Chapter 9: Dedication

"I only want to help. To cure. Why can't they see that?"​

"Richard!?" Ofelia is shaking you. Her voice is frantic. You practically jump out of your skin, and back up away from her long before realizing what's happened.

The halfling's face is beet red from running. Celegwen is with her, looking as distraught as someone of her race can. The flames have burnt low. Acrid smoke fills the chamber, and floats menacingly at the top of the room. Celegwen says over and over again, "just grab him, Ofelia, just grab him—"

"RICHARD, WE NEED TO LEAVE—"

"Ray!" You start, frantically looking around. He's right next to you— and his breathing is harder than before.

"Just grab him—"

You can't calm yourself. Something is horribly wrong. You can't tell what it is, and you don't care. Still on your knees, you practically cling onto the bottom of Celegwen's tattered skirts— and plead with her. "You have to help him. Please. Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please help him. I did everything I could— and it wasn't enough. I can't— Please. You have to understand. Just help him—"

You can't keep yourself upright, and curl up into yourself as you sob. The elf pauses a long moment, before speaking in a low voice. "Help me, Ofelia."

The substantially shorter woman runs over, and somehow offers a shoulder to lean on. You can't quite make out the incantation that the elf mutters as she kneels down to Ofelia's height. The end of her staff is placed near Ray's body. The gnarled wood glows with a familiar darkness. Stars materialize into view as a force you're unfamiliar with radiates outwards— then condenses into your dog's side.

The elf's form goes slack, and Ofelia struggles to hold her weight up. You know you couldn't do anything to help in your current state, and it's only making you more upset.

As Celegwen stirs again, her hair is on-end. She quickly smooths the immaculate strands out, and stands upright.

Eyeing the motionless form of your dog drags only one question from your lips. "Is he...?"

"He will not be alright if we fail to get you both out of here." The healer walks over to you and extends her hand. "I need your help. Stand up."

Ofelia makes no indication of lifting you or Ray. Instead, she rolls a shoulder to the side as she drawls. "I can't believe I left you alone for less than an hour—"

"Not now." Celegwen shakes her hand impatiently. "Come on, Father. Get up. We need to go. This air is foul. There is a safer corridor that we have cleared out. It lies beyond here. I need you on your feet. I cannot carry both you, and your dog."

Normally you would recoil at the prospect of touching someone else— but you're so spent that you simply can't care. Your bloodied and scarred hand wraps around Celegwen's without hesitation or tremor. She effortlessly pulls your light frame to your feet.

A look of alarm passes over the woman's face at how easily she's able to lift you. She doesn't mention it— politely averting her eyes— and looks over to Ofelia instead. "Keep him moving. Don't stop. I will be right behind you." With another incantation, any and all emotion drops from the elf's features.

Her companion nods, and briskly walks towards an opening that is flooded with fumes. The blue flames that lick at the demon's corpse have been reduced to little more than embers. Your eyes linger on the bright piles of ash— and you realize that Ofelia is talking to you again. "Come on, Richard! RICHARD—!"

"...sorry. Sorry." You're so dizzy. Shakily taking a few steps forward, you can't remember the last time you lost this much blood. Every attempt is made to jerk your eyes away from the demon's bleeding skull. Its reduction to a pile of ash. The crisp and bloodied residue that's been burnt into the floor. A scorched reminder of your failings.

"Richard. Come on." Ofelia takes you firmly by the hand, and tugs you away. "It's dead. Let's go."

A faint darkness glows from Celegwen's body, as she seems to effortlessly lift your dog's form. His breathing has improved, thanks to the extent of her administrations. As he's shifted atop her shoulders, you catch a glimpse at the dark and angry scar where Celegwen surely extracted the poison from his side.

Ofelia won't stop tugging on you. "This is useless! RICHARD, you're goin' to be the death of us—!"

She properly wraps your arm around her shoulders. The halfling's physical and emotional stress manages to drag you only a few steps forward before you snap back to reality, and get moving with her. "I'm sorry." Your steps are significantly longer than hers, and break the hold with a shaky pace.

Magic twists Celegwen's voice into something deep and unearthly. It rings out from behind and before you and the rogue. "Ofelia."

"Right, right." A cough, as you all approach an exit to the long corridor. Small fingers give you a damp handkerchief, while wrapping a matching cloth around her button nose. "Cover yer face."

It's hard to breathe. Keeping the small item to your face, you're forcibly reminded of having your nose and throat kicked in.

Ofelia resumes tugging on you.

You don't even murmur an apology, and keep your shoulders bent in sobs as you keep walking. Smoke is thick in the corridor. Celegwen seems to be protecting Ray with an aura of some sort. The sorceress has yet to cover her own nose or mouth— but it does nothing to alleviate your worry. Barely taking note of your surroundings, you all pass through a haze of faint red light. More candles illuminate more stone. More passages. More honeycombed walls of this portion of the ruins. The many demons trapped within crawls more intensely over your skin than the blood that's cooling over your sodden robes.

You all must have walked for some time before the smoke peters out. The corridors eventually rise along a slight elevation. Clearer air gives way to brighter light.

More sorcerery?

Ofelia tugs on your moist and bloodied sleeve, urging you to take a sharp turn. You hadn't even noticed the opening in the wall beside you, due to the angle of the rock and stone.

Or is it a trick of the eye?

"This way. Don't get lost. Come on."

You follow her, and easily keep up with the halfling's exhausted steps. Her silent pacing leads you on for at least another hour. Celegwen's plodding behind you both is a reassuring reminder that they didn't leave Ray behind.

Mercifully, Ofelia leads you all to a small camp before you drop from exhaustion. Her cookware and other belongings are scattered around the remnants of a dwindling fire. It looks like the small, enclosed space was left in a hurry. There are more maps (of places unseen), notes (in two languages you don't recognize), and bits of (scuffed) clothing scattered everywhere. A far cry from the neatly disguised campsite you saw that they had set up before.

"Okay, Richard— you've got some serious explaining to do." A flush discolors Ofelia's freckles, as she points to the floor. "Sit. Eat. Talk."

You do none of these things, and look intently behind you to Celegwen's procession. Her heavy steps meets you both after just a moment. She's sweating— brow knitted with strain— and uses a gentle motion to properly set Ray down beside the campfire. It's extremely jarring to see an elf looking so burdened. She drops to the floor beside your boy the instant he's safely settled down.

You collapse beside them both as well, wanting nothing more than to bury your face in Ray's fur. You force yourself to take a moment to examine his wound site. Celegwen must have burned out the poison. The entry and exit shows no signs of infection or complication. It's completely dry and intact.

You look to the healer with tears brimming in your eyes. Her long lashes flutter slightly. She's closed her own silver orbs in exhaustion.

"Richard." Ofelia remains standing. "What the fuck happened back there?"

Ofelia's question hangs in the air. Trying to hide your face in embarrassment, you can feel her stares at you even as you turn your trembling shoulders away. Cringing suffices, while you wrap your arms around yourself. "Stop looking at me—"

"Okay, okay." She walks opposite of you, and finally sits down beside Celegwen. A show is made of stoking the campfire. "I'm just cookin'. Take your time, Richard. I just want to know what happened. Here—" She's holding out another handkerchief. You make no effort to take it. "You're still covered in blood—"

You shakily take the cloth and rub at your face with it. The black, acrid substance you're so eager to be rid of is still wet enough to scrub off. You shudder from the chill of your robes that will not be so easy to clean, and curl into yourself.

Many long minutes pass by with only your sobs punctuating the crackle of the fire before you finally can speak. "I contended with— with a number of demons."

Both women remain silent. You stare intently at the nonjudgmental fire. The green in your eyes flickers and waves. It's hard to see, but you're grateful. You don't want to know how these women are reacting to what you want to say. "The greater demon took interest—" Your voice cracks. "He wanted to see me break. He made me remember."

Ofelia waits awhile before moving to get her cooking tools. Her back is kept to you. "Remember what?"

You bury your face in your hands. The blood on them is probably smearing on your face, but you can't care, and draw your knees up to your chest. You don't want to say anymore— but you can't stop yourself. "Pain. And— and isolation. How despised I was, and— and am—" As you sink deeper into yourself— and utterly fail to keep it together— it becomes harder and harder to speak. "I felt like I was dying. Over, and over again. And— and something worse—"

Both women look at you with alarm. Though their stares are cutting you like a knife, they can't possibly make you feel worse.

"The Catalyst. I felt it. I can still feel it— I feel so empty. I can't feel Them! I can't feel the Gods!"

Burying yourself in the sleeves of your robes, a final attempt is made to hide your face. A few more minutes creep by, as heat finally comes back into your body. The warmth of the fire is enough to make you sick. "I don't know what he did. What the demon was capable of. I felt so— I felt so weak. I couldn't do anything. I deserved this. I wasn't ever fit for Their blessing. I couldn't even save Ray—!"

Your voice gives way to hysterical sobbing. It feels as if your body is cracking. This is too dangerous. You can't calm yourself down— and the Catalyst triggers in people who can't wrest control over their emotions. Each sob is another fracture. "He was right. They were right. That's— that's what he said. That they were all right."

Though you bury deeper into your sleeve to hide your face in shame, you don't want to stop talking. You need this catharsis. To feel like— for once in your life— like you can speak without restraint. Without repression. Without fear.

Fear still pulls at the depths of your soul as words pour out from you. The cracks in your voice intensify in their desperation. "I am a mark on the Church. I came from nothing. My parents were farmers. Everyone— everyone in the Church is family. Their position is their life. Their home. Everything. I've just— I've just come in and ruined everything. Even the other children in Pontos knew that I wasn't right. That I wasn't— that I wasn't okay."

Raising your head slightly, you clutch at the building pressure as if it will relieve the agony. It only mounts as you continue. "I'm always dealing with this. This pain. It's not constant, but it's— it is debilitating, and I don't know why. We can't heal it— and the Gods won't take it away. Mercy knows I've tried, I've tried, I keep trying—" Your voice takes on a desperate edge. "—but nothing helps. Everyone— EVERYONE, my entire life— they've resented me. I stopped letting people get closer. I've been so afraid. I don't want people to see who I am!"

Putting your head back down, you drop your hands to wrap them around yourself. The mockery of a hug brings you no comfort. "The greater demon could see me. He knew— he knew how weak I am. How many times I have prayed. Prayed to be stronger. Prayed to be wiser. He knew that I had ran away so many times before. Trying to leave the Church— trying to have a normal life." Your breath catches in your throat, and you gasp in agony as your headache spikes. "Trying to get away from all the resentment."

Ofelia starts moving towards you, but seems to reconsider as your breath catches. Celegwen parts her lips, as if she would like to something— but ultimately doesn't speak either.

You can't stop the floodgates. Though your voice is hoarse and raw, you continue sobbing. "I don't understand. The Church is my life. The Gods are even more to me. I dedicate myself to Them. I do everything— everything for Them. I abstain. I am chaste. I show restraint. I am Merciful. But everyone— everyone just— everyone just hates me for it. They hate my conviction. They're so scared. They see— " You lift your head up in a fit of insanity, and bare one of your arms to the women before you. "Do you see?"

The skin is marked and scarred almost beyond recognition. The remnants of the demon's administrations and Flesh's healing are there, yes— but there are so many more scars still. Many of the light lines and indentations are so old that they should have faded from sight, yet countless other markings persist in raised and angry ridges over them. The pain in your head almost makes it too difficult to keep your arm outstretched. "My body is Their vessel. It scares people. I scare them— and I can't blame them. But still. Still..."

You pull your bloodied sleeve back down, and draw back into yourself. Arms around your knees. Muttering. "Still, I pray. Still, I worship. Still, they call me the Father of the Church of Mercy."

Hanging your head, you run viscera-coated fingers through your hair. The brunette strands are slick with the demon's gore even before you make the motion. As pieces cling between your palms, you want to vomit. Your other hand goes to your lips. "The greater demon. He saw how close I've come to activating the Catalyst. It's been so many times now. I am— I am pushed to my limit. Time, after time—" Distress escapes in a single sob from your lips. "No one should have to live like this." You take your hands out of your hair, and place them both over your face. You wish you could stop crying.

Beyond all comprehension, your body seems to have steadied itself a bit.

It still feels like you need to say more, and it bears repeating. "I can't live like this. Empty, and alone. Surrounded by contempt. I— I know what I've done, but it's not— I haven't deserved this." Blood clings your hair to your neck and brow as you shake your head. You try and wipe the strands aside, only to smear more across your forehead and cheeks.

"What is wrong with me? I only want to help. To heal. To cure. Why can’t they see that?" Questions brew between your allies. You don't wait for answers. "I want them to see that. They won't, though. They refuse to. They'd rather see me dead— even if it wouldn't appease them. Even if it would only make them sleep easier."

All of the fight is out of you. You force yourself onto your knees, and grasp Mercy's symbol tightly between your hands. "Now that I— now that I can't feel the Gods. Who's strength is my weakness."

You bow your head, and pray. Wrought as your voice is with emotion, you keep it as steady as you can. "Mercy, I am the Father of Your children. The guardian of Your people. The keeper of Your blessings. I am the messenger of Your word—" Choking on your speech, you're unable to keep your composure. There's nothing. Her warmth, Her voice, Her blessings. You feel none of it. There's absolutely nothing.

You curl in on yourself, holding Her symbol closely to your chest. "I— I'm so sorry—"

Ofelia finally says something. "It's not your fault, Richard." Your sobs carry over her speech. "When I found ya', that demon was doing somethin'. I don't know what. It looked like its blood was behind yer eyes, or somethin'. I was scared what would happen— if I killed it while it had you like that."

Vividly recalling the feeling of the greater demon creeping into your skull makes you want to retch. Ofelia's filthy rag from the floor is picked up, and you continue trying to scrub the blood off from your face as she speaks.

"I don't know what it did to you, but I'm sorry things got so bad. You shouldn't have gone off by yourself so deep into the ruins. There's worse things than that down there. Seen a lotta' crazy humans since we've been travelin'."

Celegwen perks up. "You are not the worst human we have seen, Richard."

A desperate, small laugh bubbles out. You hate it, and can't keep it down. "Not the worst?"

"No. If I understand correctly, most of these demons were far worse than you at some point, too. Even the one you just killed. That was very, very reckless of you, though. You and your dog could have suffocated from those fumes. We could have even interrogated the demon—"

"No. No. You both can take what you need— you can explore— but I will not tolerate another demon. I want to go home. I need to leave this place. I've seen enough. My mission was to explore— and I have witnessed enough horror."

Ofelia softly asks, "where's home for you, Richard?"

"The Church of Mercy. It's a week's travel from the surface— across from the river Morinburn. A few day's travel from the capital."

The sass in Ofelia's voice has been replaced with genuine homesickness. "What's it like there? Home?"

Music

"You can always hear the river. The air is as clean as you can hope for. There's— there's lots of farmland. I never thought that I would miss the smell of barley." Ofelia may be offering you a smile— but you continue looking away. "We get a lot of travelers seeking refuge at the— at the Church of Mercy. I get to see a lot of people who need help. We're more on the outskirts of the city, but we watch the borders. Protecting the fields, scouting the forests. Repairing our defenses. Aiding— aiding everyone who loses their homes, and their families. I do get out a lot— to help with the fight— and to service the surrounding cities and villages. It's— it's not much."

The sick, wet sound of your hands clenching at the robes over your knees is so disgusting that you almost let go immediately. "But I— I do need to go back."

The growing emptiness within you is somehow more disturbing than being soaked in demon's blood. Feeling as disgusting on the outside as you do on the inside, you compulsively want to keep praying.

The state of your attire may be even worse than you suspect. Ofelia nods towards your figure. "Do ya' have any other clothes? Celegwen has a cool trick to clean up blood— but I think she's too worn out?"

The sorceress appears to be in a daze. She's either sleeping upright, or is in deep meditation. Only her ears twitch at the sound of her name. "Healing and carrying your dog was more than I should have done today. I am afraid you will have to deal with the mess through mundane means."

Embarrassed by your appearance, and ashamed of your behavior, you keep your eyes downcast. "Of course. Is there a source of clean water nearby? I'd like to— I would like to clean my holy vestments—"

Ofelia makes a face at the word. You don't have the patience to explain, and simply gesture to your robes in frustration. The small woman moves to get a pot off of the flame. "Ah. No need. Gwen made some for us last week. We have plenty to spare." A few cute and dramatic sounds are made as she carefully moves the water adjacent to you. "Ah, AH— ah! Careful—"

"Thank you."

One, long, awkward moment passes before you avert your eyes. "Don't look at me."

Both women mock offense as your face flushes. Celegwen has the decency to turn her back around and resumes her trance. A bigger show is made by the other blasphemer— turning her nose up— and moving to the other side of the room. Ofelia teases, "yes, of course, your holiness."

Once you're certain that they're actually keeping their eyes off of you, you rapidly dig through your backpack. Fishing out a spare change of clothes in one hand, you rapidly undress with the other. A tapestry of old battle scars paint a grim picture in the low heat and light of the room for only an instant. Your sunken and paper-thin abdomen and arms are the first to rapidly be covered by a black shirt. You're thin enough to not need to unbutton it before slipping it overhead. The knotted scars winding all over your back, chest, and legs soon are disguised as well. There's a few inches to spare on the lace up the sides of your trousers, but the blessed, clean, dry, and black fabric hides the last of your discomfort from view. Only once you're done refastening the smallest notch on your belt do you dare to make a sound. "Alright. You can stop teasing me, Ofelia—"

The halfling pipes down from her whistling to the wall, and looks over her shoulder. She lets out a wolf whistle. You want to die.

You return to the pot of water, and slump down as she looks to your shaking hands. Fishing out a precious, slim bar of soap is an ordeal. Ofelia is making some sort of face at you. You frown in return. It's likely that her scrutiny has fallen on your shirt and trousers. The fitted fabric is betraying you. Having loose-fitting robes is a luxury, as they typically hide just how skinny you are. Without anything left to the imagination, it's clear by the angles of your shoulder blades and elbows that Flesh has wasted away most of your muscle. Agriculture has made it harder still to eat or drink. You curl into yourself in mortification, with your face a deeper shade of red. "I told you not to look at me."

"Richard, we've really got to feed you more."

The pot of boiling water before you is an open invitation to get off the grime, sin, and sensation of a demon still clinging onto your skin and bones. You plunge both filthy hands— along with your holy vestments— straight into the pot. The sensation doesn't immediately register. Scalding heat hits you as a rush of frigid pain.

"DON'T—!"

You set about scrubbing the items, and all of the viscera from underneath your nails before Ofelia can protest further. There's no strain in your voice. You sigh in relief. "It's okay." As the blood parts from your hands, catharsis washes over you in waves. The roiling bubbles and blistering skin is nothing compared to the shock you've been put through. "It doesn't hurt."

She doesn't seem convinced, and rubs her own hands nervously from a phantom burn. Without saying another word, the blonde walks besides the fire— and moves to get out more cookware.

Your breath slows thanks to the repetitive motion of cleaning your skin, and scrubbing at the cloth underhand. It's soothing on more than a physical level. Strength and warmth seeps back into your tone. "You said— you said that you met other humans. Ones worse off than I am. Can you tell me about them...?"

The pallor on her skin becomes even whiter at your question, but Ofelia replies evenly. "Everyone we've found down here has been completely insane, Richard. I didn't mean to be so forward with ya' when we first met— but we had to be careful. Gotta' look out for ourselves. Especially with the stunts you've pulled—"

Even through her trance, Celegwen has the tact to clear her throat. The otherworldly pitch is only unsettling for a couple of coughs, before she speaks in her usual tone. "Ofelia."

"Right, sorry. It's just— you gotta understand. I'm not used to this stuff, Richard."

It would be difficult for your hands to look any worse. You continue indulging the cathartic impulse to scrub, and speak softly. It almost as if you sound like yourself again, too. "I understand."

Ray snores soundly in his sleep. The familiar noise is immensely comforting. You're not certain if the elf can hear you, and speak more softly still. "Celegwen?"

Her eyes clear from the clouds and gloss that poured over them. "Yes, Father?"

"Your healing. I am— I am entirely unfamiliar with it. You saved— you saved Ray, when I couldn't—"

"It's a difficult spell. I'm not at all used to using it— and your dog likely would have not survived were it not for you work, too." She offers a small smile. "Give yourself credit where it's due."

Dropping your eyes back down to the reddened water, you stare intently— and scrub harder.

Your frown deepens. "Thank you, again." The elf's small smile drops as you pointedly ignore her reassurance. "I don't understand it. How you— how you were able to contend with that demon—" Your green eyes are raw. They look intently over at Ofelia's form. Her small frame is crouched over the fire, boiling more water. Your eyes meet for a brief second, before you glance down to wring out your robes.

The rogue's voice momentarily becomes more sinister than anything you'd expect from a woman of her race. "I couldn't have done anything if it wasn't so distracted." She catches herself, and looks to you with genuine concern. "Do ya' really want to hear this, Richard? I mean..."

Your knuckles whiten from the force you twist the fabric underhand with. You swallow hard, and try to get a hold of yourself. Contending with your own demons puts a waver in your speech. "I need to know. How I— how I could have done things differently."

How I could have been less of a failure. How I could not be so weak.

Ofelia keeps her stare fixed onto your back. The urge to squirm and hide is shoved down as she replies. "I don't think ya' could have killed it, Richard. When I found you, your dog was already on the ground. It looked like he put up a hard fight." She glances over at Ray's sleeping form with a wilting frown, then back to you. "The room was so cold. It looked like you had been under for awhile. I was scared, Rich— I mean, Richard. It looked like it was inside your head. I thought it might just kill ya' if I did anythin'."

Your hands are shaking too hard to be of any use. Setting your vestments aside, you keep your head bowed.

The low tone of Ofelia's voice drops to a whisper. "I used my best poison on it. Took it out of another demon down here. One to freeze its blood. It wouldn't have been able to hurt you like that, Richard. I made sure it wasn't going to move again."

All of the flush is gone from your face. Holding yourself— as if clutching onto the fitted fabric around you as if it could keep you safer— you mouth an inaudible reply. 'Thank you.'

"It didn't let you go at first, though. I was scared for you, Richard— but—" The halfling raises her volume in bewilderment. "—you pulled yourself out of there. I must have tried to wake you up for an hour, but you finally came to. Never seen anythin' like it."

I was in the Church of Mercy. I was with the Catalyst. I couldn't have done that.

"What? I...?"

She shrugs. "That's what I saw. I don't know how you humans work. I just made sure that bastard wasn't gonna try anythin' weird with you. You were in bad shape." A small laugh makes every attempt to downplay any offense. "You still look in pretty bad shape, to be honest."

You avert your eyes again, trying to process her implications.

"I didn't want to leave ya' until I saw you were awake. But I was worried what might happen if that monster— I mean, demon— resisted the poison."

She wasn't certain it would work?

"Don't give me that face. You know you can't be certain with these things! Besides, who knows what might have happened if I killed it outright— or if I even could have? You had to burn the damn thing to be sure."

You tighten your arms around yourself, at the sight of the flame dancing over the greater demon's corpse. "Yes. I did have to burn it."

Celegwen can't help but pipe up. "I still think that was terribly excessive, Father, but..."

You don't have any regrets. There was no information that demon could have had that would have justified keeping it alive.

Ofelia brings over another pot of water. This one is nowhere near as warm. Steam still rises from the surface, but she hovers beside you long after setting the item down. "Okay, Mr. Hotshot. Don't hurt yourself this time." You begin to protest, but she speaks over you. "I don't care. Gods or blessings or whatever— just get this finished up so I can clean my damned pots. You need some rest."

"I won't take much longer. I would like to get some rest, but there is— there is something that I have to do first."

Ofelia and Celegwen both look at you curiously.

"I need time to pray. I can't— I can't take the first watch, but I can take the second or third—"

"That isn't necessary, Father." Celegwen holds up a blood-streaked hand. "I've been resting while you spoke. I will be keeping the whole watch." You shift uncomfortably, unsure if the elf was even listening to you. "I wasn't trying to be rude. I could hear every word. The spells I used to help your dog simply took a great deal out of me. I hope you can understand."

You look down at your hands and grimace. They're streaked with watered down blood, and are still filthy. "I understand." You nod your head, and set to rinsing the robes and your hands one more time in cleaner water.

"I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner, Father. But I'm glad you're safe. Please get some rest. I'm going to start patrolling. Ofelia, sound the alarm if anything happens. Anything." Celegwen gets to her feet. Her movements are much lighter than before.

You keep your eyes firmly fixed on the soap and water as you feverishly clean the rest of your robes. It's going to be impossible to get the stains out, but you've at least gotten the bulk of the blood and viscera. Ofelia practically jumps at the pots as you wring out the last of the excess water. "Finally—" She whisks away the well-used metal. "You're more thorough than my mother."

You wince, and shy away from the halfling. A nearby, rough, stone protrusion is used to hang-dry the damp garment on. The scrubbing at pots is the only sound that carries over your speech. "Thank you. You didn't have to."

"'course I did. People should look out for each other." She picks up on your discomfort after an extended pause. "Maybe you humans don't. You sound like you've been hurt pretty bad, Richard. I think my Pa' wouldn't be happy with me if I made all that any worse."

"You haven't."

Ofelia's scrubbing stops abruptly. She stands up, admiring her handiwork. "Good as new!" A broad smile beams over at you, whether you return it or not. "Some jobs need a little more elbow grease than others. You might need a whole lot, Richard, but I think you'll be okay." She lowers the pot, gathering her cooking implements. "You want the fire going while you pray?"

"I will only need it for a moment." You step over to your backpack. From the very bottom of the lowest compartment, you tear into the pocket sewn into the lining. Safe and dry are several long, beeswax candles. You take out a single one. They're another extreme luxury, thanks to your position in the Church.

Ofelia gives you a jealous look with a low whistle, and waits patiently while you soften the bottom of the wax, and light the top of the wick. "Lucky you. That'll last at least a few hours, huh? Don't stay up for too long." She finishes cleaning up, and spreads out a bedroll for herself from a hidden cache in the side of the wall. "Wouldn't want you passing out again."

You carefully bring the candle over to the far end of the room. It's fastened firmly on the stone floor. You're certain that it's secure, and that there are no nearby drafts to disturb you. "Good night, Ofelia."

"'night, Richard."

Fire dwindles to embers. Embers dwindle into ash. Before long, the only light in the room comes from the single candle before you— and the dim redness of the ruins further beyond.