With a gasp, he released himself and slammed back against the concrete wall. He barely felt his skin scrape against the rough surface.
His knees wavered, and he told himself to drop to the floor and prayer. I am yours to guide, he said to the Lord, turning his face blindly to the heavens as the water still sprayed over him. I’m sorry.
It wasn’t a proper prayer. But he couldn’t catch his breath, and he couldn’t… He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. It didn’t matter. That laugh was inside him, and he couldn’t get down on his knees and lie to his God, even if He would know the truth.
For all Bjorn’s weaknesses, he’d never lied to his Heavenly Father.
It took him too long to stumble out of the shower. Too long to pull himself together and yank on his woven shirt and trousers, loosely cinching the outfit with a leather belt—a touch of himself that he’d never felt guilty about before, and now the smooth, worn material burned his fingertips as he settled it around his hips.
He was overthinking this.
What he needed was to get out of his head—get this imaginary, fantasy woman out of his head—and tackle the next job that was asked of him.
It didn’t take long.
“We need more brothers to attend at the guest house,” Brother Randolf announced as the order gathered for their mid-day meal.
The guest house was the original monastery building, built on a plateau in the valley at the base of the mountain. The monks took turns staffing it, when it was hired out by groups from the capital region, and some groups were more…high-maintenance than others.
“I will do it.” Bjorn stepped forward. Beside him, Mikka sighed and nodded that he would as well. Bjorn waited until they were alone in the kitchen, serving themselves a lunch of soup and hearty bread to tell his friend he didn’t need to volunteer.
“Of course not. Just because I moan about it doesn’t mean I don’t want to go down to the guest house. It’s not the task I mind, it’s the rain.”
Outside, the wind had picked up and the first gusts of sharp, wet sleet were slapping against the window. Late spring was a strange time on the mountain. Warm one minute, freezing the next, and all around them, the small bursts of life trying to pop out of the land—green, yellow, white—kept retreating, hiding from the last vestiges of winter.
Bjorn laughed and filled a heavy earthenware mug with hot water from the simmering pot on the fire. “I admit it wasn’t top of mind when I stepped forward. Tea it is.”
“Like that will make a difference!”
“It can’t hurt,” Bjorn said. “And the guest house has hot chocolate.”
A luxury item never stocked at the monastery. They grew and raised most of their food themselves, but dry goods were brought in from the more populous Eastern Continent, where the capital city was situated. Spices and tea for the brothers. Those as well as chocolate and sugar for their guests.
“Sold. I will stop whining.” Mikka grinned. Easy to please, his friend was.
After lunch, they gathered personal belongings for a few days stay. The guest house was a few hours hike down the mountain, and the brothers that staffed it typically stayed for a week. Since they were going down mid-week, they’d probably come back on the sixth day, with the other brothers.
Their guests would be on their own for meals on the seventh day, and invited up the path for a high-noon prayer service if they wished.
For Bjorn and his brethren, it would be a day of worship and reflection. The restless itch at the back of his neck and the roiling guilt in his gut reminded him he needed it more this week than he had in a long time.
Mikka did an excellent job distracting him on the first leg of the descent, chatting about the upcoming planting season and the stores of canned food they had left in the larder, and they made good time.
After they’d stopped at a stream to refill their water bottles, Mikka turned the conversation to what they’d find down at the guest house. “Do you know anything about the new visitors?”
Bjorn did not; nor did he care. “I’m sure they are like the others. Curious about the dragons.”
The original monastery building had been built more than a hundred years earlier by the first settlers to the continent—a Scandinavian sect of religious observers who found more freedom sharing a planet with the hedonistic Viking explorers than the FedNat-governed world state back on Earth.
Five years ago, when they finished the more secluded sanctuary and residence at the top of the mountain pass, they decided to open up the original building for retreats and educational trips. The funds raised helped them provide support to the Simple Lifers who lived completely off the land, further north on their wild, barren continent, and protect the great, flying beasts that drew so much attention from tourists.