“And this is where you will be staying,” Me said, her finger dancing across a heavy iron keychain that jangled with an assortment of keys–brass and iron, very old and not the slightest bit dangerous. She found the right one with practiced efficiency, sliding it into the lock and twisting it with a click.
The door creaked open, revealing a small room whose air seemed to contain more dust than oxygen. From its interior, it fit in with the rest of the monastery, simple and crude. There was a single thatch bed which already occupied almost half the space, its straw mattress looking flat and weary, draped with a few threadbare blankets and a single pillow. A wooden chest sat in one corner, its surface scarred with old scratches and stains. A single nightstand stood beside the bed, placed on which stood a single oil lamp, its brass base tarnished and dull.
A single ray of light filtered through a window no wider than a palm positioned so high near the ceiling that it seemed more like an opening for ventilation rather than light. The walls were bare stone and plaster.
Mea stepped back, waving away dust from her nose and coughing a couple of times. “I-It hasn’t been used in a long time. I will help you clean up if you want,” she said.
One shook her head gently, a thin smile on her lips. “There is no need for that. Thank you for guiding me here, but I will be fine on my own.”
“A-Are you sure?” she asked, her cheeks faintly flushed and eyes squinted in discomfort.
“I am. Thank you for your help, Mea.”
Mea nodded, rubbing her left eye. “Alright then. J-just ask if you need something, I live down the hall, the second door on the left right when you enter the hallway,” she said, pointing down the old hallway.
“I will keep that in mind,” One replied.
Mea turned to leave, but stopped, gasping as if to remember something. “Right, dinner is at six and the nun’s meet for a prayer at eight. A-And curfew is at ten. Also, Bishop Roberto told me that he would like to speak to you. He said he would be in the garden in half an hour,” Mea said.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“I-I’m happy to help,” Mea smiled, “I hope we can talk again in the future, Ophelia.”
“I hope so, too, Mea.”
Mea broke out into a juvenile grin and walked away, disappearing from sight when she turned the corner at the end of the hallway. The smell of a thousand rotten eggs finally fading.
One entered her room, gave it another brief, inspecting look, before seating herself on the bed, letting herself fall back into the soft mattress. She liked beds. This one was of terrible quality and the ends of straws were poking and itching her, but it was better than the cold stone floor back in that–which she now had found out to be a–basement. She might not need to sleep, but judging a bed merely as an object to sleep in was, in her opinion, naive.
She took a few moments to simply appreciate the bed before her thoughts wandered. It was unexpected to find someone like Mea, a faithful nun who properly reeked of the holy and faith. They had come across her hanging up sheets when they emerged in the temple grounds. At that moment, One had learned quite a bit of important information.
One was that the summoning hall was an old abandoned basement beneath a proper temple of Shamut, and Mea’s putrid smell was proof that not everyone in the temple was corrupted, which led her to the conclusion that her master, or Bishop Roberto as he was known on the outside, was operating in secret from the other members. Of course she had suspected that, given that he had prepared a background for her identity as Ophelia, but she hadn’t known that she was underneath a holy place and thought her alibi would merely be for citizens and other such individuals. Knowing that there were faithful servants of a deity present, it made things a little more interesting. And dangerous, given One’s current, weakened state.
Her master was fortunate that it was Mea who spotted them and not someone with more wit and suspicion. The young girl didn’t even raise any question and just accepted when her master ordered her to give Ophelia a room in the old monastery ring. The very room she was now lying in. She hadn’t even questioned why she shouldn’t be given a room in the more developed parts. Not that it mattered, because One suspected she would not spend much time in this room.
Despite her weaknesses, Mea was a sweet girl. It is nice to be around someone not considered an enemy. But it might be better to keep my distance from her. She does not deserve to get entangled in this whole mess.
Heaving a long sigh, One sat back up. She looked at the old wooden nightstand, tracing the small crevasses in its surface, dust collecting on her fingertip. There was still some time until her master wanted to meet her. But it's not like I can do anything in here, she thought, getting to her feet while dusting off her finger.
One strolled out of Ophelia’s room and into the old corridor, her gaze sweeping along the stone-lined hallway. It was quite dark with only a handful of lamps which Mea had lid on their way here. The wooden floor creaked with every single one of her steps. She paused and committed the precise location of her room to memory–the third door on the right with a slight chip in the wooden frame and a few scratches around the metal lock, likely from failed attempts at inserting the key.
Her fingers brushed the door, ready to close it, when she realized that Mea had never given her the key to lock it. Though it wasn’t like there was anything inside that was worth taking. One pushed the door close and walked away.
After leaving the old wing, she emerged in the regular nun’s quarters.. Several of her sisters in faith occupied the corridor–some sweeping the floor, while others engaged in quiet conversation. The new arrival was of certain interest to these women, and they regarded her with varied reactions. One elderly nun offered a curious but guarded glance, another younger woman flushed and avoided her gaze when One met hers while a group of others started whispering behind covering hands.
She passed without wasting any time on them, but for the image of Ophelia, she wore a smile and offered short and polite greetings as she did. This continued until she reached the exit.
The cloister opened onto a meticulously laid stone pathway that stretched through the middle of the temple’s premises. It reached from the temple’s dedicated holy place in the south, all the way to the garden and temple entrance in the north.
Directly across the flagstone street were the priest quarters which stood as a row of connected stone buildings that looked rather unimpressive from the outside. Adjacent to them were the three bishop cabins with certain structural differences that mirrored their hierarchical distinction.
It was around noon and the temple grounds were alive with mundane activity. Nuns and priests followed their daily rhythm. One spotted Mea in a group of five, carrying freshly laundered linens in woven baskets. The men, or priests, were mostly just chatting in a friendly, casual manner. Some of them reeked like sewage waters, others like a field of fresh flowers.
One found it interesting how the faithful chatted with those that had broken their holy vows without suspecting a thing. She wondered how these interactions would transform into violent battles if their true disposition were to come to light. Or maybe these faithful priests simply waited for someone to corrupt them. Humans were strange like that.
Regardless of the veracity of their faith, One played the polite pilgrim and kept up her facade of a young, friendly nun as she moved north on the flagstone path.
The garden was, even to One’s eyes, a masterwork of botany and decor. The garden’s heart was a circular, wide pavestone path that was edged with shoulder high hedges. Through the gaps, she also spotted a small pond in the middle. Around it stood six marble statues, three of them men, and three of them women. They were positioned with careful symmetry. Larks rested on their shoulders and heads, singing cheerful songs.
Because of their pristine condition, they looked rather new, however, the statue of the first saint Aurelio had such detail that it must have been created around the same time when that hopelessly kind human was still alive. It looks quite good for a half-a-millenia old piece of rock, One thought, a few memories of times long past resurfacing as she walked the tendril-like path that led to the garden’s heart. These paths extended from all around the center, ultimately making the paths look like a sun. Left and right, lush, green grass covered the earth and in each corner of the garden, nuns were tending to fields of yellow, orange and red flowers that formed small suns.
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One’s habit swayed gently as she strolled past the hedges and into the center, getting even closer to Aurelio’s statue. She briefly glanced over the others, but they were of little interest to her. The white hair looks good on him, although I liked his real hair color more. It was like a raging flame…
It had been some time since One lost herself in fond memory of a mortal, and it was not long after she had come to a halt before Aurelio’s statue that a voice resounded behind her.
“When I decided to take a stroll in this garden, I did not expect to find a flower this beautiful,” it said in an annoyingly satisfied tone. One glanced around her, finding no one but herself at which these words could have been directed at. When she turned around, she found a human male. Tall, tanned, clean skin, well-maintained hair and a decorated suit. Even though it had been a while, One could identify a noble if she saw one.
Despite her immediate disdain for this creature, One made her face wear a surprised expression.
A wolfish grin accompanied the youth’s approach. One took a closer look at him and found a crest embroidered on his chest: a wolf’s head encircled by delicate, thorny vines. Never seen that before.
His eyes raked over One with bold appreciation although he did not miss the short falter when she had turned fully around, showing off her eyepatch. Still, despite his momentary surprise, the youth did not back down. One could roughly gauge what kind of man she was facing, and she certainly would have thought that it would deter him from any further conversation. On the other hand, she had to agree that her appearance was not downplayed by the mere lack of an eye.
It was situations like these where One wished to be a mortal, free of rules and contracts. Because then she would be able to simply rip that human apart. Nothing but a fantasy, she thought resentfully as she performed a polite curtsy.
“Do you enjoy that old man’s statue?” he asked, his eyes lingering on One’s chest region. “My family produced a saint in the past, too, you know? I could show you some artifacts back at my place if you are curious,” he offered, his tone dripping with false charm.
Part of a family that produced a saint but smelling like fresh honey, One would have smiled widely just then, but restrained herself to a thin one. Humans have always been the best jesters.
“That is a kind offer, young lord,” One said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, “but unfortunately, I have a prior appointment, so I will unfortunately have to decline.”
The youth frowned, not even trying to hide his displeasure and certainly not showing any signs of backing down.
“That is not a problem at all,” he said, recovering some of his false manners, “I could pick you up after you are finished.” He inched closer. One’s eyes shot down to his waist. And she spotted no weapon on his belt. Unfortunately, her precaution was misinterpreted.
“Or we could just find a spot between those hedges,” his voice grew quieter, more flirtatious as he was close for his breath to touch One’s face, “ where no one can see us and…” he reached for her sleeve.
In that instant, One imagined her arm morph into a morning star and end this charade once and for all. Contracts are such a bother, she thought, rough fingers wrapping around her right wrist. One’s mind worked on a solution to this situation that did not involve whatever this youth had in mind, when the necessity for a solution was taken from her.
“Lupelli, get your filthy fingers off that nun,” a woman’s voice boomed from behind. One was quite surprised to find the youth stiffen, eyes growing uncertain. She looked over her shoulder to see a tall, fairly broad-shouldered woman with blazing red hair. As a wind brushed through it and blew it backward, it flickered like a flame. The woman wore only a simple white shirt with the top-most buttons undone, a pair of trousers and boots like one would find on a soldier. A scar ran over her nose, almost touching her eyes. Around her waist hung a thick leather belt with a sheathed longsword strapped to it.
A paladin, One thought, a fond smile sneaking onto her lips, must run in the family. The woman practically stormed toward them and with her came the stench of a thousand rotting corpses. One could not bear it and killed her sense of smell entirely, although her mere presence seemed to crawl over her skin. That one is a true believer, Shamut got quite lucky.
As the distance between them narrowed, the youth’s grip on One’s hand loosened and she used that opportunity to retrieve her hand calmly. She made sure not to draw out any ire from the nobleman.
The youth clenched his teeth, then straightened himself hastily. “Dame del Sole, I don’t think I am deserving of any insult from you. Or should I take this as a slight against the Lupelli family?”
“Spare me that, you runt,” she retorted, her hand dropping casually to the hilt of her sword. “Your name means nothing to me. And I am not here to listen to whatever crap you are trying to spout. Scram, kid, before I decide to promote your younger brother to heir apparent,” she spat, scowling.
One observed the interaction with detached curiosity, more interested in the similarities than the occurrence itself. Humans behaved quite similarly no matter the century. And it seemed the blood of the sun remained the same, too.
Even if One did not know the stations of this youth’s house, it was quite clear that he was cornered. No weapons, no backup, just wounded pride. And the redhead looked more than willing to cut him down. After a few moments of tense staring, he clicked his tongue and offered a dismissive wave.
“Alright, I get it,” he growled. He glanced at One, hesitated, but apparently decided that he would give up for now and started his retreat. As he left the garde, he gave the redhead a wide berth.
As he walked away, the redhead got closer, her attention turning from the youth to One. Her eyes were razor-sharp, the kind of gaze that had been honed to dissect a person’s thoughts and intentions before they even had a chance to speak. That, too, was something that would never change about them.
Unfortunately for her, she was trying to read the expressions and emotions of someone that had perfected the craft of hiding and controlling these things for millenia. The only thing she would be able to read was what One wrote on her face.
She settled for a relieved, slightly fearful expression, a gaze that lingered on the youth’s back for a while, her hand held together against her chest.
“Are you alright?” the woman asked, having finished her analysis and softening her expression. Though there remained a small amount of curiosity in them.
“Only b-because of you, my lady, ah,” One began, then performed a nervous stutter before grabbing onto her dress and performing a curtsy, “I-I greet the y-young sun of Del Sole.”
The Del Sole offspring waved off the formality with a scarred hand. “None of that, please. The Dawn Temple is not the palace, there is no need for formality. And I am not here as a Del Sole, but a paladin of Shamut,” she declared, but despite it, her posture remained rigid, betraying years of royal education. She lifted her hand from her sword and extended it toward One.
“Just call me Stella,” she said.
One gave the hand a nervous glance, reluctantly abandoned her respectful posture and reached out for Stella’s hand, giving it a soft grip and letting her do most of the shaking.
“I am… Ophelia. It is an… a pleasure to meet you, Stella,” she said.
Stella gave a short laugh, releasing her hand, “The pleasure is mine,” she replied. “Are you new here? I thought I knew all the nuns living here, and I’d never forget a face like yours,” she said with a grin.
One allowed a delicate blush to color her cheeks, a short hesitance in her reply. “I am on a pilgrimage, and will be staying here temporarily to recover from journeying,” she explained.
Stella’s eyebrow arched, her gaze flickering to One’s eyepatch. “That sounds dangerous,” she said, concern coloring her voice.
“I have been blessed with a safe journey so far,” One responded, infusing her voice with just the right note of grateful humility. “And thanks to you, I remain unharmed yet.”
Stella chuckled, a sound rich with sardonic humor. “That Lupelli brat needs a proper lashing. Ever since his uncle has been elected bishop of the dawn temple, he has been growing more bold. If he should ever trouble you again, tell me.
“Thank you, Stella,” One said with a polite bow.
Stella put her hands on her hips. “That’s what paladins are for,” she said, her smile one of pride and confidence.
Behind Stella, at the garden’s entrance, two men in gleaming silver armor and pristine white cloaks appeared, their torsos bearing the winged sun of Shamut. Stella, seemingly feeling their presence, looked over her shoulder and sighed. “Duty calls,” she said and offered her hand once again.
One found it odd but thought nothing much of it and reached to shake it. The sun-blooded paladin deftly turned the gesture into something more as she captured One’s hand, and placed a gallant kiss on its back, her warm lips touching on One’s unnaturally cold skin. Shit, One masked her surprise with an embarrassed blush. “I hope we get a chance to speak again soon, Ophelia,” Stella said.
With a rakish grin, the paladin spun and strode toward the waiting paladins. One rubbed the back of her hand, noting a residual warmth. What a troublesome lass, One thought. At the same time that Stella reached the paladins, a figure passed them, sparing no attention to the three.
One did not miss the scornful glare Stella gave the passing figure–a flash of pure, unvarnished contempt.
The scent of pure sweetness replaced that of Stella’s faith, and One’s master strode through the gardens with the same stone-faced expression of indifference he always had on his face. And in his eyes, she saw purpose. Whatever it was, he had something for her to do.