[Mordred]: 676.Deeper Sense: Hymn II - Doubt Without Form

Deeper Sense
Hymn II : Doubt Without Form.

The bells of the Basilica Temore rang out ceremoniously at dawn, just as they did every morning. Though they didn’t really serve as a wake-up call to anyone in Me’Groe (most were already awake by this time), the thunderous peals were a fixture in the lives of every man, woman, and child in the village and beyond, for the bells could be easily heard for many miles. This was definitely true for the clergy, all of whom resided in the upper levels of the grand cathedral. Vigrainne Camillo paused in his chores to listen to the melodious chimes, the bells firing his passion for his work. Despite the fact that he was only a lower-level cleric and was often assigned to do menial tasks such as cleaning and tending house rather than actual clerical duties, he felt a swell of pride for his chosen vocation. However, pride alone would not get the floors scrubbed, as he was reminded when a gentle hand tapped his shoulder.

“Though She can do all things, I don’t think Her Eminence Lozzia is going to clean the floors, Brother Vigrainne.” The young cleric jumped and turned sharply. He was met by the wizened but placid face of Father Domenico.

“Y-yes, Father. I was just…listening to the bells,” Vigrainne stammered. Though he and Father Domenico were about the same height (Vigrainne was even a few centimeters taller than the Father), the elder always inspired a speechless sort of awe in the young man. When the priest nodded and moved away, Vigrainne got back down on his hands and knees and finished cleaning the hardwood. He didn’t mind the housekeeping chores, really. He was good at them and the work kept him busy. As he labored over the cleaning of the floors, Vigrainne allowed his mind to wander…

A towheaded boy wanders through his home village in Horegia, his curious green eyes taking in the sight of the battle-broken homes and the smoldering remains of shops. Though he knows what he is seeing, he can’t even begin to understand. The ruined township is mostly forsaken, though some of the inhabitants still remain. Some of the town’s elderly and twice as many children-made-orphans shiver in terror and despair as the last of the flames sputter out. The boy’s mind is reeling with questions. Why did those men do what they did? What did his father do wrong, and why did they kill him for it? His mother still hasn’t returned, and he is all alone now. Does she know what happened here? Is she hiding? If so, why didn’t she take him along? The boy starts as he hears the heavy footfalls of adults in the distance. He scrambles to hide, but trips and lands in a pile of charred wood in his haste. Before he can stop himself, he cries out in pain and surprise.

A shadow looms over the boy, and he’s frozen in fear. He looks up, but the sun has obscured the face of the figure before him. A slightly-withered hand reaches out to him, and a voice beckons.

“Come, child. Where are your parents?” Still frightened, the boy shakes his head. The figure clicks his tongue sadly and takes the boy’s hand, lifting him up out of the debris. The child blinks and rubs his eyes, and sees that the figure is no more than an old man in the robes of a priest. He is flanked by other, much younger men in similar garments. Those men are muttering amongst themselves, perhaps about the state of the village. His moss-green eyes return to the elderly priest, whose own eyes lock on his. The old man’s expression changes to one of surprise.

“By Her Grace… It’s an exact image…” the man mutters, crouching to study the boy. “Child, what is your name?”

The little boy finds his tongue in time to murmur, “Vigrainne Camillo.” The priest smiles warmly and stands, once again extending his hand to the boy. This time, the latter takes it and allows the man to lead him.

With a sigh, Vigrainne shook himself out of his memories and threw himself headlong into his work.