You break bread with your enemies, not with your friends. A wisdom as old as humanity, but Mitry preferred it with a slight addition: Break bread with your enemies, but do not let them know of the perceived hostility. Keep your enemies oblivious to the fact that they are, in fact, your enemies.
And so, he broke bread. In his hands, now, two halves, one just slightly larger than the other. Mitry smiled and offered the larger half to Uanna, who accepted it with her usual awkwardness.
In that moment, Mitry should've made sure that Uanna noticed the fact that her half was larger than his; that she was always offered more than he took for himself at his table, in his own home. It was something he would usually do, but he wasn't sure if such a blatant... suggestion would work on a priest. Could priests even feel gratitude, or did piety cauterize that too?
After their walk around the city and a conversation by the lake, Mitry had led them to his humble abode, where a cozy domain of his own making invited and enticed every visitor to come in, take a chair, and relax. In such an environment, people were more open. Or so Mitry had noticed years back.
It was clean, but not too clean. You ought to have some imperfection that all could relate to; a random piece of paper scattered here and there, a piece of clothing lying on the floor, which he of course picked up and hurriedly hid away—make it into a scene, break the facade for a moment, and seem embarrassed of the fact; be humble and apologize that what you have is meager and certainly not enough for any esteemed guest. And remember, all guests are esteemed... make them believe and feel so. But do not shove it down their ears, lest they become embarrassed and awkward, thus unable to willingly partake in telling the truth.
Their lunch was just Mitry's breakfast that he hadn't had the time to eat. Some bread from sourdough, thick butter, and a hearty stew of meat and vegetables—all local produce, all offerings from his congregation, but none of them things that he took for granted. For he had helped his neighbors with harvest, fishing, hunting, and pasturing their livestock. By all means, everything that he had was an offering, a gift from his people, but in reality, he had worked as hard as they had. This is what a good leader ought to do. For which general are soldiers more willing to die for: the one who fights with his men, or the one who stays far back from all combat?
A gracious host should set the pace and the rules of their domain. He took his wooden spoon and dipped it into the stew, picking up a spoonful that soon filled his mouth with a savory taste. This way, the guest finds it easier to eat as well.
Uanna had her watchful gaze set on each action that Mitry took. Surely, she registered each smile and word, only to scrutinize them within and place judgment on whether the things she saw and heard could be trusted. And perhaps this time, she found them to be, for she mirrored Mitry's actions. She began to eat. Mitry smiled to himself, but made sure to hide it away.
He knew that not one priest could enjoy the taste of things. Not that they didn't want to, but that their ability to do so had been taken away from them. A thing, Mitry thought, to be sacrilegious. Had god not created the world and all its shapes, forms, tastes, and smells for Man to enjoy them? How dare a mere angel take away what they had not created?
He almost shook his head. Pity—oh, yes, that was the right word. The only one left for such creatures. Mitry took a sip from his cup; within it was water from the lake that he had boiled the previous day.
There was an invisible layer of ice between them, one that ought to be broken. It was a wordless silence, and to Mitry belonged the onus of making sure that his most esteemed guest wouldn't have to find a topic of conversation.
Mitry wondered if she already knew what he was about to ask. A woman like herself must have traveled far and wide, and interacted with many a man, most of whom would ask the same few questions ad nauseam.
He peered at the woman and asked his first question: "I hear that your ilk don't have the ability to taste things," he said. "Is that true... or just hearsay?"
Uanna stared at him for a moment, then set aside her spoon. A smile had formed on her lips, one not so awkward, one much more rehearsed than the other. A slight shiver ran down Mitry's spine; it was like he had witnessed something long dead—a revived thing, undead, no longer natural.
"Of course we do," she said. Her gaze explored Mitry's expressions; perhaps she had noticed the shiver; he hoped not.
Mitry's brow arched, "Oh, really? I suppose the things that one hears from travelers and such aren't often the truth…" he said, and took a small sip from his cup, hiding away his expression. "Then have you enjoyed the taste of my humble cooking?"
"Say, have you ever drunk liquid ash?" Uanna asked.
Mitry blinked. "I can't say that I have... Is it really that bad?" He asked and took a spoonful from Uanna's bowl, tasting the same savory stew he had made for himself. His brows furrowed, and their gazes met.
The priest managed to look slightly embarrassed. "I mean no offense... Everything tastes like ash to us," she hurriedly explained.
Mitry snorted; he couldn't hold it. "None taken, none at all," he said, a hint of genuine amusement lingered in his voice. "I do apologize for such a question... You must hear it all the time."
Uanna shrugged, "I don't mind it. It is better that you ask than that you assume. Assumptions often lead to misunderstandings, and I would like to avoid wasting time on things that could be easily solved by simply asking a question or two."
Mitry nodded. "I couldn't agree more—just a few days ago, I had to mediate between two sheep farmers. There had been a misunderstanding over the use of a specific meadow for grazing," he said, shaking his head. "But that is in the past now."
Uanna stared at him for a while.
He swallowed. What had she noticed? "What?"
Uanna shook her head, "It seems the title 'father' suits you quite well."
He could feel his ears burning, so he went ahead and scratched them. "Well... I do try my utmost. I live here, and I want to make sure that things get better for everyone."
Uanna smiled again. In her eyes was something unsettling, but Mitry wasn't sure what... He forced himself to ignore the burning sensation that had crept from his ears onto his cheeks. It is fine to be genuinely embarrassed... It could be of benefit later.
"Please, do eat—have some more. Even if it all tastes like ash to you, it is still good for you," he managed to say, finding a thing to pivot to. He even went for another spoonful and followed it with a bite from his bread. Soon, he would feel relaxed again. Soon, he would regain composure and control.
"Of course, but we might as well discuss the matters of belonging, or rather the matter of housing," Uanna said, and picked her spoon back up.
Mitry swallowed, "Yes, of course. I suppose if you are to stay here, you would need a ceiling above your head and a warm bed to sleep in. The fall is here and winter is on its way—we can't really have you sleep in a tent."
Uanna nodded, "Any house will do, and I will, of course, be as little of a nuisance as I can."
He almost scoffed, but refrained from doing so. She must have had no idea how much of a nuisance she was in this very moment. The situation could easily get out of hand, and at the least get extremely awkward for all parties involved.
But where to place her? Could he trust the other villagers to treat her kindly, and not be beckoned by her priestly lies? He pondered as he ate some more bread.
"Well, to be quite frank, I would think that most wouldn't be too willing to have you," he said and met Uanna's gaze. "I hope you understand," he feigned an apologetic smile.
She sighed, "I'm used to it, but usually, there would be an abandoned house, or a shack I could transform into a home."
"Ah, and that's the issue... We don't have a suitable location like that for you," Mitry said. Certainly a lie, but not fully. The matter of a place being 'suitable' was very much subjective.
He drifted away into his own thoughts, knowing all too well that there was only one solution to this issue... But was there enough space for her? He looked around and almost sighed. There was enough space.
Mitry produced a quick smile, "Worry not, miss Uanna, you can have my study, the space is quite small, but enough for a place to sleep and to keep your things safe, it can also be locked from within."
A perfect cell for a priest.
Uanna blinked and looked around the house more carefully. They were in the kitchen that was attached to a slightly larger space, which one could only call a living room. She saw two doors at the back of the room, past the central masonry stove.
Their gazes met again, and she smiled, "If you don't mind."
Mitry returned the smile. Of course he did. "Of course, I don't," he said, knowing all too well that he'd come to regret this decision...
Uanna thanked him with another awkward smile and continued eating. She dared not even notice his growing annoyance and her growing nuisance. She just ate away, tasting the ash she, by now, fully deserved. She wouldn't get a pinch of pity from him.
His mind had begun to race; there were suddenly so many things that he would have to do before the end of the day. Some of his writings were out in the open, and he would have to hide them. He gritted his teeth. Should he just get rid of her instead and make her disappear? Surely it wasn't that uncommon for a priest to get lost on her way to a remote village...
- - -
Roslyn walked the streets of Jersten aimlessly. The meeting with Eiri and Doren went... smoothly, and she and the newly appointed mayor of the town went through and carried away all of the papers, records, and such from the Reven Estate to Doren's new home for the time being. Roslyn had no need for any such records; she had her own to go through left by the previous priests, and so, without too many words exchanged, she had bid the older gentleman a farewell, only to find herself looking around the town, noticing things that weren't like they were before.
A strange feeling kept stirring within. In a way, she was lost in a familiar place that felt and looked so alien to her. In name, and supposedly in actuality, it was now better than it had been. There was much more wealth around and about—no more dirty huts or broken down dwellings; a poor village had been turned into a nigh city of stone and wood, prying past its bounds, becoming larger than the dreams for it had ever been.
Would it one day rival Lo'Gran? Unlikely. But if another fifteen years might go by with similar growth, then such an impossibility could force itself into reality. Absurd, really. Everything about it was such; her feelings about it more so, and surely those feelings were mirrored by some who had lived here long before it had become something more.
But as one goes about the world aimlessly, one supposedly finds oneself where one belongs... or near an establishment that sells wisdom, happiness, and meaning to the people, a remedy for all ails of life, for all walks of life. In this case, Vien's Tavern.
From the outside, it looked more or less the same. Some minor improvements here and there; it was a lot cleaner, like parts of it had been renovated not too long ago. And angels, the front door opened and closed at least once a minute or so, when a random person would walk in, surely in need of the mentioned offerings of a sacred place, or exiting through said door, satisfied with its offerings; filled with either drunken bliss, or equally drunken despair. Some even found themselves too drunk to have any state of being at all, instead becoming somewhat enlightened by achieving a state beyond, one where no real thoughts would arrive, at least not once that could be remembered by the drunken soul of any man or woman who had reached the true state of bliss.
But then, there were the poor bastards who could remember the things done and said by the mentioned enlightened... Roslyn pitied any true hero who found themselves having to tolerate, as well as survive, such a being's drunken shenanigans.
She shook her head, hoping to herself that she would be spared by such encounters. And to keep herself away from harm's way, she walked toward the door, and entered the house of wisdom...
The sounds hit you first, then the inherent smell of such an establishment, soon followed by the warmth. It is like a cave, but not as damp or barren, even when both are filled with animals, beasts one should never poke for no reason.
Men, large and small, populate the many tables scattered around the room; mingling with each other, flirting with women, barmaids walking by; brave women who carry around platters full of tankards, mugs, and jugs. From them came the first fragrance: ale.
One could, by accident, eavesdrop on many different conversations at the same time. One about the 'Janderin wench' who was 'as pretty as ever.' And another conversation, from a table across, about some rumors from the other side of the Kingdom; mentions of disappearances and cults—both things that one adamantly argued were because of 'those damned nameless.'
Roslyn let her gaze scan the room. There seemed to be none she recognized... but at the same time, it had been a long time since she had been here during one of the nights that Kanrel had performed and floated around multiple chairs. She frowned. If only she could smile at the memory.
The door behind her opened again, and Roslyn was forced to step further in. She wasn't able to loiter around the entrance forever, so she traversed further into the temple, surely passing by prophets and wisemen alike, hearing parts of conversations, most of which would be better to ignore. She walked past the lines of chairs and tables, were the faithful had gathered for a collection of tens of sermons that went on at the same time, and she slowly edged her way to the altar that doubled as a bar, behind which, multiple women poured drinks of different kinds and partook in some of those conversations that are better left unmentioned the next day.
Roslyn found herself a barstool; it looked clean enough, so she sat down, awaiting the possibility of ordering something, anything at all at this point. In her own silence, she found that there had been one thing in this village turned town that hadn't changed, not one bit: the smell of this damned establishment. If only she could appreciate it, then she would surely burst into tears of joy, for not all things were lost to that accursed demon known as 'change'.
Yet, a question pushed through the unappreciated nostalgia: 'Why am I here?'
Why indeed. It made no sense for a priest to find herself in such a place. There were only drunks around and about. There would be no conversation worth having; no wisdom that could uncloud her mind and give direction. By all means, she was lost in her own backyard; in a place she thought she knew better, but all around her were people she had never seen in her life.
A busty woman in her late twenties looked at her across the counter. "You look like you need a drink, ma'am," she said rather loudly, bringing Roslyn back to reality. And soon enough, a mug carved from wood was placed before her, filled to the brim with liquid Roslyn had never tasted, but knew to be perhaps the most popular drink in the whole kingdom...
Roslyn raised her gaze from the mug to meet the woman's. She was one of those 'rustic beauties' as they called girls like her back in Er'Eren. Braided brunette hair and a smile that could make you buy anything.
"I didn't bring any coins with me," Roslyn managed to mutter, only to have to repeat three times over, since the barmaid couldn't hear her, and when she did, a bright smile reached her eyes. "It's on the house," she said with a wink, turning away to serve another customer.
Roslyn blinked a couple of times, unable to look away from the girl for a little while, before returning her gaze to the wooden mug. What would it taste like? Was this the thing they called 'ale'? She wondered to herself, and without giving herself the chance to ponder further about it, she found herself reaching for it, grabbing it, and carefully taking a long sip.
Ash. Nothing. What a waste of a drink to offer to her. It was stupid of her to even think about what it might taste like, or even to take a sip in the first place. With a subdued sigh, she placed the mug on the counter, but leaned closer to it, mimicking the way the other customers sat on their stools around it.
There wasn't much that such a place could offer her, but it could serve as a place to think without much judgment from others. They all had their own issues and joys they had to either wrestle with or celebrate.
She took another long sip. Why not? She might as well make the barmaid believe that she had done a good deed. And who knows, maybe at the bottom of the mug she might find something worthwhile? Doesn't ash make the best soil?
Sip at a time, she drank. But each mouthful made her only doubt more. Each moment spent within is just a moment of a thing repeating itself within her. There is no escape from a feeling such as this; she had already reached the conclusion she was afraid of believing in. The color of her life would be this, and it would not change; it was the only thing that would not change. Through mistakes of her own making, she had cornered herself and become someone else; she had become the opposite of the girl who longed for home.
And the days would repeat themselves; the world around her would change, but she would not, she had changed enough. She was not only hollow, she was infinitely so. There was a vast ocean of nothing within her that could not be filled with nostalgia, or love, or whatever the hell were the things that people lived for; instead, the opposite gushed in to claim more space for itself. And questions arrive, they ask themselves without consent: 'For how long can you tolerate yourself?' 'For how long can you fool others?' 'For how long can you fool yourself?'
She scoffed as she drank the last of her ale, finally reaching the bottom of the mug. Carefully, she placed it back onto the counter, staring at it a moment longer. She could get up now and leave. Roslyn shook her head. Maybe she should drink another one? She shook her head again.
Roslyn remained seated and scanned the room around her. There was so much laughter about, so many faces filled with smiles. There were those who had tears in their eyes, their minds filled with troubles that she couldn't even begin to guess. There were barmaids who carried with them the remedy for happiness and despair.
Just for a moment, she wished that she were like any of them. She wanted to drink until she could no longer remember herself and who she had become. She wanted to drink until darkness would claim her, and tomorrow would only hurt her head.
But apparently, she could not. The alcohol had no effect on her. And if she did reach a state of drunkenness, then she would just sit here and despair further down. A long sigh escaped her lips as she muttered to herself: "Why am I here?"
"To see me," the husky voice of a woman suddenly replied.
Surprised, Roslyn turned back toward the counter, now seeing another woman altogether standing across from her. This woman must have been in her thirties? Then Roslyn recognized her. "Vien Janderin?"
The older woman blinked and leaned closer, "Oh? Aren't you that Hergen girl?"
Roslyn nodded.
A smile spread on Vien's lips. "Then you're our new priest. What a strange feeling, I still remember when you were half that height... You must be almost thirty now?"
Roslyn cleared her throat. "Yes, it has been a long time."
Vien nodded. She grabbed Roslyn's mug and poured some more ale into it, offering it back to her. "It is quite a coincidence... You see, we just talked about you yesterday."
Roslyn blinked. "You did? With who?" she reached for the mug—why not?—and drank some more.
"With Dar. He had heard through Isbit about your arrival."
"I see."
"He mentioned something about wanting to see you, and to talk to you about something…"
"Something?"
Vien shrugged. "Probably about Kanrel," her smile had faded; she sighed. "That bastard just disappeared on us... And to think that I was going to make him my husband…" she grinned.
Roslyn shook her head. "Well, Dar can visit the temple anytime he wants," she then tried feigning a smile, but failed. "But you and Kanrel? I couldn't imagine either of you with anyone."
Vien looked around and leaned even closer, "I think he liked me."
Roslyn stared and scoffed. "That's unlikely," she said and went for another sip.
Vien grinned. "But I know he did... You see, one day I mentioned that I like men with beards, and ever since that day, he began growing it out."
Roslyn gave no reply. She wasn't sure if Vien was joking or not, and she didn't have a reason to go further into detail why, in fact, it was impossible for Kanrel, or any priest, to 'like' someone in such a way.
Vien's grin subsided, leaving behind a slight smile. She was silent for a while. "I sometimes miss him," she muttered, and suddenly shook her head, forming another smile to cover herself. "Are you going to visit your parents anytime soon? They've been missing you for a long, long time."
Roslyn stopped in the middle of motion. For a whole second, she didn't know what to do with the mug that had reached her lips. She decided to place the mug back on the counter. She got up, saying, "I have some matters I've got to deal with."
Gracefully, she hurried away, waving good-byes to Vien, while she yelled after her: "Come by anytime! You'll get to drink for free whenever you want!"
She hurried past the drunks, the fools, the flirts, and the barmaids. She breached through the front door, accepting the ale-free fresh air of the outside, and the darkness that had begun to descend upon Jersten. The sun had begun setting on the horizon. How many hours had she wasted loitering? She wondered as she stepped past a young couple who were making their way into the tavern.
Roslyn left none the wiser.
Her steps were still quick, but reaching the market, she slowed down. She wasn't in a rush anymore. There wasn't a subject she didn't want to dodge, not in sight at least.
Besides, there weren't that many people around. Most merchants had already packed their things for the day, leaving behind only empty stalls and leaving with heavier coin purses than on the morrow. Or so every self-respecting merchant hoped to do.
But somehow, she found herself thinking about the young couple that had just walked by her. What would they do in the tavern? Would they have fun? Would they share a moment of love, one that might be just that one moment and nothing more, or will it blossom into something grand, like a love that lasts a lifetime?
Perhaps, she scoffed. Throughout the years she had noticed one thing about 'moments of love' which might as well be momentarily relapses of reason, wherein lust brings forth life, and the new born life reminds men of their sense of responsibility, which thereafter forces a marriage of two, for the sake of all three people involved, and of course the disappointed families of both adult parties.
Just how many marriages had she had to bless where the bride was already pregnant, and the groom grins a sheepish smile while peeking at his angry mother in the audience?
Somehow, it was lovely, but quite sad at the same time. Surely, some marriages like that would come to last, and at other times they would devolve into something far more ugly and unfair for both parties. Divorces weren't illegal, but they were frowned upon, especially if you had had a child.
Roslyn shook her head. In the following few weeks or months, would that couple come by with their families, the girl already pregnant, and ask her to do her priestly duties, and bless their marriage? A happy occurrence, it ought to be.
Roslyn stopped suddenly. The temple was right ahead, but she had noticed two people sitting at a bench in the small park that surrounded the temple.
Orfia and Doren sat side by side, in a silence broken only by a suppressed cry of a father and the muffled words of comfort of a daughter. Doren had a letter in his hands, one now struck by fallen tears. For a man like him, it must've been difficult to cry in front of his own daughter. And for a woman like Orfia, it must've been even more difficult. How often had she seen tears in her own father's eyes?
Roslyn hurried off. Not wanting to stare or be noticed by the two. What right did she have to participate in such a moment? Had she not inadvertently caused those tears to emerge? Was this moment for them bitter, or did catharsis exist for the two?
It didn't matter. She had no right to ask, nor question. She could only walk by and hope for the best. Yet, even she found herself fighting against her own conflicted emotions.
Could Roslyn be like Orfia? Could she find comfort in her own parents, and could she offer some back to them? Did she even have the right?
Without thinking about which way to go, she stepped into the temple through the main entrance and met the dull lights that lit the hall. The doors closed behind her, and she felt like ripping her own hair off.
Why did it all have to be so difficult? Couldn't things be simpler than they were? Couldn't she really just remove all doubts, all the things that bothered her mind, and live without caring for what she had become, or what she had lost when she became what she now was?
She fought against tears of frustration. She shouldn't cry. What was the point of it? It was not like the tears would redeem her; they wouldn't purify. She swallowed and lifted her gaze from the dimly lit stone floor. Lift your head and pretend. She met the gaze of the Angel in the painting, still judging, still looking down at her and the rest of her ilk, as if questioning: 'Is this little what your faith equates to? Doubt and regret?'
Blasphemous thoughts arise as her hands tighten into fists. Were they not the reason for what she became? Had they not caused her to lose all that she had desired? Ripped from love, from pleasure, and peace; exchanged with self-reproach, ash, and relief? Given only memories that cling to you, becoming regrets...
Yet, a sigh ran through her. Right this very moment, she could end it all. She could tear down this temple, and rip away the eyes of that so-called Angel who stares at her...
But a memory, even in its regret, reminds one of bliss. This temple is the stage of some of her dearest memories. The moments that have already gone by, the snow-fights, the biscuits, and the wonders for magic pile on top of each other... and she didn't want to soil them further. To others, they still held importance.
And so, she realized, she must cling to what is left so as not to despair over what tries to hollow it.
She almost scoffed—memories, how funny they are. At times, they are the thing that keeps us living, through good moments that have come by; we cling to such rare occurrences, we feast upon their memory so that we may live a day longer. But they are so rare and there is so much more darkness than there is light... So, why not just give in and call it a day? Why not die, and let darkness wash over us?
But in the end, the answer is so simple. The argument against one's self-righteous choice of oblivion: to have just another moment as such, another moment to cling to, another happy occurrence, one more moment as such shall sustain for me another long patch of darkness. Or so she must delude herself into believing.
She stepped away from the darkness below the painting. Opening the door to her own quarters, where light was plentiful the moment she lit a candle and sat down on her chair to think, perhaps foolishly, a moment longer.