Warden

I rejected the order angrily, without any acceptance whatsoever. I wasn't about to waste my time on something like that. I responded briefly, but the reply came from Benedict, in his usual voice, firmer, perhaps even commanding, because he sees me as the youngest among them.

But my answer remained a refusal. How could I agree to sit around guarding someone? I am in the position of a saint, with duties to carry out outside. Why should I care about someone who might already be breathing his last and slipping into death?

"Do you think your duties as a saint involve going to betting arenas and taverns, playing and drinking with low-ranking hunters, starting fights, and consorting with fallen women?"

Theresa said that in a haughty tone as she muttered.

"The last person I'd ever listen to is you, Theresa... you stripper. Or have you forgotten what you are, you depraved woman?"

I was about to say more, but Benedict stopped me with a stern look and a silent warning, leaving me speechless.

I refrained again from continuing, but then an idea struck me:

"Why not assign the task to Catherine? She's got nothing keeping her busy now, while I have more important things to attend to. Let her take it on, that skinny one."

I tried to dump the task on Catherine, even though she wasn't present at the meeting, and I smiled to myself, pleased with the idea of slipping away.

But John, looking at me with clear impatience, said:

"Stop trying to avoid it. Unlike you, Saint Catherine has been taking care of Leon for the past five days, so she's entirely out of this discussion."

He said that while leaning against the wall, keeping his usual distance.

Alexander agreed with him, despite his deep wounds and visible exhaustion, as he stepped into the room.

In his calm voice, he said:

"We'll take turns... that person must be watched constantly. Not a single moment of neglect."

And the wounds on his body, so deep and brutal, were undeniable proof of the battle he and Theresa had fought together against that knight.

I told myself this cycle of foolishness and refusal wouldn't lead anywhere. And if I had to name the people I've truly respected since the day I was born, they wouldn't exceed the fingers of one hand.

Alexander is one of them, which is why I agreed, albeit grudgingly.

I stepped out of the room, its sharp perfumed scent still clinging to me. And before I left, I said in a harsh, cutting tone:

"Just for tonight... don't expect anything more from me. Not until I become as foolish as the rest of you."

I stormed angrily down the corridor, heading to the lower levels of the church, passing several guards and devoted followers, until I collided with a cluster of young nuns and we all fell to the ground. I didn't bother to help them up, I know they despise me deeply, perhaps in secret, despite my exalted reputation as a saint venerated by the Seven.

Before me stood the gate of the ancient, spacious chamber, flanked by two pristine guards who greeted me. I hadn't decided whether to return the salute, so I merely passed through without acknowledgment.

They swung open the heavy doors, one pulling from the right, the other from the left, and I entered scowling. The interior was surprisingly fresh: a simple room despite its breadth. At the far end sat a table, and an oil lamp, fueled by a crude light enchantment, kept the space illuminated. A threadbare bed bore the knight, of course without his armor, only bandages wrapped around his wounds.

I also heard her song: a gentle, soothing hum that eased my mind slightly, so I fell silent and waited. It was one of the devoted followers, a young girl, perhaps my age or a little younger. I didn't know her name, I was sure that anyone else here would have called her by name.

I snapped at her several times, but she continued humming and rebandaging until she finally noticed me and froze, panic in her eyes. She must have sensed the murderous intent lurking in my glare as my patience wore thin.

I said, "When will you finish?"

She replied, trembling, "Soon, Your Holiness."

I answered coldly, "Leave. This is none of your concern. He's our prisoner, and there's no need for all this, whether he rots here or dies."

I could tell she was uncertain, so I asked her coldly,

– What's the matter?

She answered after some hesitation:

– It's nothing... but Pope Petrus ordered me and entrusted me... He said he needed him, and gave me his blessing to accompany him, care for him, and tend to his wounds. It's been over five days now that I've been taking care of him... and all I've felt from his presence is calm and peace. I knew he was innocent... and he needed someone to care for him... I just couldn't bring myself to leave him.

I grabbed her hand and pulled her forcefully toward me, my grip tightening harshly around her elbow. Her expression showed pain, and her hot, panicked breath brushed my face. I muttered with cold sarcasm:

– Stop this foolishness, madam. If you want to keep your lovely voice... and your even lovelier face, then listen to me now. Leave... and let me hear the door lock behind you as you go.

She didn't respond immediately. Her eyes remained shut from the pain. I finally let go of her hand, and she murmured with difficulty:

– Y, yes.

But after a moment, she dared to ask me in a faint voice if I would allow her to at least change the bandages and disinfect what she could before leaving.

I released her, and she fell to the floor. Then, silently, she resumed what she had been doing.

I sat on the nearest chair, closed my eyes, forcing myself to hold it together. My companions outside were enjoying themselves, drinking and having fun with the girls, and here I was, trapped in this silence. I truly pitied myself. Maybe, when I think of it, I've never believed I was made for this role, the role of the saint. Ever since Pope Petrus forced me to join three years ago, I've been stuck in this false part.

Still, I won't pretend I miss the life of homelessness, or the stench of filthy streets, or the sight of scum.

I calmed myself again, listening to her as she resumed singing softly. Without turning, she said:

– This calms him... his heartbeat becomes steady when he hears me... and dressing the wounds gets easier.

Then she continued humming without words, her voice quiet. Afterward, she murmured, almost like speaking to herself:

– I don't know why, but his hair changed since I brought him here... in just two days, it turned from brown to white... He's aged so much. I don't know\... did he become paler? Sleepier? Or... maybe a little cuter?

And me? I just sat there, listening, suffocated, silent.

I couldn't sit any longer, so I told myself to do it. I stood and asked her name.

She hesitated a little, then sat looking at me with a nauseating innocence and answered:

– Marie... Your Holiness, Saint Francis.

I said coldly:

– Very well, then.

I stepped back from her slightly, then casually asked if she knew who this person was, but she didn't reply. So I continued, looking away:

– Beings like this... they must die. They are demons, from long ago... I don't know why Father Petrus keeps him alive, but... I will do my duty, for the Church.

In that moment, I began to form a spear of lightning, pure blue, sharp, beautiful, like an angel's wing. I warned her to step aside, and when I pointed the lightning spear at the prisoner's chest...

Marie screamed, begging me not to do it. She told me Father Petrus would be angered. But I didn't care. The glow of the lightning spear outshone the lamp's light, and silence fell, except for his heavy breaths as he slept, and Marie pleading with me to stop.

I was about to strike.

– Francis...

It was Father Petrus's voice, as he entered the room with his loyal attendant wheeling his heavy chair behind him. I froze in place.

I didn't hear him out of fear, but out of respect. I don't know why.

Father Petrus spoke in his calm voice:

– I know you like to be mischievous when I'm not here, my son, but we must never tamper with the guest we have sheltered.

I remained seated, hesitating. I wanted to interrupt him, but I stayed silent.

When the Father raised his head, the golden veil still covered his eyes, and he smiled at Marie, saying warmly:

– Thank you, for your devotion.

Then he gazed toward the bed, where that man, the one from the North, was already awake. His eye was barely open, silently watching Father Petrus's smiling, deeply lined face.