He pursued the aroma to one of the townlet's tiny market stalls, where his old friend Logan, a lesser merchant, their former gardener, the old man had set out a scant collection of perfumes on the narrow board of his stall. It was the labour of a period to the outstanding leisure of Logan himself to deduce which of the aromas on request was the one he investigated, which the old merchant simply thought was planned as a souvenir for a woman. Questioning its purchase, Dimitri almost choked at the price of even the tiniest vial, describing the expense of feeding the orphan for a month and finding little variation. His surprised tone made Logan laugh. The merchant leaned in close and put the small vial of fragrance into a pocket of Dimitri's tunic with a dramatic smirk on his face.
"Young Morgana, you need this sire, hmp-well, she is vicious and rebellious, yes? Although no man may approve of her, I reckon a concerned individual like myself is grateful for the lady's safety. Could even the late Lord agree to that, yeah?" The man winked once more at Dimitri and turned his feet once more toward the church.
He walked through the fragile ancient church without a glimpse of its deserted benches or the small smudged glass that was its tremendous glory. He presented his summons to the young man who stood outside the door to Father Gabriel's private chamber, communicating a look that made it apparent that their encounter in the woods was not forgotten, and was allowed inside. This young man was obviously curious about his whereabouts, yet Dimitri saw the lad silver-haired too many times, guarding and trying to sneak upon him.
When Dimitri arrived at the priest's chamber, lying on his pale tunic, he could easily believe that Father Gabriel's mortal life was coming to an end. He reeked of death. The rise and fall of his chest were barely noticeable; his skin was ashen white, and it was only gradually that his eyes turned to face his guest. One white, thin arm lifted and motioned him closer, and Dimitri knelt, kneeling in close, authorising his hand to be carried in thin-like fingers. "I am here, father Gabriel."
"Thank you, young lad. The darkness has come, Dimitri. He is here. The darkness is here and the village would have a chance with his darkness. A bloodbath will soon befall us," Father Gabriel mumbled weakly, deliberately whirling his head to meet Dimitri's eyes. "My time has come, and soon I'll be gone. Do me a favour and save this village from his evil claw. Do you understand what that means?"
"Not completely, Father, " Dimitri acknowledged, he wanted to roll his eyes but didn't, out of respect for the dying man.
"It means one more step toward hunting the night, Dimitri. Those creatures were to be sent to hell. They are abominations. They are pests. They are the creatures of darkness." Father Gabriel declared with sudden fire, spindly fingers crushing into Dimitri's hand. "It means the further weakening of the mother church and her faithful. You are our last hope to stop those leeches. I want you to carry out my legacy. Be the leader of the hunters and save the village, save your father's cause. Save Desmond."
"How? Father? I'm still too young to be a leader. Vampires are powerful, with demons and werewolves lurking around every corner. I stood no change. I am nothing compared to them. How can I defeat them, father?" How could he be the leader this city needed? He thought, when the receptive cloud rolled in, he could only steer but was incapable of leading. When others couldn't tell the true north, he could. He feels it. Yet, he could pick the path when all they saw was unmarked ground.
His feet are drawn to the path like magnets to iron. He wands there. Once, he called out for help. No one came, now he was drowning with vengeance. He tried to become the guide but failed. The trouble was, only he could see it, and they didn't trust him enough to follow him. Or perhaps the problem was him. Possibly when he trusted himself enough to lead, they would come. But they didn't. He tried to teach them how to see it, how to sense it the same way he could. The village needs more leaders, more navigators of the dark fog that soon will come. He'll keep going, keep trying. What else could he do? Betrayed his people? And betrayed the church? But he wanted nothing but the hands of someone who killed his father.
The old man added, "The authority of the church, and thus of the Lord, must be conserved! You are not a man of the cloth, but the son of our leader. You are Norton. You are pledged to the Church's ends. Free the village of these wretched vampires, demons, and witches and its honours will be yours by the approval of the church."
He doesn't care about them, about his father's church, but he could just voice it out. There were many ears in the corner. Too, risky.
"And what does the Church ask in exchange for this enormous gift, other than the completion of my crusade Father?" Dimitri inquired carefully. Father Gabriel gave him a conspiratorial moment and what he reasonably thought was a treacherous smile.
"Excellent questions, my boy, excellent. The invitation is small enough; that you implement the morality of the people of this village and assure that their much-needed tithes continue to strengthen."
"I don't need a monetary allowance, father, I have enough gold and silver that could support me until I die. And you know that." He let out, with a fierce tone. As Dimitri pointed out, "...the village folks may be reluctant to give tithe when there is no chapel or preacher. They need a man of God, father and I am not one."
"But you are more than enough, young boy. You are a leader. A leader may require such tariffs as are needed, right? The people of Desmond must give, whether they are willing or not. Is that understood, young boy? Or risk being taken care of away from here. They have a choice: stay and be protected by your leadership, or flee and become prey. Both aren't as good as they sound, but they knew never to anger the church."
"You would make me a dictator," Dimitri thought.
"And how would this agreement be concluded?" He consulted instead. His fire spent, Father Gabriel released the younger man's hand to motion at a vellum scroll on his desk across the room, behind the small oak table, his head resting back on his pillow once more. "All you have to do is sign it, seal it and swear to secrecy. Your life must be devoted to the church and do its bidding. This is a spell that requires you to know who you can trust. This is a secret between servants of the Lord." The old man added, weariness and exhaustion certainly pulling at his eyelids. "For the sake of your father's name and the sake of Desmond, you have to finish your responsibility."
Then sleep had taken over the old man, a sleep Dimitri feared would be his last. He rose, turned, and confusion burned stronger within him than ever before, and he took the vellum of the ancient scroll as he departed. He would check this one later and read what's with this great secrecy.
Trudging out of the church, he shoved the scroll into his belt animal pouch and thought that he had one responsibility left unfinished before his final preference could be made. Reaching into his dirty tunic, he drew out the perfume he'd been given and pulled its cork. Its aroma wafted to his nose, and he caught it tightly, brandishing it in his memory, and smelled it once more.
His golden unwashed long hair fled in a manly manner from the incoming frigid wind when he took off his head-cover armor. His gentle yet stout nonetheless excellent stature and gallant handsome face stared at the high mountain on his left. Knowing exactly where to go next. Onshore breezes climbed the mountain slopes until the air became cool enough to condense its vapour into the rain. Of this, he was thankful, for it made the land so very green a few weeks ago, but now it was covered in white. On the mountain top, the rocky peak, it was always white.
He set out into the market, his eyes fulfilling no tremendous goal other than to keep himself from running into any passers-by or vendor booths as he pursued his nose. Months ago, this market was full of greens and fresh flowers, and the sun that day was a brilliant lantern, casting the everyday hues of the marketplace into vivid glows, the kind that makes the best of dreams. There was an expansion of the colours of the stalls, brightening as the day strengthened.
The wind chattered through the alleys, the birds danced upon the rooftops, and the sunlight contrived with the blue sky to keep the village ever-glow. But today it was different. It was dead, dull, and cold. The blacktop alley held the memories of street playgrounds and laughter, of good times and safe soles. With the patience of a mother, the abandoned road waited, waited, waited, for the triumphant day of return. She waited for music, she waited for dance, she waited for the gentle, joyful ambiance. And now it's all memories. The villagers were all cowered in the safety of their warm homes, afraid to even go out, afraid for the beast to come and attack them.
Through alleyways and around concealed brandy stills, he wove, halting now and again to open the vial and check that his memory was accurate. Numerous times, he was sure he had travelled back on his path, yet had been led somewhere new. At last, the route led him to a curtained-off healing shop from the corner between two hidden shacks, the aroma of herbs wandering from within making it no more than a dozen strides before the scent of an available tanner overpowered it. There were no posters or decorations, nothing that would mark it out as his goal... nothing but the sight of who dwelt within.
Lady Morgana's flower shop.