Report on the Fall of Purity (4)

Cain returned to the chapel. The interior was unchanged. The stench and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠vomit, the groans and despair, the sobs and tears. Lamentations and screams. The space that had once echoed with hymns of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠joy praising God now flowed only with dirges of mourning, as if God Himself had died.

But Cain had changed. He stuck doggedly to the nursing staff during their breaks, backing off politely when they brushed him off with irritation. Leaning his staff against the wall, he took a cloth in both hands and wiped away the patients' filth alongside them. He shouldered their heavy, dirty burdens in their stead and stirred the hot porridge with a ladle until it cooled enough to eat.

"Stay still! You'll hurt yourself!"

Another patient had a seizure. He thrashed and battered his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠own body. The iron chains wouldn't break, of course. Even if he bruised himself raw, it would heal cleanly again. Tears welled in the eyes of the monk tending him. The patients wept too. Even when person met person, there was only sorrow and pain. Because nothing got through. Because they couldn't share words.

Cain drew near. The monks struggling to hold the chains thought he'd come to lend his strength and watched expectantly. But Cain didn't lift a finger. He simply asked,

"Do you want revenge?"

The soul that had once been human—now trapped in its own flesh—howled in response. No thrashing. Just the howl.

"If you can hear me, give a short cry. If not, stay silent. I'm here to help you. The others too."

The monks stared at Cain like he'd seen a ghost. Undeterred, he pressed on calmly.

"I won't pretend to understand your suffocating frustration or fathom your agonizing pain. That's why I want to know what happened to you. We'll find whoever did this and make them pay. So once more: if you hear me and agree to revenge for your sake, cry short. If you can't hear or understand me, stay silent."

Uuuh.

The thrashing stopped. Even the surrounding patients halted their struggles. A watching monk cautiously wiped the patient down with a cloth. Unlike before, there was no irritation or anger.

"Thank you. First question: If making a sound is hard, just twitch a little. If that's too much, close one eye. Reaction means yes, no reaction means no. I know it's painful, but I need to know the circumstances of the attack..."

What needed knowing was clear. What had to be gained was certain. Everything became mere process. A step to pass through. With direction set, every action, every emotion, took on meaning.

Thus, Cain investigated one by one. No cuts from blades, no punctures from spears or arrows, no ligature marks from ropes. Only bruises and fractures from blunt force or violent impacts. Their bodies were covered in them.

Monks, nuns, knight order squires and apprentices did grueling, dirty work aplenty—but they weren't doctors. Still, having endured harsh beatings since childhood, they knew these "bruised wounds" well.

The knight order members' accounts were especially consistent. Bruises from impacts or blunt weapons were the same in formation, they said, but the color ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠differed. When bones or organs were damaged, blood welled heavily, turning bruises near-black and swelling them larger. Normal bruises started blood-red, shifting to bluish purple, then yellow-brown as they faded, the swelling subsiding.

Of the fifty-odd patients, most bore black and blue bruises. Horrific wounds, certainly—but unchanging color was bizarre. For fifty people, no less.

"These people seem trapped in time," said one nursing nun, wiping sweat from her brow as she shared her thoughts.

Cain had suspected she harbored much pent-up frustration, seeing how one opened word-hoard led to a flood.

"Whether from clubs or a giant's hands flinging them about, bones break the same. But unchanging color is weird."

"Is it really a miracle?"

At Cain's question, the nun's eyes went vacant. Then, hesitantly, "Who knows. I'd hesitate to say lightly—I'm not in a position to judge. Only His Holiness the Pope decides such things... But one thing's sure: if a miracle, the most horrific one. If sorcery, the most wicked."

"Sorcery, you say?"

"Thought you were sharp, but not entirely. Does this look like a blessing?"

It didn't.

Dinner was abysmal. Beer soup, two chunks of stale bread, salt-pickled cabbage—that was it. Normally, Cain would've raged. But was this a normal situation? No. In fact, cooking and eating amid this showed true courage. Besides, supplies were scarce on these rocky slopes; not starving was luck enough.

Cain reunited with Lily in the dining hall. They ate in silence, then sought privacy outside.

No good spots. Being a basin in the mountains, the sun set early. Knight order members had set crucibles everywhere, kindling fires. Crude torches would've guttered in the wind, but iron basins held steady. Gusts poked embers skyward now and then.

This barren stone mountain had nothing to burn anyway.

"Ah, there you are."

Brother Guido approached cheerfully. And promptly hugged Cain tight.

Lily's eyes widened at Cain and Guido.

"Thank you. Truly. Folks from the capital are different, alright. Not like us stone-grubbing mountain monks, or those ignorant knights, or rural parish bumpkins..."

"Er... no big deal."

Guido released him but gripped Cain's shoulders firm.

"No! It is! No one thought of it. We forgot they're people too, yearning to connect. Frankly, our pity blinded us... You saw clear—even more than God's own followers. Astonishing."

"What happened?"

"Ah. Much relieved now."

Guido sighed in relief.

"Nurses don't snap or yell anymore. They ask first before acting. 'Eat? Uncomfortable anywhere? Short cry for below, two for above.' Like that."

Lily looked baffled. Cain felt a touch embarrassed. That was standard in the capital for impaired patients.

"But igniting their will to live—that's what we thank you for. People need clear direction to spread their wings."

"Will to live?"

"Revenge!"

Guido beamed—innocently joyful, painfully so. Was it his innate goodness, his worldly detachment? Did he not grasp revenge's weight, or just focus on patients eating and behaving?

Cain couldn't tell.

"Yes, revenge. They whisper: 'Avenge it. You must. Stand first. Gather strength.' Like a miracle incantation. Hits deeper than amens or hymns!"

His voice boomed. Limp patients glanced over. Guido coughed, ears red.

"Ahem. Not why I came. Abbot Bartholomeo sends deep thanks. Question: any companions or escorts due?"

Cain and Lily exchanged looks. Cain shook his head.

"No. Just us. No one else coming."

"Then lodging's unsettled. Not camping like knights, right?"

"Correct."

"Perfect. Abbot cleared monastic quarters for you. Honored guests deserve it. Worn, but stone-built—warm, sturdy. Otherwise, knight tents in this windy night."

Yielding abbey quarters was clear goodwill. Lily subtly nodded approval.

"Generous, but isn't this imposing? Emptying rooms for us?"

"Not at all. Patients tended in three shifts by monks and knights. So staff merged rooms by shift. Left spares... or that red-haired Mercy Knight commander would've muscled in."

Guido's voice dropped.

"Threw a fit to bunk here. Such a spectacle. Abbot sent me rather than yield to that brute. Better for honored guests."

Lily poked Cain's thigh repeatedly. He stayed composed.

"Refusing such kindness is rude. We gratefully accept the abbot's generosity."

"One thing to note..."

Guido looked truly apologetic. Cain grew uneasy.

"Noise or discomfort's fine. Walls, ceiling, floor suffice."

"No, not that. Only one spare room, and monastic cells are cramped. But two beds, blankets included."

"Ahem! Ahem!"

Lily cleared her throat. To clueless Guido, it sounded embarrassed. Cain, knowing her longer, read it true: ecstatic glee.

'Get in there already.'

Yet Cain bowed deeply.

"No issue. Thank you again."

Some say austerity and poverty are mere expressions. Reviled and apologizing for ignorance of faith.

The former vows detachment from worldly things to emulate God. The latter means simply having nothing, meaningless.

Walking the Otranto Sealed Abbey corridors, Cain recalled the old saw. Try as he might, the monastic quarters struck him as impoverished. Even the capital military police basement cells seemed plusher. At least they had light—not one candle per ten meters.

Thus, Cain counted doors carefully. Wandering back to the wrong room would be awkward.

Kind monks had set beds: two wooden frames, thin cloth mattresses. Hard wooden pillows, single sheets. Two floor beds nearly filled the room. Bags against walls overflowed it.

Moonlight sole illumination. Round window in wall: stained glass, oddly. Pretty motif of a suffering double-headed eagle.

"Ahem. Lily. If uncomfortable, I'll—"

"This is fine. Uncomfortable for you? Best clarify."

Lily was nonchalant. Cain couldn't say yes—felt like losing.

"Not uncomfortable."

"Then ahem. Ahehem! Turn around. Won't take long. Ahem!"

"Why?"

She feigned calm.

"Changing clothes. Soaked in sweat. Surely you can bear turning away?"