The tavern of Flamesgrace was quite small, which didn't add up. Olberic wasn't one to study human behaviour, but he did know cold and alcohol were best friends. He finally figured it out after seeing enough of Ophilia's timid modesty, that the church going type didn't want to advertise their vices and opted for silent isolation.
For the first time, religion made sense to him.
Despite the fact that Cyrus was lapping their table with empty mugs, Tressa seemed to be the only one with any signs of intoxication. This wasn't a surprise despite the fact that she was only drinking hot chocolate. "Was it really okay for us to leave Primrose by herself," she whined. "Maybe I should go back and sit with her."
"She requested to be alone," Olberic said for the second time. "We must respect her request." Despite wanting to be there for Primrose, the warrior was firm in this belief. When they had left the cathedral, he second guessed himself for a moment, recalling the wisdom of old men that had told him when a woman tells you to leave, it really means they want you to stay. He reminded himself that his friend probably knew herself better than some old bastards.
Cyrus, a sensible man was unsurprisingly on the right side. "I enjoy our camaraderie as much as anyone, Tressa, but our hands are tied. We can trust Primrose to take care of herself." That was now more evident than ever.
"This is all my fault," Ophilia said as she took her second sip of ginger tea in twenty minutes. "How could I say something so cruel? In the cathedral no less."
"I can't say your words were appropriate," Olberic said, "but she struck first." The stoic warrior felt bad speaking ill of his friend - a great companion that was worthy of compassion. Granted, his last friend was responsible for destroying everything and everyone Olberic knew, so his standards were pretty low. Regardless, Primrose seemed like a good woman, but no one, from the most modest of pesents to the grandest of monarchs, gets a free pass for a misdeed.
Tressa sighed. "Yeah, she was being kind of a jerk. Especially after you've been so nice to us."
"My actions were still not okay, but I wonder, is she always so provocativ – I mean, provoking?" Ophilia quickly downed the rest of her tea and she got quite red. Olberic was surprised that the drink must have still been that hot.
All three responded, "we're not really sure," before Cyrus diverted the conversation. "Speaking of your generosity, what exactly is this quest we'll be assisting you with?"
"I have to – we would have to – of course, you don't have to." Cyrus placed his hand on Ophilia's shoulder and gestured her to move along with the other. "My sister Lianna needed to go to the Cave of Origin. I shall go in her stead and get the First Flame, but you don't need to accompany me."
"My dear, I need to eat, sleep, drink," Cyrus did the last of those with vigour and slammed his mug down, "but most of all, I need to help you. It would be my privilege anyway. A chance to set foot in such an important historical sight cannot be passed up, so onward we go."
The trip to the Cave of Origin was quicker than expected – seemingly instantaneous. With such a profound name, Olberic predicted something grander, but after a stroll through the snowy park, they were at the cave's entrance. It was a small opening with two guards that were doing nothing to obstruct it. The older of the pair acknowledged them. "Sister Ophilia, we were not expecting you," he looked past Ophilia's shoulder to see her party that didn't look sufficiently holy. "Or your...Friends."
"Well, yes. Of course. The thing is..." It looked like it had been a long time since Ophilia had told a lie. Thankfully, Cyrus stepped in before the poor girl collapsed.
"Sorry for the trouble, kind sirs. My name is Professor Cyrus Albright from the Royal Academy of Atlasdam." Contrasting the professor's suave demeanour, Ophilia nervously nodded along as if this name drop meant something. "We are in a predicament. The school's library is woefully unprepared to teach our students about Aelfric and the Sacred Flame, so I've come to research it further – with the Archbishop's consent, of course. Sister Ophilia has been kind enough to offer her services as guide."
Both guards looked to Ophilia who was still rhythmically nodding which they took as confirmation. "And your two companions are-"
"My students! Top of their class." Oh, Olberic thought, how easy it would have been to say we were escorts. That made more sense to him than claiming a girl that looked 15 and a man approaching 40 were the best students the academy had to offer, but Cyrus didn't like the easy way.
Tressa yelled, "that's right! I love stuff like numbers. Math and, uhh, other, different kinds of math."
"You brought a mathematics student to do theology research?"
"Well, I – we love to read too. Right, Olberic?"
"Indeed. It's all I do," replied the man with a body forged by combat. He was able to sell it though. Unlike Ophilia, Olberic had lots of experience lying. Usually it was stuff like, 'sure, they cut off both your legs, but you'll live to see another day,' but lying was lying.
Once they were through the entrance, Olberic was a little pleased Primrose was not with them. While this cave was warmer than the other ones, it still looked and smelled exactly the same as the last three caves
"Hey Olberic," Tressa said, almost too quietly to hear. "Did you know about Primrose? Her old life and all that."
"No, I didn't." As far as the warrior was concerned, every detail about life was on a need to know basis. Olberic was in an emotional bind now that he did know though. It left him wanting to help, but his only way of expressing sympathy was stabbing the cause of the grief, but he was sure that Primrose hadn't charmed her way out of her bondage, so there was nothing left for him to do. "She told me where she was going, but not where she had been and it was not my place to pry."
"Are you serious!?" There she is. Ahead of them, Ophilia chuckled nervously at the scream. "Not your place?" Tressa now stood in Olberic's way, in the sense that the warrior was too polite to walk through her, looking up at him with disappointment. "She's your friend! Don't you care about her?"
Expressing feelings through communication. What a strange idea.
A sheer determination to spite Ophilia had Primrose out of bed. She was still in shock that such an innocent girl could get so deep under her skin. Where was I? She recited the cleric's question over and over, grinding her teeth harder each time. Primrose had an answer for her, that she had allowed the abuse of herself and her fellow slaves because she needed to play along to get her revenge – she allowed suffering to achieve a greater purpose.
Which is exactly what Ophilia would say to excuse her god.
Primrose would just have to put it in the past, like she did so many things and push forward, and that started with getting dressed, as it so often did. After her battle, the only clothes she had left was her dancer's outfit. Not ideal for the snow, but it beat a hospital gown. The flimsy short top and high slit skirt were bundled up in her satchel, which she reached in to grab.
What's this parchment, she asked herself regarding the first thing she felt inside. The wounded dancer pulled out the neatly folded paper, and unwrapped the first sentence. 'I'm sorry that you had to find out this way.' Primrose winced.
Please tell me one of these fools didn't leave me a love letter.
As she carefully revealed more of the letter, she was blindly riffling through her bag, trying to find her change of clothes, but couldn't find anything that felt like silk. Primrose shook it to rearrange everything, as if that would make a difference, but when she noticed the lack of jingling from her jewellery, she realized she had grabbed the wrong satchel and noticed 'BERG' carved into the clasp.
Perhaps this is a love letter someone wrote for him. That was far too compelling an idea to leave be, so she unfolded the next part.
'My real name is Olberic Eisenberg of Hornburg. Since the fall of my Kingdom, I have tried and failed to find meaning in my life, so I must accept my fate and move on. I know some will say I'll be missed, but that's not enough reason to stay and, in short time, they'll accept that this is for the best.
Primrose blew a raspberry as she folded the letter back up and tucked it away. He must have written it for the boy in that village when he thought the kid wouldn't see him off. A sweet notion, but not particularly exciting. She carefully placed Olberic's satchel exactly where she found it and grabbed hers – checking for jingles this time. Her dancer's costume was dry, and still smelled faintly of perfume. No one was in the room with her and she was used to changing around other people anyway, so she quickly swapped outfits, and put on her necklace and earrings.
Now that she looked herself, she took a look at herself, at the scar on her stomach and imagined the one on her back. Maybe it was because she had the idea of how important her looks were beaten in to her, or maybe she was just a little shallow, but Primrose had grown fond of her beauty and was finally lamenting her run in with the Jotun.
Her staring at herself was interrupted by a blatant cough at the room's entrance. Primrose turned to see a strange man, just handsome enough that he could probably charm a naive girl with false promises, and stood with a matching, unjustified confidence.
"Pardon me, miss," he spoke too gallantly, like a bad actor. "I must have the wrong room." Primrose's sixth sense, the one that didn't make a peep when she met Cyrus, was certainly going off now, like there were a pack of hungry wolves barking behind her and a foghorn blowing against both her ears. If her instincts were right, this guy was up to no good, and her instincts were always right.
Primrose looked at him with silent disdain as he eyed her up and down. He didn't look like a priest but he leered like one. "I couldn't help but notice your interesting choice in church attire." The tan haired stranger spoke like someone that mistook arrogance for charm. "If you'd like, I have some spare winter clothing." Primrose continued her scathing glare, hoping that looks could actually kill, as a stab to the throat would be traced back to her.
The creep grew a look of confusion. At first Primrose assumed that the second-rate seducer was just surprised that she didn't respond with, '*blush,* gee, mister, *giggle,* I'd love to change in front of you,' but it went on too long. The man had become more curious than anything.
"My apologies for my frankness, miss. My salesman's instincts spotted a possible customer and overpowered my judgment. I meant no offence." As he got more polite, the alarm bells got louder. "I hope this isn't too forward to ask, but have we met before? Something about the shape of your face feels so familiar."
Hundreds of men had made so many odd attempts to engage the dancer in conversation. Were this not the case, the question would have stood out, prompting her to ask some questions of her own. Unfortunately, she had forgotten what the man had said before he even finished talking.
Primrose chuckled with the kind of laughter that makes men feel small. "What's your name, stranger?"
"Mattias of the Leoniel Consortium."
"Well, Mattias, I assure you, if we had ever met, you would definitely remember me, and I would definitely not remember you."
"I suspect you're right," he said with a bow. "Then I shall take my leave."
Primrose might have taken a mental note to tell Ophilia about the shady man wandering freely about the cathedral, but the event was pushed from her mind by a sudden realization. The letter in Olberic's bag was folded neatly, but it was too tattered to be from only a few weeks ago. She began reciting the words she had read over and over before figuring out what they meant.
She told herself, It's not my place to pry.
The uncanny heat of the Cave of Origin had turned from Spring to Summer. Between that and the ale warming his insides, Cyrus wanted to remove his cloak, but undressing in front of the Sacred Flame seemed even more inappropriate than lying his way into the sacred cave.
"So you plan to take your sister's place for the entirety of the pilgrimage?" As they wandered through the cavern, Ophilia had relayed her entire story to Cyrus – how her father had taken ill and her sister wanted nothing more than to stay by his side, so the cleric was going to offer to travel the continent in her place.
It was a sad set of circumstances, Cyrus wouldn't dare suggest otherwise, but he was baffled by the total lack of excitement. Bearing the Sacred Flame across Orsterra, becoming a grand piece of history, shaping the mind's of everyone you come across as well as yourself. How could that not brighten someone's entire existence?
"I know it's what Lianna wants, even though she would never confess to it. She's done so much for me, that I must come to her aid, no matter the cost."
Such a dour response. Cyrus wanted to say something to lift Ophilia's spirits, but if the prospect of the voyage wasn't leaving her giddy, what else was there? Vague flattery was all he could come up with, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "I know the situation isn't ideal, but Aelfric and all His followers should count themselves lucky to be graced with a Flamebearer that is so kind, bold and beautiful."
Ophilia's was turning red, which Cyrus attributed to the increasing warmth. "Cyrus, you should know, flame bearer's aren't allowed to humour any personal romantic notions."
Cyrus gently shook her in appreciation. "That is a fascinating bit of trivia." He wasn't sure what prompted Ophilia to say that specifically, but the professor loved tidbits. "Please don't hesitate to tell me anymore that come to mind."
Trivia would have to wait though. Around the next corner, a flight of crafted stairs highlighted with angel statues on each side. A brilliant white and blue flame flickered on a podium at the top. Cyrus wondered how many poets it would take to portray the scene with justice, but he heard Tressa say, "ooooooooooooo" behind him, and that pretty well summed it up.
With a gulp, Ophilia stepped forward and a booming voice surrounded them.
"Of thee who dost treaden in these halls, I aske. Art thou fit to lighten the flames and showen the path to all humanity?"
A tad dramatic, Cyrus thought. I hate to imagine how disappointed this voice would be if Ophilia just said no and left
"I am the guardian of the First Flame. If thou wouldst callen thyself the Flamebearer... Thou must proven thyself worthy!"
From inside the small Fire, a grey golem began slinking out like it was some kind of clown carriage. It began to glow a bright blue as if the Sacred Flame coursed through it; an extremely top heavy creature, like it had been skipping leg day for centuries, especially since the golem probably didn't get many chances to walk around inside that tiny ember. It was carrying a sword and shield, both almost as long it's frame.
Without hesitation, Ophilia stepped forward. As scared as she was, she wasn't intimidated by the giant. Her resolve steadied, her staff began to glow, the dramatic music cued and an epic battle that would shape the future of an entire faith was set to begin.
Then Cyrus interrupted.
"Hold on a minute." The scene halted. Ophilia and the golem froze in confusion. "You want Ophilia to prove herself worthy by fighting you?"
The Flame's guardian didn't have a mouth, but noise was coming out. "The Flamebearer must showen the strength needen to complete the ritual!"
"It's a pilgrimage, not a crusade." Cyrus stepped forward to Ophilia's side. Her staff had dimmed and she had turned an even darker shade of red. "How does fighting even factor in to the equation?"
The guardian's sword arm slacked and it's head tilted ever so slightly. A glowing slit on it's face began to pulse. Best Cyrus could tell, the creature was blinking in confusion. He wondered if the guardian had ever been forced to go off script like this. Did this thing even know how to defend its thesis statement?
"Shouldn't you be testing her grace? Her compassion? Her moral fibre?"
"Arrogant mortal, who art thou to question tradition that's stooden for over a millennia?"
Cyrus scoffed as he did some quick math, "I am a respected professor. You've only tested 80 people in your long existence and you're going lecture me about evaluation? I've graded more exams than that in a week." The scholar felt a timid tap against his shoulder.
Likely still filled with adrenaline, Ophilia quickly said, "My fortitude must be tested. No matter how careful I am, the road is long and dangerous. The archbishop told me tales of Flamebearers that never returned."
As Cyrus pondered his retort, his memory clicked just as the guardian was readying its sword. "Ophilia, that can't be true. Correct me if I'm wrong," he said looking at the golem, "but can't the Kindling not be completed until the Flame returns?" Ophilia nodded confidently. "Yet records show that the flame has made it back to Flamesgrace every twenty years without exception."
"Perhaps," Ophilia stuttered, "the Flamebearer died and the Flame was returned by someone else."
Preposterous. If a monster had eaten the Flamebearer, the lantern would have been destroyed with them, and if they were murdered by bandits, the lantern would have been stolen and sold off. In Ophilia's defence, Cyrus had seen worse attempts at defending an argument, but it sounded like she didn't even believe what she was saying.
Cyrus pointed up at the golem that had been waiting patiently, "you've been watching over the Flame the entire time?"
"Indeed," the cave bellowed. "It hast been mine purpose for being."
"And that lantern there," he gestured toward an innocent looking lamp that sat by the fire, "it's part of the tradition, correct?"
The golem slowly nodded.
"Have you ever had someone take the Flame that didn't return with it?"
The golem raised his shield to scratch his head with. "Now that you mention it," it's voice was now soft, emanating from his body rather than all around them. "But the tradition is still sacred."
"Can you not see how flawed that logic is?" Nothing like a good debate! "You want to spread the words and presence of Aelfric, and you expect to do this by prioritizing things like rituals and traditions? That may be what people stay for, but it certainly won't bring anyone knew in to the flock."
At this point, the guardian and Ophilia had withdrawn so much from their initial vigour, that a brawl wouldn't have been a test of anything even if they did decide to go at it.
"Take a friend of mine, for example. She's back at the cathedral and she hates it, hates you, even hates Ophilia simply for existing."
"Primrose hates me?"
Cyrus ignored what he heard as a rhetorical question. "But give Ophilia the opportunity, with all her warmth, love and compassion a chance and she'll do a whole lot more for the Sacred Flame than just spread it. Don't squander this opportunity over the result of a scuffle."
The golem's eye dimmed, and no one said a word while it thought harder than it had in 1600 years. Very little glow had returned to it before it began to approach Ophilia. Even in it's slow strides, it was still a dangerous and scary monster, though it was doing a poor job striding into battle. It's sword was dragging, and it's shield was not ready. Eventually, it towered over Cyrus and the cleric. Ophilia wasn't brimming with the same fighting spirit, but she still readied herself, waiting for the guardian to make the first move.
He started off by dropping his blade to the ground, before kneeling down with his comically tiny legs. The golem slowly raised his hand and pointed at its eye. "Strike at me with thy staff. Just enough to wounden mine form. Around six blows should suffice."
Ophilia protested, "I need no pity. If we are to fight, we shall do it properly."
The golem touched its face again. "No. Thy comrade is correct. There is nary a need for battle, but thy mettle must be tested. Violent or not, there is no doubt that trials await thou that will requiren you go against thy gentle instincts. I need to see if thou can move past them."
Ophilia got a firm grip on her weapon. "I wouldn't think something like this could even hurt you?"
"Thou wouldst be surprised."
"Very well..." Ophilia raised her staff and without even so much as an exhale, brought it down against the golem's face six times. It flinched with each tink that echoed throughout the cave, though there were no grunts of pain. Once the cleric was finished, the golem's scratched up face nodded then, in a daze, stumbled back into the void kept within the flame.
The cave called out, "Ophilia. Thou hast been judged worthy to bearen the Sacred Flame...Reachen out thine hand and taken in it Aelfric's Lanthorn."
Primrose spooned bites of cold stew. A clergywoman that didn't seem too impressed with her had brought it to her a couple hours ago, but she had childishly refused to eat it until the pain of hunger began to catch up with the rest of her wounds. Begrudgingly eating food that probably didn't even taste good when it was warm was not how she wanted to spend her day, but her friends would be back soon and the dancer was sure she could convince them that she was ready to hit the open road.
As Primrose heard footsteps approach the room, her hopes were raised then dashed when Ophilia was the only one that came in. The bowl was dropped down in a vain attempt to hide the fact that it was being eaten.
"Your friends will be along shortly, but I wanted to give you something first." The Ophilia was beaming with fabricated energy despite how clearly exhausted she was. "The cleric that brought you your food informed me you had changed, so I wanted to bring you this" Ophilia unveiled an outfit that looked remarkably similar to her own.
The sister looked quite pleased with herself, but that didn't make it any harder for Primrose to hate it. "I guess you don't want my sleazy clothes sullying the halls of your precious cathedral."
Ophilia was unphased, her smile spreading to her eyes. "I thought you might say that." The cleric pulled something small and dark from her pocket – a kind of charcoal brush. "Feel free to write 'Aelfric sucks' on it, maybe some dirty words or a lewd drawing if you want, but it's cold outside and I don't want you getting sick."
Ophilia stuck her arms out, the dress in one hand and the pencil in the other. Hesitantly, Primrose grabbed the soft white fabric, strongly considering taking the pencil as well.
"Thank you, Ophilia. Your generosity is very appreciated." The grin on the cleric's face twitched slightly from forced to sincere and there was more to it than joy. Something like excitement, and it only took Primrose a second before sighing. "One of them invited you to come with us, didn't they?"
"Cyrus says you're heading north to Stillsnow and I'm going west, but we will all leave Flamesgrace together, if you'll allow it."
The dancer rolled her eyes and accepted her fate of companionship. "Escorting you out is the least we can do." Primrose shook out her new dress before reaching to take off her dancer's top and she caught Ophilia's gaze fixated on her. Judging by the bright red tone of her skin, Primrose figured the gawking was more paralyzing embarrassment than it was perversion, but it seemed as though the dancer had ensnared yet another of Aelfric's shepherds.
Primrose turned away from Ophilia, showing the cleric a bit of mercy. As long as she kept her hands to herself, Primrose could live with the infatuation.
