Flowing Time

The sacred Assembly Hall.

The Assembly Hall of Soria Village had once been nothing more than a humble wooden space dedicated to Olrun, Manafreya, and other minor deities.

But when they began to worship the new “Lord”, it was torn down and rebuilt far larger than befitted the village, becoming its most prominent structure.

Deep inside that hall, in a sealed confessional booth, High Priest Kraf knelt in prayer.

Finishing his prayer, Kraf rose, making the Sign of the Cross once more.

In his mind flickered the image of Elin, nearly violated in the hut earlier, and of the village maiden even now being defiled.

Even Yodel’s rank as duchy lord could not excuse such vile acts. Yet on days as tense and brutal as this, it was necessary to turn a blind eye—to a degree.

That way, it became a debt of sorts, a chain to bind him all the tighter later.

‘In truth, on days as hard as this… Even I long for some comfort in sin.’

Kraf’s eyes glimmered with lust.

He raised his hand and shook a small bell engraved with the Cross.

The door opened, and a priest stood before the confessional.

“Call Joachim. He asked me for counsel earlier.”

“Yes, Father.”

The priest left and soon returned with a tall young cleric, pale of face.

“Joachim, come in. I will gladly answer your questions of faith.”

A filthy lie slipped from Kraf’s slick lips. Joachim had asked no such counsel and looked at him in confusion.

The priest who had brought Joachim gave a knowing smile and left. Left alone, Joachim, at a loss, opened the side door of the confessional and entered.

“Well then, Joachim. How has today been for you?”

“I… I…”

“It is all right. Before you sits not the Duchy’s High Priest, but your elder in faith, your teacher. Speak freely.”

“T-today’s ritual of Judgment was…the Lord’s…”

Joachim stammered, unable to meet Kraf’s piercing eyes.

“Haa…this is dire, Joachim. Your eyes are still filled with filthy lust!”

“N-no, it is not so, High Priest!”

“My eyes are the Lord’s scales of judgment, the mirror that reflects all hearts. Are you saying my eyes are wrong?”

“No, Father.”

“Then it cannot be helped. I must take your sin again, to purify your body.”

“Ah…”

Fear twisted Joachim’s face. Seeing it, Kraf’s expression grew more wicked.

“Come here, little lamb. Show me the will of your faith with a kiss of atonement.”

Kraf spread his arms wide.

The oppressive force of that gaunt old man was too much for young Joachim to bear.

Shaking like a little lark, Joachim was pulled into his arms, Kraf’s foul lips pressing against his shut mouth.

As Kraf’s skeletal hands crawled over his robes, sending shivers like hell’s centipedes coiling, Joachim nearly screamed but held back—drawing on the memory of the leather whip that had once lashed his back bloody, which gave him a grim endurance beyond faith in God or the High Priest.

Eyes hazy with ecstasy, Kraf gazed at the hall’s ceiling, his hand sliding lower over Joachim’s robes.

“So frightened, my little lamb.”

“P-please…! High Priest Kraf!”

“I shall take your lust upon myself. By the Lord’s power, I will destroy that mass of sin.”

Kraf turned, grasped the desk, and bent forward.

“What are you waiting for?”

Joachim staggered up with a face full of despair, moving behind Kraf.

In that sacred place, unimaginable blasphemy blossomed.

The next day, as the Tribunal prepared to depart, the villagers gathered, kneeling in farewell.

Kraf stood at the front, giving a benediction for the villagers.

“Blessed are those who keep God’s dwelling and remember His words. Believing that their purity and faithfulness will resound to the heavens, may the apostles and angels sent by the Lord dwell in this village forever, bestowing blessing and piety.”

“May it be so…”

The priests walked among the kneeling villagers, scattering salt and fir leaves.

Yodel’s eyes darted among the kneeling villagers, searching for the maiden he had taken the night before.

‘Ah, there she is… Kari, was it not?’

That morning, Kari appeared again, freckles covering her simple face, plump body hunched under the sprinkling of salt and fir leaves.

‘Damn… I wasn’t even that drunk yesterday. What possessed me to take such a girl?’

Yodel frowned in distaste.

Sensing eyes upon her, Kari glanced up. Her gaze met Yodel’s.

Her face flushed; startled, she quickly bowed her head again. The sight was rather pitiful.

‘Tch…’

Yodel longed to leave this village at once, sink into a hot bath, and rest.

He wanted to cut yesterday from memory entirely. Yet he consoled himself that by killing the last priestess, the cursed prophecy would never fall upon the Duchy of Nastrand.

He had strangled her with his own hands. It was over. The Egg of Beginning and End, its conception—all of it would remain forever as empty words.

“I never truly gave weight to such mad ravings anyway.”

Muttering thus, Yodel watched as the ceremony finally ended.

At Yodel’s signal, Fynel blew the horn.

The front ranks began marching out of the village.

Morten, swaying atop his horse, looked weary. Fynel gazed at him with concern.

One day.

Two days…

Three days…

For Elin, lying in the cave, each day passed the same.

‘If only I had not been a priestess.’

This sorrowful priestess, devoid of will to live or any desire, had no appetite. Nor could she descend to seek food. To any who saw, her life seemed already at its end.

Yet wolves, reindeer, and bears always brought something, laying it before her and staring as if urging her to eat.

Berries, some kinds of meat, trout, and more…

Though not cooked by fire, the food was nourishing enough.

She refused again and again, but the animals would not move until she ate at least some, forcing Elin to put nutrients into her body.

At night the temperature dropped sharply, yet straw carried in by the reindeer and bears piled up into a surprisingly soft bed.

And when Elin lay down, they surrounded her, pressing their bodies to hers, blocking the wind and lending warmth.

“Why—why are you doing this? Because you fear I’ll die before fulfilling the Oracle?”

At her tearful words, the wolf raised its head and looked at her.

With no hostility, the wolf’s blank gaze seemed to say: Wait.

“Wait? For what? What more must I do for the prophecy to be fulfilled?”

But neither wolf, nor reindeer, nor bear proffered any answer.

So the days passed, her only acts to eat and lie down. And Elin noticed the change in her body.

The night vile evil invades the nest—the Egg of Beginning and End.

At last, Elin’s clock hand had moved past her happy time with Ingmar, ticking toward the prophecy’s fulfillment. Never had she felt her priestesshood so bitterly.

And yet, as the moon waned and waned again, the indescribable sorrow and emptiness began, little by little, to subside.

And Elin once more began her hymns to Olrun and Manafreya.

Staggering to the cave mouth, she danced slowly toward the moon rising over the forest silhouette.

“Bright moonlit sky,

“Rise. Rise.

“The warriors who worship Olrun.

“Sing, sing.

“The maidens who yearn for His daughter.

“Dance, dance.

“The blooming trees and flowers.

“Pour down. Pour down,

“The brilliance of moon and stars.”

As Elin sang with a pure, clear voice, tears broke from her face.

When she had sung like this before, Ingmar would dance below to the music, sometimes play the flute, or sharpen sword and arrowhead, lost in her song.

Sometimes he would, clumsily but with resonant voice, sing folk songs to enliven the mood.

Her lost daily life, her lost joy, her lost man and his scent…

Without necklace, adornments, or the willow flute, Elin nevertheless steadfastly continued her nightly hymns anew.

So time passed, and the season came when all leaves fell.

The wolf brought, seemingly from some village, winter clothes and a vest—needed now, for the cold was so harsh that even the cave could hardly shield her.

Her belly, swollen now, showed clearly.

Elin gazed at that belly blankly—sometimes with eyes full of hate.

And whenever she did, wolf, bear, and reindeer appeared, licking her face and nudging her as if to comfort and soothe.

As if begging her to eat, they even brought roasted fish and baked potatoes, seemingly stolen from villages at risk.

“I have to eat so my belly has nourishment…right?”

At her sorrowful question, the reindeer’s great eyes blinked.

“To safely bear the life within me—that’s when the Oracle ends, isn’t it? Or…when it begins?”

“……”

“Then I was nothing more than the tool of prophecy. My man, Ingmar, died only for that tool. And this new life we created was never our love, only the Oracle’s tool.”

Though her tears threatened to fall, the reindeer only stared at her endlessly, unmoving.

Boiled potatoes, and even turnips rare in winter.

Elin’s trembling hand reached for the potato, still warm.

“Always only as much as Olrun and the nature he rules allow…”

The one who once answered those words was now a hero in the Halls of the Gods.