The sound of Godien's knee-high boots echo against the marble tile, every step reverberating down the long palace hallway to the beat of an invisible drum. He can barely hear the soft glide of Father Faolan’s footsteps over the pounding of his eardrums and the loud clack, clack, clack drowning out the beat of his heart.

His chest feels tight—he resists the urge to fiddle with the ornate pin holding his royal capelet to it. Out of the bottom of his eye, he can see the chain gently swinging back and forth with every step.

He keeps his gaze forward. 

His hands feel cold.

He resists the urge to swallow as they turn the corner towards the Lord's Wing, the section of the palace dedicated to the church.

A maid scurries past with a stack of towels in her arms. She pauses briefly to perform a quick bow before scurrying along.

Her footsteps are swiftly drowned out by his own.

Clack, clack, clack—

"I shouldn't have convinced the knights to play swordball with me," Godien forces out, a fraction too loud and a fraction too fast, "It was... reckless and... immature."

Father Faolan pauses in his step, his brow raised.

“Well... I’m not sorry for convincing them to play with me, specifically,” Godien rambles, “but we were using sword flats and stones so... I mean, Sir Naoghas’ gift could’ve technically stopped any accidents because of the whole ‘Master of Rocks’... thing, but uhm..."

Godien slaps his hands together in a holy clap—head tapped against them, eyes squeezed shut, "I'm sorry!" He cracks open one eye, "Forgive me–?"

He’s flicked on the forehead; “Ow!”

The Holy Father withdraws his hand with an amused smile. Godien pouts.

“While I appreciate the impromptu confession, Firelight," Father Faolan replies, a hand on Godien's back to gently coax him forward, "I believe the Lord and Lady will be... quite content to leave this one with the Knight Commander. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Nooo," Godien all but whines, “She’ll tie me up and make the knights use me as target practice - can’t you punish me instead?”

Father Faolan chuckles as the two round the corner.

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before urging the knights to use their imperial swords as sporting bats?” He hums, gaze distinctly amused, "I believe your dire sin of not paying attention in the Minister’s Court is far more worthy of attention. Yes?”

Godien groans, barely resisting the urge to dramatically fall to the ground in defeat.

"Despite your... valiant efforts to not fall asleep on the High Prince's throne," Father Faolan gives him a pointed look, "again," Godien looks away, "You were called upon multiple times and could not answer a single thing on your own.”

Godien finds himself staring a little too hard at the gold detailing on his boots.

“Godien.”

“Well, it's not–!” He snaps—he stops, breathes... fixes his tone, “I’m sorry."

He finds himself lost for words for a beat. He looks at the Holy Father's dark green hair.

He looks away.

"I’m just– I’m not built for the Minister’s Court." He says, looking everywhere but at the holy man walking alongside him, "All they ever do is just... drone on and on, nitpicking and bickering over tiniest of things, and for what? No one ever agrees on anything – nothing ever gets done.”

Godien pauses in his step, glancing beyond the window at the dormant volcano darkening the palace's west end. His brows furrow—he frowns.

“People are dying on the front lines every day,” he continues, “We can barely hold an armistice together because every time one war begins to end... some idiot decides to start a new one. It's meaningless!"

He turns away from the window. Father Faolan gives him a sympathetic look.

Godien sighs.

"The Minister's Court is naught but a meaningless pomp and circumstance.”

The two start to walk again.

Father Faolan hums, palms folded neatly behind his back.

"While I don't disagree with you," he replies with a gentle smile, "That doesn't change the vital role that the court still plays in our society. No matter how petty the squabbling, Fearg Impireal would be naught but a gaggle of scattered territories without it.”

He brings them to a gentle halt outside the Sacred Spring's ornate entrance, its two clerics quietly standing guard on either side.

Godien groans.

“Your heart's in the right place, Firelight,” Father Faolan continues, his hand resting atop Godien's left shoulder, "But change is not something that comes about during an inappropriate nap. You are a Prince – you'd be surprised to find what weight that title can carry. Especially in a place like the Minister’s Court.”

Godien stares into his magenta eyes for a long beat before looking away. He's not sure what to say to that. He's right, obviously, but... he doesn't know.

Father Faolan signals for one of the clerics to open the doors, revealing a room bathed in a soft multicoloured light – courtesy of the stained glass panels lining the ceiling. A small moat separates the prayer platform from a litany of holy relics lining the walls. A statue of the Lord and Lady's eternal embrace stands dead center on the opposite side of the room. The Sacred Spring is as uncomfortably serene as he remembered.

The Holy Father gestures inside.

"Think about it," he says with a gentle, yet pointed tone, “I’ll wait for you outside.”

Godien stares at him for a long beat, before releasing a defeated sigh and heading inside the room. He gives the Holy Father a thumbs up as the clerics close the doors between them.

The latch clicks shut. 

Godien struggles to contain a yawn as he absentmindedly locks the door behind him. He’s in no mood to burden the Lord and Lady with his complaints about the blasted Minister's Court of all things... but there's no harm in entering communion while he's here. Perhaps they'll be kind and grant him the ability to never have to attend one of those ridiculous meetings ever again.

One can only hope.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Allen's thighs burn as he pulls himself over the edge—Ana swoops in to steady him as Jenna throws her pack against the cavern wall. Looking around, he can't help but blink in surprise. Beyond the vast open cavern, there seems to be a single narrow passage at the back, disappearing into the mountain. 

He frowns. Who knows where that goes...

By the time he's able to add his own pack to the pile of bags against the wall, Jenna's already run off to the back of the cavern to have a snoop around. Ana and Blake are sitting on the floor about halfway into the cave just deep enough to avoid the afternoon sun. They're venting to one another about how exhausted they are.

It'd be cute if Allen's thighs weren't acting as a constant reminder of how unfit he's become. 

He slips his water bottle out of his pack and takes a swig of it to cool himself down—eugh. It’s lukewarm. Disgusting.

“It’s so deep in here!” Jenna calls out from the back of the cave.

“Don’t go too far!” Allen shouts back, returning the half-drunk water bottle to his pack.

“I won’t!”

Allen hums in disbelief, but she's too far away to register his complete lack of faith in her self control.

Blake snickers at least.

Allen grins at him and tosses him the first sandwich, hands deep in his pack as he rummages for more, "Hungry?"

"Starving."

"Cheese and tomato, please!" Ana requests with a wide smile and a hand raised in the air.

"Are you sure? It's gonna be soggy."

"I'm sure!"

───※ ·❆· ※───

The Sacred Spring is quiet.

Godien's footsteps echo against the stone tile with every step. Water trickles down from the altar basin into the artificial moat below. Sunlight illuminates the room through the stained glass ceiling. Blues, reds, oranges, purples... the room never fails to feel like a gateway to another world whenever he steps inside.

Godien pauses at the edge of the prayer platform, the tips of his boots a mere fraction from the edge. Figures, idols, trinkets and more line the shelves on either side of the room—the majority estimated to be anywhere in between a hundred and a thousand years old. He should know the significance of every item, from the headless dancer to the feathery stick, but... he doesn't.

His eyes gravitate towards the man-sized statue of the Lord and Lady's eternal embrace, their hands bound together and outstretched with a single stone resting in their palms. The Soul Stone. The only artifact in this room older than Godien's father. 

A remnant from the Time Before. 

...Gods forbid he has a single clue of what that even means, but he remembers the quote at least.

Godien yawns and gets into position, carefully kneeling on the centre of the prayer platform’s sun and moon. He presses his palms together and closes his eyes. 

He takes a deep breath… then releases it. His shoulders begin to settle.

A steady breath in… a calm breath out.

Breathe in… breathe out.

In... Out.

In.

Out.

To the Lord of the Stone and Moons, and the Lady of the Sky and Suns, Godien requests guidance from those who govern the world above him. He... Well, he...

Uhm.

The silence in his mind is as loud as the silence in the room.

Godien deflates like a popped balloon against the cool stone tile below. He’s got... nothing. His mind has gone silent.

His canvas is blank.

He drags his fingers down his face—wary of the gold makeup on his cheeks—and groans. Augh, why did Father Faolan drag him here? He has nothing to say! Not in the stubborn, irate way, but in that literal, genuine nothing-to-say way.

Godien’s got nothing.

He sighs, deep, and lies down. The cool stone feels nice against his back. He sighs again – but in contentment this time.

Granted, there are a lot of things he probably should pray about... but if the Lord and Lady's prayer box is anything like the palace mailroom, it'd be overflowing with requests to end the Thousand Year War. Anything he could think of couldn't possibly match the gravity of the words coming from those who need it most.

Godien's a Prince. He should want for nothing. He knows how lucky he is.

Perhaps his prayer would be for the Lord and Lady to share some of that luck with his people instead. To put food on tables without, and blankets on barren beds. To add another prayer to the pile requesting an end to the Thousand Year War.

He's sighing a lot today. The Minister's Court deserves the blame for that.

The Sacred Spring is quiet. It's nice. Tranquil, almost. Neither too hot nor too cold. It's dreadful in the dead of winter, but right now? It's nice.

Godien opens up his eyes to the litany of stained glass suns and moons making up the ceiling. Beyond them is a cloudless, sunny day. A bird passes by.

He smiles and closes his eyes again.

This time, he prays for peace.