< 76. Funeral Rite >
It rained that day. The damp and gloomy raindrops covered the Dragonspine Mountains so heavily that even from the highest spire of the Inquisition Keep, the long, straight mountain paths were barely visible.
Fernandez woke up early in the morning, washed himself clean, and donned his monastic robes. Due to the fasting decree, there was no breakfast that day, and neither was there Diemonica’s morning exercise. A solemn silence filled Diemonica’s hall.
-Creak.
With a rosary wrapped around one arm, Fernandez carefully opened the old door. The spring in Dragonspine was cold and heavy. The morning rain made it even more so.
The rain tapped against the coniferous forest, releasing a clear, damp, and heavy scent. Diemonica’s sense of smell detected the aroma of incense wafting through the entire fortress. He watched the monks walking through the rain beyond the wooden window frame.
Each of them held a rosary or an incense burner, heading toward the courtyard. To the Keyblade Sanctuary. A sanctuary that was never opened except under very special circumstances.
A very special circumstance meant the return of an Inquisition Officer whose remains had been found. All Inquisition Officers made the darkest and most dangerous places in the world their battlegrounds, and thus, most of them never had their remains recovered.
Today was a day of fasting.
A day when emotions were permitted for Inquisition Officers, who were supposed to be emotionless.
A day for the dead brothers.
Today was the day of the funeral.
The raindrops grew heavier. In the cold rain at the Keyblade Sanctuary, the Inquisition Officers stood still as if turned to stone, gazing at the platform.
On the platform of the Keyblade Sanctuary, there was a massive Keyblade fragment, surrounded by small, unextinguished lamps. Each lamp had a rosary hanging from it. Rosaries engraved with the names of the fallen brothers.
Directly in front of the Keyblade stood a brazier large enough for a person to lie on. Wooden logs soaked in oil glistened in the rain. A body wrapped in linen lay atop it.
Around the body, parchments filled with prayers were lined up. Beorn stood before them, silent for a moment.
“Burn the demons, the heretics, the witches.”
“Glory to Vaitas.”
At Beorn’s words, the Inquisition Officers whispered in unison.
“We stand in the mire, brothers. Buried in the abyss, always walking with our ideals in mind. Hoping that peace will finally come to us all, we willingly wander the places farthest from peace.”
“Glory to Vaitas.”
Beorn removed his monocle and tucked it into his robe. He dipped his thumb in holy oil and let a drop fall on the linen-wrapped corpse, marking the forehead, cheek, and shoulder.
“We shall not seek rest. For we do not seek rest. Our path is paved with blood, flesh, and the corpses and deaths of our brothers. We only hope that there is an end to this path, that at the end of this path, at least one righteous person stands whole. We only hope that when the Lord acts, our names will be closest to Him.”
“Glory to Vaitas.”
Fernandez whispered along with the other monks, closing his eyes. It was a prayer he could not empathize with, but neither could he belittle it. His purpose lay elsewhere.
-They really pick the most empowering words.
Faijashi sneered. Fernandez remained silent, eyes closed. He prayed fervently. Hoping that at the end of this path, built upon the corpses of his brothers, his purpose would stand whole.
“Here lies our brother. Brothers, do not pray for him. Only bless him. For he has closed his eyes in place of our future. May we too become the path for our brothers.”
“Glory to Vaitas.”
Beorn stretched out his arm. The attendant kneeling beside him quickly handed him a torch. Beorn stood by the brazier, torch in hand. He gazed at the prayers wrapped around the remains with burning eyes.
“Burn the heretics, the witches, the demons. Brother, our epitaph has always been the same. ‘Courage and Sacrifice’. The ashes left behind prove that we once shone.”
“Glory to Vaitas.”
The ancient Gaelic words inscribed on the linen hanging from the massive crossguard of the Keyblade fluttered. [Pectus], [Incensum]. Courage, and Sacrifice.
“So now, rest in peace as ashes, brother. Surely there is a place for us in heaven.”
“Macto.”
“Macto superlaudo.”
With those final words, the eulogy ended. Beorn threw the burning torch into the brazier. The rain-soaked wood crackled and burned, sending up thick black smoke. Soon, a massive flame surged upward.
Beorn knelt right beside the brazier, where sparks flew, and remained there. After the brief memorial, they dispersed in small groups.
Beorn sat in his office chair, rubbing his tired shoulders. He longed for a sip of tea. During the fasting period, the monks were only allowed a glass of water.
He reached out to flip through some documents but soon clenched his fist and tapped the desk. His scarred, firm fist trembled slightly.
-Knock knock.
“Who is it?”
“Head of the Monastery. It’s Lady Angela.”
“…Ah. Angela. Come in.”
The door opened. A sharp-featured woman with flowing red hair entered, her vibrant green eyes sparkling with mischief.
She gave a slight nod to Beorn and strode over, sitting across from him. Her tight leather outfit left little to the imagination. Beorn frowned at the sight.
“This is a monastery, Lady Angela.”
“Is this a no-smoking zone?”
“Is that how you ask for a favor?”
“A favor? Hehe, a favor.”
Angela slowly crossed her long, slender legs and chuckled softly. She adjusted her fur-trimmed shawl and leaned closer, resting her hand on Beorn’s desk.
“More of a suggestion, really. Information sharing, resource sharing. You know, Head Shieldbane. We both know we need each other.”
“We don’t need the help of the secular world. Rather, the secular world needs our…”
“I’m not here for that tired old talk. I think you’ll be interested.”
Beorn frowned. His hawk-like eyes narrowed. His sharp, cold expression, honed over decades of service as a Heretic, was intimidating, but Angela smiled softly.
“I hear there’s quite a bit of discontent at the Shield Church. For now, Dane…”
