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First in a new series, Ever (please see series summary for more information).

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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The abbot's words press him as he walks toward the gate.

It is time. You must decide.

Inside or out. Salvation or sin. God or man. Across them all, the choice is the same: yes or no. Does he accept this existence, the good will of the abbot, a place among his brothers? Or...well...something else -- a life unprotected by walls that mute the sounds of the other world, the one in which he was a youngest son unburdened by land, title, trade, or fortune.

His mind rebels against these stark choices. As his grandfather used to say, the world is more than just dogs and cats: you may just as well choose to kick aside a goat or a rat; the only certain thing is that all of them are flea-bitten. He wishes the old man were here, that he could parse some wisdom from between those toothless gums again, but his father's father is long dead, his mother's even longer so, and he must decide for himself.

As he approaches the wall, he reaches out to touch the rough blocks. The early sun still casts a warm light, causing the rusty stone to glow like banked coals. Tiny flakes of mica glitter under his fingertips, with promise or warning. He adjusts his cowl forward, then unlatches the small window that opens the upper half of the gate. Pulling it back against the wall, he steps up to the gate to receive the morning's deliveries, his head bowed in gratitude.

Across the gate come eggs and rennet, lamp oil and seed. A scythe whose handle is smoothed to a dull sheen. A much-mended rake. He acknowledges each gift with a mute nod and sets it against the wall, until a small, gracious pile has grown there. The sun is warm on his back as he turns to accept the final offering of the morning.

He gasps.

Not because the offering is one of fine linen scrolls, precious amid the mud and splatter of April, but because he knows the hands that hold them.

She hears him and her chapped fingers flinch.

Forgetting himself, he raises his eyes to her face. Her lashes dance apart in surprise, and a pink flush surfaces on her cheeks. She breathes a word that he only later realizes was his name. Her lips close, and she glances around guiltily.

The bell tolls for Terce.  He reaches for the scrolls, and her hands retreat. Words knock against the backs of his teeth. He smothers them with his tongue. With a quick nod, he closes the gate's window. The last things he sees are the toes of her shoes, convening with uncertainty.

The glittering stone wall mocks him as he hurries to the chapel, cradling the scrolls.



nomadshan is the author of 44 other stories.
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This story is part of the series, Ever.

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