Dante stood in the dimly lit hallway of the convent, his shadow long against the cross that hung in the alcove. He was preparing to leave, to seek out this Dr. Elias that Rowena had mentioned. As he adjusted his coat, a soft voice caught his attention.

"Are you leaving already, Mr. Dante?"

He turned to see Sister Agnes, her auburn curls peeking out from beneath her novice's veil. Her face held both awe and timidity as she gazed up at him.

"I am," Dante replied, his voice gentle. "There's someone I need to find."

Sister Agnes nodded, her fingers nervously twisting the rosary hanging at her waist. "I... I wanted to thank you," she said, sounding unsure of what she wanted to say. "For showing us those visions. It was... beautiful. And terrifying."

"There is beauty in terror, especially in my world."

The young novice took a tentative step closer, her curiosity overcoming her fear. "Is it true? What you said about wanting to... to end your existence?"

“You heard that? I thought you had left.” Dante's silver eyes clouded with an ancient sorrow. "I will not deny it.” He said no more, lost in thought. 

Sister Agnes's brows scrunched, her young face marked with concern. "But... isn't life sacred? Even your life?"

A low chuckle escaped Dante's lips, the sound both melodious and melancholic. "You have a kind heart, Sister Agnes. But my life... if you can call it that... it's been anything but sacred."

He knelt down, bringing himself to eye level with the novice. Sister Agnes let out a slight gasp, shying away from his gaze. 

"I’ve been on this earth for centuries," Dante continued. “I’ve watched countless lives flicker and fade like candles in the wind, some snuffed out by my own hand.” 

Sister Agnes listened, transfixed. She knew she could never comprehend what he had gone through, yet his grief seemed so tangible at times. 

"But you've seen so much," she said, her words resolute. "Done so much. Isn't that... isn't that worth something?"

Dante's smile was tinged with bitterness. "Perhaps. But at what cost? Every life I've taken, every drop of blood I've spilled... it all weighs on me, Sister Agnes."

He paused, taking a sharp breath. "There's more to it, though. I'm bound by a geas, a magical pact that forces me to follow the lunar council's orders. They've... they've made me hurt people I love. People I swore to protect. That's why I seek an end to this existence. To break free from their control, to never again be forced to harm those dear to me again."

The young novice's eyes welled with tears. Without thinking, she reached out, cupping Dante’s face in her hand. To her surprise, his skin was cool to the touch, like marble warmed by the sun.

"I'll pray for you, Mr. Dante," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I'll pray that you find peace, whatever form it may take."

For a moment, Dante was still, stunned by the simple, heartfelt gesture. Then, slowly, he placed his hand over hers, engulfing it in his much larger one.

"Thank you, Sister Agnes," he said, his voice barely audible. "Your kindness... it means more than you know."

The young novice hesitated for a moment, then spoke again. "Mr. Dante... my real name is Áine. Sister Agnes is the name I took when I joined the convent, but... if you'd like, you can call me Áine."

Dante was caught off guard by this gesture of trust. "Áine," he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with surprising ease. "It's a beautiful name. Thank you for sharing it with me."

Áine smiled shyly, then her demeanor seemed to shift. Her posture relaxed slightly, and when she spoke again, her accent was much more pronounced. "You say it right! Most English folks butcher it somethin' fierce."

Dante's eyebrow raised slightly at the change in her speech, but his smile grew warmer. "It's from the old stories, isn't it? I remember hearing it long ago, during my time in Ireland."

"No kidding?” Áine asked, roused by curiosity. “When was that, then?"

"During the Nine Years' War,” Dante replied, standing up and moving toward the alcove at the end of the hall. 

Áine's eyes widened in astonishment, following him at a pace as he walked. "Hang on, that's... that's ages ago! My gran used to go on about those days. Said our lot fought at Kinsale and all."

A shadow passed over Dante’s features. "Ah, Kinsale. I remember it well. Not a time I like to dwell on, though."

Noticing his discomfort, Áine bit her lip and changed tack. "Sorry, didn't mean to bring up bad memories. You know, it was my gran who got me here in the first place."

"Oh?" Dante inquired. 

"Yeah, she always said I had the healing touch. Reckoned I was blessed by Saint Brigid herself." Áine rolled her eyes fondly. "Bit much, if you ask me, but... well, I do want to help people."

"Is that why you joined the convent?" Dante asked, his hand hovering over the cross in the alcove as if he was afraid of touching it.

A hint of passion entered her words. "Part of it, aye. I just... I can't abide seein' folks suffer, you know? That's why..." she trailed off, suddenly quiet. 

Dante tilted his head, silently encouraging her to continue.

Áine took a deep breath, her fingers twisting the fabric of her habit. "My gran... she passed not long ago. The consumption took her, same as it did half our village."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Dante said, his voice tender.

Áine gave him a sad smile. "Thank you, Mr. Dante. She... she was all I had left. Raised me after the famine claimed my parents when I was just a wee thing."

Dante's expression darkened at the mention of the famine. 

Áine continued, "I tried everything to help her. Every folk remedy I knew, every prayer I could think of. But in the end..."

"You couldn't save her,” Dante finished, his words coming out carefully. 

Áine nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "I felt so... so useless. Here I was, supposedly blessed with this 'healing touch,' and I couldn't even ease my own gran's suffering." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "After she passed, I was lost. No family left, no prospects. Then I remembered how she always said I should use my gift to help others."

"So you came here.” 

"Aye," Áine confirmed. "Figured if I couldn't save her, maybe I could save others. Honor her memory, like." She let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Bit foolish, I suppose."

Dante shook his head. "Not at all. It's a noble goal, Áine. Your grandmother would be proud."

Áine visibly brightened at his words. "You think so?"

"I know so," Dante assured her. "A desire such as yours… it’s a powerful force. One that can change the world, if given the chance."

"That's why your story got to me, I suppose. All that pain you've seen... I wish I could do somethin' about it,” Áine said, straightening up. 

Áine fiddled with something at her neck, then pulled out a small, silver cross on a delicate chain. "Here," she said, holding it out to him. "It was my gran's. For luck, like."

Dante hesitated, his eyes flickering between the cross and the earnest face of the young novice. His hand hovered near the offered gift, his face full of uncertainty. "Áine, I... I'm not sure I should take this," he said softly. "It holds such sentimental value for you. And I... I'm not worthy of such a precious gift."

Áine's face fell slightly, but she remained determined. "But that's exactly why I want you to have it, Mr. Dante. Because it's precious, just like every life—including yours." She scrunched her brows a bit. “Besides, gran always said the ones who think they’re not worthy are usually the ones who deserve it most.” 

Dante's expression lightened, touched by her words. He looked at the cross, then back at Áine's hopeful face. After a moment of internal struggle, he gently took the cross from her hand.

"Your thoughtfulness overwhelms me," he said, his voice wavering. "I will cherish this, Áine. And I promise to return it to you one day."

With reverent care, Dante slipped the chain over his head, letting the cross rest against his chest. The silver felt cool against his skin, but there was no burn, no rejection. It was a simple symbol of faith and compassion, freely given.

Áine beamed, joy illuminating her features. "It suits you, Mr. Dante. I hope it brings you comfort on your journey."

Dante's fingers brushed the cross, a small smile on his lips. "It already has, Áine. Thank you. May your faith always burn as brightly as it does now."

"Ah, go on with you," Áine said, her cheeks flushing. "I'm just doing what anyone would do."

With a final nod, Dante turned and strode towards the convent's entrance, one hand unconsciously touching the cross at his throat. Áine watched him go, his tall figure gradually swallowed by the shadows. As the heavy door closed behind him, she clasped her hands together and whispered a prayer on that quiet morning.

"May you find what you seek, Mr. Dante," she murmured. "And may it bring you the peace you so desperately desire."