The
church had pews—fine wooden ones, intricately carved of century-old
oak. The last priest had had them varnished until they glowed. To
destroy them was blasphemy, but Evrard was not thinking of his soul
when he took an axe to them. He was thinking of fire.
(The
frost was at the door, and the men of his parish were freezing.)
The
church had fine golden statues, worth a king’s random. The last
priest had had them polished until one could see one’s face in
them. To sell them was unthinkable, but all the same Evrard weighed
the cost in his mind before taking them to a jeweler who would ask no
questions of his parish priest. Melt these and pry out the gems,
and pray give me the remainder. The saints’ sacrifices bought
coal and cookware, heavy rugs and winter clothing.
(The
frost was at the sill, and the women of his parish were freezing.)
The
church had a copy of the Enchiridion, all gold and gems and ink that
fairly glowed on the page. The last priest had had it rebound in a
case of platinum and sapphires. It was a most sacred book, the very
words of Halone herself. It kept the fires burning for a day longer.
(The
frost was at the walls, and the children of his parish were
freezing.)
The
church. The church had…
It
had the generosity of its congregation, their warm and beating hearts
spared from shriveling by the pain of their neighbors and the certain
knowledge that it could be any one of them next.
It had the support Evrard could wring from those more fortunate,
begging and borrowing and cursing his way to a little more firewood,
a few more coats for the children, some food to keep body and soul
together. It had so little, but what it had was enough. It had to be
enough. He walked the spider’s thread each sunrise, praying to the
Fury that it was enough.
(The
frost was in the city’s heart, but the hearts of his parish refused
to freeze.)
ffxivswarm 