A House Filled With Night
Wherever the Soul May Lie

“My, what handsome pair of dark-haired devils we make!”

“I think I like it, actually.”

“It suits us, doesn’t it?”

The whole ride to the city, none of Casimir’s growling or Sylvain’s pleading could make Fiske and Niko to shut up about their freshly dyed hair.

“Runa, we’ll have to do this again, just for fun,” said Fiske

“If it makes you happy.”

“Let’s not do this again,” Torin suggested hastily.

Fiske scoffed. “What’s wrong with you? You look amazing in black, and you know it! Not to mention, you got Runa all to yourself while—”

“Shut up, you little imp.”

“You know, you’re not that much older than me. I think we should discuss the way you treat me, Torin.”

“Once we arrive,” Sylvain interjected, “We must be completely focused. No playing this time, and I mean that in the most serious of terms.”

Casimir coughed, said something that sounded like “Fiske,” and coughed again.

“Our goal is to replace out what we can about Celemine at the cathedral and get out of the city immediately after that. We will avoid Cargan’s soldiers at all costs. Travelling in a large group may draw attention, so we’ll enter in groups of threes. Runa can guide one group, and I’ll take another using our map.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been there,” Runa admitted. “But I should be able to replace it.”

“I can go with Runa,” Casimir offered. “I think I know the cathedral she’s talking about.”

“Good. Niko, you come with me. Torin—”

“I’ll go with Runa as well,” Torin said.

Casimir chuckled. “This kid…” he muttered.

“Fine. That leaves Fiske. You can come with us.”

Once they reached the outskirts of the city, Casimir, Torin, and Runa went ahead first. Runa couldn’t remember a day in the past when she had felt so nervous just walking through the streets of Eidar. She was constantly on the lookout for any small flash of blue from a soldier’s coat, any shifting eyes turning their way, any clank of metal that might be a weapon. Casimir and Torin were practically glued to her sides. They did their best to move quickly, but it was a difficult task in the busy morning streets.

“It’s too crowded today,” muttered Casimir.

“Agreed,” Torin frowned.

They hit a wave of people and had to swim against it. Torin grabbed Runa’s right arm and Casimir grabbed her left. They moved through the crowd together, sometimes only holding on by fingers. People pushed against them from all sides. The chatter of the city swelled around them.

Suddenly, a particularly large man shoved a little too hard against Casimir, and the link between the trio broke. That separation sent Runa into a panic; she spun around in circles, turning this way and that, reaching out for her lost companions. But the crowd hadn’t stopped for her. People were still pushing to get past her. In the chaos, she ended up stumbling onto the ground.

In that moment, she was back in a time long ago, when she was all alone and very, very small. People passed by now, just as they did then, heedless of her, indifferent to her pain. She felt foolish and helpless.

“Runa!”

There it was. The warmth flooded back; her eyes cleared. She looked up and found the eyes of Torin and Casimir. They were holding out their hands to her. She took hold of them and stood, feeling the stinging in her knees and palms fade away.

“Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let go.”

“We should’ve held on tighter,” replied Torin.

“Are you okay?” asked Casimir.

“I am now. Let’s go.”

—

As they neared the cathedral, the crowds seemed to thin, then disappear altogether. The streets were narrower, dirtier, and above all, older. At the courtyard, it approached near silence—no bird’s song, no cat’s meow, no cricket’s chirp. Not a soul seemed to breathe in the presence of the ancient building looming before them. Its tall stone spires had long since turned murky brown; its stained-glass windows looked almost black in the gray daylight. It had the look of a lost ruin, somehow hidden within the twisting streets of Eidar.

Sylvain, Niko, and Fiske stood waiting before the steps of the main entrance, their backs to the others. They, too, seemed captivated by the eerie silence which engulfed that place.

“You’ve made it,” Sylvain said as Runa, Casimir, and Torin approached.

“Barely,” Casimir retorted.

Sylvain led the way up the stairs, taking hold of the large main doors and slowly hauling them open. They went in together, footsteps quiet and uncertain.

Runa heard one of the brothers gasp quietly. She turned to see which one, but found all of them equally entranced—heads bent back, eyes roaming everywhere. She would have assumed nothing seemed impressive after growing up in the House. But there was something about the high vaulted ceilings, the intricate stonework, the shadow and the light, and the air of reverence that took all breath away.

The sanctuary was almost dark, save for the deep colors streaming through the stained-glass: deep purple, forest green, ocean blue, blood red. It was equally quiet inside, so that Runa almost thought it was empty at first—but a rustle of cloth and a flicker of fire finally made her notice the small, old priest lighting candles before the altar.

Sylvain leaned in. “Let’s not overwhelm him. I’ll go and speak to him alone. Everyone else stay behind.”

He approached the priest, bowing his head and introducing himself with a smile and a fake name.

“How may I be of service to you?” asked the priest in a feeble, dusty voice.

“I’m looking for someone. Do you know of a woman named Celemine?”

The priest paused. “That name…it sounds familiar. I’m not sure…”

“She might visit the church frequently. She looks—well, she has green eyes, and a gold ring with a large yellow stone on her finger.”

The priest nodded. “Ah, yes. You mean the old widow.”

She looked around at the faces of the other brothers. Maybe it was only her who felt shocked and confused at this description of the seductive monster she had seen.

“I have seen this woman,” the priest was saying. “She visits often, as you said, and has been doing so for many years. In fact, I…I’m not sure if I can remember a time when she did not come visit these sacred grounds, so faithfully, every month, every new moon…”

He trailed off, a foggy look in his eye and a crease in his brow, as if his mind had floated elsewhere.

“She attends services?” Sylvain asked, and the priest’s old eyes wandered back to his guest.

“No, I’m afraid not. She comes in the evening, prays, and goes out to the old graveyard.”

“The graveyard?”

“Yes, I believe I saw her one time…she…pays her respects at a particular grave. Then she leaves.”

“Do you know which one?”

He paused before answering this time. “May I ask why you take an interest in this woman?”

“I, well, we—my family and I—” he motioned to the others waiting anxiously in the back, “We’re searching for our father. He disappeared many years ago. She was a friend of his, you see. We thought, perhaps, she might be able to give us a clue. We hoped to run into her here. Our father once told us they…used to pray together. At this church.”

The priest paused, considering this explanation. He glanced at the other brothers, his old, glassy eyes roving from one face to the next. He looked back at Sylvain.

“I will show you the grave. Perhaps, you may meet her there if you return.”

The priest motioned for them to follow.

Their guide led the way through dark corridors of the cathedral’s interior, each as empty and silent as the one before it. As they stepped out into the cemetery, at first, it almost seemed bright compared to the interior of the cathedral. But their eyes adjusted quickly, and they found themselves beneath a thick canopy of ancient oaks. A large iron gate enclosed the cemetery, but they could just see the looming forms of tombstones beyond.

The iron gate squealed open. The priest was showing them in. In the dim light streaming through the oaks, many of the stone-engraved names faded into shadow. Still, Runa’s eyes were drawn to them, her stomach a tight not knot, waiting for some horrible revelation to seize her any moment. Tombstone after tombstone, they passed them all, some of which looked older than the city itself.

“She comes so routinely,” the priest was saying. “I always wondered why. It’s not a man’s name, so it cannot be a husband. Perhaps a mother, or a child.”

“Well—perhaps,” Sylvain managed. He glanced back at the others. Runa saw that even he could feel the disquieting chill in the air.

“She kneels in prayer. She always brings flowers. Then she pours a flask of water above the grave, and leaves.”

“What, water? Why?”

The priest shook his head. “Everything she does is a mystery to me. A mystery to me, and it seems, to you as well. Never mind. Here we are.”

He motioned at the grave before them. They had walked all the way to the very end of the cemetery, to the farthest, darkest corner.

“I hope this may be of some help in your search. I’ll take my leave, then.” He bowed his head and left.

All the Sons of Midnight had fallen silent, their eyes trained on the name engraved upon the tombstone. Runa’s eyes followed theirs. It was ancient, so worn and overrun with moss that it was almost impossible to read. It might have been the oldest grave there. She stepped closer, straining to read its words. Something stirred uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. The name engraved on the stone read: Celemine Itana.

Runa’s head snapped back to the brother, desperate for an answer.

“What—what does it mean?” she asked. “What on earth can it mean?”

“Why does it have that name?” demanded Niko.

“Is it fake?”

“Is she dead?”

Sylvain swallowed. “I…I think…I think she’s been dead this whole time.”

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~ A/N ~

Guys. I am 1000000% tired. Writing is such a nice break!!!

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