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The friar's chest had felt tight today during Mass, and he had been gasping for breath after completing the `Te Deum', but he had managed, as always, to finish his devotion with no interruptions. He thought that he should perhaps brew an infusion of Rose to ease his chest, but this thought, along with all feelings of hunger, had disappeared when he started to read the beautiful hymns of Sister Marie-Simone.
"Jean-Pierre"
The old man stirred. "Mmm... yes?" His green eyes squinted in the direction of the voice.
The soft voice woke him from the light doze that he had entered, the volume of verse lying open on his lap. Looking up he saw the speaker, standing silhouetted in the doorway that lead into the small chapel, and with the light of the dying sun streaming behind him, was momentarily dazzled. The man stepped into the room, and the friar was able to get a better look at his visitor. He stood tall and straight, and wore a robe the colour of summer storm-clouds. His hair was like fresh-forged gold, and his face was beautiful - there was no other word for it. A flicker of recognition flittered across Jean-Pierre's mind, but was lost when the man spoke again.
"The Lord's Blessing on this day of your birth. We meet once more, for the third and final time, as was ordained at our first meeting."
The friar's expression was calm, although he had a curious eyebrow raised. "Welcome."
The man held his hands out to help the friar to stand. "Will you walk with me a while, good Friar?"
"Why, of course." Placing a leathery hand in the strong grip of the guest, Jean-Pierre slowly rose to his feet. He gathered his walking stick from its resting place, having carefully closed the precious volume of poetry and placed it on the rickety table beside the chair. The friar followed the man into the chapel.
When he entered the adjoining House of God, he found the stranger standing at the altar. The septagenerian made his slow and painful way up the steps towards him. As he approached he could see that the man was caressing the cloak of grey cloth that contained the souls of the Magi of Lariander covenant, that the Council of Malinbois had placed in the safekeeping of Jean-Pierre.
"You look puzzled, my friend. Is something troubling you?"
The friar studied the man's behaviour for a moment or two, before he replied hesitantly "It is just that... well the cloak is an evil item. I have done what I can, of course, but it saddens me to see such suffering..." He tails off, somewhat peturbed.
"Perhaps something can be done to ease that suffering," he says, then folds up the cloth and wipes his hands, as if he had touched something filthy.
The man goes down the chancellory steps, heading for the door to the chapel, but waiting so that the friar can catch up. The tall stranger puts a friendly arm around the shoulder of the slightly-built priest, supporting him as they walk. As the pair step out onto the green sward of Santare Hill, the sun is sinking below the horizon, sending up streamers of rose-gold and orange, fading into red, violet, then finally deep black, sprinkled with silver stars.
They make their way slowly up the hill towards the fortress, and Jean-Pierre's joints seem to be on fire from the pace, albeit slow.
The priest hobbles along with the aid of the gnarled stick. The lines of exertion are clear on his wrinkled face, but as always, the old man offers up no complaint.
"My old friend, the pain doesn't have to be bad. Just say the word, and it will be gone." The hand of the stranger seems to burn on the friar's shoulder, a cold, clear pain.
Jean-Pierre's curiousity is aroused even further. Somewhere deep in his thoughts he feels rather uneasy, but his outward expression is still calm. He merely smiles and says "God will take me when he is ready."
"Very well, I will acceed to your wishes." The stranger's hand drops from Jean-Pierre's shoulder, and he bows his head as they continue to walk up the hill.
The destination seems not to be the covenant after all, as the ash-clad man guides the old priest around the left side of the covenant, about 3 yards from the outer moat.
"Tell me, my friend. When you were young, is this what you desired in life? Did you see yourself spending a lifetime with heathen sorcerors on a fool's mission?"
The prickly feeling inside him grows, shouting alarm at him. However the friar also feels a greater force upon him, a gentle hand of comfort. He stops, and his piercing green eyes meet the stranger's gaze. "I only ever wanted to serve God. This is the task he has set upon me, and I am content with it." He smiles, much as a teacher would to a child who cannot grasp some simple concept. He offers up his arm to the tall man again. "I sense that my task here is nearly done." They continue, the priest feeling inside his simple robes for the comforting touch of the crucifix.
The stranger just nods, although whether the sentiment is agreement, Jean-Pierre is not sure.
By now, the pair had reached the north-west corner of the covenant, and they turned east to continue walking around the perimeter. The friar could hear the sounds of Mordaleus working in his lab, the faint whine of the hot forge, and the beating of hammer against anvil. The friar was also acutely aware of a prickling sensation running up and done his spine, the feeling he usually recieved in the presence of magic. Of course - the protective magic on the covenant. It could be only a matter of feet away.
"And now? What would you want for yourself now? If you could do things again, and could choose to be anywhere - at the court of the King of France, or in the Vatican as Cardinal - if you had a world of possibilities at your feet, what would you choose for yourself?"
The pair continue on, the friar slowly making his way across the broken ground. He seems to spend a moment or two in contemplation. "It is a difficult question. You may find it hard to believe, but I have found happiness in the simple life I lead here. Who is to say that I would have found as much fulfillment as a cardinal or a courtier? It was many years ago that I learned that I had but to put my trust in the Lord, and he would ensure that the choices I made in life were the right ones. Looking back, I have no regrets."
"No regrets? None whatsoever?" The friar shakes his head. "Then you are truly a man blessed."
They turn once more, heading along the eastern wall of the covenant back towards its front. The stranger stops, facing the dry moat, lost in thought over the friar's last answer.
"But what do you think you've accomplished. How do you fit into God's plan? You have done no great deeds, you have brought no kings or barons to do God's Will. You defied God's Chosen servant here in Rousillon, and it is doubtful that you have even saved the souls of those that you came to save. What impact have you made on this World?"
A pensive look crosses Jean-Pierre's face. He senses the approach of some significant event. "It is not my place to try and discern God's infinite wisdom, of course. It is also true that my life has not been perfect, for no man's ever is." He shrugs. "It is my only hope that the Lord will forgive me my sins. I would like to think that I have given God's word honestly to all who sought it, and that I have helped to ease the suffering of many of the sick and afflicted. I chose not to impose my will onto the world, but merely to act as a servant of God's will. What honest man can do more?"
The man seems angry, even frustrated. As Jean-Pierre frames his reply, he can here a sinister slithering sound, and the grey bulk of the brollachan forms out of the ooze at the bottom of the moat. The beast seems agitated, writhing and slowly forming, moving towards the edge of the moat upon which the pair of men stand.
The friar is mildy alarmed by this activity, and prudently takes a step or two backwards, but waits to see what will transpire.
"Come. They will have arrived by now. We must return to the Chapel." The stranger strides off towards the church, and strangely, Jean-Pierre finds it not at all difficult to keep up with his pace. The aching in his chest and joints seems to have fled like summer mist, and the friar feels positively young once more. As they approach the church, the priest hears a scream from within. The two guards at the entrance (how come he didn't see them when he left the chapel?) start and rush inwards. The wail of grief from a woman's throat tears at the twilight, and already men are rushing down to the chapel.
The two slip inside the church, unnoticed by the people within. Jean-Pierre is guided over to his little room, the centre of the attention. There he sees Richenda, the cook that brought his food each evening weeping over the frail body of an old man. His body, a look of contentment on his face.
The stranger behind him says "There is nothing to keep you here, Jean-Pierre. No regrets, remember. Thy work is done, their fate is in the hands of another now. Come."
And the Archangel Uriel enfolds the soul of the dead priest with his shadow-filled wings...