* * *
The darkened hallway was dreary, as if a spider had stirred up the pale ink.
The nun leaned against the wall.
She felt like she might collapse. No, she felt like she might collapse.
She was almost grateful for the burning sensation in the veins of her eyeballs.
The throbbing pain was not only steadying her consciousness, which was becoming increasingly blurred by mental exhaustion, but it was also cutting through the guilt that had settled like a stake in her lungs.
Was this really for the best?
No, it wasn't.
In fact, there were many, many better ways.
If only the saintess's mind had been intact. If only they hadn't been a party of warriors. If the saintess's own wisdom had been better than theirs.
There would have been no price to pay, no loss to endure, no shortage of ways to deflect the situation.
The priest could be imprisoned in the Realm for a time, and the nun with the specific impression could exile herself somewhere outside the system to buy time.
You could confess a series of circumstances to the warrior party, and hopefully negotiate a deal that would allow you to take full custody of the priestess.
Or, perhaps, you could try to persuade the priest himself to send them back.
But just in case.
What if, just in the unlikely event that these attempts failed?
Unlike the more subtle alternatives, the ominous assumptions bubbled up in the corners of his mind just by keeping his eyes closed.
What if, while the nun is away, the party of warriors who have been following the priest's whereabouts have somehow managed to find him and come face-to-face with a saintess who, based on preliminary reports, can only be the one holding his new recruit captive.
Negotiations fail, and they insist that the priest must be reinstated to the party.
And if, in the process, the now-unstable saintess develops a "grudge" against the warrior.
That would be the end. In other words, it was a catastrophe.
It was a well-known fact that just as the devil, who could be considered the despair of mankind, grew in power with each passing generation, the saintess, who could be considered the hope of mankind, became more powerful with each successive generation.
Unlike demons, who have no physical body, a saintess has a living body.
The side effects of channeling divine power into a human vessel also grew more and more severe with each generation, an ugly echo of humanity that was strictly taboo to profess in the Holy See.
A modern-day saintess whose powers are unparalleled among all the saints recorded in the history of the institution.
Welna Angelas Ashes.
However, the aftereffects of her power have left her with the mental capacity of an infant.
It was in preparation for such an eventuality that the royal family, which until a few generations ago had insisted that a party of heroes and saintesses united to defeat a demon was the proper form of a warrior party, reversed its position and insisted that it was safer for a warrior to go into battle with the protection of a saintess.
The granting of protection.
I wonder how the people of the Isles would react if they knew the sordid story behind the birth of the ceremony that has such a glamorous name.
They wouldn't be smiling. She thought so.
The day the saintess became a saintess.
The day the girl became a saintess. She never forgot.
How could she forget the terrible sight of a personality obliterated, an existence superimposed, an individual wiped out.
The frustration of consciousness being submerged in an endless swamp. The helplessness that seeps into your bones. And the sickening relief that slowly faded like paint in water, rising like a buoy with each passing night.
It was her regret, her curse, and her stigma.
Compared to the bitterness of her heart, the pain of having her flesh pinned to a burning stake paled in comparison.
If it meant making amends for that day's mistake, she was more than willing to comply with the request to gouge out her own eyes.
''The saintess is----. Welna is mine to keep----.''
Must be protected.
So as far as the priest was concerned, she couldn't give him up.
I couldn't let him be separated from the saintess, not even for a moment.
A vessel of divine power. The doll dressed in the garb of envy. To lose him, the man who had returned Saintess to her humanity, only to have him reduced to nothing more than a breathing flesh.
For this time, Saintess will fall apart.
She truly believed that the only way to atone for her sins was to hold on to the only being who deserved to hold her hand, the only being who had the power to pull her back to the light of day, the only being who had the strength to lift her out of the darkness of her past.
And she was willing to do whatever it took to do it.
Yes, she would. Anything.
She vowed, over and over again, that she would stop at nothing, even if it meant robbing someone who might have been a source of support, even if it meant lying about a life of integrity and innocence.
Fortunately, her determination was not to be wasted.
For a series of plays, written by and starring the nun, must have completely eradicated any suspicion of the abbey from the minds of the warrior party.
The vision of a man with a debt on his mind is dark and cramped.
She had experienced that feeling firsthand.
No matter how many practical circumstances pointed to this place, as long as there was even the slightest trace of guilt toward her in their hearts, the guidance would soon be lost.
It's common knowledge, even to a bum on the street, that the best course of action against an opponent you can't match in strength or wisdom is to prostrate yourself and beg for pity.
''Ahem!''
I wonder if it was static electricity.
The nun frowned at the inexplicable sensation that leapt from her palm.
''Blood----?''
She brought her hand from the wall to her eyes.
The sharp cut across her palm, as if red paint had been applied to a white sketchbook, was obviously a fresh wound, judging from the dampness of the blood at the site.
Perhaps a piece of the table the warrior had broken.
At the time, he didn't seem to notice, his mind still reeling from the sheer force of their energy.
"Give it back!
The nun shook her head defiantly.
'You must not waver.
The time and space for caring for another's heart is long gone, long since reduced to ashes.
We must turn away. I could turn away.
She could be self-righteous, selfish, and nasty enough.
All this for her. For the saintess.
So what if her mind and body were covered in foul filth.
To be able to laugh, cry, get angry, and be sad, just like any other child her age. That alone was enough to make her willing to get dirty.
''Well---- me----.''
Maybe it was the relaxation, maybe it was the fact that she had lost so much blood.
The nun's consciousness became increasingly blurry.
It was clear to see that the tiny sounds her parched lips made were filled with a damp longing.
The chill night air caressed her cheeks, and the moonlight projected through the clouds had reached her side, though it was bustling with its own brilliance.
She was so busy chasing memories beyond her drowsy eyelids that she didn't realize that the wild night had finished playing its beautiful lullaby.
"Sister Beltane!
Yes. There was a time, she said.
A time when she was not "Sister," but "Beltane," as others called her.
Beltane Angelas Ashes.
It's a strange enough name that it feels more awkward to be called that way now.
The one and only. The one person she loved more than anyone else in the world still wished she could be called that. She had never quite let go of her vain longing for the title.
Once upon a time, she had a sister.
Yes, she had. There was.
''There, Sister----. If you sleep in a place like this, go back to your mouth----.''
That was it.
Like a drop of dew on a lake, a voice fell into the middle of my fading consciousness.
''No, this hand, what happened to it again----. I want----.''
The next thing I felt was a cozy floating sensation.
A childhood memory, the outlines of which I can only vaguely see now. The moment her father carried her to bed after she collapsed from exhaustion from playing, she gradually recalled the warmth of his embrace that seemed to settle over her.
''Giver. I am your finger. I am a lamb. Under your power, all things in the earth shall rest, and all the glory shall be yours.''
And with that, the lullaby-like voice in her ear, her consciousness faded into ecstasy.
Somehow, she felt that tonight, for the first time in a long time, she would not have nightmares.
There was no confirmation, just a feeling.
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