one there would help me. When I finally found someone who would speak to me, I asked for directions
and he sent me through the field, assuring me it was the surest way," she confessed.
"A sympathizer," he said coldly. "It stands to reason why you would have been sent down such a
disadvantageous path."
"I will leave, I don't want to--" Myranda began, rising from her seat.
"No, you may remain. I am a man of heaven and it is my place to show compassion. I will hear
your confession and oversee your penance," he said with poorly-suppressed disgust.
"I will take my leave, I have caused you enough trouble," she said, gathering the pack that she had
only just let slip to the floor, and turning to the door.
"Young lady, for your wrong to be forgiven, you must repent," he demanded.
Myranda froze. She turned back to the priest.
"Forgiven? Wrong?" she said, anger mounting.
When the priest asked her to redeem herself, it stirred thoughts she'd long ago pushed aside. So
long as she'd cost herself the comfort of the shelter already, she may as well at least free her mind of its
burden.
"I will not apologize for what I know in my heart is right," she cried out.
"You have sympathized with the Tressons. These are men who seek only to kill your countrymen.
Every soft thought for them is a knife in the back of a brother," he said.
"Don't you understand? Somewhere on the other side of the line that splits our world, another priest
is giving this same speech to a person who had shed a tear for the Alliance Army. Any life cut short is a
tragedy. I do not care how or why!" she proclaimed, giving voice to feelings long suppressed.
"If we allow our resolve to weaken, we will be overrun! Today you waste thoughts on an enemy.
Tomorrow you poison the mind of another. Before long, there will be no one left with the will to fight!"
the priest said, spouting the same tired ideas that Myranda had heard all of her life.
"At least then the war will be over," she said. "I will take an end to this war regardless of the cost.
Enough lives have been lost already."
"Even if it costs you your freedom and the freedom of all of the people of the Northern Kingdoms?"
he asked.
"Freedom? What freedom do we have? In the world we live in, there are but two choices to be
made: join the army or run from it. If you join, you will pray each day that you will live long enough to
pray again on the next. Pray that the impossible happens, that you live to see your children march off to
the same fate as you try for the rest of your life to wash the blood from your hands. And if you cannot
bear to throw your body into the flames of war, then you can live as I have. A fugitive, a nomad.
Known by no one and hated by everyone. What worse fate could the Tressons have in store? What
worse fate exists?" she proclaimed.
"It is talk such as that which will cost us victory," the priest said.
"Victory!? There is no victory in war! War takes everything and gives nothing! I only wish my
words were as destructive as you would have me believe! If that were true, I would shout myself
hoarse, I would not sleep until my words had poisoned the thoughts of everyone who had ears--but the
cold truth is that nothing I say or do will have even the slightest effect on this wretched war. I am
nothing! A shadow! A whisper! Dismissed and forgotten!" she ranted.
Her heart pounded and tears clouded her eyes. She shakily lowered the tea cup to the table. In the
heat of her impassioned speech, she had managed to douse herself and a good deal of the room with the
piping hot contents. The bandage on her left hand was dripping with it, rekindling the faded pain of its
last scalding.
"I am very sorry for how I have acted, and I am sorry for the trouble I may have caused you, but I
am not sorry for the thoughts and feelings that you insist are wrong. I will leave you now, before I say
or do something deserving of regret," Myranda continued, in control of her emotions again.
"Were I you I would turn left at the sign post that you will find outside of my door," the priest said.