The Abbey

[rosallora]

[Toustain]

Those words snap her from her talking - well, what was more a tirade. They weren't alone.

Toustain pushes it down. Hard. It's a massive undertaking, to force back the emotion, but she does it, turning away from the sister's voice and pulling the wrappings around her mouth down, sucking in a few breaths.

She can mourn later. She can't look bad. Not like this. Even though the words she says just bite her to the marrow, she pushes it down.

"Arrangements need to be made." It's her voice. She figures it must be coming out of her mouth. "He was struck with leprosy. A doctor needs to be sent. His body isn't safe. It needs to be cremated."

The sentences are choppy, but they come out in their whole pieces undisturbed.

[speakeroftruths]

Irritation, sharp and sudden, strikes. But no, it is not at Charis that they are so irked. They manage to push it aside, breathing slowly, and nod to both of the Sisters.

"Indeed, Sister," They say, raising their head with great effort. "I will see to it. Sister Charis, would you be so kind as to stay with Sister Toustain for a moment? I must ask around if there are those trained in quarantine and cremation. And your Sister will benefit from the company of the faithful."

[twostepsback]

"Certainly," Charissa says with a nod to Andy, before turning to face Toast. "Do you want to talk?"

[rosallora]

[Toustain]

She feels the grip of anger and sadness in her, a clenching fist around her heart. She had just walked away from his body. Just walked away from that horrid mass of sickness and terrible death. From a man whose soul she could only pray was within the flaming mother's arms. She wants to pray for him. Would it be wrong to pray for him?

"...Was there a man at the abbey, the night when the bandits attacked, with brown hair, tall, of a thickset stature, carrying likely a half-sword? His name was Roard." She has already told herself that regardless of the answer, he was there. But she wants to hear someone else say it.

[twostepsback]

"Wait... The Giant? How? The worst injury he had was that puncture wound I had to pack!" Charissa declares with widened eyes!

[rosallora]

[Toustain]

"It was plague - it was different. It was worse." Her voice shakes for a moment on the last word, and then she steadies herself. A fist resting against her side, and she remembers she's wearing all of her armor, her vestments, she is dressed for battle, and they arrived at a battle.

Maybe she knew. Maybe she had known all along that there would be a fight, maybe there was an ancient part of her brain that knew blood would be spilled and she had to wear this, even if it hurt to put on, even if it was awful to do up the straps, if her leg hurt. Maybe it was all predetermined, that the loving Mother with her flame knew every step and misstep she took. Could she see the span of her influence, could she see all the good and bad she would do, did she see her failure? Did she forgive her now, in advance, for everything she would do, and has done? Did she love her? Could she love her?

Why had the torch glowed in the darkest of places if it would lead, in the end, to this?

"I know it's hard to understand. I don't quite understand myself. But it's over. He's dead." She looks through the doorway to the rest of the abbey, past the kitchen. Where were the tips of her fingers? Where were her feet? Was she a collection of joints, where did the blood pump through her? What did she feel? What was missing?

"...I want to ring a mourning bell. For him."

[twostepsback]

"Not sure where the mourning bells are kept. But I will help you look for them if you'd like?" Charissa stated.

[rosallora]

"It's not a specific bell, it's a pattern. Or at least it was at my home abbey." She doesn't know if Grace might stop her from doing it, but she doesn't care. She was probably busy anyway, maybe finding something to do at the bottom of a bottle somewhere. And as far as Andy, she didn't know. They needed to recover from this as much as she did.

She walks through the corridors with the other vestal and finds them empty, and cold. There were people, and there were voices, and there were duties being taken care of and certain tasks that had to be done and life was moving, but she couldn't grasp it. Usually that kind of detachment would distress her, but for the time being she could let it pass over her in a quiet, numb wave.

She approaches the pull cord, then looks up at the tower above her. The underside of the large Abbey Bell peers back, a pupil without an iris.

[twostepsback]

"Oh... Right then..." Charissa mumbled as she trailed behind Toast. When the duo reached the bell tower, Charis spoke up again. "Someone told me that 'Pain is part of love. That's why we know that we love. Because we're afraid of the loss, and it hurts a lot when they leave.' "

[rosallora]

The thought filters through her, drip by drip. Her hands pull on the rope cord methodically, and the bell begins to ring. A long, slow toll that echoed in this small Hamlet for a man whose name was known by less than a handful of people. The fibers were rough on her hands in a way that she didn't recognize. It was different. It hurt.

The sentiment of pain ebbed through her like it has been for the last... She doesn't know how long it had been now. But it's like a heartbeat renewed, pulsing at the front point of her very being. She is hurt because something that she loved is gone. This terrible pain was fully preventable, and despite the promises that she made, she had loved. It didn't come in the form that she expected, the nebulous threat that she had been so convinced that she would have to fight off. The kind that swept women off their feet and took their breath away. It didn't feel like that. It didn't feel anything like what she expected. It was simply enjoyment, duty, laughter, and a trust strong enough to go unspoken and yet still felt. Love, it turns out, was far more insidious and tricky and difficult to define than she'd ever believed.

She understands now. Why the Perpetua were always so worried about this happening. Why, when she had questioned them, she had been slapped for her insolence instead of being given any answers. It wasn't something that you could understand until you were in the thick of it, looking at its face. A child simply couldn't comprehend what this was. This feeling, this deep cut that bled inside of her. Her betrayal.

"You're right," says, and to her that sentence was a confession. She had not been wholly devoted. She hadn't even realized. They were right all those years ago to say that she wasn't smart, would never make the rank of Vestal, let alone someday join the Perpetua. She had barely been able to scape into her current standing. Her motions slow until the bell is silent, and she looks to her sister Vestal for a long moment.

"That's why we can love no one but Her. She doesn't leave. It's to protect us. And we should be smart enough take heed of that oath." Toast steps away. Her voice steadies. "I am going to renew my vows to myself and my Goddess. Thank you, sister, for your words of wisdom."

[twostepsback]

"That is not what I meant!" Charissa states firmly. She readies her argument, but as she opens her mouth to speak, Charis registers that 'flame of fanaticism' in Toast's eyes, and promptly closes her mouth.

[rosallora]

The other vestal's words barely register. Toustain is already set in stone, the words carved into her being. She can reject this. She can be stronger. She can be what she was meant to be. What the Perpetua thought she could never be: cold, calm, brave, fully dedicated, more than a piece of timber to be consumed.

Toustain steps forward, towards that familiar place. The dark portal where sinners entered and purity left, sins pooling with languid sanguine fluids and purged from the soul. She starts moving her hands to the armor as she goes, undoing clasp and buckle and tie. Her footsteps are even, automatic movements, working in concert with fingers that knew these motions by heart. She knew what to do. The faulds clank loudly on the abbey's stone floor, the mask-bridle going with it, forgotten. There was too much pain in her to recognize anything else, anyone else. It is forsaken there, covered in lingering misery. The day was too bright, the atmosphere too open. The gentleness of the air in the abbey, cut through with incense and the sound of praying, only served to pinch her throat. Her cuirass makes it to the penance hall, dropping from her form with another clunk. She faces the door and does not hesitate before opening it, the heavy handle scraping against the soft flesh of her palm. The first strike, the gentlest. The first of many. A rasp of faith.

She does not hesitate when disrobing. She does not hesitate in her choice of flail: a leather strap with clean triangles of metal arranged in three neat rows along its length. She does not hesitate when her knee protests as she kneels.

Pain is part of faith. Pain is part of penance.

This was not absolution. This was reaffirmation. She raises the tool against herself. To carve was a holy rite. To run red with faith was a privilege. To feel the pain of living was to affirm the Goddess had given you the ability to live. And if she was faithful enough, the pain of the mortal being would remove this emotional anguish. Her teeth are tight rows in her mouth, it is all as red and raw as she would be. Roard. Roard was gone and would never return, and even at the mere thought of him she is reduced to tears.

The strike is true and it is harsh, she punishes herself for crying, for needing to cry, for feeling sadness, for knowing grief, for even knowing the intimacy of its face. If only she had been faithful. If only she had been good. Obedient. If she is to cry, let it be for forgiveness. Let her weep at the mother's feet and be judged, let her be silent. She took no arguments, she would take no excuses.

She had taken such joy in her time spent with Roard. She had enjoyed his words and actions, his motions were even sometimes in faith. Treacherous, dangerous, as biting as the edge that digs into her now, drawing new blood over old scars. He was not evil. He was not unholy. She had made him into something horrible and twisted by loving his company more than she loved the Goddess, that was the only explanation for this pain. It clutched at her chest, it dragged its fingers down her abdomen, the flail hooks and drags on flesh and she screams, wishing it could be for Vesta and not because of her own deep despair.

She reaches back and her fingers come back crimson. And on the stone in front of her, speckled with her tears, she writes.

I do vow...


She kneels in the middle of a spiral, the lines of words surrounding her. A trail of letters, written with precision and deepest intent. She touches some of them. Mercy. Compassion. Devotion. Her breath shakes. "Forgive me," she whispers. "Vesta, hear me... hear me, hear me... I can only ever ask, not order, serve, not demand, I ask that you hear me, that you absolve me, please... please accept... accept me." She places two fingers over the Goddess's name, the coagulated blood on her fingertips not disturbing the layer on the stone. "Please... send me a sign. A signal. Please..." she chokes on her own breath, doubling over, wounds stretching open anew and her hair resting on the rock below.

When she leaves, it is silently.

[The Carrying Blade]

Nasuris had been busy, she used the Abbey as a way to get free money and items to help with both her project and her Sanitarium friend. Especially the flagellation chamber, it was the best source of blood if she ever needed it, which was always. So as she went for her daily siphon, she heard the sounds of use and noticed before the entrance was akin to either clothes or a piece of armor. She inspected it, a cuirass in good condition, but yet there was something more to it.

Her demon senses were alight, and she walked away from the room with purpose. Following the trail she found yet another piece of armor, Faulds. She had walked quite a bit undressing to use the room, another light bearer who thought hurting themselves would bring their gods approval with their pain was incredibly laughable to Nasuris. Though what was intriguing was the bridle attached, coursing with what only could be a spirit or even a soul with it. Now that was something that might make someone go flagellate, that Nasuris could understand if the person knew what the object was.

She freed it from the Faulds, holding it in her hands as she felt the power it held. Then, she stuffed it into one of her dress pockets, quickly looking around as she made sure the owner wasn’t coming back or anyone was watching. She didn’t take it carefully, the armor clearly looking like it was moved and basically ransacked of the bridle. But no one would guess it was her until it was too late, besides she was probably doing both of them a favor. With quickness in her heels Nasuris walked away from the flagellation chamber and armor. Knowing the person would simply come from there, she knew this having less chances of being caught was better.

[twostepsback]

'The best-laid plans of mice and men, oft go astray', as the saying goes. For as Nasuris attempts to leave the scene of the crime, another person almost crashes into her. "Ack!" The short, darkly garbed figure cries as they backpedal a step. "Sorry about almost crashing into you..." They then add.

[Outisakanobody]

Grace was in her office, for once not sitting behind her desk. Instead she was busy sorting through her files and records. She still had stacks of papers scattered everywhere, and she knew she was going to have to find some better places to store the stuff. Maybe there were unused cabinets somewhere in the Abbey she could claim.

She stopped to take a drink of water. Then sighed into the cup. She'd been drinking nothing but water, recently. Cutting wine from her diet so suddenly had been...unpleasant. Torturous actually. But she was well acquainted with suffering, and it was for a good cause. Hopefully.