Notes: Let's go figure out what the deal is at Melemor's Temple, huh? Should be easy peasy...
Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Chapter 9, Part 2
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Chapter Nine, Part Two
I Think That Went Well, Don’t You?
Two cups of tea, a quick bath, and a fresh pair of clothes later and Hiram was on his way to the Temple of Melemor. He could have taken Mule—it would have made the journey faster—but he was in a contemplative place after the memories he’d been assailed with last night, and decided it would be nicer to walk. It hadn’t been all that long since he’d left Galenish and Andurion behind, and yet…he’d forgotten. He’d genuinely forgotten how bad it had been before he finally walked away.
The mind is a surprisingly resilient organ.
It was an unfortunately tenacious one, too. He felt it, over and over again, as he walked—the blow that had knocked him down, the blow that was the true end of the relationship that has defined his life. It wasn’t even the first time Andy had ever hit him, was the thing. They’d trained together for decades, which inevitably led to bumps and lumps. The first time he’d started learning staff work, he’d managed to split Andy’s lip so badly there was still a faded scar there, and Andy had broken not one, but two bones in his foot once when he’d moved unexpectedly and put his armored boot on Hiram’s slipper. Those had been painful, but understandable—accidents happened. It was inevitable, they’d laughed about it even as they’d bled.
That hit, though…that hadn’t been inevitable. That had been a choice, a deliberate choice to assert dominance in the coarsest way possible. As soon as Hiram had realized that, once he’d assured himself there was nothing at work on his lover except Andy’s own greed and impatience, that had been that.
He’d been gone before the month was out.
If Phlox knew where Hiram’s mind had taken him, he didn’t say anything about it. He only sat there in his ear, inert but for the faint glow of his spirit and a trickle of heat that was a comfort on a chilly morning. Hiram smiled as he walked, melancholy but grateful, so grateful, for what he still had. Before long, his strides had brought him to the western edge of Lollop, and as he turned north he was joined by more townspeople on the road, all headed to the temple for Lares services. He nodded to several whom he recognized and eventually struck up a conversation with a cheesemaker that lasted until they got to the temple, which…
That was a big temple for such a modest town. Melemor was a major god of the pantheon, yes, and his temples were also often used as clinics and infirmaries, but heavens, this was as tall as two barns stacked on top of each other. It was made of stone, too—not marble, of course, but smooth river rock bound with cement and stacked toward the sky in the immense arch that was said to resemble Melemor’s prayerful hands. The stones were multicolored, and many of them had veins of quartz and mica that shone in the morning sunlight. It was…quite beautiful, Hiram thought to himself. Even compared to the cathedral back home, this was quite beautiful.
“I’m sorry about this rubbish decree of the High Priest’s, Hiram.”
He turned with a smile to look at Tilda. “It’s quite all right, my dear.”
“It’s not,” she said sourly, her lovely face stiff with resentment. “And I told him and Uriel as much, but—”
“No, truly.” He shrugged. “If knowing a bit more about me will solidify my welcome in Lollop, I’m happy to participate in a cleansing.”
“Cleansings are meant to be voluntary, not compelled,” she said with a sigh. “Especially when they’re for public consumption. It’s nonsensical—no one has brought any kind of complaint about you, they have no good reason to doubt your character.”
Hiram just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. “Let’s go see if we can get ourselves a good seat, hmm?”
The temple was already two-thirds full by the time they got in, the pews filled with families trying to occupy their children as everyone waited for the light to be right. Melemor’s services only started, by tradition, when the focused rays of morning light began to directly illuminate the altar at the front of the temple, and they ended once the beam of light had moved on. It made for a relatively short service, which was pleasant for most involved.
Today, it was clear that the priests were impatient to get started. High Priest Velagros stood, tall and ascetic, right behind the altar, his hands clasped in a position of prayer even as his glittering eyes roved the room. When they landed on Hiram, they narrowed sharply even as the corners of his lips perked up.
Well, at least Hiram couldn’t be accused of shirking his responsibility. Nor could anyone else, it seemed—he and Tilda had to squish in with their neighbors as more and more people entered the temple.
I wonder… Hiram sat a bit straighter and looked around, but he couldn’t see Avery in the crowd. Surely he was here somewhere, though. Perhaps he liked to sit in the back.
There was a sudden, sonorous sounding of the gong, calling all worshippers to attention. The High Priest stepped forward, hands aloft, and as he spread them apart, sunshine seemed to gather in them for a moment. “All praise to the god of healing love and the light of truth,” he intoned in a voice that didn’t sound very loving at all. “Sing the song of solace.”
Hiram murmured along with the song as best he could. It really had been a long time since he’d prayed to Melemor, and he wasn’t surprised that his devotions were a bit sloppy. Eh, Melemor wouldn’t care.
They got through two more songs, several incantations for minor healing that left numerous people in the crowd smiling, and one dirge for the death of a gnomish family patriarch at the ripe old age of a hundred and eighty-seven. That was fairly involved, and by the time the last of the great-great-great-great-grandchildren had been named, the light was well past the midpoint of the altar. Hiram actually worried for a moment that he wouldn’t be called up, which after the psybane would truly be a waste, until—
“And finally,” the High Priest said, gaze unerringly finding Hiram, “we have a ritual cleansing to welcome the newest member of our society to Lollop. Hiram Emblic, step forward so that ye may be freed of your sins in the light of Melemor and your neighbors.”
There was a massive rustling as everyone in the entire temple turned to stare at Hiram. Fortunately, he was immune to embarrassment and only smiled as he stood and eased his way past the other people in the pew and made his way to the front of the vast room. An acolyte had already laid out a kneeling pillow for him, and he settled himself on it as Velagros came to stand in front of him. He held a bronze bowl in one hand and a silver-bladed knife in the other.
“Open your heart and soul to the love of Melemor, Master Emblic,” he said, then held out the knife.
Nice of him to let me do the cutting. This was all part of the ritual—a symbolic cut that would be healed along with whatever “bedeviled” him inside thanks to Melemor’s grace. It was also a test in and of itself; if you only gave yourself the tiniest prick, you might be seen as lacking faith. Hiram scraped the length of his index finger down the blade, and blood immediately began to drip.
High Priest Velagros captured some of it in the bowl, frowning, then set the blade on the altar behind them. He then dipped his fingers into the blood and closed his eyes. “The spirit of our god binds and sanctifies our connection,” he said. “Let it show me, and all of those present, your true heart.” He pressed his fingertips to his own forehead, then reached for Hiram’s. Hiram closed his eyes and focused on the past that had sent him to Lollop, hoping that Melemor would understand. The fingers touched his head, and then…
Feelings of harshness, hatred, and abandonment echoed throughout the temple. No specific words, no pointed visions, but a wretchedness and sense of loss that it was Velagros’s job to contain. Right on its heels was the pain of walking away from Misha, leaving his family behind, his baby, and there was no way back and he knew it, he would never see her again… Hiram had lived all this last night, and while it wasn’t pleasant to experience it again, it wasn’t enough to hurt him. He heard Velagros gasping his way through the cleansing prayer and hoped the other man was able to protect the rest of the townspeople.
Gradually, the feelings of despair gave way to something sweet and soft. The light shining down at the altar was warm, like a blanket resting on Hiram’s shoulders as he sat before a toasty fire. It soothed the aches and twinges that had seemed like his constant companion since leaving Galenish, and he smiled as he felt the cut on his finger knit. As the heat finally faded, Hiram opened his eyes once more and looked up at the High Priest, who was staring down at him with a blank expression on his face.
“Thank you,” Hiram said wholeheartedly.
To his shock, Velagros suddenly burst into tears. Not just tears but sobs, wrenching and awful, that sounded as though they were being forcibly pried out of him for all the shuddering and shivering he did. Hiram was mystified until he realized that he’d just shared one of the most traumatic experiences of his life with a man who knew his townspeople inside and out. Velagros wasn’t the type to be overcome by emotion; he could distance himself from the familiar trials of his flock. Hiram was…a bit of an outlier, there.
An acolyte quickly stepped up and finished the ceremony, wiping Hiram’s forehead and hand clean with a white cloth as another acolyte took the High Priest by the shoulders and drew him away from the wide-eyes townsfolk witnessing his breakdown. “Blessings of love and light upon you all,” the acolyte who’d tidied up Hiram said loudly, and then, “We’re done, thanks.” The light hadn’t even fully passed the altar.
Hiram sighed as he got to his feet. Instead of getting through things with minimal fuss like he’d intended, now he was sure to be even more the talk of the town. That was the last bloody thing he needed, and despite the energy that the healing had left him with, he felt rather tempestuous as he strode down the center aisle faster than anyone could reach out to him. He didn’t want to field nosy questions and suspicious glances, didn’t want to talk at all, really, he just wanted to be left in peace, was that so much to bloody ask? He heard the stirring of hundreds of bodies behind him, ready to move out, and it took all he had to resist the urge to run. He couldn’t—
“Master Emblic,” someone called from his left, low and steady. Hiram turned and saw Avery Surrus a dozen feet away holding the reins of a chestnut mare. He must have exited the temple even faster than Hiram. “Might I help you make your escape?” he offered with a little smile on his face.
Hiram didn’t care in the moment whether it was a ruse, a joke, or a taunt. He practically ran to Avery’s side and didn’t hesitate as the man, with deceptive ease, handed him up into the saddle. Avery followed right after, and Hiram settled in the center of his loose embrace as he clicked the reins and tapped the mare with his heels. They set off at a trot, and were gone from sight before more than a score of people had even made it outside, much less started over toward him.
“My hero,” he murmured, and felt the vibration of Avery’s laugh against his back.
“My pleasure.”
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