CONTENT WARNING: As expected, death is discussed heavily in this chapter, as well as some discussion of violence and trauma resulting from said violence. There is also a character who is dying of old age, and discussion of mental health issues.
Clementia
These days, Withernham is something of a ghost town. It was anyway, but...it makes you wonder just how many witches might have lived here, or just how many Peterans were swayed to Juniper's beliefs.
Most of the places the witches called home had been destroyed over the many years they'd been hunted like foxes across the country and beyond. Near here, there's an old ruin of a former witches' home, or place or worship- no-one is entirely sure which.
Juniper's witch-hunt isn't only against the magic-folk, nor is it only against her detractors- now it's against the Peterans, even the ones who don't take major issue with her. No, Juniper isn't going to stop until the whole of Henford is practicing her warped version of Jacobism.
The trouble is, the Peteran monastery in Withernham has stood for hundreds of years. It's survived war after war with the Jacobans, storm after storm. I believe, as long as the monastery stands, then so does Peterism.
I, myself, have reconnected with the faith I was raised with- for the same reason everyone connects with faith. A path forward. A purpose. Something to devote yourself to.
When I awoke from the werewolf attack, I remember the searing pain of my injuries, and I remember Mother Joyce entering. Before she could lay a reassuring hand on my shoulder, I fled. I never wanted to see another Peteran again. All their talk of peace, forgiveness, and kindness- there was no such thing, not in my eyes.
Yet, in my time with the Jacobans, I realise that all three of those things are more than just empty talk to garner more converts. Julian eventually saw that what he was doing was endangering people. He admitted to me that, in his youth, he'd have never thought a woman to ever become a High Shepherdess, and then he later spoke out against those who would think such a thing. Despite his intense guilt - sixty or seventy years' worth of having the wool pulled over his eyes- he did what was right, and lost the position he was so proud of. He gave up his entire life's worth for the sake of witches.
I never thought I would forgive Reynold, and I did. I thought he would never change, that I would hate him as much as I hated Alistair for the rest of my life- though it's strange the creature that nearly tore me apart no longer exists.
I never thought that revisiting my childhood would be healing- that becoming Peteran again would make me feel any better, but it did. To have finally regained some control over a period of my life I did not ever want to revisit in any way...it meant everything, but I still had a long way to go in regaining some semblance of a life.
I've gotten to know a few of the Peteran regulars- Susana, Elias, Liliana, and Julias. I've come to consider them friends, and it feels strangely warming to have a circle of people that seem to genuinely enjoy my company. I've explained to them that I spent many years as a Jacoban, and they welcomed me wholeheartedly. Susana, Liliana and Julias are all fairly casual, but Elias is very much a devout Peteran.
Back home, things were busy. Julian is on his deathbed, though thankfully, he isn't sick. To live as many years as he has - almost eighty- he mourns that he didn't quite make the milestone, but he's thankful that he led such a long life.
"My only regret, dear Clementia, is that I wasted so many years blinded," he says, his voice hoarse. I urge him not to talk too much, but he insists. "I know how you feel about Juniper, but don't give in to the urge to take revenge upon her. It is not worth endangering yourself for."
My desire to kill Juniper has never dulled. She tried to kill me, tried to reveal my brother's true nature, and she's dragging the whole place into her dimension of fear. At one time, I felt a level of sympathy for her; Briar Thorne never took her seriously, nor thought she would amount to anything. Instead of using her power to improve things for those like her, she instead focused her retribution not on High Priest Thorne, but on the regular people. It made little sense to me.
"Juniper's own hubris will be her undoing, Clementia. You do not need to do anything. Focus on yourself- and your life."
Oh, Julian...I wish I could.
This past year or so, I've found myself unusually unsympathetic for the most part. It was only right for me to care for Julian; he's like a father to me, much more so than Alistair is or ever was. Alistair has now moved in with Reynold, to help him through his...melancholy? Madness? Possession? I'd no clue what to make of his affliction, and neither did Henford's best physician. The local cunningwoman, Miss Anansi, believes him to be cursed.
And here we are again. Reynold, Reynold, it always comes back to Reynold. His letter is almost indecipherable, with little context other than the ghosts.
I loved my brother dearly, but after so many years of trying to rein him in, so many years of having to deal with his uncontrollable anger problems...
Alistair is looking after him, for now. I doubt Alistair is much useful company, but just this once, I don't want to be the one looking after him. Is that so bad? Is it so terrible for a young woman to want to revolve her life around herself, just for a while?
Elias visited the other night. He's nice enough, but quite serious. He and Susana are now prior and prioress of the Withernham monastery. I don't think either of them want the role, but they both know that Reynold isn't fit to run the place for the time being. I feel Elias is a good, but reluctant, leader, and Susana keeps everyone's spirits high, always making people laugh with her sermons despite her awkwardness. Susana admitted to me that she once loved my brother, and she hopes he makes a full recovery. Elias, on the other hand, doesn't want Reynold to rediscover the wolf at all.
In truth, I would not go back to the monastery if my brother were to return. I love my brother, but I do not want him to be in charge of me in any manner. After so many years of being considered beneath him, it isn't worth it.
* * *
During our odd conversations at the cathedral, where she'd often come for artistic inspiration - Violeta had told me that, someday, I ought to drop by and say hello. I haven't spoken to her much at all, but I find myself needing the consolation and advice of an older woman- so I figured I ought to ask the oldest woman I know, and so I explain to her the reason I didn't take up her offer earlier.
She makes us coffee...or, at least, she makes me coffee. I think I know what's in her mug, and it certainly isn't coffee. Where does she get it? Well, I know where she gets it, but...
"You're no longer a Shepherdess?" She quickly turns to anger. "What vile man did this to you?"
"You're not going to believe this, but...It wasn't just a man. It was the High Priest and the Great Convincer- Juniper."
Violeta's scowl is enough to terrify just about anyone. "And here I was, thinking you'd left to spread your faith in the city... What reason did she have to get rid of you, in such a harsh environment for women?"
"In her words? Julian and I weren't attracting enough people to Jacobism and we were being too nice to the witches. In my words? She wanted both me and Julian out of the picture so she could take over. She also accused me of witchcraft. And I..."
Violeta is perhaps one of the only people who will truly understand this desire without judgment.
"...I want to kill her."
Violeta lifts an eyebrow, and a smirk raises on one side of her face- slipping back into something close to concern.
"Honestly, as do I- any woman willing to throw an innocent woman to the wolves to please men deserves nothing less. But, dare I say it- it isn't worth the risk."
Even Violeta?! I know what she is. I know that killing witchfinders is the only way she survives. Why is she against it?
"I don't doubt your strength, Clementia- after all, you proved by that by ascending to High Shepherdess in an environment that would normally try and tear apart people like yourself. But the Jacobans are not so easy to whittle down as the witchfinders are. I wouldn't want them going after you and killing you. And not only that, but...A good friend of mine once said to me that you must wait until they are at their most confident if you want the perfect revenge."
She's right. I could never do such a thing. That bitch took the only power I've ever had in my life from me and there's nothing I can do about it.
Violeta places a freezing-cold hand on my shoulder.
"I understand what it's like to feel the way you do, Clementia. When I was turned, I felt completely powerless. It took me many years to realise just how powerful I'd become despite it."
"I'm glad, Violeta, but I won't have as many years as you do."
"True," she replies, "but it's all the more satisfying reminding people of your strength when you're older. Believe me. I will admit to you, Clem, I am not the most empathetic of people- I don't know how to help people the way my son did. But, I'd like to try."
I take some more coffee from the counter. I notice some red drip down the side of her face, which she wipes away with her sleeve.
"There is another option I can think of. It worked for my son, and for the young herbalist who was exiled by Samuel Annorin. Humiliation. Sometimes, that hurts more than any sword- especially against the powerful and overly-confident." She sighs to herself. I wonder how often she's suggested a path of non-violence to somebody.
She makes a good point, actually. If I did anything to hurt her, people would likely think I was no different to her. If I made her look a fool to the rest of the Jacobans, then she can't compare that to her attempts on my life. I already have an idea. The problem is, if I do decide to go along with the idea, I'll need the help of my brother- and I'll need his help whilst he's still severed from his magic...Easier said than done. Perhaps it isn't worth the effort.
"That's a good thought. If I cannot think of anything, though-"
"My other idea, is that I have the perfect plan to get a sense of your self-worth back. When I'm not killing witchfinders or wallowing in solitude, I'm an art teacher. Why not come to a few classes? I'll let you have a try for some time free of charge, gladly."
Art classes? Could I really swap the sword for a paintbrush? I've not drawn or painted anything since I was a child.
"That's a kind offer, but I'm no artist, I'm afraid."
"Nonsense," she spits. "Everyone and anyone can be an artist. Can you put a pencil or paintbrush to paper?"
"Well, yes-"
"Then you're an artist!" she exclaims. "You'd be surprised at the curative powers of art. It even used to keep my bloodthirst at bay, back when I didn't have a steady supply of Volpe's lapdogs."
I suppose it wouldn't hurt. The worst outcome is that I gain some sort of catharsis from it, and the best outcome is I end up finding a hidden talent and making a good amount of Simoleons off of it. If it can distract Violeta from dark thoughts, maybe it'll replace my hatred of Juniper...or at least clear my head so I can think of the best way to get people to see who she truly is.
* * *
Reynold
It was a fair few months back that I forced myself to take a break from being abbot.
The ghosts won't leave me alone. At first, it was just animals- and then it became humans. It seemed the methods in which died, or were killed, reflected in their forms. The ones that are drawn to me, they seem to drip ethereal water where they walk, or a fire or light burns within their chests. Drowning, burning, overcharge- all witches.
At first, they never spoke - they observed from afar, sorrowful, mourning faces. I couldn't turn away from them. I just looked at them, trying to imagine what horrific stories they must have had. I haven't seen anyone I know. I haven't seen Joyce, or Oskar. I'm starting to think that the ghosts I'm seeing are like me- tormented, not quite passing to the 'other side', as it were. Not quite ready to join the Watcher, for whatever reason. Many witches don't get much of a proper burial- I'm wondering if that's what it is.
Now, they approach me. They speak to me, in airy, disjointed voices. They beg me for my counsel and comfort, and in return, they offer their own to me. I try to give them a sort of funerary speech, but they still remain. That is how weak my voice has become- not enough to influence the Watcher, not enough to influence the people.
Juniper's voice has become stronger than mine, and my 'affliction' has not helped. Word has spread of the Peteran priest's 'madness', and most believe it to be born of some kind of scrupulosity. My own failings have led to the uprising of Jacobism, as has Eduardo Volpe's latest book- a revision of his great-grandfather's manual on witches, magic, finding and killing magic-folk. Volpe mentioned in the foreword that his own grandfather's title was too long to remember, and he wanted a title that nobody would forget: The Scourge of Magic. I'm sure most of it is nonsense he made up to sway the masses, but the worrying part is he mentions that some of his knowledge is gained from 'a man with magic in his blood that I once knew' - Samuel Annorin, no doubt. He mentions some spells by name, and a fair few of them are accurate...
As my sermons went on, they got shorter, more flat-toned. I found it harder to smile and to concentrate, the ghosts' voices drowning out my thoughts. The robes became more and more baggy on me; I'm so busy dealing with the ghosts and staying in their world that I forget to look after myself in the living one.
My mind started to play tricks on me, and some of the churchgoers registered to me merely as silhouettes, save for the four regulars.
I couldn't be hopeful, not right now. It's getting to a point where, if I don't do something, Henford will be plunged into arcane conflict- but I'm in no place to help anyone, not until I can find a way to get rid of this problem - this curse, as Kat says.
I did what I didn't want to do - I called off the sermon early, and told them that the church might be closed for some time. I've rarely ever done that ever since I initially become prior. I've forced myself through sermons at my mental and physical worst, and I couldn't do it anymore.
I retreated to my desk. Susana, Elias and the ghosts followed, the ghosts glowing bright green in some attempt to comfort me.
Elias bluntly deemed me unfit to be abbot, but he didn't mean it to be so abrupt - he meant to take a break, go back to Owen or Kat or whoever to try and get to the bottom of this- but Kat was right. I had no doubt in that. She had more in-depth arcane knowledge than most people in Henford as cunningwoman. Susana told me that the Watcher wasn't ashamed of me- that the Watcher would not judge me for taking some time away to recuperate. I explained to them that it was the way of a Peteran, but not of the Lunvinchenaîné. Lunvin's children pride themselves on their perseverance. Like the wolves, we let nothing stop us. We carry our burdens wherever we go and we learn to tolerate their weight and carry on regardless, for the sake of our pack.
Susana told me how a pack leader isn't a pack leader if he doesn't rest or look after himself. The two of them are reluctant about it, but they both agree that they'll temporarily look after the place for me. I'm no good to them without my magic and without a clear head. Until I sort this, I can't help them- so I agree to take some time out, and try to find a cure to all of this mess.
Once that happens...I don't know what I'm going to do about Juniper, but I'll find a way to show everyone the scheming, terrible woman that she really is. I just need to get my confidence back first- and only Lunvin can guide me on how to achieve that. I need to win Her favour back, and She isn't going to like that it's going to take time out to do it.
More importantly, Róisín needs her father back.
* * *
Lately, I find all I seem to do is slip away into the land of the dead. At first, I chose to stay longer and longer each time, not wanting to leave at all. We've all had those dreams, so pleasant and magical and elating that you wished you could spend a few more minutes in slumber to experience it.
Whether or not Alistair woke me in good time, I'm not sure what it depended on. He understands my condition as well as I do. He's trying to balance it as much as he's able. Apparently, I'm much more calm and level-headed when I awake from these journeys to the other world. Alistair knows it's what's keeping my mind as clear as it can be, but it's detrimental in so many other ways. I spend so much time 'asleep' that I forget to eat until Alistair wakes me.
Lately, it feels harder and harder to pull away. Sometimes the ghosts visit me, and sometimes I'm completely alone to travel the endless, disjointed wilds of the realm beyond the veil. Either way, it was a welcome break from the living world.
The area looks almost forested again, dotted with odd rocks and trees, the odd shrub or flower patch- as if you'd asked someone from another place in the cosmos what they think Earth might look like. It's a gorgeous, chaotic wilderness that stretches for miles.
The silhouetted figure slowly fades into visibility, and I recognise her immediately.
"Áine?"
I've never seen Áine here before. It seems my own mind is playing more tricks on me than usual. I feel a heaviness lift from my chest, but not as much as it would when I saw her before. There's only so much emotion I can muster, even on this side of the veil. I almost feel guilty, looking directly into the eyes of an apparition of my most beloved, and feeling so little.
"What happened to you?" She speaks without much emotion herself, before throwing her arms around me. Her voice grows nearly tearful at that point.
"You've been through so much," she says. "Reynold, you're in pain- you don't have to be in pain."
The two of us bring our hands together, and her fingers interlock with my own, feeling airy and warm in my grasp. I know this is just a projection from my subconscious, but this is as close as I've gotten to seeing her for almost a year.
"I'm not. Not when I'm here, and not when I'm with you, Áine."
She leads me by my hand around the place. We seem to have passed the same patterns of flora over and over.
"You don't have to go back, you know," Áine whispers, in an alluring voice. "You don't have to be in pain anymore. You can stay here. The ghosts will look after you. You won't have to face a world that wants you dead for who you are."
The tone of her voice begins sultry, and dissolves into something almost manipulative. This isn't the first time, either. The voices of the ghosts I sometimes hear in this place, they grow less comforting and more demanding. I'm not sure why, but given the way the ghosts in the living world beg and question me, they're lost and afraid, and desire the guidance of a priest.
"I love you, Áine, but I can't do that. I need to find you in the living world, and figure out what is going on with me. I have you, and our daughter, and my friends at the monastery who need me. As painful as the living world can be, I can't leave people behind."
The apparition gazes down into the ethereal abyss beneath us. "You can do that. Myself, our daughter, your friends, they will all find you eventually in the realm of the dead."
"I need to get back to the living world specifically so they don't end up in the realm of the dead just yet."
To fight the temptations of the realm of the dead is nearly impossible. Who could say no to the calming, assuring beauty of emptiness? What's to fear when there is no past and no future to worry about? - But that's precisely the problem. If I don't keep trying to fight the demands of my mind to stay here, there won't be a future for witches, my friends, my family, and for the moon-shackled.
Her tears echo throughout the realm. "We're just trying to help you, Reynold! Why can't you see that? Why do you choose misery over eternal peace? Think what the Watcher would want."
"The Watcher wouldn't want me to give up on the living- and neither would Lunvin. I've lost Lunvin's favour as it is. I can't wallow in too much self-pity. I have to keep going, Áine, for everyone's sake."
"Where are you going? You can't leave yet!"
Her teary demands fade into echoes as I walk away from her, thinking of the living world- of all the people I want to go back there for.
"It won't be long until I see you in the flesh, Áine. Be patient- I will come to you, in time."
As much as this place tries to draw me in, I can't give in. I have to face the pain of the living world if I am to help bring out eventual peace. I have to face my adversaries as the wolves would- bravely and ruthlessly. I will become abbot again. I will regain my lunar magic. I won't let Withernham nor the rest of Henford fall to Juniper's warped branch of Jacobism.
Whether metaphorically or literally, I will become a wolf again.