Act IV: Under the Mask (Part 8)
eight
“We should get out of here.” Yakov returned to the room, the cramped air almost suffocating him. He took off his helmet and gasped for breath. He picked things up from the straw-covered floor. Combs, mirrors, bedding, books—in just a few days, the three of them had left so many traces here. He haphazardly stuffed everything into his leather knapsack.
"The Tatars are gone!" Schumer exclaimed in alarm, blocking the doorway. "They spared the monastery. Why didn't you wait until after Christmas, when they had finished fighting the Saxons, and then leave at a peaceful time?"
“We promised Mother Gianda that we would save it for Christmas!” Yubi glared at him resentfully.
“I never agreed to those things.” Yakov tightened his pockets. “Is it because you’ve been hanging out with these Christians for too long that you’ve lost sight of your own identity and forgotten your purpose?”
"How can I not tell the difference, not remember?" Yubi shouted angrily, looking like a roaring little lion. "It's clearly you who can't tell that you're a person, and can't remember that you made friends here!"
“And you are a vampire.” Yakov’s words were laced with cold rationality. “You have to wear the ring to go out when the sun comes out, and you faint from hunger every night if you don’t drink my blood.” He pointed to the package in the corner. “The day you grow wings, you will become a madman, a monster, like your mother, and rush into the church to kill everyone. How much time is left until that day?”
"I will never be like my mother!" Her red eyes widened in fury. "I am not that willful, irresponsible, or capricious!"
"So you resent Camilla this much?" Yakov smirked, pressing his hand painfully to his chest. "You were born of her, raised by her, and spent eighteen years by her side. You look exactly like her now."
Schumeer, standing nearby, hunched over and covered his ears. He wanted to escape, squeezed to the doorway, then hesitated before returning to the wall. "Let's not talk about this, okay? This isn't the time for this." He smiled ingratiatingly, wiping the sweat from his brow. "If we leave here, where will we go? To the south, the Tatar cavalry are all surrounded at the mountain pass; to the north, back to Brasov, the three of us will be thrown into prison by von Brunel. Even if we hide in the forest, in the dead of winter, the horse feed won't last more than a few days. If you ask me, it's better to stay here. At least Granny Gianda and Pascal are good people; we won't be all alone, right?"
Before he could finish speaking, Pascal entered through the gate. Yakov, not having time to put his helmet back on, could only suppress his anger and hide in the corner, turning his back. "...Looks like I've come at an inopportune time. No offense intended." Pascal, seeing the burly figure with pale blond hair in the dimly lit room, immediately and politely turned his gaze away.
“I think you should go to the church and see him,” the knight said, his head bowed and his voice choked with emotion. “Henry… I mean the knight of the delance family. He’s not doing well.”
They hurried once more to the familiar little chapel. As the sky darkened, the snow fell heavier and heavier, dark clouds shrouding the valley in darkness, making it almost nighttime outside. Inside the prayer hall, candles flickered like guiding lights for souls. Everyone remained silent, except for the nuns who busied themselves, dipping bandages in water, the sound as clear and melodious as silver bells.
“I can’t see anything, as if I’m all alone in the darkness,” Henry murmured. “But when I hear the spring water flowing on the holy mountain, I know that angels are still around me.”
It was clear at a glance that he was on his deathbed. Everyone stood there, watching as the bandages were peeled away layer by layer from his festering face, only to be covered again with fresh, clean strips of cloth. Glimpses of pinkish-red ulcers and granulation tissue peeked through the gaps, revealing a face that could no longer be called human; it resembled a corpse that had rotted for days. But Yakov and Yubi refused to turn back. They met the gaze of those clouded, blind eyes, devoid of eyelashes. Pascal went to his side, grasped his numb, festering hand, and prayed for his fellow countryman. Time flowed silently, the snow outside the window falling seemingly endlessly. Darkness grew, and night was approaching.
“I have no land, no property, no children… I have given everything to the Lord. Though I am insignificant, I have done my best…” Henry said. His voice was weak, but his words were clearer than usual. “Though I have not been able to fulfill every wish, I do not regret coming into this world. Now, I have no attachments and no desires.”
As he spoke, he suddenly switched to French, a language Yakov couldn't understand. Those gentle sounds came from the distant West, Yakov thought, and yet he was to die in this nameless little monastery, his bones never to return home. Fortunately, he had someone beside him who understood his native tongue—Pascal, listening to Henry speak and occasionally replying. The two of them began to sing softly in that foreign language, soon bursting into tears, sobbing uncontrollably, then laughing through their tears.
Yakov noticed that Yubi beside him also had reddened eyes, but he was solemnly pouting, refusing to shed a single tear. Yakov thought with a sense of loss and indifference that he no longer had the right to be sad or shed tears. Meanwhile, the vampire beside him, experiencing this bitterness, felt a heavy, throbbing pain in his mark, as if awakening many numb senses.
“The Knight of the Zashchtnikov family,” Henry suddenly called out, “call him here; he is the last friend of my life.”
Pascal stood up, released his hand, and offered his seat to Yakov. Yakov recognized it as the wooden bench he had dragged there a few days earlier. He hesitated, then sat down in the familiar spot.
“My brother, take off your gloves and hold my hand,” Henry said calmly. “Never refuse the request of a dying man.”
Yakov frowned under his helmet. But he still took off his gloves and let his hand grasp the deformed fingers.
“I…I think that I should do as many good deeds as I can in this world.” The leper’s fingers were swollen, making Yakov hesitant to clench them. “I have something to say to you. Don’t take it as a condescending admonition or sympathy, and don’t assume that I’m standing aside and making sarcastic remarks.”
“Go ahead,” Yakov replied in a low voice, “I’ll hear you.”
“We have no deep connection, and I don’t want to burden you any further…” Henry grabbed his hand and pulled him closer to his helmet. “You’re willing to take care of a worthless, insignificant person, but you won’t accept gratitude or affection… Don’t argue, my friend. I can’t see, yet I see clearly.”
"Unload that heavy burden from your shoulders; what's past is past..."
Yakov remained silent. He lowered his head and then raised it again, trying to appear restrained and calm. "I heard you," he whispered. "Someday."
The frail leper shook off his hand, turned his head away, and no longer had the strength to speak to him. "There is no priest here, my poor child." Sister Gianda, who was standing by, held a Bible and an incense burner and gestured for Yakov to leave his seat. "Tell me your confession, and the Virgin Mary will forgive all your sins."
Everyone consciously left the bedside, reserving their final moments for the divine. They drew a curtain around themselves, letting candles burn inside, casting hazy, crooked shadows that appeared as holy as the portraits before them. They stood there, waiting silently. After a while, the shadow of Mother Gianda raised the candle tray and blew out the light. The entire prayer hall immediately fell silent, the wisp of smoke disappearing into the shadows, vanishing completely.
That night, Yakov, along with the Knights Hospitaller, buried Henri de France in the courtyard. Braving the snowstorm, they covered the deceased with mounds of earth, and the nuns sang dirges at the grave. Finally, Ubi placed his hand-woven pine branch bouquet before the crooked cross-shaped tombstone. The bouquets were made for Christmas, one for each person. The one belonging to the Knight of the Stranger was left unhanded to him, remaining only in the earth.
"May he go to heaven," Mother Gianda murmured. "May his soul go to a place where there is no more suffering."
Yubi retreated to Yakov's side. He looked up at the closed cross helmet. His blood slave remained silent, like a stone statue. They returned to their guest room with Schumer, lit a fire to warm themselves, and neither of them mentioned leaving again. After a while, Pascal came to knock on their door.
"Where's the wine Granny Gianda gave you?" The usually reserved and noble hospital knight pounded on the wooden door. "You didn't just use it all up yourself, did you?"
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