Father Moulder had been with Princess Eirika's party the whole of a month. At first, it wasn't bad; there had only been a few of them: Eirika, her guard, Seth, the young man Franz, the introverted Frelian knight Gilliam, the young, promising Pegasus knight, Vanessa, and himself, of course. But since then, his Gods had begun to test his resolve, his faith. They say a man never really believes until he's tested.
It was hard enough, living in the Castle with Princess Tana. Moulder would take whatever chances he could to see the young woman, to instruct her. He did everything short of asking her father, the King, to be her private tutor, instead of one of four.
But he'd gotten used to Tana, and her sweet innocence. He was not used to Vanessa. She was young, but innocent in a different way. He wished he could teach Vanessa, who was not of the same noble birth as he had previously encountered, about the secrets of the world. But she only cared about her knighthood and being on the ever-so-elite Pegasus unit.
The crowd was packing for the morning, preparing to move on. He helped Natasha load up some of the pallets into the convoy. When they were finished, and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, Natasha spoke to him, taking him away from his inner thoughts. "Thank you, Father. Both for this, and for your assistance in helping me tend to all these wonderful people."
He looked at her, trying to keep pity from his eyes. It wasn't her he had pity for; it was him. He could almost feel the cuts in his back being split open again. "But of course, my dear." The cleric's faithfulness and sweetness hurt him.
They were a few days away from Prince Ephriam's last known whereabouts. From there, Moulder was unsure where they were headed if they didn't find the young Prince. But once they had, perhaps he'd be able to return to Frelia. The battlefield was not his place. He wanted to return to his church, to go where there would be nothing to tempt him and where death wouldn't be so close.
He went to the knight Franz to see what assistance the boy needed. A part of Moulder believed that Franz was nearly too young for all the tumult he'd been thrown into, but the boy had a gleeful, dutiful spirit about him. Something was oddly different – he had lost some of his rosy color that was so often attracted to the cheeks of happy youth.
"My boy, something seems to be wrong. What is it?" Moulder asked, helping to wrap up a tent.
"Well, Father, We keep finding Renais men, fallen to the war. The Prince's men."
"Are you scared to be among them, child?"
"No, actually. I'm scared for -" He stopped after looking at Moulder's face. They older man had perked an eyebrow, disbelieving.
"Alright, yes, I am afraid of dying. But I'm more afraid that as we get closer to the Prince, I'm afraid I might find my brother among the dead." He admitted.
Moulder took a breath. "Well, son, that's a hard thing to come to terms with. If you are afraid of dying, or finding your loved ones dead, I'd have to say, which is stronger; your fear or your faith? And I don't mean faith in anything spiritual, though I'd prefer it. I mean your faith to the country that now doesn't exist.
"If your fear is stronger, ask your Princess to stay in Frelia, because I assure you, with what I've heard about your Prince, he won't be happy sitting in the castle, and he'll need good men. If your faith is stronger, you can continue to put your life down and bring this war to an end."
The boy bit his lip, looking insulted, but chose not to speak on that. He began to nod before replying. "Thank you, Father." They had finished folding the tent and Franz took it to the convoy.
Before long, the whole of the party was ready. Moulder and Natasha took to pulling the convoy on a few horses. Moulder watched Gilliam take to a run beside them. Sir Gilliam chose never to ride a horse. Moulder secretly believed the Gilliam was inept at doing so.
"Sir, surely you'd not like to run?" Natasha asked him, giving her softest smile.
"No, my lady, though I thank you kindly for your generosity." Gilliam smiled back at her. Did Gilliam feel for Natasha what Moulder felt for the other girls?
Up ahead, Vanessa's Pegasus, Sephora, rode in line with that of General Seth. Eirika was also astride the white horse, but it looked that the General was the one talking. Vanessa nodded, then took to the sky.
How beautiful she looked, in her youth, with such vitality. Her braid danced in the wind while her horse, as creamy-white as purity itself, created a backdrop that made the girl glow. And she was a girl. Hardly sixteen, if Moulder calculated right. She wasn't quiet as young as Moulder convinced himself she was. Her body was teetering on the edge of womanhood, and any day now she'd be full grown. How he dreaded the day.
Natasha, thankfully, was fully grown, and a woman of Spirit. A saintly woman. Moulder felt nothing but sisterhood from her. The only problem was that her piety reflected his pain; her faithfulness, his desire.
A days travels wore on the group as the sun began to set. General Seth ordered them to stop and unpack. As he dismounted, Moulder saw him bow to the Princess, still on his horse, before holding her by the waist to assist in her descent. Seth placed his hands on her hips, still hardly touched by womanhood. She was a glorious sight. She was old enough to have the mind-frame of an adult, the presence of one, at least. But she had the body and form of a child, the capabilities of body that he had sadly lost more than several decades previously.
"Father, is there any way I can help?" Asked another young girl. This one had short, dark pink hair. She was young as well. He clenched his teeth as his eyes dropped to her toned arms. He closed his eyes and looked away.
"Yes, my child. We need to put up the Princess' tent. Please, take these." He handed her a load of poles and cloths, which she took a little ways away. She dropped them on the ground, and bent down to pick them up.
This girl was the worst. She was young, and liked to dance when she walked. She knew her own body with a sort of lethality that none of the other girls could match, but she also didn't at the same time. She didn't understand the way she moved, she just did it of natural aptitude.
She was whiny and home-sick, and immature, and ignorant. She cared for no one but herself, and that damn thief boy. Moulder had tried to show Colm the error of his ways, but alas, it had been thus far to no avail.
Instead he watched her prepare that tent while he took to helping Seth prepare the boys' tents. From out of no where, Colm appeared next to Neimi. He touched her back as he went to take extra pieces of tent for assembly. He touched her hands to help steady her. He touched her head as he lifted himself up from having bent down. When she jumped at how excited she was, and Moulder, too, was excited, Colm hugged her. It made the priest seethe, and caused the recent jubilation to extinguish itself in place of what Moulder called piety. Their relationship was sinful, but then, Moulder had to remember, his thoughts were, too.
A quick look to the General made Moulder fear that perhaps he had learned of the latter's thoughts. But no one had that power; though Vanessa had once suspected Moulder of just that. Ah, Vanessa.
She had returned to the group. Apparently, she had been told to scout ahead. As the night drug on, and a fire began, Vanessa began to peel off her armor. Moulder only waited so long as he thought could relieve suspicion from him before retreating to his tent. He had brought his own, which the General was more than happy to let him keep private, provided that Moulder was personally responsible for it.
Moulder had a single cot in his tent, and a small shrine. He pulled from under his brown, poor robes a trinket that he clasped in his hands and raised to his mouth. He dropped to his knees before the small, mobile alter and kissed his pendant before removing his robes. Facing the shrine, he took from his pack a small whip. It had nine tails to it, each one carrying a few barbs.
His order was very strict, and believed the key to overcoming any sort of mental or physical strain was to channel one's punishment for weakness into faith. With that thought, he gave himself twelve lashes; three for each of the young girls.
The pain was excruciating, but Moulder made no sound as he punished himself.
When he was finished, he set the small whip before him, and prostrated himself in prayer. Small dribbles of blood poured both from the new wounds he had created, and from the cuts that already marked his back from his weaknesses since obtaining priesthood.
He rose from his prayers, believing that he was a better man for the pain he was suffering, and would continue to suffer.