Bursting through the door, the room of clergymen fell silent. The muscles in my right arm flinched under the weight of the bucket of cool water. A piece of my shirt ripped, John’s eyes fell to the exposed slither of skin of my abdomen. Balling my left hand into a fist earned his attention as well. There, wrapped tight across my palm, was the other piece of my shirt. My fingers hid the blisters I had allowed to be born when flesh met sun-scorched metal. Let this be a reminder of John’s own endurance.

Never will I forget he became a priest worthy of carrying the symbol of the Church burnt into his back.

“Did you hurt yourself?” John’s brow furrowed, but behind him the branding iron was glowing red hot. “Do you need–”

“No, I’m fine.” Forcing my eyes back to his, I redirected him. “I made sure the water was cold.”

John gave a half-hearted smile. “Then let’s get this over quickly.”

He had moved the table and chairs closer to the fire already. Standing, John began to unbutton the black overcoat only worn by priest. Tossing it over the back of his chair, he pushed it to the table. Next, he pulled the white blouse off. I held my breath, taking in his athletic build for the first time. Like my own skin, he had signs of sword practice which meant he had befriended Valiente to learn what his grandfather hadn’t been willing to teach him. John then unbuckled his belt and I swallowed.

“It helps to bite on leather, I’m told.” John’s voice pulled my eyes off his hands and back to his face. “Some have bitten their tongues off. A farewell tip from Bishop Montgomery.”

I paled, John handing his belt to me, “What am I to do for you?”

“Hold my arms.” John straddled the chair, reaching his arms across the table, hands balled. “As long as you hold me firm and still, this should be over quickly.”

“You won’t feel the hot iron but smell the burning flesh first.” Bishop Marquis carried a grave look, it hadn’t been his first time performing the rite. “The pain comes when air hits the mark when we lift the iron.”

Jonas grimaced, “This is so barbaric. I cut my braid and devoted myself to the Bishop rather than endure the rite to be a priest . It’s cruel.”

“Enough,” Barked John, taking charge of the room. “It is my rite and I am ready.”

I stood watching Jonas and the Bishop struggling to pull the cross from the hearth.

“Dante.”

The old man had made it large enough to double as a blacksmith’s fire, never know when you’ll have to go to war again.

“Dante.”

PING! Bishop Marquis’ hand slips, the corner of the cross hitting against the stone slap of the hearth. Jonas curses under his breath, shoving it back into the flames to regain lost heat.

“Dante!” John’s fingers grip my shirt, tugging me closer. “Pay no mind to them.”

“But, shouldn’t I go help them?” Panic written all over my face, I protested, “If they can’t lift the wretched thing, what point is there?”

“Look at me, not them.” I did as he commanded, my eyes locking with his. “Gimme the belt and hold my arms. I don’t even know how strong my will is for something like this.”

I gave a disapproving tilt of my head, shoving the leather into his mouth. Grabbing his forearms, they were slick with a cold sweat. He was nervous, scared even despite the powerful composure he put on for the Bishop. My eyes began to wonder back to the bumbling fools, but John flexed his arm muscles and furrowed as if saying, stop it. The glow and heat of the cross approached. I refused to look, though they seemed to be holding it steady this time. Without any warning red hot metal hit flesh. John’s muscles stiffened, his teeth digging into the belt, but he kept silent.

Stubborn as a mule, that one… the old man would have laughed over it.

The cabin filled the sound of sizzling flesh against metal like bacon on a frying pan. Beads of sweat popped and sputtered against the edges. Worst, the smell was unnatural, and I bit the inside of my cheek still watching John, and John watching me. The glow of the hot iron was starting to dissipate.

“We need to pull this off, Bishop,” Jonas warned.

Shuffling back, they pulled away with speed. John lurched up, but my hands held him firm to the table. The wooden panels creaked under my weight. He tried jerking free, his head shaking like a wild animal as he screamed through the clenched belt. The cross clunked back into the fire, what little flesh stuck to it eaten away by the flames. John’s chest heaved, sweat pouring over him as the skin on his back hissed till it fell silent. Jonas didn’t look back once during the throws, just kept his focus on stoking the fire and glaring at the cross with disgust. Bishop Marquis held a sickening smile, glaring at the handiwork on John’s back.

“I don’t think anyone has ever held so still for one.” Bishop Marquis complimented, John’s muscles relaxing and he slumped forward on the table. “This will be the prize branding. Wear it proudly Father John.” He turned his stare to me. “The water. We need to cleanse the cross and cool it so we can leave this grovel.”

My temper was pressing forward, “One moment.”

John had given up the fight, panting from the pain echoing through him. I let go and turned to where I left the spring water. Ripping my shirt further, I pulled it off and dumped it in the pail.

“We have no need of a dirty shirt!” I ignored the Bishop’s outburst.

Satisfied it had soaked up all it could bare, I turned back to John. The wet blouse blanketed across his entire back. John opened his eyes, looking at me in wonder. I smiled, knowing he had gained some relief. Turning back, I handed over the rest of the water to the red-faced bishop. He shoved it into Jonas’s arms and began poking my chest.

“What insolence!” Grunting, I took a step back and threw my hands up. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Serving my keeper.” I declared, a coy grin sliding across my face. “Is that not my purpose?”

“Uh!” Bishop Marquis’s cheeks ballooned out before he found something to say. “Who on earth trained this daemon!”

John started to laugh, though wincing from his efforts. “The warhero, Lord Knight Paul Thompson.”

“Wh-what?” The Bishop’s face paled, looking jaundice over the answer. “You can’t be… there are no accounts of him training a daemon servant nor having family.”

“Oh, he trained me, and with that sword leaning by the stove.” I watched Bishop Marquis’ eyes fall on the hilt and scabbard of the claymore and a shudder rattled through him. “Lord Knight Paul.” His eyes fell to my bare chest and abdomen scattered with sword slashes. “He trained you to do what exactly?”

John sat up, pulling the corners of my broken blouse over his shoulders. “I suggest you and Jonas be at the horses by the time he finishes refilling the bucket with water. Otherwise, you’ll get to see firsthand what my Grandfather taught him to do with the sword he gave to him.”

“Jonas.” He was shaking in a mixture of rage and fear, “What’s taking so long?”

The Bishop started for the door. Jonas fumbled with the bucket before splashing it on the cross and firepit. He dragged it along, scoring the wooden floor and painting it with wet ash. They half-ran to their horses, the steam still rolling off the iron cross in a few places. I turned back to see John lean back on the table, closing his eyes. Walking to the hearth, I groaned.

“What’s your problem?” John spoke without moving an eyelid.

Squatting, I nudged the puddle in the fire with the poker. “It looks like we’re out of luck for having a fire tonight.”

“I’ve had enough of fires.” I walked back to him only to find he had fallen asleep.

Outside the two clergymen were arguing, horses squealing. Grabbing up the bucket I opened the cabin door. They froze, silent now as they climbed on the horses and galloped back the way they came. Smiling, I headed to get more water to soothe John’s burns. Tomorrow I would dry out the hearth and see to it he kept the burns clean and free of infection.

Maybe the buzz buttons have started blooming, if he’s lucky. They were always good for numbing a bad burn.