what i was chosen to do

Castle Tyrholm’s library is as vast as it is old. The first time Francis laid eyes upon it, they stood, stock-still in the doorway, in utter awe, its collection rivaling that of the Temple’s. The King’s disdain for knowledge has not seemed to make its way to the library quite yet. Francis has lived in the Castle for the better part of their life, and they have not even read the spines of every book that sits inside it.

Francis is looking for something. A Book of Undeath far older than they, that Francis has only ever heard tale of. If it is to exist in Tyrholm, they think it would be here. They walk through the library, their feet light on the carpet, meticulously searching each book on the shelves. They have had no luck when Wraith appears, materializing in the room like a shadow rising up from the floor.

Francis frowns.

“Wraith,” they say, nodding in greeting. It is out of obligation far more than friendliness, and they promptly turn back to the shelf before them, still in pursuit of the book.

Francis steps out of the confessional and lifts their arms over their head, stretching the muscles in their back. It had been light out when he began, the afternoon sun filtering through the stained glass windows, but the sun has since disappeared. The moon replaces it, casting shadows across the Sanctum. Word of the burning man at the tournament has finally reached the ears of Lowtown, and the commoners came to confession in droves. If it was indeed the work of the Undying God, as the rumor suggests, they will be prepared.

Moonlight shines upon Vasilya’s figure like a gift from the Undying God. Francis lowers their arms and smiles-- it seems their day has not concluded yet.

“Good evening, Vasilya,” Francis greets her. They close the door to the confession booth and cross to the pews, careful to keep a measured distance from the necromancer. 

“Have you come for a confession?" She never has before, but Francis asks all the same; the events of the tournament have already inspired stranger things. “Or perhaps something else?” They smile their signature serene smile, settling onto the wooden pew. “Levana has not sent you to discuss moral theology, has she?”

recorded  /  several days past the tourney with  /  open​

Tension tied knots around her spine, but Meraud refused to let it overtake her. The whispers hadn’t ceased in the court since the tourney, endless discussions of the day’s events, of the violent, abhorrent thing which had taken place. She’d not witnessed it, changing out of her soiled gown as she had been, but she’d hear of it, oh, far more times than she wished to count. It didn’t bear thinking of, frankly — she’d forbade the girl who tended her morning fire from speaking of it, and she just couldn’t understand why the court was so consumed with something so awful.

Even now, seated as they were scattered about the courtyard, morning sun peeking through clouds that’d plagued Tyrholm for weeks, she could hear tentative murmurs, of fire, of the King… She had little interest in any of it, vastly preferring far lighter, far less political topics — fashion, art, trade, none of which seemed to be to be of much interest to any of the groups around her, much to her disappointment. Well. She could certainly change that. Smoothing a furrowed grimace into a polite, neutral expression, Meraud turned to the person nearest her, offering them a polite topic that had nothing to do with that damned tourney. “I grow rather tired of such stressful topics in the morning, don’t you? The new shipment of fabrics they’ve received down at the docks, however… Simply gorgeous, and the needlework is exquisite. I attend the Tyrholm seamstresses’ new creations with them with baited breath, I must confess.”

There had been no rain since the day of the tournament. All evidence of it seemed to wash away: the fire ceased, the mud dried back into dirt, and the gallows assumed their original purpose. It is a beautiful day in the courtyard of Castle Tyrholm, and the nobility have found their way outdoors again, sharing a picnic or a game of Fox’s Gambit on the lawn. If it were not for the chatter, Francis would think they have already forgotten about the tragedy completely.

They sit on a long stone bench, reading idly from a book. Even they are making good use of the day: though winter brings a chill to the air, the sun shines brightly to make up for it. Contrary to popular belief, Francis does not spend all of their time within the Sanctum’s walls.

At the sound of Meraud’s voice, Francis lifts their head. They smile in response, but there is a lengthy pause before they speak. 

“You have a tender heart,” Francis comments finally, closing their book and holding it on their lap. “I confess I do not know much about fabric,” they continue, gesturing vaguely at their rather plain cleric’s robes for good measure. “Perhaps I should learn.” They look up at Meraud and smile again, this one more good-humored than the last.

“Where did it come from?”

Kithri was aware of the way her shoulders lost their tension in response to the smile and invitation she received from Francis, though she would not call attention to it. They were one of very few she would dare to call a friend or ally in the pit of snakes that made up Tyrholm. She suspected they could do little to help the predicament that faced her, but could not deny that she felt some ease for the first time since the tourney had erupted in fire. 

She hummed in consideration of their suggestion that she had a good reason for her appearance. She did not know if she would call it such, but nonetheless offered her answer. “Death,” she remarked, “mine, in particular.” 

“I’ve imagined it hundreds of times, of course – thousands, even, since I was a child and learned what I was.” She’d thought through scenarios that were bloody and brutal, and through scenarios that were soft and painless – but she always doubted the Undying God would offer her any fucking solace, even in her last moments. “I cannot recall imagining dying for someone else’s crime in particular – but I’m sure at one point it must have crossed my mind.” 

“The thing that I overlooked, though, is what comes after. For someone like me, I mean.” 

"Ah,” Francis comments idly, needlessly, to themselves far more than to Kithri. Death is not unfamiliar to them, as it is not to her, either. It followed them for the first half of their life, lurking just around the corner like a bad dream or a pirate. Growing up on the streets of Lowtown meant witnessing death far more than a child ever should, and living like it would come for you at any moment. For many years, Francis feared death.

Then Undeath came, rescued Francis from Tyrholm’s streets, and plucked the fear of death from their heart. When they die, they know now that they will be united with the Undying God, and reunited with friends and strangers alike. They are rather comforted by the thought. An eternal, dreamless sleep in the arms of the Undying God is a peace they will be prepared for, when the time comes.

Francis cannot imagine Kithri feels the same. Thus is the curse of being an Inferni. Their afterlives will be much different.

“It is hard to say,” they begin, rather diplomatically. If Wraith had posed the question, Francis would surely answer differently. “Perhaps your sins will be atoned for,” they suggest, lifting their shoulders into a shrug, “and you will start anew.” They watch Kithri with kindness in their eyes. Despite the harshness of their words, they are delivered lightly.

“Whose crime are you being called to answer?”

    Levana hums thoughtfully, eyes glancing down as she ruminates on their words. She wonders if they hear the fissures in the words, but, after a quick glance along their visage, it is clear that they do not. They don’t hear how innately wrong it is that the Undying God would guide the hands that slit throats, that stole away food from the mouth of babes, that shoved food into the gluttonous maw of those like Septimus. The truth was this: the Undying God was only heard by select few – all others knew not Their touch, Their voice, Their grace. They were the ones that had glazed eyes during Francis’ sermon. 

    “So the evils of man are as allowable and intentional as our acts of charity,” she concluded, lips twitching upwards. “If the Undying God is to be present, watching us, as we commit these sins. Both are necessary, after all.”

    At their scoff, she can’t help but let the curve of her lips grow. What it was about the religious that called to her so, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was their familiarity, the diversity that can be found in such zeal. There was the rigorists, the zealots, those who were more charismatic, the scholars who knew every prayer from memory alone, and the politicians. 

    “I am sure there are a number who would enjoy your company playing such a game.”

    Where Francis fell on this spectrum of the Undying’s devotees, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that their devotion was pure. 

    And such purity was something so rarely witnessed that she couldn’t help but indulge in it. The phantasm of a smile slipped off of her lips, eyes shifting over the planes of their face. “Is it really unnecessary, Francis? There are some pains that the Undying God shows us, when we are young and ignorant, that is meant to teach us. The pain of burning when our hand strays too close to fire. The ache of loss so we cling onto the fleeting moments of happiness tighter.”

    “He follows no path but the one he himself creates.”

“The Undying God sees,” Francis corrects, a finger pointed in the air as if they were speaking to a crowd, and not to Levana alone. “That does not mean She agrees.” They have a tendency to evangelize, to slip into the role of cleric even when the bells are not tolling, when there are no parishioners in the pews.They cannot help it; it is simply who they are, as much as Levana is a necromancer. They were given these lives by the Undying God, rather than choosing them themselves. 

“We know Inferni to be cursed, do we not?” Francis does not wait for Levana’s answer before continuing on, pacing back and forth across the chancel as if they were in sermon. “The Undying God saw, and she disagreed, and thus they were reborn Inferni, cursed to wield the power of fire. These are consequences, Levana. The Undying God gives them as She sees fit. Those who murder without necessity will receive theirs in due time.” Not for the first time, their words are delivered with King Septimus in mind.

Francis paces to the altar of the Undying God and kneels before it, careful to avoid the thorns of the black roses placed at its base. There are less here than at the altar in Lowtown, most of them delivered by them. Francis touches two fingers to their lips, then places them gingerly on the feet of the statue of Undeath. When they rise, Levana is still watching them.

Francis lifts a brow. They have their own thoughts about what transpired at the tournament, of course, their mind thinking back to they and Triss’ attempts to heal the wounded, but when they speak, they do so plainly. “What, then, have the victims learned? What do their burns teach them?” The screams of the victims fill their ears, and they fall silent. The image of the King, running away from his subjects, flashes before them.

“I am inclined to disagree,” Francis says quietly. They offer a smile, then, the first genuine one of their encounter. “It is the nature of my duty to do so, of course.”

Armel’s never met someone so deeply entrenched in faith that he felt he could trust, and maybe, at the quick of it, that is the issue here. When you put all your eggs in one basket, he thinks, and the basket inevitably collapses, do you blame yourself? Or do you blame the basket?

The obvious answer differs for many people. Followers of Undeath, however, seem intent on only ever blaming the basket.

The Temple had not been… an intentional visit, he supposes. He’d just wanted to see, hadn’t intended on staying, and those who perhaps had different plans for themselves trailed after. It’s just that simple.

His brows climb high on his forehead. It seems they are hurtling quite quickly towards some sort of confrontation, and the pieces then seem to click into place. Ah, he thinks, this is how you know me. It’s a conversation he’s had many a time over the years: You seduced my brother, my wife, my husband, my sister, my cousins, my friends. Maybe it’s here that the problem lays its roots. It’s always Armel’s fault, and never anyone else’s.

“I don’t think I was called there to do anything,” he replies, voice soft. “I wanted to see. I went. A few men followed – obviously not strong enough to be resolute in their faith when presented with the opportunity to leave.” There’s no venom in his tone, or at least, he’s trying not to let there be. Easier said than done.

"And did you?” Francis asks Armel, their head cocked to the side in question. Their hostility melts away, momentarily, in favor of curiosity. This is who Francis is, at their core: neither dangerous nor harmless, neither good nor bad, perhaps not even entirely devout, but curious. About people, about life. If it were not for the Undying God saving them all those years ago, they may never have lived long enough to explore it. 

Undeath bestowed their life upon them, and further, blessed them with the means to explore their innate curiosity. She granted them the ability to read and write, to seek out texts and interpret their meaning. She granted them access to knowledge and tools they never would have gotten on the streets of Tyhrolm. Without Undeath, they surely would have perished long ago. Above all else, Undeath granted them the power to be curious: about Armel, about King Septimus, about Roland and Wraith. Perhaps Francis would prove dangerous, in the end.

They take a step closer toward Armel, watching his face closely. Studying.

“Clear my head? Was that a joke, Cleric?” he asks emphatically, voice and face both affected with bewilderment. For good measure, he flourishes his hand over his chest and slackens his jaw, as if the very prospect of Francis Daumantas joking is enough to stop his heart.

Humor suits Francis, he thinks decidedly. Roland’s grown so used to studying their worry lines that he’s nearly forgotten what their laugh lines look like, and he realizes, now, that they’re unconscionably lovely. He’s lost count of how many times, over the years, he’s had to swallow the urge to sweep his thumb from the crown of Francis’s brow down to the bridge of his nose, smoothing away the worried creases there. It’s a small relief, frankly, to see the planes of their face free of strain, of disquiet.

(It’s a small relief, frankly, to know that they yet know joy beyond service, beyond piety.)  

It’s a rare sight, to be sure, but a treasured one. “I’ll be damned,” he chuckles, unbothered by the blasphemy of saying such a thing in a house of worship. 

His eyes fall shut when Francis places a hand on his shoulder and begins murmuring blessings, and he’s grateful for the ruse of prayer, because he’s not sure how else he’d explain the way his eyes close of their own accord, a flutter of dark lashes knit together when Francis touches him. It’s strange, he thinks, for a man of his nature, a Lowtowner who’s spent more time in brothels’ beds than his own, to be moved so by a chaste hand on his shoulder. For what surely isn’t the first time, and for what surely won’t be the last, Roland wonders, idly, how the good Cleric has amassed such bone-deep dominion over a man whose loyalties are bought—and without ever giving him a single coin. 

He leashes the impulse to waggle his eyebrows and say something lewd about the Undying “giving him what he needs,” and when Francis finishes their blessing and pulls their hand away, Roland frowns, plainly displeased by the severance of contact. 

“What will I do?” Roland repeats, mischief swimming in the blue of his eyes. “With your advice?” He shrugs one shoulder lackadaisically. “I’ll ignore it, predictably,” he drawls, huffing a quiet laugh that rolls like warm honey. Arms crossed, he perches himself on the back of the pew behind him, eyes fixed on Francis all the while. “I’m an incorrigible glutton.” He pauses to fix Francis with a meaningful look that seems to say, As you well know. And then, because he’s never had a head for social graces, he does say, with no small innuendo, “As you well know.” How many times has he gorged himself on Francis’s company in the years since their first meeting? How many sermons has he, a faithless man, attended on bended knee? How many afternoon suns have faded to milky twilight skies while Roland talks with Francis, argues with Francis, confides in Francis, listens to Francis, laughs with Francis. Roland is an incorrigible glutton, and never is this truer than with Francis. “Besides,” he points out, index finger poised mid-air, “if I were any less of a glutton, I’d have nothing to repent for, and if I had nothing to repent for, how ever would I explain away all that time I spend in your confessional?”

Francis smiles, foolishly, despite themself-- despite Undeath. It’s Roland’s fault, really, if they’re in any position to place blame on someone other than themselves. He brings it out of them. “Perhaps,” Francis replies, lips upturned. “How did it sound?”

The odd feeling is back. The same one that sneaks its way into Francis’ body whenever Roland is near. They cannot place a finger on what it is quite yet, though it’s been following them for years, like a ghost or a funny bit of magic. It’s not unpleasant, but it is foreign-- it’s a warmth that begins at their cheeks and spreads to their chest, a flutter in their belly, a twitch in their fingertips. It’s the urge to ask Roland to stay whenever he begins to leave. Francis has yet to act upon it-- to discover what exactly it is, and why it’s there-- Undeath surely wouldn’t approve. But they have not asked it to leave, either.

Francis considers trying another joke on their tongue, if only to hold fast to that look on Roland’s face. He seems like a man who, from all his travels and stories, can no longer feel surprised. And yet he has been, just now, by Francis-- by their frankly half-hearted joke-- and they’d very much like to do it again. 

They open their mouth to say something further, but Undeath whispers in their ear again. They clear their throat instead.

Off Roland’s question, Francis flushes for the second time, though experience tells them it will not be the last before their interaction ends. Either Roland truly cannot hold his tongue, or he enjoys watching Francis squirm beneath his grip. They think they would prefer the former, but they cannot deny the appeal that the latter holds. Very few seek out Francis’ company for anything other than absolution. It’s a nice thought, to imagine Roland travelling all the way to the Sanctum for their company alone.

It’s a foolish thought. Francis clasps their hands behind their back and straightens their spine, drawing themselves up in the image of a good cleric. Perhaps solemnity will mask the redness in their cheeks. There is a moment’s pause as Francis considers what they might say if Roland’s words were delivered by someone else.

“There is hope for you yet, Roland,” they say. Francis seems to find their stride in this, falling into the old habit of evangelizing, and they continue on with a bit more confidence.

“Undeath tells us that gluttony is a sign of something eating us,” they tell him, eyes fluttering closed as they consider their own words. When they open them again, they fix their gaze on Roland, roosting on the back of a pew as only he could.

Fire was such a perfect example of balance; killing and living all at once as it blazed its path. It almost seemed too perfect of an end for a man like Septimus, who did not believe in the nature of equilibrium. 

Francis’ avoidance of giving any real answer was annoying, but expected. Their loyalty was never truly to Septimus anyhow, like any good Cleric; it would hardly have been a surprise to hear any kind of disdain for the King come from the same mouth that praises the holy one they are bound to. For as much as she wanted to hear what others truly thought of the display at the Tourney, she’d been around long enough to know that keeping mum was the best route to keeping one’s head attached to their shoulders. 

“I see.” She takes a breath, a moment to think.

“I do not make much of it,” she says. Fingers graze the wood grain of the pew in front of her. “I believe he had found enemies in believers and the lost, alike, both having their own ways of justifying such an attack. For a man who forges his own path, far from the Undying, he has found balance in his opponents, wouldn’t you say?” 

"Yes,” Francis agrees from behind the pulpit. It is a vague enough statement from Naenia; she always been very good at that. “I would.”

From the day they arrived back in Tyrholm, they have made it a point to stay far removed from the politics of the court. They’ve found it to be a dangerous and ugly thing, a game that those above use to prey on those below. Not only that, but they find the subject dreadfully boring. Dissenters of the Undying God are quick to find ways to distract themselves of the monotony of their life-- toying with the well-being of others chief among them. Francis has no doubt survived Septimus’ court for so long by staying far away from politics.

But the people of Tyrholm are suffering. Not those that stay safe within the walls of Castle Tyrholm, but the people outside of it-- the ones who have no say in their suffering, the ones who have no boots with straps in which to pull themselves up. Francis can pray and bring bread, but the voice in their head that tells them it is no longer enough grows louder every day. 

“The King has made many enemies,” Francis comments.  “As many as he has allies,” they add, though they are not entirely sure that’s true. It’s an addendum, a safety net. 

“Is that why you’ve come?” They ask Naenia, curiosity ringing in their voice. “To discover the King’s enemies?”

Though she knows they have no standing to be sat beside her, Aurelia does not begrudge Cleric Francis the honor, choosing instead to turn to them with an approximation between anxiety and optimism. While religion itself often intimidates her, Cleric Francis is one of those who is less intimidating, in her eye, which makes them an excellent person to start with if she wants to feel closer to Undeath.

As always with a Cleric, she wonders if their tastes follow the path the Undying has chosen for them or if it’s genuine affection for rain that inspires their words. ❝ I suppose it must be, for loveliness is always beholden to the observer. I personally find the rain to be soothing, but the mud to be less pleasant. ❞ She smiles and hopes they will not be offended. In truth, she does like the rain… from her window at the castle, more than on her skin, but alas.

She watches them with no small amount of curiosity as they cup the rain in their palm the way Aurelia cups the face of her sweet cat. ❝ The water may also bring death, ❞ Aurelia points out, thinking of flood and famine should it continue into unbalancing the natural state of their seasons. Not that she fears it will, but if it did… sometimes water can do more harm than good. ❝ In that way, it mirrors Undeath quite perfectly, does it not? ❞ It’s hope in her expression, now, hope that she’s correctly seen parts of her own religion that she’s always been wary of parsing. Balance, equanimity, those things are both sugar and poison in her life, and she’s never quite sure where she stands.

Francis likes Aurelia. They have been pleased to find, as she grows up, that she resembles her mother far more than the King, both in appearance and demeanor alike. Of the royal family, it is Aurelia and the Queen who have been kindest to Francis, who have been most receptive to the words of the Undying God, and for that they smile at her fondly. Perhaps there is hope for the Kingdom of Tyrholm yet.

"Balance,” Francis replies, leaning closer to Aurelia as if they were sharing a secret. They lean back a moment later, settling into their chosen seat in the stands and looking out over the tournament. They are not much interested in fighting, but then again, they do not seem to be truly watching as much as they are musing into the open air.

“Yes,” Francis agrees. Though they do not turn back to look at her, the smile on their face returns, visibly pleased by the observation. “Rain feeds the flowers and muddies the dirt. Rain cleanses and kills. Something beautiful in exchange for something ugly,” they say to the rain. If it is for Aurelia’s benefit or their own, it is impossible to tell.

“It is Undeath’s wish that we maintain this balance,” Francis continues, their mind on King Septimus, “just as She does for us. Too much of what is beautiful may cause just as much harm as too much of what is ugly. This is why Undeath sends us the rain and the sun, why she takes life and gives. It is our duty,” they say, turning finally to look upon Aurelia again, “to do the same.”

They seem to willfully misunderstand Wraith’s point—made all the more frustrating by the span of time they take to say it, continuing on with their busywork as if Wraith wasn’t standing right there. No one in this kingdom would be fool enough to confess directly to an act of treason, especially somewhere where church and crown are all but one and the same to so many.  But information is gained in less direct ways, too; those with secrets they would take to their grave still have tells. A congregant certain of their own death, desperate to make one final confession; someone guilt-stricken or nervous; someone with a little too much surety in their voice.

There were a thousand possibilities, and Francis was willfully shutting their eyes to each and every one like a fool.

     “Well,” they answer, sneering behind their mask, the sound of it only half-present in their voice, placid and calm, much calmer than they feel. “Should any other confession you take be seditious as well as sinful, I hope you will choose to do what is best for your King and alert someone who can stop it before it be.”

They are all but ready to turn on their heel and go—not through the door, but falling into the inky void, leaving behind a trace of the Undying’s own black smoke in their wake, perhaps a sooty smudge against Daumantas’ nice clean floor. But before they go, they add one last word, for good measure—the cleric may not have had ring fingers any longer, but they certainly had a head, which Wraith could only assume they wanted to keep fixed firmly in its place. 

     “Thank you for your help. I’ll be sure to inform King Septimus of your cooperation.” 

That Wraith would place the needs of the King above the will of the Undying God is not a surprise, but Francis resents it nonetheless. In their eyes, Wraith’s mehod of worship has always danced around sacrilege. It is, chiefly, why they do not get along ( Wraith’s own reasons aside ). They tout the word of the Undying God, but blaspheme Her in the same breath. Their mere existence is a slight to Undeath, their missing limbs a punishment, their abilities a mark of their transgressions. 

While Wraith sees them as a blessing, Francis sees them for what they truly are: a curse. 

“I will always do what the Undying God asks of me,” Francis replies calmly. It is both vague and clear as crystal all at once: they do not serve Septimus. They serve none but Undeath, and it is with Her their loyalties shall always lie. Wraith, Francis suspects, knows this, but they all have a role to play. Naenia will say much of the same in the evening that follows.

“May your path be lit by the grace of Undeath,” Francis nods as Wraith turns to go. They will spend the rest of their evening scrubbing the soot off the marble with holy water, removing Wraith’s presence in the Sanctum twice over. For now, however, Francis holds their ground, spine straight and shoulders back, the two of them exchanging hard stares across the chancel.

“May the King receive Her blessing, as well.”

JUDGMENT. 

    Thoughtfully, she looks at them, slowly clasping her hands behind her back. Francis isn’t the first devotee that she has met, nor are they the most zealous – in her eyes, they are one of the fixtures of life. There will always be those, in every lifetime, in every world, that turn their eyes up to the sky and try to discern the God that hides between the stars, carefully pulling a veil of darkness between Them and Their creations.   

    Her brow curves upward deliberately as she listens to them, chin inclining in consideration as she turns their words over in her mind, measuring them against the sermon that they had given at the pulpit; Septimus’ eyes had glazed over, and she couldn’t help but wonder what a godless king had to fear if not the judgment of someone on high. The people? The court? His own fatal flaws? No, she had seen enough monarchs to know that if they believed the Undying God couldn’t hold them beholden to their crimes against their people, then no one would. 

    Save for her, the instrument of the Undying God. 

    “If that is true then that means she’s with us when we lie. When we murder. When we commit our most grievous and heinous sins.” Empty eyes and even emptier thought for the suffering that others have undergone. She has felt death a thousand times over – it was difficult to feel pity and sorrow stir when these were simply the consequences of life and living. 

    “Her blessings are woven into my being, Francis, it is impossible not to acknowledge Her with every breath I take.” Her head canted, silver strands brushing against her cheek as her gaze drawled over them, their calm demeanor quite unnatural. Should one be so calm when their king has nearly been killed? “But moral theology is not why I see you. I wanted to see if you were well, considering what we all bore witness to.”

    “Perhaps in vain. You seem quite content.”

"Yes,” Francis replies, impassive, as if Levana’s statement is obvious. It is obvious, at least to them. The Undying God sees all. This is as true as the air they breathe, as real as the ground upon which they walk. “She is with us through all things; even those that are ugly.” Their right hand moves subconsciously to rest on the Book of Undeath in their lap. They can nearly feel the words flowing through them, beginning from their fingertips and spreading to their temples and their toes. They take a deep breath, eyes closed, as if they are inhaling the words, before looking back at Levana.

“The Undying God honors death just as She honors life,” Francis continues. “One cannot exist without the other.” Their voice is measured, as it always is when they share the wisdom of the Undying God. It is in this state that Francis feels most true, most alive. “Both are necessary,” they finish.

Very rarely does someone enter the Sanctum to inquire about Francis’ well-being. More often than not, they come to absolve themselves, using Francis as the tool with which they can achieve it. They do not mind, of course; that is what the Sanctum, and Francis, are for. They admire Levana’s effort, though she cannot be further from the truth.

“Content?” Francis repeats with the ghost of a laugh. “Perhaps I should play more games of Fox’s Gambit.” They set the Book of Undeath back down on the pew and rise, pacing the length of the chancel. 

“Content is far too pretty a word to use,” they say, their footsteps echoing through the empty Sanctum. “I mourn unnecessary pain and suffering, as does the Undying God.” Francis stops where they stand, turns to face Levana once more, and adds, stone-faced: “I pray that our King learns to follow the right path.”

There is something unwelcoming about the Sanctum. Saif cannot place how much of it is them, and how much of it is The Undying herself. He thinks the pair of them, Francis and them, know how little he has cared for their opinions for so long. He thinks they can see it on him, plain as day. Francis is too perceptive for their own good, Saif would wager it’s how they’ve survived this long. The way the uncomfortable feeling sinks into your bones is nothing new to him, but he feels more guilty here. As if someone is watching him, knowing him. And he thinks, perhaps this is why so many turn to Her. Perhaps it is why he has turned to Her now.

Their voice startles him, but he’s too practiced to let it show too plainly. But it’s there, in the pull of his eyebrows and the subtle twist of his lips, he thinks they will spot it. They have never failed him thus far. He wonders how the one person he came to see could startle them.

“I’m not familiar, no.” He says as way of greeting. Though Francis gave little greeting of his own, so perhaps Saif should feel less guilty. Immortalized in stained glass, the image of these men on fire seems beautiful, holy. He could not say the same for those who burned in front of the King.

Francis notices the subtle change in Saif’s features, but only just. He has an excellent poker face-- much better than theirs ever will be-- though Francis supposes he must, in his line of work. He has a difficult role to play in Castle Tyrholm, made only more difficult by the king he serves. A feeling of pity overcomes them; rather than let it show, they turn back to face the stained glass, and tell their story:

“Two brothers,” Francis begins, “the sons of Aaron, betray the will of Undeath. They bring Her what She did not ask for, and what She did not need.” They point an outstretched finger toward each panel as they speak, their eyes glassy but their voice clear. “She burns them. She declares that all those who serve Undeath must do so honorably; those who do not shall burn at their father’s feet.”

Francis takes a small step toward the next panel. They stop at an image of the sons engulfed in fire. Their father watches, expressionless, from the sidelines.

“Their father watches in silence as his sons burn. He does not weep, nor try to extinguish it, for he knows that Undeath is just.” 

Francis turns to Saif then and smiles, serene as ever. 

“The next day, a tree stands on the hill where Aaron’s sons perished. A tall, strong oak tree. Aaron smiles; Undeath is just. Life is not taken without life given.” There’s a glimmer in their eye as they watch Saif’s expression. They find it curious that this is the one they chose to look upon, of all the stories that line the Sanctum’s walls.

“In the face of death,” they say, clasping their arms behind their back, “it is a story I find particularly comforting.”

date: sixth of the tenth month location: the sanctum closed to: @francisdaumantas

For a faithless man, Roland certainly does spend a lot of time in a house of worship.

The irony is not lost on him as he, a sellsword who bows to no law, god, or king, takes a knee in the pew farthest from the altar. He sticks out like a sore thumb here, unshaven and ungroomed, dressed in well-worn leathers suited for war, not prayer. But Tyrholm’s nobility has leered at him all his life, and he hasn’t lost sleep over the opinions of sheep since he learned he could eat them. 

A noblewoman sitting in the one of the foremost pews twists her head around for no other reason than to stare daggers at Roland, nose upturned. He considers showing her what a real dagger looks like, but Francis appears at the pulpit before Roland can start pirouetting blades between his fingers, so he lays down his arms and offers the noblewoman a wolfish grin that’s all teeth. She flushes red (from embarrassment or anger, he’s unsure) and turns back to the altar with a punched-out huff. Roland hopes his exchange with the noblewoman goes unnoticed by Francis, who he suspects would be less than pleased to see the Captain of the Sons of Argos playing not-nice with Tyrholm’s nobility on the Undying’s playground.

Roland remains on his knees, spine straight and hands clasped, for all of Francis’s sermon. Their voice rings like the quiet knell of church bells at dawn, and the sound of it smooths down the hackles of Roland’s temper when the King and his cronies stand to leave before the service’s end. Boorish bastard, Roland thinks, upper lip peeled back hatefully.

When the last note of the final hymn is sung, the crowd filters slowly through the Sanctum’s towering doors, where Francis shakes the hands of congregates and aristocrats alike. They don’t always bid good tidings to their parish after sermons, but Roland supposes they must, today, with the Valmont dynasty in attendance. The wait for Francis’s undivided attention is short, but so is Roland’s patience, and when the last churchgoer exits, Roland looses a quiet groan and fixes Francis with a long-suffering look. “If you expect me to spend this much time on my knees,” he drawls, voice gravelly, “you’ll have to provide better accommodations.” He raps his knuckles against the hard wood of the kneeler beneath him. “Brothels have cushions for such occasions,” he says matter-of-factly, all tongue-in-cheek wit. “Perhaps you ought to follow suit, Cleric, lest you lose your most faithful parishioner to the whorehouses of Lowtown.” 

A fox-like smile cleaves his lips as he pushes off of the pew in front of him and stands to his full height. 

“‘Indulgence can lead to drought’?” he deadpans, reciting Francis’s proverb. “A bold message to send to this lot.” And a waste of breath, if you ask Roland. “You’d have better luck convincing them that the sky is green, and the grass blue.”

The sermon ends without much fanfare. Services in Castle Tyrholm’s Sanctum often do. It’s funny to Francis, in a perverted sort of way, that those who have the most to be thankful for-- wealth, safety, power and the like--  thank the Undying God less than those who have nothing. The King leaves before the final prayer. Francis notices, but only just-- for Roland is here, too, and it is to his place among the pews that Francis’ eyes couldn’t help but wander.

As the parishioners clear out of the Sanctum, Francis sends them off with blessings of health and triumph for the day’s tournament. They stare into each and every person’s eyes, their well wishes sincere, but their attention is divided. They are acutely aware that Roland is waiting for them. ( He must be waiting for them, because the only other option is that Roland truly is praying, and as much as Francis would like that to be true, they know it isn’t. )

The last parishioner leaves. Roland speaks, filling the empty Sanctum with the sound of his voice, and Francis feels themself flush at the mention of the brothel. Undeath whispers the word danger in their ear, but they wave it away and smile instead.

“Perhaps the pain will do you some good,” Francis counters, footsteps echoing as they approach Roland. “Clear your head,” they offer, landing at his side. It’s as much of a joke as Francis can muster. 

Roland rises, and Francis places their right hand on his shoulder. He murmurs a blessing of good health: may the Undying God grant you good health; may She taketh what She must, and giveth what you need. It is the same prayer they whispered to every parishioner this morning, but on Roland, it feels different. What does She take from you? What does She give you?

“It is my duty to provide advice,” Francis comments, releasing him from their grasp. They flex their fingers at their side-- the four that they have left-- as if to forget the feeling of Roland’s shoulder beneath them. It is no use; it will follow them like a phantom limb until they have an excuse to touch him again.

“Whether or not it is heeded, of course, is out of my control.” They smile again, their eyes watching Roland carefully. Danger, Undeath whispers.

“And you?” They ask, eyes lifting to meet Roland’s. Francis’ brow quirks, the slightest indication of interest. “What will you do?”

CHAPTER I – THE BURNING MAN. setting: Tyrholm City Sanctum dating: the seventh of the tenth month, before sunrise with: @francisdaumantas

The stench of burning flesh had seared itself into her very skin, rankling her mind until she felt her own limbs prickle and itch. Dead, her mind whispered, you’re dead too & they all know it, can smell it on you, all that rot–

She could hear it, even now, eyes fastened on the murals of the City Sanctum. They weren’t quite so grand as the stained glass of the castle Sanctum, but the depictions were still striking. How could they not be? The Undying and her dark-star saints; their faces like skulls, martyred and holy. 

Out on the steps, she’d left a little satchel – a loaf of dark bread, hard cheese, rashers of salted venison. Leaving something on the stair was good luck, oh yes, but it was the poor of Lowtown that relied on it. Though Zoya didn’t always drop them off personally, the satchels always had one thing in common – a little slip of paper with the Prince of Snakes’ mark on it. She supposed that in the services provided, she found common ground with the faithful – let Lowtown know who takes care of them. Let them be loyal.

Behind the altar, the Undying stood draped in black cloth, wreaths of roses left at her marble feet by the devout. Zoya stepped closer. Reached for the thorns. Dead, dead, dead–

Blood welled up from her fingertip, the instant pain making her full lips set in a grim yet satisfied smile. 

“… I’ve spent all night thinking about the three that didn’t burn,” she said, turning at last to face cleric Daumantas, pausing to suck the blood off her thumb. Her voice was quiet, but it carried. “How do you suppose She sees us, down here?” A tyrant king and all of us locked in here with him? “Are we as pitiful as we seem?”

While fear and panic run amok back at Castle Tyrholm, Lowtown lives on. Business as usual. A plot to kill the King, after all, will not put food on their tables, nor will it heal their sick. The King himself will do neither, either. The people of Lowtown are not foolish. They have no reverence for a King who sacrifices their sons for a thing as petty as war. Nor should they, Francis thinks.

They prefer it here. It’s where they grew up, where they first spoke to Undeath. Where they were saved. The people are kind to them, and benefit from their presence far more than Septimus, so they leave the castle walls as soon as possible. When they arrive at Lowtown’s own sanctum, the Prince of Snakes is already there, kneeling before the altar of Undeath.

Francis thinks it a fine name; the Undying God is heir to the snakes, after all. Though Francis cannot commend all of Zoya’s practices-- even some of those deemed legal, by the kingdom’s standards-- they know of her kindness for the people of Lowtown, and for that they settle on a distanced sort of respect. The King cannot put food on their tables, but Zoya can, and does. 

“They will live,” Francis tells her with a nod of understanding. “Triss and I saw to it. Their bodies will forever bear the marks of their wounds, but they will live,” they repeat. They walk past Zoya and approach the figure of Undeath. From their side they produce a single black rose, taken from the castle’s garden; it will not be missed. They place it at Her feet, whisper a prayer, and turn back to Zoya.