B-ronken-R-ing 159...

***

Cárcel awoke to find himself lying on a bed in a large room bathed in the morning sun's golden light. The surroundings were strange, but he felt no urge to explore them. A familiar herbal scent filled the air, seemingly coming from his own head. It was the kind that was often used to stem bleeding when injured on the battlefield. The bleeding must have been quite severe, he mused.

A sharp, throbbing pain pulsed from the self-inflicted injury near his hairline, despite the meticulous treatment it had received. He paid it little heed and lay still for a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling. Restlessness soon took hold, and he sat up, his instincts pushing him to move.

At a distant table, a priest looked up from his writing and turned his head. Setting down his quill, he rose and said with a slight bow, "Greetings, my lord."

"Where am I?" Cárcel asked.

"You are in the house of the Lord, in a chamber reserved for our most honorable guests."

Cárcel finally cast a quick glance around, taking in the opulence that surrounded him-far more lavish than anything he expected in a religious sanctuary. Such luxury seemed out of place for anyone but the highest nobility. "An honorable guest, you say...?" he muttered, silently thinking to himself, A criminal would be more fitting.

The priest nodded. "Yes, my lord. Your injury has been tended to, but you had already lost a considerable amount of blood. The wound is deeper than it appears, and it will take time to fully heal, so please exercise caution until then."

Cárcel let the priest's words wash over him, barely registering them. He quietly propped up his knees and rested his head against them, feeling his head throb again.

After a moment, the priest's hurried steps echoed through the room as he departed. He lifted his head to ensure that the door was closed before sliding out of the bed. He briefly assessed his own appearance. His bloodied shirt had been removed, and his face and body cleaned.

He found a basin of water atop a nearby dresser and began to wash his face, neck, and arms. He then soaked a piece of clean fabric in the water and wiped himself down more thoroughly, as if he could not hold himself back from doing so. On the floor next to the dresser lay his belongings, which he had left in the stable with his horse. He drew a fresh set of clothes from his bag and examined himself in the mirror. He brushed his hair falling over the bandages wrapped around his head to notice the strange color of the liquid that had seeped through the fabric. It was a mixture of a dark blue herbal tincture and blood. Cárcel stared at it for a moment, then allowed his hair to fall back into place.

Now he looked quite presentable despite the bandages on his head. Yet his reflection in the mirror revealed a face as pale as chalk. His eyes, though calm and steady, were haunted, as if ravaged by a terrible storm.

He had only managed a single night's rest in a bed during his journey to Bilbao. He visited an inn every night so that his horse could rest, but he simply washed himself, then sat in front of the stable until dawn.

Cárcel stared into the mirror for a moment longer, then turned away. He quickly tidied up the room, a habit that he had developed from his years aboard ships. When he was finished, he neatly gathered and placed all of his belongings on a table. Now, he simply needed to summon someone and accept whatever punishment awaited him.

At that moment, his eyes fell on the Bible the priest had left open, along with his transcription.

"All things have I seen in the days of my vanity, there is a just man that perisheth in his righteousness, and there is a wicked man that prolongeth his life in his wickedness." (Ecc 7:15)

The words were familiar. Cárcel tried to recall the old priest's lecture from years ago. Perhaps it had been during his time at the military academy or a short mass on a battleship during the war.

Slowly, he reached out and brushed his fingers over the dried ink on the priest's paper. In his head, he could hear a voice from his distant past reading the words aloud. He could almost feel the elderly priest's hand laying a blessing upon his head.

"Be not righteous over much, neither make thyself over wise. Why shouldest thou destroy thyself? Be not over much wicked, neither be thou foolish: why shouldest thou die before thy time?" (Ecc 7:16-17)

He remembered kneeling on the swaying deck of the ship, the waves and wind battering his body, uttering the prayer before consigning his comrades' corpses to the sea. Death had been a constant in his life only a few years ago, as familiar as the endless sea, heretics, pirates... Finally, the black sleeve of the priest's soutane disappeared from his view.

Cárcel raised his gaze to follow the retreating hand, but the face looking down at him did not belong to the elderly navy chaplain who had stood in front of him on that ship many years ago. It was the holy statue of the apostle-the very one he had desecrated.

"There is no man that hath power over the spirit to retain the spirit; neither hath he power in the day of death, and there is no discharge in that war, neither shall wickedness deliver those that are given to it." (Eccl 8:8)

Dazed, Cárcel's gaze remained fixed on the immortal man. The ageless face bore no trace of weariness. He had seen the face before, a long time ago... The sun shone through the clouds, illuminating Anastasio's silver hair. Waves lapped gently against the ship. Cárcel slowly rose to his feet, surrounded by soldiers who were complete strangers to him.

He was mere moments away from meeting the apostle's eyes when a frantic voice interrupted, causing the vision to dissolve like a mirage, taking with it the blessing of the past.

"Your Lordship! You're awake!" Archbishop Claudio bustled into the room, his ample figure moving with surprising haste.

Cárcel, masking his frustration behind a composed facade, inclined his head respectfully.

The archbishop continued, "I am at a loss for words to convey my gratitude! It appears the Lord's will manifests through even those outside His direct service."

"I deserve no gratitude," Cárcel replied, his tone even.

"Oh... how can one maintain such humility after sustaining such a grave injury? You are truly a noble guardian of Ortega's waters!"

Cárcel did his best to quell his disappointment at having missed the chance to finally speak with the apostle. He gazed at the archbishop with a calm look, though the man's words perplexed him.

"It is a grievous incident, indeed, how those heretics invaded our new hall of worship in the absence of the holy knights," the archbishop lamented. "If you had not been there to stop them, who knows what devastation might have ensued? Surely, the Lord guided you with His divine will. He must have sent down the Apostle of War to direct your actions. How else can we explain your presence there until dusk?"

"Oh..." Cárcel murmured, beginning to grasp the situation.

"Even if the painters and sculptors hadn't all gone to dinner, they would have been powerless against those foul intruders. We had purposely stationed the holy knights elsewhere because we had just buried the sacred relics back in the crypt. As you might imagine, this was done in utmost secrecy to protect the sanctuary until the consecration, which is still in the far future." The archbishop's face grew somber. "Regrettably, we have lost our trust even in those who claim to serve the holy cause. Those heretics have been growing more hostile and brazen by the day..." he sighed, then gestured for Cárcel to sit.

As Cárcel settled into the chair, he noticed a young priest standing behind the archbishop and grimaced inwardly. The priest's face was filled with awe, as if he were beholding a living saint.

"I heard that you sensed a holy presence in the new hall of worship despite its unfinished state," the archbishop said.

"Yes... That is correct."

"You must have felt compelled to linger and offer prayers. Such inspiration was surely planted in your mind by the Lord."

"Indeed," Cárcel agreed, masking his unease.

"It is incredibly fortunate that the painter was present to witness such a historic moment. His account has already been inscribed in the holy records of Bilbao."

Cárcel stifled a soft noise of surprise as he recalled Emiliano's kindly and beautiful face. Although Cárcel had suggested fabricating a culprit and an excuse, he had never imagined that the painter would take it upon himself to do so.

In truth, Cárcel had been thinking of a way to extricate himself from the predicament as he shattered the statue into pieces. If he had not fallen unconscious, he would have crafted some plausible story. The excuse he had in mind was similar to Emiliano's, albeit less grandiose. He had intended to express deep remorse for failing to protect the holy statue of Saint Anastasio despite his genuine efforts, and then offer a substantial donation to Bilbao for the restoration.

However, he hadn't even considered claiming that he had protected the rest of the holy statues.