The Lament of Lord Elend

by Ryan Fleming

Dare I believe this coldness be the goodness of God? In my unwavering devotion, I became like the rustics and serfs, blindly following the church’s teachings, ignoring the festering decay of my own flesh and blood. As the sun set, its fading light cast a possessive shroud from the spire of Saint Thomas’s Church, draping my daughter’s still visage, snuffing out the smoldering ember of hope within the depths of my soul.

My beloved wife’s spirit was claimed by death’s cruel grasp when Greta was a tender four years of age. An unseen affliction, a most malevolent specter, laid siege to her frail flesh and brought an unsuspecting solitude to ravage my weary soul. Amidst the dimly lit chambers, ornate paintings hanging above the hearth became mocking windows of her former elegance, drowning me in a deluge of poignant memories. Such emptiness remained constant as I returned each night to a cold and solitary bed, desperate to reach out and find solace in her presence.

Yet, despite being steeped in the abyss of isolation, Greta’s existence sought to paint vibrant hues upon the obsidian canvas of my heart, rescuing me from the brink of despair and grief. Placing her hand in mine, she would lead me through our gardens with laughter that melted my encapsulating anguish. Within her merriment, she would insist upon a story, and despite my pretensions of lordship, I found myself powerless to turn down her pure desire.

Greta possessed the beauty of my late wife as well as her affliction. That heinous curse fell upon her on the eve of her seventh birthday. When she would have been pampered by the grand creations of the manor’s chef, she confined herself to her room, stricken with an unyielding cough. Such suffering brought me back to the final days of my beloved wife, and I sensed the insidious tendrils of fear coiling around my anxious heart.

I called for a physician in München to come to our estate that very evening. His remedies for what he deemed mere lung fever scarcely assuaged my trepidation, yet I clung to a desperate hope that Greta’s recovery was assured.

In those first days of the infirmity, no matter the pain, Greta’s smile was a ray of sun penetrating through the storm clouds of my growing angst. On those rare but precious days of wellness, I would sit in her bedroom and, using the intricate tapestries upon her walls as my inspiration, I would weave tales from far-off realms, recounting fables of lost treasures and wondrous miracles.

“Father,” asked Greta one providential afternoon, “do they tell stories like yours at Saint Thomas’s Church?”

“Some, my lamb. I remember a few from my youth.” Before I could resume, she was assaulted with convulsive coughing. “But,” I continued, once she caught her breath, “when you get better, perhaps we can visit St. Thomas’s Church together and hear them from the priest. I am sure they can retell the scriptures much better than I.” Hope returned and revived her lovely smile.

But healing did not come.

When the physician’s methods did not remedy the disease, I summoned lectors, empiricists, and apothecaries from across the land. Yet, no amount of coin could buy a cure. Tonics, elixirs, and incantations alike all failed.

Her fitful coughs would arouse me from a wanting slumber, and I would hasten to her bedside, my heart enslaved by panic. In a frenzy, I would summon every servant from distant chambers, their drooping eyes aglow with nervous readiness, all for the mundane task of fetching a humble cup of water.

If I was not vigilantly perched by her bedside, I roamed the ghostly hallways at ungodly hours, a restless sojourner seeking an ambiguous solution - someone to implore, someone to beseech, someone to ransom in my frantic quest for deliverance. Desperate to heal my Greta, I recalled the stories of miracles from my youth.

In my state of exhaustion, I called for Father Lugen to grace our estate with his presence. In the tender dawn, clad in his solemn vestment, he joined me on the terrace overlooking the city of München. There, I laid bare the depths of my anguish and Greta’s suffering to the venerable priest.

“My Lord Elend, hath not the writer of Matthew said: ‘As Jesus gave up his spirit, the temple’s veil was split, and a great earthquake shook the land.’ Do not these miracles manifest Christ’s triumph over all afflictions - even the specter of death itself? Have faith, Lord Elend. For our Lord possesses the divine power to bestow healing. But heed this: He has a part for you to play in His ordained plan.” Father Lugen gave me a baleful smile.

His words brought me to my knees. “I will do what is asked of me. All I yearn for is the restoration of my Greta!” Tears sprang forth, yet I harbored no concern that this Catholic bore witness to my vulnerability.

“Come to Mass this very night.” Father Lugen turned to leave. “Believe and take part in God’s unfailing goodness.”

After a day of restless anticipation, punctuated by self-doubt and questioning whether my sleep-deprived state had led me to the precipice of madness, I arrived at St. Thomas’s Church.

I held very little regard for the ceremony proceedings, but as Father Lugen stood to address the congregation, his unshakable conviction captivated my very essence and rekindled a hope I had long forgotten.

“Children of München, I am reminded of a passage in Lamentations. ‘Who is he that saith, and it cometh to pass, when the Lord commandeth it not? Out of the mouth of the most High proceedeth not evil and good? Wherefore doth a living man complain, a man for the punishment of sins.’”

The room seemed to nod in unison, yet I fidgeted with unease. 

“Crisis breeds among us. A test from God himself. He has spoken, and from this evil that besets us, His children must answer.”

Father Lugen pointed an accusing finger.

“There sits in Wittenburg a priest, an opposer of God—a heretic. You may have heard the grumblings of his infectious teachings. He and his falsehoods are a plague. He dares to challenge the Pope and to challenge God. His so-called theses are a lie! Such belief in lies will damn one to an eternity of pain.”

A shudder filled the room. Father Lugen raised his hands, and dauntlessly smiled.

“But God has given us the answer – his Holy Word. In the Book of Numbers, God commanded Moses to erect a bronze serpent, and should such disease afflict the children of Israel, trial or tribulation, they were to look on the symbol and be healed. Reminded of God’s truth, they believed.”

Greta consumed my mind. After so many endeavors to mend her ailments, doubt had taken permanent residence within my heart. The notion that the mere sight of such edifice, a spire reaching to the heavens, could hold the key to her recovery, however implausible it sounded, was one I yearned to believe with every ounce of fervor within my downcast soul.

“We, the Children of München, must erect a spire on St. Thomas’s Church for all to see. Let all see God’s faithfulness and not succumb to this blasphemous priest who poisons God’s sheep. May God bestow His goodness upon those who embrace His truth. All who witness this prosperity, this magnificent spire, find themselves blessed. May healing be upon us!’ Father Lugen’s shout to his congregation resonated through my chest.

“As we raise this spire to the Lord, so will we raise our prayers. Your contribution,” Father Lugen found me among the congregation, and it seemed as if his words were solely meant for my ears, “will help build a place of healing. May anyone who sees our good work for God know His goodness and turn away from the falsities of this world.”

Tears rolled down my face as I whispered, “Yes.”

“Believe, Children of München. Give and be saved.”

I returned to Greta’s chamber in the quiet hours of the morning. Each labored breath brought a rattling through her frail chest, and my heavy heart nearly broke. I knelt and clasped her fragile hand in mine.

“Father?” she whimpered.

I stroked her hair, sobbing. “I found a cure. God shall grant you healing. We have only to believe.”

From that night forward, I never missed Mass and immersed myself in the teachings of the Holy God. A God, who, in time, would grant healing through my fervent nightly prayers and my generous donations. I saw to it that Greta’s bed faced St. Thomas’s Church so she might bear witness to the ascending spire that heralded God’s goodness.

Despite my new faith, sleep eluded me, and doubts continued to plague my restless mind. I would often steal glances through the manor’s window, hoping the veiled moonlight would illuminate the spire’s progress. Each hollow night’s silence brought me to prayer, smothered by an infection of fears. On moments where my tormented mind succumbed to fatigue, Greta’s feeble cough would arouse me and return my terror of her impending loss. Such nocturnal anguish compelled me to offer even greater contributions to the construction of the spire.

With each alm brought forth, I began to empty the coffers of my family’s estate. I decreed a new tax upon the serfs and rustics, one that would urge them to render an additional portion to the church. I commissioned those knights sworn to me to lay down their swords and shields and take up the hammer and nail for the construction of the spire.

The pounding of wood and felling of trees drowned out Greta’s incessant coughing. Yet, at the center of my heavy prayers, I implored the Lord to hasten the spire’s completion. 

Father Lugen paid me periodic visits to update me on the advancement.

“My Lord Elend, progress has stalled. Rome called for a special tithe, and we have redirected our funds to meet God’s greater needs.” Father Lugen ran his hands over one of the family tapestries. “Perhaps we can secure payment for additional carpenters outside of München.”

From the adjacent chamber, Greta’s violent coughing reached my ears, a cruel reminder of her escalating frailty with each passing day. Despair slowly drew its dark curtain over my soul.

“Do you believe, my Lord Elend?”

Clinging to the teachings of God’s goodness, I hardened my resolve. “We will call on those outside of München. I will sell what is needed to cover their expenses. We must not delay.”

When I asked Father Lugen why God tarried to heal Greta, he woefully said, “Faith, my Lord Elend. God is good. We must manifest our belief through deeds. A faith devoid of action is lifeless.”

Responding to Father Lugen, I channeled my faith into action and ensured the spire’s success. When the new tax was insufficient, I began selling artifacts from the estate. No measure was too extreme. Heirloom tapestries, carpets, and rugs were the first to be sold. I bartered with my gilt and stucco-trimmed paintings for more raw materials.

Our finest dishes of ceramic and imported glasses from France and Schwaben were purchased by nearby lords and dukes. Their judgments of my disheveled state did not rattle my conviction, and they cared very little for my status as they received items at less than a fair price.

As the project neared its conclusion, I had whittled down the staff of the manor to one chef and a solitary servant to tend to Greta’s needs. With each new sacrifice, my hope in God grew and that His blessings were soon to follow.

Nights found me more of a companion to the mocking shadows than the new mercy of dawn each day. I prayed to believe. I prayed for Greta. I prayed for God’s goodness. But each morning brought a rising sun with hope burned away like the morning dew.

In those final days leading up to the completion of the spire, I sat next to Greta’s bed. The vacant halls echoed Greta’s coughing. I held my sleepless vigils with thread-bare walls and cold stone floors.

Just nigh of a year, Father Lugen brought a guest to the estate. “My Lord Elend, may I introduce to you Cardinal Avido.”

“Lord Elend, may you be truly blessed. Father Lugen informs me you have financed many of our Catholic projects. God is well pleased,” said Cardinal Avido.

My continual deprived sleep did not register the implications of such a statement, but I quickly understood the implied truth of the Cardinal’s presence.

“Praise be God, for Cardinal Avido has traveled all the way from Rome so we can dedicate the spire to His unwavering faithfulness this night. In the words of our Savior, tetelestai - it is finished!”

I sank to my knees, overcome with a torrent of tears. Such words I had yearned to hear. So many doubts were finally crushed by God’s goodness. Voice hoarse with emotion, I cried, “Praise be to God!”

Cardinal Avido knelt and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Your faith shall bring you blessing.”

Wiping away my tears, I said, “Thank you. The Lord is good, and His Faithfulness is steadfast!” I stood and ushered both into what remained of my home. “You must help me tell Greta.”

Our footsteps reverberated off the stripped walls, breaking the ghostly quiet of the estate. We opened Greta’s bed chambers, and I could barely contain myself. I rushed over to her and gently tried to arouse her.

“Sweet Greta! The day has come. Father Lugen has informed me that the spire is complete! See!” I pointed toward the window.

I reached for her hand and felt the icy coldness I had felt once before. My vision blurred as I frantically began to shake Greta.

“Greta! Wake up and see! See and be healed!”

Greta lay motionless. Despair itself cackled in my ear. I cried out for the servant, but no one came. 

A hand was placed on my shoulder; I jumped as if assailed.

“Oh, my Lord Elend,” came the soft voice of Cardinal Avido. “The road has been arduous, but she is now fully healed.”

From the deepest recesses of my soul, I let out a scream of pure agony.

Cardinal Avido placed a hand on Greta’s lifeless body and mumbled words of absolution. I collapsed onto the floor and wept uncontrollably.

Such grief thrust me into unconsciousness, yet I heard, “His belief must have faltered.” When I awoke, I was alone.

From the floor, I reached a tentative hand out to Greta. Such coldness. A shadow from St. Thomas’s Church spire was cast across my lifeless daughter’s face. It was as if she slept with a peace I had never known.

I directed my gaze toward that pointed edifice, its stark silhouette.

I sacrificed everything. I fervently believed God would, in His celestial timing, and as a reward for my earnest deeds, grant Greta a merciful deliverance. The spire, now looming as a symbol of fallacious faith, stood as a monument of grand delusion. 

In my arms, I cradled my daughter, her emaciated form pressed close to my smoldering indignation. Descending to the streets of München, I carried her to the very steps of St. Thomas’s Church, and I gently set her beneath the towering spire. A hushed murmur swept through the gathered crowd, their curious gazes transfixed on this dramatic spectacle.

In a moment of radiant defiance, I seized a torch from a passerby and hurled it skyward, where it found its mark just below the base of the spire. The flames began to consume the structure, casting an eerie glow on the city. 

As smoke billowed from the church, those inside for Mass emerged in chaos. Father Lugen and Cardinal Avido, startled and disoriented, rushed from the church, their eyes wide with shock as they beheld the unfolding calamity before them.

“Lord Elend! What have you done?”

Tears streamed down my face, mingling with the smoke and ash I had wrought. I ignored them and the commotion around me as the flames consumed the church. I, Lord of München, would no longer dabble with such lowly beings. Raising an accusatory finger, I directed my rageful lament to the would-be Lord of Hosts.

“You, who speak, and it comes to pass! My hope, I entrusted to You! Possessing the power to heal, yet why do You deal such pain? How can You lay claim to goodness when from Your very mouth flows malevolence? Why torment the innocent, those who have yet to arouse Your vindictive wrath? Though I endured endless nights and exhausting days of supplication, You still hedged me in with misery.”

I collapsed to my knees before the burning church. Looking up to the heavens, I pleaded, “God, how is this good?”

The fire licked its way to the top of the spire of St. Thomas, the timber cracking and groaning under the onslaught of infernal heat. The wails and cries of the people of München were a beautiful choir accompanying my pain.

Amidst the backdrop of my righteous proclamation, a delicate hand slipped into mine. My heart rekindled with unimaginable joy, as I beheld my Greta, alive with a radiant smile that shone brighter than the raging flames. Despite horrific screams around me, I heard Greta’s sweet, angelic voice whisper, “This is His Goodness.”

I enveloped her with tears that could have surely doused the belligerent blaze of St. Thomas.

Within our tight embrace, I returned my gaze upward. Weakened by the engulfing flames, the pinnacle finally surrendered and made its descent towards us. I, utterly drained of strength, found myself immobilized by Greta’s arms. 

“Out of the mouth of the most High proceedeth not evil and good? Wherefore doth a living man complain, a man for the punishment of sins.”