Category: Journal Entry

The city was waking. A wagon creaked past, wood complaining of the chill like an old man. Servants called to each other, spreading the morning’s news as they delivered packages. The air was scented with wood-smoke from a hundred chimneys and stoves.

These sounds and scents slipped into the room through the window, finding cracks in the shutters meant to protect against the cold breeze. They combined, losing individual meaning but creating something else – the background presence of living humanity. It settled in, filling those spaces not already occupied by shelves, books and papers.

Neither of the room’s occupants paid attention to the city’s rising presence, but both felt it without realizing. The young woman sat up straighter. Her quill danced across the parchment just a bit faster. The turbaned man raised his voice slightly, unconsciously speaking above the murmurs.

“With the inventory complete, I will be preparing a report to the Rulership. What do you think they will focus on?”

Sarah responded quickly, “I think they will want to know what you’re doing with the rare books, and which ones you’re going to get next!”

Azzam nodded. “Likely. The first matter is simple – demand is not yet overwhelming, so the priority distribution system should continue to work for some time. The latter, of course, will be more difficult. How would you plan the library expansion for the next two seasons?”

This kind of conversation was already familiar. Azzam would query his apprentice constantly as she worked, and Sarah would answer – sometimes eagerly, sometimes hesitantly. The master scholar favored open-ended questions, and never admonished her for a “wrong” answer. Sometimes, though, it was clear that he thought an answer was particularly insightful or well said – and other times he pressed her for greater detail, or challenged a claim.

On this occasion, she had a longer answer ready at once. “I would want more Exoterics. The Fundaments series we talked about last week – I would have it expanded. And books on languages, and some histories. I would write some myself and also ask merchants about purchases from Melandir.”

Azzam gestured for her to continue. “And why these things?” As he listened, he glanced down occasionally at the work in front of him. Records lay on the desk, half-sorted. He selected a few, absently continuing the sorting as he focused on his apprentice’s answer.

“Well, the fortress-monastery is going to be done soon, right? And you want to get started on research right away, and a broad base of Exoterics is important for that. And the archaeologists will want histories to better understand the ruins they find.”

Azzam nodded, but raised a finger. “All good points. Now, what of battle?”

“Battle?” The question caught Sarah by surprise for a moment, but the quick-witted youth recovered easily. “You mean books about it?”

“Indeed. Come, look.” Azzam rose with a slight wince. He stepped over to the window and swung the shutter open. Both of them shivered against the sudden cold air. Sarah half-skipped up to the window, dancing around boxes, and peered out. Azzam pointed across the street – past the elegant walls of the nearby estate, and to the row of collapsed buildings just beyond.

“We must never forget that this city is a place of danger. Even within the walls, who knows what awaits us below? And when it might decide to rise to the surface?” Azzam’s tone was serious, but not fearful. “Our rulers, knights and warriors must prepare against threats internal and external. It is our duty to support them in this as well. The vizier must be ready to advise on matters of both peace and war.”

Sarah pulled her shawl closer, her demeanor temporarily dampened by the more solemn topic, but nodded. Azzam continued, gesturing to the staff leaned against the wall.

“We ourselves are not warriors, so we cannot teach from our own experience. Thus, in a sense, tomes on martial subjects may be more valuable – for they fill a gap in our own capability. We can educate directly on matters such as mathematics and philosophy, and perhaps even on the theory of tactics and battle, but not in the practical applications. Always be aware of such gaps. When you serve, know how to fill them. This does not mean you must become a savant of the blade as well as the quill; but draw upon those who are such savants.”

“It is also why I hold the Knightly orders such as the White Ravens in high esteem. There are few such orders, who learn both the blade and the quill. Despite their small numbers, they produce the majority of the great treatises on combat within the Throne. In Sha’ra, the monks of the Temple have a similar dual training, along with magi’tariq of certain traditions. These few sources must be respected and valued.”

Azzam glanced back at his apprentice. He noticed that she had opened her personal diary, taking quick notes as she listened. He smiled, approving of her studiousness. –She would have done well at any madrasa. This land has fertile soil for the seeds of education, and the saplings already grow strong. Is this how my teachers felt, I wonder?–

the heat grew and grew as the fire below her started. she tries to steel herself and be brave but the moment flame hits skin the pain is unbearable….

“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Xyandriel bolted up awake, drenched in sweat. Where she thought she was feeling heat now became cold as the winter wind comes through the window in her room. She’d been having the same dream every few nights and always woke the same way. No matter how she tried, though she could put things to the back of her mind when she was awake, the guilt of what she did took the opportunity to remind her in her dreams.

It was seemingly so simple at the time, Sir Lyssander brought a man to her who was requesting her healing ability. She had been having great success in not only being able to exorcise the disease from Dame Sith the previous forum, but several chiurgeries to reattach hands to 14 people. She willingly provided the blessed bandage to take care of his damaged hand. So simple to take care of. It was after that he confessed his sin of taking part in a Vecatran ritual to revenge against the church for burning his mother as a witch.

Xyandriel knew that pain all too well when her own mother turned in her sister, Irma, as a Heretic. Manifesting the abilities of a Fire Mage, she took her newfound power as a sign that she herself was a God. This is what made her recent mistake make her feel even more stupid. After one turns away from God, there is no going back from the ultimate sin of heresy. While circumstances were different the result was the same, rejecting God.

She watched her Aunt Irma burn. Both her parents didn’t want to shield the truth from her. It was difficult emotionally to see, to hear her screams echo through the lands of Woefeldt, to smell the stench of burning hair and flesh. “This is why we must remain free of sin.” her mother held her close and whispered, “Staying with God is the best way to live and the only way to be welcomed back to him when we die.”

Xyandriel would never turn from God, nor his divine plan for her. It was her mistake to even think for a moment this man could atone, no matter how intense his regret was. How could she had forgotten one of the most basic rules? It was even more important now that she seclude herself at the Monastery. She spent every waking moment reading the Testimonium not only to improve her bibliomancy, but to ensure she would know better if such an issue would happen again. She reviewed the various forms of heresy to watch out for and which could be atoned for.
As she looked through the window with the snow coming down, knelt to Pray.

“Dearest God, did I care too much to be blind to the heresy right in front of me? Is this your way to show me I was taking too much Pride in my recent successes? I do not fear death, that is not the way of the Covenant I am devoting my life to.”

“But… I don’t want to die this way. I don’t want to bring shame to the Church, my Family, my community and the people here in Stragosa. I need to continue to spread your glory and help those who sin so that Lurian can lead them to you. The moment I realised my mistake I could have kept it secret, but I confessed. Even before that I was doing everything I could to let the Inquisition know what had happened.”

Please don’t believe I would ever turn away from you and provide the Inquisitor the wisdom to know the same. I know Sir Sanguine, Sir Lyssander, Sir Renatus and Bishop Adeodatus don’t believe I have. Please also give me the strength to tell my story and not break down so that I may prove myself to the Church once more.”
“I look forward to my atonement and what I can further learn from this ordeal. All I ask is to live to carry it out. Deus vult.”

She took a few moments to change her bedsheets and nightgown and lay back down buried in the blanket knit by her Grandmother. Sleep did not come the rest of the night, the same phrase playing over again and again in her head:

Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,

The tavern is rowdy as ever. Drunkards, nobles, politicians and scum all mingling. Whispering. Trading secrets and coin and cons. Huddling together in conspiratorial groups, the comings and goings of Stragosa muffled by the songs of the bards in black, the Beggar Kings, regaling the lot of them with tales collected, dreamt, and conscripted. Music: the memory of the land.

B

This song is a good song
and
I see you grin, despite yourself.

For a moment they see me. See us.
For a moment none of it happened.
The fire is warm on my face
I feel the bench under me
Solid
Grounding

I taste the lust
Dancing at the corners of my mouth

Our skin is hot, alive
Our hearts skip
Skip
skipping
across the veil between here
And there

Here
now
In this single moment
I am home

F

I find you flickering here
You are almost
The color
Of living.

Living is
Sharp and grating–
Against the cool
The calm and the dreary
That is death but then
There’s you.

Infatuated with a song
That remembers us
And smiling
Like you were always wont to do.
Smiles are cheaper
Now
Somehow
And even in death
You are beautiful when infatuated.

Such as was
Always between us–
Sharp and stretched and scratched
Though sometimes tender–
No longer can I expect
The warmth
Of blood
Under the skin
We are nothing
And I reach out to touch you
As I had never had the chance
Before.

I like it here
With you
I long
For your eyes
To remember me
As they
Remember
Our names.

B

And the world is electric now
Beautiful fire from my fingertips to my teeth
Your eyes are so much more blue than they once were
I fall into them like the well of the sky

And then
I see a girl
Younger than most
In the corner of the tavern
And her eyes are mooney wide

I wave at her
And her lips part
In breathless
Awe

I see your eyes catch hers
Watch your expression shift
And shimmy
Like a cat
With too many fleas

F

I toss a wink like a coin
And gaping she gasps and blinks
And rubs the phantoms from her eyes–
We are gone.

And turning to smile this smile
Hard and bitter won
On you
I rise.
What freedom in Death, no?
Words are not words
And there is no breath here–
Nor gravity to hold me down
And my feet dangle
Toes
Inches
Above the table.

Stretching hands to you
Like olive branches–
How we fought in life
Like mutts over bitches in heat
But here–
I never got to dance with you.
Show me how you dance to our song.

B

And my grin goes walrus wide

I take your hand
In my hand
And my hand
In yours
And

And

And

We waltz the uppercut tango
And foxtrot through the fox’s den
I am you and you are mine
In this night sings
The Wet divine

This dance
Which is our first dance
It would have gone differently
Had we been constrained by meat

And Physics

F

Such things we are
Beyond
The dead Undying
Tossed in stormy skies
And howling
It’s not
So bad
Here
I can almost feel
Your hands
In on around tightly gripping
Mine.

How easy to
Collapse
Together
Where the music swells us up on drifting winds
I wish
I wish
I wish we had–
Oh well.

I can now
Lay my head
On your shoulder
And breathe in
This gentle crook of your neck.

B

And as we drift
Sideways and upwards
In this place
That is Stragosa
And is the black and starry sea
I hear the chords fading
And applause beginning to thunder thump
From below

I barely notice the tavern drifting away
A half remembered dream
From a life I no longer live

I hold you tight
My lioness
And our skin forgets how to be skin
We become
What all lovers would be
If they were not told
They had to be two
Instead of one

My heart and
Your heart
Beat

F

And beat–
Like living drums beat
We two
Dancing out of realm of gods
And beggars and kings–

B

And beat
Like wings beat
Into the sky and into dark
we fall
Careening up

B+F

What a brilliant fall it is
Of whorling clouds and singing seas
And dreaming dreams
Alive–

Are we alive?

Alive….

Alive as the storm sweeping the city
Alive as the wind tugging playful at trees
Alive as raindrops wetting knees
Bent in the grass to recover some overlooked treasure–
Alive as deer tip-toeing through brush
Alive
Alive
Alive as
Unseen night

I look to my hand and it is your hand
I hear my laugh
And it is your laugh
And know that skin
No longer contains the idea
That is us

Trees and rivers pass beneath
Millers, blacksmiths, bards
Each taking their path through the night

And we look down
And feel
The slow and ancient
thrum
Of the world

This place is our place now
The dark seas of unmaking
Will have to wait

Death is a forgetting
And we
Will not be forgot.

Januarius 604

Father,
Thank you for the suggestion about which family to place Arnhelm with. I will begin the conversation by raven. Do you think they would send a representative to Stragosa? I would like to meet personally with them, but my duties here preclude my leaving.

Along those lines, I have spent another half season at War with the Heretic beasts. I have taken their fortress and reclaimed my banner from Aleric. It is bloodied and tattered but I will keep it as such to remember those who I failed. By the time this reaches you I will have had the Inquisitors burn their Heretical stronghold to the ground. The taint of that foul place will be cleansed by the Light of God. This continues to be a long and frightful campaign.

I knew coming to this place was going to put us in dangerous positions and was prepared for it. I was not prepared for how difficult it is to get even the most basic things done. I had never thought about how much the common folk around Sonnenberg were invested in the community’s well being. Even with Sanguine’s attempts at building consensus there is much resistance to community based growth. This is a place of overwhelming belief in individuality.

I will be sending a letter to Mother as well, so tell her to expect a raven. I know that I could send messages here, but we both know she enjoys her own network of correspondence. I will enclose a letter to her from Arnhelm as well so she may judge his writing and educational progress, she will have insights of her own to help me guide him. You may also tell her that her teaching has borne unusual fruit here in Stragosa, a wandering spirit entered the Tavern last Forum seeking to battle wits. I was able to come up with some rhymes to move it on its way, so some of what I was taught of poetry did actually have some use.

I appreciate your most recent letter and look forward to hearing from you again. It is always good to hear about home, sometimes I dearly miss it and look forward to a time that I may return.

Reinhart

“We failed. We lost.”

These were the words that echoed through Renatus’ mind as he sat in his chambers, the lit candle bearing the seal of Mithriel allowing him to read his Testimonium. Once again, he found himself seeking to understand its mysteries, its lessons. Hours he had studied it in his isolation, but in that he had sought insight into the rituals of his Covenant. Now, he studied it with a different focus, trying to remember the message that the Ordo Croix man had shared with him and Ulvgard so many months ago.

“Benalus died for nothing.”

Were these the words spoken by a man in deepest despair and pain or by a man who knew a terrible truth that had been lost to time? The man had fought over six hundred years ago, before the formation of the Throne, before the formation of the Church, in the era of the Witchkings, but his words, they implied that he was there when Benalus had been slain by the foul sorcerers of old. Risen by foul rituals of the Lazarines, removed from his rest, the man now suffered again. Renatus’ heart ached for the man, feeling the violation that had been done to him in his own Meaning. He wanted to bring the man peace, but could he? He’d failed twice so far, his words and attempts to reach out and counsel falling on deaf ears, as arrows upon a fortress wall.

“The Testimonium is wrong.”

‘What do you know, my brother? What is it that I cannot see or understand that burdens you so?’ Renatus wondered as he turned the pages carefully, reading and re-reading every passage. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for his lack of finer education in the ways and histories of his Knighthood and Covenant. He saw the irony of his situation. In his attempts long ago to glean the truths of the Benalian faith in his turn from Aa’boran, he had sought long and hard, but now he wondered if he had stopped short. Should have kept going, sought longer and harder still? Now he raced to try to make up for lost time, and he could feel it was a race he was losing.

“I am alone. I will die.”

Remembering these words…their resonance struck Renatus like a hammer blow, and his study of the Testimonium slowed as his introspection grew. He had felt isolated since he’d come to Stragosa two winters back, and reflecting, it had not changed much. The number of Templar had dwindled, and though they were now reinforced by Tadeo and Sif, he felt more alone than ever. The Diocese had grown in the number of priests who stood ready to spread the light of Benalus, but Renatus felt as if that light did not touch him now.

Since his revival on the Miracle…he hadn’t felt the same fire in his soul that he had before. The memory of the Miracle reminded him of the fire that had coursed through his veins, that had seemed to burn on for an eternity before allowing him to breathe again. There had been flares of the spark within him his Forum, most strongly when he had spoken with Alonso and they had talked for long hours on the matters of Meaning and Purpose.

The cold of the room pressed in upon him, and he could not help the shiver. Not for the first time he wished he could return to Sha’ra. The mountain foothills of his home in Evren, the streams of snowmelt, the days spent reading the tongue of his people over a plate of dried fruit and delicate sweetbreads. The memories brought tears to his eyes and he had to close his Testimonium and try to control his breathing as the faces of his mother and father paraded before his mind’s eye. The sense of loss deepened as he reflected on that which had lost long ago. He tried to fight the feeling, calling on remembered conversations with Karsten, Adeodatus, Sanguine, Ansel, Aretaeus, Xyandriel, Lysander, Astrid, Azzam, Tu’luk, and Sif.

It didn’t help, and instead, it grew worse as he reflected on his life in the last year; attacked by Kaurlites, forced into isolation by a Commander who now longer held station in the region, slain by something he knew not, and brought back to serve and bury the dead of war while trying to stave off suicide, and his reward for this long suffering and sacrifice was to find no peace with a fire threatening to engulf his mind night after night with the screaming voices of the slain tormenting him in his dreams.

The tears flowed, his heart throbbed in pain, and he choked out the sobs as the emotions boiled over and he could not control them any longer. He recalled the lesson with Azzam, on how difficult it was to test one’s faith and grow it, and it was in moments of such turmoil that would allow a man to try to re-forge himself. He drew forth the gift that Azzam had given him, the golden letters reciting an important phrase, and he tried to rebuild his walls, but it was not enough. He brought forth the gift from Alexandria, the portrait of his love far away in Stragosa, and realized immediately the mistake it was, and the tears flowed anew. He knew in his heart the thing that he lacked, the thing he needed, the thing that had been taken from him all those years ago, and he wept for its lack. He offered a silent prayer to God, pleading for the strength to carry on. Without it, he doubted he could.

How do you keep the peace? What is the price for keeping the peace? And how do you know what you paid for will last? Nothing is certain, especially peace. This time the price for keeping the peace was killing a friend. I can go on and on about how it was an execution, but that does not help. It does not change it from what it really is. I had to murder someone who was doing God’s work. That was the price this time. To keep the peace, someone had to die.

But what lead to that conclusion? It was fear. It was the fear of what one side was capable of. It was the fear that they have done it before, and likely would gladly do it again. They wanted this man of God dead and there was no changing their minds. These soldiers of their liege mad their demands, and like that one man was sentenced to death. And by supper’s end, and the plunge of a sword, this man of god was dead.

My heart sank before the body hit the ground and slid off the sword. As the crowds gathered, dissension began to murmur. I knew it had to be swift counter that dissent if this was going to work. While that infant feeling of grief was swelling in my soul, I had to show strength. I had to try and have the resolve to finish what I had started. I had to quickly address that growing noise from the crowd. With quick and terse words that rumbling disdain for my actions rose. I was not proud of myself, but it was needed.

We took him to the church to prepare for a miracle. It was a miracle if this would bring lasting peace. But grief finally took complete control and I saw my work in the light. I finally see his body, lifeless, still, going cold. As soon as my rite was complete and his eyes shut, standing was impossible. I fell to the ground in pieces. My strength was sapped and so was hope.

I may have my friend back thanks to the miracle of Stragosa. But, I will always have the memory of killing him. I will carry that image of his limp body for the rest of my days. The final tally is that we are as we were when the day started. But I had to do something that I did not want to do. And that memory will be there, always. It will serve as a reminder for what this was all for: peace. Peace for all, but myself. That was the true price of peace. A little bit of myself had to go in order to secure it. A small peace, barely noticeable to most, but it is a piece of me. I don’t know how many more of those pieces are left. One day I fear, more pieces will be gone than I can live without. And that day, all of these peaces I bought will be weighed against me. And I hope it was enough.