Mariette and Armen awkwardly look around the room. Neither of them knowing of what else they might say to each other. After moments that stretched longer than either of them wished, Mariette finally speaks up, "Well, I suppose I should prepare for bed. Good-goodnight to you, Armen." she wishes with a forced smile, trying to hide the awkward embarrassment she had flaming in her cheeks.
"Oh, yes, of course. Indeed it is getting late. I shall be..." he looks about the small room until he finds a corner, furthest from the bed, "Over here... I shall sleep over here."
They both nod at each other and break away to their respective areas of the room. Armen lays on the floor as he listens to the thrumming murmur of the tavern below them while Mariette lays on her bed. She turns over to watch him as he lay, facing away from her across the room. She lay and ponder while she looks at his back, still clad in his armor and tabard, "Why did he watch as I bathed my head? Were it just his innocent curiosity or were it more? Why did he not wash himself either? Surely he knows the importance of cleanliness. Is he perhaps barred from it in the company of another? He is very private of himself. I rarely see his face, always obscured by that helm. Might I leave the room so that he could bathe too?"
Mariette tosses the question in her mind of whether she should grant him privacy to wash, until she finds her mind crafting a fantasy of him bathing. His taught muscles provided a sheen by the water that caressed him while he splashed it onto his skin. She thought of his supple abdomen, the gentle rolling muscles that led to his chest, not bulbous in his breast but still firm. His shoulders like unripe peaches, pulling tight as he lifted his arms to wring his hair as a rag. A warmth spreads through her chest as she mentally gawks at Armen, forcing a smirk onto her snout.
Mariette's eyes snap open and she gasps, sitting upright in the bed. This was wrong. She could hardly believe that she would sit and think such things. Yet, her heart thumps in her chest with the explicit thrill of forbidden excitement. She could feel her cheeks flush with exhilarating shame as she thinks again of his form, omitting his attire.
She shakes her head, shooing the indecent thoughts away. Was this residual mind of the haunting within the convent? Or had she found a muse that scratched an itch in herself that had lain dormant in her life? She sighs and rolls out of bed. Kneeling down and resting her elbows on the sheets, she begins to pray. Begging the Lord for guidance and proper mind.
Armen lay in his corner, near the wall. Fighting the urge to roll over from his slowly numbing shoulder. He dare not look upon Mariette as she sleep. How scandalous it was: that they even share a room. Though, he justified it through convincing himself that she would be safer within his steward. He saw how the patrons below leered upon her form. Her slender waist that gave way to hips like a healthy steed. Her breast bound in fitting cloth, accentuating the curves. Armen could only imagine how she might look without her habit. Already he has seen the nape of her neck while she had washed her head. So thin and softly arching into her shoulders. He desired deeply to hold that very nape, to cradle it within his hands as she would look up to him.
Armen curses within himself, "Such vile thoughts I harbor! Am I not a man given unto the Lord first and foremost? Yet here I fantasize of Mariette. Longing to know her. What a pathetic ruse I am. How long would I resist such temptations if I find myself conjuring them within my own mind? What a jest! I merely am a pretender if I am to fall for defilement of the flesh as such."
He sits up, intent on prayer, when he notices that Mariette too, prays at the side of the bed. His eyes wander across her hind as the candle light flickers and light dances upon her rear. He loses his concentration as the shadows cling to her shapely bottom and he stares. Never before had such circumstance presented itself to him, and he knew not how to act in her presence. Thus far he has attempted an air of confident professionalism, yet now, within the warm shadows of the confined room, there is naught to provide such authority. It were tantalizing, personal, private. He dares to think that the Lord would turn a blind eye to such closed doors.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
He forces himself to turn away and face the wall. No more should he peer at her, for his lust only grew at every moment that his eyes devour her. Armen growls in his throat in disgust at himself, and paces the floor to retrieve his sword and rosary from the chair. His noising only captures the attention of Mariette, whom ceases her silent pleas to the Lord and looks unto Armen while he moves. She watches, curiously, as he grabs his sword and cross with almost aggrievance in his motions. Clearly, he is befouled of something, but she knew not what. Electing to ask him, "Armen? Thou art restless. What ails thee?"
Armen grunts in response, "Nothing, Sister. My mind betrays me, I only need to rectify its transgression." He kneels in the corner of which he previously lay, and wraps the chain of his rosary around the handle as he plants the tip of the scabbard into the wooden floor. Armen removes his gloves and grips the chain with white knuckles. He winces as the thorns rip into his palms and blood washed out, coating the handle in scarlet. He begins murmuring prayers and lamentations. Begging the Lord to right his mind against such deviousness.
Mariette watches as he bleeds himself upon the handle of his sword. She winces in empathy as she watches the blood coat the handle and cross-guard of his blade, then drips into a puddle growing at his knees. Despite the macabre scene, she finds the image of the crimson life streaking down the gilded cross of his sword to be, almost encouraging. A physical testament to one's own flaws being subjugated within themselves.
Her eyes soften as she makes out few words of his praying, "Please...Save me...I sin..." Mariette stands and gently steps to him. Her padded feet softly patting against the wooden floor. As she nears behind him, she feels the air change, charged with a silent wrath. Now unsure of herself, she tenderly places a hand upon Armen's shoulder, with a voice that would soothe many an ache. "Armen... Why do you subjugate thineself as such? The Lord wouldn't wish for you to suffer more than you already might, so why do you welcome it?"
Armen raises his head from his sunken prayer, looking into the corner with weary eyes. "The suffering of mine flesh only brings my heart and soul closer to the Lord. It is penance, for my sins, of which I am rife. I pay in blood for my transgressions against the Lord's command. The toll that Jesus hath paid for the world, does not extend to me, for I am unworthy of his mercy. My ledger rests upon my shoulders, and I shall satisfy its charge."
Mariette pulls her hand back from him, thinking into herself, "What is this man's faith? He speaks as if he are separate from Christ. Like he were an uninvited guest into the world and the grace of God. It borders upon impiety." Mariette pulls her hand back up to her maw, biting her thumb in worry.
She elects to leave him to his peculiar rituals and returns to pray at her bed. This time, however, she would pray for her friend, Armen, whom suffers at his own hand willingly. She folds her hands while she kneels on the ground again, her thoughts merely a whisper, "Lord, oh God in heaven. I pray in honor of thee, and in a humble request of your intervene. I fear for Armen's well-being. Worse, I fear that he worships you in a way that only serves to perverse his conception of you. Please, I beg, might you show him the grace and love that you behold to your children? Show him that he is forgiven of his sins by the blood of your only son, Jesus. That he is not rebuked by you, and that he too, is offered the eternal life at your side. I fear that his worship of thee will morph into blasphemy. In your name I pray, Amen."
As she concludes her prayer, Mariette stands and turns, looking at Armen. Still, he knelt in a puddle of blood, though it seemed more coagulate now. The streams that washed down the handle were syrupy and blackened. No more had he bled onto the rosary, but still, he prayed. His voice a hushed whisper that sounded erratic and panicked. Mariette furrows her brow in sorrow and worry, hoping that he might change his ways to properly worship the Lord, instead of this self-flagellation.
