Ameris Santraeger - Meditations

[kleomenes]

[As the reader turns the pages, another handwriting is visible. Sometimes written between words, sometimes in the margins and in the empty spaces left. A few new pages have been inserted as well. The handwriting is graceful, appearing quite feminine. Looking further in the journal, one can gather that the vandalism of the journal occurred some time before the 10th of Elesias, 1350 DR]

*an elegant, flowing hand is contained within this journal. It is impeccably neat, and the book is well cared for*

So, I have been advised to write. I write already, recitation and prayer, the wisdom of others. Yet this will be different. I must write of myself. But what? I care not to draft a tale of my own life. I remember it - too much of it. So what to write?

You still wrote of your life. Not that I mind...

Ever since my youth I find my thoughts are turbulent. Even now my philosophy deepens, my convictions strengthen and yet I still struggle for answers. My ethics clash with my life. Neither survives such collision intact.

So I will write...Musings. Yes, that's right. Musings. It will let memory retain not just events, but reasons, such things poorly expressed and understood even by those who possess them.

Mayhaps I will read this journal back in many years, and shake my head at the naivety expressed within. Mayhaps. But my words will be part of my journey.

[kleomenes]

*an entry in a flowing hand. Again it is neat, and precisely written*

On Oaths

"I swear" is easy to say. So is "I promise you." Easy words to say, hard to make them truth. I have made many promises in my life. To my family. To Reena. To myself. To Ilmater. To the Radiant Heart. Some, the earlier ones, I haven't kept. Others now I try my best to keep.

I am thinking much on promises now. I have made several in the past ten-days. To keep quiet, to keep safe, to keep away. But most of all, to the Lord on the Rack, to serve him. Never have my oaths and assurances tugged against each other so much as they do now. They are like a minotaur's labyrinth which I must navigate, a maze of my own creation, my own conscience.

I have wavered at times these past few days. I have thought "why not just break my word?" It would be easier, better, to tell a little white lie than cleave to the truth. It would be better, surely, to hold myself to a greater good, to expedience, rather than the promises I have made to individuals. Surely the only oath that matters is the one made to Ilmater? All others, they are merely the babbling of mortals to mortals.

But truth has value. Honesty builds trust. And to do what you say you will do, that is the essence of honest behaviour. If you refuse to lie for someone, you tell them you will not lie too them, either. [The words have been underlined by someone else] To keep one's word opens your doors to others and lets them know who you are, and what you stand for. To be able to reach out to another, in the service of the Lord on the Rack, and have them know your intentions are pure, that is a priceless boon.

I have wondered, how you do it. How you can keep such honesty.

I have also cursed you greatly for it, and wished that you would lie.

I am however, glad you do not. Even though I tease and sometimes, I admit, make use of it...

I am always comforted by when I ask you something, and know that the answer is always -the truth-.

I have not been able to return the same favour.

I will try.

[kleomenes]

*once again, the journal is written in a flowing, neat hand*

On Mercy, part one

Mercy is a pure thing. It is a simple thing, when embraced fully, in the faith of the Crying God. One does not grant mercy depending on the wealth of the recipient. One does not grant mercy based on the recipient's faith, or on their gender or how fair or wise they are. Mercy is granted to defeated enemies, and to repentant sinners alike.

I have learnt to accept there can be mercy for myself, thanks to the counsel of Prelate White. I have learnt to look beyond guilt and find conviction. And yet in doing so, I have drawn sword and now wield it, bloody, in my right hand.

When is Mercy not to be granted?

Why, when by doing so would allow yet more suffering to endure and prosper. Such is the rationale for a servant of Ilmater who takes up arms against evil. Yet, such logic can lead to a horrible calculation within one's mind. For without a doubt, the easiest way to prevent the suffering caused by evil is to tear it out, root and branch, young and old. No matter the reasons why such souls lost their way.

I do not believe this to be the way of the Lord on the Rack.

I wish, that others too, would see the wisdom in your words.

Mercy is pure, and he is Mercy. It is for all, who ask it, and for most who need it. The sword, it is a last resort. Necessary, but a necessary evil. Its use is an admission of failure, a least bad choice. An admission that not everyone can be saved. Yet saving all is the goal.

I will remember each life I take in the name of Mercy. Guilt will stay my hand no longer, but nor will I breach faith with the Crying God. I will stand for him, but the test of a martial Ilmateri is to live always with restraint, and to always remember the cost.

[kleomenes]

*again the handwriting is precise and formal, although it may detect a hint of weariness*

On Trust

People on the Sword Coast tend to think I am very trusting. I suspect I am, in deed. I have tried to do what is required of Ilmateri ever since leaving Tethyr, and reached out to all those in need, irrespective of the cost. Yet, in truth, it has been a facade. Each smile of thanks, each declaration of friendship, it didn't touch me. If only you knew. I would think. If only you knew the man I had been. Guilt would not let me truely embrace others.

In the past ten-days I have learnt much of my foolishness, but not least I have learnt how much I have been wrong about those around me. I have learnt the depth of bonds of friendship. I have learnt the strength of the mutual bond between me and my brothers and sisters in the Order. I have learnt to rely on the wisdom of a mentor. And I have learnt to trust in the Mercy of the Lord on the Rack - how could I call myself his servant if I did not trust even him.

Key to this has been my acceptance of my sins, and my acceptance that I can be forgiven. Only by accepting oneself and opening oneself to Mercy, can a person open himself to brotherhood, friendship and trust. The first step to being a better person is seeing you can be, should be, and importantly, deserve to be. This will guide my ministry from now on. I hope a truth I have learnt over years will be a shorter path for others.

You had years my dear. Is this wisdom, I am expected to learn in mere weeks?

Such realisations have been timely. Trust now is a precious thing. Trust in me may be my shield, now that I am bound to a dangerous course. Trust in another may be the means by which innocent lives can be saved. Trust may also be the means by which my faith is enacted, as such bonds lift hearts and heal wounds.

I thought that you would never trust me again. But you did.

I confess however, of equal importance are other, more selfish hopes for the trust being built this day. Trust is the basis of all bonds between sentient life. If we cannot trust each other, we have nothing. If we trust each other fully, there is no chasm which cannot be crossed. [The words have been underlined by someone else]

And yet, I know that there is a limit to that trust.

I accept it, as I said I would.

Your work with the Harpers must remain quiet.

It is the way of things.



There can never be complete trust between us.

[kleomenes]

*another entry, as usual written in a elegant, flowing hand*

On Manners

I received a certain upbringing. In Tethyr, between those of noble station, a code of politeness and honour subsisted. I was expected to maintain a steady respect for other men, and a courtly consideration to ladies Truly? You must have forgotten some of those manners. [Written squeezed in between the sentences]. I was to be magnanimous with lower nobles, and defer to those higher. Deviation from this code did happen: it was mortal insult, the means by which to begin a feud, ending in humiliation or duel.

Of course, the commons deserved none of this. Indeed, usually, they received the reverse.

Manners were one of the few things I took with me from Tethyr, other than my new faith, the sword gifted to me by my father, and a sense of guilt. I clung to them all as I travelled across Amn. I carried each for different reasons. Manners were a blanket of familiarity in a strange new world - a castle to defend my soul. Indeed, I extended them to cover all I came into contact with, irrespective of station. With manners, there were strong walls between me and those I met. I did not have to face guilt, hidden deep within. I did not have to learn humility, dispel pride, or master anger. All of it lived on, kept in a dungeon deep within my heart, languishing within the darkness, raging at their captivity, at times yearning to be free. Poetic. [A tiny word]

I have been led to a new wisdom in recent weeks. I have learnt that by not looking within myself, and showing that self to others, I have not been true to either them or the man I hope to be. My courtly manners have served as an artifice to this self-denial, allowing my failings to fester even as I won myself high praise from those who met me. It was false, and I do not mean to allow such to persist.

Why do you think I want to hit you each time you call me 'lady', Lord Santraeger?

Yet should I abandon manners? Are they purely a fiction, a lie? I do not think so. There is not a man on Faerun who does not have within him some thoughts best left unvoiced, some feelings best left private. We are mortal after all, and lack the divine grace of those we serve. A world were all spoke their hearts without tact would be a world awash with anger.

Manners are a show of respect, a recognition that the one you speak to is another sentient life, that they have a worth equal to yours - indeed, greater than yours, if you have taken humility and service into your heart. They permit strangers to build the bonds of friendship that allow them to see each other as fallible creatures capable of mistakes. They create an atmosphere where even the weak and disadvantaged hold their heads high in safety and respect. They permit reasoned debate on points of dispute and a path to peace in times of conflict. For a servant of the Triad, they are an expression of the nature of good, and of the gods we serve: gods respectful and caring for mortals, who seek for them the best and most just paths in life.

And manners to me? I will cling to them still, but I must temper that with a knowledge that hiding my emotions, both good and bad, is a false path. Rather, I must master them, and express them with moderation. That, I fear, is a much harder path!

Sometimes it is amusing to see you struggle with manners.

You become stiff and overly formal, as if you were noble again.

And your tongue. Becomes sharp.

[kleomenes]

*this entry is hastily scribbled, as if the author sought to get his thoughts down before they escaped him*

On Defeat

Jalamir, my father's master-at-arms, schooled my brother and I in the military arts from a young age. It was not all sword drill, and care of warhorses, though. The lessons became more focused on the art of war as we aged - particularly for me, as the firstborn. I remember once, near to my fifteenth birthday, Jalamir spoke of the relationship between infantry and cavalry, training me to serve in the Duke's host in times of war. In his voice was a dire warning:

"To the front, all but the weakest peasant milita can resist the charge of all but the heaviest horse. Shoulder to shoulder, infantry in tight formation are formidable."

He went on to tell me of the true strength of the horseman, outflanking the ponderous infantry blocks, riding in from the side and using their mass to break up the formation. Alone, isolated, infantry felt panic and fear. They would break, or surrender, and know total defeat. Yet, when the lesson was done, he had another story to tell. Of nations whose soldiery is so committed to its ideals and each other that even alone and isolated, they will fight on. Whether with discipline or fury, their efforts subsist, and they resist the horsemen, and throw them back. Those are the foes who resist the most unexpected of attacks.

I have been in battle myself recently, part of a small host arrayed against the forces of pain and hopelessness. Yet our formation was sundered by surprise attack, my allies scattered. There are no reserves to be had. I stand alone, surrounded by fear and confusion, as the one I set my efforts against retreats into the shadows.

Do I flee, abandoning all oaths in my despair? No, my faith remains strong, stronger even, to have come so far.

Do I yield, and give up the fight? Such would be wise counsel, perhaps, to those who do not see the shine of tears in the darkness as my quarry retreats.

Or do I stand, and fight on, come what may? Do I trust in He Who Endures, borrow of his strength, and stay steady in my conviction? Even if all aid should fall away, even if all hope is lost, should I stand and Endure? Should I continue the battle, or war as it probably should be termed?

Endure, my dear.

But do not be foolish.

*the last line, more neatly written, seems to have been added some time later*

My father was fond of saying that no Santraeger had ever yielded to elven aggression. I will not be the first.

I do not think, however, this is what he had in mind.

No, I do not think so either.

[kleomenes]

*this one seems written quickly as well, but this time, with some care into making the writing presentable*

On Words

While training to be a priest, I prided myself on what I arrogantly saw as my newfound skill with words. "Oratory turned into text, and back again", I would think to myself, "this at least I can do." I suppose its true, in a way, in certain circumstances. But as I look in despair at how many spoiled pieces of paper there are around me, each bearing a failed attempt to condense the words of my first draft for the fundraising poster, I think myself no wordsmith. I am merely wordy, and when a limit is placed upon those words, well, I flounder.

I have not had back yet the lady Telia's comments on my efforts. If she is half as frustrated as I am right now, I owe her a sincere apology. You worried too much.

The nature of words is important. They are tools, yes, but more than that. It is they which form bonds between people, or indeed breaks them. They can soothe pain, or cut as deep as a knife. *the ink spreads a bit here, as if the quill did not move for several seconds*

Through words, thought leaves one's mind and influences others - the very stuff of cooperation, and condemnation. And they are precise, unlike actions, which can be ambiguous, unsubtle, misunderstood. They are part of every civilised interaction I can care to name, and several rather more uncivilised ones. They are, either spoken or written, an integral part of sentient life.

It is no accident then that words should be the first recourse of a Priest of Ilmater, and he should be subtle and adept in their use. Words are the means by which he may prevent conflict and how he may lift spirits. They are what will heal those most dogged of injuries, injuries to the mind and spirit. They are how he will declare his intent and sway the hearts of those who struggle with charitable actions. And preach his foes into submission, till they beg to hear no more of the priestly talk...!

Lately, many of my interactions have made it apparent I am still learning the above. My efforts now are focused on speaking across a gulf of distance and a gulf of mistrust, across a gulf of disappointment and a gulf of anger, and across a gulf of apathy at times, as well. There is much I want to say, although perhaps slightly less that I should say. Yet, I reflect on what words I have actually used, and I find them wanting. The trick, I suspect, is to do more, with less.

Oh how I have become furious at your for your words, when you have failed to convey their true meaning.

Ladies of low caliber.

That, was part of why I lashed out at you at the meeting in Ulgoth's Beard.

Cursed letter. Cursed words.



[Further down, to balance the harsh words]

I do mean it though, when we speak of poetry. That you should write it.

[Then in smaller script]

Perhaps not when drunk.

[kleomenes]

*a well written entry - carefully prepared, meticulous*

On Hunger

I must have been in my twenties before I knew hunger myself. Oh yes, I had seen it, much of it - I had seen the things it drove men to do - yet punished them anyway. Yet myself? I had been well fed until I left Tethyr, either at my father's table or in the temple. On the road though, I had to fend for myself. And Amn can be a bitter land for those without coin. I saw it in others and did what I could to help, and indeed was able to offer Ilmater's blessings to see mine own needs met, if I was frugal. But there were times, yes, when I went hungry, and on the road to Athkatla, during the war, I went very hungry indeed, what little I had shared with fellow travellers. That time, but a ten-day in truth, seemed a cavernous expanse at the time. A hopeless expanse, filled merely with worry for the children in the caravan.

Then I knew what had lain behind those frenzied eyes of thieves caught on my father's lands. Then I knew why some men do what they do.

Now, again, I am safe from hunger. The Order keeps me fed, and if not them the Shrine is well appointed. And I am not greedy. Yet Brother Kriol has reminded me of the immediacy of the need there is throughout Faerun. His dedication makes my faith pale in comparison. And I am reminded again it takes but a little sacrifice to make the world of difference the desperate poor. Yet everywhere there is such extravagance! Such pride! Even I am a man who likes fine things, even if I have none, anymore. But to set my own comfort against the well-being of another...well I shan't do that. All effort must be set to alleviating the terrible chains of poverty, wherever they may be found.

*the entry seems to finish there, as the following lines are written in a slightly shaky hand, marred by being written in a dim light, after just awaking. A line is drawn through them, although they can clearly still be read*

I am hungry though. Not for food, but I am hungry. I cannot see the dawn, and I fear that this hunger will never be sated.

I will rest, and consider further under the sun's light.

*then one final word, not crossed out, and neat. Clearly not written with the above*

No.

Are you sated now?

[kleomenes]

*an entry written carefully, neatly, after reflection*

On Pride

The nobility in Tethyr, as I experienced them, jockeyed for position like thoroughbred racehorses. Each family jealously guarded its own status and honour, while deriding and denigrating that of others if it would gain advantage. There were rules, of course. Courtly manners were observed, so insults often consisted of such minor breaches as sitting fraction too early at a dinner table, or a delay in using a proper honorific title. Veiled put downs were a deceleration of hostility and outright criticism the beginning of a ritualised feud, Even in the most bitter of cases, when a duel would be fought, it would be highly restrained, to three hits, or first blood, or the like.

As always, my father was the same, yet different. "Never forget the honour of your ancestors, my son." he often said. To him, attempts to curry favour and engage in the dance of prestige were the mark of new blood, and he would not suffer it. Yet, above all things, the honour of the Counts Santraeger must be maintained. And this was one thing his son learnt well. Indeed, I was there when Count Sarneh blanked my father, and announced in passing my betrothal to the Count Sarneh's youngest daughter null and void at the Duke's winter dance. I remember the dismissive pride on Count Sarneh's face, the smirk his son's lips, the laughter in his daughter's voice as they spoke of how they had made such a fine new alliance, indicating their ties to us were done. A wealthy alliance they said. They saw an alliance for the future not the just past.

Not for the Count Santraeger a courtly flurry of words. No, hissed words of anger, met with shock by the assembled nobles. And his son, similar a challenge to Lohtrik Sarneh for the insult, delivered with firm hand. A duel, indeed, won by released fury - sworn to first blood, yet that blood was an eye taken from a man already flat on his back, defeated. I may have lacked grace, back then, but I did not lack resolve to defend the family honour. Nor did I lack fury at wounded pride. Lions are fearsome creatures.

It seemed so important then. I wonder what became of Count Sarneh and his family. I wonder if they lived through the ten black days of Eleint. I wonder if they even care at all about such boundaries crossed, such bitter revenge, in what must surely be for them a new world.

Pride is something I thought I had buried, along with so much else of my past life. I had, but under a layer of guilt and self denial. As I move towards embracing Ilmater's Mercy, this denial is left behind, and so flaws must be dealt with head on. I am a proud man Oh dear gods yes, yes you are [written in small text, squeezed between the rows], and my heart can bristle at being spoken to without respect Your heart is not made of stone., or in a tone of command 'Bring me breakfast!' - even at times, in a manner merely familiar Like me, am I overly familiar?. In my heart, there is still a vaulted audience chamber within which, seated in all finery, there is a Count's son. And there always will be, my beloved peacock.

This is not something acceptable in an Ilmateri. Self respect, perhaps, but arrogant self consideration? No. I will do battle with it.

My first engagements are within the Order. It is one thing to defer to a superior, that I can and have learnt. However, the paladins, they are wont to issue command. Indeed, they are suited to it. It is the role of a cleric of the Radiant Heart to advise, counsel, support, but not to lead. This, in itself, will be a trial for me, if I am to face my flaws. But by the grace of Ilmater, I will persevere.

*a space here, with the next paragraph added as a codicil*

Brother Alexander and Sister Katarina. Brave, noble, wise, courteous, willing to listen, and willing to act. They make the above far easier.

[kleomenes]

*the journal receives another entry, written with some care*

On Wine

Fine things, by the common standard, were once a daily experience to me. I must say, a fine wine is one vice I am reluctant to relinquish and one I will allow myself, in moderation. I am no expert, yet I enjoy.

In my first life, we always drank well, the Santraeger wine cellar aged and well stocked. Yet most of our wines were local, either better quality wines or those suitable for spicing, as is our tradition. Finer, or mayhaps just rarer, foreign wines were only brought out on a special occasion: a rare treat for guests, name days and toasts to the King.

I remember those wines, tastes of distant lands I may never see.

Saerloonian Topaz, my father had several bottles of this, which we would toast the King with each year on the anniversary of my grandfather's death. A bittersweet death that, the demise of one Count, the rise of the next. Mayhaps I should taste this one again.

Winter Wine, imported from the north. I remember this as my first taste of alcohol, sampled on my thirteenth name day, a special treat with the amused eyes of family and retainers on me. Sweet and strong, drunk after dinner to cleanse the palate.

Westgate Ruby, a bold, unsubtle taste from a cruel city, it was popular with the men to drink with their meat and bread, and so we always made sure to be well stocked with it to reward them. My father would sometimes make great show of drinking the same, and encouraged me too when I began to take his place as their leader.

I have been reminded of such diverse tastes after sampling a new vintage recently - my friend Darial is quite the connoisseur, despite his sometimes gruff manner - certainly more taste-travelled than me. Yet ever I am open to new things, in these days, as I try to look forwards, not back. I believe I shall try Saerloonian Glowfire again. I envy Sembia for its vines! No spices needed there, I think.

I am a man who likes fine things. *this sentence written in a slightly heavier hand, emphasis added* And fine women!

My faith comes first, and my duty to the meaning of that faith. Is there room for anything else? I think there is no harm in a sweet taste of foreign wine, in moderation, so long as duty remains clear and my wits sharp. *the relevant words underlined*

Indeed. Yet. You felt guilty for drinking, for some time.

You drink with me. But I have to coax you sometimes.

Perhaps I should not force a goblet in your hands, knowing the struggles you face in this.

*the next sentence written hastily, as a final thought* One should not forget, though, the past. One must remain true, this time.

[kleomenes]

*the following text is written in a careful hand, as often, but the script is more ornate than usual*

We Marshall our strength,

Upon us, the hammer falls;

We are the Anvil.

[kleomenes]

*the text is neat and precise, although displays some weariness*

On Valour

The horror of battle fell upon Baldur's Gate today. Humanoid tribes swept down from the north, bringing flame and fury, heralded by a dragon and intent on disrupting northern trade. And disrupting a theater show..! [Small writing above the sentence] Yet brave heroes rallied to the defence of the city and routed the invaders. I was proud to march behind Brother Alexander, who led both the Order and the whole force with a keen grasp of tactics and a stern resolve, despite the difficulty of organising and commanding warriors from many different cultures and faiths.

The plan was simple yet effective, melee warriors pinning the numerous enemy in place with a swift advance, while casters and archers picked them off. In this manner we stormed a prepared position held by superior numbers, breaking the attacker's morale and putting them to flight. We won the day.

Indeed, I played some small part in this, charging the catapults raining fire down on us, cutting down the hobgoblin guards before being joined by others to overturn the machines so that we could defeat the bugbear leader more easily. I mentioned it to my brothers by way of jest, as my action was, perhaps, outwith my reputation. However, I did feel some pride - indeed, valorous. I have not felt such for a long time, and indeed, never was it justified. Is such pride still wrong? I think not.

Valour in battle wins honours from rulers and acclaim from the commons. It inspires song and grants riches too, in some cases. It is a thing boys dream of, men aspire to and admire, elders remember fondly.

Yet as I sit here, writing, thinking, my mind is drawn to other noble actions, which require Endurance more than reckless abandon - a different form of valour, a slow burning courage. We rarely speak of the valour of those whose tasks are not so rewarded, who make sacrifices day in, day out. Quiet, simple, heroes who keep the world going: The woman who stops in daily to check on a lonely old man; the man who helps his neighbour gather his harvest so he has more time to tend his sick wife; the tavern owner who leaves his left over food out for starving beggars, adding a little extra onto each plate during winter months; the watchman who walks the cold street every night, checking all is well, all is safe.

Praise where it is due. Even as we honour those who endure the pain and chaos of battle for the sake of others, we should remember unsung heroes and the little mercies [the words are underlined by someone else, with no comment made] they each grant others every day - for such is looked upon kindly by the Lord on the Rack.

[kleomenes]

*a neat entry, clean words for a clean subject*

On the Scalpel

Ilmateri are known as great healers. They are granted powerful prayers by the Lord on the Rack, and often focus determinedly on such blessings, granting them great strength. Yet, there are other gods, and each of them grant the power to heal, for better or for worse. Mayhaps Ilmateri blessings and rituals are stronger, particularly the more powerful ones, but it is said even the Dark Three grant the power to heal to their devoted servants.

What marks the servants of Ilmater as different is their great skill at more mundane healing. And their skill at healing kisses. [Written above the sentence] Healing with needle and thread, scalpel and swab, tonic and salve, ointment and poultice. Where divine blessings cannot, or do not, extend, the craft and art of the medicus takes a very necessary and strong place.

Prayer and holy ritual require study and learning, consultation of rituals and consideration of the correct utterances and motions. Yet, when the study is done, the prayer issues forth at will, with but a gesture and a word. It is not the same with the medicus art. It takes many years of study to master the intricacies of a living body, and that knowledge is discharged with great care and skill, over extended time and with extended patience, to see a good result. At each step, care must be taken, from history taking and diagnosis, to treatment, to aftercare. Matters are made yet more complicated in terms of surgery, with careful hands and sharp perception being key.

Which is the more precious? Which should be venerated? Study and faith feed into Ilmater's blessings, but they are granted by him. It is borrowed power, the credit goes to the Crying God, not his priest, and rightly so. Yet the effort to heal with the scalpel and the bandage, well, that is something reliant on the healer's skill and learning, I have seen such wonders performed by Sister Layana, and today by Sister Louise. Each, with only a surgeon's tools and a deep knowledge of the mortal shell, have shown that with their own efforts they can heal ills and end suffering. It is their hands that do the work, mayhaps guided by their faith and with the Lord on the Rack in their hearts, but not in the deed itself.

Truly, such effort to master the art of the medicus, so as to bring about mercy to the diseased and afflicted, is something to be proud of. It is a skill earned through one's own efforts. I hold it to be precious.

[kleomenes]

*a brief note is scribbled following the previous entry*

We serve not just with faith. We serve with our hearts, our minds and our hard earned skill.

[kleomenes]

*carefully written*

On Sacrifice

Heroic tales often talk of some selfless warrior laying down his life in a good cause. Maybe for a loved one or family, maybe for his people, or for some innocents, or in duty to his King and the oaths he has sworn. Usually the enemy is black hearted, evil, and carries with it the means to doom all the hero holds dear. The lines are stark, clear cut. The sacrifice noble, and the path of righteousness clear. And, usually, it is quick, and final.

Many may talk of paladins, like those of the Radiant Heart, as akin to heroes out of such song. Indeed, in many ways they are. Lives dedicated to fighting evil, standing fearless, never withdrawing from threat. Moving ever onwards into darkness, the sole, burning light. Hearts burning with righteous anger on behalf of the weak and innocent. Few paladins live past the age of thirty, it is said. Many make their final sacrifice, like those in song.

What is rarely spoken of, however, is the sacrifice they endure day in, day out. They set aside hopes for the future, and they set aside many of the basic human wants and needs that others use to nourish the soul. Yes, some paladins choose to take this further than others, but the truth is that all give up a little of their very self to a greater good. All must turn aside from their own dreams, to allow others to dream a little longer, a little safer. In a sense, they die in part when they take the paladin oath - the part of them which would place comfort, or love, or their own happiness, above those of others, that is set aside.

It would be wrong, I think, for anyone to think that this is an easy thing for any to do. Paladins are men and women too, they feel what they give up as keenly as any - yet they do it anyway, unsung until their deaths.

Sometimes it is too hard. Sometimes they cannot give it all up. Sometimes they just want to live. A fall from grace, it is called. A sad thing, but in truth no malice can be held for those who choose a different life. They have not wronged anyone, they have only failed to make a heroic sacrifice of themselves.

Yet what should be considered, however, is how this may affect the resolution of former comrades who will continue make such a sacrifice. For it is one thing to choose life for oneself, another to cause doubt, and thus pain, in the hearts of those who chose life for others.

*added as an afterthought*

Yet if faith can be rocked by the actions of others, is it strong enough in the first place?

*added again, as an afterthought*

Remember, all are mortal [the words are underlined, with no comment], and fallible. Of course resolution is not a unitary thing, held in a fortress in a lonely heart. It is born of Brotherhood too.