Page 6 of Where the Dark Knelt (Worshipped by Darkness #1)

Eveline

First day in the Monastery

At parting, my father simply took my face in his hands and kissed my forehead.

“May the Lord protect you,” he whispered. Then he turned and left without another word, without even glancing back at me. Just like that, he was gone, leaving me standing alone with Eata in the vast echoing hall.

Eata didn’t say anything. She only nodded, her braids swaying slightly, and gestured for me to follow her.

We walked in silence through narrow, dark corridors illuminated by flickering candlelight.

The monastery was old, ancient really, and there was no electricity here.

None was needed. As Eata explained in her quiet, calm voice, the nuns went to bed by 8 p.m. every day.

Early sunsets would be all I saw from the small window in what could only be called my dungeon.

Because that’s what it was. A dungeon.

My room held a single narrow bed, a wooden table, and a bedside cabinet.

That was it. Everything was modest to the point of asceticism.

But I had no belongings to unpack anyway.

My father had taken everything from me before we came.

My phone, my last connection to the world, was gone too.

At first, I hadn’t understood the meaning of anything without it.

No social media. No news. No endless scrolling to numb my thoughts.

But as I stood there in silence, part of me felt…

relief. There was nothing left to chase, no one left to compare myself to.

All that “successful success” people bragged about, it died in the silence of that confiscated phone, left behind in a life I no longer wanted.

Communicating with my parents through letters now seemed almost poetic. Like a ritual from a past century. Maybe… maybe it would be interesting.

Eata opened the bedside cabinet and took out a black leather-bound notebook with a silver cross embossed on the cover. The leather looked old and soft, shaped to her fingers as she held it.

“We make these diaries ourselves,” she said. “Then we sell them to parishioners who come on weekends, when the monastery opens its gates to them for choir services, local wines, delicacies, and prayer.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, running my fingertips over the cool silver cross. The notebook felt warm where her hand had held it.

Eata smiled slightly, handing me a sleek black gel pen. “Yes. We can’t make everything here ourselves, but this will do.”

I nodded, tucking the pen inside the notebook’s cover. I didn’t really understand what I would write in it. I had stopped keeping diaries long ago. Life had stopped being exciting when I was eleven. Then it became routine, dull, monotonous, just a grey blur where nothing ever happened.

What could I possibly write now?

I stared at the empty first page.

From the bottom shelf of the bedside table, Eata took out a long black dress and a set of snow-white underwear. Simple waist-length panties and a sports-style bra, no wires or unnecessary padding. Perfect.

I had small breasts, size three, last I measured, which was probably back in ninth grade.

They hadn’t grown since then. Honestly, bras with underwires always felt like medieval torture devices to me, stabbing into my ribs and leaving angry red marks on my skin.

I gave up on them a long time ago and switched entirely to sports bras.

It felt like freedom, a tiny escape from the constant discomfort life otherwise brought.

“As soon as you change, I’ll be waiting outside the door, okay?” Eata said softly, placing the clothes in my hands.

“Okay, Eata,” I nodded.

She smiled again. “You can call me ‘sister’ if you want.”

I paused for a moment before nodding again, this time with a faint, genuine smile tugging at my lips. “Okay… sister.”

Eata left the room, closing the door quietly behind her, her footsteps fading into the silence, leaving me alone with nothing but candlelight, the faint scent of wax and old wood, and thoughts I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.

The silence settled around me like a thick blanket.

I began to undress, folding my old clothes neatly on the bed.

My black leggings, worn thin at the knees, and my stretched-out T-shirt with the Bring Me The Horizon print — a blue robot girl entwined in thorny flowers, it from one rock festival I attended a few years ago.

.. It felt strange to take it off for what might be the last time.

All those songs about screaming into the void, about the pain of simply existing, about breaking free and never really succeeding…

all of it would stay hidden here, buried deep with these clothes until better times.

If there ever were better times.

I pulled the sports bra over my head and slipped into the monastery’s plain white underwear, then the candidate’s black dress. It wasn’t quite a full habit yet. I wasn’t a nun, just a candidate. But wearing it felt like joining something bigger than myself. A team. A purpose. An escape.

For a moment, I imagined myself here ten years from now, completely devoted to God, wearing the full habit with quiet dignity. No longer burdened by anything else. Maybe that was the purpose of life. To give yourself away to something higher, something eternal.

Because… what else was there?

I couldn’t see anything else anymore.

As I changed into the new clothes, it became… easier to breathe. The fabric was rough but honest. Nothing digging into my skin. Nothing to force me into shapes I wasn’t.

I knocked softly on the door. Eata opened it almost instantly, her face lighting up. “Well, that’s better, my sweet lambkin! Let’s go. I’ll introduce you to the other sisters, and then we’ll have dinner, it’s about time. Almost six o’clock.”

“Okay,” I answered, my voice flat and dry.

She didn’t push me to speak more, and I was grateful for that. She must have seen the exhaustion carved into my face like cracks in stone. People often told me I had a “depressive face,” as if that was a sin in itself.

Why don’t you smile more? They’d ask with their fake cheerfulness. As if smiling would cure the rot in my chest, the heaviness in my limbs.

Oh yeah, sure. Smile and poof, depression gone. Just like that. Idiots.

But every time, I’d nod and force my lips into something they could interpret as a smile. They’d beam back at me, smug in their victory, thinking they’d fixed me. Look at that, they’d think. She’s better now.

No one understood depression. It was the plague of our century. Not as quick or dramatic as the Black Death, but deadly nonetheless. Slow, silent, relentless.

I followed Eata down the dim corridor, staring at her feet as candlelight flickered across the stone floors.

My mind was a storm I couldn’t quiet. I worried about meeting the other sisters, worried that I wouldn’t be able to please them, worried that my tired face and empty voice would disappoint them.

But honestly? I didn’t have the energy to please anyone anymore.

I could just… be myself here. And if they didn’t like my depressive face, well, fuck them.

I wasn’t here to perform happiness. I wasn’t here for them at all.

My prayers with God didn’t need an audience.

I let out a small snort at the thought, almost amused by my own bitterness.

Eata glanced back at me, puzzled. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “Just… a mess of thoughts. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay…” Eata’s voice was low and warm, almost a whisper against the hum of distant voices.

“You were literally thrown out of your old world and cast into a new one overnight. That transition is always a difficult test for any person. But it’s the path of truly worthy warriors, lambkin.

And you’re strong. I know you can handle it. ”

She gave me a motherly smile before turning to open the large wooden door in front of us. We had reached the dining room. The bedrooms were upstairs, but dinner was on the ground floor, and I felt my remaining strength dissolve as soon as we stepped inside.

The hall was huge and spacious, lit only by flickering candles mounted along stone columns and walls.

Outside, the sun had long since vanished behind heavy rainclouds.

Through the tall stained-glass windows depicting archangels in gold and navy hues, only dim, grayish light seeped in, blurring everything into a somber dreamscape.

The sisters moved quietly around the dining room, carrying dishes in their veiled heads and pale hands.

Someone in the kitchen hummed a hymn, something about the Virgin Mary, but it was softer, lighter, sung in a playful duet by two young voices.

Their song echoed faintly through the cavernous space, mixing with the clinking of plates.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked, forcing my voice to sound normal as I looked up at Eata.

She shook her head gently. “No, but thank you for offering, lambkin. Everything is ready here. They’re just bringing out dinner now. You can sit anywhere you want.”

I nodded and moved towards the table, choosing a spot at the far right corner. There was a large, high-backed chair beside me, probably Eata’s place as the head of the monastery. She paused, resting her hand lightly against my hair.

“Sit here for a while. Everyone will be here soon.”

“Okay,” I exhaled shakily, my chest tightening with anxious breath.

My fingers fumbled with the coarse black fabric of my dress as I stared down at the plain white ceramic plate in front of me.

Candlelight flickered across its surface, reflecting soft golden waves across the polished wood of the long table.