◼ ╋ ◼ ——— The first few months in Archaele were relatively uneventful. Julien spent the early days wandering around, advertising his and offering his services to the best of his ability in broken Archaelic. Then, things started to make sense. His language improved, he made friends, and managed to save and make enough money to buy a small flat which doubled as a clinic. It was three months in when he met her. Julien had been wandering through the market, examining the fruits, when he reached for an apple-shaped thing (was it called a straimac?) at the same time as someone else. He looked up at the young woman, guiltily stepping back. “Oh—here,” he said, hoping she’d understand his still less-than-perfect Archaelic. She smiled, shrugging as she paid. “It’s no problem.” Julien blinked, his mind buffering at her flawless Sancturym. “Y—you speak Sancturym?” The woman took a bite of the straimac, almost smirking as she nodded. “I suppose.” He offered a hand immediately, his other awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh—I’m Julien.” She paused, something like interest, or perhaps gentle amusement flickering in her eyes, before she took it. “Alva.” Her grip was soft, firm but not tight, with slender fingers that tapped the inside of Julien’s wrist before easily pulling back. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbled, the words almost an afterthought as he properly looked at her. Alva was beautiful, truly. She was his age, with fair, smooth skin, long and slender limbs that disappeared under her navy-colored cloak, and lips painted the same shade of red as her nails. Her hair fell in a curtain of soft, chestnut brown locks that framed striking almond-shaped eyes that held irises even darker than the kohl lining them. Julien found himself lost for words for a moment, only drawn back as Alva tilted her head, a soft, expectant smile playing on her lips. “Oh—sorry, what?” He blinked, feeling a flush creep up his neck and cheeks. “I asked why you’re here,” she repeated. “Not many foreigners around.” “I uh—I’m a traveling doctor,” Julien stammered. “I run a clinic nearby. How did you know I was a Sancturian?” “Straight to the point, huh?” Alva remarked, but answered before Julien could apologize. “It’s a joke, cutie. I’ve researched the region, and you have…let’s say a certain vibe about you.” Julien, who was still reeling from the port name, nodded a moment later. “Oh. Cool. Want to…uh…have lunch with me? If you haven’t eaten already, though. It’s fine if you have, it’s just an offer, I mean—“ “I’d love to,” she smiled, pressing a finger to his lips to cut him off. — Julien was nothing if not a hopeless romantic. Alva only reinforced that fact. He couldn’t help it, honestly. Everything about her was just enchanting, like a taste of paradise that left you wanting more. She was funny, elegant, charming, captivating, the kind of person who made everyone fall for them without even trying. Another five months later, Julien realized he’d fallen in love. Deeply, truly, tragically, pathetically in love. ——— cont. below
cont. ——— They were talking as they walked around town, Alva giving a mini tour as Julien listened avidly. Then, they stopped at a church, a mural painted upon its side in precise, ancient brush strokes. Julien let his eyes roam over the scene. It was of a crowd, hands reaching upwards to the skies, from which rained coins from more outstretched hands pointing down to earth. At the center was a figure, tied to a pole and engulfed in flames. Their hands were clasped together, eyes gazing up at the clouds and the benevolent figures residing in them. His eyes caught on a faint line winding up the figure’s leg, circling their wrist as well. He realized, with cold, gradual horror, that it was a mark. A Saint’s mark. As casually as he could muster, Julien turned to Alva. “What—what’s this mural of?” “Archaele’s history,” she answered, looking at the mural calmly. “The Gods are our benefactors, obviously. We pray to them for good health and luck. But they require more than just prayers. According to legend, the Gods favor Saints. Their blood is the most holy and pure of all. So, in order to ask for prosperity, that blood must water our soil and run in our rivers. They are the key to our fortune, our future.” Julien’s blood ran cold. “You mean—you mean you sacrifice them?” “We used to. There aren’t many anymore, and besides, only the royal family is permitted to carry out the ritual, so we haven’t in at least a hundred years. But we did.” Alva said, looking over. “Cool, right?” She smiled. Julien did his best to return it, silently nodding back. ——— other parts in comments ——— ◼ ╋ ◼
