Once upon a time, the legends say, there was in the Kingdom of Moor a church whose stained glass windows wept; if you drank the their tears, say the same legends, the gods would bestow upon you a miracle – that which you desired most would become yours.
Pilgrims soon began to gather, and if at first their desires were noble, the more people that came, the more tainted the wishes of their hearts were. And thus one fated day the windows stopped weeping; only when one the saints within them judged virtuous approached did they began their mourn anew. Many came, and many were turned away by the coldness of the immovable glass. Some tired to break them, but the windows did not budge, as if enchanted. Others resorted to remaining inside the chapel for days on end, kneeling and praying for clemency –
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His bones hadn 't felt the chill the way they did now, but his lungs remembered: the cold had been terrible, and he was tempted to say now it was even worse.
“Do you want my cloak, Father?” asked his companion. “I 'm not really that cold.”
“Lying is a sin, Brother,” the old man said in lieu of reply, chuckling. “I can hear your teeth clattering.”
Brother James flushed red all the way to the tips of his ears. “Well,” he started. “I might be cold, but you have greater need of it.”
His concern is waved off with a swipe of the priest 's hand. “Aish, as if. Besides, we are almost there.”
“At least let me carry your share of coal, then,” the monk insisted.
“If there were such a thing as too kind, Brother, you would be it. I might be old, but that does not make me helpless – and we all must work for our share of bread, you know.”
Brother James sighed deeply from within his chest, choosing to say nothing.
The church 's looming silhouette comes into view, peeking up from between the thick, snow covered