CHAPTER 1 - PART 2

“Not again,” he sighed out, rolling onto his knees as Blaise sprung back a bit from him. “Every night with this.”

Desperate knocking reverberated from the door in front of them, a concerned voice calling out to him.

“Clément? Clément, my son, what was that screaming? Art thou well, my child?”

Screaming? He’d been screaming? Never mind that now. He needed to let him know he was alright.

“I am well, father. Thou needest not worry. ‘Twas only a dream.”

“Thank God Almighty. Please hurry down for breakfast, my son. Remember that today is the selection and, as an ambassador, the academy needeth thee thither today more so than ever before. So tarry not long, alright?”

“Yes, father.”

Fading footsteps disappeared into the distance, a hearty sigh of relief parting from his lips. The clock was ticking. He quickly made his bed and, once having recited his morning prayers, made his way to the convent washrooms. The mural of Saint Guillaume le Paisible stood over the archway as an ever-watchful, ever-present specter welcoming him and many more believers into the spacious bathing spaces with open arms and a gentle smile, inviting them to partake of the refreshing waters the river provided.

The sunlight was hitting him directly now, beating down on him mercilessly, its touch on his skin softened only by the freezing cold water from the Saint-Guillaume river running through the tubes of the monastery. The winter season had slowly been taking its leave from the capital, the cool mountain waters of the river being its parting gift, and a most welcome one at that; but that was of little importance now. This half-decade was fast approaching its end, and with it, the promise of many new beginnings.

Having cleansed himself as best he could, he continued to the looking-glass to dress himself and brush his hair. His hair was a deep black, not unlike his right eye (the other was blue just like his parents’). The spitting image of his father from the hollow cheeks to the slim jawline, but having inherited his mother’s unruly curls for hair. He stood at about a meter seventy-nine (five feet and eleven inches approximately), svelte, yet of well-defined muscles; and was pale, even by their standards.

He diligently took to his task, pausing for a moment to chase away the lingering thoughts of the night terror that had stirred him up so violently from his slumber.

“It’s behind you now, Clément,” he told himself, calmly brushing his hair as best he could to try and straighten the unruly, dark curls; but alas, they never did. No matter how hard he strained, they always warped back into their original shape, not unlike…

He stopped, remembering the image of the fiery phantom.

Not unlike the flames of that beast.

“Clément, breakfast is ready,” came the announcement.

“On my way.”

Stirred from his deep reflection, he finished brushing and promptly made his way to the lunch room where Father Michel was waiting for him dressed in his morning gown.

Father Michel had two blue eyes, graying hair, and was a few centimeters taller than Clément when he could stand up straight and didn’t have to use his walking stick. His face was rugged and a bit weathered, the tone of his skin slightly tanned from his travels, and with noticeably big hands; and though he wore a lively smile, a mere glance would tell anyone his best years were already behind him.

“Come, come, my child,” he said, motioning to the black wood chair at his side. Clément swiftly obeyed and sat down, a plate of fresh bread covered in strawberry jam, two slices of cottage cheese, and a swig of coffee with cream awaiting him. To say he was not eager would have been a lie. No sooner had he sat down, he recited the gratiarum actio--quickly enough so as not to tarry, but slowly enough so as not to be impious--and avidly began to dig in.

“Slow down now, Clément. Thou wantest not to dirty thy robes.”

“Forgive me, father,” he said through a half-devoured slice of cheese, washing it down with a sip from his coffee. “I’m just a bit famished.”

“I can tell. Those night terrors of thine must leave thee ever so starved.”

“‘Tis nothing, father.”

“Nothing, thou sayest?” asked Father Michel, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at Clément. “Well, ‘tis a nothing that hath been tormenting thee now for a full fortnight, my child; and my concern only groweth with each passing moon, Clément. I think ‘tis time thou wert honest with me. What is it that aileth thee and disturbeth thee so that thou flailest and screamest every night now?”

“I insist, father. ‘Tis nothing.”

“Thou oughtest not lie to me, Clément. I can tell from a glance thou art still shaken up. Speak, my child. Speak, if only to lessen thy burden a bit.”

Clément looked into his clear blue eyes, scanning him like a mortician would a cadaver, recording each and every minute detail his eyes came across. He took a deep breath and folded his hands over his lap.

“I see myself back there.”

“Back there?”

“In Chantin. In the underground. In the cage.”

“Where first we met.”

“Yes. I’m back there and I see myself fighting horrible creatures. They’re never the same; sometimes they’re ones I don’t think I’ve ever seen before in my life, at least not face to face.”

“And what transpireth in these dreams?”

“I win. I win and I’m set free. But then I see them. But ‘tis not really them, ‘tis only their voices. And they’re encouraging me. They’re telling me to be free, to be happy; but then I turn around and look at them. I see them suffering, I hear them crying, and I run after them. I run after them to try and save them.”

“Thou leavest not?”

“I never do. I can’t bring myself to do so. So I run after them; but ‘tis always in vain. I never reach them. I never reach them and a strange phenomenon occureth. I then witness a beast of red flames that chargeth from the East at me to consume me, to devour me. It taketh to the skies and diveth straight at me, but just before it killeth me, I awaken.”

“I see. Thy conscience. Thou feelest yet guilty for the ill that befell thy companions that day. Thou blamest thyself.”

“Still to this day.”

Without saying another word, Father Michel rose from his seat and began to gently massage Clément’s shoulders.

“‘Tis been almost a year now, hath it not?”

“Almost, father.”

“And thou hast still not forgiven thyself for the tidings which did transpire on that regrettable day. Art thou afraid, my son?”

“Afraid? Mayhaps. More so I am regretful. Had I been as strong on that day as I’d been in the cage, I might’ve saved them all. I might’ve spared them the cruel fortune that awaited us all back at the orphanage.”

“Some things rest not in our hands, my child. Notwithstanding, to not be always in control is no folly of man, Clément. For all mankind, though he may think of himself a god, cometh eventually to the harsh truth that, for all his toiling, he cannot wholly control his fate nor his fortune. And that, my dear Clément, is why we exist. To show compassion to those whom luck hath downtrodden and to console those to whom this world hath shown neither mercy nor grace. Such as did I with thee so long ago.”

“And I am grateful for that, father. Sincerely, I am. But now I ask thee: what of them whom we cannot save? What of them whom mercy never reacheth, to whom grace cometh too late?”

“Therein lie our limits, my child. That in a world so wicked as this, we cannot save all the broken, cannot console all the miserable. For each individual life we may help in sparing, in bringing out into the light, we know nought of the countless others which still suffer quietly in the dark. ‘Tis why we pray, my child, for just like those who thought of themselves gods, we too, for all our toiling, despite our faith, are nought but men.
“Nevertheless, Clément, I ask that thou not let these tidings dispirit thee. I believe there is good reason for which thy conscience tormenteth thee after this manner. ‘Tis so that thou mayest not forget them, Clément. ‘Tis so that thou wilt fight forever the good fight. To save them who have suffered and do suffer even now what once sufferedst thou. That they may be ever in thy thoughts and in thy prayers.”

“Truly thinkest thou so, father?”

“I know so, Clément. That is why thou art here, now, my child. That is why I made thee a disciple. So finish eating, my child. Allow thy spirits to be revitalized, go today, and do well thy work at the academy with a cheerful heart and with peace of mind; that thou art not only alive, but living, and livest to make men free.”

“I thank thee, father.”

With renewed enthusiasm and sense of purpose, Clément swiftly finished his breakfast, grabbed his prayer cowl and satchel bag, and was out the monastery doors before the bells could chime the hour.