“The scriptures tell us there are only two sins: Death and Failure,” Ciril spoke to the crowd as his hand lingered on the closed casket. “And thus today, we once again mourn a man who has sinned twice. He who has not broken virtue for almost five decades now lies here.”
The audience was quiet in their ebony attires and uniforms. Some were holding back tears. The rest… could no longer muster them. Most of those were the soldiers. Former comrades in arms. Ciril saw how it weighed them down. Lost souls he could only try to help - and often not succeed. At least the family and other friends seemed better off. They were grieving and that was good. Pain meant they cared. The widow, a short woman, stood in place, a red tint fighting the verge of another downpour within her eyes. The son, one moment blank, the next trembling - fist clenched throughout in his uniform’s sleeve. For all of them, Ciril went on.
“George was a man of deed. Yet beneath the craggy shell of a soldier rested a gentle soul. One which would lift everyone it touched. He was a wonderful husband and a great father. He loved to surprise people with his cooking, always so unexpected from an officer of the army, though adored among friends and comrades. And although his life had been cut short, it was lived in full every moment along the way. Tallast.”
He spoke for a while longer, recounting the life he had never known - just factoids memorized from a sheet of paper. Then he beckoned everyone to approach. First distant friends and the soldiers. The civilians brought flowers, laying them in front of the casket. The soldiers had their own traditions, laying down empty bullet shells - one from everyone, then one more for each time a soldier thought the departed had saved their lives. Most did not lay down more than a singular piece, though Ciril spotted as much as five from one man as he silently stood by the procession. Then last came the close family to say goodbye; to receive Ciril’s condolences and blessings. A distant aunt. Two brothers and a sister, a group of nephews. Then the widow, silent and nigh catatonic. And finally, a son.
So young but already scarred by the War. The uniform was clean, yet Ciril could imagine the washed bloodstains.
“But Father, my pa was no sinner,” the boy choked slightly on the words as he spoke. His eyes were still slightly red from tears long shed dry. “He was a hero. H-he saved me. When the wall broke, he held them back alone so I could get away!”
“What is your name, son?” Ciril gently put his hand beneath the boy’s elbow. He wished he had the time to memorize it beforehand.
“Richard.”
“Then tell me Richard, why could one not be both a hero and a sinner?”
“What?” the boy’s eyes widened in surprise at just the suggestion. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say,” Ciril nodded. “The scriptures do not lie, the two sins are true. Yet they do not forbid a sinner from being a hero.”
“Is that really possible?” the boy, albeit still weighted by grief, suddenly seemed lighter. Lifted up by that spark of hope.
“Look here,” Ciril stepped further back into the chapel and Richard followed. There, at the far end of the alcove on the wall hung a few dozen items. Small trinkets, most framed. From them, Ciril picked a ring encased behind glass and took it off the wall.
“Do you know the legend of Bartholomew the Radiant?” the priest asked as he looked at the ring.
“The Hero of the 12th wall?” Richard said it as a question though his tone was confident.
“Indeed,” Ciril nodded. “They say it would have crumbled years sooner had he not been there. A single man, saving thousands. A Hero beyond dispute! A relic of him immortalized here, in my hands. Do you see now?”
“No… I don’t, Father,” the young soldier took a few seconds to think on it but in the end shook his head.
“In the end, the 12th wall has fallen,” Ciril sighed. “It was this very chapel that his rites were carried out. The scriptures are clear: There are two sins and Bartholomew had committed both. I was here that day as a young acolyte - in this very alcove - and struggled against it just as you do now. Until I reached the obvious conclusion: A sinner can be a Hero. Your father’s deeds are not diminished by his failures!”
“I see…” the boy nodded, thoughtful. “Thank you, Father.”
“Think nothing of it,” Ciril patted the boy beneath the elbow again. The chapel had cleared out by that point but out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed a flash of familiar auburn hair by the entrance. “It is the least I can do. Keep your faith and remain strong. By the grace of the Three, may the Bastion-Immutable bless you.”
“Thank you twice over for your blessing,” Richard bowed and left shortly after. Ciril did not look at his back. Instead, he gathered the incense burners - almost sputtering out at that point - and headed into the small room at the back end of his alcove. He did not close the door behind him as he began emptying and refilling the small metal vessels with practiced motions. Most of them would still be hot which was why he had a basin of water to cool them before throwing out the residue.
“Giving out hope to dead men again?” a woman’s voice spoke from behind him.
“As much as they are willing to receive from me,” he agreed.
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“You even gave him the whole Radiant speech,” she commented drily. “You rarely bother.”
“On the day I have seen Bartholomew receive his rites I have taken an oath on the Three:” Ciril remained completely calm, not a ripple or shake going through his hands still working the incense. “That one day, when the sin of death claims me, I will have left the world a more hopeful place than it had been. Just as the Radiant left his ring, that shall be my legacy. If I think that is what a lost child needs, that is what I will say.”
“I am sure the privileged brat just needed a good talking to before he returns to cry inside his ancestral mansions and waits for his uncle up in command to distribute his award for heroism,” she scoffed.
“You seem to be in an unusually venomous mood even for yourself, Rebecca” Ciril turned towards her. Rebecca was mostly average-looking in facial features and figure, if muscular. Somewhere just south of 30. Her most defying trait was that striking auburn hair which she allowed to flow loose when away from the front. Her uniform was well-kept and displayed her markings as a sergeant. She stared at him for a few seconds.
“Yes, sorry,” she let out a deep, weary sigh. “My captain is dead.”
“You were stationed at one of the breached sections,” Ciril immediately concluded.
“Got two new scars to prove it,” she nodded. “And thrice as many dead friends.”
“Have you come to see witness their rites?” Ciril asked. “I am not sure who would be in charge. Things have been chaotic.”
“Hah,” Rebecca chuckled. “Hahahahaa…,” then she laughed hysterically for several seconds.
“Did I say something wrong?” Ciril raised an eyebrow when she was done, slightly confused. He put the incense aside for the moment.
“Captain wasn’t exactly of the kind that could afford your so-called ‘Rights’,” she grimaced and it was so pained it stung Ciril as well. “The last few of us gave them a soldier’s goodbye.”
“You could have come to me,” he sighed again and shook his head. Then he put three fingers to the forehead. “I could have arranged it. For him and for your friends. Nonetheless, by the Three, I wish the poor sinners a peaceful journey.”
“Keep your blessings for something more useful,” she said, though did not move away. “Like bullets.”
“Do you have some on you?” he understood it for the request it was and turned around to quickly rummage through the tools.
“Long ready,” she said, handing him a few large rifle shells while he found a brush and a small vessel. Then he sat down in the only chair, placing the munition on a pile to his left.
“Do you…” he started to say as he turned around only to find out Rebecca was already handling him her knife. “Thank you,” he nodded, then with a practiced motion pricked the top of his left ring finger, drawing a bit of blood into the vessel. Then began painting the bullets, drawing three dots in a triangle onto each.
“Can I stay overnight?” Rebecca asked as Ciril got to work.
“You should find an apartment,” he advised.
“I am never in town for long anyway,” she rolled her eyes.
“It’s not about staying under your own roof. It’s about having your own roof to stay under,” Ciril sighed. “Be my guest, though I will be likely working until dawn. You know where the keys are.”
“That much work?” she frowned.
“Funerals cannot be hurried… and the 11th Wall has just fallen,” he lightly shrugged. “Can you check if the casket got lowered properly? The old machinery has been cranky lately.”
“Sure,” she skipped out of the small chamber, leaving Ciril to his painting. After half the shells he had to redraw some more blood, doing so just as Rebecca returned. “Can’t see it anymore, so I assume that’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“Yes, thank you,” he hummed. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow,” she replied.
“Already?” Ciril paused his work, turning to her. “You were just put on leave.”
“The higher-ups want the companies that got chewed to bits rearranged quickly,” she shrugged. “Orders are orders.”
“I may have some choice words to give your commanding officers,” Ciril frowned but returned to work.
“Just don’t mention me by name, please.”
“I am not a moron.”
“Wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Weak, even for you.”
“I guess I am too hung up on gallows humor,” she sighed.
“Still weak,” Ciril smiled as he finished painting the last bullets. Then he stood up, gathering them all into a water-tight brass box. He walked over to the water basin, submerging the container.
“Pray with me,” he said.
“You know I am not much into it,” Rebecca shuffled, a bit uncomfortable.
“They are your bullets,” Ciril insisted. “Pray with me and the Three will ensure the blessing rings true. You need not speak, sincere desire in silence will be enough.”
“Fine,” she sighed, then approached, clasping her hands together as her eyelids shut.
“Hear me, Three,” Ciril mirrored her, voicing the words he knew like his clutched hands towards the basin. “Hear your devoted, hear the muttering of meagre desires. May your blessings pass onto these arms of a lamb. For though she may be undevout in spirit, her acts speak of piety few could match. May the Architect-Impeccable bless them so they never fail to protect his wonders. May the Philosopher-Insatiable bless them so they always find their target. May the Bastion-Immutable bless them so they cannot be stopped. Tallast.”
“Tallast,” Rebecca repeated with a mutter as Ciril withdrew the box from the water, emptying it into her already outstretched palm. “Goodbye again if we don’t see each other tomorrow.”
“The Three be with you,” he said towards her departing back. Then she was gone and he returned to preparing the incense with a bit of hurry. By the time he was done and bringing the burners back to the alcove he was happy to find one of the younger acolytes halfway done with clearing out the flowers. Ciril voiced his approval and a thanks as he went around putting the incense where it belonged and lighting them. They would last for three or four more ceremonies before he had to change them again.
By the time that was done, the flowers - and empty shells - had been stacked onto a cart and brought out. Ciril had a few minutes to read up on the next departed, remembering details to add to his repetitive speech while also making sure the next coffin was brought up without an issue. He had meant it when he said the machinery needed replacement.
Not long later a few early guests began to enter his alcove. They needed Closure. Hope. Perhaps even counsel.
Ciril was there to provide.