A fever wracked his body, making Lark go in and out of consciousness. Any time he woke up someone was there attending him, wiping the sweat from his skin or making him force down water. It was painful and he just wished he was back home in the mountains of blue, curled amongst the sheep in golden grass and under familiar stars.

The few times he was more conscious than others, Delilah would come in and ask a few questions: his name, where he lived, age. Probably making sure he was all still there, which sent a small shiver through Lark at the possibility of what others dealt with.

Any time his brain faded into awareness, a pair of eyes bored into his skull. There was never anything there but he could feel a presence. An invisible force wrapping him in a deceitful embrace, one that felt uncomfortable against him like scratchy wool. He didn't bother trying to figure out what it could be and chalked it up to his current delirious state of being.

Between dreams of nothing and gloom there was hot and cold.

Aches and nausea.

Until finally he felt it all ebb away as he slept and slept.

…

… …

Staring at the skyline through open curtains, Lark couldn’t help but sadly sigh as the first things he saw were unfamiliar. The only things that grounded him were his clothes neatly folded on the nightstand, phone on top.

He felt mostly normal, just absolutely ravenous. Food wasn’t something he had thought too much about in his sickened state. Sitting up and feeling like his body wasn't his own, he grabbed the phone and turned it on. Immediately it buzzed with dozens of missed calls from various people. He saw a few from Sasha but didn’t have the heart to call her back. Eyes bulging at the date, Lark almost dropped the phone in his lap.

“I slept a week??”

Falling back into the bed Lark put a hand to his forehead, appalled how long that experience had lasted. No wonder he was so hungry. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed and planting his feet on the ground, Lark wobbled upright and looked around the room.

It was spacious; a small bedroom next to a complete bath and a medium sized living space past that. Everything was colored white, gold and blue, though the sheer curtains were a strangely chosen rose pink. A fully functioning kitchen with a mostly empty fridge, inside being ingredients for a few light meals and water for when he woke up. Taking the entire pitcher of water, Lark went to the window to figure out what the rest of the place looked like.

Outside was a large courtyard full of flowers, trees, seating areas, fountains and an astonishing number of those same brightly colored birds. They must live here due to the ample amount of constant food and human attention. He assumed it must also be where they got the bright pigments for the cloth Saints wore. People milled about in groups or by themselves reading, most of them in robes or the sparse brightly colored scarves.

A knock at the door and Lark turned towards it. “Come in.”

An older man with a stern expression entered the room, arms neatly held behind his straightened back. Dark blue hair with streaks of gray was slicked back in a neat ponytail, not a strand out of place. A jagged scar across his large nose gleamed white against his light skin, and Lark noted the brightly colored purple scarf tied about his waist. A Saint.

“I’m glad to see you’re up and about. Sleeping for a week isn’t uncommon after receiving the blessing.” He said, voice low and scratchy.

Lark eyed the person, looking him up and down with interest. The man wore light armor even in the dormitory, metal arm guards glinting with a matte finish. The same strange gold coloring as Delilah’s glimmered in his eyes. Bowing low and startling Lark, he spoke again.

“I come to bid you welcome to the dormitory and to our cathedral, Lark. My name is Orimir Durnoir and I will be helping with part of your training over the next few months.”

Lark blinked stupidly. “...Training?”

“You surely know our line of work. You will need to be outfitted for a uniform, which you can have a hand in the design of.” Orimir held up a small vial of silvery, oily liquid attached with a thick pen. “You will also be taught how to utilize Glyphs. A particular perk of your newfound sainthood.” Then he put his hand on the handle of the weapon at his own belt; a longsword with a blue sapphire pommel and a blue leather hilt. “Of course, you will be equipped with a suitable weapon. Our gear is blessed by Phelmacitia so they’re quite special. Most of us have variety, so I’m sure you will find what suits you.”

A burst of excitement at the sight of the vial turned into dread. Lark didn’t even need to think about a weapon, missing his shepherd's crook all too keenly. “A staff… Probably.”

Orimir seemed surprised. “Perhaps a lance?”

Shaking his head, Lark grasped an invisible crook in his hand. “I herd sheep. I don’t want anything pointy…”

A curious hum vibrated the air as Orimir gave it thought, hand to the stubble on his chin. “We can make whatever you please, though I will have to remind you about needing to defend yourself when the time comes.” Then he held out a paper-wrapped parcel towards Lark. “While we were arranging your uniform specifications, your scarf was finished just this morning. It’s quite beautiful.”

Taking the package, Lark delicately unwrapped it and let the soft fabric spill like water around his hands. It was a pretty blue color, much longer than Delilah and Orimir’s. It fit snugly around his neck, hanging it twin tails down his back.

“We wear bright colors such as this to distinguish ourselves apart from the rest of the clergy. You are expected to wear it when away from your room.” Orimir explained. Bluntly.

Gaze darting to the man in front of him Lark smiled, even as the uncertainty of the gesture bloomed in his chest. “And if I don’t?”

The straightforward answer was quick. “Then Delilah needs to have a talk with you.”

Lark wilted. These people were no fun.

Taking the scarf off and gently placing it at the end of his new bed, Lark turned back to Orimir with a raised brow. “You look older than a lot of the other officials here. How come you’re not commanding the Saints?”

Orimir chuckled, hands back at attention behind him. “We rank based on service to Phelmacitia. I’ve only been here half as long as Delilah, despite going on my 13th year.”

“Delilah is pretty important then?” Lark was surprised since she didn’t have a spec of commanding air about her.

“Immensely. Saints are all over the world of course but some are more intune with themselves and their powers than others.” When Orimir spoke there was no jealousy or callousness, only genuine admiration. “Delilah is a very special case. She was practically raised within the cathedral and has an interesting affinity for the power.”

Lark thought back to when Delilah had made that expression back in Meis’ office. It didn’t make him seem like a very devoted person. Something must have happened to him to act like that. Dull pain throbbed in Lark’s temple the more he thought and he rubbed a hand against his forehead.

“I’m tired. Can I… be alone?”

Brain overloading with everything, Lark sat in a chair and held his head. Orimir looked at him for a silent, worried moment before nodding. Then he silently turned away, opening and closing the door softly behind him.