Death of Abbot Íte of Kildare
Saint Íte, the revered abbess and teacher of Kildare Abbey, lies on her deathbed, surrounded by her devoted followers. The nuns and monks whisper prayers and administer last rites, their grief palpabl
Setting
Inside the dimly lit infirmary of Kildare Abbey, a small stone chamber with a low ceiling and rough-hewn wooden beams. The room is sparsely furnished, with a narrow bed at its center where Saint Íte lies, surrounded by a few nuns and monks. The walls are damp from the winter chill, and the scent of medicinal herbs lingers in the air.
Characters
Saint Íte
primary
An elderly woman in her late seventies, frail and gaunt from prolonged illness, with deeply lined skin that speaks of both age and asceticism. Her silver hair is thin and neatly tucked beneath her veil, and her hands, though trembling, are delicate and expressive. Her pale blue eyes, though clouded with pain, retain a piercing clarity.
Sister Bríd
primary
A woman in her late 40s, with a sturdy build from years of labor. Her face is lined with care and compassion, framed by wispy strands of graying hair escaping her wimple. Her hands are rough but gentle, accustomed to both prayer and practical tasks.
Brother Finnian
secondary
A lean man in his late 30s with sunken cheeks, a tonsured head, and a gaunt frame from years of monastic asceticism. His hands, though calloused from labor, move with precise grace when handling writing materials. Deep-set blue eyes betray a quiet intensity beneath his solemn demeanor.
Novice Muirgel
secondary
A slender young woman in her late teens, with fair skin flushed from weeping and freckles scattered across her nose. Her eyes, a pale green like new hazel leaves, are red-rimmed and swollen. Mouse-brown hair peeks from beneath her veil, with a few unruly strands clinging to her damp cheeks.
Dialog
Saint Íte
A leanbh, do not weep... for my soul shall rise like the lark at dawn to meet Christ our King.
Sister Bríd
Deo gratias... but the abbey shall be as barren as winter fields without your guidance, holy mother.
Saint Íte
The wellspring of wisdom flows not from one vessel alone... but from the living waters that nourish all faithful hearts.
Sister Bríd
Your words are honeycomb to our souls, yet bitter is the thought of parting.
Saint Íte
When the salmon leaps... does it fear the river's end? So too shall I greet eternity with joy.