23 lines
No EOL
1.8 KiB
Markdown
23 lines
No EOL
1.8 KiB
Markdown
A couple of hours later, Halven found himself back in the shrine again . It had been sealed for years before the refugees came—its roof cracked, its pews half-rotted, the inner sanctum taken by ivy and dust. Now it served as storage for firewood and wounded pride. But some things had survived.
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Halven stepped lightly, as though waking the dead with each footfall. In one hand, he carried a small lantern; in the other, a single wax candle—narrow, white, imperfect.
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At the heart of the ruined shrine stood a statue. Or what had once been one.
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The face was gone, worn smooth by centuries or perhaps carved away in defiance. What remained was the shape of a woman cloaked in time, her hands resting upon the pommel of a sword planted point-down between her feet. A queen, or something older. The Nameless One. The Erased.
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Halven knelt.
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The stone beneath his knees was cold and brittle. Snowmelt from the broken ceiling dripped somewhere behind him, rhythmic and slow. He placed the candle at the statue’s base, struck the flint, and lit the wick.
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The flame took hesitantly. Then it stood.
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“We forget our monsters too easily,” he said aloud. “We sand their names from stone. Seal their truths in vaults. Call their tools cursed—until we need them.”
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The light flickered—no wind, no motion, but a waver all the same. Halven didn’t look up. But he felt it. Something behind the hollowness of the statue. Not presence. Not even judgment. Just... notice. The sense of being remembered in return.
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He bowed his head, voice soft. “Forgive her, if you can. And if not... guide her anyway.”
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Behind his eyelids, he imagined Telaryn walking alone into snow-choked ruin, the past clawing its way through her ribs.
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He stayed like that until the candle burned halfway down. Then he rose, left the chapel, and said nothing of it again. |