Childhood 2 – Penance

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At first, there was only dark. Then came fire.

Verna's eyes fluttered open to the warm glow of candlelight, and she glanced around in confusion. A cleric knelt beside her, solemnly chanting and striking his chime in succession. A ring of golden light encircled them, fading in and out of sight, each pulse of miraculous magic rejuvenating her vitality. She stared at her hands and bare feet — they were still bloodied, but without a trace of scratch or blemish. Even her big toenail had regrown.

Past her feet, at the foot of the bed, a figure loomed over her. He appeared even taller with his conical crown, a red ruby embedded amidst the intricate gold and white. With his hands on his hips, his voluminous holy garb looked like folded wings. She shrunk at the sight of him, not because he was imposing, but because he was the last person she wanted to wake up to.

"Verna, you foolish child," Archdeacon Klimt began. "Will you ever listen? How many times must I remind you the swamps of Farron are too dangerous? You could have been killed, or worse!"

She turned away, refusing to answer, allowing the cleric's hymns fill the silence. The gold-robed man sighed and held up a stiff hand. "That's enough, clergyman. She needs only to be strong enough for her penance, after all." As the priest bowed and left them alone, Verna's jaw clenched. She did not want another penance. She did not want to be here at all.

"Why must you insist on fleeing the Cathedral, my dear? This is your home. This is where you belong. If you cannot accept your lot, then you will never know peace. Do you not understand this?" He received no reply. "Answer me, Verna."

"No, father."

The Archdeacon blinked. "What do you mean, no?"

"No," his red-haired daughter repeated herself. "I do not understand. I do not accept my lot, which is to be stuck in this rotting prison! I know peace, and it is when I am outside, when I am free!"

Klimt's glare narrowed dangerously. "You would prefer the abominations of that, that... forsaken cesspool to the safety and purity of the Church?" He leaned forward, his flowing robe blocking out the candlelight. "You would be wise to watch your tongue. That does sound like the talk of the accursed."

With that, he turned abruptly and left the child alone on the stone cot. As he rounded the corner, Verna spotted another figure in the archway, waiting, her wide-rimmed hat concealing most of her features. Only a devious, toothy smile was visible between the brim and frilled collar. The little girl fought the urge to moan and cry, even though she knew what was to come.

For her trespass against the Church, she must repent.

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Verna's father joined his fellow Archdeacons on the balcony overlooking the cathedral's interior, where the giant slaves continually toiled to repair the crumbling foundations. As he approached, the pair of similarly robed figures turned with careful smiles.

"Ah, Klimt," the smaller one greeted him. "I heard tell that the knight of thorns has retrieved your daughter. Once again."

The Archdeacon steeled his expression and nodded. "Indeed. A lack of clarity on her part, but nothing we cannot rectify."

"You sound so certain, brother," spoke the third. He was an obese man, and his wide smile was nearly swallowed by his meaty cheeks. "Come, stand with us. Look across the Cathedral. Do you see what I see?"

Archdeacon Klimt reluctantly joined them at the balcony's precipice. He gazed out across the expansive sanctuary, its hollow interior housing vast metal gates that caged the ancient giants. "I see slaves fulfilling their duty. I see their wardens keeping them attentive. I see our clergymen keeping their faith. I see the Cathedral standing strong against the Dark, as it always has, and always will. Is that what you see, McDonnell?"

The plump figure chuckled mirthfully. "Quite right. I see all of that and more. I see many parts working as one towards a common goal. I see unfaltering faith. I see devotion. Without complete and utter devotion to our cause from every part, no matter how small, we are weakened as a whole. Don't you agree, brother Royce?"

The shorter man nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. Devotion is everything. What would happen if the clergymen ceased their prayers, if the giants ceased their toiling, if the villagers cut off our trade? We must be strong on all fronts, an impenetrable bulwark against the Dark. That is the only way we can ensure the legacy of our Lord."

Klimt nodded stiffly, though he suspected McDonnell had more than likely fed Royce those lines. "Of course, brothers. I understand. I assure you that such a transgression will not occur again."

McDonnell nodded, staring over the expansive cathedral, his beady eyes alight with pride. "I believe in you, Klimt, and in your daughter. She is meant for glorious things, after all. We would not want her disappearing just as our King calls for her, now would we?"

If Klimt was wooden before, he now turned to stone. "No, of course not. Excuse me, brothers. Verna's penance should be complete by now." He departed hastily before they could sense his regret.

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The evangelist wiped blood from the leather whip as she wrapped it, her unfaltering smile never leaving her broad face. As the Archdeacon approached, he eyed the weapon with displeasure before addressing her. "How is she, Matron?"

The husky woman tilted her hat upward, revealing a vacant stare. "She did wonderfully, your holiness. She took every lash without crying out, all four of them."

He glanced past her, into the next room. Verna knelt on the floor with the back of her blouse untied, exposing deep lacerations. Her frail body shuddered uncontrollably in wracking pain, and she hugged her shirt to her shoulders. "Make it another four. This must not happen again."

The evangelist's smile grew even wider. "Of course, your holiness. Your daughter will be grateful for your paternal concern. I will make sure of it."

The Archdeacon nodded and continued on his way, as the Matron began her sermon of penance once more. Klimt could only imagine the confusion and fear his daughter must have felt. As the evangelist chanted, the first crack echoed through the chambers, and the girl finally cried in agony. Klimt shut his eyes, fighting to maintain composure, ignoring the looks from passing clergymen. He could have sworn there was a time when the Way of White was an unquestionable belief, a shining beacon that banished all that was impure. They followed the Lord Gwyn, respected his final wishes. They were righteous in their cause. He never had any reason to doubt before, so why did he feel it now?

Devotion was everything, but even the smallest doubt can weaken the most faithful.

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"There now, child. It's all over. You have served your penance graciously and with dignity."

Verna could barely keep upright, her shirt half-hanging from her bleeding backside. She sobbed softly, hopelessly, her spirit crushed. It is exactly what the evangelist had intended. The stout woman draped a cloth around the child, who winced as it brushed her wounds, then stood before her with a heavy tome in hand.

"Now, it is time to confess your sins. Not just your little flight, but all of them. I think we both know where to start."

Verna was barely able to breathe, but she struggled to answer. The evangelist may have put her whip aside, but the child knew better. That thick, leather-bound holy book could be just as painful. "I-I-I ran... away... into the swamp. And I'm not supposed to."

"Those are two sins, Verna. You abandoned your duties and you disobeyed your father. We could consider that an order from the Archdeacon, as well. Three sins. Anything else?"

The girl thought desperately, knowing that any slight could be treated as a trespass. "I... I did not seek f-forgiveness for my trespass. I was stubborn towards my father."

The evangelist gleamed. "Very good, child. You showed no remorse, and did not repent. That was the fourth sin. Four lashes for four sins. Do you repent now?"

Verna nodded vigorously. "Yes Matron Dorhys, I repent!"

"Then you are forgiven, my dear. Do you have any other sins to confess? If you repent now, freely, there will be no penance later."

She did not want to answer. She did not want to tell her the truth, but if she feigned innocence now, it would only make things worse. "I... had feelings of resentment towards my father. I blamed him for my own sins."

"Why did you resent him?"

Verna choked up. "He keeps me here. I can never leave, I'm... I... I know it is for my own protection. I am... not prepared to face the Dark. Not yet."

"Exactly, child. Not yet. You must have patience, for you will surely face the beasts of the Abyss in due time. That is why you must stay here, with us. You must finish your training, and become a proper cleric."

"Of course, Matron Dorhys. I am grateful to serve in the name of our Lord."

The Matron nodded. "Very good. I now pronounce you cleansed. Remember to remain true to our ways, so we can avoid having this discussion again."

She did it. She was free to leave. All she had to do was stand up and return to her quarters, and she could escape this nightmare. Verna rose on shaking legs, ignoring how the blanket stung against her wounds, then started towards the exit. However, she froze in the archway, despite her eagerness to flee. There was one last thing gnawing at her soul, and she worried what it could become if she did not voice it now. Even as all her senses screamed at her to leave, Verna turned back towards the evangelist. "Matron? I have a last confession."

The wide-rimmed hat tilted in surprise. "Oho? And what would that be?"

"It is not my place to ask or know, but... I wonder, who is he? The knight of thorns?"

The Matron's smile remained perfectly still. "Child, why would ask such a thing?"

Verna shrugged. "He's always the one sent to retrieve me. I know it's to frighten me, my father says he's a monster of a man. But, he has never harmed me, not even by accident. Who is he? What does he look like beneath his helm?"

Dorhys leaned close, her eyes barely visible beneath her black hat. "Dear girl, believe me. You never want to know what is beneath that helm."

Verna had an uncomfortable walk back to her quarters, and an even more uncomfortable sleep. She lay flat on her stomach, feeling her open wounds burn. The clerics would not heal her until morning, leaving her to suffer through the night. However, as exhaustion overcame her agony, the red-haired girl finally slipped into slumber. As the world faded away, her mind drifted to Kirk once again.

Everyone claimed he was a killer, a monster, but they were wrong. Even Verna had underestimated him. He had not fallen for the prism trick like he always did. He was learning. What was truly strange, however, was that he hesitated. Verna begged him not to take her home, and he hesitated. That he had never done before.