The Last Vow

Chapter 5 ~ The Library of Forgotten Saints ~

Wedding Day - Three Hours Before the Ceremony

To see her conflicted emotions - https://civitai.red/images/134009525

If you have not already read the previous chapters, please do so. It is character imperative. 

The previous chapter can be found here:

https://civitai.red/articles/32134/the-last-vow-chapter-4

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Rain began to fall during the final hours before the ceremony.

This was not a storm, nor was it one the violent tempests that would roll down from the mountains each autumn.

This was rather tame in comparison. Just a steady gray drizzle that wrapped Ashmere in mist and silence and Elara welcomed it.

The weather gave people something new to talk about.

Something other than her and the wedding.

It was not easy for Elara to admit, but for the first time in a long time, she found herself grateful for the rain.

She stood beneath the eaves of the church, watching droplets strike the cobblestones.

The village square seemed softer.

Almost blurred.

A bit distant.

Like a cherished memory that had begun to regretfully fade.

"Young Miss Elara...You look as thought you're preparing for an execution."

Professor Alden's voice startled her.

Elara turned and saw the old scholar standing clutching an umbrella that appeared older than he was.

His beard was damp from the moisture and he looked mildly and comically annoyed by the existence of weather.

"Good afternoon."

The Professor grunted.

"Good is a matter of perspective, young lady."

"You really should try optimism sometime."

"I did once."

"What happened?"

"It was disappointing."

Despite everything, Elara laughed.

The professor seemed pleased by this.

Only for a moment.

Then his expression grew serious.

"I found something."

The words immediately erased her smile.

Of course he had.

The mountain seemed determined to leave no corner of her life untouched.

"An explanation?"

"That is a possibility."

"That's not very reassuring."

"Sadly, historical research rarely is."

He gestured toward the church.

"Please walk with me."

The church library occupied a narrow wing most villagers never visited.

Lengthy rows of shelves disappeared off into the shadows.

Dust floated through shafts of pale light from windows high above.

The room still smelled of leather, parchment, and age. Unchanging in that regard.

Elara had spent countless hours here as a child.

Back then it had felt comforting.

Today it felt like entering a tomb. It felt confining.

Alden led her toward a table covered with even more books.

Dozens upon dozens.

He had found ancient journals, church records.

Personal diaries.

Even monastic archives.

The sight alone was intimidating.

"You read all of these," she asked in disbelief?

The professor looked amused.

"I skimmed some."

"That actually feels somehow worse."

The professor ignored her.

He opened a weathered journal.

"Tell me, Miss Elara."

His voice softened.

"What do you know about Saint Aveline?"

"It was said she watched over travelers."

"Good."

He opened another.

"And Saint Lyra?"

"She protected the harvests."

Still another.

"Saint Isolde?"

"Helped the sick."

The professor nodded.

"Excellent."

Then he pushed three documents across the table.

"Now read these."

Elara frowned.

The pages were old.

Far older than most church records.

Carefully she began reading.

At first nothing seemed unusual.

The documents described ordinary historical events.

Festivals.

Harvests.

Political disputes.

Then a pattern emerged.

Aveline had vanished.

She had served as a guide for ones visiting the village.

Maris had vanished.

Her father was a renowned caretaker of crops.

Celene had vanished.

She helped the village doctor care for the ill.

Each disappeared shortly after her wedding.

Elara looked up.

"Couldn’t this…” Elara could hardly get out the words, “couldn’t this just be a coincidence?"

The professor's silence answered the question.

Her pulse quickened.

She reached for another document.

Then another.

Then another.

The pattern repeated.

Again.

And again.

And again.

So many women remembered for what they had done.

Women associated with miracles.

But women who also vanished after making sacred vows.

A cold sensation spread through her chest.

"How many?"

The Professor removed his spectacles.

"Too many."

“Professor – Please how many!?!”

"Twelve."

"Possibly more."

She stared at the pages.

Elara felt sick as the room suddenly felt much smaller.

"What happened to them," she whispered?

The professor shook his head.

"No one knows."

"But that would be impossible. Someone must know something!"

"History is full of impossibilities."

His gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked window.

"Most people seem to assume they died."

"But you don't?"

"No. I do not."

The answer came immediately.

Without hesitation.

Alden leaned forward.

"Miss Elara, what f they never died?"

The words lingered in the dusty air.

Elara felt an emotional connection to the key in her pocket.

It was as though some invisible thread connected it to these forgotten women.

To these vanished brides.

To whatever secret lay hidden within Blackthorn Peak.

To her.

She swallowed.

"What are you suggesting?"

The professor hesitated.

For the first time since she had met him, he seemed genuinely uncertain.

"I think," he said slowly, "that we've misunderstood the stories."

"How?"

"We assume their sainthood came after their disappearances."

His eyes settled on the documents.

"What if it came because of them?"

A chill ran through her.

The room suddenly felt colder.

So much colder.

Elara felt herself shiver as she looked down.

One page near the bottom of the pile caught her attention.

The ink was badly faded.

The handwriting uneven.

As though written in great haste.

Carefully she lifted it.

"Professor, what is this?"

The professor's expression changed.

Subtly.

Enough to make her uneasy.

"That," he said quietly, "is why I asked you here."

Elara looked back at the page.

Several lines were unreadable.

Time had erased them.

But one passage remained intact.

Her eyes moved across the words.

And stopped.

The bride walks willingly.

The mountain does not choose.

The vow does not bind.

The heart binds.

Only she who loves may remain.

For a moment Elara forgot how to breathe.

The heart binds.

Only she who loves may remain.

Not duty.

Not obligation.

Love.

The words struck deeper than they should have.

Because they felt true.

So terribly true.

As though some part of her had always known them.

"Professor..."

Her voice sounded distant.

"What does this mean?"

"Miss Elara, I wish I knew."

Neither of them spoke.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

The library seemed suspended outside of time.

Finally, the Professor broke the silence.

"There is more."

Of course there was.

There was always more.

"Look at this page."

He pulled out a sheet she had not yet looked at.

Much of this sheet too had been ravaged by time.

One word still stood out.

Keeper.

“Professor, what is a keeper?”

"I don't know that either."

"I truly wish I did."

"Sadly, young Miss Elara, there is more."

He reached beneath a stack of books and withdrew a folded map.

The parchment crackled as he spread it across the table.

Elara immediately recognized the mountain.

Blackthorn Peak.

But something else had been drawn near its summit.

A structure.

Tall.

Narrow.

What looked to be impossible.

A tower. So dark.

Her heart stumbled.

The same tower.

Again.

Always the tower.

Alden tapped the drawing.

"This map is nearly four hundred years old."

Elara stared.

The sketch matched her dreams with terrifying accuracy.

The same shape.

The same proportions.

The same lonely silhouette against the sky.

"How…?"

Elara cut short the question she did not wish to speak out loud. 

The professor looked at her sharply.

She could see it in his eyes, he could sense there was something she was not sharing.

The sense that she was standing at the edge of confession.

It would just take one question.

She would only have to give one answer.

And everything would change.

Instead, she looked away.

The opportunity passed.

The secret remained.

For now.

Alden studied her for a long moment.

Then, mercifully, he let it go.

"Miss Elara, perhaps you should return home."

She frowned.

"Professor, that is an odd thing to say."

"Perhaps Miss Elara, perhaps. But it is your wedding soon."

The professor smiled faintly.

"I imagine there are still some final preparations that need to be cared for."

Soon.

The word landed heavily.

Soon she would stand beside Rowan.

Soon she would speak vows.

Soon everything would change.

The realization sent a hollow ache through her chest.

Slowly she gathered her cloak.

The documents remained scattered across the table.

Forgotten brides.

Forgotten women.

Women who loved.

Women who chose.

Women who vanished.

As she turned toward the door, Alden spoke once more.

"Young miss Elara."

She stopped.

The professor's expression had softened.

The relentless curiosity was gone.

Only concern remained.

"If there is something you're not telling me..."

Elara closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

Then she opened them again.

And offered the only answer she could.

"There is."

The confession surprised them both.

Alden blinked.

She continued before courage failed her.

"But I don't understand it well enough to explain it."

The old scholar regarded her quietly.

Then, to her immense relief, he nodded.

"Fair enough."

There were no demands, no added pressure, and no accusations made.

Just understanding.

As if he too had faced uncertainties, things he too could not explain.

Understanding…understanding is a rare gift, Elara thought.

Perhaps one of the rarest.

Elara managed a grateful smile.

Then she left the library.

The rain had stopped as the clouds drifted apart overhead.

Sunlight once more spilled across the village.

The square below began to once more buzz with activity.

People laughed.

Children ran through puddles.

Life was continuing.

Beautifully unaware.

Elara paused on the church steps.

Her gaze found Blackthorn Peak.

The mountain stood silent against the horizon.

As if it were watching.

As if it were waiting.

And for the first time, she no longer felt entirely alone.

Because somewhere in the centuries behind her, at least twelve other women had stood where she now stood.

Others who were brides.

Others who perhaps could understood what Elara was feeling.

That knowledge both comforted and frightened her.

Because if they had walked this path before her...

Then perhaps she could walk it too.

But could she walk it at all?

Only time would tell.