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Her boots scrape against the cobblestones leading into the abbey. Warrior-monks guarding the outside instinctively stiffen, broad, gloved hands flying to their sword hilts, but as soon as they see her— exhausted, filthy— they relax. Tera hastens her pace to reach them, ignoring the slick squish of blood inside her boots; she’s been walking for four days straight.
Before that, she had been running. Either on foot, or with other traveling caravans who were kind enough to offer their aid, though that was rare. Mostly, though, she had been alone, sleeping under the shadows of trees or in damp caves, and keeping her eyes on the horizon, perpetually hyper-vigilant for threats. Vampires were her main concern, but she also rarely trusted in the better nature of her fellow man. It wasn’t until she’d finally, finally reached France, that she allowed herself to relax, and that was only slightly.
“Sanctuary,” she rasps, hobbling up to them. Her throat is scratchy-dry from dehydration. She clutches it, resisting a cough, as if to hold her fraying vocal chords together. “Sanctuary, please. The townspeople said that the abbey—“
One of the monks steps forward. He’s taller than the other and broader, chain main hanging off his torso. Tera glances at his face, taken aback by his extraordinary beauty. “You wish to stay at the abbey?”
She nods rapidly. “Yes. Please! I-I’ll cook if you need me to. If I have to earn my keep. I can sew clothing, and clean, and— and—“
He shakes his head, silencing her, and opens one of the doors. “Just go in,” he says. “Wait for the Abbot.”
Tera bows in thanks, before stepping past him to walk inside. She briefly casts her eyes on the other monk, curious, but he ignores her, staring straight ahead. Embarrassed, she turns her face away.
Similar to the crumbling exterior, the inner chapel is mostly unimpressive, sparsely decorated and austere. There are rows of wooden benches and pews, and flickering torches hanging from dark, stone walls. Sunlight shines through the large windows, warming the drafty room. As she breathes in, moisture thickens in the back of her throat. This building is old— by a century or two, she would guess— but well-worn, well-loved.
Tera walks up to the small stage at the front. There’s a podium, and a table with the golden monstrance set on top, the only object of any noticeable value she’s seen thus far. She stares hard at it, feeling a bit… awkward. It’s the ultimate irony, a Speaker-magician seeking safety in a church; and yet, she’s desperate. Bathory left her with no place to go but here, and even now, she’s skeptical about how long that may last. When the East has been devoured, won’t it be in her nature to travel West and finish the job?
She suppresses a shiver, forcibly shaking her head to get rid of that train of thought. Her hands come up to clutch at her arms, a self-soothing gesture. In any case, she thinks, that time hasn’t come yet. Vampires move at such a slow pace, anyway. It may be decades before she decides to spread her hell, here. It may be centuries.
Suddenly, a door behind her opens. Tera startles, turning her head to see the vague silhouette of a man, half-concealed in shadow. A sliver of torchlight reveals only blond hair, black robes, and the faint curve of a smile. She narrows her eyes, attempting to make him out.
“You must be the woman Mizrak told me about,” a deep, kindly voice says. “The one who begged for help.”
“Are you the Abbot?” she asks.
He steps forward. The sun pulls the darkness from his face like a veil. His appearance surprises her, stopping her breath short. He’s tall and unexpectedly handsome, much like his monk. His hair is a light, ashy blond, while his eyes are a bright, glowing green, accentuated by the paleness of his skin. A proud, Roman nose sits above his thin mouth, still stretched into a smile that she wants to call genuine. That she hopes is genuine, because his sincerity determines her fate.
“I am,” he says. “My name is Emmanuel. And yours is…?”
“Tera.”
“Tera,” he softly repeats.
She watches him approach, his footfalls echoing despite the small size of the room. He joins her in front of the monstrance, his eyes taking a new light.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she says quickly. Wanting to be agreeable, acceptable, regardless of the fact that she thinks it’s true. “I’ve always admired that about Catholics, their eye for beauty.”
“You are not a Catholic?”
She hides a wince; she had forgotten herself. “No, Father. My country was Orthodox.”
“You are from Russia?” She nods. His smile widens. Up close, she can’t help but notice the appealing gray that colors his temples. “I could tell. Your French is very good, but your accent is distinct.”
“So everyone has been telling me.”
He looks at her for a long moment, his eyes examining, intent on the weary stretch of her mouth. Finally, he sighs, and drops his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. She has to stop herself from sagging under such a human touch. When was the last time she—?
“I’m sorry,” he says delicately. “People here can be cruel, close-minded, and judgemental. It pains me that you have to deal with it, now, when you’re already hurting.”
“People are cruel everywhere, Father.” Tera dislikes the sound of her voice, then, put off by its hauntedness. “But you don’t need to pity me. Human cruelty is hardly the worst thing I’ve ever dealt with.”
He shifts beside her. “Do… Do you mind if I ask what happened?”
“No. No, I don’t.” In fact, she had been expecting him to. Preparing herself for it. “Several months ago, my village was destroyed by bandits. Everything was burned, torched to the ground, and nearly everyone was killed except my little sister and I, including our parents. While I managed to get away, my sister was kidnapped. I tried to save her, but by the time I got there, it was too late.” If she closes her eyes, she’d see her feral snarl, the rattling chains binding her wrists. “They killed her,” she croaks. “Corrupted her. I saw them do it.”
Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? It’s what Bathory did. Vampirism isn’t new, eternal life, but constant death. Continuous rot. A life without the sun.
“And you managed to escape?”
“Barely. I ran for days afterwards, seeing them everywhere. I don’t know how they didn’t catch me, honestly. Maybe they stopped trying.”
“It was God, perhaps, shielding you.”
She hums, unwilling to disagree. Afraid to.
“Why did you choose France?”
“It was as far west as I could get without going to Britain.”
“No stomach for the British, eh?”
“Mere convenience, really. My English happens to be poor.” A lie. “And I think France is prettier.” True.
He chuckles, amused. She watches him, noticing his smile lines deepen with a certain giddiness. When he stops, he tightens his grip around her shoulder. “I admire your strength, Tera. Truly, I do. Heaven smiles upon people with your will, and God rewards them. Believe me. I’ve seen it happen many times in my life.”
Tera nods uneasily. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that God will never, can never extend his grace to her, solely on account of her background. Yet, she finds herself hoping that maybe, just this once, He will be kind enough to leave her alone, to spare her.
“I need sanctuary, Father,” she says, spurred on by the thought. “I said this to your monk, but I’m willing to work for it. I can clean, and cook, and I used to be a healer. You have warrior-monks; I know how to treat wounds. I can—“
He instantly shakes his head, smiling patiently. He lifts his free hand to hold it up to her, palm-first. “That’s not necessary, my dear. We have cooks to cook, and maids who clean. And my monks can usually take care of themselves just fine.”
“Then what can I…?”
“Nothing,” he says, and it’s honest. “You ask for sanctuary, and I grant it. I would never deny anyone help when they’re in need. To do otherwise is unfathomable to me.”
The anxious, desperate energy that had been blooming in her since she’d first reached France suddenly deflates, and she bends her head low, her neck as limp as a dying flower. A sob builds in her chest that she has to fight to keep in. “Thank you, Father. Thank you so much. You have no idea…”
Through blurred vision, she can see the infinitesimal approach of his boots, nearly hidden beneath the dark bulk of his robes. Two soft, cold hands find her cheeks, and he lifts her watery gaze to meet his. Normally, she’d flinch away. The touch of a man usually spelled trouble, but his eyes keep her locked in place. They are so kind, almost Christ-like. There’s no expectation or innuendo concealed within them, simmering beneath a priestly veneer. He is— as his title claims— a Father. Family to the weak.
His thumbs quickly swipe her tears away. “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need. If you wish to cook or clean, you may do so, but our generosity does not hinge on your usefulness. You may treat this as a… vacation, if you wish.”
“A vacation?” She grins; her first true one. “In an abbey?”
“Not so glorious a place, I know, but…”
“If it works?”
His answer is even better. “If it makes you happy.”
They share a laugh. As his touch slips from her face, she grabs his hand to briefly press her lips to his ring. This must be sacrilegious, somehow, to treat a local Abbot like a Cardinal or a Pope, but he is as good as God to her right now. Even better, for he has none of His petty injustices, only His mercy.
“Thank you again, Father. I will never forget this. I will take your kindness with me to my grave.”
“It saddens me that it comes as such a surprise to you,” he says, smiling wanly. “But I’m happy for your gratitude all the same.”
Then, he steps back. She almost mourns the loss of him, but his warmth lingers across her skin; a gift for when she’s inevitably lonely again, she knows.
Though, maybe not for long. Things are different now. She has a real place to stay, and a man beside her, eager to offer his goodwill and company.
“Come, Tera. Let me show you to your room. I can give you a tour if you’d like?”
She nods, and the Abbot turns on his heel, gesturing her forward to follow him into one of the shadowy halls. All the while, she stares at his wide back, the subtle curl of his short hair, and wonders, wonders how anyone can be so singularly lovely.
Tera holds her hands over her heart, folded in two, as if to keep it in place.