Faith

The tavern experience was nothing to scoff at, especially for a newcomer like Raelus. He found joy in the companionship—it was infectious. The ale was bitter at first, but after being forced to drink several times by Cian, it became easier to indulge.

They were playing a card game Raelus was unfamiliar with, and Cian was losing money fast and horribly.

"Enough! I don't want to play anymore," he said, pushing the cards away. "I'm fucking hungry. Becky!" he called out.

Raelus' appetite was still recovering from his time on the beach. He could go a day without eating, and he had already eaten. Cian ordered some pork chops, and when they were brought out, Raelus couldn't ignore the smell. He was seduced. The sizzling of the oily, hot meat drew his eyes. The tantalizing aroma was addictive. It was as if he could already taste them. Instinctively, he reached out, aiming to pluck a piece, but Cian was quick to smack his hand away.

"This is mine. I don't share food," Cian said, looking at the waitress. "Becky, would you be a darling and bring him the same?"

Satisfied, Raelus waited. When his tray was placed on the table, he dived in, his usual reserved self dampened by the alcohol. Then came comfort. His full stomach, coupled with the warmth of the ale, made him feel at home. The music was serenading him, pulling him into sleep, luring him down a path filled with darkness and endless dreams of how he perceived the world rather than how it truly was.

A sudden bang at the tavern door tore him from his descent into slumber. Still drowsy, he couldn't see who had entered, only that their attire was white and red. The tavern fell silent, the bard keeping his melodies to himself. Tension filled the air, then eased as the drunkards murmured and whispered then silence once more. As Raelus' vision cleared, he finally saw the intruders—a group of four wearing matching white albs with red stoles. The stoles bore a golden, shining half-sun at their edges.

Time slowed down within the room. The people shifting uncomfortably, the silence was broken by murmurs. One priest stepped forward. He had a red chasuble over his priestly albs. The half sun more prevalent. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry for the intrusion," said the leader of the group, his voice soothing yet commanding. "We are priests from Belenus' Sept. We would like to tell you about Our Lord."

Silence gripped the tavern once more—until a burst of laughter erupted from the drunkards, Cian included. Raelus was bewildered, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation. He was astounded that priests of a pagan god had been allowed to have a sept here. Back home, even mentioning Belenus' name would have been heresy.

"Here, we worship the Old Gods!" a drunkard retorted.

Old Gods? Or other pagan gods? Raelus wondered.

"That's why we were hopi—"

Before the priest could finish, he was met with jeers and a relentless stream of boos.

"Take your shining god out of here!"

"Get lost!" another shouted.

The priests exchanged glances before leaving, heavy-hearted. 

The tavern came back to life, bursting into laughter once the bard found his tune again and drinks resumed flowing. At their table, another round was ordered. All seven chairs were occupied, and the men shook their heads in disappointment, some clicking their tongues in anger.

"Those fuckers! First, they broke the nation, and now they force their gods on us!" Pugh slammed his fist on the table, alcohol fueling his anger.

Heylan took a swig of ale before speaking. "Septs are popping up faster than weeds, and what does the Crown do about it? Nothing."

"It's because the septs are growing in power. That's what I heard from my employer," another added.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Rònan asked.

"It's in the papers the nobles read. I can't read, but I hear the Conclave is in the control of the septs," Heylan explained.

"We're at the edge of the empire. We don't know what the hell is happening elsewhere," Cian jumped in. "And they don't give a rat's ass about what happens here, so all we can do is live our lives until we get better ones."

This earned some agreement at the table, the men drinking in contemplation—except for Raelus. The discussion continued, and he listened intently, finally gaining insight into where he was, though he was in no state to take it all in after drinking so hastily.

They cursed the nobles for always fighting for supremacy, particularly over the Sectarian War that had apparently taken place nineteen years ago.

"It wasn't a war. It was a purge. Those fucking morons didn't want anyone with faith in the Old Ones."

Raelus caught the mention of the Old Ones. They were worshipped back home—the entire pantheon. But still… why did the other man call them the Old Gods? He was intrigued.

"It was brutal. If not for Miss Taranis vanishing, it would have ended badly for all of us," said Daren, the oldest among them, his conviction forcing the others to nod in agreement.

"But I hear she didn't vanish," Heylan interjected.

"You hear a lot," Cian commented, downing what was his last drink of the night.

"It's true. I heard she dueled General Kline—and won."

Laughter erupted.

"The Titan lost?" Daren mocked.

"I'm certain. I heard she demanded his help since they were classmates and all."

"It seems you haven't heard, 'Damned are those who point their blade at the Titan, for their soul is Donn's to claim,'" Cian quoted.

Raelus confirmed it—the so-called Old Gods were the same gods worshipped in his homeland.

"All in all, the great Aoife Mintaka broke the world and left it in shambles," Cian sighed, taking his final gulp.

Raelus lost color at the mention of Aoife, his face shifting from shock to disbelief before he recovered and returned to his usual, nearly stoic expression.

"You look pale, my friend," Cian observed. "How does it feel? Great, I know. I never wanted to leave my first time here either, but we have to go."

Cian charmed the drunks as they left. The fresh air outside was both refreshing and sobering.

The streets were crowded—drunkards stumbled home, clashing with those trying to close their businesses. Screams and shoves made walking difficult, but Raelus and Cian swaggered their way home. Raelus was trapped within his mind, his thoughts bombarding him with each step.

His questions about the pagan gods shifted to the Sectarian War, then to Aoife. He could only sigh at his lack of knowledge. He was beginning to realize just how important the Tóir na Lia Fáil was. It was expanding his understanding of the world in ways he had never imagined. If this was just the beginning, what about the next seven years before he could return home? Would his story be one of bravery, honor, and triumph? Or would he prove unworthy to stand by his father?

Such thoughts plagued him. All he could do was pray and hope—but doubt was creeping in. Would the gods answer his prayers while he lived among pagans? Or had they abandoned him as the locals believed? Was there even hope?

He took a glance at Cian—carefree and smiling—yet carrying a darkness that drove his survival. Raelus wondered: would he have to carry the same burden to stay alive? Did he have it in him? He doubted it.

His heart raced. His nerves began to break down. The alcohol was wearing off fast. He stumbled, but Cian caught him.

Not now. Not here. Raelus gritted his teeth, enduring the body shocks and acute pain of the spasms until they finally passed.

He stumbled into an alley and vomited a vile mixture of ale and half-digested pork chops. Cian turned away, struggling to hold back his own nausea. Once Raelus was done, Cian patted his back, rubbing it for comfort.

"It happens even to the best of us. Tomorrow, we'll get those spasms checked. Can't have my bodyguard dying on me."

Raelus saw Cian's smile, and it gave him what he needed most.

Hope.