Seeds of a Glowing Ember - 04
#5 of Seeds of a Glowing Ember
From the darkness of an occupied guest room, Father Harold scratched a well-used quill diligently across a rough piece of parchment. The sight of an old priest writing feverishly in the flickering candlelight would have appeared natural if casually observed, but this night was not divinely inspired and he felt nothing but dread in the deliverance of what he wrote.
Once more he was at the losing end of politics with that woman. Had she been a man, the priest was certain she would be a bishop and they would have joined forces in many lustful schemes. But instead she had been built as a vessel of the Dark Mother ... and her wit and charm had ensnared him.
When the quill was set to rest, he read the words as they dried. A lumpy tightness clung to the walls of his chest, reminding him of his better judgment. There was no escape from this horrid mess which he found himself in, and before this was over, he was sure there would be blood. Favors were being cashed in from every Templar he knew, and as souls were lost to the witch burning pyres, his place in Hell was becoming deeper as more demons were added to his personal host.
Of course he had already assured himself a place there. Even if he were to tear up the document and allow the Countess to ruin him, it would not change what he had already done. Rome's forgiveness had been recanted by Pope Clement's Papal Bulla, and the Templar's excommunication had already been assured. Father Harold had abandoned friends back in France, when the soldiers were coming. He might have warned the others, but instead he chose to flee with his own life. Now he could feel the ghosts of the others as they stared over his shoulder, a constant reminder of how he had failed them.
_Why did I run? I'm too old to have much time left anyway ... am I really such a coward? _ The answer was in his hands, and he knew that this too was not the way he would have things work out. The danger was not over. There were still so many ways things could go wrong.
He was tired ... so very tired, but still the game played on. Though most of his treasures had already been taken, the last bits of hope resided in this place. "It is all so dangerous," he whispered to the dark, but the game was not over and she knew how to play. Now in the twilight, I see the hand of a vengeful God upon my throat ... and I already feel his pressure and wonder when he will finish me off. But The Lord did not kill him. The game was still on.
_Fine ... she wants to play ... I'll play. _ Reacquiring the quill, he stabbed it into the ink well, and added a post script. _If I am going into the shadow of death ... I will bring hell with me. _ The scratching ran furiously to its end then cracked when he stabbed the period at the end of the page. "Good enough," he mumbled, as he blew the ink dry.
When at last it was good enough, Father Harold folded the letter into an envelope, took a bit of red sealing wax from his bundle, and held it up to the candle's flame. The screams of the damned rang in his mind as the wax bled into a quickly hardening pool. The heat of the flame reminded him of his fate, and it was with a certain amount of anger that he smashed his signet ring onto the page.
When he withdrew, the mark of his position had been left behind. It was that symbol which would take him the rest of the way. Though he prayed it was at an end, his journey still required more steps. A deep breath steadied his resolve, as he began to form the next part of his plan. Gathering up the letter, Father Harold blew out the candle, and went in search of his wayward friar.