands then clenched at his side—white-knuckled as though the devil was truly being wrenched out of him.

Bellamy’s voice rose in a fervent chant, “Te sordida facies bastardis pueri. Release the devil from this child. Aut ego occidere eum nunc.” With an outburst of religious fever, he pushed the boy off balance, before casting the metaphorical devil away.

“Really? Thank you, Father. Thank you,” Trigbee said, embracing Bellamy tightly in a bear hug that left him feeling rather uncomfortable. With a deep sigh, he consoled the unsuspecting boy, while diverting his glance toward the tranquil surrounds and another meditative stare.

Yet his troubles were just beginning as the stairwell came alive with the harsh tones of Mother Simonet. Her firm grip dragging the arm of a disheveled Anneliese before Father Bellamy. “Don’t you dare play games with me!” Simonet admonished.

Anneliese had grown older, her once playful spark now overshadowed by a defiant glint that spoke of adolescent rebellion. The kind that relished the scars from her disciplinarians’ punitive actions. Undeterred by the scornful glances from the village faithful to her pagan past.

“Father Bellamy, I have found the culprit. Anneliese, explain yourself.”

Anneliese jabbed her finger in Trigbee’s direction. “It was him,” she declared, desperate to deflect blame. In response, Simonet snapped her cane against her shoulder, leaving her to recoil in pain.

“Don’t you dare tell fibs. Apologize and tell the truth.”

“Alright. I saw McCrae and his friends picking on Trigbee and did nothing about it. Which is wrong.”

“You certainly didn’t do nothing. We found McCrae crying his lungs out at the bottom of the well. While this one was on water duties and yet not a word,” said Simonet.

The sound of the abusive language made Bellamy feel even more unsettled.

“Oh, thank God. Bless his soul,” said Trigbee, bracing his hands in praise of the Lord’s work.

“He wasn’t there when I last looked,” said Anneliese, preemptively flinching for the punishment that was not forthcoming.

“Please, Simonet,” said Bellamy. He was near ready to restrain the enraged Mother before she escalated to more abrasive forms of discipline.

“No, Father Bellamy. This one. She has more than condemned herself. The night of Riddy’s illness. Guess who was partaking in witchery outside the kitchen?”

“No one else got sick,” said Anneliese with her stereotypical teenage attitude.

“That is why it’s witchery. And the maggots. Who else is absent all hours of the night?”

Anneliese’s reply came quick, with an act of shock and disbelief. “That’s a lie.”

“You are not to question your elders?”

“Okay,” said Bellamy as he picked up the restless girl before a red-faced Simonet wrung her neck.

“It’s because I’m pagan. The other girls don’t like me. Mother Simonet doesn’t like me.”

“THAT IS ENOUGH FROM YOU.”

“PLEASE, PLEASE, please. I’ll take care of it,” said Bellamy impatiently as he yanked Anneliese from Simonet.

“I hope so. Else there’s a certain place in the woods where no one will lay blame,” Simonet said. And then with a look of ‘do it or else’, she escorted the poor, disillusioned Trigbee from the unruly pagan dissident.

“Trigbee,” Anneliese said, politely curtsying, as though she was of no foul nature. Not that it did anything to sway the offence to the perfect little choir boy, who soured at the thought of being tricked by an indignant pagan girl.

“You are sin and must repent at once,” Trigbee said.

“Yeah, I know,” she replied, apathetic to the fact that even the runts of the litter cared little for her wicked forms of justice.

Bellamy leaned beside the door, blocking Anneliese’s exit as he waited out the thumping sensation between his ears. “Does it ever end?” he said, exhaling out the remaining tension before catching sight of Anneliese half out of his windowsill. There was a noticeable tremor of nerves in her as she contemplated making a daring escape. Bellamy, knowing there were no adjacent ledges or structures to soften the impact of the significant fall, watched on with gleeful indifference.

Anneliese’s options narrowed to one as she stepped down from the windowsill and, like a mistreated horse, collapsed deadweight upon the floor, bracing herself for the beating that was sure to follow.

Without an ounce of malice, Father Bellamy offered his hand and said, “Come on. We’re going for a walk.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Did you know Mother Simonet’s a lumberjacks, daughter? I can assure you that her swinging arm does not fatigue.”

“Fine.” Anneliese threw up her hand, expecting Bellamy to provide the effort necessary to return her upright. “I hear there’s a pleasant spot in the forest. Apparently, it’s the talk of the town,” Anneliese said sarcastically.

“The sad thing is, that’s how we found half the orphans at this place.”

“Honestly, I sympathize with the parent.”

“No, you don’t. Like how you don’t care about bullies,” said Bellamy.

“You’re right. I should stick to picking on dull boys, like everyone else.”

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Her contrarian attitude was a breath of fresh air for the cleric. It was a pleasant dose of chaos to his mundane and ritualistic existence, which he could use to explore the world beyond his windowsill.

As they strolled the long way around the small provincial town, Anneliese dodged the piles of horse manure as she would the blank stares of her peers. From the fence line, they overheard the familiar yarns of a carefree township passing by them unnoticed. Replaced by the stables where the rhythmic sounds of work and animals filled the air.

Glancing up with a smile, the flushed-cheek farrier brushed his last job from his leather apron. “Ahhh, Father Bellamy, what brings you to my harem of steeds?”

“Just doing the Lord’s work, in all its forms. Or in this case, separating the fox from the sheep.”

Anneliese, avoiding the pleasantries, barged through and grabbed the closest saddle. Against the farrier’s expectations, she maneuvered around the stable like she’d done plenty of times before. Even the brown-spotted pony looked up in anticipation of a carrot from her favorite journey companion.

“Ahh, about time. A real troublemaker she is,” said the farrier with a tap of his nose and a wink, as though hinting complete accordance with any ill-fated trip into the woodlands.

“I know, right,” Anneliese said.

“We’ll return by sunset,” Bellamy assured.

Beyond the township, they followed a lesser-used path, the landscape opening to tranquil fields and distant forests.

“What are we to do with you?” Bellamy said. The conversation was more of a secondary consideration, as his interest lay in the surrounds.

“Teach me how to forage so I can be on my way,” Anneliese said, who was behind and taking notice of the cleric’s more curious nature.

“Why? You seem to know your way around the poison berries.”

“There’s only so much you can learn from books.”

“So, you’re the one sneaking around my quarters every night,” Bellamy said. His focus then shifted as though lost, and yet he felt calm, as if the journey was more important than the destination.

“If a book’s missing, I’m happy to help you find it,” Anneliese said.

“Of course you would. So, you like to read?”

“Well, serfdom has its perks. You know this whole obey routine thing, it’s growing on me,” she said sarcastically, slouching into her saddle.

Bellamy’s meandering attempts to relate fell silent, until they were far enough from wandering ears for him to slow down beside her and, with a dorky gleam, said, “You know I’m an alchemist?”

It caught Anneliese’s attention as she glanced at Bellamy with raised eyebrows. “You? You’re too far into the good book to know the difference between almarian redbark and contrusis.”

“Same substances, though one is a medicinal herb; the others is blasphemy?”

“What about mirmar?”

“Why don’t you surprise me with something not from my books? Maybe Coble knew something?”

Bellamy accidentally stumbling on a nerve, and Anneliese returned to disinterested silence, deafening in its abruptness.

However, distant howls quickly changed the subject. The evening sun had rendered all but the sharp mountain peak blurred beyond recognition. Yet the sound of wolves sparked Bellamy’s interest, and he dismounted before wandering past the roadside brush, to find a barren forest landscape of leafless trees and lifeless soils stretching like a moat tracing the mountain side.

“Friend of yours?” Anneliese asked as she overtook him down the road before correcting herself upon Bellamy’s detour into the forest. Their journey, seemingly in search of the howling wolf.

“What if the church found out about your experiments? Might there be consequences?” Anneliese said.

“Nothing. The church doesn’t recognize alchemy as magic.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Ironwork requires the exact portions of ore, bone, and other additives at the right temperatures to produce high-quality metals.”

“I saw Mother Simonet boil water. Does that make her an alchemist?”

“How about Mithridates?”

“Who’s he? I can only assume it’s a he?”

“The King of Pontus. He used to ingest tiny amounts of poison until he developed such an immunity that cyanide could not kill him.”

“That’s not alchemy. That’s insanity.”

“It’s said he created a cure for illness.”

“Which illness?”

“All of them. They call it Mithridatium, and there is a hefty prize to whomever can rediscover it,” said Bellamy.

Midway up their mountain incline, Bellamy’s ears pricked up as they came to the dry, lifeless landscape of dying trees and arid sands.

“I thought they prohibited clerics from earning money?”

“That is the oath we take, but like you, rules aren’t exactly rules,” Bellamy said, his memories directing him towards a particular scattering of loose rocks, which, upon removal, revealed a small opening edged into the mountainside.

Ill-suited to manual labor, Bellamy solicited Anneliese’s help. Their efforts gradually revealed an entrance, a shadowy threshold leading into unseen depths. As they stepped inside, a soft glow ebbed and flowed around them, the light from countless glow-worms pulsing gently in response to their presence.

“What is this place?” Anneliese asked, her hands feeling the intricate carvings too difficult to see among the scarce glow-worm light.

“The early enchanters built magical strongholds during times of conflict,” Bellamy said.

Inside a small ceremonial room, they came across a dying blue flame, illuminating painted walls of legendary dragons and brave-bearded barbarians. A timeline of pagan history, epic battles and their inevitable defeat to the thousands of headless square-shielded infantries of the old Rowan empire.

“This is blasphemy. Why would you bring me here?” Anneliese questioned. She kneeled to feel the non-existent heat emanating from the fire pit. The smoldering ashes and loose-laid rocks were nothing more than a cold illusion that crumbled in her hands.

“There was a time when paganism ruled the lands. When the church was the unruly nuisance from the far end of the world.”

“Then the church wiped them out?”

“No. You mustn’t have made it to that section of the library. Not to worry, because if you give me your hand, I’ll show you a history lesson you can’t learn in books.”

“Try me,” said Anneliese, placing her hand in Bellamy’s stewardship.

At first, he placed his sizable metal cross between her fingers and encapsulated them with handfuls of blue flame-cambered rock fragments. The blue flames flickered and danced, reflecting in her eyes as visions of a chaotic world, ravaged by unspeakable horrors, filled her mind. The worst of pagan transgressions in all their brutality. A fearsome time of conquest and subjugation sent her falling back in a crying fit of disbelief. “That … that was real? They butchered them. Tied up the survivors and sold them like cattle. Women, children,” Anneliese said.

Bellamy fell into his own shock, unaware of the depths of horror she witnessed within the split second of dazed visions. “My apologies. It appears not all experiences are the same.” Guilt-stricken; he sifted through the dusty floor to find his discarded metal cross. “What you saw is the natural course of human nature. A perpetual state of barbarism and debauchery that, if not for the church, would still propagate today. Not that the church is perfect, but when you realize the old pagan world it saved us from, you see past the rhetoric, the rules, and you appreciate its contributions.”

“Coble would never. Pagans … He … he could never do such horrible things.”

“Coble was a great and noble wizard. A welcomed departure from the norm, but he couldn’t offer you something the church can.”

“What’s that?”

“A future. One where your intellect can make a difference. All you have to do is bear the cross and follow the church’s traditions. Pretend to believe, and the people will accept you enough to leave you alone.”

“But what about wizardry?”

“Alchemy is wizardry by another name. If we rediscover Mithridatium, we’ll have the wealth to leave this land, leave the church. Discover what it means to be in service to no one but ourselves,” Bellamy said as he placed his metal cross firmly into her hands.

“I … I don’t know.” Her hands trembled at the strange sensation emanating between her fingers. Not one of emotional weight, but an unnatural tingling that reverberated through her arm and body.

Before Anneliese could make sense of the strange sensation, the sounds of shifting earth and rock instilled the fear of death in Bellamy. Before a word needed to be said, Bellamy grabbed Anneliese and made a run for the exit. He pounded on the stronghold walls, trying to recount the distance until the next turn, only to find each left became a right. Short passages became extended corridors. The glow-worms few and far between. Their exit: a pint-sized gap at the end of the last turn.

“We’re too late,” said Bellamy as he kicked furiously, hoping to dislodge the surrounding rocks, which remained unmoved.

The formation had hardened and solidified into a single slate of stone. Their fates were slowly being entombed within the pagan stronghold.

“What’s happening?”

“It’s dying. The forces of magic can no longer sustain it,” said Bellamy. He then began clawing at the ground, trying to dig a way out of a shrinking opening that resembled the setting sun.

All hopes of escape dwindled as Anneliese flew into her own frantic desperation. Her instincts pushed her to abandon Bellamy, while she stumbled around in the dark, before realizing the stick metal frame of an extinguished oil lamp in her hand. It had a string-attached flint that dangled by her knees. Not knowing or caring how she came across it, she immediately got to work, and yet with every strike, the sparks failed to ignite the oily rags. Instead, they sent a disorienting aroma that twisted her perception of time and space.

Bellamy’s blasphemous cursing warped and elongated.

The corridors moved and shifted, closing off the old passages and opening new ones, until directly in front of her was the faint outline of the wolf’s head. A mere foot away. Its low-pitch growl and warm odorous breath against her face.

As Anneliese clenched the dormant torch, it ignited into a bright-blue flame that flashed the wolf from existence, leaving her alone in the illuminated corridor. Without knowing how or why, she felt the form of the structure in ways that touch couldn’t convey. Her mind detached from the worldly constraints of flesh and bone. It was a sense of freedom without direction. A free spirit drifting around the empty stronghold like a god within their own domain.

Until the wolf’s howl brought her back to the forest. Where the horses grazed and the lone black wolf watched over her from high into the mountainside. Its thick coat rustled in the wind, looking unamused as it wandered off beyond her line of sight.

In its absence, Anneliese realized she was alone – without a cleric, a mentor, or shield against the church’s conformity. “BELLAMY,” she cried.

Nothing but the absent whistling winds replied, whose cold cut to her spine. There was no sign of an opening, no loose rock formations, only Bellamy’s metal cross and the shallow claw marks reaching out from beneath solid granite.

Dusk surrendered to night as clouds veiled the waning moon. Anneliese’s journey back was fraught with peril—every wrong turn threatened to trap her in the unforgiving wilderness. Yet her inner compass never faltered. She urged her horse onward, galloping toward the distant stables.

The heavy panting of the horses woke the farrier, who greeted them with the weariness of late-night visitors. “What be your business this hour?”

“It’s me. They’ve captured Father Bellamy,” Anneliese said, her voice strained and breathless. Pale and trembling from exhaustion after the day’s costly escapade, she practically tumbled from her saddle, collapsing into the farrier’s arms.

Mother Simonet then came racing up towards them. “Bellamy, is that you?”

“What happened, girl? Where’s Bellamy?” the farrier said, his voice loud and direct, awakening the nearby animals, as though their masters had called for them.

“Gone,” Anneliese said, her voice thin and quivering as tears welled and spilled down her cheeks. Her breathing quickened, ragged and uneven.

“Nonsense. Lie again and you’ll regret it, so make quick with the truth,” Mother Simonet said. She was ready to throttle the distraught girl but was held back by the farrier’s strong, fending palm. His other arm cradled the anguished Anneliese.

“The pagans took him. I … I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Now, now, dear. It is in God’s hands now,” the farrier said, holding the girl tight, as to share in her dismay. He clenched his eyelids, holding back his own tears.

“May the Lord have mercy upon his soul,” Mother Simonet said, tracing the cross upon her head, shoulders, and sternum, recanting endless Hail Marys. The hard stable dirt bore the brunt of her collapsed knees, for the stiff-lipped disciplinarian couldn’t find the oxygen to keep herself afoot.

A moment of mournful solidarity eclipsed all divides. It was the closest form of acceptance in the most unforgiving of times. A truth within the lie, as the incompressible spared the pagan to condemn the cleric. In doing so, it brought the pagan closer to the cross that hung firm upon her chest. Held tight with clenched fist, it was the last remains of another fallen mentor.