B-ronken-R-ing 159...

***

Cárcel advanced down the long, narrow corridor, stepping into the heart of the cathedral's grand nave. The expansive space stretched from the majestic altar to the Door of Forgiveness, through which the faithful entered. A small door meant for young priests and altar servers near the middle of the structure required him to duck slightly to enter.

As the door closed behind with a soft thud, Cárcel took a moment to survey the sacred space without acknowledging Emiliano. Sunlight streamed through the lofty stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the floor. The ceiling, mostly plain gray, bore no decorations or frescoes, yet evoked a quiet reverence. While Cárcel's gaze traversed the ceiling, Emiliano slowly removed his work apron and folded it with precision.

After a moment, Cárcel strode past the painter toward the chancel. The statues of the Eight Apostles stood against the pillars lining the walls, their stony eyes seemingly staring down at him. Dominating the space behind the altar, a grand statue, still unfinished, showcased its delicate chiseled contours. A tall ladder leaned against an extensive scaffold large enough to accommodate several men lying side by side. Cárcel's attention settled on the vibrant hues of a fresco that spread out from the scaffold like a flame. It was merely a fragment of an enormous sacred fresco destined to reach higher on the ceiling once finished. The unadorned gray stone walls already bore the preliminary sketches, extending down to the lower wall to complement the majestic carving piece.

"Magnificent," Cárcel remarked softly.

"Thank you," Emiliano responded after a moment of hesitation.

"I imagine t will be even more splendid in five years."

"Yes... that is our expected timeline." Emiliano's gentle, sweet voice matched his appearance, but it carried a note of strain.

One might assume he was overwhelmed by the honor and gravity of his commission or intimidated by the unexpected presence of such a noble guest. However, none of these assumptions held true.

For they were not strangers, not entirely.

"Do you have any friends or family in Calztela?" Cárcel asked abruptly. "If not, I am intrigued why you journeyed all the way from Oligarchia three...no, four years ago to entrust that pendant to the jeweler without any intent of selling it."

When no immediate response came, Cárcel turned around to face Emiliano. He studied the man wearing a coarse, blue flax shirt stained with oil paint. Emiliano's light brown hair covered his forehead, and he was clenching his soiled apron in his hand. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing slender yet muscular arms, the tension in his forearms making his hands grow pale. Cárcel's gaze lingered there for a moment before slowly rising.

To his displeasure, the painter exuded an air of innocence. Cárcel almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation as he asked, "Have you ever been to Perez before you visited Calztela?"

"No. I have heard of it, but I have never been there myself," Emiliano answered.

Cárcel sensed Emiliano's reluctance to discuss his former existence. He also knew better than to take reckless risks. Maintaining an impassive expression, he locked eyes with Emiliano. "Around eight to twelve years ago," he pressed on, disregarding Emiliano's response entirely.

While Cárcel kept his words grounded in the present lifetime, his mind teemed with unvoiced questions. He deemed the people of "that life" as nonexistent, and he knew that Emiliano's history extended far beyond his own. Still, he wanted to know if Emiliano held any knowledge of those four years in Inés's life, beginning eight years ago when she turned eighteen. It was during those years that she had distanced herself from everybody until she shut herself off entirely from the rest of the world. Cárcel wanted to ask Emiliano if he knew about the depths of the loneliness she had endured in Perez, especially when he was but a humble painter lacking both the cause and the right to inquire into such personal matters.

Cárcel was fully aware of the implications of his abrupt question. By asking about Emiliano's presence in Perez, he was allusively asking if Emiliano had indeed played a part in that old tale-one that seemed more like a fever dream than anything else. In that narrative, Emiliano would have been the humble assistant of a painter, sent to the Castle of Perez under imperial orders to paint a portrait of the daughter of Duke Valeztena. There would have been less than a hundred days remaining until the young lady was to marry the crown prince, to whom she had long been betrothed.

Cárcel regarded Emiliano, who stood as motionless as a mural facing the sea, weathered by the costal breeze.

What am I hoping to achieve here? Cárcel thought with a touch of self-reproach. Even if he confined his questions to his present existence instead of probing into what might be nothing more than a figment of his imagination, it would still be utterly foolish. However, his unspoken inquiries continued to plague him.

Did the two of you find each other again in this lifetime? Did you dedicate those years to one another...to become lovers once more?

Finally, Emiliano responded, "I never once set foot in that city." Suddenly, Cárcel was reminded of what Lourdes had said: "We do not receive any support while we are on the sacred ground of Bilbao. However, we are both planning on pledging our loyalty to them again once we are done here. After all, we have never managed to pay them back for supporting us for so long."

Cárcel simply wished to ask Inés, Did you choose me this time because you needed a man easier to dispose of than the crown prince? Did you want me for my family's name, nothing else? Or... did you simply need somebody to take you away from your parents and hide that man from your family?

Please do not tell me that you only came to me because you wanted a man who would let you go without a fight... Please don't say that you have always planned on returning to your true love.

Long ago, Inés had told him, "I meant it when I said that I don't mind whoever you may be with. After all, I don't care about you..."

Cárcel imagined himself back in Mendoza, lying in bed in the early morning with Inés slumbering peacefully in his arms.

Gazing at her face in his memories, he whispered, My poor, lovely Inés... You judged wrong when you chose me. You should have hidden yourself from me. You should have never allowed me to know that feeling of becoming whole with your embrace...that awe of having you kiss me and smile for me. But it is too late now. I already know how it feels to have you, and to be yours. I have already bathed in that glorious feeling of being chosen by you. Now I have fallen in love with you, and it is all too late.

You should have run from me, Inés...

Cárcel laughed at himself under his breath, his lips twisting before settling back into a cold, stern line. "If you were not there during those four years, Inés must have loved you on her own... or she must have been mourning for you despite the fact that you are no longer dead."

"Your Lordship."

Cárcel figured that he had already made a fool of himself. "Do you remember me, then?"

The aggressive inquiry served no real purpose. After all, even Lourdes had never managed to discern Cárcel's identity, and Emiliano had only been told that Cárcel was a noble knight on an errand for House Escalante. However, Emiliano had just addressed Cárcel with his proper name as if he had always known it.

Emiliano's brown eyes were obedient and gentle as he stared back at Cárcel. However, he remained completely silent as if to say, I must not say anything regarding this matter.

Once again, Cárcel released a silent, mocking laugh, wondering if Emiliano feared he would end up putting Inés in a difficult position. It was a bit too late for that, he thought.

In a way, it felt like Emiliano was worried that Cárcel would try to learn everything about his wife's former lover and use it as a pretext to harm her. Many men would indeed choose such a path. A part of Cárcel was oddly relieved that the painter was intelligent enough to exercise some caution against him. In fact, he was grateful that Emiliano had not chosen to latch onto Inés and drag her back into that hell again... so grateful that he hadn't slithered into the Castle of Perez to seize her heart again-

A roaring pain coursed through his brain. Cárcel tried his best to ignore his splitting headache, making a poor attempt to reignite his memory. He wanted to yell at Emiliano, but at the same time, he felt childish.

That weak, foolish man was trying to stand his ground against Cárcel despite the obvious difference in power and status, solely to protect Inés. He was placing himself between Cárcel and Inés, as if concerned that Cárcel would hurt her... as if he cared for her more than anybody else in the world...

As if he still loved her.

Cárcel strode forward, closing the distance between himself and the artist. "How much do you remember about me, Emiliano?"

He thought to himself that it might be best if he never discovered the answer. He could enjoy the blissful ignorance of never knowing the genuine, horrible love that she had shared with another man. He could lie to himself and believe that their marriage had been based on something real, fooling himself into thinking that she still wanted him.

It would be laughably easy for him to kill Emiliano where he stood. He could simply reach out and strangle the artist, crushing him like an ant underfoot. If Emiliano hadn't made those irritating efforts to protect Inés, Cárcel would not have hesitated to snap his neck.

He wouldn't have been able to forgive Emiliano if Inés had wasted her youth on some rotten man. She deserved to be treated like the most precious existence in the world, even if Emiliano was a former lover.

But... does that matter? This man couldn't even protect himself or his wife...

"Your Lordship, I..." Emiliano began, then sighed. Instead of answering Cárcel's question, he simply asked, "How much do you remember?"

Emiliano's wife, Inés... no, she had been Juana at the time, the name that she had used to hide her identity...

Cárcel recalled how "Juana" had looked with that newborn in her arms, waiting for Emiliano at a small port in Sevilla. He released a soft snort devoid of any kind of joy as he repeated the alias in his mind.

That baby had looked just like that damn painter and Inés. Cárcel still remembered how the baby had laughed at him joyfully, completely ignorant to the parents' suffering. What happened to that child in the end? Didn't Inés...

The fog that obscured his memories lifted slightly, then settled once again.

Emiliano continued, "Unfortunately, I have been cursed to remember everything that happened to me."