Crynne

Crynne

He called me a whore. He spit the word in disgust, as though I had something to be ashamed of. As though I were less. No matter that I was forced into this by the Church, by his father.

A father, no less, whom was charged to a life of celibacy by the Church. A father who turned his back. A father who refused to recognize his own son.

Majere had so much promise. So much potential. All wasted on the politics of the Church; all wasted on trying to make a pious man redeem himself - and admit, with pride: "Majere is my son".

Bishop Valetti would never do that, though. Majere refused to see. He just kept trying, hoping. All for naught.

Now Majere is dead. By my hand, you say. But you're wrong.

Majere, once a proud, noble innocent, began to change. He knew what the inner circle was up to. He knew of the acts committed by Aldoux and Beddleton. He knew of Bishop Dominick y'Nobe's connection to the brothel. He figured, with moral decay and corruption already rampant in the Church, that there was no need to argue. So he gave up.

We became involved. It was more than a weekly meeting, but much less than a marriage. Until he confessed that he loved me. Those were words that I had longed to hear, but had lost meaning due to life in the brothel. Rather than smile slightly as a modern, proper lady, I laughed. It was the harsh, hardened laughter of disbelief. I assumed that he was lying.

He wasn't.

When I laughed, he became angry. He thought of us as partners, as lovers. He felt that I was the only one who understood him. He was going to propose. When I laughed, he felt betrayed.

He accused me of using him to further my own interests. He accused me of using the face of the Church - and the knowledge of the inner circle - to be invited to the best parties, dressed in the finest clothes, introduced to the richest and most powerful men. Then he called me a useless whore.

He gave me no chance to explain. No chance to tell him that I loved him, too. He merely assumed that my laugh was one of disdain. He gave me no chance to tell him of YOUR actions, YOUR assumptions, YOUR force to make me into what I became. I was no whore.

I was filled with such rage that I lost myself for a moment. When I came to, Majere was dead. I was holding the knife that killed him. I did NOT do this. I did NOT take his life.

It was Bishop Janiff. I told him in confession that I am left handed, not something one admits in polite society. When I came to, the knife was carefully placed in my left hand.

What the Bishop did NOT know, however, is that while I write with my left hand, I cut with my right.