The Distant Promise
The feast was a riot of grease and gold, a visceral assault on the senses that you had come to dread with the quiet, grinding persistence of a chronic ache. You sat at the far end of the long oak table in the refectory of the Abbey of Saint Jude, your hands wrapped around a clay mug of watered wine, watching the monks and the lay brothers tear into roasted lamb and crusty loaves with a ferocity...
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