After yet another night passes, the hidden chapel once again welcomes the light of day.
Time passes, reaching near to midday, and the grassy courtyard holds its quiet with a patience born of humility.
Sentinel: ...
The awaited figure finally appears at the forest's edge. She's spent the night tending to her wounds.
Female Gargoyle: My, Marie, thou hast returned!
She holds back the urge to embrace her family—her arms are filled with a silver tray of coffee and pastries.
Sentinel: Coffee?
Female Gargoyle: Yes, just to thy liking—no milk, no sugar. There are also vanilla macarons and Mont Blanc besides.
The bright colors of the pastries feel all the more surreal for the darkness she has gone through.
Sentinel takes the warm coffee from her aunt's hands and takes a small sip in disbelief. Of course, it's far from the quality of a Parisian café, but at this moment, it is more than enough.
Sentinel: Where did you get these desserts?
The woman clasps her hands together, wearing a faint, bittersweet smile.
Female Gargoyle: Look, who is here, my sweetie.
Sentinel takes notice of the tall figure stepping into view—a face she has not seen for a long time.
Immanuel: Marianne.
Sentinel: Father.
Sentinel: What brought you here?
Immanuel: A pardon hath been issued by the president. Thou art free.
Immanuel: As for Ladislas, he is gravely ill. His stubbornness was ever bound to lead to trouble.
He ends the topic with mild discontent.
Immanuel: Hmph. To answer thy question: I am here to gather ye. We are to depart.
Sentinel: So, you are now the leader of the clan?
Immanuel: Verily. After all we have suffered under this war, someone must lead the Ténébrun family's reconstruction. I seek to re-establish contact with those of our kin with whom we have lost fellowship.
Immanuel: The hand of Manus Vindictae has not yet fallen upon Paris. I have purchased a number of dwellings in Montmartre. They are to be our temporary homes until the conflict between the Manus and the Foundation reaches its end.
The Ténébrun patriarch makes an imperturbable gesture as he turns to face Agnès.
Immanuel: Agnès shall be sent to our cemetery in Rouen.
Sentinel: Cemetery?
She cannot—or will not—accept the words.
Sentinel: But Agnès is not dead; she's simply ... Ladislas said there was a reason behind her—
Marianne raises her eyes and meets her father's mournful gaze.
Immanuel: This is what comes of disrespecting tradition, Marianne. Thou wert too easily swayed by Ladislas's maddened words.
Sentinel: He lied to us?
Immanuel: Nay. I believe not that such was his intent. He was simply too fervent in his pursuit of Gnosis.
Immanuel: There is no record in the family archives that suggests any sort of prophecy should befall our kin in so strange a form.
Immanuel: Agnès's condition is the result of a tragic accident, nothing more. There is no divine meaning behind it whatsoever.
Immanuel: Her fear of the war was too great. She simply faltered in the casting of her arcane skill and petrified her body to the core.
Immanuel: That is all.
Sentinel: ...
Immanuel: I know well that Agnès meant a great deal to both Ladislas and thee, but she was only an ordinary child. She was not an angel descended from heaven.
Immanuel: Though it doth bring sorrow for me to say, we must all come to accept that no miracle shall ever come to Agnès—she will forever remain a statue.
He reaches out to take his daughter's shoulder, already bearing too many burdens.
Their conversation falls away into a pensive silence before the "statue" of Agnès.
He is the first to leave, attending to more pressing matters—several moving trucks are already parked outside the church.
Trembling chains pierce the air.
Sentinel: ...?
Ladislas: Marianne, thou hast returned. How ...?
He staggers forward, as if pushed by some invisible force, drawing closer to Sentinel.
In his palm lies a chain that glints coldly in the sunlight.
Sentinel: S**t, I thought Father was only ... Have you truly fallen ill?
Ladislas: That I have. But what of thee, Marianne? Art thou not in a condition far graver than my own? Or art thou simply too blind to see it?
He babbles on. With every word, his madness grows. There seems to be no trace of his old humility left.
Ladislas: Thy soul is stained with the wickedness of sin! Thou art as miserable as I ... O Lord, I-I can smell the stench of hell upon thee ...
Ladislas: Thou hast passed through the gates of hell and returned, Marianne ... How wretched ...
Sentinel: You are ill, Ladislas. Gravely so.
Sentinel: Take a moment's rest in the quiet of a sanatorium upon reaching Paris, won't you? It ought to do you good.
Ladislas squints like a child sharing a secret.
Ladislas: Perhaps I shall. But thou wilt not return with us, wilt thou?
Sentinel: I am yet undecided. Perhaps I will ...
Ladislas: Nay. Nay. Thou must not! Thou must never return!
Sentinel: Why?
Ladislas: I see that which others cannot, and I see it in thee. Thou art not who thou once wast! Inside thee, there is ...
Ladislas: A demon, the demon which doth linger in our veins. It hath opened its eyes, its wretched eyes!
Ladislas: Aaagghh!
Ladislas howls in pain, his body shaking violently. The chain in his hand clatters and rings.
Ladislas: Thou cannot return—cannot turn back! For there is no path left for thee ...
Ladislas: But ... but I desire naught more than to aid thee, my dear cousin. Yea, I shall help us all, but most especially thee—to atone for my transgressions ...
The shaking stops, and all at once, he bows with a gesture of utter submission, presenting the chain before her.
Sentinel: Ladislas?
Ladislas: These shackles are a soul-binding chain—a cage, yea, but I beg thee accept them.
Ladislas: And I shall devote my life to prayer over thee—both night and day—that thy soul shall not be shaded in eternal darkness.
Sentinel: ...
Ladislas: May thy blood be washed clean one day. May it nourish the soil when thou art laid to rest. May thy journey to hell yet be graced by God's mercy.
Another not-so-light burden to serve as a constant reminder of the limits of evil.
Sentinel: And if I refuse these shackles?
Ladislas: It mattereth not. I shall pray for thee still, as I have ever done.
A sudden impulse moves her to look at the statue of Agnès.
Ladislas: ...
At last, she takes the chain.
The metal hangs in her hand; its weight feels far greater than its size would merit.
Sentinel: Tell my father that I will not return.
Sentinel: Until the true conflict is brought to an end.
