Ameris Santraeger - Meditations

[kleomenes]

On Respite

There was a walled garden, a very secret place, hidden away from the world. It was built surprisingly swiftly, despite his bound hands, and his blindfold. Only the two of them would pass through its gates and wander its scented paths. Such was the place that new growths bloomed all year round, more revealed with each visit.

In spring, they wandered past an acacia tree, a bed of daffodils growing around it. Under a blooming pear tree, she plucked an elgantine rose for him; he gave her a lily of the valley.

In summer, they gazed on a cherry tree, its blossoms all fallen, still growing strong. Larkspur and dandelion basked in the summer sun, but most striking were the sunflowers. The heat made them lazy, and they relaxed, setting aside the cares of the world outside. They did not matter, here.

In autumn, they stood laughing beneath the apple tree, and watched the fruit fall. Sweet prizes in hand, they sat in a boyer of ivy, watching the buzzing dragonflies hovering over a pond thick with lotus flowers. They spoke of life and its meaning; they spoke of their fetters and their hopes.

In the winter there was a grove of thuja trees for them to drift through in the cool evening. Yet the paths were overgrown with lavender and mint. It was hard to make their way through; yet they shared smiles nevertheless.

The shadows of night fall over an empty refuge. He wanders the familiar paths alone now, trees bare, flowers withered and dead. He comes already with a sprig of wormwood in his lapel; given to him by another. The scent of the marigold flower follows in his wake. The reason for his desperate visit. Yet here he finds only one bloom growing, a yellow rose.

He reaches out for it. He finds its thorns are sharp.


[The poetic entry above is smudged in places, as if drops of water has fallen on it]

Can we...

...bring some life back?

Renew.


/// For those trying to decipher this emo gibberish, a link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plant_symbolism ///

[kleomenes]

On Writing

I started this journal with a particular thought. It was written at a suggestion, of sorts, from one who prizes the arrangement of words. She meant it to be a task for my own benefit, but I wrote it for her, an attempt to show what I could not explain. A naive thing? A trusting thing. A thing I'd do again.

For that teller of tales, words are more than things on a page. They capture ideas, and build up an image of the person they are about. In a sense they are fragments of the self; a legacy to the world; something that remains when a person dies and rots. The tale they have told, that which matters. A desolate series of thoughts, in a way, akin to so many of hers. Foreign, ethereal, bitter; yet always fascinating.

A candle drawing in a moth! Ha!

No; perhaps once. Now, a hunger to learn; an expression of hope.

I must confess, though, my mission has widened. I write for myself, now. I put thoughts to page, and in so doing crystallise them. The process of moving from mind to paper is a process of sifting, clarifying. It helps me decide what it is I actually think. This journal is an advisor to me. Or a mirror. Or a debating partner. Or at times a counsellor.

Going further, it is a place to revisit memories. I look back through what I have written so far, and I see many episodes from my past. Tales told to show what I was to a disbelieving mind, to prove that I walked a journey, too. But also, written for me to prove to myself I've walked a journey, and learned lessons from it.

I cannot deny, writing here and now, that some entries bring back old pains. They speak of another life, a life of steel and stone. It was a life of certainties, for the most part, apart from that seed from which my faith grew. I had much that many would envy. Writing lets me understand something. I am the same man. Or should I say, the same things are within me.

Thank you...

For writing. For sharing.

Still proud. Still angry. Still arrogant. Still unable to contemplate, or even tolerate failure. Still bitter. Still vengeful. Still base. Still cynical. Still distrustful.

Still self-absorbed, obviously. This journal is proof!

A PEACOCK

The change comes in self-knowledge,and in embracing wise teachings. It is like Neschera said; it is the rejection of flaws which makes one better, not the absence of them.

Perhaps now I leap away from my flaws with both feet, like a child jumping into a puddle. It can be messy. Perhaps sometimes I find its not a puddle, but a pond. Learning to swim is a valuable skill. And in part, this journal tells me how.

[kleomenes]

On Betrayal

I wonder at myself.

Its there, I can feel it, a seething rage coiling around my heart, twisting through my guts. Every so often the Serpent twists and slithers, squeezing bile up from the depths, sometimes nearly reaching the tip of my tongue. "This is the true world." it says. "Why fight it? Why be any different?" it hisses. "You would never have stood such before Ilmater. They would have known they wronged a Santraeger. To their cost!" Rare moments of truth? Or weakness?

Yet the Serpent is chained. I wonder at those chains? Faith, certainly. My Lord would have me forgive, vengeful fury a final, distant option. My Lord's anger is measured, resolved, terrible in aspect because it is in extremity, a thing of last resort, a thing not turned aside when engaged. Because he has already tried his best to seek other ways. So must I be, so the Serpent is chained. As hard as it is for those outside my faith to understand.

Are there other chains, though? Or is it only through him the Serpent is stilled in its cruel work? Perhaps shame is a chain as well. Shame at my own misdeeds pulling me back from judgement; shame at my own failure to those very ones I would rage at, knowing that I could have done more, been better, that I spread myself too thin. Even as the Dawn's sweet words speak against holding such close, I know that humans err, and I am very human A lion [The word has been struck through by someone else, another written in its place above it]. Even if I am not culpable, I have a duty to look back and see where I can improve.

I wonder at despair too. Is that also a chain? Have I given up my self? I kneel before Ilmater, but for me? Perhaps I am numb to all but rage and faith, and the only thing left to be is to choose the Broken God. The only way I can defy the wicked, and those whose knife I can still feel my shoulder blades. To Endure is to deny them victory. Defiance, but hollow

Yet now I write, Perhaps there is another thing that chains the Serpent. A thing, I think, that may have moved many of my actions. An invisible guide through dark forests. An invisible noose round my neck! Perhaps it is not another chain, rather a different kind of serpent, not black and wicked like the one I fear, but brighter, purer. I had thought guilt drove me on into my Lord's arms. Or a perception of the emptiness of tyranny, the circular nature of cruel acts. The lack of purpose to it all.

Yet what would prompt such? Why would I think such? I have met wicked men now, wicked men and women. I have met hopeless men and women. I have met men and women of steel and stone. Men and women whose anger rises from the past, unshakeable. Men and women whose pride is founded on naught but their own assumption. Am I like them?

Or should I accept that compassion is a part of me?


How is compassion not a part of you?

Is how you act towards me, only based on your faith..?

[kleomenes]

On Loss

Another goodbye. Expected, in a way, the first few steps away left a wound. Its no lie, though, that the pain is still sharp. Perhaps the finality, the distance, will allow wounds to become scars, now there is distance.

The circumstances bring me happiness. I wish Layana well. She has found happiness, a life, where once I feared there would be nothing for her but despair. She will serve him in her own way, although I am unsure she sees that yet. I hope she does.

I'll write, I may even be able visit, in the way I am unable to visit Louise. The finality is just to convenience, not to the bond of Brother and Sister.

I sit at this desk and write, even as I hear the noise of the temple below. Every second, I dread more footsteps on the stairs to disturb this quiet moment. I am never alone, it seems. A thing to remember just now, as the ache of loss bubbles away in the depths of my heart.


Solitude. Do you wish for it?

Or for others to not only come to you with their troubles.

But to come to you, and ask what troubles you?


What might I write on this? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. I spoke of such recently with a kindred soul. There was truth in such a statement, memory polishing past events to a bright sheen. One cannot deny, however, that such preserved scenes do not match the visceral present. In the visceral present, mind wanders to fresh experience, and renders the past a city of ghosts.

There is pain, doubt it not. Every day, red raw. Beyond expectation. Deep claw marks, though. How bitter can betrayal taste? How wicked was it to serve such? How can I have loved so dearly such a mailed fist? Above all, how can one...story...mean so much, compared to the whole world?

I could go on and write, now, of such loss. Wallow in my own sadness. And shame, yes, for I bear burden of ill acts. I might do that, salve the pain with words expressing that which sticks in my throat. But I will not.

My Lord commands I shed tears for the suffering of the world. It is sin to dwell on one's own pain to the exclusion of others.

We are not masters of our hearts. We are masters, however, of how we act, and react. If I am fit to break, then it is my duty to seek aid. I have stumbled, and felt strong hands on my shoulder. If I stumble again, then I might speak, then I might dwell on pain.

But now, I do my duty.

And to see Layana's choice, Layana's life. My heart is lifted. For she reminds me of what is worth fighting for in this world.

[kleomenes]

Spirits

It was on the cusp of spring and summer, nearly a decade ago. I was sixteen, and like all that age aching to be ten years older (foolish me!). And, of course, one thing those ten years older did was drink.

Every year, the oldest of the boys fostered in the Duke's Court, those who had turned sixteen, organised a semi-secret foray into the city. Ithmong was not a chaotic place, but it had its taverns and alehouses, and they were more than willing to take the coin of a group of eager young noblemen. There were a pair of groomsmen, Suldan and Pugh, who aided and abetted the efforts each year (for a pouch of coin, of course), smuggling thirsty youths out and Suldan even acting as a guide around several of the taverns until the group dissipated and headed back to the palace.

This year was no different, and we had drunk very deeply for such a tender age. It was the small hours, and decent folk were in bed, when we emerged onto the main streets and staggered back towards the inn. There were three of us who had split off in this little band: Jaster Helimvas, son of Baron Helimvas, a noted military man; Ardus Tarsin. whose father was the Count of Rivershire, a rather senior noble; and myself.

Our halting steps did still have some swagger when we entered the plaza, just a few streets away from our destination. A great statue of Darrom, spear of execution raised high, dominated the square. It was quite new, and the subject had a mythic, heroic aspect that was no doubt absent in the half-savage clansman that the true man had been. The savage killer he had been, if I am honest.

"I'm bursting!" exclaimed Tarsin; we were always known by surnames or nicknames.

"If you didn't drink as much as you eat, you wouldn't be painting half the city!" chided Hel with a trace of venom, his angular face twisted in disdain even towards his friend. I liked Hel back then. I liked his sharpness.

Tarsin's jowl's wobbled in annoyance, but his defence was always wit. "With the amount you split, someone had to actually drink to show the roughs we weren't all talk!" I laughed, even Hel laughed. Tarsin always had that way about him, a charming bonhomie. He swigged from the bottle of spirits we had carried away, smirking.

We looked about. Now it came to it, we all felt a sudden urge. Yet even at this hour, such a major square had a handful of travellers and even the odd tradesmen, moving goods for the morning to follow.

"This way." I said, having spotted an alley. We walked with all the dignity we could muster.

We only noticed the drunk beggar lying under the ragged blanket when he moved, and then cursed. ""Ye sods! What ye think ye are doing!" Legs soaked, he shook a fist at us and began pulling himself to his feet.

"Charity?" said Tarsin, jovial, although his eyes also betrayed apology.

"Bastard!" the old man swore, and spat in Tarsin's direction. The phlegm caught Tarsin full in the face.

It did not take much. The back of my hand caught the beggar full on the cheek, throwing him back to the ground. "You dare!?" Hel was not much slower, a savage kick landing in the man's gut. "Don't like your gift?" he snarled, another kick as the man whimpered. "Got more to give you, now!" The beggar sobbed wetly. Another kick in the ribs, a crack.

"Enough. He's paid." I said, tugging Hel back. Perhaps my drunkeness made it more forceful than I intended, as Hel had fire in his eyes as he whirled. "You take this scum's side?" he hissed, squaring up to me.

Our eyes met, in that bold way that young men challenge each other; that way that really speaks more of their reluctance to violence. But then I felt it, that fire, that rage rising. I remember clearly what moved me: not justice, or recklessness; the old man forgotten, the drink forgotten. Only one thing, this youth before me - my friend - stood in challenge Such a proud lion [Words written above the sentence]. My outrage at being denied. My fist closing into a ball, muscles tensing, then...

An arc of liquid flying between us, expelled from Tarsin's mouth like he was some crazed ornamental fountain. We looked at him, both of us, like he was mad. He just took another swig from the bottle and spouted out his mouthful again.

A silent moment, then we all laughed, slapping backs, grinning, friends again, stumbling out of the alley.

I do not recall looking back.

[kleomenes]

The Knot

In life we are often plagued with difficult decisions. Dim memory might hide it, but no doubt even as a child I had thorny problems: Which of these three pastries should I have first? Should I use the toy axe or the toy sword to try and beat my brother round the head? Should I ask Nan for the tale of the Singing Boar again as my bed time story, or take the gamble on her inventing something new?

...I suppose, in retrospect, I was lucky to have such facile concerns. Those born to less privilege worry about much more (truly the greatest gift that Thedran and the Sisters at Mercy's give is a childhood).

I have had my share of conundrums in adulthood, though. As soon as I was a man grown, easy answers were as much a part of my life as childhood toys. Whether to embrace duty with a cold or compassionate heart; whether to ask men to die so that the enemy might be cut deeper; Whether to stand by soft words spoken to one, or words of fealty spoken to another; whether to cling to family or choose god.

Looking back, I can see easily what decision I should have made at each point. But that is the thing with looking back; one has much more information, and one has lived longer. One has wisdom. Its the problems before us that vex so.

And how there are problems! The hunger of the poor in the city. The uncertain thread of trade on the coast, easily snuffed out by bandits and barbarians. The machinations of metal men and women in their bleak fortress. The discord evident between those who would oppose the wicked.

The constant question: how far I should go in pursuit of my Lord's highest ideals, in the face of pragmatic reasons to the contrary. When does mercy become foolishness, and is it impious for me even to ask?


Remember when you said,

"I want to know what I have to do.... I want to know how far...I have to go, to bring you back."

[There is no explanation but it can be gathered that the words hold importance]


The seemingly blank pages of a tale unfinished, the ink for more a hard thing to acquire. Should likely outcome dampen hopes? Should past be resigned to memory? Would that not also be pragmatic?

A mind turned in on itself can chase round in circles, never heading in any direction. It ties itself up in knots of worry and uncertainty. It can become ineffectual, second guessing each and every act, due caution becoming paralyzing apprehension.

I've learned recently the price of recklessness. Perhaps I learn also the price of hesitance.

*the handwriting is different here, a bit rushed*

I am reminded of a tale of King Silvyr, during the revolt against the Shoon. Apocryphal, no doubt, but on point. A noble refused to join Silvyr's rebellion, saying that there were too many obstacles in the way. He tied a knot in a rope, hopelessly tangling it up, and said that only if King Silvyr could untangle it in under a minute would he lend his support. The tale goes that Silvyr just watched and waited until the last moment, before cutting through the knot with his regal blade. The noble praised his boldness and joined the rebellion, winning great acclaim in the efforts to topple the Emperor.

Just a story, but I like the thought a lot.

[kleomenes]

The Castle

At first I thought I faced a period of captivity. A long wait, in darkness. Such would be a test of patience. I would have to bind thought tight. Fetter hope. Restrain actions. But such would be passive, and that is not the nature of this task.

Then I thought I faced a dusty journey down a long road. A hazardous path through dark forests, across windswept plains, through rough country. Such would require not only patience, but endurance, a drive to continue. To reach a destination. To put one foot before the other. Yet that suggests an inevitable course, affected only by my own desire to continue. A binary task. No, that is not this one.

Then I thought of a mountain, crags and cliffs to be traversed to a lofty, cloud wreathed summit. Scree showing the after effects of treacherous avalanches. The wind threatening to tear me off during the ascent. Not only requiring endurance, or perseverance, but also strength and cunning to navigate the ascent, and brave the harsh elements and furious storms. A set destination, the peak. But also an uncertain element, capricious nature offering a random chance of failure which must be deftly countered when it arises. But that is not right either. This is not a task governed by luck; no, there is agency on both sides. Failure would not be random.

Then I thought of a castle. Curtain walls, barbican, towers and redoubts, each manned by well armed soldiers, crossbows at the ready. Oil warms over braziers. Rocks await my climb. No random elements these. They intend to keep me out. They want me to fail. Yet within, behind those walls, protected, there lies the goal. I think the ruler of this castle governs it with a stern eye. Intruders will be repulsed. It is an imperative. So, this is not just a task of patience, or endurance, or even luck. It is a clash of wit; of will even.

Yet, I think the ruler of this castle wants me to succeed; would they but admit it. Perhaps needs me to, or the castle will become a bleak ruin. So I will.

My nature, my people's culture, is built on the bold charge of knights. Victories like that of King Strohm at the Brinniq Dell; or noble, heroic defeats like that of Prince Rythan at the Battle of Nightflames. This is not that work. It is patient. It is enduring. It insulates itself against ill luck. It is wit and wisdom, not just bold courage and will.

It is a siege. But, my Lord, thanks to you I come well supplied.


Did you succeed, or are you still outside the castle walls trying?

[kleomenes]

*written neatly, elaborately*

Men of Silvyr, march to glory,

Victory is hov'ring o'er ye,

Bright-eyed freedom stands before ye,

Hear ye not her call?

At your sloth she seems to wonder;

Rend the sluggish bonds asunder,

Let the war-cry's deaf'ning thunder

Every foe appall.

Echoes loudly waking,

Hill and valley shaking;

'Till the sound spreads wide around,

Emperor's courage breaking;

Your foes on every side assailing,

Forward press with heart unfailing,

'Till invaders learn with quailing,

Tethyrians ne'er can yield!



Thou, who cruel Shoonach wrongest,

Know that freedom's cause is strongest,

Freedom's courage lasts the longest,

Ending but with death!

Freedom countless hosts can scatter,

Freedom stoutest mail can shatter,

Freedom thickest walls can batter,

Fate is in her breath.

See, they now are flying!

Dead are heap'd with dying!

Over might hath triumph'd right,

Our land to foes denying;

Upon their soil we never sought them,

Love of conquest hither brought them,

But this lesson we have taught them,

"Tethyrians ne'er can yield!"



No luck. Time for a bard. In fact, I shall ask Nerys. If she can visit, she'd be perfect!


One day my beloved, we will stand on a stage together.

No, you cannot wring your way out of this.

[kleomenes]

Fever

I shiver, yet sweat stains my brow. Sleep pays me no visit, yet my bones ache with exhaustion. I thrash restlessly, yet I cannot rise from my humid prison. My lids heavy yet eyes wild. I think of all things, yet focus on nothing.

All that was known, decided, shifts again, shattered by a mixture of resolve and recklessness; duty and doubt; idealism and idiocy. Each time a heavy foot is placed upon the ground, I find it nothing but sand. Is this me? Is it my nature to stagger ever onwards? Ever unsatisfied? Grasping not at one goal, but all of them?

One wonders if I should be compared to a dull blade, too blunt to cut. Unsubtle like a hammer, an imprecise instrument, leaving bruised souls in my wake. No. [One worded, written clearly]

Louise spoke rightly of hubris; arrogant is the man who thinks he should be perfect, who rebukes falling below such standard. A mortal is flawed, after all, making mistakes and submitting to wants as well as needs. Even the divine has limits.

I cannot rest, though, much as I try. Desert jackals worry at my heels; a legacy of past failures, joined by those of the present. I cannot allow myself to slip into self regard.

Is this fever born of a desire for atonement? Past wickedness weighs heavy, yes, but it is not the cancer it was. I kneel and accept His mercy. I must, if I am to speak of the same to others This is the strength in you that I admire. [Words written between the sentences]. So if not atonement, what? Why does my febrile mind flit, discarding what came before, looking to new horizons?

I should not talk of compulsion, I chose this path; abandoning that which I was raised to call honour, replacing it with music. I chose to dream beyond faith, beyond duty. Once I said that world was a morass of suffering against which the righteous must stand, a defiant bulkwark against the tide, enduring unto death. I still stand. I will still endure. But now I hear the pessimism in such words, the admission of defeat; the lack of faith in the true meaning of the Broken God. A lack of will to Break All Chains.

I saw wonder in a shadow standing defiant against the pit, struggling against it chains, stronger than any which ever bound me. Yet I also looked inside, and there saw in myself hope that such chains could be broken just as the fever came over me; this belief that the world can be beautiful, if we but fight for it. [The words have been underlined by someone else]

I think your fever grew.

When you speak to me, of such, you seem to do it with fervor and to the depth of your soul? your heart.

I wonder... I wonder if you really are so convinced, or you simply want to be convinced.

Perhaps I ought not to call it fever. Perhaps I ought to call it revelation. Correction. Birth. Perhaps I am but a student again. Perhaps these shaking legs are not a decline, merely the hesitance of a babe learning to walk.

Time will tell.

[kleomenes]

*the title of this entry is written in Thorass*

Hidden: show

In Judgment

The village hall was already crowded when we entered, peasants and tradesmen lining the walls and huddled near the doors. The Sherriff's militia had to clear a path for us to pass, and all eyes were on us as we walked between the pressed bodies. I remember feeling unaccountably nervous - my first public appearance since returning from the Duke's court, my first as something approaching a man. I felt some few eyes dwell upon me, and I straightened my back, resolved to look every bit the young Lord.

Overnight, they had set up the three banners at the back of the dias: the Duke of Ithmong's heraldry on the right, and our own golden lionhead on blue on the left. In the centre the eye emblazoned gauntlet of the Watcher took pride of place, a reminder of the solemn oaths sworn before the God, to Duke and King; to uphold Royal law and keep order in County Suldaskar. Before the banners there lay two chairs. We ascended the makeshift steps, creaking under the weight of our mail - even then, we travelled armoured, cautious - and I waited for my father to sit before I did so myself, posture tight and straight.

My father looked out over those in attendance; a gaggle of complainants and greedy men, squabbling neighbours and wronged tradesmen. His face was a mask, stern without anger, and he held his hand up for silence.

"In the name of the King, Alemander, the fourth of his name; in fee to his Eminence the Duke of Ithmong; I, his excellency Count Ardepan Santraeger of Suldaskar do sit in judgment this day, the 16th day of Eleasis 1340. Let pleas for justice be heard before the eye of the Watcher, in accordance with solemn oath and the ancient duty of my ancestors."

And so the Sherrif - I forget his name, a jowlly man with a simpering manner - brought forth the various complainants. It was all the stuff of village life, saved up for one of the irregular visits of the Count; and bitter, as it had moved beyond what the Sherrif could adjudicate himself.

A dispute over a sub-tenancy. An argument over a legacy. A broken marriage contract. A number of shepherds arguing over grazing rights. An itinerant tradesman appealing from what he said were double-paid taxes. And so it went on.

At one point, during a brief pause to find a missing cattle drover, my father leaned over, whispering in my ear.

"Fair, yes. But speedy. If it has got to me, then it needs resolved, for the sake of order."

I remember nodding seriously, solemnly, and he smiled, that brief warmth in his eyes that he sometimes got. I dwell on that quite often, these days.


What do you think of it? Even tyrants can feel.

Do you see now, why I do not trust in the justice of Baldur's Gate, Amn, anywhere...?

By the servants of gods, clerics and paladins.

Liken it to Thedran's spade. They are the same justice.


We broke for lunch. Some simple fare provided by the village: bread, cheeses. We drank our own wine. My father questioned me on the decisions made, and I gave my opinion eagerly.

In the afternoon, those charged by the Sherrif with high crimes were brought forward; offences which required the Count's verdict by their very nature.

A serious assault on a labourer by another; born of drunkenness, over a woman. The victim's hand had been smashed and was useless; like was delivered unto the criminal.

A theft of sheep from the slopes of the Starspires. The accused produced a witness to say he had been on the other side of the county at the time, buying feed. Acquitted. The false accuser was placed in the stocks.

...My backside began to grow sore...

The final case was severe. A tenday ago, an argument between neighbours over the boundaries of their plots had led to violence. The Sherrif called witnesses who gave a trustworthy account. Looking back, the man had done his best by the accused.

The victim was a cruel, argumentative man, who when the dispute had arose had hounded the accused with sharp tongue and cruel gossip. The accused, ponderous, a simple man who kept to his family, had stayed silent. On the day in question, the victim, drunk on his own arrogance, had accosted the accused in the street, first with words, then with a shove. The accused had pushed back, harder, and the victim had fallen. Beshaba's luck, his skull had smashed on a stone and he died that night.

It seemed as easy as deciding the labourer should have his hand smashed. It was as easy as deciding the marriage contract was null and void. It was even as easy, it seemed, as deciding that the trader should not have to pay the same tax twice. I remember it clearly.

"In the name of the King, Alemander, the fourth of his name; in fee to his Eminence the Duke of Ithmong; and mindful of the new Ordnances of the King as to the murder of Tethyrians; I, his excellency Count Ardepan Santraeger of Suldaskar, do hereby pronounce Gassin Olvamdar guilty..."

A wail sounded from within the crowd. The accused's wife. Or widow, as was soon to be.

"May he be rendered to the gallows at dawn tomorrow to be hanged, and thence to his god. Let his soul be judged in the afterlife, as his body has been judged here."

The silent giant was dragged from the hall, his piteous family following. My father and I stood, duty done for the day and eager for refreshment. Murmurs erupted from the crowd. Some in favour, no doubt. Some against. And worse, some perhaps disinterested now the show was over.

[kleomenes]

Confirmation

Teacher;
Strong, resolute;
Leading, testing, forging;
Unbroken despite life's hardships;
Mentor.

Traitor;
Artful, cruel;
Lying, twisting, tainting;
Deceit shattering wide-eyed hope;
Tyrant.

Fury;
Vengeful, spiteful;
Trashing, tearing, biting;
Consuming restraint in flame;
Rage.

Sinner;
Bitter, harder;
Stumbling, snarling, failing;
Desiring only crimson art;
Coward.

Adorned;
Dutiful, pious;
Kneeling, leaning, enduring;
Persevering in His mercy;
Adorned.



I could have killed him.

I did not.

Should I have tried?


[In small letters at the bottom of the page]



Poetic.

[kleomenes]

Obligations

She has an obligation. A debt. A responsibility, at least one she takes on. And she wants to see it discharged.

It has given me much cause to think.

A babe in arms is helpless. All needs are met from outside. Abandon the infant and it will weep, freeze and starve. A child can do more, perhaps; the urchins of Athkatla are proof of that. Yet such youth has needs of love and care which must be met; or childhood will die even as the body endures.

When we grow beyond youth, though, we grow into responsibility. We are not helpless, and so we cannot expect to be looked after. We must find some way of feeding ourselves, clothing ourselves, building a life And did I... find the wrong way? [Words written between the sentences]. That is a fundamental truth. It is not a fundamental truth that we do it alone.

Those born into every culture must interact with others. We all have families, friends, comrades, servants, masters, business associates, partners, acquaintances...

My Lord preaches a perfect path for how to manage such interactions. The path of the Saint. The path of altruism. Give without thought of reward, act without thought of the cost, show kindness without need for the same in return. The world is not peopled with Saints, though. The Ilmateri might teach that such is the ideal - but it is an ideal. Something to be strived for, but not the reality. It always pleases me to see that you are not completely delusional.

What is the reality? That people act for others with the expectation of receiving in return. At its basic level, a merchant sells goods or a servant his labour for coin. Mutual obligations, quickly discharged. Yet beyond the realm of coin, still there are expectations which form ties between souls. Even my father spoke in such terms: the obligation of the commons by way of rents and obedience; our obligation to keep order, render them safe from threat, and rule according the King's command. Rights and responsibilities. Obligations. These are the stuff of human interaction.

I heard tell from Mae of the power of gifts to set up mutual reliance. The obligation set up by a gift of coin is finite; it is able to be returned precisely. A gift is imprecise. In those who value their relationships with others, it sets up a requirement to return similar gift, but what? Each thing has differing value to different people. So a cycle of gift giving ensues, building bonds. At its best meeting need and spreading the burdens of hardship.

Do I describe at core a mercenary culture? Perhaps, but also one that rewards those who give, and punishes those who only take. Predators, the greedy, liars and cheats; they are not valued there, as they do not embrace reciprocity, or form such bonds of obligation. They cut all ties for short term gain. They are rightly ostracised.

What of more insubstantial gifts? Kindness, mercy, forgiveness, loyalty. They are gifts, and they are holy to my Lord. Are they less holy, if the giver gives hoping to receive the same in return? Less to be welcomed? An altruistic man is virtuous and to be lauded, certainly. He stands without needing a constant bolster of returned kindness. He promotes giving, but also the passing on of gift without cost, without need for gratitude. Yet such a tower is on foundations of sand if it denies human weakness. Yet can we not say that a kindness repaid by a kindness is in truth, better overall than a single kindness going in one direction. For it represents an ideal of giving not just one of taking. Mutual obligations. The next best thing to a world of Saints.

Is it, then, something I can truly speak against?


I have given and received little in return.

I did not live a life which rewarded kindness, yet...

When opportunity was there, to get away with it. It was given.

[kleomenes]

Anatomy of Tyranny

It is around midday, on a cold winter's market day. The ground is hard and unforgiving. The market is impoverished thanks to the harsh clime, but travelling traders and brave forest hunters have brought forth some produce.

The people will be gathered in the village square. They will be distracted with buying and selling what little is available, going about their lives. They will feel a community. It is the perfect time to remind them with a shock of what rests above them.

The men-at-arms ride into the village square at a slow trot. Hooves thud on the ground. Spurs and tack jingle.

Slow enough so that the crowds can part. Fast enough that they know they have to part.

The banner flutters high. The young lord at their head. The men are armed, but no weapons drawn yet.

It is known at once that we speak with the Count's authority and all acts will be sanctioned.

The horsemen wheel, forming lines with their backs to the Sherrif's hall, two deep. They remain mounted.

Clustered like this, numbers look greater. The position before the Sherrif's hall tells those watching why we are here, and remind them that we are greater than their local rulers.

The people begin to naturally cluster opposite.

The spectacle draws curiosity. They are simple folk.

The young lord announces why he is here. Talk of banditry, and its ruinous effects on the well-being of the County and the village. Talk of the theft of grain.

Those with rebellious spirit will not listen to words. There are always those who waver, though, who might see the sense in Order. The words are for them. To understand why we must act as we do.

The young lord continues, reading out a list of proscribed names. Bandits. Thieves from the collective stores. There is little reaction.

Villagers until recently. Everyone knows it. They know of the bad harvests, and the threat of famine which casts a long shadow during this harsh winter. Some perhaps even see the need for rationing.

The expected names are spoken, but the young lord is not done. More names are read out, accompanied by other words. Sedition. Aiding and abetting bandits and rebels. Disobedience in a time of crisis. Contempt for obligations in fee.

The laws have not deterred the desperate from breaking the bonds of society. For the good of the village, of the County, it must stop. Why chase bandits in hills and forests? Their friends and family are right here. Who ate their stolen grain along with them. Who helped them escape.

The crowd begins to stir, worried, and a few people begin to back away. The thud of horses hooves as the second wave of men-at-arms arrives, surrounding the crowd in a thin line, blades gleaming in the cold sun. Those around the young lord draw their swords, too.

The value of shock. Those condemned are still trying to catch up as the net closes on them. The show of force breeds fear, and fear paralyses reaction.

The young lord commands that the names are brought forth from the crowd. Some scuffling as a woman is pushed forward.

There are always those whose first thought is to their own safety.

A threat of collective punishment brings forward an old woman and a youth.

Although sometimes they must be reminded of that.

Riders dismount. The captives are dragged to the granary.

This is where it will be done. They will hang here, and so be vivid reminder of the penalty for theft of grain.

The crowd rumbles and murmurs.

Too afraid of swords to do more.

The ropes are made ready. Strong arms throw them over the timber that supports the hoist used to raise sacks to the top floor. Hands are bound. Sobbing heads slip easily into nooses, as the other ends of the rope are lashed to horses.

Instant, for maximum shock and fear. A lynching. Traitors are not worth due process.

The young lord still faces the crowd even as he gives the word.

Those to be hanged are already dead. There is no pleasure in duty; no sadness, either. The condemned are meaningless, now. Beneath contempt. Useful only for the message they pass.

His eyes are hard.

And those still living are being watched.

The horses strain. The crowd grows silent. The only sound outside of the creaking of ropes, is a gurgling; thanks to a poorly tied noose.

No mistake. Let them see horror. Its for their own good, so they stay on the right path.


Was this what you wanted me to know?

I knew already. From words you /did not/ speak.

I saw your struggle.



I sometimes hoped to bring it out what you wanted to contain.

So that you would stand by my side.

It would have broken your spirit, would it not have?


The young lord's voice is clipped and terse as he speaks. Aiding bandits is akin to being a bandit.

Make it clear they will be punished just like this, if they do not serve loyally.

Loyal subjects must make their hearts hard.

Empathise with soft feeling, let them believe the lie that the same doubts dwell in your heart.

But they did.

The cold winter is an enemy as much as any forest barbarian.

Remind them of past glories; foes we have bested to protect them in the past. Compare that struggle to this.

Yet the resolve of the Count is like an anvil, and will not yield. He will see his people prosper again.

A promise of better times. Hope, so they may bear their burden.

No more words. The hangmen mount and depart, the young lord at their head.

[kleomenes]

Anatomy of Mercy

It is late at night, the small hours. The temple is dim, but candles still burn, light falling on a young priest.

The Adorned do not sleep; always at least one of us is ready to answer the call.

The door slams open and the young priest looks up. Startled, wary perhaps, for a brief moment, before that sinks behind a polite smile.

Whatever has happened before, whatever swords lie at our necks; we must welcome those who enter, those in need.

A man and a woman enter, furrowed brows both. They are hastily clothed in modest garb and bleary eyed, unfamiliar with the late hour.

Commoners. A labourer of some sort, and his wife, by the cut of their attire. And there has been some crisis which has roused them.

The man carries something swaddled in a blanket. The young priest closes his book and stands at once.

No need for words, or sight of what they carry. A pair like this, carrying a burden of worry - they are here because of a child.

The man calls for a priest. The sinews of his neck proud and tense. His voice harsh, a snarl. It quavers at the end. The woman whimpers, eyes wet with tears.

A strong man. He is used to control, or being able to predict that which he cannot control. She is used to his steadiness. A life of order, stability. Their powerlessness to help the child breeds panic, and panic breeds anger and despair, respectively.

The young priest bows, speaking soft words of introduction, identifying himself in a calm, even voice...

Let them know they are heard.

...but at once, beckoning the family through to the infirmary.

Let them know you will act.

Heavy footsteps follow. The young priest remains quiet until they reach a bed, and bids the man place his son down comfortably, drawing a curtain across for privacy.

The rest of the ward cut off, they are more likely to speak truth.

The boy is pale and wan. He looks exhausted, a hooded, bloodshot stare. Unfocused. Blood mars his lips. He is young, not even three.

No visible injury, but that says little. Details are needed to inform examination.

The young priest asks softly what has occurred. The woman sobs an incoherent statement about sickness, vomiting. The man's rasping voice continues, demanding help for his son. He has fallen, the man says. He has been touched by dark magics, gnashing his teeth and flailing like he was in the clutch of evil spirits. Some witch has cursed him. His voice rises in volume. He demands again that the priest help, angrily.

A seizure. A terrifying thing for parents to watch. Already things become clearer.

The young priest, in a soothing voice, thanks the man, and states clearly he will examine the boy and then do what he can to help.

Make him feel useful. Restore to him some control. Give them hope that something can be done.

The examination is quick, the boy pliant and unresponsive. A hand on the brow, a taking of the pulse, followed by the checking of the major glands. A gentle pressing of the boy's scalp. Each of the boy's eyes checked closely. Gently opening his mouth to confirm, luckily, that his tongue is not too badly cut by his own fevered bite. All the while the priest wears a reassuring smile, attention on the boy.

The boy may not react but he should still not be startled. He no doubt is aware of more than he shows. Thus show yourself friend, not hostile stranger.

He turns immediately to the woman, who sits with her hand pressed to her mouth in worry. He tells her to talk to her son. He may not respond, but he hears, and she will reassure him. The woman nods, her frailty giving way to purpose, her voice sad yet tireless as she strokes the boys head.

Despair gives way to love for her son. Set her to a task of likely - if not certain - benefit to him and see the spirits of both lifted.

The man angrily asks what the young priest will do. He accuses the priest of dragging his feet, of doing nothing. He has heard of this young priest, his knightly ways, his dabbling in high affairs. The less than wholesome rumours about some of his dealings. With venom, he spits forth accusations of disregard for the common man - for this common man's son.

He has to do something. Someone must be blamed. He needs the fire to hold back the tears. It is a small burden to bear, these blows. So commonly given by frightened family. The Adorned endure this and more.

Yet it is always you who must be patient, is it not? In all things.

Share your burdens.

The young priest meets the man's gaze, offering him a sympathetic look. His words are soft when he speaks, but authoritative. Angry tones will upset the boy, he says. All must be soothing so he does not labour under fears and distress, and can find strength to recover. He bids the man offer a moment's respite for calm. The man falls silent, grinding his teeth.

A small burden of guilt onto the man's shoulder. Remind him that he is here for his son; so that his actions should help his son, not his own anxiety. But the battle is not done.

The young priest continues, a soothing tone. The boy is not possessed. He has a sickness - a fever of sorts - and its heat has overcome him. Sometimes children have seizures brought on by such, and this is what has most likely happened.

Show him something has been done. Show him that what is strange and magical to him is a thing known to the Ilmateri. Dispel his fear with your own knowledge, and so cool his anger.

The man grunts, and asks what will happen, abruptly. But not angrily. The young priest explains that he will offer prayers to his god to break the sickness. Then, he will mix an infusion of yarrow and holy water to break the fever. This must be fed to the boy carefully, so he does not choke.

Show him something will be done.

The young priest says it is important the man listens, so that he can help administer the tonic.

Give him something to do.

Seriously, earnestly the man asks what Yarrow does. With a smile, the priest explains again it will reduce the fever.

Now he listens, and is calm; and all are focused upon the boy.

The young priest turns, clasping is holy symbol, and gives thanks to the Lord on the Rack.

[kleomenes]

Much To Learn

"I'm not surprised I find you here." a female voice echoed from the doorway. There was a crackle to it, the first dust of age catching in her throat, but it still carried a quiet strength.

I turned from the window hesitantly, pulling my gaze from the slumbering quadrangle. She was there in the doorway, wearing the same simple grey robes as she had when I first uttered prayers to the Broken God. Strange how there seemed so much more grey in her hair now; even though it had not yet been two years. Those brown eyes were the same though, deep and warm. Mostly at least. I remembered the words of rebuke earlier that day.


You stayed... for two years, and found your path?

No wonder you are angered, that I would be expected by others to find mine in one moon.


"You're still thinking about leaving." she said.

"Yes."

Myself, I was unrecognisable from before. Gone was the deep blue doublet, the gold lion sigil, the token of the Watcher. In their place a plain robe of the Ilmateri and a symbol of the bloody rack. Gone were my noble locks, my hair cut instead into a tonsure to mark my vows of peace Oh, that tonsure. I do miss Sebastian a little. I do not miss striking living trees with flames because you would not [Words squeezed in between the sentences]. There was no sword at my side. I wore simple sandles, not riding boots. A red cord was bound round my wrist.

"Thinking. That's progress, at least." the woman chuckled, shuffling across to sit on the end of the bed, as I looked out again into the quadrangle. The silence filled the room again, the summer's air broken only by the chirping of crickets in the bushes below.

It was her who spoke again, repeating words said many times. "You know you can stay here. There's much to learn, especially for one like you. The Scriptorum needs welll lettered Brothers."

"Yes, I know." I turned again, an apologetic smile, before my gaze looked back to the quadrangle. My voice then was neutral, a statement of fact. "I have to do this."

"So you've said." There was something else in her voice in that moment. Looking back I dwell on it. Hurt? Whatever it was, it was enough to make me turn round.

"Revered Sister, I owe the Brothers and Sisters here a great debt. I came a sinner; I leave in his service. I will always be thankful..."

Her voice carried its quiet strength again as she looked at me, eyes stern; yet warm. "I did not come here to hear platitudes. Its truth I want."


I think you are starting to pick up on the secrets of this gaze.


I could not meet her gaze.

She stood, padding towards me, past me, towards the humble little pile of possessions I intended to leave behind. A calloused hand reached for one object there. My eyes widened as she stood back, unwrapping the sword from its scabbard, revealing the golden lion on the pommel. Then, with a smooth motion, she drew the blade, the sinews of her arms flexing with familiar movement as she spun it in a deadly flourish before holding it still, silent.

The sword glittered in the lamplight, a silver streak of death; the elven blade untarnished by the ages.

"You keep it clean."

From behind, I could see her eyes reflected in the metal as she gazed at it; and there, within the brown warmth, there was something else.

...Something of fire and smoke, of screams and wails, of fury and greed...

"It will never leave you, boy." she said, softly, a trace of bitterness. "Even if you should live until the sky falls and the seas swallow the land."

With that, she sheathed the blade, and wrapped the scabbard once more, placing it down among my possessions once more. Her eyes were warm when she looked at me again.

"What is it you hope to do?"

I spoke. I always did in the end, with her. "I cannot run from what I did wrong. I cannot pretend like it did not happen. I must go back and speak of his Mercy and of how pain just breeds more pain. I must give account. If I can make them see..." My voiced faltered and trailed off to nearly a whisper. "They are my family."

Something else entered those brown eyes now. "The Lord on the Rack teaches that we must carry the burdens of our life, not ignore them." She nodded at this, the received wisdom of the Adorned.

She looked at me for a long time, silently. Something in her mind, but not in her visage. Finally she spoke. "Like me, you weren't made for books."

She turned, moving to leave. "We'll break our fasts together before you go, yes?"

"Of course, Revered Sister." I smiled. It grew wider, even as I felt something gnaw at my stomach. I remember being surprised at hers not matching it.

At the door she spoke again. "Ameris?"

"Yes, Revered Sister?"

"Tomorrow is your first day of many. Remember you can fill those days with His purpose; you don't need to rush to an end."

I remember at the time not knowing what it would have been right to say. I know, now; as I have felt bonds with others that extend beyond blood. I'll correct it should I see her again. Filial piety demands it.

[Words added at the bottom of the page, clearly later addtions.]

I got to speak my heart to her later, before she died. I got to tell her she was dear to me, dearer to me than my true mother. A shocking thing to write even, Torm forgive me. But truth.