Sasha’s eyes widened. Surprise crossed her face before a laugh left her lips. “Are you kidding me? You’re worried about becoming a Saint?”

Lark shuffled his chair, looking uncomfortable. “Is that not normal? I’m sure anyone would be worried about something like that.”

Sasha rushed to assuage Larks fears further, though it seemed she wasn’t entirely convinced with even herself. “Well it’s super rare. And usually only the most devout get chosen for such things.” She smiled, albeit sadly. “And you’re the least devout person I know. I’m not too much either, but you’re worse than me.”

Leaning his elbows on the table and wringing his hands through his hair, Lark growled low and angrily. “It isn’t unheard of! It’s happened before!” His voice rose in a panic, the food in his stomach making him feel nauseous instead of satisfied.

Sasha rolled her eyes and began cleaning dishes. “Okay. It’s happened four times? In its two thousand year history? Sure, keep being worried then.”

“I can be worried all I want! If it’s possible I’m gonna worry!”

“You’re working yourself up thinking like that! You’re going to be fine! Geez!” Taking Lark’s empty bowl, Sasha went to the sink and angrily scrubbed at the pots and bowls. “Go to bed and calm down! There’s pudding cups in the fridge if you want one.” With that she turned up her nose to focus on her task, leaving Lark to his own turbulent thoughts.

Opening the fridge, Lark swiped at one of the cups, peeling off the cover and crumpling it up before disposing of it properly. 

Stomping off to his room he chose not to slam it behind him, instead leaving it ajar slightly while he sat at a lamplit desk. The pudding cup vanished slowly as he ate, looking through a stack of papers that either needed to be signed or looked over. As the main caretaker of the farm he and his family ran, Lark often got requests from markets for wool, or animals he didn't have room for. Sometimes he would give away young sheep to different homes, but only once he did his research. The animals had just been sheared not too long ago, so it would be time soon for another cut. Their fur grew quicker than normal sheep, being part cat. Lark flipped over a paper asking if he had any calico origin wool. Tapping his pen along the sheet he inevitably wrote back, signing it and popping it in an envelope.

With his dessert finished, Lark flopped on his bed to stare listlessly at the ceiling.

Thinking about what he would have to do tomorrow… it sent a painful anxiety through his stomach and made him feel sick. It was an important ceremony for anyone who followed the faith of Phelmacitia. Though, he didn’t believe in that crap at all.

There was a deep pool in the main cathedral said to be the God Phelmacitia’s tears of sorrow, cried over thousands of years in a constant flow. One bathed in it to be protected for eternity with no price to pay. A price was paid for some and your life changed forever.