Harndall shuffled slowly into the room as Varda carefully shut the door behind him. He stopped at the foot of the bed, unable to make his legs move, unable to walk the distance that separated him from her motionless body. A trembling began in his legs, shuddering its way through his thighs and groin, to throb in the base of his spine.

The blankets curled around her alabaster face like a shroud, protecting her frail body in their cocoon. Her lips were parted and he could hear the faint sound of her breath as it forced its way between them, the soft sigh of a breeze stirred in the musty depths of the crypt.

They were only a few steps and yet Harndall could not make his weak human legs walk them. He stood there, before her, frail flesh and bones, wrapped in the scratchy robes of his sin. The illness had taken its toll, his body wasted, the skin stretching taught and angular, his eyes sunken and hollow. His hair had fallen out in tangled clumps until Hepsie had finally cut it all off. It seemed fitting somehow, the crying of a young boy taken from his family, the rough hands of the monks as they pulled at his scalp, shearing away great clumps of hair and sin as it piled around his bare feet. Cutting away his youth, snipping until nothing was left but humility and obedience.

But he was still a man, despite the hymn in his ears, the prayer on his lips, and a man could walk across the room on the legs God had given him. He took a deep breath and stumbled to her side.

He looked down at her pale face, lying among the soft folds of her hair. Her hair had not fallen out like his, still pure it splayed out on the pillow like sheets of spun gold. Varda had carefully plaited it, twisting the strands solemnly between her skilful fingers, turning the lolling head to one side as she worked.

It was too much, to look at her lying there, the light of the candle flickering over her face like a funeral pyre.

“Valeriya”, he moaned his mouth open, his breath ragged between his teeth.

She groaned softly, her eyelids flickering only the whites visible and he thought he heard his name sighing softly from her mouth. Then she cried out, her teeth gritting in pain, her head thrashing on the pillow.

He leapt back from the bed in dismay, his hands flying up in defense, protecting his chest, his heart that pounded frantically, then slowly dropping to his sides in defeat.

A great sob welled up inside him, forcing its way out of his throat with a moan of despair. The blame for her illness was his and his alone to bear, Radomir was right when he said it. She had given herself, her life perhaps for his and he was not worthy by any stretch of the meaning. He was as sinful as the people he protected, if not more but who would hear his confession. He was weary and ill and alone and the world was a cold dark place with foul things lurking beyond the candlelight.

He bent his head in shame, shame for who he was, shame that he had never been different, despite his teachings he was just as guilty as the rest. Even more so for they looked to him for guidance, guidance he was not worthy to give.

His exhausted body crumpled at the side of the bed, rejoicing in the pain flaring in his knees hit the bare wooden boards of the floor.

He knelt there, clasping his hands desperately above the bedcover.

“Our father who art in heaven. Forgive us our sins…”, he began to mumble the Lord’s prayer softly to himself.

“Forgive us our sins… forgive us… forgive us our sins… forgive us”.

“Forgive us… oh Lord forgive me! Forgive me for what I have done, for the evil thoughts that have seeded in my heart!”.

“Please forgive me”, he sobbed between gritted teeth, “Don’t take her for what I have done, for the rotten sin that runs through my weak body!”.

“Don’t take her… please don’t take her. She has done no wrong”, he clenched his fists burying his face in the scratchy folds of his robe as he wept, his shoulders shaking with grief, hot tears rolling down his clenching jaw and spattering onto his hands.

“Please don’t take her. I am to blame. I am weak. I am… I am only man. I am only a man”, he sobbed wretchedly into his hands. His hands, the hands that clasped together many hours in prayer, the hands that tended the sick and comforted the weak, the hands that had trembled whenever she came near, the hands that had held hers rubbing her soft fingers between his own.

“I am only a man!”, he cried suddenly more forceful, finding strength in his grief.

“I am only a man Lord, but I am your servant here on Earth as you have chosen for me and I will continue to do your bidding. I offer you my confession here on my knees as a sinner, if you will hear it”, he raised his arms in submission, “I have been tempted by the flesh and my weak, corrupted body almost failed you. You have sent me here to protect these lost people and I have been callous and selfish. No more Lord, I ask for your forgiveness. I offer you myself once more, your humble and obedient servant, penitent on my knees before you”.

He knelt there beside her bed for a long time, until finally Varda came back in and helped him to his feet. He crossed himself, silently blessing her as the blood rushed back into his cramped legs and he walked from the room.

Moraghdu, The Church