Act One: The Shadow of the Gods (Part Six)
six
Yakov turned his head to look in horror.
At the junction of the stairs, where it had previously been pitch black, stood an island table adorned with several ornate candlesticks. The candlelight enveloped a magnificent, old chair, which appeared to be an expensive, imposing throne belonging to a legitimate lord, a symbol of status and power. On its soft, cold cushion sat Father Ferenc, frostbitten. He continued to weep, hunched over like an infant, curled up there, the authority of an old man gone. The two gold-threaded sashes of his cloak hung limply from the armrests of the chair. And behind the chair were four enormous, exquisite stained-glass windows, stained with blood.
Standing before the old man was Camilla, naked and emaciated. Her abdomen and chest were riddled with sharp weapons of all sizes—spears, longswords, scimitars, and crossbow bolts. Dark red blood flowed down her body's curves, gushing from the wounds to her thighs, ankles, and the ground, making her look like a madwoman on her period, or a mother who had died in childbirth. Yet she showed no pain; only the several iron weapons piercing her torso made it difficult for her to maintain her balance, causing her to stand there precariously. Her disheveled long hair was soaked with blood, sticking stickily to her body.
Yakov didn't dare move a finger. It seemed no one had noticed him. He held his breath, afraid that his white, frosty breath would escape from his helmet and drift into the light.
“But I forgive you, Father Ferenc.” Mrs. Camilla’s voice was still sweet and charming. She spoke Latin with a unique, elegant, classical quality. “How long have we known each other? Sixty years?”
Father Ferenc across from him dared not utter a sound, like a child being scolded by his mother.
“I envy you who are alive, those who face death. When death becomes a means to symbolize life, it actually proves that those who cannot die are not truly living,” Camilla murmured, as if talking to herself. “What can I feel? Endless emptiness, pain. But emptiness and pain are proof that I am alive, aren’t they? They constantly remind me that I exist and have meaning. Or rather, they give meaning to my existence. You know what I’m saying, Father. There must be others who have confessed to you like I have, right? You must be tired of hearing it.”
Father Ferenc pursed his withered lips as if to say something, but no sound came out.
“You are happy without realizing it. Just like my beloved children, each of them is happy without realizing it.” Camilla laughed heartily, her dimples returning. “You know, I don’t want any of them to suffer like I have. But without suffering, it’s not living, it’s impossible to live. Each of them seems to have a more real sense of being alive than I do. I’m also confused, what does it mean to be alive, what does it mean to die? Must one suffer to be alive? But that seems to be the truth, and even I cannot defy it. Or rather, by a certain definition, everything in this world is a kind of suffering.”
Hidden in the shadows, Yakov was inching closer to the doorway. The slightest misstep would cause his metallic frame to clang loudly. His heart pounded with tension, the sound of his veins deafening in his ears, making it impossible for him to hear anything else.
“What do you think can transcend life, Father? There are many things that can transcend life. It’s just that we always try to give death a specific meaning.” Camilla’s body swayed dangerously, but she managed to regain her balance. “What do you think could be a meaning for me?”
“My master, my god…” Father Ferenc responded to her in a very low voice, “I am not as noble as you…”
Yakov noticed Camilla's bloodshot eyes darken slightly. She sighed softly, as if in disappointment, but no white mist escaped her lips. Yakov thought regretfully, "I should have noticed this sooner. She's not human, at least not a living one." A bone-chilling cold seeped into Yakov's body, freezing his legs and immobilizing him. He cursed himself. Move! You'll be able to escape soon!
“I will give you one last order,” Camilla said calmly.
The bitter cold quickly turned into excruciating pain. Yakov's eyes widened. He suddenly felt breathless, his already rapid heartbeat turning into a thunderous thud. Deep in his left chest—his heart—it felt as if bound by fine threads, captured by an intricate net, tightly bound. The pain felt like it was tearing his heart apart with countless threads—Yakov gritted his teeth, trying to move, but ultimately failed. He tried to clutch his chest, but collapsed onto the blood-soaked stone floor, no longer caring about silencing the noise. The exquisite longsword fell from his iron gauntlet, clattering to the ground with a clear, far-reaching sound. Am I going to die? Yakov thought desperately in his pain, am I destined to be drained of my blood, flung onto that stained-glass window, and become a lowly dish on a silver platter?
"You must be loyal to my child, cherish his spirit, and protect his mind." Camilla recited with a sigh of relief, as if she had made a momentous and irreversible decision. She resolutely opened and closed her lips, letting the long, winding sound emerge from her throat, echoing clearly in the hall.
“You must not let him be sad and lonely, nor let him be arrogant and ignorant. You will be his hands, feet, ears, and eyes, and you will protect him until the very last moment.”
What was she saying? Yakov could understand the words and phrases she spoke, but not the whole meaning. Yet, somehow, he knew he would never forget those words. His teeth clenched so tightly he suppressed the cry of pain that was about to escape his lips. He turned his head to look at the island platform filled with candlelight, his vision blurred, and he struggled to focus his gaze.
On the island platform, Camilla turned her head to face him, revealing a strange expression that was both crying and laughing. Tears, like blood, streamed down her curved eyes, as if her crimson irises had melted onto her face.
"I'm so tired. I want to rest," she said softly.
The sound of shattering glass came from above the platform. Yakov looked up in astonishment. Huge, terrifying cracks had appeared in the four exquisite, blood-stained glass windows. All the beautiful images and curves, the horrific scenes and offerings, like ancient, precious artifacts, could not be saved by any effort to preserve or carefully continue them; they were ultimately eroded by time, shattering inch by inch. The four windows broke into countless pieces like a spiderweb, and then, swiftly, like a collapsing building, like a flood, all the tiny shards of glass scattered into dust finer than sand, sharply cascading down from the platform, stirring up a gentle breeze.
A thin red ring appeared around the woman's neck. With a mere gust of wind, her head and long hair fell like leaves from her riddled body, rolling onto the cold ground. The head tumbled several times on the ground, her long hair repeatedly wrapping around her face, like a thin silver veil veiling her features.
Yakov's mouth gaped open in surprise. He realized that the excruciating pain in his heart had stopped.
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