Tiny flakes of snow floated down from above settling on Harndall as he sat. He liked to come out here where it was peaceful and sit in what would become the church one day. For now the workings were abandoned and would not begin again till spring’s delicate touch melted the snow and warmed the fields.

It seemed Morven would never see the spring again, would never get past the icy embrace of winter. Hepsie had called Harndall in to the room many hours ago. The poor woman had been labouring all day and night and still the baby would not come. Hepsie had said there was no use, she was too far gone and they could not save her or her baby.

He had carefully read the last rites over her, his voice trembling as he recited the words. The finality of it was unbearably grim as thought he held the scythe in his own hand. Still she had been struggling onwards when he left, but the women had said it would not be long. Her body was exhausted, her life slowly ebbing like the tide drawing away from the shore. Perhaps she was already gone now.

It seemed so cruel to him, but he had to remind himself that God had a purpose for them all and perhaps Morven’s and her baby’s lay with him in heaven. He could not help but wonder what could justify such suffering as he saw about him, and he hated himself for it. It had been so much easier to trust in the Lord when he sat quietly reciting prayers in the high-arched rooms of the monastery. The melodious Latin choruses soaring upwards to the roof and beyond to the very ears of the Lord himself.

But now there was no quiet, no peace and everywhere death and sorrow and temptation was rearing up in a blackened tide, threatening to drown him if he could not rise above it. He did not know if he was strong enough. Already his head was sinking below the surface, coming up again, spewing the putrid waters that were staining him inside.

He heard soft footsteps in the snow and peered out into the moonlight trying to make out the distant figure making its way through the trees.

As it drew closer he recognised the graceful walk, the head held high even as the world was slowly crushing her down. It was Valeriya and his heart gave a painful throb.

He stood up as she walked to were he had been sitting.

“They told me I might find you here”, she said softly.

“How is Lady Hwratar?”, he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

“She revived for a time and has delivered two baby sons this last hour”, Valeriya said quietly, “But they are tiny creatures and they are barely breathing. Goodwife Cade is doing all she can but she cannot say whether they will live or not”.

She paused taking in a breath and smiling sadly, “Morven is still fighting, but her heart is so weak now they cannot feel it beat anymore and they do not expect her to last the night”.

The light of the full moon shone down softly upon her saddened face, as she stood before him. He took a sharp intake of breath. She was so beautiful, her lips parted softly, her hair falling back from her face in golden waves that he longed to drown himself in, the crescents of her fine brows curving above her sorrowful eyes.

He could not speak, he could barely breathe as he stared into those eyes, the colour of mist hanging above the ground in the chill hours around midnight.

“But you must be so cold”, she startled him from his thoughts by reaching up an unthinking hand to stroke the frigid skin on his face.

He gently reached up and took her hand in his. It was icy too and he suddenly noticed that she was shivering, her lower lip trembling.

“I think you are cold yourself”, he replied, not letting go of the delicate hand he held in his own.

He stared down at it in wonder, gently stroking the fine skin on her wrist where it was so pale a network of blue veins were visible just beneath the surface. His felt the thumping of her heart through the tips of his fingers, the beat rapid like that of a frightened rabbit.

Then he realised what he was doing and tried to remedy things by taking both her hands between his and roughly rubbing.

“Here this might help bring back the circulation”, he said in hearty voice. But even she must have heard it waver and his heart was beating so hard he was sure she would feel that too.

When he looked up from his task, he became aware that his face was very close to hers. So close, that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. She was staring at him, her eyes wide and frightened, her breath coming rapidly between her parted lips.

He was so close, he could have closed his eyes and his mouth would have found hers in the darkness.

“Valeriya!”, he cried pulling away, “We… we can’t. This is wrong”.

She gave a strangled sob and fell forward burying her face in his hair and weeping against his chest. He felt as though his heart had been torn out, and thrown on the snow-covered floor. There it lay, slowly freezing solid in the cold, to thaw rotten and blackened in the spring.

Eventually she straightened, wiping the tears from her eyes. Now she was proud and tall again and he wished she was still the sobbing woman he could comfort in his arms.

“I think you are needed back there Father”, she said her voice calm, “Goodnight”.

She turned on her heel and walked away without glancing back at him once. She was no Lot’s wife.

When she had gone he fell to his knees, heedless of the icy snow, clasping his hands so tightly that the knuckles were as white as the moon that hung above him.

“Please Lord, help me. I am only a man!”, he called up to the stars.

“I am only a man”, he murmured and began to weep bitterly, covering his face in shame as he knelt there among the foundations of the chapel and the ruins of his soul.

He heard the muffled sound of heavy skirts stirring above him.

“Do not cry Harndall. I am here now”, an unfamiliar voice crooned from above him.

Moraghdu, The Church