"PRAISE BE TO THE SUNBRINGER!" they shouted as one. And Yeimen was proud of that devotion. He was proud of his hand in its creation. The unity, the oneness, the love between them. He could almost taste it. And here, together present in one of the cave rooms of the mines—dark walls of crude stone, light spilling out from lamps embedded just at the base of the walls. All that and the rare froststones scattered about, an air of reverence existed.
The witnesses, too, remained kneeling, all shrouded in hooded robes. Nothing fancy, of course—mostly made up of patched clothes, all random and odd.
Yet right now, all of them pressed within this tight room, they seemed a singular collective. There were so many now. Hundreds upon hundreds, and even now, there existed a few such gatherings within the mines. They were growing; they had grown. God would be proud.
If he were to appear before us, that is. Yeimen closed the open book, watching the kneeling company, his eyes finally drawing toward the ones closest to him. A difference existing in their wear.
Unlike the others adorned in black patchy hoods, these ones wore cleaner ones. Slick, black, purchased using the combined money gotten from countless hours within the pits.
These cleaner hoods were awarded to those who saw the miracle of God or were closest to him during his works. They even had saints now; one such being the lady who shielded the blood of God from pouring during the undermines.
What moments those were. He did not witness them directly, of course, but the stories… By the Sunbringer, the stories were spectacular.
He breathed with a smile. Today, he had offered them a story of the Sunbringer; he had told them of the paradise in their dreams. A true miracle, he knew that. After all, DarkCrowns could never dream. Only the bright ones, the BrightCrowns, could see a reality in their sleep… But now, they too could.
Although it was not a thing common among them—rare in the sense that only one or two per day would be granted that gift.
Why was that? Yeimen would ask himself. Why was God doing this? Was it some test, some marking? Regardless, those who dreamt were awarded a cleaner hood.
What if we all dreamt? He closed his eyes. Would we buy every hood in Nightfell then?
Who knew? In any case, he was sure of the excellence of God. Whatever the reason for this was, or his absence since the death of the twenty-one, there must be a reason.
The crowd reared their heads, a warm smile ever present in their features, waiting for an extra moment.
And then they were off, each walking out of the cave in a measured hurriedness. As was expected. Time was of the essence; they were to mine, to provide for the rest—each serving a purpose in the scheme of things. They were not to be the stagnant force, but the motile one. This too was taught by God.
And it had brought a path to these once desolate mines. Not all, however, had accepted the grace and light of God. There were the enemies, the few leaders here and there with their attempts at retaliation. It once worked.
Perhaps, at the beginning, they had the means and power to cause harm to the witnesses. But no more did that hold. They were many now. Hundreds upon hundreds—at least more than half of the mines had joined God, and this was an undeniable fact. One he had helped build.
Praise be to God.
He watched now as the final witness walked out from the cave, settling the space in a nearly dim silence. Which was good in its own right. It allowed for thought. His own ponderings. That and the many urgent questions.
"The visions haven't stopped." He opened the book, reading a line in a somber tone. "And he shall save and be stoned…"
What in the mist did that even mean? He had little idea… neither of this nor the many more that plagued his sleep. Every night—most nights at least, he saw a bizarreness.
Strange shapes, things, and people. He saw a large beast with burning red eyes, of a tall man with hair of glowing whiteness. Countless oddities that admitted themselves into his mind.
What were they?
How often did he ask those questions? How often he sat, knelt, and prayed to God for some revelation. But there was none. But regardless, he chose to see this as some blessing or test from God, like how the stone-handed Davos was tested.
He, too, would not waver in this.
He stared down at the scribbled lines across the pages; black sludge dried across its face. Symbols that he barely recognized as any language. An oddity in all fullness, given that not once had he learned to write. None had. Only the Aspirants could, and yet here he was, with every dream his mind filled up with varying knowledge.
He sighed. "What does this all mean?"
Sudden…
A shadow stretched into the room. Yeimen surged, closing and pushing the book behind his form.
None outside the Witnesses was allowed to see it. After all, regardless of the means they used to survive here, reading and writing would undoubtedly bring upon the eyes of Sisters… or even worse, that Morgan woman.
The stranger walked into the cave. Tall, dark-haired, with a pale, slightly cold-gazed face. Yeimen knew this one—not by name, of course, but the fellow was one of the newly recruited Witnesses. He had once worked in the tavern, that one, but now he served as the Witnesses' errand boy.
"Yes?" Yeimen offered that pious smile. It was expected of him. Without Ron, or even the hated Catelyn, such expressiveness was alone his to bear… which, of course, was okay. All this he did for God.
The boy bowed slightly. "The deceiver has come."
Yeimen frowned. "Moeash?"
"BAH!" The boy spat. "Not his name."
Yeimen nodded. "Is he outside?"
"Davos has kept him." The boy said, still fuming.
"Ah." A tremble went through his body. "Is he still alive?"
The boy smiled. "Sir Davos is not with his sword."
"Good…" Yiemn heaved a breath. "Call them both."
The words echoed out, the boy bowing before hurriedly dashing into the long stone corridor, his shadow flashing out of the cave room. Then there was silence. A much-needed silence.
What is he doing here? Yeimen flared within.
He knew of the evil that Moeash had done. Of the crime and death his actions had caused. From the betrayal of God—stabbing and tossing him into the depths of the mines below, to the death. The end of the twenty-one.
What a horrible day that was. Yeimen was not present for it, and yet that moment resounded within his mind. He could still remember it—the weeping of mothers for their sons, brothers, sisters, friends. So much death, and worse, it was at the hands of one such as him.
Even now, the reason still eluded his mind. Why do that? Moeash was one of the first, besides Ron, to lay hands on God. He had wiped him with cloth. He had seen the miracles, the light, the works. And yet, it was by his hands.
"Done by a kiss," he muttered. "Who could have known?"
"I could have." A new voice. A figure leaning on the side of the door to the room, that often small door of the Noctis Clan.
The man, however, was donned in a simple white shirt and black trousers… His arm, a marvel of a thing: Black with patches of brown and red, every part of it streaked with some fissured line—the markings of Earth.
Davos!
"You came?"
The blademaster offered a simple smile. "Jeseries finally allowed for it."
"Hmm." Yeimen leaned forward, his back hurting from the wall's heat. "And did he come with you?"
"I doubt your errand boy would report the still-breathing state of the deceiver."
Yeimen returned a smile. "Praise to the Sunbrin—"
"I'm here, you know." Yet another presence in the room. Except he knew this one—remembered him for who he was.
Moeash!
"You actually dared come into the mines?"
The imp sighed. Dark-haired with a slightly gray eye that darkened in the dim lights of the mines. Once, that boy was as ragged as they were. Cloth, nothing but sewn patches. Not now. No more. Now, he was dressed in a side-buttoned coat, square dark blue markings stretching across the shoulders and down the arm of the suit. His trousers, too—those were of a sleek quality.
Heat-pressed, if he were to guess.
Moeash maintained a moment's silence. "You wouldn't attack me," he said, his fingers stroking that sheathed knife of his. That same knife he had used in severing Davos's arm.
"You place faith in that woman?" Yeimen sighed. "A member of the VileStorm clan that now aligns herself with the Night."
"Ah." Davos chuckled. "They are of the same breed, you see." Crossing his arms. "Both are deserters of their people. Betrayers of what had stood with them."
"What point is there in standing with lies?" Moeash countered.
Yeimen frowned. This boy wants to die.