I take of my cloak as I walk into the temple. Father Patrick is kneeled in front of the cross, praying with his hands bowed. I don't necessarily believe in God or anything of the sort, but religion is a major part of all important procedures; belief, or no belief.
The scent of burnt incense fills the room, and smells delightful. I bow my head respectfully, because I do not know what else to. I was raised to believe in the gods my forefathers believed in. There are too many to even remember, but the Son Of Man was definitely not one of them.
I wait until Father Patrick has finished praying. He turns to me with a warm smile, taking my hands in his.
“Father Patrick,” I smile back.
“What's your name, young maiden?” he asks gently.
Father Patrick is a gentle old soul who I met as the
