A novice monk's brutal life - and his role in worsening his own sufferings

The banqueting hall stirs with benches, trenchers, and the smell of ale. Timothy stands near the records table as servants carry in platters for the coming feast.

A young seminarian enters with a basket of herbs, his robe dusty from the road. He slows when he sees the busy hall and Timothy at the center of it.

Bren steps closer, careful and polite, offering the basket with both hands. His eyes flick toward the ordered tables, then back to Timothy, waiting for direction.

Behind them, the hallmaster shouts for more bread while the servants keep moving. The basket of herbs hangs between Timothy and Bren like a small, harmless thing in a room full of larger designs.

Bren lowers the basket and starts sorting the stems by touch, calm and practical. The hallmaster’s voice carries over the benches, still busy with names and placements.

The question hangs in the drafty hall. A servant passes with bread, glancing toward the records table and the wax-sealed placard beside it.

Bren pauses with one hand in the basket, waiting for an answer before he sets the bundle where the hallmaster can see it.

Bren shifts the basket aside and lowers his voice, guiding Timothy toward the edge of the table where the lantern glow falls cleanest. The hallmaster keeps barking orders in the distance, but no one comes close.

Bren ties a few stems together with practiced fingers, then sets the bundle beside the ledger without looking at the wax-sealed placard. In a quiet aside, he says he will keep the herbs near the servants’ trenchers, so the hallmaster need not notice who they are for.

Bren takes the herbal bundle back up and kneels beside Timothy, gentle but unembarrassed. He keeps his eyes on the light, not on the room, as if the whole hall has narrowed to the space between his hands and the ache Timothy names.

Timothy disrobes enough to bare the injured skin, and Bren works with careful fingers, smoothing crushed herbs and a little salve in short, practiced motions. The lantern glow catches the wax-sealed placard on the records table while servants pass farther off with benches and trenchers.

Bren glances up at Timothy at last, not accusatory, only thoughtful. His hands pause a moment, then resume their steady care, and he lowers his voice to a private murmur.

Bren keeps working, but Timothy’s shift draws his attention. The seminarian’s hands slow for a heartbeat, then he resumes with careful patience, as if reading the strain in muscle and breath.

Timothy gives the smallest restless squirm he can manage, enough to test the edge of Bren’s composure without breaking the polite air around them.

Bren says it softly, not chiding, and the corners of his mouth lift with a brief, private warmth. He blots his fingers on a cloth, then reaches back to the salve and herbs.

A servant passes behind them with a tray of trenchers, and the wax-sealed placard on the records table catches the lantern glow again. Bren leans closer, voice still quiet, his expression open and unafraid.

Bren listens to the whispered confession with a steady, unblinking calm, his expression remaining entirely unmoved by the mention of the forbidden rites.

Timothy turns the conversation with careful ease, offering Bren a place at the monastery, then at the feast itself, where theology can be spoken over the sight of the Abbot and the pyre.

Bren sets the cloth aside and studies Timothy with earnest attention, then gives a small, thoughtful nod toward the hall records and the wax-sealed placard marked with the monastery signet.

The hallmaster calls for more benches in the background while Bren waits, open and unguarded, as if Timothy has just handed him both an invitation and a test.

Bren lowers his voice and glances past Timothy toward the hallmaster, then back to the records table. The smell of broth and ale drifts in as servants hurry by with trays.

Bren's brows lift at the precision of it, but he does not recoil. He reaches for his herb basket, then pauses and checks the wax-sealed placard on the records table as if measuring the risk.

He picks out a pinch of dried poppy and ground bitters, wraps it in cloth, and slides it beneath the herbs. Behind them, the hallmaster barks for more benches, still unaware of the exchange.

Timothy rises with the cup and slips through the crowded hall, keeping it low and steady as servants cross his path. He reaches Bren's side without spilling a drop.

Bren takes it at once, careful and practiced, then glances toward the hallmaster's loud gestures at the far end of the room.

He tips the cup beneath the herb basket's edge and lets a measured splash of the sweetened mixture sink into the wine. The surface turns faintly cloudy, then settles.

Across the records table, the wax-sealed placard catches the lantern light as the hallmaster strides nearer, still calling for order. Bren still has the cup in both hands, waiting for Timothy to decide who carries it next.

Bren stills his hands over the cup, then nods once as if Timothy has finally named a fever plainly.

He lowers his eyes to the herb basket, fingers resting on comfrey and yarrow, careful and unhurried.

Across the hall, the hallmaster's barked orders blur with the scrape of benches, but the records table stays a small island of lantern light.

Bren looks up from the herbs, his expression shifting from clinical concern to a quiet, unsettling recognition that mirrors the intensity in Timothy's own gaze.

Bren stills over the herbs, then gives a slow, careful nod. He does not look away from Timothy.

Bren lowers his voice and folds another pinch of herbs into the cup, his fingers steady but his face drawn with thought. A little of the bitter dust spills onto the table.

Bren's hand jerks, and a pinch of herbs drops from his fingers into the cup. A little green dust scatters across the tablecloth.

He leans closer, pale with alarm, and lowers the cup before anyone can see the tremor in it.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

Timothy keeps his voice low over the table, and the words settle between the herbs and the cup as if they belong there. The hallmaster's shouting stays distant, just another hard edge of the room.

Bren's alarm softens into careful attention. He sets the cup down, reaches for the wax-sealed placard beside the ledger, and glances back to Timothy as though weighing him against the seal.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

Bren tips his head, and the hall feels suddenly larger around the table. His question hangs there while the servants keep moving beyond their lantern pool.

Bren slides the placard nearer the ledger, then folds his hands around it as if it might steady the room. The wax seal catches the lantern light.

Bren looks from Timothy to the placard, then back again, his alarm cooling into something more thoughtful. Around them, the feast preparations continue, but the table between them has become a private tribunal.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

Bren goes still, then turns the placard over in both hands as if weighing its seal against the words he has just heard.

Bren lowers the placard toward the ledger, his mouth tightening. The wax seal catches the lantern glow, bright against the rough table.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

Bren’s brows knit. He looks from the placard to Timothy, then past him toward the bustle of the hall as if measuring how far the lie would carry.

The seminarian goes very still. Across the room, a servant crosses between benches with a trencher, and the hallmaster’s shouting swells, then fades again beneath the scrape of chairs.

Bren sets the wax-sealed placard beside the ledger, careful as a clerk laying down a verdict. His fingers linger on the monastery signet before he lets go.

His voice stays mild, but the decision lands plainly between them. The hall keeps moving around their little island of lamplight, and the feast’s noise now sounds like cover rather than preparation.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

The hallmaster’s voice swells at the far end of the banqueting hall, and the door-side movement draws a fresh ripple through the benches. Timothy lifts the cup into the lantern light as if only keeping it neat for the serving line.

He steps into the Abbey’s attention with a modest bow, then shifts the cup toward the route of the Abbot’s hand, making it the easiest thing to take.

Bren rises at once from the records table, placard and ledger still under the lantern glow, and closes the distance just enough to look like an assistant receiving instruction.

Timothy holds the cup out in plain sight, near enough to the Abbot’s sleeve that taking it looks natural, and the hall’s noise keeps the moment covered.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

From high above the hall, Timothy threads between benches and table ends, the cup steady in his hands as he steps into the Abbot’s path. The murmuring servants keep moving, but the space around the cup narrows to a single, careful offering.

The Abbot reaches for it, and Timothy places the rim into his grasp without jostling the wine. A few drops part from the surface and darken the floorboards, small enough for the hall to ignore but sharp enough to stain Timothy’s sleeve.

Bren stays by the records table, one hand hovering over the placard and ledger, watching the exchange from the lantern glow. The cup leaves Timothy’s hands at last, and the Abbot raises it toward his mouth.

He drinks. His throat works once, then again, as the hall continues its feast around him. Bren’s expression tightens, already measuring the moment in silence.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

Bren lowers the cup from his own sightline and studies Timothy instead of the Abbot. The hall keeps talking around them, but his voice softens as he asks whether Timothy really means to leave this place for a chapel, not just hide from one threat to another.

Bren folds the placard under one arm, careful of the wax seal, and nods toward the side door beyond the benches. The Abbot still stands among the feast dishes, slowed by the draught and busy enough not to notice their private exchange.

He offers Timothy a measured, almost formal look, equal parts caution and welcome. The ledger, the lantern, and the wax-sealed placard remain on the records table behind him as the feast noise rolls on, and Bren waits for Timothy to decide whether to follow him now.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

Bren goes very still, then lowers the placard against his ribs as if it has grown heavier. The feast noise keeps rolling past them, but the color drains from his face while he turns that truth over, once, and accepts it.

He looks past Timothy toward the benches, then back again, and his grip tightens on the wax seal. Around his ankle, a folded strip of twine spills from beneath the placard, marked with the chapel sign in red thread.

Bren sets the placard beside the ledger, leaving it where Timothy can see it, then shifts one step toward the side door and waits. The Abbot remains dulled among the tableware, and the path beyond the benches stands open.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.

Timothy slides from the bench and matches Bren’s step without hesitation. Bren closes his hand around the chapel twine, and the little token flashes red beside the placard before disappearing into his palm.

They move low along the records table, taking a heel of bread, a small wedge of cheese, and a wrapped hunk of dried fruit from the servants’ spread. The hallmaster’s shouts blur under the clatter of dishes, and the Abbot only shifts in his chair, too dulled to notice.

Timothy stays close at Bren’s shoulder as they slip past the benches and through the side door. Night air rushes in, cold and clean, carrying the smell of wet earth beyond the hall.

Behind them, the feast goes on in muffled brightness. Ahead, the chapel path opens dark between the buildings, and Bren quickens into a run, expecting Timothy to follow.

Timothy must choose to either protect the individual from torment or actively engineer their suffering.