The cardinal lay before his altar. Weeping. His hands had been interlaced around prayer beads, woody and hefty in his grasp. Thick trails of sweet smoke—burnt from a strong incense, myrrh—danced about a dimly lit room and candleflame flickered as its tongues of fire leapt up against cracked stone walls. Eyes watched the back Mattia’s head. In the early hours of the night he had rattled off the repetitive prayer with ease, but when it grew late he choked on every word. Sticky, foamy spit stuck to the top of his tongue. He hadn’t tasted water since beginning.
SaSaint Lothar’s portrait had been propped up above the door and looked upon Mattia in his prayer. The icons of the Four Exalted remained steadfast in their absolute glory, unflinching as the splintered font.
“Pater noster…”
He started again with a croak, but the words couldn’t be spoken anymore. A shuddering cough rattled him. His weak body collapsed and the man fell into a terrible sleep. Fever struck him that night. Strewn across cracked cobbles and only kept warm by a cassock, Mattia of Tyria wouldn’t wake rested.
The candles burnt to a nub and the smoke stopped flowing.