A Question of Faith

The five unlit candles sat above the fireplace, their twisted forms and skirts of tallow evidence of many lightings and re-lightings in their time. A polished symbol of Enea hung above them, dangling from a chain that was nailed to the wall. It was a nightly ritual for the Katzmanns. A candle for each member of the family.

With little Klaus balanced on one hip, Alwine carefully lit the candles with a long taper, keeping it out of reach of curious toddler hands. Behind her, Niklas was sat with Victoria and Ägidius on either knee, a worn book held between them. He ran a finger beneath the sentences as each took turns to read out the passages.

“The Di- Divin-eh,” Ägidius stumbled over the words.

“Divine,” Niklas murmured into his son’s ear.

“The Divine Mistress,” Ägidius corrected himself, “Most holly?”

“Holy,” Victoria whispered.

“Most Holy, cast down her light from the… heathens?” When Victoria snorted, Ägidius flushed and frowned at the word. “Hee- Heevans- Heavens? It fell as…” His eyes widened and he looked up with a look of slight anguish.

“Do you know, Victoria?” Niklas asked, tilting the book towards her.

Squinting her eyes, Victoria was silent for a moment. “Rap- Rapture- Rapturous. It fell as rapturous song upon the ears of her believers and a deafening pain upon all evils that dared to stand against her.” She looked up quickly at her father to see the proud smile he was wearing.

With an unintelligible burble from Klaus, Alwine turned to face her family and cleared her throat. All looked up expectantly at her and she took a deep breath. “We,” she said, barely able to contain the smile on her face, “Are going to have to make room on the mantelpiece as we’re going to need one more candle.” There was a pause as everyone processed then Niklas and Victoria gasped as Ägidius groaned.

“I don’t want another brother,” he whined. His father ignored him as he removed his children from his knees so he could cross the room and kiss his wife.

“It could be another sister,” Victoria said and Ägidius groaned even louder.

“No, that’d be even worse!”

But another sister was indeed what was on the way. A candle was added and the nightly ritual continued. Within a few years, it was Klaus and Elsa on their father’s knees learning to read in the exact same way while Victoria and Ägidius sang hymns that hung in the air, mingling with the candle smoke. As Victoria and Ägidius grew older, seeking apprenticeships and work, this was often the only time they saw their family in a day and rarely, if ever, missed it.

Those golden evening, steeped in song and smoke, were engraved into the back of Klaus’ thoughts. No matter how far he went, when he thought of home, he thought of gentle hymns and reading from his father’s lap.

Many, many years later, as he helped rebuild that house, he learned that they never took his candle down. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from crying. It meant so many things, that they still saw him as a member of their family, that they still loved him, that all this time they’d had faith in him.

Faith.

Such a simple word that meant so many things, took so many forms. He’d felt, seen it, tasted it so many times over the years.

It had burned like a fire in his throat when he’d knelt in the school’s chapel and begged her to answer him, to explain. He’d felt so sure, so absolutely that she had the answers he needed. Why had he been given magic if all it could do was hurt? Why had he been given magic only to have it taken away? The fire lessened to a warm persistent glow in his chest as the priest there spoke with him and told him a story about fire.

“It can burn your house down,” the old priest said, “or it can cook your food. The only difference is control. Arcane magic is something that we cannot hope to predict but Enea gave us the tools to control it. She made us hearths and grates, pokers and coals to keep the fire under control, so we may build with it, forge with it, even cook with it.” The priest smiled and Klaus slept through the night on one of the cushioned pews.

It wasn’t the end of his struggle, because of course he struggled, but it was a step. As his magic grew and he revelled in it, thrilled in it, he began to wonder how something so fantastically fascinating could ever be wrong. The thoughts persisted, guilty ones, dark ones, growing and growing till they spilled over from his lips, tasting rotten and fermented.

“You can love a dog, can’t you?” Bianka said nonchalantly. “But you couldn’t love a wolf, it’d kill you.”

Was that it? He’d wondered. Was that the answer? Enea-given control? Did that make loving magic alright? Was it okay to not feel guilty? Was he allowed to stop feeling guilty that he didn’t feel guilty? Feelings were confusing things.

He saw faith in Casper’s eyes in the dim light of a bedroom as he traced fingers over flushed skin and read the scripture carved in gold across Casper’s naked body. Words of warmth and beauty and light that contradicted everything Casper had ever known about the church that had killed his family. Promises of love and safety. They didn’t know if the new found faith that Casper felt was in Enea or in Klaus. Perhaps it was both. But Casper started to sit in on Bianka and Klaus’ evening prayers and that fire seemed to grow. It was in everything Casper did, in his magic, in his words, in his kisses. A passion that hadn’t been there when they’d first met in that cold and lonely wagon surrounded by knights so long ago.

Faith burned in Bianka even more surely than it did in Casper. Of course it did, her magic was fire and power incarnate. It danced for her and wove itself around her. She never for one second feared it, of course she didn’t. Enea had granted Bianka absolute control over her magic so she would never have to fear it ever again.

She told Klaus, one dreary autumn afternoon as they leafed through tome upon tome of arcane theory, how they had found her magic in the first place. She’d turned herself in. A terrified girl of twelve who’d all but thrown herself to the priest of her tiny village because her house was burning. Her mother had died that morning and as little Bianka had screamed in her grief, fire followed. It was a huge and gargantuan thing that threatened to swallow her and everything she loved, it blazed wildly, spreading with her fear, her grief, her pain till it was all she could see, till there was nothing else to see. Klaus had hugged her tight and she’d laughed through her tears. She asked if he knew fire and he said he didn’t. At the time he hadn’t known it was a lie.

With the fire blazing in his two dearest friends how could he see it in himself? It was only once his own powers were revealed and he was carted off to the capital for private study that it began to fill his veins. A fire, a desperation to slip between the bars of his gilded cage and fly. It was a second beating heart that thrived within him, its rhythm a wish, a promise, a prayer.

In his secret, private moments he’d prayed to Enea. He’d be forever grateful for her gifts but couldn’t she see? This suffocating confinement, it was killing him. Everyday things grew harder and harder. Hope, happiness, even faith. As the days stretched out, each promising another day within those stone walls, his questions for his faith changed. What was the point? Why had he survived his sanctioning to rot away in here? Why was he alive?

Perhaps Enea heard him, perhaps she didn’t. Either way, Inquisitor Johanna Loche answered his prayers.

Loche brought with her a new torch of faith, reigniting the dying embers within Klaus and showing him something new. What burned in Loche was more than faith, it was utter and absolute devotion. It spilled out from her infecting all around her. Every one of her acolytes was completely devoted to her and, through her, Enea.

It was there in Klemens, the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he glowed with pride when Loche commended him. A fire of faith so bright and so utterly enthralling that Klaus found himself believing even more in their Most Divine Lady. It was easy to believe, to keep your faith and your devotion pure when you were surrounded by it.

Less so in the dark, surrounded by enemies. Now faith was a fire burning inside him that he had to keep lit all on his own. He’d never done well on his own but this was something altogether worse.

It was knives first, before they knew, before they realised. Pain that cut deep to his bones with a gag so tight he could taste his own screams as blood on his tongue.

After was worse, as he hung upside down, numbly watching the blood run down his arms over his still bound hands into the basin below all way a hideous, deadening cold stole its way across his body.

After was worse as the taste of a healing potion was torn from his mouth to the sound of angry shouting. (You idiots! You didn’t check if they were sanctioned?!)

After was worse as some unnamed, hulking figure slammed him into the wall by the throat, fingers crushing, squeezing, the life out of him. Lights spun and swam in the darkness before his eyes.

Enea, please, don’t let me die. Don’t let me die here. I can’t die here.

He’d never wanted to live so much in his entire life. Hot tears splashed across his cheeks as he weakly fought against the tight, choking fingers. His legs kicked out once. Twice. Darkness closed in.

I don’t want to die.

Then, suddenly, he could breath and the herbal taste of a healing potion was on his tongue once more before the gag was replaced. Their greed had saved him, just. They’d never had a sanctioned mage before, they didn’t know how to make money off him yet but they were sure there was something. Still, they weren’t going to waste too many resources keeping him healthy so as they dragged him back to the other captives, his mind wove in and out of consciousness.

He was alive. He was still alive. He tried to laugh but the raspy, stutter was swallowed by the gag and his chest just rattled. He was alive and he could see lights streaming down from the ceiling and into his chest. It wasn’t the only hallucination his poor blood-deprived brain was conjuring but it was certainly the nicest.

He was going to survive this. He was going to go home. Silently, he swore to it to Enea, to himself. This strength, this fire inside, this will to live, some part of him became convinced it was a gift from Enea, not directly, not just for him. He was convinced that when she freed the slaves from the elves, all those centuries before, she had left a small part of herself inside them, this fire, this passion. A will to live, to love, to revere. What else could it be but a gift from a god? It’s what gave them the will to fight and fight and fight against the encroaching darkness both within and without. She permitted them to draw strength from her, from her might, perhaps rather like a giant may allow an ant to use it as shade from the sun. Power radiated off her and all who needed it, desperately needed it, could feel it within if they just had enough faith.

As imaginary things began crawling in the dark around him, he closed his eyes and prayed.