Archive of Our Own ^beta

Execrated in visage. Forgotten in name. For ever and ever.

As the Twisted One crumbles to dust before his eyes, and Mea Culpa falls away in his hands, the voices of the High Wills echo in his mind.

There is no penance that can exonerate this sin.

His body weakens, his purpose gone, his life force severed from the Miracle. Not only has he carried Custodia’s guilt, he has freed them from it. From the manipulations of the High Wills, from the distortions of the Miracle. 

Eternal condemnation. The price for ultimate blasphemy.

The ground under him gives way. Crisanta catches his falling body. He feels an odd sort of peace, a weight off his shoulders that should be increasing instead, and yet, he has no desire to repent for this final sin. 

He stares up at Crisanta, vision blurring. In her blindness he knows she cannot see him, but he hopes she can sense what his heart is saying. As the light leaves him, his final thoughts stray to her, the woman in Albero, the one with gentle hands and a kind soul. He remembers her at the church, lips over her rosary as she wept with her guilt.

“It is done,” Cristanta says, her voice sounding distant. “Now be at peace.”

And he is. Eternal condemnation is nothing to him, not when he knows none shall ever again have to suffer at the hands of the Miracle. He can rest. 

*

Harsh rays of light sting his eyes. His body aches with a strange stiffness. His eyes open to the sight of broken pillars, dusty chains, and iron capirotes. A location so hauntingly familiar.

It’s the abbey of the Brotherhood of the Silent Sorrow. His birthplace, and once his home.

The brick floor under him digs into his flesh. With effort, he sits up. His hair falls over his eyes, and as he reaches up to swipe it away, he catches sight of his hands. Smooth, unblemished, no sign of the scars and cuts he has become accustomed to. His body is as bare as the day he was born, and as he looks down at it, similarly unscarred. 

Haltingly, he rises off the ground, stumbling to his feet. Confusion overcomes him, coupled with horror. Was this what the High Wills had meant for him, an everlasting purgatory to repeat forever? After finally completing his pilgrimage, and laying down for his final, sought-out rest.

He wanders around the abbey, tracing familiar steps. He finds a room with some old clothing and a cloak, and as he dresses himself, he hears footsteps. In the courtyard, surrounded by the well-decomposed bodies of his fallen brothers and sisters, stands a tall, familiar figure. 

Crisanta turns in his direction, holding out her crimson sword. “Name yourself.”

He remains silent, holding to the Brotherhood’s vow.

“In my heart I felt a silent call to this place,” Crisanta mutters. “Something was awakening. Was it you?”

Silence. He steps forward slowly, wondering if Cristanta recognises him without his armour and capirote, before remembering that his physical form means nothing to her. As he walks, his footsteps echo around them.

“So it is you.” She lowers her sword, approaching. “It cannot be. I laid you to rest myself.” 

One of her hands takes his, and she runs a finger over his smooth palms, over where the scars from Mea Culpa ’s thorns should be. “Unmarred. Your soul is the same and yet…” She steps back, nodding. “Your body is not the one laid in your tomb. A second has been reborn.”

He frowns. It was the Miracle that kept his body from passing over, before he had severed Custodia from it. His purpose was complete, and the chains binding his soul to this world should be gone, to be alongside the souls of his brothers and sisters surrounding him. 

She seems to hear his thoughts. “No, not by the Miracle. Or perhaps, not the Miracle we know of.”

He feels his hands shaking. What more is being asked of him? How much more must he give?

“This new body is unburdened,” Crisanta assures in a calming tone. “I sense nothing, no weight, no sins, no greater purpose. As if you were an infant. I cannot call you the Penitent One any longer.”

That was not the case when the Miracle would continually resurrect him. He would awaken with his burdens, and with the scars that mottled his body. A reminder of the mission, of the pilgrimage entrusted to him. He holds his hands up, seeing nothing on his clean skin. 

“Perhaps—” Crisanta begins slowly, as if piecing her thoughts together. “Perhaps your sacrifices have not fallen on deaf ears. But whatever it is that has taken pity on your soul, why would it bring you back to this accursed world? Why not leave you be, on the other side?”

He remembers his dying moments, his final thoughts. Because that is not where my heart most yearns to be, not yet.  

Crisanta suddenly lifts her sword again, holding it up against his throat. “After the Miracle had kept you from death, having you return once more is nothing short of cruelty. Give me the word and I will lay you to rest once more, and give you back your deserved peace. Free you the way you freed me.”

He shakes his head and steps away from the crimson wrappings. He knows why he is back here, he knows what he has been given. Though brief and fleeting, as all human life is, it is the calm before the storm of his blasphemy eventually seizes him. 

Crisanta takes back her weapon. “So be it. You have been granted one last life, a respite. Though I cannot say I envy you.”

She removes a smaller sheathed dagger from her armour, and hands it to him. “I will continue to watch over Custodia, and guide its people away from the lie. Take this as a symbol of my protection, and as my blessing to you. Farewell, brother.”

He takes it, nodding in gratitude. They clasp hands, and he watches as she leaves, uttering a silent goodbye to her in his heart. 

*

The twisted creations of the Miracle that once populated the Holy Line are gone. Though still dark and gloomy as ever, the path is clear and peaceful, and for the first time in his memory he no longer feels the need to walk with his weapon drawn. The occasional person passes him by, paying him no mind. No longer is he a penitent in a silver-iron capirote, he is an ordinary traveller, baring his unashamed face to the world. His body and face are the same and yet everything is foreign to him, like he has stepped foot into another’s life, one not intended for him.

The outskirts of Albero come into view, and a sudden tiredness overcomes him. He still feels as if in a daze, lost and uncertain. After all, there is no surety that his trial is complete, no confirmation that he has truly been freed. He feels like he is still the penitent he once was, he still feels the urge to draw his sword and be on his guard. But he wills the thought away, because as of now, there is nothing else that calls to him so strongly. He has one last debt to pay, and for once he is glad for it.

His mind recalls her shaking voice, bordering on tears. 

Please come back safe, she had pleaded, clutching onto him. I don’t want to spend my life wondering what has happened to you.

And for barely a second, the temptation nearly overcame him. At that moment, as his heart was bleeding to see her so distraught over him, he could have given her anything. But that would not have freed her. Straying away from his goal would not have given her the peace she so desired. Only vanquishing the High Wills would, and so when he marched into his grave, he did so with no hesitation.

And now he walks free himself, a shell of the man he once was, and he does not regret it at all.

On his way, he passes by a slow ravine. He walks into it, letting it submerge him for a few moments. In the water he thinks of his life, of the paths he’s traversed and the beings he has slayed. He thinks of his pilgrimage. The rushing water cleanses him, and he lets go of everything he once was, feeding his past into the ravine. As he walks out dripping wet, only then does he truly feel reborn.  

It takes him a few hours to reach the populated part of the town, and by then the wind has dried him off. Walking through Albero, he almost expects the people to turn and look at him as they always did, before remembering that none of them recognise his face. None, except one, though as he makes his way to her shop’s back door, he realises that he does not know how much time has passed since his final death. She could have forgotten him, or be dead herself. Maybe this is what the High Wills meant. A fitting punishment, one no amount of penance can end. 

He hesitates before raising his hand to knock at the door. This late in the evening, her shop is closed, so very few are around to see him here. Before he can knock again, the door swings open, and all his perturbation melts away.

Though more weary, she looks about the same. Her beautiful eyes widen and her lips part at the sight of him. They stand facing each other in silence. Still in shock, she steps back from the door to let him inside out of habit, but he can tell her mind does not believe her eyes.  

And then, all of a sudden, she begins to cry. 

*

As he stands before her against the setting sun, she almost does not recognise him. His loose curls of long brown hair shine like gold against the light, and his face, one she has spent no more than a day with, looks alive. The lines of his face and the heaviness under his eyes are gone, and he appears calm in a way she only sees in her dreams. Free from all the blood and guilt and pain he carried every time she saw him. 

Her prayers have not gone unanswered after all. He is safe, living, and on her doorstep. At that moment, every fear that has gripped her for months releases her, like a python finally uncoiling from its prey. She wonders if this is another dream, but as he steps in and closes the door behind him, she knows it is not. 

Tears begin to fall, and every worry she has harboured in her soul comes pouring out. 

He looks taken aback, taking a few tentative steps towards her, uncertain on what to do.

“I thought you were dead,” she mutters, wiping at her face. 

She reaches her shaking hand out, cupping the side of his face. It’s warm with life under her touch, real and true. She isn’t dreaming. He raises his own hand to touch her back, but pauses in the air, like he is unsure if he is allowed to, watching her with a look of reverence. 

“I never stopped praying for you,” she says, the thumb of her cupped hand rubbing over his cheekbone. “Even when whispers spread of your supposed heresy. I never stopped.”

Seeing as he was not going to do it first, she throws her arms over his shoulders in an embrace. Only then does he move, instantly enveloping her so tight her feet lift off the ground. He holds her to him, face in her hair, desperate and clinging. He doesn’t let her go, even as she pulls away to look in his glassy eyes. 

“Even as I was mourning you,” she continues, her face barely away from his. “Even as the Miracle was released from us. I prayed for this moment.”

He glances away, his expression forlorn. 

She turns his head back towards her. “Your face is uncovered. Have you completed what you set out to do?”

He nods. His comforting arms around her still hold her hovering above the floor, like she weighs nothing to him. 

“Then it is over? Do you have anywhere else to be?”

He shakes his head.

“Then please, will you stay a little longer this time?” If she sounds as if she’s pleading, so be it. 

The barest hint of a smile graces his handsome face, and he nods. 

“You will not worry me again, will you?”

His eyes narrow in an expression she registers as guilt. He shakes his head, putting her down to touch his heart in a promise.

Relief courses through her at the sight of it, and it nearly threatens a new well of tears. She cannot help but lean in and press her lips against his, and after a modest pause, he returns the kiss softly.

“You must be exhausted. Let me pour you a drink,” she says, taking him by the arm and leading him further into her home. She guides him to her dining table and with still-shaking hands, places down two cups. With how much she’s trembling, she nearly spills the wine as she pours it, so much so that he has to gently take it from her, gesturing for her to sit. 

“I apologise, my heart is still racing,” she breathes as she sits down next to him, rubbing at the tears in her eyes. He fills up her cup and pushes it towards her, eyebrows raising as he watches her quickly drain it. 

“I’m still in shock, seeing you at my door. I almost did not recognise you with how much better you looked, I’m so awfully used to seeing you bleeding.”

Carefully, he takes her quivering hands between his to steady them. They’re firm and comforting, and she feels her heart begin to settle. Her eyes stray to his strong hands, turning one over, expecting the usual scarring, but it seems they have all healed without a blemish or callus. Frowning, she examines the other, and it’s the same, looking like it has never picked up a sword in its life. As someone who has healed his wounds before, she knows how deep his go, far too deep to vanish within a year. 

Her breath catches in her throat, and her heart rate begins to pick up again. She has seen enough injuries to know how they heal, and for a man like him, he should be littered with them, as he usually was whenever she saw him.

She looks up at him, her eyes meeting his. All of a sudden, his fervent gaze no longer looks endearing.

“You—” she manages, dropping his hands. “You are him, are you?”

He nods quickly, beginning to notice her sudden change of emotion. He leans back, as if to give her some space, or to appear less threatening. 

But she isn’t convinced. He had vanished, the people of Custodia had called him a dead man, only for him to suddenly reappear at her door a year later, face bare, with none of his armour or even the sword he would always refuse to part with. And she has let him in, thinking nothing of it, nothing but immense relief. 

Now she feels a steadily mounting fear. She rises from her seat and steps back, her voice shaking. “I dreamt that you died. I saw your body in a stone coffin. But it was too real to be just a dream.”

He sees the sudden alarm on her face, and begins to look worried himself. He nods at her words, trying to communicate. 

“What are you saying?”

He pauses, trying to think this through. He lifts a finger and runs it horizontally over his throat, before nodding again. 

There can be no other interpretation of that gesture. “You did die?”

He dips his head in confirmation. 

Her throat goes dry. “I don’t understand. If you’re dead then—”

He shakes his head quickly, standing up, but wincing when he sees her step further back. By the look on his face, it brings him pain to see her reacting to him like this, treating him as if he could be a danger to her. 

“Who are you?” Her voice sounds barely above a whisper. 

He points to his chest, as if to say I am him, but her expression doesn’t change. Exhaling, he sits down and takes her empty cup. He keeps it upright for a second, then lays it down on the table, gesturing at it. 

Upright must mean alive. Laying the cup horizontally must mean death. She nods hesitantly.

He then lifts the laying cup upright again, pointing to it. 

She begins to make sense of it. “You were dead.”

He nods. He lays the cup down and lifts it up again.

“But you…rose up?” she mutters. 

He nods rapidly, but his hand makes a gesture that indicates somewhat.

“How?”

He shifts his shoulder, indicating he is not sure himself, before pointing at the ceiling above. 

“Something brought you back? Is that why your scars have vanished?”

He dips his head in affirmation, touching over his heart in the symbol of the Twisted One. Swearing on it. 

“I don’t understand, the Miracle…is it not gone?”

He does not seem to have an answer. 

Apprehension still clings to her. “Why did you come back?”

At that, even he seems to be at a loss. Haltingly, he points at his chest, and then points to her. He does it again, a finger to himself, and then extending to her. He looks at her with desperation, begging her to understand.

Slowly, she begins to. Why else would a dead man rising from his grave come to see her?

“Because I was waiting to see you.”

He points to himself again.

“And because you wished to see me.”

He begins to approach her again, slowly to assess her reaction and to make sure he is not frightening her any further. She stays still, letting him come closer and take her hand. He presses it over his chest, letting her feel the steady—yet sped up—beating of his heart. Alive and true.

She remembers the state she would often see him in, bloody and beaten and bruised. She remembers the cold, dense iron of his capirote and the thorns on his strange, heavy sword. All for his penance. He had finally found peace in death, and despite that she selfishly prayed to have him again, and here he has been delivered, full-blooded and living.

“I am sorry,” she mutters. 

He shakes his head. He keeps her hand over his heart, squeezing it gently, leaning closer.

“You were dead,” she continues to mutter. Her mind flashes with half-forgotten images of that terrible dream, his cooling body resting in his lonely tomb. “Gone from this world.”

He stays still. 

She tells herself she will mourn that fact at a later time. “I do not see why you would return here, rather than relishing this second chance. You had no obligation, and yet you’ve come to me.”

He cocks his head, seeming despondent, as if it should have been obvious that he would seek her out. She begins to feel idiotic for doubting his identity, after all, no imitation of this man would ever think to come to her, to her small shop in the sleepy town of Albero.

No man but him.  

“I feel selfish to say this but…” She huffs slightly when he shakes his head at her words. “Yes, it is selfish.”

Seeing her apprehension fade seems to send a wave of relief over him. His shoulders drop and his expression morphs into something less worried. 

“I am happy you thought to come here to me. Honoured, really.”

He shakes his head, as if to say do not be. A look of fondness passes over his features, and she feels tempted to lean in once more, but shakes the thought away. Instead, she rests her forehead against his chest and closes her eyes, breathing.

He holds her patiently through it, giving her the time she needs to collect herself. She still feels as if she is living a dream, but his warmth is enough to convince her mind that it is acceptable to let go of her anxieties. He is alive and back. That is what should matter at the moment. With one final sigh, she lifts her head back up. 

“Well then, seeing as my foolish outburst has been sorted through…” She weakly smiles when he shakes his head again, halfway through her sentence. “Let’s sit back down. I have a lamb stew waiting to be warmed, and there is plenty of drink left in the bottle.”

Selfless as usual, he insists on helping her prepare dinner despite her protests. As she sets the dining table with dinnerware, he hefts the hot, heavy pot off the stove with barely a struggle. After all the battles he has fought, this must be nothing to him. At that moment, she can’t help but let her gaze linger, once again feeling that familiar fascination she would have whenever she saw him, all those seasons ago.

Before their meal they hold hands to offer a prayer of thanks, though to what she is not sure of anymore. The Miracle has departed from this world, taking equally its blessings and curses. She says it regardless, knowing whatever it is she is praying to, it gave him life and freed him. She is no longer a snag in the way of his pilgrimage, and perhaps, now he can allow himself to become something more.

She takes a glance at him. His eyes are closed, lips busy in a silent prayer, and for a moment his hand tightens around hers. She shuts her eyes once more, and mutters another word of thanks, but this time not for the food. 

*

Following the recent rains, her garden is in a joyful bloom. The day after he had come, she had spent no time closing up her shop early in the morning so she could show him the produce she grows behind her home. Barriered off by a tall wooden fence and bursting with plants, flowers, and herbs of various properties and uses, it is her own private piece of the Dream. 

“This is yarrow,” she explains, as she harvests the little white flowers. “I use it for wounds.”

He doesn’t seem to hear her. Sitting at the edge of the garden, against the wall of her house, he stares blankly into nothingness. It’s not the first time this morning she has caught him lost in his thoughts. As she keeps busy with her harvesting, he just sits there silently (not by choice, but because she had to force him to relax), periodically breaking out of his trance to acknowledge her words or to watch her work. 

She can’t say she is surprised. Having devoted so much to a cause, and nothing but it, only to find yourself freshly aimless, with no clear sense of purpose. Nameless, faceless, voiceless, back then such things would mean nothing to a penitent, but he is no longer one. 

He had spent all morning trying to help her, clearing up dishes and aiding her in stocking the shop and even helping her process herbs to sell. She had continually denied him, calling him her guest and telling him he needed to rest. Now she understands why it had bothered him so: without some purpose to serve, what did he feel was left of him?

She picks up her basket and walks over to sit beside him, hoping to give him some reprieve from the thoughts that are obviously bothering him. He turns his head in her direction, jutting his head in the direction of her basket in a questioning manner. 

She tries her best not to feel flattered, because he is well aware she enjoys talking about such things. “There are too many to get through in a day, but to begin,” she says as she pulls out a purplish flower with the stem and leaves attached, “this is comfrey. Good for joints and sprains and broken bones, amongst other things.”

He nods, seeming interested. 

“Oh, and this is yarrow, what I was telling you about.” She hands him a sprig of the small yellow-white flowers, watching him examine it. “Plenty of uses, but most importantly, it is excellent for wounds and bleeding. I make a poultice of its leaves, you may remember me applying it on you, for how much your blood enjoys escaping you.” 

He playfully looks away in response to her words, and to her amusement, he places the flower in a pocket to keep for himself. He beckons her to continue, leaning back and letting the warm sun wash over him. She follows suit, pressing against his side as she picks out more plants from her basket. 

“This is rosemary, you already know this. And this is elderberry, very popular in the cold months. I make excellent tea using this, and sometimes I will have customers coming only to buy it from me. And this is mint, if you aren’t aware of mint feel free to leave.”

As her words continue to spill endlessly, he listens without complaint, and looks content. Sometimes she would wonder if he wishes he could speak back, but seeing him now, it seems as if he has no problem being the one who listens. 

“You are an awfully patient man,” she muses in between her ramblings. 

He raises his brows in a questioning manner. 

“You have answered this before, but do these half conversations not bore you?”

At that, he gives her a silent chuckle, shaking his head. It is so rare to see a smile like this crack through his steely features, even one as weighed-down as this one. Every time she manages to draw out one, she feels a great sense of accomplishment, and of awe. He has always been strikingly beautiful to her, even before he had revealed his face, and seeing his lips steadily curl upwards only serves to enhance that. 

“My mother once told me when I was a girl, if I ever hoped to find someone, he would have to be a saint.” She laughs at the fond memory. “Even as a child, I would sit by the local healer and bother him with every question that came to mind.”

He raises his brows, looking rather impressed. 

“Yes, I was always a curious little girl. What about you, how was your childhood?” It’s only after she asks that she realises he has no way of really telling her.

He does not respond, apart from his shoulders making a non-committal gesture.

“Did you know your parents?”

He takes a pause to think, before shaking his head. 

“So you were raised in a monastery? Or perhaps a convent?”

He dips his head in affirmation.

“Was silence one of your monastery’s vows?”

He nods, and points to his head.

“And the capirote? I always wondered why you never wore a cloth one, like other penitents do.”

He doesn’t give her much of a response to that, his gaze slowly drifting off into the distance. With how his eyes narrow, lost in memory, he seems suddenly melancholic. She elects not to ask what became of his brotherhood, and why he isn’t amongst them anymore, despite continuing to respect their vow. 

Birds soar overhead, and the sun beats down gently on the earth. A soft breeze blows, and for once in her lifetime, it does not carry the stench of death and decay. They sit in a peaceful silence, watching the greenery around them. She rests her head on his shoulder, and after a moment, he rests his over hers. 

After a while, one of his hands reaches around her to pick up her harvesting knife, inspecting its balance.

“Unfortunately, it’s no good for anything other than plants,” she says, still clinging to his side. Despite how short their meetings were, she has missed him greatly, and she intends to make full use of their time together. 

He twists the knife expertly through his fingers, flipping it through each digit in some sort of impressive trick he must have learned in his youth. He turns to gauge her reaction, a gesture she finds so sweetly endearing. 

“Goodness,” she laughs, clasping her hands together in awe. “I can’t imagine the pain it must have taken to learn that.”

He shrugs, but even he can’t help but beam at her praise. He stands up, still holding the knife, and gestures in the direction of the garden.

“Do you wish to see more plants?”

He taps at the knife.

“Ah, you want to learn how to harvest them.”

He nods, offering her a hand. She takes it, letting him pull her to her feet.

At any other time, she would have blushed at his genuine attention for her life and work, but as of now, she feels as if this is another way for him to feel less of a burden on her. It would explain his actions since he had come yesterday evening, it would explain why he would always offer to pay her when she treated him. Perhaps he thinks that if he could learn how to help her, he would have some purpose in her life. As if his presence alone is not enough for her. 

“If you want to learn, it’ll be my pleasure to teach you, but…” Her words trail off, wondering if she might be assuming too much. He is the kind who spends a lot of his time on the road. It is equally possible he simply wishes to learn about medicinal plants for his own needs. 

He cocks his head in a questioning manner. 

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but you have been so generously helpful ever since you have come. I just don’t want you to think it’s necessary, or that I expect it of you.”

His face stills, and she realises she is right. 

“I appreciate it all the same, of course,” she adds, not wanting her words to be taken the wrong way. “You have only ever been patient and kind. And I’m not sure how to explain how glad I am that you’ve come to me again—”

He places his hand on her shoulder, causing her to pause. His deep brown eyes look into hers, and if he is asking her what’s wrong. 

“You are very selfless,” she explains, choosing her words carefully. “But I don’t want you believing you need to be that way with me, because I appreciate you regardless. I hope I am making sense.”

He nods to assure her, but his deep gaze on her tells a different story. As perceptive as she can be at times (she would like to thank her shopkeeping experience for that), she can’t make sense of his expression. Maybe he has never expected to hear something like this.

She hates to make him feel this way. Shaking her head, she says, “Come, I’ll teach you.” 

She takes his hand and leads him, and he follows behind, eyes not leaving her for even a second.

*

The sun has barely risen at this hour, painting the sky marvellous shades of red, orange, yellow, and pink. Most of Albero is asleep, so they take their chances out towards the Holy Line, where townsfolk claim life has begun to return. It has been a couple of days since he has come, and she does not want him growing antsy with being constantly inside.

On their way there they run across some street dog. She initially pays it no mind until she notices he has stopped in his tracks, hesitantly holding out his hand to the dog. It sniffs at him in curiosity before breaking into a string of excited barks, pawing at him and wagging its tail. Wasting no time falling to his knees, he runs his hands over the dog’s fur, silently chuckling as it bombards his face with licks and kisses. 

“It seems you’ve found an old friend,” she says, admiring the sight.

He nods at her with a smile, giving the dog a final pet goodbye before standing up. Returning to her side, he offers her his arm and she takes it, continuing towards the Holy Line. The dog walks alongside them, much to his joy, up until the edge of the forest.

Clutching her basket with one hand and his arm with another, she looks around in astonishment. She does not stray so far out of Albero often, but whenever she did, all she saw were enormous dead-looking trees, fading yellow shrubs, and the occasional corpse of some poor, lost soul. Now, even in the dim light, all she sees is a carpet of fallen green leaves adorning the path, living plants shooting out of the earth, and in the distance she can hear the sounds of birds chirping. The ancient trees look a lot more lively too, towering tall and thick.

Despite the newfound safety of this place, he is suddenly on his guard, hand hovering over the sheathed dagger strapped to his side. 

“My, it’s as if Life herself has taken a stroll through this forest,” she mutters in amazement as they walk deeper into it. Her eyes catch sight of a bush climbing up a tree, littered with blue-black berries, and she tugs on his arm. “I see something over there.”

He follows her closely behind as she heads towards the bush. As she inspects the fruit, it looks vaguely recognisable, and she curses herself for not bringing her guidebooks. With her knife, she cuts off a few stems of berries and some leaves, and puts them in her basket to take home. 

“Have you seen these before?” she asks as she cleans off her knife. 

Eyes still glued to their surroundings, he spares the bush a glance before nodding. 

“Then you must know if they’re edible.”

Before he can respond, a rustle sounds through the trees and his arm immediately comes around her, the other hand on the hilt of his dagger. They stay still for a few moments, but nothing seems to come of it.

“Maybe it’s just a squirrel,” she whispers, staying close to his side. 

He agrees, slowly relaxing his shoulders. It’s clear he’s on edge in these dark woods. After all, he is only here because he did not want her to be alone venturing so far from Albero. She can only imagine how many times he must have fought his way through every shadow and curse these trees used to harbour, born of the Miracle.

“Well then,” she says, turning back to the bush. “Have you ever tried to eat one of these?”

He nods. 

“So they are edible?”

He shakes his head, mouth in a straight line. 

She decides not to ask how he knows, leaving it to be a story for some other time. They continue their way through the forest, stopping occasionally at whatever plant or shrub she wishes to inspect. Slowly, her basket fills up, and the forest only grows thicker and darker. However, he makes no show of complaint, taking her wherever she points. 

“When I was a child,” she begins as he helps her over a ditch, “I would hear stories of penitents who entered this forest, only to never return. They say they’d go mad, wandering around with no purpose.”

He nods, before jutting his head towards something. She follows his line of sight, eyes landing on a decomposed corpse in the distance, lodged between two trees. She has seen enough of the dead for it to startle her, but it does make her breath catch.

“So it is true,” she mutters, her voice dropping. “I think we have wandered far enough.”

He dips his head in agreement, and the two turn around to head back. Luckily, the sun has risen enough for the forest to brighten, and it begins to look even more lush now than it did earlier. 

“The Miracle affected more than just the living,” she breathes as she looks around her. “Now I see it, it cursed places too. And people worship it so desperately.” 

He looks to her, cocking his head in a questioning manner.

“Yes, as did we. But in my case it was more so out of terror, than duty.” She shudders at the memories of those times, when she never knew life could ever be better. “In my line of work, you happen to see first hand what harm the Miracle’s creations were capable of doing. I’m sure you know better than anyone.”

A shadow passes over his face, a brief flash of indignation. Whatever he had witnessed on his pilgrimage, it was far worse than anything she could dare to imagine. Despite everything he has likely seen in these woods, the fact that he is accompanying her without complaint…

“Thank you for coming here with me,” she says, leaning her head against the arm she’s clutching. She has never gathered this many new plant samples in her life, and she would not have felt safe enough to journey so far had she been on her own. She could not be more grateful for his offered company. “I appreciate it more than you would realise.”

In response, he simply presses a kiss to the top of her head. Her heart squeezes in her chest, and all of a sudden she realises that if he keeps this up, she is in for a lot of trouble. 

*

According to her guidebooks, the berries he has claimed to have eaten are, in fact, severely poisonous. No wonder she found them familiar, it is her job to keep note of such things.  

“I can’t know for sure what sort of tolerance the Miracle gave you to survive that,” she says, seated at her kitchen table with books and parchment strewn around her. “But please do not try eating anything strange again.”

He sits at the opposite end, staring at a diagram in one of her medicinal pamphlets, though his eyes seem lost in thought rather than paying attention to what he’s looking at. He glances up and nods casually before returning to the page he’s observing, as if nearly dying is barely news to him. Though, she supposes with a grimace, that is likely the case.

With a sigh she closes her own book and says, “At the very least, if we happen to need someone dead we know what to do.”

He looks up again, this time with his eyebrow quirked in perplexity. She chuckles at his bizarre expression, and only then does he realise she is indeed joking. He shakes his head in an amused disbelief, huffing under his breath. 

“Having second thoughts about being here, hm?” 

He pauses for a moment before shaking his head, a hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Really?” she grins. “I could slip something in your tea, and you would never know.”

He gives her a shrug, as if to jokingly say I do not mind.

“Goodness,” is all she can respond with. “Never a complaint out of you.”

Once all her samples have been identified, recorded, and carefully preserved, she puts her guidebooks away and turns to the accounting booklet she keeps for her shop. The numbers are not as high as they were back when the Miracle hung over Custodia, but injury and illness wait for no divine intervention, so money is far from scarce.

As she writes, her quill scratching ink onto parchment, she feels his eyes on her. From all the times he has come here, it seems he enjoys patiently watching her work, whether she is tending to his wounds or harvesting produce or simply counting the coin she earns. It would be a lie if she says she does not like his gaze on her.

And it would definitely be a lie if she says she does not enjoy looking at him too. He is, for all intents and purposes, very nice to look at.

“This accounting reminds me,” she says, putting down her quill. “As a shopkeeper, I naturally hear all of Albero’s gossip. Back when you were the penitent who occasionally passed by, you happened to be the subject of much of it.”

He seems interested, gesturing for her to continue. 

“See, you were very mysterious, and that led people wondering who you were and how you looked underneath your armour. The ladies in particular,” she emphasises playfully, “all they spoke of was how tall you were and how handsome you must be.”

She has to fight back her laughter when his expression shifts, suddenly looking very awkward. 

“They were right, of course,” she adds, “but it is sad to think they will likely never know.”

He blinks slowly in disbelief, before glancing away with his forehead creased. 

This time she does let out a giggle, reaching over the table to poke him in the cheek. “Oh, don’t be shy now. You surely know I’m not lying.”

He grabs her hand, leaning in with an unamused look, but even he can’t help the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. 

“My, my. You look even better when you’re irritated,” she continues to tease, much to his chagrin. “If annoying you is always this enjoyable, I’ve just found myself a new pastime.” 

At that, he stands up and rounds the table towards her. She rises from her seat to try to dodge away, but he’s faster, bending down and throwing her over his shoulder. 

“Put me down,” she shrieks in laughter, holding onto him for purchase. “Goodness, fine, never again will I compliment you.”

He lets her struggle in the air for a few more moments before giving in to her demands, gently placing her back down onto the floor. He attempts to keep his face stoic, though she can see the mirth slipping through his expression. 

The entire interaction feels like a whirlwind through her. At one time he was nothing more to her than an unfeeling warrior, sword constantly dripping with blood and viscera. He was always exhausted, in pain, or heavy with guilt. 

And now, seeing him trying his hardest not to smile at her, with a lightness in his features she can only describe as unburdened—it is jarring. It is exactly what she has prayed for. And all of a sudden, keeping that joy afloat is all she wishes to do, forever.

“I really was not lying, though.”

At that, he can only glance at the heavens, crossing his arms. 

*

Every night she offers her bed for him to sleep in, and every night he very stubbornly refuses, despite her telling him it would be alright. He ends up sleeping in the straw bedding she makes the injured lie down on as she treats them, the same one she had shared with him that one night all those months ago.

Tonight, he puts up the same refusal, even daring to cross his arms and smirk slightly at her frustration. She is glad he’s letting himself smile more, but now is not the time for it. 

“You cannot possibly be comfortable spending an entire night there,” she groans, pacing back and forth. It would not even be the first time they’ve slept in the same spot, so his continued refusal makes no sense to her. It is just chivalry for the sake of it.  

His brows raise, looking amused. She reasons it’s because he has probably slept in worse places before, and her insistence that a clean, well-maintained straw bed would not be good enough for him is ridiculous to hear. 

“Be as gentlemanly as you like, it does not mean you have to settle for less,” she says. “My bed is big enough for the both of us.”

As usual, he does not give in, and she decides to drop it, not wanting to force him. At that moment, a hurried knock sounds at the door. His hand suddenly jumps to the sheathed dagger he keeps strapped constantly to his side, his face falling to serious. 

“Oh, it’s probably someone who needs help,” she mutters under her breath, adjusting her hair as she makes her way to the door. She pauses when she notices him trailing behind her. “I think it will be best if you stay behind.”

He regards her with a frown, hand not leaving his dagger.  

“The townsfolk do not know you’re here, nor do they know you are the penitent who used to pass by. Walking through a forest at dawn is one thing, but I do not need to explain why they would question me for having an uninjured man alone in my home at this hour.”

His hand lowers slightly, realising she has a point. But he still looks apprehensive, not wanting her to open her door alone this late.

“This is the duty I have chosen for myself,” she says hurriedly. “I do this more than you realise. If I am in any danger, I’ll just scream very loudly, alright?”

He hesitates, before nodding, though it’s clear he does not like it. He climbs halfway up her staircase, obscured from the view of the part of her shop she treats people in. 

At the door is a man she recognises from the church, carrying a teary-eyed young boy in his arms, whom she recognises as his son. The boy’s lower lip trembles, and there’s a piece of cloth wrapped around his hand. She beckons them both in, letting the father settle his son on a chair. 

“Andrés here has burned his hand on the stove,” he explains, soothingly running a hand over the boy’s hair. “Even when his mother warned him so.”

“Oh dear,” she chides, opening her medicinal bag. “Were you playing with something you were not supposed to?”

The boy pouts, not looking her way. She gently takes his hand and peels away the cloth bandage, causing him to whimper. 

“There now, my love,” she says, keeping her voice soft and comforting. He could not have been more than seven years of age, and judging by the tear tracks, is clearly scared. His palm is puffed up with a large red welt, but apart from the frightening look of it, it is far from the worst she has seen. “Don’t you worry. It will be gone within the week, as long as you take good care.”

She runs cool water over the injured hand before applying an ointment. Luckily, it is only a light burn, affecting little more than the skin. She finishes by wrapping clean linen bandages over it, securing them well enough to withstand a seven year old child’s lifestyle. 

She hands the father a vial of the ointment and some extra bandages, instructing him on when and how to use them. 

“You have my thanks,” he says, wiping his brow. “His mother was worried that he would lose sensation in his palm.”

“Thankfully, it’s only a surface wound. On the palm, it may not even leave a scar.”

He pulls out his coin pouch, even as she steps back at the sight of it. “Please, accept something. It is the least I can do for all your help.”

She clasps her hands behind her back, shaking her head. “This was nothing serious. Please, I won’t accept any payment, especially from a friend.”

He sighs, putting the pouch away. “Then all I can offer is my thanks, and Andrés’.” He turns to his boy, who is busy inspecting his bandages. “Andrés, what do you say?”

“Thank you,” the boy mutters shyly. 

“You are welcome, my love.” She gives the child a pat on the head. “Thank you for being so brave.”

“Take care,” the father tells her as he picks up his son. “Please feel free to visit us someday for a meal. We feel as if we barely see you at the church anymore.”

“Ah, I am just busy these days,” she responds, trying to remain casual. Many still pray to the Miracle, their faith unwavering despite it and its curses vanishing from their world. She, on the other hand, has only felt more and more hollow at the mention of it.

He nods, but something tells her he is not convinced. It is only when the door closes behind him that she can let out a sigh of relief. “They are gone,” she says out loud, heading towards the staircase.

He has stayed dutifully in the same spot for the entire incident, even his dagger is drawn. He keeps it out as he goes to check the locks on her door, before finally sheathing it. 

“It was just a little boy and his father,” she chastises, hands on her hips. Despite her words, she can admit she likes it when he is serious like this, being so careful for her safety. Around someone as strong and dutiful as him, she could never feel unsafe. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been doing this longer than you may think.”

He makes no indication that he has changed his mind. To her surprise, he undoes the sheathed dagger from his person, before offering it to her.

“I would not advise that,” she says. “I think it’s best if it stays with someone who can use it.”

He points to himself and then to her, pressing it in her hands. 

“I don’t understand.”

His face falls, reminded of the fact that there will be times she won’t catch on. He pulls the dagger out and guides her hand into a proper grip around the hilt, guiding her arms into what seems to be a defensive stance. 

“Oh, you’re going to teach me, like I taught you my own knife. Is that what you’re saying?”

He nods, tapping her cheek affectionately. 

She grins. “I don’t think I will do very well.” Putting the dagger back into its sheath, she hands it back to him. “But I will try, if you ask me to. Tomorrow morning?”

He nods. It is only then that she notices something different in his demeanour. His gaze on her is soft, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle ever so slightly. Perhaps hearing her treat someone has brought back memories of the two of them. For a man who is all hard lines, impossible strength and unwavering resolution, he can be very warm with her. 

“It is not so late,” she says, not wanting to leave his presence just yet. “Will you sit with me for a while?”

He responds by taking her hand, and the gesture means more than any words can. She leads him to a comfortable spot in her home, sitting down on a rug with their backs against her furniture. A dying oil lamp washes the room with a faint orange-yellow glow, and the world around them is quiet. 

Even though her eyes are focused on the shining white light of the moon outside her window, she notices the occasional glances he throws her way. Her heart stirs, and she shuffles closer till they’re pressed against each other, his arm around her shoulders. 

She is mature enough to recognise what she feels for the man, even if she has only begun to truly understand it, and she knows he feels a similar way for her. Their night together all those months ago, when he had come to her broken and on his last legs, he had kissed her, and it was not out of the feeling of friendship or gratitude. 

And yet, she feels uncertain on what to do, or where the future will take them, if it ever will. He may leave at any time to do whatever it is he intends to with this new life, and she will have to learn all over again how it feels to be lonely. For now, she is glad she has his company, even for a short while.

His grip tightens. She faces him, and he taps at her head with his eyebrows raised.

“Are you asking me what I’m thinking about?”

He nods. 

She wonders if she should be honest, before internally reprimanding herself for the thought. He would never lie to her, so why should she?

“I was thinking about you, if you would believe me. What you are planning to do now with your life.”

He doesn’t give her a response, his face looking grim. Maybe there is no real way for him to tell her.

“Unsure?”

He regards her for a moment, before pointing to her.

“What do I think?” She exhales, thinking of the right way to tell him. “You are free to do as you please, of course. But you must know how much I’ve come to care about you. Wherever you plan to go, and whatever your future holds, I hope to always be some part of it.”

His expression shifts to the same one he had back in the garden, as if she has said something he would never expect anyone to say to him. Or maybe he just looks lost. 

She does not like that. “I consider you one of my dearest friends, I’ll have you know. I do hope I mean the same to you.”

He nods quickly, as to avoid any misconception. His gaze leaves her, staring down at the floor, and his brows slightly knit. Gently, she places a hand on his cheek, bringing him back to face her. 

He cocks his head, as if to ask her why?

Her heart breaks at the sight of it. “Are you asking me why?”

He dips his head in confirmation.

She thinks of the first time she saw him, petting and feeding the stray dog. She remembers how he had paid her extra when he had purchased from her, and how he had donated half to the Kissers. She thinks of all the renovations the church has been through solely through his tithes. She remembers how he had kept guard for her, and all before they even considered each other friends. 

He would come to her bleeding, his sword scarlet with the battles he fought. The townsfolk spoke of him with a fearful fascination, the powerful pilgrim of the Miracle. His armour was hard edges and unforgivingly cold, a tall omen of the Miracle’s will. And yet…

“How can I not cherish someone like yourself?” she says. “You have only ever been kind and generous, despite what people thought of you. Even when you were in no state or obligation to be.”

The last thing she expects is for him to point to her.

Confused, she asks, “Me?”

He nods, still pointing at her. She realises he’s calling her what she’s calling him. As if to say, I care about you for the same reason.

“We are far from comparable,” she huffs. 

He shakes his head, then gesturing in the direction of the part of her home that constitutes her medical area. No wonder he was looking at her with warmth after the boy and his father had left.

“They were people I knew from the church, it was nothing. Hardly an inconvenience to me.”

He shakes his head again, the corners of his mouth rising. The hand over her shoulder moves to run over her hair, patting it down almost lovingly. Seeing as he is not going to elaborate any further, she lowers her head to rest on his chest, arms around his middle. 

“I hope you stay for a long time,” she mutters with a sigh. “I know it is selfish of me to ask, but there is no one I like the same way I like you.”

He has never needed to say anything. With the way he pulls her closer, gently ruffling the top of her head, she already knows he feels the same way. 

They sit together in silence, broken only by the chirping of insects outside. His fingers continue to run over her hair soothingly, and it makes her eyelids want to droop. Against his chest, she can hear his heartbeat, and she smiles to herself when she realises it is slightly elevated. 

She could be happy leaving it at just this, if that is what he would prefer. But she wants more, to her realisation. She does not want to spend her life biding her time till he comes back to see her, only to watch him depart again. She does not want to pace around her empty home, always waiting for someone who needs her help to show at her door. She wants him and his tireless company, in every sense of the word, and everything he does only seems to strengthen that desire.

“You’ve spoiled me,” she mutters with a huff. Little more than a year ago, she would hardly be bothered by the thought of solitude, in fact she preferred it. Now, she loathes the day she will no longer get to sit in his arms. She lifts her head off his chest, meeting his gaze. “You give me so much. You make me feel special.”

He doesn’t respond, possibly not understanding what she means. She decides there really is only one way to prove it to him. 

She leans in, hesitating for a moment before pressing her lips against his. As expected, there is barely a pause before he kisses her back, almost in an instant, hand gently cupping the back of her head. Her heart flutters, only making her want this more ardently. She continues to kiss him, and he does not stop her, reciprocating her intensity instead of pushing her away. This is different from the times she has kissed him in greeting or to express her gratitude, and they’re both aware of it.

The world around her melts away, and he is all that is on her mind. The firmness of his lips against hers, as he seeks her out with a certain desperation, only sends heat through her body. No, this is not solely her desire. It is as if he has been waiting for her.

Feeling bold, she adjusts herself so that she’s sitting in his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Their kisses deepen to something far less chaste, searing and hungry for each other. Soon enough he stills, and she takes it as her cue to pull away, still seated on him. Her face feels hot, and as she brushes her thumb over his bottom lip, his is too.

“See,” she says, unable to pull her eyes away from his gaze, that has only tripled in its intensity. “You do spoil me, always giving me what I want. How can I not want more?”

Though as she speaks, she’s not sure anymore about what point she has been trying to make, because with the way he looks at her, he might want this just as much as she does. But if that is so, he has no way of telling her outright.

“Is it—” She hesitates, not wanting to risk their friendship by complicating it any further, though she feels silly even calling it a friendship now. With a sigh, she gathers her resolve and asks, “Is it the same for you? Have you ever dreamed of something more?”

A thousand expressions pass by his face in quick succession. The last thing she expects is for him to point to a spot on his upper arm. 

“I don’t understand.”

He points again to the same spot, making a slicing motion with his index finger. That is when it clicks. 

“Your wound,” she says. “The first I ever saw to.”

He had come to her, feverish and in pain. She can remember it like it were yesterday, holding his arm under her knee as she threaded a needle through his torn flesh. It was grim, and it was ugly, but for her it was just another day. 

And now, the scar of that fateful day is likely gone, along with the rest of the marks adorning his skin. She would never say it to him, but in her heart she wishes it would still be there. 

“Since then?” she asks, pushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. Hope and joy brew like an uncontrollable storm in her heart.

He nods bashfully before looking away. He almost seems melancholic, brows furrowing at himself. As if he once thought it wrong to desire something like this, and that same thought has returned.

“What’s the problem?” she asks. “I used to think I was a thorn in your pilgrimage, a distraction you did not need. But now, as you said yourself, your penance is complete.” 

She takes his hand, and he squeezes it in return, holding it up to his lips. Her voice is gentle as she continues. “But only if you allow it to be.”

His head turns back to her, and only then does she notice his eyes are shiny. How long has he desired this, only to force it aside in the recesses of his mind? Has every loving touch she has sent his way only anguished him more?

“Please,” she whispers, hurting at the thought of continuing like this any longer. “Can it be real? Can we have each other properly?”

Will you stay for the rest of my life? goes unsaid, but she hopes he can hear it in her heart.

Slowly, his mouth spreads in a tired smile, as if a weight is lifted off his shoulders. Has this always been his intention, but with no way of telling her, apart from waiting for her to decide herself? The thought is almost too much for her to bear.

He gently pulls her into an embrace, and she falls into his arms again, feeling his hand brushing away her hair before pressing his lips on her forehead. It is as good of an answer as any. 

*

Her eyes blink open against the soft rays of the morning sun streaming into her bedroom, and she groans before closing them again. Pressed against her is a familiar warmth, and she smiles to herself knowing she has indeed won yesterday’s argument. 

She doesn’t dare lift her head off his arm, knowing how much of a light sleeper he is. Instead, she is content with watching him gently snore, bundled up in her various blankets and covers. It’s almost amusing, seeing someone who was once so rough and intimidating now lying in her bed warm and comfortable, looking rather out of place. 

Asleep, his face is free from its usual steely expression, and despite the morning stubble on his jaw, he looks almost angelic. But as much as she hates to interrupt his slumber, she has a shop to see to. She rises as gently as she can and right on cue, he jumps awake, hand reaching to his side where his sword used to be. 

“You can sleep,” she says with a chuckle, trying and failing to press him back down onto the bedding, too strong for his own good. “There’s nothing left for you to worry about.”

Only at that moment does he realise where he is, and he suddenly looks very tense. It only makes her laugh harder.

“I’ll be heading downstairs to the shop if you need me,” she says, rising out of bed to get ready for her day. “I have to stock up a bit, and then we’ll have breakfast. Take your time.”

By the time she leaves the section of her house that makes up her shop and enters her kitchen, he is already there, brewing tea on the stove. She gives him a pat on the shoulder in acknowledgement as she heads to her pantry, taking out bread and olive oil. 

“Shall we slice some tomatoes to go with the bread?” she asks as she sets the table. “I made some cheese a few days ago, perhaps that too?” She turns his way to gauge his reaction, but he doesn’t give her one, shrugging non-committally.

“You’ll just take whatever you are offered and nothing more, of course,” she chuckles. Good for them, she has awoken with a good mood, because she decides to take out both. 

He carefully pours the tea into two cups, and offers her one. She leans with her back against the countertop as she takes a sip, humming in approval. “Much better than yesterday’s.”

He gives her a slight smile over his own cup, but it’s clear there’s something weighing over him. He seems lost in thought, and his face is rigid. Perhaps he is still getting himself used to the new development in their relationship, and his hesitance will fade with time. 

They fall into a routine, basking in each other’s company as they eat in a comfortable silence. Her thoughts stray to the previous night, and she wonders if this means they are truly lovers now. She thought of it warms her on the inside, and she instinctually reaches over the table for his hand, beaming when he takes it and presses a kiss to the back of hers.

Halfway through breakfast, her voice breaks the silence. “I have a question for you, and it’s something that has been at the back of my mind for a while.”

He pauses, and gestures for her to continue.

“You told me your monastery all took vows of silence,” she begins, wincing when his eyes narrow in pain at the reminder of his people. “If none of you spoke, how did you communicate?”

He holds up his hands. 

“Oh, I see,” she responds, nodding. She has heard of it before, those who cannot or do not speak or hear relying on hand gestures. “Can you say something in that language?”

He nods, and then makes a gesture, before pointing to the bread to indicate what it means. 

She looks on in awe. Why had he not mentioned this before? This could make a lot of things much easier for them. Though, now that she thinks of it, most of his communication has been through gestures, just the ones she could understand. 

“Is this something I could learn?” she asks, excitement building in her. “It would help me understand you more.”

He pauses in thought, before shrugging. 

“Why? Is it difficult?”

He makes a gesture she can rather easily interpret as somewhat.

“That is alright,” she says, wondering if that’s why he never introduced her to the concept. “I don’t mind if it’s for you.”

The light creases around his eyes deepen in affection, and yet the previous look of apprehension still clings to him. She finds herself at a loss for what to say about that, how to ask someone as closed off as him. There is a fine line between making an educated guess and assuming too much. 

When breakfast is finished, to no one’s surprise, he very stubbornly insists on taking care of the cleaning up. He gestures in the direction of her shop, wordlessly telling her to focus on that and leave the rest to him. 

“What a gentleman you are,” she scoffs, smiling through her sarcasm. He makes a show of ignoring her words, and to that she simply stands on her toes and kisses his cheek. “I’ll see you at noon.”

And with that she exits the kitchen, leaving him to sort through whatever inner turmoil he has in his own time.

*

As she tends to her shop, she catches sight of a familiar face walking up to her. 

“Catalina,” she says, beaming as she takes her hand in greeting. “How are you? How are the Kissers?”

Catalina, of the Kissers of Wounds, smiles back warmly. Her face is bright and rosy, so different to how perpetually exhausted it used to be. “We are all doing very well, thank you.”

“I can see that,” she responds as she gathers up the usual supplies the Kissers ask for. “All of Albero seems to be doing well, if you were to ask me.”

With the Miracle gone, so is the sickness of Albero, and with that the blessing of the Kissers. Despite that, they have not stopped their work. Tirso and the rest of them continue to house and aid the sick and dying, only now with far less burden. 

“Indeed,” Catalina says. “The two of us may be out of a job if this continues.”

“And what a blessing that would be, for a healer to be put out of her work.”

Catalina laughs, slinging the bag of supplies over her shoulder. “For that, we can only hope. I must be on my way now, but I pray we see each other soon.”

“As do I.”

With that, she watches as Catalina walks back to the house of the Kissers, feeling elated in the heart. After a lifetime of witnessing pain and suffering and endless guilt, seeing Custodia begin to find peace and prosperity stirs something in her. Something akin to a hope for a future she has, until now, only dreamed of. And if her slowly mounting suspicions are correct, the one responsible is currently in her very home. 

After the morning rush passes, and the sun is at its highest, she closes the shutters of her shop and heads to the living space of her house. She wanders around, but doesn’t find who she’s looking for, not until she heads out to her garden at the back of her house. 

He is at the same spot where he was last time, sitting on the ground, his back to the wall. His eyes are narrowed, lost in thought with a forlorn look on his face. Whatever it is that is bothering him, it seems it has stayed with him all morning. Or perhaps, ever since he has come here. Whatever feeling of brightness she has in her heart fades away, replaced with an age-old concern.

He perks up when he notices her approaching. She sits down next to him, leaning against his side as his arm wraps around her shoulders. 

“The weather is lovely today” she says, hoping to fill in the silence. 

He nods.

“The shop’s made a decent profit.”

Again, he just nods, squeezing her gently in congratulation.

“I spoke to one of the Kissers of Wounds. They’re all doing well.” At this point, she is just saying whatever comes to her mind. 

He seems glad to hear it, even if his eyes remain staring into the distance. There is definitely something worrisome on his mind, and she can’t help the nagging feeling of it involving her. After all, he has seemed downcast ever since he had woken up next to her. 

She sighs, knowing there’s no avoiding it. “Is there something wrong?”

He pauses for a moment, before shaking his head. 

She doesn’t know if she should drop it. She knows that if she continues to ask him outright, he will only assure her that he is fine. All she can really do is take his word for it.

“It must be boring here,” she mutters, trying to steer the topic. “None of the excitement your old life must have held.”

He frowns and shakes his head firmly, as if the very thought of it is preposterous. He then takes her hand and squeezes it, as if to assure her that he’s glad to be here with her. 

“Regardless of what I said yesterday, you don’t have to stay for my sake. If at any time you wish to leave, you are free to.” She sighs, wondering if he had perhaps misunderstood her when she asked if they could be each other’s. Or perhaps, only now has he realised the gravity of her request. “I won’t guilt you for it.”

At that, he raises a brow warily, only seeming confused. 

“I know, I asked you myself. But if—” she pauses, hoping she is not ruining things further. “If the relationship I desire is not what you wish for, you can tell me.”

His confusion morphs into worry. He shakes his head, still holding tightly onto her hand. 

“What I asked of you last night—”

He leans in with an almost despairing look. Begging her to understand something he cannot communicate. 

“—you do know what that entails?”

He nods, holding her hand over his heart. 

“Then am I reading this situation wrong?”

At that he pauses, before looking away. He shakes his head, as if to say not entirely.

Her breath catches in her throat. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say. 

“I don’t understand what the matter is,” she mutters, her voice weak. “I only wish for us to be happy.”

His mouth is downturned, and he looks pained to hear her tone. He sits up straight, pointing to her, cocking his head in a questioning manner. 

“Me? Of course I would be happy with you.”

He cocks his head again, as if asking her would you really?

And then she begins to realise what he’s trying to say. 

Do you think you would stay fulfilled with me, of all people?

And it only breaks her heart, because she can imagine why he would think this way. This once faceless, nameless, voiceless penitent, walking Custodia’s earth with nothing but duty. He had stumbled into her life only out of necessity. A chance she would forever be grateful for, and he may never have been certain. 

He is being hesitant, for her sake. He is giving her one last chance to break away before he gives his heart to her permanently, as if that is something she would ever want to do.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she mutters. “I’m sorry if I have ever given you reason to doubt me.”

He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed in what she registers as guilt for bringing it up in the first place. 

“I know it is a big thing to ask someone,” she says, wanting to speak the truth of her heart, once and for all. “A commitment. A life. But I don’t have much in this world.” As she speaks, she tries to keep her voice from shaking. How can she even begin to express what she feels?

“Not many I would consider beloved,” she continues. “I would spend my days alone, with nothing to look forward to. Until you came, and you were all I could think of.” 

He listens intently, so many words buried in his downhearted gaze. 

“And sometimes I would think, how wonderful it would be to have a man like you for the rest of my life. I knew you could never stay, and yet, when I dreamt of you in that tomb, it was a knife to my heart. Gone was my friend, whom I cared so much about. Gone was the life I could never have.”

That same pain sends a pang through her chest. She has kept it locked away for so long, delayed the mourning, even now she fears it pouring out. That horrid dream, that she had convinced herself was purely the working of her mind, had been proven true, and it is like that grief has been vindicated. 

His head lowers. She does not want to imagine what he is thinking. 

“And then you came back to me, alive and well, and my hopes were no longer delusions.” She exhales, hoping her words are giving him the assurance he needs. “I can only aspire to have the sense of devotion you have, but I will prove the love I have grown to have for you.”

Still not meeting her gaze, he rubs the back of his hand against his eyes. She shifts closer, hoping to embrace him, he beats her to it, pulling her into his grasp and burying his head on her shoulder. He holds her to himself, and she shuts her eyes and holds him back. 

When he raises his head, his deep brown eyes are rimmed with red. She musters up a gentle smile, hoping to comfort him, and he responds by pressing their foreheads together. 

After a moment he pulls away and lifts his hand, and makes a gesture that involves pointing to himself, touching his heart, and then pointing to her, his gaze never leaving her eyes. And for that admission, she needs no translation. 

Carefully, she raises her hand and mirrors it. “Will you always?”

He points to himself again, tracing the symbol of the Twisted One over his chest. 

I promise. For the rest of my life.

*

One Thousand Years Later

He shakes with each step, feeling blood pool in his sabatons. The strength he has left only allows him to carry Sarmiento, and even then the rapier weighs down heavily in his hand. Around him, the City of the Blessed Name stands tall, and he lets out a breath of relief when a prie dieu comes into view. 

He falls to his knees at its base, allowing Sarmiento to slip out of his hands. As he waits for the Miracle to slowly refill the lifeblood in his veins, he nearly keels over in his exhaustion. His fists dig into the sand and dirt to steady himself, marred with the unfading scars of Mea Culpa’s thorns, cut into his skin long ago. 

Once he feels steady enough to walk, he picks up Sarmiento and sheathes it, before rising to his feet. His head no longer spins, but his wounds still ebb, and he knows he will have to find a private spot before nightfall so he can tend to them. As for now, he makes his way to Montañés’ studio, taking out the pearl gouge he had found at the Mother of Mothers. 

“Prayers be with you, Penitent One,” Montañés greets, eyes not leaving the sculpture he is chiselling at. He pauses as the penitent walks up to him, handing over the tool. Taking it in his hands, he inspects it, turning it over and shining it in the light. “A delicate, round chisel, without a doubt the tool best suited to this noble wood. Confessor, thank you so much.”

He slips the gouge into his toolbelt, meeting the other’s gaze. “Know that you have my gratitude, Penitent One.”

The penitent nods in acknowledgement. 

“I have completed the figure for your altarpiece,” Montañés continues, turning back to his chiselling. “You may retrieve it from the shelf in the back.”

The penitent inhales a sharp breath, before turning around and approaching the sculptor’s shelf. It is lined with many half-finished pieces, but one labelled The Apothecary instantly catches his eye. His hands tremble as he reaches out and takes it, afraid he may somehow break or sully it with just a touch.

He sits down and removes his gauntlets and gloves before gently running a finger over the figure’s face. He finally has it in his hands, one of his last reminders, alongside the vine-like scar running across his left arm. 

He had spent weeks traversing the outer perimeter of the city, desperately searching for a gravesite or even a remnant of the town once known as Albero, only to come up short each time. All he had were the barest of references, etched into old, dusty tomes, forgotten and abandoned. Then he had found it, deep in an old library, a book bound in leather and near-crumbling. 

Marked inside was an acknowledgement to someone, and a description of her, crediting her contributions to the field of medicine. Her name, of course, the very name burned into the soul of a lifetime long gone. It was all he had to bring to Montañés, but bless him, he has indeed delivered. 

The penitent carefully wraps the figure in a soft cloth, before holding her against his armoured chest, though it does little to ease the irrecoverable ache of longing. He has awoken in a Custodia he no longer recognises, and that does not recognise him, his body once more barred from the release of death. At this moment, he has never felt more utterly forsaken.

He is grateful for the heavy capirote shielding him, because he cannot help the sting in his eyes, and the wetness slowly coursing down his face. 

For this is his penance. The price for ultimate blasphemy.