Gracanica monastery's ancient walls have some of the best-preserved frescos in Kosovo. Their beauty is marred by only one thing. Almost all those on the lower walls had their eyes gouged out more than a century ago by Turkish soldiers.
The sightless saints and angels in this Serbian Orthodox monastery five miles from the capital, Pristina, are a reminder to Kosovo's embattled Serb minority both of past brutalities and present fears, as they agonise about their future.
"Most of the people who come here don't know what's going to be. All of them are asking what should happen, what should we do in this war?" says Miron, a tall monk in dark robes with a long black beard. "We don't know what will happen but we have to say everything will be OK."
Suffering is nothing new to the Serbs of Kosovo. In 1389 they suffered their most famous and glorious defeat on Kosovo Field, an undulating plain 10 miles to the north of Gracanica, a loss that led to more than five centuries under Turkish rule.
Now fighting between Serb forces and ethnic Albanian guerrillas rages over the same battlefield, and rebel forces are just two miles from the monastery.
Faith is less of a comfort across the street from the monastery, in the 1389 Restaurant.
"People have taken arms in their hands. There's going to be a real war, maybe in the spring," says Nenad, a 20-year-old villager, who last month finished his year's national service fighting rebels.
Kosovo has a curious place in Serb hearts. Many regard it as the cradle of their nation, containing not just Kosovo Field, their most famous battlefield, but also St Lazar, their most famous saint, who died in that engagement. And among more than 300 churches and monasteries is the headquarters of Serbia's Orthodox church.
"I think we can't lose Kosovo. If we lose Kosovo we will lose out history," says Miron.
But few of Yugoslavia's 10 million Serbs want to live there, and over the past 30 years most have emigrated to the cities and more affluent lands of Serbia proper. Less than 200,000 remain, outnumbered nine to one by ethnic Albanians. Serbia has struggled to halt the flow by offering subsidies to families moving there, and also building "model villages" for hundreds of Serb refugee families.
"The village where I grew up used to have 50 Serb families," says Snezana, an architect in Pristina. "Now there is my mother's house and only one other family. All the others have gone to Serbia in the last few years. The Albanians bought all the other houses, but they won't buy this one. Now they think in time they will get it for free. Serbs and Albanians no longer mix."
And as the KLA takes control of more territory, with ambushes and battles a daily occurrence, Kosovo's Serbs have a second fear: betrayal.
Yugoslavia's President, Mr Slobodan Milosevic, rose to power by going to Kosovo in 1989, the anniversary of Kosovo Field, to proclaim that he would defend it against secessionist demands by ethnic Albanians. But many Serbs here feel that he will abandon them if the price of defending the province is too high.
Last year, when the KLA first began guerrilla attacks, a delegation of Kosovo Serbs journeyed to Belgrade to demand that Mr Milosevic start talks with the Albanians. He refused to see them.
Kosovo's Serb Bishop Artemije blames the government for repression which has fuelled the present war, but his efforts as peace-maker have fallen on stony ground among a population now polarised by years of distrust.
As fighting rages around them, many Serbs have formed private militias, equipped with small arms by the police.
In the central Kosovo village of Dorni Petric, villagers take it in turns to mount guard. "We have a deal with the Catholic Albanians in the next village," said one elderly man carrying a shotgun. "They don't shoot at us and we don't shoot at them."
To the south, around Klina, armed Serb villagers took a more direct approach to sniping from guerrillas in neighbouring Albanian villages. In the summer, helped by police, they burned the villages one by one.