#phantasmblessing

It was enormously outside Lorian’s comfort zone to be here, in this place crowded with people, to the point that he finds it difficult to breathe as he nears the place. He looks down at the icy cobbles instead, holding tight the ceramic crock pot and basket of bread Miriam had given him. Food for the party, probably far too spicy for the locals, most of whom didn’t seem to believe in salt. That was fine with him though. More leftovers for when he got home.

He practically runs out of the manor as soon as he’s set the food down, to await for Antares outside. Stiffly, he sits to calm his protesting legs, his joints unhappy from the cold and the long walk over. As soon as he does, though, he notices someone struggling up one of the side paths with an enormous instrument case. Someone he knows, the scholar he’d met back in the upper ward. Dara, it was. They’d seen one another a few times since then, although Lorian didn’t know if Dara considered them friends or not. It wasn’t something he had much experience with.

The bell around Lorian’s neck hangs heavy, jangling with every footstep he takes. He’d stripped it from a Church Servant, along with its coat and hood, thrown its body in the canal where it wouldn’t be found for ages. He doubted anybody looked for them. When it came to the Servants, it was just a matter of how many went out and how many came back. 

He knows he cannot pass perfectly. He’s not quite tall enough, too thin, and his eyes are not entirely the inky black of a seal’s, but with his head down his hat hides his face, and they may not care enough to look. He’d hoped he would never have to return here, actively avoiding the Cathedral Ward for years since their escape, but circumstances had turned desperate. In spite of their cleaner living conditions and the benefit of consistent meals, Lothric had fallen ill, and no medication meant for humans seemed to relieve him. They needed blood. Not just any blood, either. Blood from the source. From the holy medium Herself.

The sun has just begin to peek its bleary eye over the horizon, a pink glow rising in the east. He knew from his time living in the upper ward that the other Servants would be returning soon, their shift completed. Nobody would bat an eye at him coming in a little early. Even so, his heart beats in his throat as he eases open the chapel door and clumps past the vagabonds sleeping in the corners, Pick making a quiet staccato on the stone floor.

It’s all so familiar, the way up to the top of the cathedral. So little has changed in their absence. Every step chipped in just the way he remembers, even the ivy entangling the walls is the same. His legs are throbbing by the time he reaches the end and crosses the bridge, but he manages to hide his pain, holding his breath as he has to pass by an outgoing Servant.