Rain-Soaked Last Rites
It was a night of drizzling rain. A black two-wheeled carriage rattled across the alleyway. Every time its rickety wheels splashed through puddles, black mud sprayed in all directions. Clunk. Rattle-thud. The carriage jolted as if it had hit a cobblestone. The man reached out to steady himself, grasping whatever was within reach. Something soft like a clump of hair brushed his fingertips as it slipped away. As the vibrations eased, he checked what he'd touched. A wad of cotton. Looking around, he spotted the source: the worn seats inside the dilapidated carriage had frayed at the corners, with yellowed stuffing protruding like tongues.
The man let out a long sigh. This hastily hired carriage was a wreck. The window lacked even cheap frosted glass; instead, a tattered rag streaked with grime hung limply, weighted at the bottom by a heavy stone, barely clinging to the frame. It clacked rhythmically against the carriage with every bump. Raindrops from the black night seeped through the gaps. Flashes of outside light streaked past through splits in the patched wooden panels.
How far had they come? The carriage slowed, and the surroundings grew quiet. Climbing a hill, it crawled along at a snail's pace. After a while, distant clamor reached them—lively music, men and women laughing and chattering boisterously. A shrill woman's laugh pierced the air from somewhere. The sounds grew louder, drawing nearer, then faded as the carriage pressed on. It traveled much farther in silence. Dim light seeped through the cracks. Finally, it came to a complete stop at the destination.
Screeech. The rusty door swung open. The man straightened his robes and stepped out slowly. Weak raindrops pattered his cheek. Cold. The coachman, hat pulled low, approached and extended a hand. In the dim light, his palm gleamed. The man fished a silver coin from his pocket and handed it over. The coachman nodded silently and returned to his seat. Neigh-hiiing. The horse started off again. Rattle-rattle... The carriage receded into the distance.
The man watched it go, then looked up and surveyed his surroundings. Faint lights glowed in the pitch darkness. Through the misty halos, a massive building loomed, encircling the area. On this rainy black night, the white-lit castle felt profoundly ominous.
"Haa." The man sighed deeply once more. Truth be told, he had no desire to set foot in a place like this on a pitch-black night of relentless drizzle. If not for her request, he would have dragged his weary body to bed after finishing his duties, slipping into dreamless sleep and awakening to a clear morning sky. He should have ignored that ominous knock echoing through the temple at midnight.
"Let's go." Muttering weakly in a low voice, the man walked toward a side path flanking the grand building. It led to the back door used by servants. Wet black mud clung stickily to the soles of his leather shoes, weighing down his steps. Passing the narrow path, he reached a black door. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the heavy metal knocker with all his might and slammed it down. Thud-clang, thud-clang. The massive knocker boomed dully.
Moments later, a narrow crack opened, revealing an elderly man with a pale face and dry expression staring at him.
"Who might you be?" The man eyed him up and down.
"As you can see, I'm a priest. Miss Estelle sent for me..."
Before the priest could finish, the door flew open. He followed the elderly man inside. The side door led to the kitchen. It bustled with activity. Dirty dishes piled like mountains on one side, while exhausted cooks and sluggish assistants hurriedly prepared a variety of dishes. The sheer volume suggested a massive party inside the house. Then again, this place always hosted endless revelries.
Passing the kitchen, they reached a small storeroom with pitch-black stairs descending to the basement. The elderly man headed down into the gloom. The priest hesitated at the top. Having braved the drizzling darkness to get here, plunging into the endless black depths didn't appeal.
"What are you waiting for?" The man's voice echoed eerily from below.
No choice. The priest took a deep breath and descended slowly. Upon reaching the dimly lit basement, a thick musty stench assaulted him. Cough, cough. The damp, moldy air was murky, and a foul, smoky tail curled from some dark corner, tickling his nose.
Lighting Artifacts dotted the corridor, casting just enough glow to make out shapes. The man jerked his chin, signaling to follow. They stopped at a door. He nodded toward it.
This must be it... Screeech. The door opened to a dim room. A figure lay on a narrow bed, an oil lamp flickering erratically on the table. "Come up after you're done." With that, the elderly man vanished down the murky corridor.
The priest entered and closed the door. The quiet room filled only with ragged breathing—unsteady and shallow. He approached the bed. A young woman lay curled under the covers, facing the wall, back turned.
"Estelle..." At the sound of her name, the gasping woman turned her head.
"...Father. You really... came."
Estelle spoke with effort, her voice thick with emotion. The priest stared, speechless. The side of her face turned toward him was a mangled mass of blackened flesh, exposing pale bone amid the rot. Necrosis had spread darkly around it, yellow pus oozing from cracks between dead cells.
"What in the world... happened to you?" The priest gazed at her, voice trembling.
"I don't think... I'll make it through tonight. Before I... die... I wanted to see you... one last time." Estelle pleaded desperately, her words labored. "Please... as my final act... pray for... my soul..."
The priest's eyes fixed on her face, unmoving. Even her intact side was gaunt, cheeks hollowed, skin rough. Her once-lush hair had fallen out almost entirely, scalp exposed; her body was skeletal, a living corpse. Just as she said—her last moments.
He bit his lip and nodded slowly. "Under the radiant glory of the holy Isildur, all darkness shall vanish into light, and you shall reclaim your strength..." The priest's prayer filled the dim room. Her ragged gasps slowed as it lengthened, growing faint, faltering... until silence fell.
Finishing the prayer, he gently closed the eyes of the departed Estelle with his palm. He sprinkled holy oil and water over her body from his pouch, clasped his hands, and paid respects to the deceased.
Estelle had been the most beautiful woman in Eliyum, the city of depravity on the western continent. Templegoers' eyes had always followed her covetously whenever she visited. Beautiful, young, vibrant, and deeply devout, she donated generously to the temple. The priest had handled those offerings. Their bond began there and endured to this day.
Yet the home of this woman, who seemed so pure and pious, was here: Stunel, dubbed the Castle of Atonement by the masses. Eliyum's most infamous den. A place of ceaseless nightly revelry and pleasure. Estelle, Stunel's radiant flower, had breathed her last in this lonely basement hole, untended by anyone.
What had happened to Estelle? She hadn't visited the temple in three months. Then tonight, amid the drizzle, a rough knock at the temple's back door revealed a note delivered by messenger:
Castle of Atonement. Side door. —Estelle
And now, she lay cold as a corpse.
Turning heavily, the priest climbed the dark stairs to the first floor. The elderly man leaned against the wall near the entrance, as if waiting. At his glance, the priest retraced his steps out. At the side door, the man eyed him intently.
"Your name, Father...?"
The priest hesitated, then spoke. "Dermot."
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Author's Note
For those planning a binge-read: Part 1 (Intro to Chapter 11) connects from the past to the prologue. The story ahead gets deep and dark, so if you're faint of heart, please skip ahead ^_^