Ciril lay on his deathbed, unable to move. His neck felt filled with lead, mind misty as a swamp after rain. He stared as his shivered hand that refused to even twitch, a tube biting into it, prolonging his last moments.

“What happened to you, Ciril?” cardinal Janus questioned. He was somewhere in the room, Ciril could not tell even in which direction.

“You know, I had a daughter,” Ciril said.

“Really?” his friend said with surprise. “You have never mentioned her.”

“I never knew, until less than a year ago,” Ciril nodded... tried to nod. His neck would not move. “She told me she despised me on our first meeting. The second time I saw her was a funeral.”

“That is… unfortunate,” the cardinal paused. “It does not explain your behavior. The nurse says you had gone rabid yesterday. Worsened you state so much even the doctor could not help you. Now, your one sin approaches.”

“Were you aware, that the young generation no longer believes in Heroes?” Ciril asked. His throat hurt, more than usual. His voice was hoarse.

“It is not a… hopeful time,” Janus frowned. “The War takes great toll on all of us.”

“When I was their age it was not a speculation,” Ciril tried and failed to shake his head. “It was a fact. That Heroes lived and committed great deeds. No one would doubt it.”

“It was a different time,” the cardinal conceded.

“Now I wonder whether it had been a lie, meant to give us that false hope I have always lived in,” Ciril sighed. “That maybe they would make the tomorrow great once again. But what do the young have now? They don’t believe that there will be a savior. That better should be a promise, not a naive dream.”

“The Chruch does what it can,” Janus nodded.

“Perhaps, if even that,” Ciril smiled bitterly. “But certainly not enough. Each year less faithful come to the church. I have scarcely noticed it since it was so gradual. But now I see it with clarity. The faith in the Three wanes as they themselves fail. When the 1st wall falls, will even they remain?”

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“What you say borders on blasphemy,” the cardinal warned, though there was little heat in it.

“When I am judged it will not be on the last moments,” Ciril laughed, which turned into a coughing fit. He had to swallow bloody phlegm by the time it left. Then he spoke again "When I am gone what will remain of me? What about when you leave as well? Just a flowerless grave and a book no one reads. Not even a memory."

“Your prognosis is not looking good,” Janus said after a moment of silence, changing the topic rather than engaging with it.

“How long,” Ciril asked.

“The doctor believes there is a good chance you won’t wake tomorrow,” the cardinal slowly admitted. Ciril would have nodded if he could. “I came to give the parting rites.”

“I see, thank you,” the dying bishop still appreciated the gesture. It was usually far beneath someone of Janus status to offer such.

“Then tell me your secrets and regrets,” Janus nodded. “I shall bear them with all their weight. They shall remain only between us and the Three before you face your one sin. Tallast.”

And so Ciril spoke. Seconds turned to minutes, then to hours. Janus attentively listed to every word, never interrupting as Ciril’s throat grew sore, as the dull ache in his head became a full migraine. As the old priest stopped seeing through one of his already murky eyes and ants began to crawl through his right leg. Year by year, moment by moment, Ciril relayed every regret, little or large. All he had ever kept to himself so that by the time he was done there would be nothing left to burden him when he met the Three.

“And…” and eventually, there was just a last regret to share. Ciril hesitated for the first time.

“What is it?” the cardinal encouraged.

“Do you see the ring framed on the wall?” Ciril asked, unable to look at it himself. He felt it then, strength leaving him. As the last strings of grief holding him back resolved. There was no fear to admit to. For all Ciril was regretful he was not afraid. Just disappointed.

“Yes, is it a memento?” Janus asked.

“A relic,” Ciril said. “Important to me. It had once belonged to Bartholomew the Radiant. Does that sound familiar?”

“I cannot say it does,”

“The Hero of the Twelfth wall,” the priest explained again. Each word he felt himself withering. “I had been an acolyte when he had been put to rest, just uphill. There young Ciril took an oath, between himself and the Three... I had sworn then that I would leave this world a better place than I had found it.”

There was a pause. The bishop would have stared his friend into the eyes if he could find them...

“Not one sin, Janus,” the dying man spoke, the wheezing speech as bitter as truth often is. His lungs burned with every breath of air passing through. That was fine. He had only a final word left to say. “Two.”

Then Ciril closed his eyes and passed.