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Taylor shifts his hands in his lap as the carriage comes to a stop, allowing himself one short, tired sigh before he schools his expression into an empty politeness no one will glance twice at and the door swings open.
He accepts the offered hand of the footman as he steps out of the carriage and lets it go the second his feet are steady on the ground. Taylor trusts the man about as much as he trusts someone with a knife behind their back, which is not at all, but he tries to reassure himself that he is less likely to be murdered in a public place with witnesses.
The ever present paranoia has been worse these past few months, a constant poor sleep wearing on his mind. He falls asleep late and wakes before the dawn, spending the restless hours listening to every whistle of the breeze through the open windows and the quiet movements of the guards on night patrol around the estate.
The exhaustion is getting to him.
A prickly tiredness that makes Taylor feel as if he’s about to tumble right out of his skin and it sets his mind on edge, seeing already bloomed danger where there is only possibility. He has contemplated the unthinkable too many times since the spring, the bottle of poison heavy in his hands despite its small weight, and that fact alone scares him enough to make him desperate.
He needs sleep, he needs rest, so he finds himself walking up the white marble steps to the open doors of a temple for the God of Death.
The stairs are wide and smooth, worn down by hundreds of feet over the years. The doors open south and the stained glass window in the main prayer chamber sits along the north wall, keeping the space inclosed in a chilly darkness - a reminder of death’s cool embrace.
This temple, only an hour’s journey from the Stan estate, is one of the oldest temples of death on the continent - and currently one of the most famous, devotees embarking on pilgrimages from far and wide for a chance to pray with and be blessed by Death’s Holy Maiden.
Taylor has never met her, for all her close proximity and importance their paths have never crossed, and it’s unlikely that he will meet her today in a way that means much.
As he is not a devotee he does not have the necessary things to bring with him for prayer, but Death has never turned away those that come unprepared and so the church follows suit.
He accepts the heavy wool cloak a woman hands him as he steps into the entrance chamber and then the lighter veil made of fine spun cotton. He lets the fabric fall around him and settles the veil more securely over his hair before accepting the mask she holds out to him, white like the cloak and veil save for the details in black, deep purple, and gold decorating the eyes, mouth, and forehead.
Death does not care who you are and the practices of the church reflect that. The cloak to hide the clothes and body, the veil to hide the hair, and the mask to hide the face.
Taylor leaves his boots on the shelves built into the left wall of the entrance chamber and takes a shallow stone bowl and a candle for his prayer. As he passes the threshold into the main prayer chamber he melts the candle slightly in the fire burning in the old brazier in the middle of the large entryway and lights it in the same breath.
The candles are said to act as a beacon for the God of Death so he might find and hear you, just as the obscuration of identity is said to show respect to him by embodying the ideal that one life is not worth any more than another no matter appearance, wealth, or power.
The floor is cold against Taylor’s feet but he finds a place within the prayer chamber and settles on his knees, bowl with the burning candle cupped in his pale hands.
There are four others with him and each one of them is silent - prayers to Death are private things and never spoken aloud.
Prayers to Death are not common practice anymore, although there is literature that suggests that it was once so, before the Church of the Sun God became the most widely observed faith - and the most politically dominant.
In the current time most people only visit a Temple of Death to make use of the Vow of Death, the unique practices of the faith and the sacred powers wielded by the chosen faithful reduced to an insurance clause on a business contract. Taylor won’t deny its usefulness, but as an avid researcher of history it does sadden him a bit.
He sits there for a while, his candle burned halfway, melted wax pooling in the shallow, grey-stone dish still held in his hands that are now resting palm-up on his knees.
He’s not altogether sure what he’s praying for other than sleep.
Safety maybe.
Sanity probably.
His father’s timely demise, most certainly.
He is sixteen now, which is considered old enough to take over a lord position if it is truly necessary - for example, the previous Marquis died and the house has no older relatives to take over as regent until the eldest heir is properly of age - although it is not a wholly supported practice anymore.
Taylor finds himself caring less and less that the practice is verging on illegal nowadays as time passes, although perhaps that is the poor sleep enhanced emotions talking rather than any sort of logical thought.
When his knees and legs begin to ache from kneeling, Taylor decides it’s time to leave.
He feels more settled than he had when he walked in, although it is hard to tell whether that is because of his praying or a placebo effect from the way the dichotomy of the cold floor and warm cloak has made his head feel calm and empty.
He blows out his candle and rises to his feet, heading back towards the entrance chamber of the temple. There is a rustle of movement behind him, the person closest to the altar beneath the stained glass window rising and following after him, their own candle extinguished and mostly melted in their bowl.
They had been there when he walked in and they had looked almost asleep when Taylor’s mind wandered enough from his purpose that his eyes glanced around. The four others had left, replaced by only one more over the time between then and now although they do not remain.
He places his bowl on the low, open racks in the entrance chamber, the candle to be remelted and reshaped by more devout members of the faith at some point in the near future. He almost misses the grounding cold of the floor when he puts his boots back on and tries to subtly shake the feeling of being exposed when he removes the cloak, veil, and mask to fold and stack them away.
He pays half a mind to the girl about his age removing her own prayer garments behind him and gives a polite nod of thanks to the attendant at the door, a man rather than the woman from earlier. Sentry guardians there to greet and bid farewell and to ensure that nobody steals anything.
The moon feels too bright as he walks down the steps after hours spent in darkness and he squints against the cool light. Footsteps sound beside him and he turns his head to see the girl from the entrance chamber cheerfully fall into step with him.
Her eyes are golden and her hair is short and dark-brown in colour, directly opposed to his own long, pale blond hair. She gives him a toothy smile when their eyes meet, casual in the way no one ever is with him, and Taylor finds himself curious.
“I’m Cage.” She tells him, as if anything about the current situation is a normal interaction between two people of different social ranks and backgrounds.
“Taylor.” He returns, keeping his last name out although there is no way she doesn’t know it. Her outfit screams ‘Church of the God of Death’ even without her prayer clothes.
“The moron upstairs tells me that you’ve got issues,” Cage remarks bluntly, more or less confirming his quiet, bewildered suspicion that she is in fact the God of Death’s Holy Maiden, “and while I’m not usually inclined to do anything he asks me to, you look like you could use an anchor - and someone to encourage your rebel side.”
Taylor doesn’t know how a person could be an anchor, but he can admit that ‘rebel’ is an accurate description of his feelings towards his father these days.
“So,” Cage says, and it feels less like death and more like hope, “do you want to be friends?”
There’s really only one thing Taylor could ever say to that question.
“Yes.”