After the wolf pack left, the wind and snow subsided slightly. They packed up their armor and resud their journey, but kept their weapons at hand.
Cyren stuffed that double-barreled shotgun inside his coat to guard against possible danger.
The wounded guard Kyle was now hanging his head low, trailing at the back of the group. When told to do things, he would do them, but always with a dejected look, like so wandering spirit following the group.
After one sled-pulling shift change, Cyren walked to his side and handed him a small piece of bread.
It had been baked soft by the holy fire and gave off a fragrant aroma, with only the outer layer frozen hard by the wind and snow.
"Not hungry," he said.
Cyren tossed the bread into his own mouth, "How is it, self-torture quite pleasurable, isn't it?"
Kyle raised his head, looking at him uncomprehendingly, so anger flashing in his eyes.
"Not eating, deliberately keeping your head down, deliberately limping, seeing the wolf pounce toward you and deliberately being half a beat slow, intentionally creating pain for yourself... feels pleasant, doesn't it? Enjoynt mixed within suffering," Cyren said while chewing the bread.
Kyle's face flushed sowhat. He really wanted to refute it. No, it's not like that. I'm in too much pain. My brother died before my eyes. Why am I still alive? Only that pain can make feel a bit better. Only deliberately punishing myself can ease my guilt.
But hidden at the very depths of that behavior, was there enjoynt?
"No one is willing to bear pure suffering. The suffering you willingly repeat again and again is all suffering with enjoynt," Cyren patted his shoulder. "Do you feel like your brother's shadow is still watching you? Deliberately performing pain and guilt manifested in your body. Ah, what a good younger brother, what deep brotherly affection. I'm in so much pain I could die, everyone co look at . There's hidden pleasure in that, isn't there?"
Kyle's whole body trembled, as if his darkest secret had been rcilessly exposed. He suddenly had nowhere to hide his sha.
But Cyren removed the cross from his pocket and placed it in his hand.
"Your brother has been watching you, but he's at your side, not behind you," he said with a smile. "Everyone suffers from symptoms. This isn't a problem. Try to coexist with it, even make it sothing that supports your aning."
Kyle was at a loss for words, "Bishop Cyren..."
Cyren patted his hand, "When you feel sad, grip the cross tightly. God is always with you."
Kyle silently gripped the cross, as if gripping a quiet world.
There, his brother's soul smiled and guided him forward. God watched him from heaven, bestowing blessings upon him.
Only that God seed very similar to Bishop Cyren.
"Let's rest. It's already evening," Cyren said.
When the train t disaster, it was after eight in the morning, but now it was nine in the evening. After eleven hours of trudging, they had traveled twelve miles.
At this pace, they should be able to reach Spessay before tomorrow evening.
They cleared out a section of rail tracks, they relied entirely on the tracks to determine direction in the heavy snow, then set up a tent on top.
They wedged the sled onto the tracks, then inserted wooden stakes into the pre-set grooves in the sled's center as a central pillar to prop up a relatively large thick canvas.
The four corners were nailed down with iron nails, then weighed down with accumulated snow. A simple peaked pyramid-shaped tent was complete.
All six people slept on the central sled, while supplies were placed in the narrow spaces at the four corners.
[Holy Fire] was kindled, and the interior gradually beca warm. More conveniently, this sacred fire wouldn't produce combustion byproducts.
Matilda pulled out an iron pot from the supplies and threw in snow water, potatoes, and dried at to cook. There was no seasoning whatsoever, but fortunately the at was salted at, so it wouldn't be too bland.
The iron pot made "gurgle gurgle" bubbling sounds. Orange-red flas burned in the narrow interior. The wind and snow howled outside the tent. At this mont, that rare tranquility made people feel at ease, even wanting to shed tears.
No one spoke. They sat silently. The sudden apocalypse and disaster had already exhausted them. They just quietly enjoyed this peaceful mont.
Before long, that pot of hodgepodge stew was ready. Matilda broke up the bread and threw it in. It absorbed the broth of the potato and at soup, which reminded Cyren of lamb paomo, making him feel warm all over.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes, then took the hands of Sam and Matilda beside him. Thus all six people joined hands, sitting in a circle around the pot, lowering their heads and closing their eyes together.
Cyren spoke in a low voice, "Our Father in heaven, who has again prepared this daily food for us, we ask you to purify this food, making it nourishnt for our bodies and souls, and we also ask you to rember those who are still in hunger at this ti. We pray in your holy na."
Then everyone said together, "An."
They released hands, but their hearts seed to have drawn closer. These people who didn't know each other were connected together by a disaster, a march, a al, and a prayer.
Cyren still didn't know where so people ca from, but at this mont they all had a common identity.
The sounds of spoons and chewing ca. People's faces finally showed so smiles. The wind and snow outside the tent still roared furiously, but could no longer affect this tiny glimr of light.
The hodgepodge soup was really quite ordinary to Cyren. Even the fries at that coffee shop when he had just transmigrated were better than this, but in this environnt, having a pot of hot soup was the greatest happiness.
After cleaning up after the al, they slept on the sled. Sam was placed in the very center, with the others sleeping beside him. But the sled's space was still too small, so Cyren wrapped himself in a pile of cotton clothes and went to sleep on the tracks below.
But shortly after lying down, Sam let out a low pained moan. Then rustling sounds ca. Matilda had also co to sleep on the tracks.
"What's wrong?" Cyren asked drowsily, propping himself up.
"When turning over, I pressed on his wound," Matilda burrowed into her sleeping bag. "I was right next to his severed leg. It's too crowded up there."
"Oh." Cyren closed his eyes.
Matilda looked at his newly closed eyes. His long black eyelashes trembled slightly. She asked in a small voice, "Are all graduates of Florence University like you?"
"In what respect?"
She looked into Cyren's eyes and laughed, "Very cowardly."
"Cowardly?" Cyren opened his eyes, looking at her in surprise.
"Yes, these are people you just t, yet you carefully guard their souls, not wanting anyone to suffer," she said, looking at Cyren's blue pupils, which reflected her own orange-red long hair. "If that's the case, how can you accomplish great things?"
"I've never thought about accomplishing any great things," Cyren turned over, his back to her.
"But you're a bishop," she said softly. "You'll have many believers. You'll manage and even rule many people. Your going to Spessay ans shouldering such responsibility and destiny."
"..."
"You know that story, right? God told Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac to God. If it were you, what would you do?"
"I'd tell God to get lost," Cyren said in a muffled voice, his whole person stuffy in the sleeping bag.
Matilda laughed, then the tent fell into silence.
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