Ameris Santraeger - Meditations

[kleomenes]

*a brief note, written neatly, but the page is dirty with the dust of old tomes*

On Corruption

So this, here - the thing I cradle in my hand - this is doom. Funny to think, one sip - a vile death. It is said Hoihe of Candlekeep is already infected, and many others of Soubar and Triel. A cure must be found.

Dusty tomes perhaps hold the key. Perhaps not. I must try, though.

Such a disease. Pragmatically, it will have a cause, or a structure, some way it infects and corrupts the body, whether magical or otherwise. It will be categorized and curable, come what may, even if the road is long. Such is the will of the Lord on the Rack.

To think, the source of this, pale white hands. To think again, the will driving such hands. Vengeance for what was done by the Zhents? Such deeds they did. Lies and misdirection, defeat in battle, then slaughter of the weakest. Is the true source the forked tongues of Banites? How far does one go back?

The plague was the work of the orcs...

The world is a network of endless wrongs, endless evils, endless suffering. Set against that are those who try and undo such evil, soothe such suffering. Yet in doing so those paragons must remember always their goal. One can act forcefully, rigidly, and with what may be thought to be justice, yet one always risks just perpetuating a cycle.

You sought to bring justice and vengeance in Triel with swords.

It was wrong.

But still, one can also say the sword can cut, and give one the ability to say "No. This ends here." Such is a seductive thought. Perhaps not an easy one to carry out. Maybe, however, necessary.

[kleomenes]

On Silence

It can be more oppressive than any roar, weighing down like the slab of a tomb, crushing the air, the life out of me. I can hear not hearing everywhere I go. A crowded marketplace, when jostled by wily shoppers and beset by the cries of merchants. The temple, among the sick, hard at my divine duty. On the Trade Way, accompanied by wind and the dangers of travel. During severe conversation with Brothers and allies, mind set to the tasks of the Order. In a tavern, sipping on fine drinks with interesting company. When alone in the depths of night, the darkness bringing it into focus. Even in battle, when all is madness and chaos, even then, until I feel the fire sweep up from undernea...

Endure.

You endured.

[Two simple words, written perhaps for comfort]

[kleomenes]

*neat, written without haste*

On War and Battle

In Battle, the enemy is met directly. The enemy may be met in many ways, the question of tactics and manoeuvre: there is ambush, there is the stumbling meeting engagement, there is the indecisive skirmish, there is pitched battle. But waiting is a matter of hours at most.

In War, the enemy is far away. Days, weeks, months pass with no news of their arms. The question most troubling is Where are they?, and the answers are not always forthcoming. One must endure uncertainty, both in busy days and quiet nights.

In Battle, courage, strength, skill, boldness and discipline are paramount. Even a general must be bold, just not reckless. Patience has its place, but only in terms of timing. He may delay when he strikes, but to be victorious, he must act, even if that act is exhorting his men to stand firm.

Subtlety is present, but it is cunning of an immediate sort. That of tactics and ploys to achieve the goals of the day, and achieve victory. All revolves around soldiery, and defeat of the enemy. Militant acts

In War, many other factors play their part. How are armies being fed? Can fresh troops and supplies be brought up? Are the roads suitable to move troops through harsh terrain?

And factors even further removed from battle. Is there coin to pay soldiers loyal to gold not liege? How are fresh troops to be raised and equipped? Will the harvest be spoiled for lack of men, or because of enemy action?

Cunning takes on new, far sighted paths. The spy in the enemy camp. The lie told in diplomacy. The entreaty to new allies.

In battle, wrath inspires soldiers to victory until the end. Mercy is no virtue, until the battle is won. Then? Some will offer quarter, some will not. But until the enemy yields there is little ambiguity facing even the most moral of men.

In War, events are not so simple. Will the local population support the soldiery, or resist it? Should force be used to ensure swift passage of troops? How does one view a brave man defending his home?

Will the army turn its wrath upon the locals for food and loot? Are the men to be disciplined for such acts, at risk of breaking their morale for the coming battle?

What is to be done with prisoners? Does this change when your army takes not ten, but a thousand? Can you spare the men to watch them all? Should they be turned free to fight you again?

What about the enemy? Can their ravaging of your homeland be forgiven? Can you make peace without them paying for their crimes? What is the greater evil, them going unpunished or your people suffering the war further?

In each there is a righteous path. The righteous path is, however, not always the one which the pragmatic man sees as the path to victory.

The gap between the two, well, that is faith.

[kleomenes]

*the writing is messy, as if written outdoors, in a stiff breeze. Occasional lines on the page indicate the author had trouble keeping the pages flat. *

On Time

Who carved these benches and placed them here, in this remote place? Was it a recent thing, or have they stood for a thousand years? Do they carry memory of all who have sat on them, the words spoken in their presence, both soft and fierce. Do they remember the shedding of blood? Do they remember the gentle failings of honour? How many more will come to these seats, and live their lives in the presence of uncaring stone?

Time brings many changes. Just look at my homeland. Once the forest, elf haunted, filled the whole plain. Then came the legions of Calimsham with axes and chains for slaves. Then the clans, and freedom, and kings of a new country. Then the Shoon - greatness and madness in equal measure. Then from the fires of Shoonach a new kingdom, then a new dynasty, the Lions, proud. But they did not last, and the country falls to chaos. How old, Tethyr! Yet how much has it always been a victim of constant flux, constant change!

Every year we see new plants grow, summer's heat beat down, the leaves fall, and the land grow cold. We see life and death. We see storms come and uproot trees a hundred years old. We see diseases sweep out of nowhere to extinguish a thousand lives.

Yet we humans seek to order everything, gird the weak against the claws of anarchy and the faceless ruthlessness of nature unbound. Is this a fool's errand? Should constant change be accepted, relished? Should hope for things better be seen as nothing more than a temporary self delusion, and abandoned in the face of the incomprehensible?

Or should we stand, resolute, and defy the slippery nature of existence? Should we accept that what we build may not last forever and yet, build it anyway, making it last, if not forever, as long as we can manage? [The words have been underlined by someone else]

I know not of what you write here. But do you remember our words?

Your words. "We can just...walk...and see what happens."

I look at the empty bench next to me, and I cannot deny chaos, and change. Also, though, I cannot deny hope, nor can I call past resolution something I regret. Not at all, in fact.

[kleomenes]

*written in a neatish hand, yet the slant and form of the words suggests it was written without formality*

On Travel

How narrow my horizons were when I was younger!

My entire life was encompassed in the lands nestled between the the Starspire Mountains and the bend in the Sulduskoon River, a small valley from which I never strayed, except during my tutorship at the Duke's Court. In time I came to know the lands beyond the castle walls well: the villages and hamlets where I dispensed justice, or what passed for it, on my father's behalf; the mines in the foothills, source of wealth; the woods in which I hunted boar and deer; even the eaves of the Forest of Tethir itself, although only by sight - within was considered hostile territory.

It was home, this County Sulduskar of ours, although it did not really deserve such an expansive name. Yet it was but a speck compared to the mighty lands, both tamed and wild, I have travelled through since. Barely thirty miles square. You could see Mount Thargill from the top of the keep, on a clear day, and you could see the river too. My whole view of the world was forged in this valley, with an appendix added in the Duke's Court, and another during my priestly training. But even there, the vast majority I spoke to shared my own customs, my own preconceptions. They were Tethyrian. We were of like culture.

When I left, heading north to Amn, things which had always seemed obvious to me now marked me out as different and foreign. It was our custom to be open and warm with strangers. In Amn this was naive. In Tethyr, my birth and status was obvious to all, and I still often encountered deference even when I wore the skullcap of Ilmater. In Amn, all people saw was my poverty. In Tethyr, even the cities saw cultivated growth in honour of the land and Chauntea, natural beauty cherished. In Amn, the only thing growing on the streets was corruption.

Perhaps that last is unfair. My own people had their own corruption, it just manifested differently - surely the horrors they suffer now show that.

Even now I find it hard to adjust. I mean, I still fear the curse of four plus one. Ha! I cannot even write the number, still! Any foreigner I try and explain this too thinks me mad. But I am the foreigner now, wherever I go. I must accept that my ways are eccentricities.

Are the ways of my people better than others? Should I look down on these peoples of the north, the myriad different ways all seeming so unfamiliar to me?

Your views on certain things, I would think them... amusing. If it were not for them being real struggles.

What should I think about the Amnian? Southern savages. [Written above the sentence] With his her obsession with coin and trade, ever distrustful of others, seeing charity as merely encouraging idleness; ruthlessly pragmatic, unafraid to take what is desired, yet woefully superstitious of wielders of magic; blessed with wit and vitality, yet with little propriety.

What should I think of the Cormyrean? Righteous men with sticks up their behinds. [Written above the sentence] Loyal to King and Country, committed to the storied martial tradition of that kingdom; so like Tethyr in some ways, yet from my perspective seemingly harsher and more rigid. Perhaps they accept such, never having known subjection, unlike my own people.

What should I think of the native of Waterdeep? Splendorous. [Written above the sentence] Likely a lover of coin like the Amnian, easygoing and accepting, tolerant and cosmopolitan without being as jaded and opportunistic. Yet, one does not always make oneself in Waterdeep, birth and breeding still matter, and they think of more than just coin.

What should I think of the Baldurian? Accepting, to an extent... [Written above the sentence]. Again, likely a trader, one who does not take responsibility for his own defence - instead placing his faith in mercenaries. Who has nobles and and Dukes above him, but said nobles and Dukes often having neither land nor birth behind them, arising instead through appointment, via talent or opportunity. Who tolerates many visitors, yet is quick to anger and tolerates both harsh laws and harsh punishments.

I read this back and I see a vein of pride in my words. I am Tethyrian A LION! [Written above the sentence]. I know I always will be. Yet I am learning to look out, and accept the differences in others. I've looked upon my people's enemies (and their ears!) and seen that where we had thought there was malice, cunning and murder, there is in fact freedom, wisdom and patience (and arrogance sometimes, yes! But they are not alone in that) (elves - their arrogance only rivals yours, proud lion)

I've even looked further, and seen that in the most unexpected places one can find virtue: compassion, resolve, courage, duty, and hope. It was there, seeds, shoots, a sapling, even if strangled and hewed down.

Can we gather these... and plant them, together?

What can I say then? All is tolerable? All is acceptable? No, because while I have seen many things I should celebrate as just different, not wrong, I have also seen many flaws, no many evils, which I recognise as common to both my own people and others.

Greed, for status or coin. Arrogant Pride. Close-minded intolerance. Selfishness in word, thought and deed. Swiftness to anger, even to violence. Insularity. Subjection of others, either by slavery, harsh servitude or just economic necessity. A lack of self-knowledge. A rejection of mercy.

Travel does broaden the mind, but on these subjects, these issues, my view remains as narrow as through the visor of my helmet.

[kleomenes]

*a neatly written entry - left unfinished*

On Life

Mortals have choice and free will, that much is true. Yet they do not have free choice of the choices before them. The decisions a peasant may make are wildly different to those of a noble, or indeed to a tradesman in the city. Each has different concerns, different aspirations, different opportunities. Each has different hardships, and faces different dangers. Yes, perseverance and drive can alter the course of each one's life, but such is by no means common, or to be expected. The generality of each will confirm to a type. We should of course praise those who defy expectation to do better. But should we blame those who cannot break the shackles of tradition?

Even the most powerful and the most free do not have free choice as to their lives. Everyone lives in a web surrounded by the wants and needs of others. Anyone can fall victim to disease, or live in a land subjected to raid by ferocious monsters or lawless bandits. Adversity can make itself known in many ways, as can fortune, of course. The point is we cannot choose what we must endure, rather we have to make do with what we have.

[kleomenes]

*written in a shaky hand, almost a scrawl*

The Hummingbird fell,
swallowed whole by the pit.
"Save me!" she begged!
The Lion turned his back,
while she became a shadow.


The Nightingale fell,
swallowed whole by the pit.
"I'll save you!" he cried!
The Nightingale shook her head,
and now he saw that shadow.

*a more stable hand follows*

My Lord, more than you need to forgive me, but I'll endure in my duty to you, on knees if not on feet. I can't let every action be a lie, I owe that to them and to you.


What did you lie about, my dear?

[kleomenes]

*written in a scruffy hand, the author clearly fatigued, with scuffs of ash and dirt on the page*

On Horror

We came with fire in our hearts and swords in our hands, knights, magi, guardians of nature and knowledge. But we came too late. We found shambling flesh, fire, the stench of death and decay - of the bodies of the dead, and of the souls of those who remained.

How many hundreds lost their lives thanks to plague and the final, orc-bred calamity? How many suffered from the wasting disease, their insides consumed, screaming in agony as the rot burst forth? How many more died, screaming, to the clawed hands of their loved ones as dark magic animated their flesh, the plague dead rising once more to slay again and again? Is it possible to conceive of what death like that feels like? Can we ever know, or truly understand, the suffering that our failure caused? How can those of us with compassion in their hearts come to terms with what has occurred?

Such memories leave little purchase for hope. It is easy, perhaps, to speak of righteous conduct, of the triumph of good over evil, of the faith we hold dear, when the sun shines brightly. Not so when standing over the charnel pit.

It is now that faith is strained, and character tested, in the face of broken hopes and near defeat. It is now that my Lord's gift, Endurance, should be shared liberally and widely.

This is a world of pain, suffering and death, and we have seen now what will happen if there are none who say they will heal the pain, ease the suffering and protect those who might fall. At Triel and Soubar, the trickle of horror became a flood, and we were not enough to stem the tide. Yet, what would happen if we had not stood at all? We may have saved only a few, and not the most deserving, but they are not nothing. And the plague, and its architect, are finished.

We must honour the dead, and we must not look on such horrors and be unaffected - we must retain our compassion, even with the pain that brings - but we should remember that even the thin line of the righteous does make a difference, even when that difference seems small.

We are not gods - we can only do what we can. But we must do what we can. [The words have been underlines by someone else]

I will try.

[kleomenes]

*written in a neat hand, unhurried*

On Wine, again

I have fond memories of my grandfather, even though when he died I was a small boy. The old Count ever had a kind smile for me, or a reassuring word, looking down at me with pale green eyes set in a well lined face, his hair white like snow. Time and my tender age blur most of our time together, but one episode, shortly before he died, sticks in my mind - the first time I saw harsh words exchanged between family members.

I'd been taken out of my lessons - lessons I'd only just started, I was in what, my sixth or seventh year? Yet he had appeared, and dismissed my tutor. "I'd see my grandson." We had walked together to the garden, slowly, the clack of his cane marking each shuffling step. I remember it was a fine summer's day, the sun trickling through the swaying branches as butterflies lazily sailed through the air.

He had sat in his favourite chair and called for wine, demanding two cups, and water. "Even Ameris has a thirst on a day like this." He'd had the servants mix me a watered wine, and then sat me in front of his chair, bidding me listen to his words. "Listen, boy. I may be old, but I have learnt much through mistakes. Listen so you don't repeat them!" he'd said, with a chuckle.

Its a source of shame to me that I can barely remember what he spoke of. My eyes were wide at such a manly drink being made available to me, even if watered down. I would swallow each sip with great reverence, desperate to hide the shudder which ran through my body at each bitter taste. Grandfather chuckled each time, I remember that. His eyes twinkled with warmth.

Then my father, Ardepan, swept in. He looked like a giant, I remember, and fearsome: Strange to think I am nearly as old now as he was then! He wore a mail hauberk and the elven blade I now wield myself. When he spoke his voice was laced with fire, a tone I had not heard before. "Father, what is this? Why is the boy not in his lessons?"

My grandfather had raised his hand. "Calm, my son. I would share tales with my grandson, who will sit in this seat after you do. Do you begrudge..."

My father cut in, with a near snarl. "And wine? By the Watcher, why do you not just send him to Calimport and wrap him in silks?"

"Easy, son, do you begrudge me the chance..."

But my Lord Father was not to be deterred, and I shrank back as he spoke. "You will ruin the boy! Discipline is what he needs, he must learn his duty! Did you not teach the same to me?"

"Ardepan, enough!" my grandfather roared, the voice of command ringing out one last time as he pushed himself to his feet. "I'll not be spoken to like that in my own fief! Remember your place! You are not the master of this Castle yet!" I shrank back further, even as the old man sat again, wearied. I had never seen such fury.

"Your excellency..." my father began, head bowed, but my grandfather cut him off, softly. "Enough, son. Let us forget angry words. I have a last lesson for you now, though." his voice trembled at this point - a suppressed cough, now I think back with the knowledge of the Ilmateri - his body was weakening daily. "Duty fills our days and our nights. Such is the way of a Santraeger, and any good noble of Tethyr. Do not be so quick to chase it, though, that you miss moments which, when you are old and grey like me, you will be able to look back on with a smile, and remember why you fought." The old man chuckled. "And a rested horse lives longer."

The old Count and his son, my father, looked upon each other, and then the younger man spoke again "I still learn from you." He walked over to me, ruffling my hair, as I looked on in shock, and then left without another word. I cannot recall if I saw them together again before we were all stood around the deathbed.

When I was older, nearly a man grown, my father and I would often share a cup of wine - my brother too. Father would often remark how the old Count was no great lover of wine. "He'd just as easily drink the mean grape we grow on our own lands." he would say. "Yet, he taught me the important thing about wine, that I should take the time to enjoy it."

A sin, then, to take solace in something one enjoys? If it is what is needed to strengthen resolve elsewhere, I think not. If it grants respite and healing for the soul, I think not.

The fine goblet I hold now is filled with an aromatic liquid. I know something of how it was produced, but not much. It will not slake my thirst, that is true, but I like well the taste, and I like also having tasted. A fragment of life, simply a pleasant experience to look back on, and to look forward to, if I can pour myself another.


Did you pour another?

[kleomenes]

*the handwriting this entry was heavy*

On Vengeance

So this is what its like, then? A burning acid in the gut, head swimming, both blending into a fire seeping into the bones, into the heart, into the fingers as they twitch and threaten to curl into a fist.

There they stood, talking of wrath and calling it duty, of cruelty and calling it necessity. She spoke only in passing, a loose example of past experience. Was that all it was to her? A hunt of vermin. No questions? No doubt?

Eyes watched me. Noble, those of brothers. Others, a cool blue. So vengeance was caged - thankfully.

And then the same hunter came forward, and in her next breaths made a bold statement of mercy. From one extreme, to the other. Words stripped from me. What could be said that would not in part be wrong?

I know now one of those responsible for shattering hope. I know also, that the same one does good deeds as well as bad.

Why, my Lord, do I find it so hard to see the good in such? Why can reach out to darkness easier than I can to misguided light? Is it because I expect less of one? Or is it because I detest the hypocrisy of the other? Or is it simply a baser reason, that one I *a blob of ink* strove for was wronged by this?

Sheath sword. Extend hand. Do duty. Cling to faith - for faith will tell you such will be rewarded. My faith in you, Lord. Wish me luck.


Will you tell me of this..?

[kleomenes]

*a scrawl, as if written in anger or upset*

Neraline! You think this will break me? Its just one more sin, one more horror to add to the list!

Pain you may give me but pain I will endure! Endure to see you pay!

*written with shaking hands, although evidently morose, the page and ink smudged*

the sun in barbed chains, oh... My hand, causing the pain. My..will. My all causing it. Mercy. Weakness. I meant mercy, a trifle. A tool of healing, not this, not this. Oh my Lord, how can I live with this.

*a calmer hand now*

Look to your Lord.


You endured.

[Two words, underlined, written perhaps to comfort]

[kleomenes]

*the writing in this entry is more flowing, and ornate. Less idle thought, and less considered prose, more a page of a story or tale*

“They asked again.” She said from the doorway, a gentle voice, inviting no particular answer. I could see the three of them in the quadrangle below, in dark blue tunics with a golden lion head emblazoned on the left breast, mirrors of my own attire. Behind them were four horses caparisoned for travel. One, a fine grey charger, was a noble beast; a replacement to the one cut from under me, the one that near crushed the life out from me under its dying bulk.

“It’s your choice, Ameris.” that gentle voice said again. I could see Jalamir pacing backwards and forwards, tension evident in his stride. A lifetime ago he had stood behind me, those burly arms correcting my child’s grip on a wooden practice sword. A decade later he had looked on proudly as I had drawn my sword for the first time as a man grown, my father’s heir, moulded into a proud son of Tethyr. A year after that, his shield had taken elven arrows meant for me. I made no move.

“Should I tell them to go?” she asked, without reproach. I did not answer. My eyes flickered down to the chest I had arrived with, carried along with my broken body to this place of healing, months ago. It was packed, ready to follow on in a waiting cart. The cell I had healed in, then lived in, was immaculate. Left as I had found it. It would be as if I had never been here.

I heard the creak of floorboards and the shuffle of a priestly robe behind me. She spoke again. “They asked me to give you this if you refused.” I turned, looking upon the ageing woman. She seemed old, then, although she was not yet fifty. Her brown eyes were warm, a sympathetic smile on her lined, tanned face, striking still despite her age. She held a letter out, sealed with my father’s lion head crest. I took it. I broke the seal and revealed words written in his familiar hand.

“Honoured Heir,

Three times I’ve sent for you. This time, I sent Jalamir, and if you read this it means you have refused him as well.

What ails you Ameris? Are you bitter at tasting defeat? Shamed at being bested by a peasant? At letting the bandits escape? The true test of a man is how he deals with adversity. If there is one thing that can be said about a Santraeger, it’s that we always rise again. Show your spirit, son. Come and speak to me face to face and all will be well.

The Kingdom faces troubled times. Every year, more bandits roam the wilds, and more peasants defy their rightful lords. And more of those lords shirk their duty for intrigues at court, or Calimite softness. Laws and customs go to the dogs. The Lion Dynasty falters, son, but we do not choose our king, or his courtiers. The Desert Lion has sworn ever to stand guard for the Sea Lion, and a word given must be honoured, in Helm’s name.

Return, son. Remember your oaths. The realm needs men like us to keep order, for the good of those high and low. I cannot keep the peace alone. I cannot punish those who create disorder alone. Your brother has not the heart for what needs to be done. I know you have, I’ve seen it. [The words have been underlined by someone else] Come to me.”

A cruel heart? I do not feel it. Do you feel such in mine?

Do you recall when you thought me incapable of love, because I could not return Herran's love?

Yet I never stopped loving. You know who my heart ached for.

My hand trembled. I read the last line, the first lie my father knew he’d written.

“Your mother sends her regards.”

Something must have been on my face, in my eyes, as I heard a sigh of compassion.

“Ameris, you do not have to leave.” she said, a calloused hand squeezing my shoulder. I folded the letter carefully, returning it to the envelope, desperate to focus on something. I placed it on the lid of the trunk, just so, tidy.

“I am needed for duty. I must...” my eyes flickered back to the courtyard, where the Santraeger retainers stood in quiet conversation.

She cut me off. The voice was kind, but a hint of her past life remained, a tone of command. “You must do what is right.”

The words had their effect. It was not like a blow, more a flood, a welling up of truth from the pit of my stomach. “He won’t take me.” I croaked.

“He grants Mercy to all, Ameris.” The same tone again, kind, but brooking no dissent.

I took a step away from the window. Another. My head swam. She caught me, soldier’s arms still strong, the hoe ample replacement for the sword. She pulled me to her, silent, holding me as tears came for the first time since I had been in my swaddling clothes. They would not come again until I learnt of the fall of my house into ruin.

I wept for the weeping old woman, cast out of her home when she fell behind on rent. Peasants defy their lords.

I wept for the angry father caught hiding grain for winter to feed his family, and lashed to within an inch of his life. I cannot punish those who create disorder alone.

I wept at the memory of bodies swinging in the wind, punished for the crime of choosing to steal, rather than let their children starve. Laws and customs go to the dogs.

I wept for Reena, cast down into a dark lit only by the coals of a brazier, as I turned my back and embraced a lie. Calimite softness.

I wept for the ragdoll which would emerge into the light, sapped of all which had glittered and held me captive. Show your spirit, son.

I wept for the elves, so brave in trying to save their kin, prisoners we had taken, ridden down within sight of the forests edge. Every year, more bandits roam the wilds.

I wept for those prisoners, and the death I gave them. Slow, savage, a price in blood for our fallen men. Your brother has not the heart for what needs to be done. I know you have, I’ve seen it.

I wept for the starved bandit who had stood, as his comrades fled, as she had fled. So brave, as I bore down on him astride my charger, in bright armour arrayed, pure in my arrogance. Are you bitter at tasting defeat? Shamed at being bested by a peasant?

I wept for all this and more, for I don’t know how long. At some point I heard the clatter of horses' hooves in the Courtyard, but still I wept. And when I was done, I tore the Watcher’s token from around my neck and, my voice hoarse, I spoke the words for the first time.

“Ilmater the Wise, Ilmater the Merciful, Ilmater the Enduring, hear my prayer...”

What did it feel like?

[The words are written near the words of prayer]



[Further down]

Did you ever think you made the wrong choice?

Did you want to go... back? Back to what was...?

[kleomenes]

Ilmater the Wise, Ilmater the Merciful, Ilmater the Enduring, hear my prayer.


I ask for wisdom,
Guide me through this blinding storm;
Thanks to you, I see.

Ilmater the Wise, Ilmater the Merciful, Ilmater the Enduring, hear my prayer.


I ask for mercy,
Forgive my most wicked sins;
Thanks to you, I breathe.

Ilmater the Wise, Ilmater the Merciful, Ilmater the Enduring, hear my prayer.


I ask to endure,
Share freely your divine strength;
In your name, I rise.

[kleomenes]

*written in a casual style, somewhat less precise than usual, as if not written on a hard surface*

On Hope

I have heard Lathanderites say "It is darkest before the Dawn." Words with truth in them.

The last few pages of this journal speak of woe. Onto loss, and old misdeeds there has been lain fresh guilt, born of unwitting horror. I look around me and I see a world of cruelty and suffering, the potential for evil nesting in near every heart. As it once did in my own - perhaps as it still does. And you fight it.

Yet I also see beacons of light.

I see the sun unconquered, arising from chains to shine out once more - so bright. Who even in suffering offers kind word, whose wisdom will not yield to dismay.

I see her Brothers in faith, offering no harsh word, offering only acceptance. Deserved reproach replaced with studied concern for healing.

I see the youthful crusader, unschooled as to the nature of the world, yet already possessing more wisdom than any hate filled soul.

I see the moonlit shadow, offering protection, offering kindness, offering counsel, offering solutions. And correction, where needed.

I see the smiling cat, no longer toying with morsels of food. Instead, purring happily when those around wear smiles.

I see the pragmatic trader. Feet in a different world to me, yet willing to find common ground, and common endeavour. How heavy a burden was I? No profit in being a saviour.

I see the learned priest, ever a support to faith. Knowing that men are not always perfect, and are not born so, yet may serve. Offering fatherly words to reckless youth.

Lastly, I hear the nightingale's song again! Brief words only. I ponder meaning, but I see a glimmer of light, perhaps, amidst the darkness - in that words are heard at all.

And what of this blade before me? A blade of light, to do justice in this dark world. A relic, near misused, but retrieved. It did not stand for the one who had wielded it to be abused so. It defied the darkness, and brought an end to suffering. And now it returns to use, perhaps. It should not rest in idle hands, or be guided by diluted conviction. It has work to do ahead, I fear.

Yes, I look about and see evil in the world. Dark deeds are done, mistakes are made, and the innocent suffer at the hands of the iniquitous far too much.

My faith is not based on a belief the world is perfect. My faith is based on the belief that my place is to stand against the imperfection: against the horror and suffering, despite my own fear and weaknesses. I must stand strong, even as shadows close. I must defy the horror, even if I sink into mud. Yet, this defiance must not be fatalism: a stand is taken with thoughts only of resisting an inevitable wave, it is taken so that we may make a difference.

That is where I must grow, and develop. That is where I am a student, still. So humble. Is this you, Ameris?

[kleomenes]

*a very crude drawing is made on the page. It resembles a stick figure of a human. A frowning face is drawn on it, along with a primitively drawn sword and shield

Scribbled below there is a jovial note*

I think I shall leave the art to Sister Catherine.



You are a better poet than artist.