-Markos -
Josphina's parting words echoed in Markos's mind as he rode south.
"Report to the Temple. You're being pulled off duty and recalled. Whatever important thing you're doing out here is apparently too important to let you keep gallivanting off on your own." Her voice was sharp and spiteful.
The ride from the waystation southwest to the main temple in Westfallion was quiet. He felt the concealed eyes of the Order on him, and he knew the name now to be Josphina. It bothered him that she had followed him away from home. Regardless of the truths he knew, it was an honor to join the Order in any capacity. For a lowborn like himself and Josphina, joining meant a change in quality of life. Josphina Tilmar was no longer a kennel master's daughter, relegated to marry another servant but a member of the new nobility. She'd risen to be Lady Josphina de Tilmar by her own merit as a Whisperer. He didn't remember her mentioning a desire to be one, but she did dream of being a proper lady of the court rather than serving them.
Josphina envisioned a future with Markos as her templar husband, but he had only recently remembered. He'd been too young to truly understand and then too busy to dwell on it. Markos longed for the days and nights he rode with Iliana and Caelyn, riding without them made the world that much larger and dangerous. If the Ordinary was recalling him, it meant he was to give a report. They had tried in the past to force Markos to tell them what happened at the temple of Mara five years ago but failed. It was a sticking point between him and the Fleur. Markos refused to confess, and it seemed, this was a sufficient excuse to interrogate him further.
Caelyn and Iliana were beyond the reach of the Order, leaving Markos the only witness. He wondered if they were using his past with Josphina as leverage to make him comply. The accusation of being joyless had also stung. How much did she know, sitting in the safety of the shadows and observing him for years? Did she only see what was happening? Did she ever hear him? Caelyn had told him that while they were together, they were left to their own devices. He'd never explained how he managed it and Markos trusted his friend enough to not press it.
Markos rode south in no particular hurry, allowing his animal companions time to graze and explore. At night his dreams were filled of the elf but he couldn't hear her. It was a curious thing he saw her fighting, causing mischief in the briefest of visions but some nights he could almost smell the foreign forests and ruined temples. One of the visions twisted his heart into knots. He didn't know what it all meant.
Dense forest gave way to well-manicured, airy vineyards stretching across rolling green hills. The sight of vine country made his stomach sink. Returning to Westfallion should've felt like returning home but the pristine white cathedral with its graceful arcing windows of stained glass leered down at him as he rode into its shadow. He wanted a shower after the long ride but opted to subject himself to the Ordinary. It was best to see what the man wanted without drawing it out.
Markos left his horse and dog in the cathedral stables and stalked through the ornate gardens to the sanctuary proper. His armor bent, his rifle broken, and dusty from the road, Sir Markos Louvel pushed open the wide ornate doors and looked toward the altar.
His Holiness Islan Kant stood unbowed, unbent, and austere on the pulpit before a choir of young men and woman in white. His dark blue and grey robes were pristine, edged with gold and his goatee immaculately groomed. His voice boomed with authority as he preached, "Teiwaz's justice is based on sacrifice." The teachings of holy Teiwaz were the teachings of a warrior, a crusader, a god of duty, loyalty, and fair justice. In the pews before the Ordinary were the fresh and wide-eyed youths of the newest crop of temple knights, they'd be called upon to sacrifice themselves far more than any regular men, or knight, and such was the requirement, and so that is what he spoke to them. Duty, honor, justice, and most importantly, sacrifice.
Markos's gaze met those of his Holiness Islan, and he moved into the back pew. Islan nodded and continued his sermon with a fervor. Markos folded his arms and waited.
When the service had ended and Islan had offered blessings for the templars, the Ordinary approached the haggard young templar in the back pew.
"Sir Louvel, welcome home."
"Your holiness," Markos replied with a look of annoyance though his tone was respectful. "We both know that I don't regard this place as home."
"Of course, you spent most of your life with Knight General Arand and then you've been in the north with your mentor." Islan appraised the templar's disheveled appearance. The Whisperer's report stated that he hardly slept and the dark circles under his eyes confirmed it. The corner of Markos's mouth twitched at the mention of his mentor. Islan pressed on. "You've just arrived then?"
Markos nodded and rose to his feet. "You passed the order and I have come to report in."
"Come, then," Islan replied, resigning himself to the task of listener with practiced ease. "We shall speak as we walk." He gestured for Markos to follow him out into the garden. In the heart of the garden was a large fountain with a sculpture of Teiwaz lifting the chin of Saule, as if to kiss her. All around them were roses and white tuberoses. The scent of the flowers made Markos's expression darken. This garden had a particular effect on him that he hadn't mastered controlling and Islan knew it.
Perhaps it was the romantic statue coupled with the flowers that invoked what they thought plagued him. Markos knew what the Order expected him to say and what it'd take for them to leave him alone. They recalled him to hear his confession. They wanted him to confess his darkest secrets and fears since they could not penetrate his thoughts.
They came to a halt at the edge of the garden on a vined terrace that was secluded from the casual eyes of a passerby but was a favorite for young lovers to steal away to whisper sweet confessions. The look of expectation in Island's eyes made Markos uncomfortable. This spot was chosen for just that reason.
When Islan took a seat on the stone bench he gestured for Markos to sit beside him. The Ordinary's expression was quiet, accepting. Markos sat as instructed and took some time to collect his thoughts, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
"I must ask for your secrecy," Markos finally offered, his golden eyes fixed on Islan's haze l eyes for a moment before resettling on the man's collar.
"I am your confessor," Islan replied. "What you say to me shall stay between the two of us, unless it harms the church. You have my word, on the eye of justice." Islan didn't rush him. Watching the gardens and listening to the breeze under the open sky could be its own sort of prayer.
When Markos spoke, he spoke slowly. "I have met a woman."
Islan relaxed and stifled a laugh. Markos looked away with the tips of his ears flushed red. It was what the Ordinary had expected him to confess to like it was a mortal sin. It was no secret that knights often went to the nearby towns all the time after trysts and liaisons. Wasn't that why he had chosen the lovers' chair to hear the confession in front of the "Seduction" statue?
"I'm afraid that I'm under a spell."
Islan looked to the heavens, partially to conceal the eyeroll that he might have let slip otherwise. 'Great Teiwaz, you and every other Acolyte,' is what Markos heard the man think.
"Love is not a spell," Islan assured him, "Only a distraction to our temporal works."
"A spell," Markos repeated. He wondered if he mixed in some truth if the Ordinary could look past his bias and listen to what he had to say. "I've dreamt memories and dreams that are not my own."
Islan's head tilted as Markos pulled his attention to what he was saying. Markos contemplated telling the truth about his encounter with Sintija or to leave it be. He wondered if Josphina was listening in like she had been prone to do when they were children. If he poured his heart out to the clergy, would he really care? Would it give him absolution? Would it soothe the ache in his heart?
Islan pursed his lips together, looking around them for a moment. "Could you describe them?"
Markos hand touched his cuirass where he wore his arrowhead pendant. Did he want to offer up any more information on Sintija after months of riding to report in? Was it a curse?
"Does this have anything to do with that pendant you always wear? Is it elvish?"
Markos's dropped his hand. Dare he confess this? Would it make them stop prying about the temple of Mara? He felt a reassuring warmth brush against his shoulder through his armor and he glanced up, expecting to see Iliana smiling down at him. When he saw the emptiness of the vines instead of her, he grew a deep breath at the resulting tightness of his chest.
"Sometimes the items you find on your missions are enchanted with wicked magic." Islan pressed at Markos's hesitation. He held out his hand for the pendant. Markos reluctantly removed it and placed the arrowhead on its leather cord into his hand. It was lightweight flint or river rock, but it felt warm. Island couldn't determine where the warmth came from but couldn't determine anything else from the arrowhead. He handed it back. "When did you happen across this?"
"I came with it. I encountered an elf in the forest before I was brought into the Order. I walked away with this arrowhead and just kept it as a charm since Teiwaz blessed me with my life that day." Markos reluctantly explained. "I have not found the spot since, but I was young and that was years ago. Memory fades during more pressing issues. Forgotten and lost paths, artifacts, and ruined temples blend together."
"What of this woman you met?" Islan watched Markos as the templar retied the necklace around his neck, tucking it back under his armor.
"….I see her in my dreams. Blazing blue eyes, hair flowing like silk and soft lips that yearn to be kissed." Markos offered.
Islan sighed and rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest as Markos's story became something typical again. Markos continued, "I know it's a sin to long to be with her, but I ache in the absence. Nothing else fills the void."
Islan tapped his chin. Markos left it ambiguous of who he referred. The Ordinary could guess it was either Iliana or Sintija that he referred too. He waited to see which way he'd assume. Markos didn't rightly know himself who he missed more— his ember lover or the elf maiden from the lake.
"There is a solution, but it'll require great fortitude on your part," Islan offered. "First you must surrender this arrowhead. I don't understand what might be within it, but it came from an elf and therefore must be examined. Turn it in to one of the temple embers."
Markos's expression darkened but he nodded. "What else?"
"The road is a dangerous and lonely place. You spend too much time, and your thoughts will drift to forbidden fruit. Seek out a partner and settle down. There are other templars, you've not rested for some time now. Direct your affections towards a reciprocal partner and you'll soother that ache." Markos's blush deepened at the suggestion as Islan continued. "From the Whisperer's report, the elf you encountered is one you must find and slay. She's been meddling in our affairs. Sir Arand has also encountered her, not a few weeks before you returned to us."
"Emilio?" Markos frowned at the name.
"A while ago," Islan watched how the young knight's hand tightened into a fist. He raised an eyebrow. "Sir Arand returned from an observation and reported that the entire area had been stolen by an elf. Along with his virtue."
Markos sharply inhaled and his expression soured. "I see."
The priest settled his hand on the templar's shoulder. "Sometimes, we must surrender the things we value in life. It doesn't make giving them up any easier, nor is it meant to be. When we sacrifice things, for those things we care about, that sacrifice is part of what makes those gifts to Teiwaz valuable. The pain we feel is our measure, the weight upon the scale of our souls. Think on the merchant who must place a value on his wares, on the labor that has gone into them, and then gauge their relative worth - against his customer, against his business, and then he must do by the law and by propriety. In the end he hopes that those scales will balance the loss, and that's the merchant's faith. Though your faith is not a market, Markos Louvel, think on those things to find your own value, and weigh them yourself. Only you and holy Tiwaz know their true value."
Markos rose, pulling away from Islan's touch, barely concealed anger blazing in his eyes.
"Give up on the Sister, Sir Louvel. Seek comfort in the arms of more tangible interests within your reach. Recover from what you suffered at the hands of the elf before you end her life, and you will find peace."
Markos didn't acknowledge the advice as he hurried from the garden, his eyes looking up at the statue of Saule for a moment before he slipped away.