Occasionally, lament sank into the hearts of patients as the incessant and never-ending rain descended, and they, though habituated to it, mourn the absence of the moon.

  Regardless of the wet conditions that have persisted for months now, the roads and sidewalks laid surprisingly firm for this era; though Angra pondered, wondering what ‘this era’ meant.

  “This rain was ordained by those in the Heavens,” the old man cried, “The Exalted must be bestowing peace! Please, forgive me! I beg of you!” His wrinkly skin, his red sclera, and his pallid appearance.

  A horrifying state that seemed to be preaching so loudly, yet no one even looked at him. Angra was the only one to pay a glance, yet the man was so scared of simply that. Why?

  Angra recalled the old man’s obese figure in a dimly lit corner of the clinic room. Recalling the memory, a faint guilt permeated his skin and sunk through even the marrow of his bone, irregardless of him not quite grasping why.

  He’d never met the old, grumbling man before. It conceivably had to be a case of overflowing empathy, concluded Angra.

  Though, looking back, Angra should have asked if he was alright. He sighed, exhaustion prevailing, guiding him to lean onto his somewhat new… acquaintance, Hellain.

  The two sat on a bench in a deserted corner of the less-than-noisy city. A faint awkwardness lingered in the air, and Hellain’s brief, momentary, and unending glances didn't save him from the bitter flavor resting on his tongue.

  “Um, following an injury of such a horrid degree, it’s likely it may happen repeatedly. Might I implore you to explain what happened? Although the sinews of the Yard may be troubled, they do help—”

  Angra raised a finger against his own lips, asking for silence. Although his throat was now numb, speaking a little wouldn’t hurt. That was one able clinic.

  A painful sigh pierced through the downpour that pittered and clashed against the grey ground they stood on, lathering both of their faintly shivering frames. No matter where you are, it's easy to get cold when it rains on your frame.

  Hellain’s shut lips were about to attempt talking, so although Angra dithered, he resolutely began to talk. “Speak aptly of the Watchmen. Is to bring all pitiful strangers to justice your vow to Mithra?”

  Hellain sighed and looked at Angra pensively. “Your emphatic tone may easily offend others who lack cognizance, unlike myself.”

  Angra pretended to reflect on his tone before turning his head with a sarcastic expression. “Truthfully, I can’t find a single piece of motivation for me to care.”

  Hellain first held a rather bewildered look before his pale lips curled inwardly and his eyes seemed to crinkle as his shoulders trembled. His eyes full of mirth and gaiety seemed to bring a lightness in Angra’s heart that weighed heavy heretofore.

  Eventually, Hellain couldn’t hold it in anymore.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  His heartfelt laughter bellowed through the quiet and lusterless park, and Angra almost imagined the sun rising through the dull torrent of rain. Angra didn’t know where to place his hands and the same thought raced in his mind: Should he laugh too?

  But the rain quickly engulfed the skin of his hands with water and he looked at it with a faint bemusement.

  They—no—he forgot it was raining.

  Hellain had calmed down a bit, though the avoidance of his eyes seemed to reveal the fragility of his calm.

  “I’m hungry.” Angra looked away, feigning discomfiture. Hellain must be his first cult member. He totally just didn’t want to get out of the rain. Or have an actual friend here.

  “Would you like to visit my temporary abode?” Hellain asked with a wider grin than Angra had ever seen before. Guilt corroded his thoughts and feelings as he recalled his impure intention.

  Sanctity, forgive me, thought Angra. He’s going to use such an inviting individual.

  He nodded and stood up, holding his hands above his head as he looked at the rain with squinting eyes. Angra’s left eye hurt when he looked at the clouds.

  Hellain took out a hidden umbrella from inside his jacket, saying ta-da as if everything was alright. Angra glared and his teeth grinded, wondering why he hid it for such a long time.

  But nonetheless, Hellain’s viridescent eyes seemed trapped in a question as he unfolded the umbrella. A question Angra likely lacked an answer for.

  “I’ll lead the way.” Hellain smiles.

  ———

  Angra leers at the steaming plate of food with a slight reverence. The uncanny texture was unappealing, but its flavor was surprisingly savoury and gentle.

  He chewed it quickly as the taste usually faded after one or three seconds of chewing, but eventually he finished the plate. His stomach ached, but not in hunger.

  Moreso adjustment.

  The torture the feeling of starvation brought was something that only grew with attention; it begged for it and grew with it and wanted it.

  It was really terrible. He sighs with a faint degree of joy and pain, as even mere water he swallows reminds him of the soreness in his throat. Did he have to hurt everywhere? Was this an effect of his prophetic blessing?

  He pushed those thoughts away, he pushed his bowl away, and he scooted his chair back for space.

  Hellain stared at him with a half-finished platter, wondering why he liked it so much. “Have you not eaten?”

  “No.”

  “I’m stupefied.”

  “Sarcasm?”

  “Indeed.”

  Hellain stood up, taking his plate and Angra’s, intending to clean the dishes. “Stay tonight. The rain is unusually sad.”

  Angra looked at him curiously.

  “To Hear No Evil.”

  A solemnity that challenged even the heavy quietude of the outside encapsulated what was once a warm air.

  To Hear No Evil is one of three promises described in the unknown man’s diary. The other two are similar; To See No Evil, and To Speak No Evil.

  It was mostly unknown as to what they entailed, but after hundreds of years those before the current era figured out two rules.

  I: “Evil” is defined by sin. Everything considered sin by the Sovereign who’d blessed you is wholly unperceivable by hearing/sight or you cannot speak of it to anyone. To forcefully listen, look, or speak of the ‘Sin’ is considered Mad. There are punishments regarding forcefully bypassing your promise.

  2: To reveal it to someone doesn’t affect anyone in any way unless revealed to one afflicted with The Curse of Curses.

  It was unknown to Angra what the Curse of Curses was, but in a way he didn’t want to find out.

  Angra’s affliction—that he now understood was just a curse—is apparently called the Curse of Sickness. He would perpetually be sick with something, though it’d eventually leave on its own for something else to replace it.

  But regardless, if Hellain told him his Promise to his Soverign, shouldn’t Angra do the same?

  What was his Promise again?

  “To…” He paused, “Speak No Evil.”

  Hellain’s gaze didn’t change, but soon his lips curved and a smile graced his elegant and defined features.

  He turned around and left the room, leaving Angra to his own devices. Angra just wondered why he mentioned his Promise so arbitrarily.