“Leon… are you still…”
“I’m here, Veronica. I’m not going anywhere.”
✦ ✦ ✦
“Leon.”
“Yes?”
The intervals between her calls grew longer. During these precious moments, Leon prayed only for her peace—that her suffering might ease, that fear would release its grip on her heart, that she might find serenity even if he had to bear all the pain alone for eternity.
As twilight descended, shadows stretched across the cave floor. The sacred place where God’s power had manifested now lay silent and still. Veronica no longer called Leon’s name. Her labored breathing had ceased, leaving only profound silence.
For the first time since she had awakened, Leon spoke first, his voice breaking the sacred stillness. “Veronica.”
No answer came from her still form.
“Veronica,” he called again.
When no response came, he buried his face against her neck, his shoulders beginning to shake. Hot tears flowed down her collarbone like blood.
Even as dawn broke, the entangled silhouettes remained unchanged. The dying knight kept his vigil, Apocalypse positioned before them like a sentinel. The scene resembled either an oath of loyalty transcending death or a cross over a silent grave.
The woman was dead, her face peaceful in eternal slumber, as if she had merely fallen asleep in the arms of her beloved.
✦ ✦ ✦
“What are you doing here, boy?”
The thunderous rebuke sent books tumbling to the floor. Fourteen-year-old Leon froze, his spine stiffening as he glanced at the monk’s stern face before shifting his gaze to the scattered tomes below. His expression betrayed an inner conflict about what deserved his immediate attention. When the monk ambled into the library with deliberate steps, Leon bent down and began gathering volumes titles such as: Resurrection of the Dead, Miracles, and Pope Ilias the 202nd.
Ilias was infamous among the former pontiffs for performing the forbidden miracle of raising the dead. Noting the boy’s obvious interest in such heretical subjects, the monk’s weathered face creased with disapproval.
“Miracles come to those who pray, not those who bury their noses in forbidden texts. These hardly warrant missing your devotions.”
“Forgive me, Father,” Leon murmured. He began returning the books to their shelves, offering no justification for his transgression.
The monk arched a bushy eyebrow and scrutinized the lanky youth once more. The boy had flaming red hair and that distinctive scar slashing across one eye—unmistakably the knight commander’s son.
“Is this connected to your unauthorized absence from the monastery a little while ago?”
The monk’s voice cut like a consecrated blade. Leon, who had been pushing the spine of Miracles back onto the shelf, froze mid-motion. The truth—that it concerned his birth mother’s suicide that very day—rose like bile in his throat. But he knew such an admission would do far more than merely shock an elderly holy man.
“Death is divine providence, boy. If one absolute truth exists in this mortal realm, it’s that mere humans cannot command the forces of life and death.”
“But the former Pope—”
“Pope Ilias,” the monk cut through Leon’s protest firmly, “desecrated dozens of holy relics to harness the divine power sealed within them. Such sacrilege can hardly be called miraculous. This isn’t the time to debate the morality of it, but purge such dangerous thoughts from your mind. If your heart harbors sin, better to tear out your heart than let it corrupt your soul.”