Eleanor Caldwell was publicly shamed by her sister and ex-husband during the Order's Consecration, accused of sabotaging his ascent, but then a decree from the High Council stunned everyone.
I walked away from the Consecration Ceremony in a daze, the Elders’ impassive faces burned into my memory. Marcus’s venomous whisper, “You should have died six years ago, Eleanor,” echoed in my ears, a chilling promise of a deeper battle. Yet, the sting of Bethany’s betrayal cut far deeper than his hatred.
I knew I needed to speak with her, to understand the chasm that had opened between us.
The communal garden, usually a sanctuary of quiet reflection, felt oppressively still as I approached. Its rose bushes, once meticulously pruned, now drooped slightly, their petals wilting at the edges, a reflection of the decay I felt settling over the Order. Bethany was sitting on a stone bench near the overgrown rosemary, her back rigid.
She didn’t turn as I stepped onto the worn flagstones.
“Bethany,” I said, my voice feeling strangely fragile in the heavy silence.
She flinched, then slowly turned, her eyes narrowed, devoid of the sisterly warmth I’d always clung to. A deep, cold anger simmered beneath their surface.
“What do you want, Eleanor?” she snapped, her tone sharper than any knife.
“I want to understand,” I replied, choosing my words carefully. “Why? Why did you stand with him? Why did you accuse me?”
Bethany let out a short, derisive laugh that grated on my nerves.
“Understand?” she scoffed, pushing herself off the bench. “You want to understand? It’s always been about you, hasn’t it? Your quiet ‘piety,’ your ‘spiritual strength’ that everyone always praised.”
She gestured wildly with her hands, her frustration bubbling to the surface.
“You always had to be the favored one, the ‘wise’ sister, while I was just… Bethany.”
A knot tightened in my stomach. Was this truly what she believed? That my life, my path, had been a deliberate act to diminish hers?
“That’s not true,” I insisted, my voice rising slightly. “I never tried to overshadow you.”
“Oh, really?” she countered, stepping closer, her voice laced with venom. “Remember when I was struggling with my vows, and you just breezed through yours, then offered me that patronizing advice? ‘Just trust in the Light, Bethany.’ It felt like a slap.”
I remembered that moment, six years ago. I thought I was helping her.
“I was trying to help you,” I whispered, the memory suddenly painful.
“Help me or show me up?” she challenged, her jaw clenched. “You always had that quiet way of making everyone else feel inadequate. Marcus saw through it, Eleanor. He knew you were holding him back, holding me back.”
Her words were a torrent of long-held grievances, each one a sharp stone thrown at my heart.
“You stood in his way for years,” she continued, her voice gaining a self-righteous edge. “His vision for the Order, his rise to High Steward… you were a roadblock. He needed me to help him clear it, and I did.”
My breath hitched. “Help him clear what?”
“Your spiritual arrogance,” Bethany declared, a triumphant glint in her eyes. “Your refusal to acknowledge his true calling. He confided in me, Eleanor. He said you were jealous, that you couldn’t stand to see him succeed.”
The accusation was ludicrous, yet she spoke with such conviction.
“He told me you had a history of trying to undermine him,” Bethany pressed on, circling me now. “That you were always looking for ways to stop his projects, to keep him from reaching his full potential.”
I saw the deep-seated resentment in her eyes, twisted by Marcus’s manipulations. She truly believed I was her rival, not her sister.
“He said you even interfered with the Northern Vows initiatives,” Bethany blurted out, her voice rising in pitch. “That you thought his ideas for community outreach were ‘too ambitious’ and ‘financially unsound.'”
This was a new detail, one I couldn’t quite place. I had always supported the Order’s initiatives, especially those benefiting the community.
“What initiatives?” I asked, a flicker of suspicion sparking within me. “I always advocated for the Northern Vows programs.”
“Don’t pretend, Eleanor,” Bethany scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Marcus told me how you would question every budget, every allocation. He had to go behind your back, sometimes, just to get things done.”
She paused, taking a breath, her chest heaving with her indignation.
“He said it was always the same thing,” she continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially, as if revealing a secret truth. “You always doubted his capacity, his spiritual acumen. You tried to block his ‘special projects.'”
My mind raced. “What special projects are you talking about, Bethany?”
“Oh, you know,” she waved her hand dismissively, clearly not seeing the significance of her words. “The ones that required… a different kind of financial handling.”
She then added, almost as an afterthought, clearly still focused on portraying Marcus as a visionary and me as a saboteur.
“He had to have frequent, hush-hush meetings with Arthur Beaumont about ‘reallocating tithes’ for them. You know, for ‘special projects’ that only Elder Shaw approved.”
The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. “Reallocating tithes?” “Special projects?” “Only Elder Shaw approved?” Bethany didn’t seem to notice the sudden stillness in my demeanor.
She was still consumed by her bitterness.
“He said you just wouldn’t understand the vision,” Bethany ranted, shaking her head. “That you were too focused on the mundane details, not the greater good.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my mind was suddenly sharp, clear. This wasn’t just about resentment; there was something tangible here.
“You really believe that, Bethany?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I believe Marcus,” she declared, puffing out her chest. “He speaks with the Light. He understands the true path for the Order. You just hold onto old ways, old grievances.”
She stepped away from me, her eyes hardening once more.
“You’re just jealous now that he’s finally free to pursue his destiny. And I’m going to be right there beside him.”
The weight of her words settled over me, heavier than any spiritual condemnation. My own sister, manipulated and convinced that I was her enemy. The pain was excruciating, a cold ache deep in my soul.
“Bethany,” I started, trying one last time to reach her, but she cut me off.
“There’s nothing left to say, Eleanor,” she stated, her voice flat, emotionless. “You made your choices, and I’ve made mine.”
She turned abruptly, walking away from me without a backward glance, disappearing through the trellised archway at the far end of the garden. The sound of her footsteps faded, leaving me utterly alone amidst the wilting roses.
The crushing realization that our relationship was truly broken settled in, a loss far more profound than any public shaming. But her careless words, tossed like forgotten pebbles, now glittered in my mind: “reallocating tithes,” “special projects,” “Arthur Beaumont,” “only Elder Shaw approved.” A new, unsettling path had just been revealed, cutting through the grief, promising a different kind of fight.
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