He hadn’t planned on attending the portrait sitting. That icon wouldneverbe painted if he had anything to say about it. He’d rather return to the Abbey himself and face them head-on than let the elders renew their link to him.
Even if seeing her paint could provide answers on how the elders accessed the saints’ magic or how to get it back, two questions he desperately needed to work out. But Jude had become extremely adept at ignoring that cloying voice of reason. He’d ask her questions when he was ready and not a second sooner. And preferably by not risking his mind and his magic.
No, it wasn’t his rational side that had urged him upstairs, butthe restlessness under his skin at the thought of her waiting for him at all.
Finding her in the room where he had spent his first few years of exile had been an unwelcome surprise. Her things arranged beside the small plush toy he’d spent hours talking to because there was no one else. The windowsill where he’d carved his name over and over because he was afraid of forgetting it, only to scratch over it the day after. The window that had reflected his tear-stained eyes on countless lonely evenings. He’d left that small bedroom behind when Elden had arrived. The sight of Maeve in it had been a shock. Seeing her on her knees even more so.
‘I’ll paint your icon and leave. You’ll go back to being alone.’
Frustration lined his throat. He’d spent too many years convincing himself he was okay for her to shake him like she was. Walking the halls of his home like he was searching for meaning, his footsteps against the dust the only sign he had a body.
At first, he’d waited, sure that someone would come for him, to return him to the Abbey, to the only home he’d ever known. A little over five years ago, he began having entire conversations aloud. He had three years of isolation under his belt by then. Formative, crucial years. Years when he grew taller, his voice deeper, his moods unwieldy and confusing. He’d stopped hoping, stopped waiting. His hope had eroded, slowly and steadily, into hatred.
No one was coming for him.
He’d spent years tallying the days on the wall to prove to himself the passage of time. Sitting by the gate for hours on the days food was delivered, hoping to have a brief conversation with the farmer who brought his provisions. Eventually, he’d taken to marking the months on his skin.
The tattoos had helped at the beginning. An upside-down symbol for saint pushed into his forearm to mirror the one onhis chest, gone over so many times with the needle and thick black ink that it took weeks to heal, only for him to open it back up again. Tallies on his stomach for each month he continued to spend alone. Signs for piety and devotion, for commitment and loyalty.
Jude was Abbey-trained in illuminations, after all. Scribing was in his blood.
Finding the library had helped somewhat. It had answered some questions. The collection of holy tomes inside rivalled that of the Abbey itself. It was there Jude first learned how to forge a connection between his tenuous magic and the seemingly endless supply of blank-paged books, the paper thicker and more textured than the Abbey texts. Books that his magic had slowly filled up with memories transcribed into runic words only he could read.
During the darkest years of his tenancy, when he felt like his mind was a bed of quicksand, eager to swallow him whole, the library was the only place that made him feel safe. The only place he felt like he wasn’t an abomination.
The year he turned twenty, he’d had enough. He’d refused to pray, taking to paper instead. Writing to the Abbey had cost him something, but he knew he wouldn’t survive another year if he didn’t beg for company, for a looser rein.
He’d tried to run, once. Five years ago. The farmer who brought his food had stopped him an hour into his trek into the moors. Beaten him so severely he hadn’t been able to bear weight on his right leg for months. His ribs still ached when the weather grew cold.
Jude never saw that farmer again. His food was delivered by someone else, their eyes just as watchful, just as cold. Whether or not the new stranger worked for the Abbey didn’t matter, the lesson was the same: if he ran, the Abbey would find him. The punishment would be swift and merciless.
He had braved his first journey to Oakmoor on the day hemailed the letter, checking over his shoulder so often he’d developed a crick in his neck. Up until then, he’d been too afraid to visit the village – terrified of being recognized, of being sent back. He’d been stared at, as any stranger would in a small village, but nothing more, to his relief. The Abbey had taken their time with a reply, but Elden had shown up shortly after.
After Elden’s arrival, Jude was able to leave Ánhaga for longer and longer stretches. He could visit Oakmoor, walk in the surrounding moors. His mind felt clearer, too. The press on his memories less intense.
Another reason Jude suspected Maeve was here to spy. If the Abbey’s hold on him was slipping, they’d do anything to renew their grasp on his magic.
His thoughts settled firmly on the iconographer. More specifically, what he had seen at the end of their confrontation. For a moment, as she had stood before him, practically vibrating with anger, she’dglowed. It had pushed the tide of his fury back long enough for him to look at her not as an interloper or an Abbey spy but as a woman set adrift.
As the shape of her body had been limned with gold, he saw himself reflected on her face.
Jude had been that devout once.
He’d believed in the saints as much as every other Abbey acolyte. He’d spent his days in the scriptorium, copying the texts and learning the art of illuminations. Prayer had been his closest companion. He’d waited eagerly for the day a saint would be venerated, hopeful he could be the one to copy it in their history books. He’d been no less devoted than Maeve. Until the world started glowing gold, he’d expected to live and die at the Abbey.
How stupid he had been to believe at all.
Jude turned back towards Ánhaga. His refuge, his prison. He rubbed over the tattoo on his chest, staring at the bright windows on the second floor. If he looked close enough, would he see herthere, in the bedroom that was so close to his? Would she be watching him just as he watched her?
He didn’t regret the altercation in his former bedroom, but avoiding her had been a mistake.
Entering the house, Jude followed the smell of cooking towards the kitchen. Their voices hit him first, and he paused in the shadow of the doorway to listen. Maeve’s voice came through first, clear as a bell, that perfect enunciation just as grating as the first time he’d heard it.
‘How did you end up here?’ she asked over jostling pans.
Elden didn’t reply. Jude breathed a sigh of relief.
Footsteps, light and careful, before Maeve continued, ‘Sorry. How did—’
