Chapter Text
Lightning-hot lick of pain, from right shoulder to left hip, bright enough to blind. Wildfire agony races to fill the steaming furrow left behind by the vicious tongue of the whip. The candles bloom into round, shimmering eyes, twirling and blending into each other forever and ever. The beams shudder as a scream pierces straight through them, up into the silent heavens. Shoulders too young to bear a yoke, let alone such a righteous smiting, strain against rope thicker than the boy’s wrists.
“Save your cries for the Darkness, boy, and let the pain be your penitence.”
The thin wail of a fresh calf separated from its soft mother.
“FATHER! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE! IM SORRY, SORRY… SORRY! STOP! PLEASE!”
“Has sin taken your ears as well as your heart? I said to be SILENT!”
The crack is deafening in the small chamber. The torture that follows it is twice so, left shoulder to right hip. He twists and bites halfway through his tongue, trying to obey. Blood fills his mouth like bitter worship wine. It spills over his chin in a burbling cry.
“Blessed Light, accept this faithless ward’s blood as due payment for his slothfulness. Break through the Darkness clouding his young mind and guide him to Your Brilliance. Let his devotion be strengthened through his suffering.”
The whip slices from base of his neck, over the first two stripes, and down to the top of his cotton trousers. He is suspended in a perfect whirl of torment. The chamber is as far away as the eastern seas, yet close enough to smother with the stench of mildew. The tides of his breath roar in and out of him and shake his thin body like a wayward piece of driftwood stuck on the waves.
“Forgive me for my soft hand in his raising, eternal Flame, I have let the weakness of my mortal heart guide me. I will bring him up to serve You, as a soldier against corruption. As You will it, so it shall be. Amen.”
The final blow, from left to right between his shoulder blades. He feels every tear in his skin, but he is not wearing it anymore. He’s somewhere else, off smelling the hyacinth that grows on the southern wall of the church courtyard… the birds are singing to the rising sun… It’s time to go to morning prayer, but it is oh so comfortable and warm here in these bushes, with the light kissing his eyes closed…
The Darkness has come to swallow him whole! No! It is as Father said! Forgive me! Please!
Cold hands grasp underneath his armpits and keep him upright. The rope has disappeared. His head lolls and bobs, as though untethered. Father’s face swirls like an oil painting in a fire.
“Repent, my son. Release the sin you harbor.”
“Fasser…” His tongue is a half-dead thing, thrashing dumbly against his teeth. “Sthorry…”
“You do not need to ask for my clemency, as I have already forgiven you. Send your penitence to the Light.”
“Light, forgihve… me, pthease…”
The chamber dips and turns. Father cradles him close to his cassock and delivers him from the penance hall.
~
Penance scars are not healed through miracles. They are healed by hours, days, weeks, every closed wound painfully and gracefully earned. Brother Klaus keeps them clean and bandaged, but he does not pray over them. He is bed-ridden for the first three days, unable to move without splitting the flesh anew. He watches the sky from his bed. The clouds roll over one another like cottony kittens. The sunrise melts into sunset melts into stars and back again. Birds chatter over the distant calls of the marketplace. The smell of the warm hyacinths that sprout underneath his window makes him ill.
Father comes in every morning to lead him in prayer and give him his rites. He’s as gentle as ever, his voice soft and his eyes shining with kindness. Reynauld cannot help but flinch from him when his thumb circles over his forehead to give him the Blessing. Father’s lined face creases deeper with sadness at his reaction. Guilt pierces Reynauld, deep in his gut.
“Fear not, my ward,” Father says, a small smile on his face. “All that I do is for love of your soul. You will come to understand this, in time.”
“It hurts,” he whispers back. His jaw trembles. He firmly clamps it shut. He’s too old to be crying. “Why does it have to hurt so much?”
Father touches the bandages, his hand lighter than a dove’s feather. Hot nausea rises up, makes his ears ring and his eyes cloud. He chokes down a breath. Rage, darker than he’s ever felt before, swirls through his mind, and he balls his fists into his blanket to keep from lashing out against him. He trembles under the rebellion of his body, tears crawling over his cheeks, but still Father will not remove his hand. He bites through the skin on the inside of his cheek. Why won’t he stop touching him?!
“The pain is a purifier. It rids the mind and body of all earthly thoughts and sensations. It makes the vessel clean again, ready to receive the Light’s warmth. Did you not feel it?”
The weakness wins out. Reynauld keens, pressing his fists hard into his eyes. Father murmurs comfort that he cannot make out over his own screams. Father pulls him into his large chest with his gentle hands and strokes his hair. Reynauld beats against him with all of his meager might. His heart is drumming frantically in his ears, his blood runs hot and cold through his body, sends his skin prickling and his bones trembling. Dying! I’m dying! He’s killing me! Stop! Stop! Stop! No words can slip around the plug of sickness in his chest.
Father kisses the top of his head. Reynauld vomits down the front of his cassock.
~
CCCRRRAACCCKsplash!
Avah’s red mittens wave in the air. They slap at the ice around her.
The duck pond is always frozen at this time of year. The last of the ducks flew away south as the last of the wheat had been gathered. They will remain in whatever warm paradise they have fled to until the first thaw of spring. The rushes lining the pond are whittled down to brittle sticks by the persistent cold and the surrounding trees are crooked shadows of their springtime selves. It is the preferred haunt of town children, eager to get away with shirking their meager wintertime duties. Situated just on the edge of the forest, it is far enough away from the town to escape the prying eyes of adults.
Today, Reynauld is the only child on its banks. The first hard freeze had been milder than last year’s, which makes the snowy winter morning all the more pleasant. The pond, although glittering in its helm of ice, hasn’t frozen thick enough to skate on safely. The chaffinches twitter about, undisturbed by the drowning girl. Reynauld’s skates hang idly by his side. His face is hot, and his hands are freezing.
Her mittens sink below the water. Reynauld runs away.
~
“Have you seen Avah today, Reynauld?”
“No, Sister.”
“She wasn’t at the duck pond this morning?”
“No, Sister.”
“Hm. Well, if you do see her, tell her that her parents are very worried about her. If this is some sort of game, she should stop playing it right away.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Good boy. Now, run along to supper.”
Reynauld skips supper that night. Instead, he slinks back to his closet-sized room and curls up in his cold bed. He wraps his arms around his middle, trying to hold in the gnawing ache that threatens to consume him completely. He should cry. Now is the time to cry, if there ever was a time. He stares at the wall. The sun is setting. The orangish light is trickling from the room with every heartbeat, leaving behind a washed-out, colorless nothing. Reynauld closes his eyes. Selfish. That’s what he is. He thinks of Avah’s family, of her mother crying and her father calling her name in the streets. He thinks about what would happen to him if he was discovered as the one who stood by and watched her… her…
Irrational energy bubbles up. He rolls over onto his stomach, bites his mattress, thrashes his fists, but nothing changes. He screams into it until his throat is hoarse, but his repentant tears still won’t come. All he can feel is fear, fear of being discovered for the coward he is, fear of being punished again. He thrashes himself until he can move no more, panting into his covers. When he is done, he rolls over onto his side. The last of the sunlight has drained from the room.
He wiggles off of his bed and onto the floor. His knees hit the stone hard. He brings his hands together, bends his head, and prays. He speaks into his knuckles, teeth scraping over his skin. His words stumble and meander, lost but seeking. He pours his heart into the cup that forever overflows. The tears finally pour over, every warm drop a mindless offering to the Light. His eyes droop with exhaustion after a few minutes, a couple hours, an entire lifetime of confession. He crawls back into his bed.
He sleeps, then, and never thinks of Avah again, except in moments like these, when the light has left him.
~
He lands hard on the last step, right at the base of his neck. The sharp edge takes a chunk of his skin with it. Whiteness veils his vision, heralding a shock of all-encompassing pain. He shrieks and twists in on himself like a dying spider. Rapid footsteps thunder down after him.
He forces himself onto his back, then his knees, then his feet, despite his ringing ears and tingling limbs. He stumbles back, away from the tight-lipped, wild-eyed man pursuing him. Far down the curving hallway comes the distant crack of a whip followed by the howl of a repentant soul.
“Coward!” Father surges up against him, nearly nose to nose. “Disgraceful! Face your punishment, you impudent little boy!”
“Father! Please!” He shuffles backwards, knees as loose as an unfastened shutter in a storm. His back aches and hunches under memories of his past purgings. “Not the whip!” The back of his collar is wet. His lips are numb. His traitorous eyes offer up tears. “Please! I had to do something!”
“SILENCE!” Flecks of spit spray over Reynauld’s face. A sob rises in answer. Father’s palm connects with his cheek. Reynauld cups at the burning skin with his hand. “You should be thanking me for such a measly consequence! Were it up to the Bishop, you’d be burning as we speak.” Father stuck his finger in his face, his ruby-red ring glittering in the torchlight. “Do you have any idea how this reflects on me? DO YOU?”
Reynauld shakes his head. “Father, forgive me, please. I didn’t know… I thought I could help.” His voice cracks on the pathetic cries that bubble out of his throat.
“Your lying tongue only digs your grave deeper. Now, will you enter of your own free will and shed your wickedness, or will the clerks have to drag you in?”
Reynauld quivers. He stands taller than Father, who has become stooped with old age. His feebleness shows in the rheumy sheen on his eyes and the frail slump of his shoulders. It would be an easy thing to topple the aged priest and dash back up the stairs. He swallows down a wail and steadies his breath. Light preserve my soul. Restore me from wickedness.
“No, Father. Forgive me.” He turns and steps into the cold, lightless chamber. He kneels, removes his shirt, and bows his head. He squeezes his eyes shut. His tears wet the stone as the lash claims its first share of skin.
~
No more, he thinks, lying awake in his bed, the third day after his cleansing. No more of this.
Reynauld cleans his own wounds now. There is no Brother Klaus to tend to his back. He died in his bed two seasons ago, his gnarled hands clutching his prayer book. His eyes had been open when they had discovered him. His mouth had been twisted into a rictus of fear. What had he seen, there at the end? The Light? Or, perhaps... No. Brother Klaus had been a pious man. A good man. It is natural to fear the first step into the unknown, no matter how beautiful.
Father does not come to his room to give him his rites while his back mends. Reynauld drags himself out of his bed and staggers to the sanctuary, where he stiffly sits with the congregation. He is not a child anymore. His pain is his to bear alone.
He could run away with her. The thought of her imbues his heart a wonderful, dangerous sort of frailty. Delicate, yet hopeful, sated, yet hungry. He closes his eyes and thinks of the fragrance of her chestnut hair. It smells like warm anointing oil when the sun touches it. Yes… Perhaps there he could find solace. Peace. A home.
They are married by the end of the season. Father officiates the wedding. Reynauld’s parents had left behind a small land title, just big enough for a modest farm and a modest house. He carries her over the threshold, laughing, and they become as one.
~
Thwick. The scimitar brushes over his left cheek and kisses the top of his ear, slicing the air where his head had been barely a heartbeat before. A stinging stripe buzzes in its wake. Warm wetness follows. The man in front of him is vivid with life, his flushed face dripping with sweat and taut with determined fear.
It’s as simple as catching oneself before tumbling over an obstacle. A prickling strength fills his arms and sends his blade swinging in a wide arc. Warm blood coats his face.
The body hits the ground.
His first life.
There is no time to reflect. Another man replaces him. The battle rages on.
~
The blade slips into the deadly little gap between pauldron and breastplate, nestling its sharp nose into his flesh. The pain is piercing and deep, enough to shock his sword into action. He swings it up in the breathless gap between wound and death. It strikes true and sends a warm spray of blood over his face. The man – boy? – falls to his knees, gasping and gurgling. He kicks it to the ground, wheels away, left arm limp at his side. The afternoon sun is blinding. Sweat crawls into his eyes.
Clank and roar and scream and tear and pulse. Blood wets his padded undershirt and makes him list to the side. Flash of movement. A quick parry. His pommel glances off the man’s forehead and sends him reeling back. His blade eats into his temple. He lands, twitching, at Reynauld’s feet.
Numbness consumes half of his body. He stumbles back, heels catching on a groaning body, and thuds into the steaming sand. His breath wheezes out between his cracked lips. Elizabeth’s kind face smiles behind his drooping eyes. The soft skin of his son nuzzles up against the nothing. Light be merciful, Light relieve this burden, Light, please, please, make it quick…
A thing of shadow blots out the sun. “Reynauld?” Rough prodding around his wound. “Ack. Can’t be deeper than an inch or so, or you’d have already breathed your last. Come on, now, stop wallowing around in the sand. You’ve got life yet to give, my boy.”
A strong hand clasps his forearm and hauls him upright. The sun has nearly set. Black birds wheel in the crimson. They peck at the corners of his vision. The stench of sweat and blood and shit and death wraps around his face and wriggles down his throat. The dunes loom up to kiss him.
“Ump!” Bertrand sticks his shoulder under his right armpit and loops an arm around his waist, narrowly saving him from another spill. “Let’s get you to the physick. Nothing a packing, a gauze, and a prayer can’t mend.”
“Victory?” It’s all he can manage around the dull throbbing slowly filling him.
They step over a man without a right hand. His teeth gnash at nothing and his eyes rove senselessly. Reynauld doesn’t speak his tongue, but he understands the piteous message behind his pain-crazed gibbering. Save me, save me, save me!
Bertrand grimaces into the setting sun. “By the grace of the Light and the hairs on the backs of our necks, aye.”
~
If Bertrand had not altered the path of his sword at the last moment, he would have taken Reynauld’s fingers off. As it is, the furious arc cuts deep into his palm. Reynauld shouts and cradles the hand close to him, squeezing at it with his uninjured hand. Behind him, a child stifles a gasp with grimy hands.
“By the Light! What devil has possessed you?”
“Leave it be! He’s just a boy!”
The twilight coming in through the broken section of wall cuts a strip of purple across Bertrand’s face, illuminating a single outraged eye. It is bloodshot red, ringed around with sore, sleepless blue. This campaign has taken a heavy toll on all of them. Their company is less than half of what they had started with. Exhaustion, that impish fiend, clings hard to their backs and whispers to them sharp and frantic thoughts.
“Just a boy?” Bertrand’s upper lip curls over chipped teeth. Reynauld’s blood drips silently from the tip of Bertrand’s blade to the floor. “This is a thief. Do I need to remind you of last winter?”
As if Reynauld can ever forget that desperate, maddening hunger, which had almost consumed their bodies and all good and moral sense. His stomach still aches with the memory sometimes, even when full. He shakes his head, but steadies his stance, blocking more of the boy from Bertrand’s vengeful gaze. His uninjured hand, trembling, reaches for the hilt of his zweihänder.
“Don’t.” Bertrand’s voice is cold and unyielding. “Move even an inch more, and I’ll have you strung up for treason before you have a chance to beg the Light for forgiveness.”
Reynauld’s hand twitches, fingers ghosting against the hilt. They relax, drop harmlessly to his side. “Captain… Please… Show mercy. He’s hungry, just like the rest of us.”
Bertrand’s nostrils flare. “Step aside, Reynauld.”
“I… I cannot, sir.”
“So be it.” Bertrand jerks his head over his shoulder and shouts something Reynauld cannot hear over his thundering heart. Two of Reynauld’s fellow crusaders fill the ruined arch. He cannot make out their faces in the shadows. Had they been waiting outside this entire time? Or had they heard the Captain’s command in passing? Why does it matter?
Bertrand looks back to Reynauld, his face as impassive and distant as the rising moon. “Seize him.”
The faceless men rush forwards, grasping at his shoulders and arms and dragging him to the side. He does not resist. He welcomes the excuse to fall back away from the child, even as his cowardice makes his soul bristle and rage against him. He hangs between them, arms twisted awkwardly, as Bertrand steps forward. The child, the stolen bread gripped between his stubby fingers, whimpers and throws his thin body closer against the wall.
He and the boy’s eyes connect. Those dull brown eyes reach out to him, wordless, begging, not understanding. Across the infinite gulf of their realities, Reynauld brushes up against a common thread. Innocence, as gentle and ignorant as a flower blooming in a graveyard, trembling beneath the hand of harsh discipline, calls for a protection that it can never have. His passivity falls away like a torn cloak, a resentful fire igniting deep in his chest. His old scars constrict like chains around his back, bringing forth a howl of useless regret. He thrashes against the men who hold him, against Father, against the eternal lick of the whip.
Bertrand’s blade gleams underneath the light of the full moon as he raises it.
“NO! HE IS JUST A CHILD! HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!”
Blind and deaf and stupidly fearful, the flower withers and crumbles to dust. Somewhere, behind the doors of a penance hall, a young boy cries.