In Which Lucien Recalls What Blue Is

November 21, 1176

The marble of the altar was coarse and unpolished under Lucien's hand, but the gilded inset was cool to the touch, engraved heavily but smooth between the artful impressions. If he ran his finger along a curve near what he guessed was the middle, he thought he could discern the outline of a cross. Lucien didn't know much about anything and even less about crosses and the like, but people seemed to find them significant. A cross was a symbol for the church, he knew that much--not that he knew what to think of the church itself.

It was difficult to focus during mass--so many people in one room, their energies thickening the air like some toxic cloud--but Brother Remiel always seemed to go on and on about sin, sinners, that place they called Hell. He said that God had given them everything and they'd spat on it. He said that God was furious with the world and that one day, His wrath would rain from the heavens, fire and brimstone abound, the wicked hurled to the bottomless pits of Hell. And they were all wicked, all of them--rapists, murders, children who told white lies and women who dressed immodestly. Everyone would go to Hell, and God would destroy what remained of the earth.

Lucien knew little about God and even less about creation, but he couldn't see the logic in Remiel's sermons. Why create for the sake of destroying? If God was a perfect being--as Remiel said he was--then why couldn't he just fix things? Or maybe it wasn't a matter of fixing. Maybe the world was perfect, or as close to perfect as anything could be. Maybe it was the church that needed fixing.

A foot fell at the base of the spiral staircase in the corner--a light foot, a silken foot in spite of the leather of its boot. A lady's foot. It wasn't a member of the duke's household, nor one of the staff; surely a castle resident would have entered from inside the walls, not from the court-bound crypt?

Whoever it was, each step grew louder as she climbed, then moreso as she left the stairs behind her and graced the floor. She was near enough that he could feel her essence and it was unlike any he'd known before. It wasn't that of a human girl--well, it was, but there was more to it than that. Something a little mysterious, perhaps a little sinister. Something like his own.

"Oh! I'm sorry." Her voice was a lyrical lilt that reminded him of springtime, or at least as much as it could have given how abstract a concept springtime was. He waited for someone to respond but sense no one else in the room. The back of his neck prickled as he realized she was speaking to him; he couldn't remember that last time anyone had spoken to him, or at least anyone who wasn't Remiel. "You see, my brother's taken over our own chapel and... well, you know how it is. I can leave if you want."

If you want. Now she was waiting for a response from him. Lucien shook his head. If she had her own chapel back home, then she was probably a noblewoman. It wouldn't be wise to drive her away.

"You could look at me while I'm talking to you."

That sweet soprano hit a hurt note. As if it sufficed as an apology, he strained his neck in her direction, or at least what he thought was her direction. A sharp intake of air shattered the short-lived silence. Even her gasp was melodic. "Oh. I'm sorry, I... I didn't notice. Forgive me?"

Lucien nodded. The lady's footsteps resumed, around the sides of the pews and stopping at the base of the altar, not so far from him if the strength of her essence said anything. He tried to follow her with his nose and wondered if she was doing the same.

"This is a nice chapel." The folds of her cloak rustled as she edged a little nearer. "I know you can't see it, but I'll assure you that it is. Much nicer than the one back home; I think Lorn is more devout than my father. Our parish priest says my father is a Doubting Thomas, but I don't think it's true, or at least not in the insulting sense. Nothing wrong with faith, of course, but I don't see why we shouldn't be allowed to think things over."

He gave her another nod. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear her frowning. "You don't say much, do you? Can you even speak?"

He wasn't sure how to answer that with his limited inventory of head movements, so he just stood there. He worried that she might press, but she seemed to understand as well as she could. "You can hear me, though... right?"

He nodded. A light rubbing sounded from the altar. She seemed to have brushed it with her hand. She had a delicate touch. "My sister-in-law had a baby a couple of days ago--a little boy. He's tiny and sickly and he won't take from Xeta's breast; my stepmother's been feeding him goat's milk from a cloth and even that's difficult. Xeta hasn't slept since before she gave birth and Jadin spends all day praying in the chapel--begging, bartering, anything he thinks God might respond to." She paused with a sniff, like she thought the notion silly. "He's going to be all right, though--my nephew. Jadin doesn't believe me, but I know. And my father knows, because I know."

Suddenly, she was close--very close. The heat of her body wafted to his own and her breath was warm against his neck. "I'm not supposed to tell people that. My father says someone might take advantage of me if it gets out. But you can't say anything--and you can't see to write it down either. And even if you could..." Her voice trailed off. He leaned forward slightly, just enough so that she could more easily reach his ear; from the angle of her breath, it didn't seem unreasonable to guess that she was a little shorter than he. "If I tell you my secret, will you keep it to yourself?"

As best he could with his head somewhat bowed already, he nodded. She grabbed at his sleeve and tugged; his heart beat just a little faster. "I have visions just before people die. They're vague, but they're never wrong--and I haven't had one in months." Her fingers dropped from the fabric of his tunic and grazed the side of his hand. Lucien shivered out of habit, but there had been no need. He was not being drained, just being touched. He didn't think he'd ever been just touched before. "My nephew's going to fine."

Giddiness was an unfamiliar concept, but it was clear in her voice nonetheless. It had a nice ring to it, even if she didn't seem like the giddiest of girls. His lips twitched in an alien way, the corners edging upward while the center drooped. He wondered if he dared touch her back, but it might have been unsavory of him. He compromised by aiming for her shoulder--surely her shoulder would be clothed? It was. She wore a woven cloak patterned with embroidered circles and lined with a soft fur. A gossamer curtain fell to his fingers as she moved her head. She must have been wearing a veil of some sort, perhaps a part of some hat. He wished it was summer, if only so he might have touched her hair instead.

"Thank you for listening." A rose-petal softness landed on his cheek. It remained for only seconds, but it felt like forever. Forever was not long enough. "I'm Vera, by the way. I wish you could tell me your name."

She took a step back, letting his hand fall back to his side. If he remembered anything about people who weren't Remiel, she was probably looking at him. He would never meet her eyes, but he knew instinctively that they were blue. It was a funny feeling, recalling what blue was.

"Well, I'll leave you to your prayers." Her boots tapped against the floor as she stepped around him and made her way toward the stairs. "Nice meeting you, whoever you are."

The presence of blue faded away with her footsteps. The room was a little colder now.

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