A rush of self-consciousness ran over her as she thought about awkward conversations with the priest, maybe with some uncomfortable questions about why she’d been sick. I can either do this, or freeze my way back home, she thought as she summoned the courage to push the doors open. They slid inward with a squeal several times louder than Aya could’ve hoped.

She slowly stepped inside, and, after a moment’s hesitation, slowly slid the door back into place. The speed of the closure didn’t effect the sound much at all, this time more resembling some death kneel of a mouse. When the noisome work was done, she slipped past the antechamber and into the main hall. It was a narrow, cumbersome thing with only a single path lined with benches, stepped windows dripping with candle wax and shuttered against the cold winds.

Oddly enough, the priest was not sitting at the altar, nor was anywhere else in the main hall. She crept forward until she reached the edges of the pews, and glanced around. Before her was the principle dais, four statues placed equally, grey stone faces and robes standing in silence. She’d never been on the dais before, only knelt before it to be blessed by the priest. Looking around to make sure she was alone, she gingerly stepped onto the platform, circling around the altar to look at one of the statues.

It was a depiction of an older woman, long hair braided over her shoulder and littered with flowers. The script carved into the base of the statue read ‘Nafthatazia, our lady of the woods’. Slowly, Aya knelt before the statue and clasped her hands as her father taught her. A thin wind began to whistle through the slats of the shutters as she prayed to the stone countenance.

Please, my lady. I’ve lived in your woods all my life. I’ve obeyed my parents, been as kind as can to others. Why did this happen to me? She thought as she stared down at the floor, invoking the forest-mother as hard as she knew how to. Unfortunately, this produced no answer, even as her knees began to ache on the cold stone. But still, she continued to knell and pray, hoping against hope that there might just be a whisper, some hint of guidance or justification.

No noise reigned in the church, other than the whispers of the wind. Aya got up, gripping the edge of the wooden altar for support as she rose. Her knees were numb and aching from the cold hard stone of the dais, but far more overwhelming was the abject disappointment she felt in her father’s gods. In that moment she did not suspect, but rather knew that she would get no answers here. Before she turned away to perhaps sit on one of the pews, she felt a compulsion to touch the statue.

As she laid her hand on the woman’s stone fingers, she looked at the maternal face, the downcast eyes and hint of a smile. Suddenly, she could taste something in mouth, sweet and tart like an apple, but somehow softer. The smell that filled her head was warm and earthy, something like the dust kicked up from the hillside in summer months. Tears, unbidden, began to flow down her cheeks as a gut wrenching sorrow began to crawl up her throat.

Her knees slammed painfully into the stone as she still clutched the hand, seemingly unable to let go. Her tears began to drip onto the stone, still in complete silence. She wanted to let go, to leave this place, to stop the torrent of sadness that had gripped her, but her body refused to listen.

“I think you’re praying to the wrong one,” came a man’s voice.

The shock allowed her to reassert some measured of control over he own body, wrenching away from the statue. The realization of what would happen hit her as the stone began to topple to the floor. Before she could reach out or cry in alarm, a pair of hands caught it and slowly raised it back up to standing.

“That was not an invitation to smash it,” said the man dryly.

Aya rubbed her eyes to get her tears out of her eyes, and looked up at the man. He was younger than the priest, perhaps in his thirties, dressed in travelling clothes. His long hair framed his face, and odd dark colour that couldn’t decide if it was blue or black. His eye were crinkled in amusement, lips curled in a thin smile underneath a dark beard.

“I was given to understand Salahazdrey was the patron of young ladies such as yourself, but perhaps you’re older than I assumed,” he said, offering his hand.

“Thank you,” she said, but rose on her own, letting her shawl cover her arms. She was mindful of her mother’s warning, especially in the presence of this stranger.

“You’re welcome,” said the man, stepping down from the dais, “I wonder though, what someone as young as yourself is doing in a church at these hours of the morning?”

“I-” she said, before considering the words carefully, “I was praying.”

“Evidently. Praying for what, if I might ask?”

She regarded him in silence, wondering at the forwardness of the man.

“Ah, forgive me. I’ve had a long night,” he said, “my patience is drawing thin. Now, you wouldn’t happen to know where the priest for this church is?”

“Uh, he’s…” Aya looked around, even knowing that the church was empty, “he’s not here, but, I think his quarters are the door to the right. He may be in there?”

“Thank you,” said the man, before turning around to head in the direction of the door. Just before he pushed his way in, Aya called out to him.

“Er, thank you again. For the… catch.”

He turned and gave her another wry smile.

“Try not to tear down any more. That’d be a strange form of prayer indeed.”

He pushed through the door and shut it behind him, leaving Aya behind him to stew in an awkward silence. She eventually decided to step down from the dais and set in one of the front benches. Her feet and knees ached from the kneeling and long walk. She suddenly realized that her arms only ached dully, not with the horrible wrenching pain of before. Almost in tandem with it, she felt her whole body sag with exhaustion.

She lowered herself onto her side, her lids fluttering. She knew that it was probably not the best idea to sleep in church, but, it would only take a moment. All she needed was a little rest…

“Aya!” somewhat shouted at her, pulling her from the depths of sleep.

“Sorry, sorry,” she murmured as she drew herself up. Blinking in the lightless hall to dispel her grogginess, she found herself almost face-to-face with the rotund face of the priest. He looked down at her, his hand on his hips, mouth twisted in disapproval. Behind him was the man, who seemed to be trying to hide a smile, and failing.

“What in the world are you doing here at this hour?” he said, sounding more concerned than angry, much to Aya’s relief.

“Well, I was…” she said, her mind churning some excuse out, “I was feeling a little better this morning. So, I went for a little walk, and before I knew it, I was here.”

The priest put a hand to grip his nose in frustration, glancing around at the unlit candles.

“And, well, I’ve haven’t been sleeping so well lately, so I laid down after prayer. I only meant to do it for just a moment but-” Aya pressed on.

“I can confirm that, Priest Orieal. She was praying quite fervently when I came in, so surely you can forgive the indiscretion for her piety,” the man added, winking at Aya.

“Well, I…” the priest said as he looked back and forth between the two, “I suppose so. But either way, you need to leave, young lady. The morning cleansing is about to begin.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Aya said, quickly getting up and turning down the central aisle. As she walked down, she heard the man thanking the priest. As she pulled the door up, a gust ripped across her body didn’t bother her much at all. Perhaps the extra sleep had reinvigorated her, either way, she stepped out onto the cold stones at the front. For the first time, she realized that she was wearing no footwear.

The morning light was just beginning to warm the sky, stars beginning to fade at its touch. A green-blue hue was creeping over the western ridges, its peaks still black silhouettes in the pre-dawn. For the first time, she considered just how concerned her parents would be if they woke up to find her missing.

The door opened and closed behind her, and the man stepped out beside her. Taking a deep breath, he began a series of hacking coughs. Aya turned to him, alarmed that he might keel over right in front of her. He held out a hand to stop her as he straitened.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I used to work at a forge, inhaled one too many embers, I think. The cold makes it a bit worse, but I’m fine, really.”

“Oh,” she said, “I’d better go home, now. Thanks for your help in the church.”

“No skin off of my back,” he laughed as he pulled his cloak tight around him, “you say you’re going home? Without shoes?”

Aya suddenly felt self-conscious about the lack of footwear, pulling her feet in.

“I happen to be heading the same way and I have a mount. I’m sure he won’t mind having a extra person for a short way,if you’d like” he said, gesturing to a horse, roped to a fence further up the hill.

Aya considered it, her first impression of climbing onto a horse with a stranger was poor, to say the least. But the priest seemed to know and be on good terms with, and he had saved her from a more vicious scolding in the church. If he was heading the same way there couldn’t be real harm in it. She could alway jump off the horse, she supposed.

“I wouldn’t mind, i-if you wouldn’t,” she said.

“Not at all,” he said, holding out his hand. A Karkos greeting, “Lovely to meet you, Aya.”

“And you… I don’t think I know your name?”

“Naia,” said the man with a smile.