And so, the end of winter came...
Streaks of sunlight filter through the roof of the church, dappling the floor in patches of light and shadow. There is no organ, no music at all but the faint echo of the birds outside, greeting the abrupt return of summer.
In the front of the church kneels a fair knight in rose and blue, his sword before him, his golden head bowed beneath his burdens and the eyes of the Saviour. There are tearstreaks on his face, and his eyes are red, but there is no shame, this time, in crying.
"Mea culpa," he whispers, and his voice is hoarse and broken. "I am so sorry." It is his doing, all this pain, and he will own it, confess it, bear it as best he can. "I have made sinners of both of us, and I am sorry. But please, my lady, intercede for her, for thou wert a mother thyself. Whatever sins, whatever pain I have brought about, let it be on my head, and not theirs." There is pain, but emptiness too, a great swallowing hollowness that encompasses everything. His lady, his child, both gone, one before it had a chance to ever breathe the air. Unborn, it had never been baptised--his Edward, his Eufemie, whichever it was to have been. His Marian, his lady wife. He cannot bear to think it.
"Please," he whispers again, for he knows not what else to say, what else to do but beg. "I will repent it all, will give up this dream and swear myself again to thy service. Make of me what thou wilt, and I will follow. But please...please ease but some small part of this sorrow."
His forehead pressed against the pommel of his sword, the knight called Silence weeps.
In the front of the church kneels a fair knight in rose and blue, his sword before him, his golden head bowed beneath his burdens and the eyes of the Saviour. There are tearstreaks on his face, and his eyes are red, but there is no shame, this time, in crying.
"Mea culpa," he whispers, and his voice is hoarse and broken. "I am so sorry." It is his doing, all this pain, and he will own it, confess it, bear it as best he can. "I have made sinners of both of us, and I am sorry. But please, my lady, intercede for her, for thou wert a mother thyself. Whatever sins, whatever pain I have brought about, let it be on my head, and not theirs." There is pain, but emptiness too, a great swallowing hollowness that encompasses everything. His lady, his child, both gone, one before it had a chance to ever breathe the air. Unborn, it had never been baptised--his Edward, his Eufemie, whichever it was to have been. His Marian, his lady wife. He cannot bear to think it.
"Please," he whispers again, for he knows not what else to say, what else to do but beg. "I will repent it all, will give up this dream and swear myself again to thy service. Make of me what thou wilt, and I will follow. But please...please ease but some small part of this sorrow."
His forehead pressed against the pommel of his sword, the knight called Silence weeps.