Fate weaver’s convergence

 

So this is Kraków’s temple.

 

I stared at the Wyrms framing the door, their design grand and somehow familiar, as if they took the place of Cerberus. The temple was at first, a series of catacombs, if Sabine was to be believed. It was not something that perturbed me, but it was amusing to a certain degree that the hound would be emulated in some light. I had roughly five hours or so until dinner would be finished, so I was free to explore at my leisure. 

 

I’d like to do this out of sight if I could, but it's unlikely that one of the priests will tolerate my presence in their study. Maybe there are smaller shrines?

 

I entered, taking my time to peruse the relics placed along the walls. It was different from Brenton, each display case seeming dedicated to each individual example. There was no grand painting, nor statues, but instead the walls were lined with tapestries and glass. I wandered, taking my time as I mentally prepared for whatever revelations awaited me. It wouldn't be gentle, I had no thoughts of that. But it wasn't something I would put off forever.

 

If I want answers, I won't get them sitting around on my ass. I have a week to think them over if I need to. The lodging is paid, and the job is done. If I miss out on some gossip or talk about another city? Oh well. I've got plenty of sources still in Brenton.

 

“Would I be of assistance, miss?”

 

Hm? Ah, one of the priests.

 

“Sorry, I was just lost in thought.”

 

I was stuck in front of a tapestry depicting a Wyrm coiled close to the ground as an illuminated griffin swept down from above, its claws outstretched, poised to strike. On each side, they were flanked by mountains, charred black, with the forests blown down as if the center of some great explosion centered on the wyrm.

 

“Of this one? The red pass?”

 

He gestured to the tapestry, his hood falling back as he did. I got a better look at him, a human, barely into his twenties, he seemed a far cry from Brother Kane in Brenton.

 

“Yeah, it’s just-“

 

I leaned back, looking at each of the tapestries that had managed to avoid my interest. Generals of the empire, adventurers, mercenary heroes, some of the gods,  notable figures of the town, and the occasional monster being hauled through the gates, bigger and more ferocious than the Wyvern or Bulette that I’d faced years past. 

 

It seems so out of place.

 

It seemed symbolic—and older than the temple itself. It was fraying, and in some places, one might even spot battled dry rot. 

 

“It’s odd, isn’t it? Out of place for most temples, save the painting Aethelwulf drools over when he meditates.”

 

I looked back at him.

 

“You know the old goat?”

 

The priest raised a brow.

 

“Do you?”

 

I nodded, unclamping the top loop to my gambison and thumbing the pendant mother gave me.

 

“I’ve spoken with him, he’s a kind old man.”

 

The priest nodded before holding out his hand.

 

“I am brother Michal, and you are?”

 

“Kiyomi.”

 

I returned the gesture, gently shaking his hand.

 

“I met with Aethelwulf and brother Kane. I shared tea with the old man and he saw fit to entertain my worries and questions. We came to an agreement that I would visit the temple once a week to pray with him.”

 

Michal released my hand, nodding to himself. 

 

“An initiate of the sisterhood?”

 

“Hah, no, no. Judging from my first conversation with him, he seemed to abhor the idea of me letting the church entangle me this early. Fearing I’d become some ‘apocryphal zealot’ or something of the like.”

 

I said in my best ‘old man’ impression.

 

‘Hmph.”

 

Michal smiled, then sighed.

 

“That does sound like Aethelwulf, the wisest, but also not beholden to a joke or odd dose of brutal honesty.”

 

He waved at the tapestry once more.

 

“Wyrm’s burn, though, it’s not part of the gods' history. Of any history, really. It was a gift, brought back by Aethelwulf on a pilgrimage.”

 

“From where?”

 

“Va’ren.”

 

From the old country, huh?

 

Michal covered his mouth, suppressing a cough, then continued.

 

“It was given to him by the last queen of Va’ren. Queen Elexis, I think? It’s been some time, and the civil war has blurred everyone’s memories as of late, whether she’s still running around? The rumor mill hasn’t reached this far yet.”

 

Kiyomi’s mother, aye? Ah, that’s… that’s more telling than I thought it would be. Why else would she have been chased this far north? 

 

I rested my hand on Wyrmstooth’s pommel.

 

With time, at least, the information there has wormed its way through Damus. Maybe I could dig up some information in Lyon? Or maybe Francia? Mizzel did say there was a larger demon population in Francia.

 

He continued.

 

“It was an artistic impression of the old queen Signe’s mad ravings. She called them premonitions, but what’s more to compare a vision to other than a serious case of psychosis?”

 

Michal seemed to chuckle to himself.

 

“The old bat she was, Signe went mad following the end of ‘the great bleeding.’ The civil war Va’ren dealt with some two or three hundred years back. Her daughter, Ihle’s evolution, sealed that fate. ”

 

“Evolution, like the racial mutation at maturity?”

 

Michal nodded once more.

 

“Ihle became a succubus, breaking the line of oni until Elexis herself became one. Signe took that as confirmation of her ‘premonitions,’ then attempted to murder Ihle in front of the entire court. Not a declaration of betrayal or some ordered execution, just immediate, violent rambling followed by attempted murder. Ihle killed her, then became the next queen.”

 

“Matricide? Can’t imagine that went well.”

 

“It didn’t, that’s when Ihle became known as ‘Ihle the Wyrm.’ Signe’s dissidents were already jumping at the chance to lead a revolt, but Ihle squashed it.”

 

Seem’s Kiyomi’s bloodline hasn’t known peace for a while now. Our mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother? Weren’t higher demons supposed to be long-lived?

 

“What happened to Ihle? Aren’t higher demons supposed to be long-lived?”

 

“They are, but she died not long after Elexis was born. Suicide. She fell to the same psychosis as Signe, the difference was, that Ihle recognized this. She took the sword, passed down her line, and killed herself before she could make the same mistakes.”

 

He motioned to the tapestry once again. 

 

“That, and she supposedly took the ‘premonitions’ to heart. She didn’t have the finer details, but she seemed to take to the ‘Red pass’ more than most. Aethelwulf called it a gift, but he was not shy of describing her distaste for the piece. It scared her.”

 

I turned to him.

 

“How do you know so much of it? The history? Aethelwulf was not of the greatest mind to retell me all this. And you, Michal? You’re not much older than myself.”

 

He shrugged.

 

“My father was Va’ranian, moved here when I was a pup. Most of it is word of mouth, from his stories.”

 

He raised his hands.

 

“So feel free to ignore my ranting, it’s not often I get to speak about anything but the old saga’s or mythos.”

 

“Haha, you're fine, you're fine. I don't get much conversation with anyone but misers or other adventurers anyhow. It's welcome.”

---

We seemed to take each other in stride as we conversed, slowly moving to the main chapel as the topic shifted to why I'd been at the temple in the first place. 

 

“So you're dedicating yourself to the arrangement you made with Aethelwulf?”

 

I shrugged, taking a seat at the frontmost pew.

 

“As best I can, it took us a week and a half to get here amidst our hunting. I shared a moment with him the day before I left, and he told me just to pray.”

 

Michal took a seat next to me. 

 

“Why not here? The chapel is empty for the most part.”

 

He gestured around us, motioning to the few other souls who seemed to be huddled by themselves randomly throughout the seating. I rubbed the back of my neck, doing my best not to outwardly say, ‘Oh, I want to have those sudden fits of psychosis that my family had.’ Regardless if they were the sudden imposition of Kiyomi’s memories into my own, I doubted the discussion would bode well. I did my best to give an answer.

 

“I have some prayers and thoughts to speak of– some things I feel best left to myself with. My own family has had it rough, and I fear I'd lose my composure. You must understand, aye? Not being able to fully let your emotions flow with a crowd?”

 

I furrowed my brow, doing my best to seem sullen.. It seemed to do the trick as Michal dropped his head back onto the pew with a sigh. 

 

“I can’t offer much better, but would you be opposed to the catacombs?”

 

I looked around us once more.

 

I’d like to avoid performing the funky chicken in the middle of a crowd if I could avoid it. I don’t think this will result in a seizure or the like. But all the same, people will ask questions if I suddenly fainted where I sat. 

 

“I wouldn’t, would you lead the way?”

---

“Here we are.”

 

Michal led me into the catacombs, dreary and smelling of burned oil and mildew. 

 

“Why so many lit torches?”

 

I gestured to the one he plucked from the wall.

 

“The dead are many things, but clean they are not. For those that are a bit more resistant to preparation before burial, the torches are lit to kill off the fumes and build-up of flammable gas.”

 

The steps went deeper, a trickle of groundwater leaking through the rock, leaving the walls damp. 

 

“I can’t imagine the moisture helps either.”

 

“No, no, it doesn’t. Too expensive to handle a coming and going water leak, however.”

 

“How far down will we go?”

 

“To the first shrine placed here for the dead or mourning. From your pleas, it seems fitting.“

 

Michal looked back at me.

 

“Privacy is nice when mourning, regardless of how much or little.”

 

He waved to a small stone arch, pushing open a wooden door. It was dark, and the room smelled of fresh air, strangely so for this far underground.

 

“There is a ventilation shaft in here for longer prayer sessions and for the odd private funeral service.”

 

He reached within the doorway, touching the torch to a sconce inset into the wall. He moved further in beckoning me to follow. The room coming into view, I took it in as he lit another two sconces to either side of a small statue of a Wyrm in a similar fashion to the ones guarding the temple entrance. A faded painting backdropped it, a Wyrm against a field of wheat.

 

More and more with the Wyrms, I know it’s Solah, supposedly, but damn, some variety, maybe?

 

“Thank you, should I be out by a certain time?”

 

Michal shook his head, making to leave. 

 

“Take your time, I will fetch you when I go to close the doors. If you’re gone, you’re gone. If you need a place to sleep, it is yours. And should you already have departed, I’ll simply close up after you.” 

 

He waved his hands to the side.

 

“Any friend of Aethelwulf is welcome here, the seer doesn’t share tea with just anyone.”

 

Michal left with those words, smiling as he did. 

 

The priest’s young enough, I’m no stranger to getting your foot in the door with small talk like he gave.

 

I crossed my arms, standing in front of the statue.

 

First Peter, and now Michal. I swear, that little vain streak we seem to have makes us a troublemaker, doesn’t it, Kiyomi?

 

I dropped my arms, unclamping Wyrmstooth’s sheath from my belts.

 

Yep, that’s vanity, alright. Don’t get an inflated ego over that one, especially when you’re about to humble the absolute shit out of yourself. This isn’t your body, Ki— This isn't your body, Aidan, same as always.

 

I leveled the blade in my hand before letting the sheath’s end rest gently against the floor. 

 

How much is still locked away? Maybe we can force a response from her? Get Solah to outwardly tell me exactly what it is that she wants? 

 

Kneeling, I took a pose that was not so different from when I first met Aethelwulf and Sabine, though it was more comfortable. I rested my hands on the pommel, weaving my fingers together as I leaned against the sword with my arms overhead. 

 

Calm thoughts, calm. No turmoil; do your best to hang on to reality. The last thing we need is to pass out here. Fight it. You’re strong enough for it. It’ll suck, but this needs to be done. 

 

Breathe in, breathe out, lowering my breath to the diaphragm instead of through my lungs. An old trick the army taught me on earth, it was a useful means of helping yourself take a step back, to calm one’s thoughts so you could step back and reevaluate whatever was giving you trouble. The drops of water in the catacombs, the smell of burning oil, and the thoughts of my earlier anxiety all escaped me. Everything except the cold feeling of the stone floor against my tail’s underside.

 

At worst, you miss dinner and get a scolding. You’re ready for this.

 

As I began channeling mana through my palms and into the hilt, the same feeling of lightheadedness, followed by a piercing headache, began to push its way to the front of my mind. 

 

You are ready. You should be, right?

 

And then, as before, blackness.