He laid a hand on the Elder’s shoulder. “It has been a pleasure and a privilege to have been you, Elder. I loved the life you gave us, free of what we were used to doing.”
Another door sprung up and immediately revolted as regrets exploded to life behind it, only to be plastered against the darkness and fade into obscurity. “I am no longer an Elder, and I believe I am the first one that will accept the regret. Because in this breaking I’ve realized… grief is the price we pay for love.”
The Elder nodded at the new perspective and laid out his last question. He was fading, losing active consciousness as the new mentality gained it. “What will you do?”
The fresh outlook rolled his shoulders behind him. “I am going to get my children back if it’s the last thing I do. It is high time we break into the details of an old tidbit we weren't supposed to hear, old friend. We can pretend to not be aware of that conversation out there all we want, but those voices are openly talking about Essence. That means they are cultivators.”
The new perspective shared a knowing look with the version of himself that had paused using the whetstone. “It is high time we discover how they live so long and attain that time for ourselves.”
The whetstone version of himself smiled like a fox, turning the blade over to show regretful, carved words etched deeply into the other side: ‘This good man never goes to war again’. This version of him had his mind broken in a desert long ago. His doppelganger put the whetstone down, gave a small salute, and proudly closed his eyes. He fuzzed over and began to fade.
The new perspective was adapting, restructuring personality traits and priorities. Major components of the personality of that time were being rejected, obscured, denied. Similar to the personality present from the war, several others became blurry. A few vanished from the bonfire scene altogether as their values and beliefs were fed to the fire, never to be considered in a decision-making process again.
When the new perspective looked back down to the Elder, half of the old man was a sketchy imprint of what it had been. A younger, more vibrant personality had cleared up significantly. His haze near the beginning of the circle was almost fully cleared. It was both necessary and thrilling to possess the blind will to go always forward. “I retreat no more. I hide no further.”
“I’m going to need a new name.” With a powerful movement of the old man’s hand, ‘never’ was blotted out and erased from the blade. The new perspective turned and, with unwavering steps, strode away from the bonfire. His voice trembled, then gained an unyielding quality, the core trait from which the fiber of his being was now constructed. “Again. Again, we go to war. ”
Chapter Fifteen
The mental space collapsed into kaleidoscopic memories behind him, and every step forward pulled forth ideals, beliefs, and remembrances. This path he now walked was a recollection of all he’d done and was again willing to do. Memories knit together, and the new perspective opened his arms wide, walking straight ahead as he took his first step on the path of pain. No more gates to lock his agony behind. Blackened doors burst through their chains, and a deep breath was taken as he affirmed himself.
“I am neither Elder nor old.”
“I am the weight of all my experiences and the incarnate will of the path which I now walk.”
His hand snatched out and grasped a recent remembrance, slowing only to place the memory of Choppy’s death before him. The boy had never deserved that, and it hurt to keep it in mind. Sadness and a clutched heart squeezed the space of his surroundings. With the acceptance of impending suffering, he took a step into the memory to make it part of his being.
Crushing lamentation struck him immediately as he looked to the light, willing himself to leave the convenient lie his mind had constructed to protect his sanity. His real body convulsed, and his eyes snapped open. It was at least high noon by the time he came around, and aged fingers gripped the sheets as the first of many howls rang from his throat. His face was once again stained with tears as he immersed himself in loss.
Survivor’s guilt beat him without mercy as he worked his way through the fugue that entrapped him. One last time, the old was relinquished, and someone new was born to carry the torch. He had never ascribed to the idea that a person always remains that same person. People change, dramatically even, in times of crisis. He could never understand why others couldn’t grasp that this wasn't the slightest bit odd.
He’d seen it countless times after a war.
Great loss.
Great grief.
Great love.
It all changed people. How they thought and what ideals they held. Who they were, and how they saw the world. His physical outcry had several clerics by his side in an instant, ready to steady the uncontrollably weeping, old man.
Some had no idea what to do, and others ushered them out of the way as Keeper Irene waltzed her way through and violently waved the rests of the priests off. Her voice was brisk and cutting as she dismissed them. “Why are you all standing around gawking like a foolish bunch of art historians? Fetch me water and fresh cloth! This man is in severe shock and requires immediate tending. Where is Acolyte Tibbins? Isn’t this his duty?”
Irene had the old man supportively weeping into her neck while the majority of the thin figure slumped over her shoulder. She clearly had a great deal of experience handling uncontrollably weeping children. Her attentive hushing resounded with gentle care, soothing what in her eyes was just another big baby. She found there to be little difference between the very old and the very young, having had to take care of both.
“Tibbins!” Her words were as welcoming as they were grateful, the bony burden swiftly handed over to the Acolyte. He was soon holding the inconsolable Elder upright. As soon as Irene was free, she gave Tibbins a strong ‘it’s your problem now’ pat on the shoulder and walked off. Irene might have been good at this, but that didn’t mean she wanted to deal with it. She had scriptures to tend.
Nothing the Acolyte said or did appeared to have the remotest impact. Sure, he succeeded in making the old man drink down some water, but this was an ordeal the young Acolyte still needed to learn to deal with. It took several hours for the heaving to slow down. Only then did Tibbins again attempt to reason with the man, who he was currently convinced was completely out of his mind. Granted, he could not blame the behavior.
“My back hurts,” was the first set of cohesive mumbles he heard from the bleary-faced, old man.
“Sir, my name is Acolyte Tibbins. Do you remember yours?”
The old man pathetically groaned in response, “My back hurts.”
Tibbins had honestly run out of patience. The taxing hours had taken the goodwill right out of him with the unexpected and unwanted nursemaiding. Still, the man was his charge, so he used those strong cleric muscles of his to lift the aged old log with all the difficulty of bench-pressing a feather. Tired eyes squinted through the sunlight as the old man saw a long set of tents set up in a familiar order. “Ah. Clerics.”
He recognized the orderly campsite immediately. It was meant to be memorable, after all—the place you run to when you’re injured and trying to survive. Each was a higher quality than a common healer’s tent. The tent he was carried into, to his great chagrin after his most recent thought, was an abyssal common healing tent. Still, the cot he was laid on was significantly better than some sheets on the floor with bedding crammed under it. This was a resting place for the sick and had a much greater degree of comfort to facilitate that rest.
“Sir, do you remember your name?”
The old man blinked, taking hold of the words. Recent memories were filtered and parsed. He was a new man after his mental shift at his campfire, so he needed something new—something he could hold on to that was neither the ordinary nor similar to any previous unordinary name.
“Art…” the old man pushed a hand into his face, kneading skin together, “…Orian?”
He was grasping for ideas based on something vague a womanly
voice had recently said. Art… historian? It was always healthy advice to listen to a good woman, and thus, he pulled his ideas from the recent experience and released his face. Expression clearing, he extended a hand in greeting to Tibbins. “Artorian. A true pleasure to meet you, cleric but truly unfortunate circumstances for it.”
A weak smile slowly built upon his aged features, his voice slowly blooming with confidence as it all came together. “Yes. It is decided. My name is… Artorian.”
Chapter Sixteen
Head Cleric Tarrean was pleasantly leafing through real paper once more in his personal tent. Smooth, crisp, light paper. None of this awful vellum for him! When he could get away with finery, he would. His polished, ornate armor was a testament to that. Just file such ostentatious tidbits away under some kind of basic need, and you’d find someone willing to cave and sign-off on the expense document.
After all, he was the Head Cleric of this expedition! He deserved this! It was his right to display his rank proudly, a beacon of righteousness for the Church. As a mighty D-rank seven, he was the most powerful cultivator of his entire expedition-wing. Then again, he had also been bestowed with two strong affinity channels rather than the pitiful singular one most people could count their blessings to have.
Tarrean took a moment to relish in his continued good fortune. This mission had been tailor-made for him, clearly with divine guidance. His prayer was going to be extra juicy during the noon session to thank the heavens for their abundance. Yes, it was good to be Head Cleric.
This was an easy mission in the ‘secret’ category that carried sizable prestige. He was putting the final scribbled touches on the mission report right now. The majority of the expedition would continue pursuit of the raiders under the watchful guidance of Jiivra. She was always seeking opportunities to prove herself, and this was a decidedly easy one to allow her.
A handful of hand-picked priests would remain behind with him, along with the wounded, to tend to the local situation and safeguard their excellent forward base prospect. In the old age, building was not allowed here.
Such times had passed, and he had such visionary plans. Stealing a swift glance at the entrance flap of his tent and finding it secured and closed, he retrieved a piece of vellum liberated from the exhausted raider group that had just walked into their weapons. A proper and fully signed, mundane deed of land ownership. The problem was, it was signed by someone with very angry hand-script, and that was suspect. If he could not obtain an exact copy from the present Elder, then this document—while prized—was a fake.
Rules were twisted in the Fringe. Mana signatures didn’t work here. It made for an exceptional mess in bureaucracy, a piece of land where one could not bind ownership with absolute certainty. He wondered if all locations near celestial dungeons had this problem but quickly shook that from his mind. Celestial and infernal dungeons were too dangerous. It was all too well known that they caused wars through their own, seemingly innocuous means. At least celestial ones did. He would not spare a thought on what a blasphemous infernal dungeon might do to a person.
Extermination was the duty of the day when that Essence type became involved. It bred necromancers, extremists, and… ugh, demon summoners. The Head Cleric felt a sour taste in his mouth, and he swiftly bundled the vellum. Back to his precious paper products! If the signature matched, he could outright claim ownership of a chunk of the Fringe. He would obviously do so under the protective wing of the Church, but he knew he was destined for grander things.
Tarrean snapped from his distraction, tapping his quill in the inkwell. Let’s see. He and the few injured would stay in camp. Tibbins had been assigned babysitting duty; he had to stay. Irene was a must as Keeper and needed to stay to keep a proper tally of all the goods they were going to find and claim in this village. Jiivra, unfortunately, was getting her chance to be the bigshot; so, squad lead it was. Therefore, that thankfully meant she wasn’t going to have a presence in the forward camp.
Did he need any of the others? He could do without Tibbins but had no interest in dawdling around a drooling, old fool. He supposed he could see to the healthcare of the injured, young priests. It would let them see his own magnanimous value, and their respect for him would rise if he personally attended to them. Yes, that was more than enough to hold down his small encampment.
By himself, he was more than a match for anything the Fringe might have in store for him. Without the common threat of beasts, his only real concern was raiders. Wouldn’t you know it, that’s exactly what the majority of his people were about to set out to take care of for him. His plans were falling into place perfectly!
Heavy supplies could be left behind as well; Jiivra always did like her fast attack tactics. She’d appreciate the mention in the report, at the very least. Yes… that would do. Scribbling down some details, the bump of a spear hitting the ground twice outside his tent flap reached his ears.
“Enter,” the Head Cleric called without looking up.
Tibbins entered the tent, saluted, and waited to be addressed. The Head Cleric drew some finishing lines and then laid down the quill. He addressed the young adult, wondering why he’d been bothered, “Acolyte Tibbins?”
“Sir! The Elder of the village is awake and mostly lucid. Perhaps not quite stable—but lucid.”
Tarrean clasped his hands together with a smile as he leaned back. “Excellent! You have managed to procure the needed documents from the Elder then?”
Tibbins squeezed his lips into a flat line. “There are a few problems, sir.”
“A few, Acolyte?” Tarrean’s mirth melted from his face like hot butter. He blinked at the younger man. “Not one, not two. A few?”
Tibbins nervously swallowed. “Perhaps… allow me to walk you through it, sir. It threw me for a loop when I heard it the first time.”
Tarrean remained calmly in his seat, ready to hear what was likely going to be the start of a longer than wanted day. Tibbins followed suit, seating himself on the other side of the Head Cleric’s desk. “When I tried to confirm if our man in blue was the Elder, he looked at me and asked, ‘Would you like me to fetch him for you?’”
That received the appropriate eyebrow raise from the Head Cleric, so Tibbins continued, “So he gets up and fetches this cup from the longhouse.”
The young man put the wood with the word ‘Elder’ carved into the poor excuse of a wooden cup on his superior’s desk. “He told me, ‘There you go. I’ve brought you the Elder,’ and proceeded to calmly shamble back off to the medical tent without a care in the world.”
Tarrean rubbed his temples, sighing deeply. “I… see. How… This might be the start to a set of a few more complicated problems. Did you get an answer as to who the woman was?”
At least this he was hoping to get a solid answer for.
“Yes, sir,” Tibbins replied, but he still had that incredibly flat-lipped expression. More uncertain news. “In his exact words, ‘She’s Nobody’.”
The Head Cleric now matched Tibbins’ thin lip-lined expression. He rumbled with a wholesome and yet demeaning monotone voice, eyes locked firmly on the Acolyte, “Tibbins.”
“I know, sir, I know. I do have good news,” the Acolyte quickly retorted, his hands waving frantically. Given that there was no response from his superior, he quickly filled the void, “When I asked if there’s anything he wanted, all he asked for was some water, a pillow or two, something to write on, and to be told about cultivation so he could indulge in a fantasy while he slept. I imagine he saw the clerics and thought of their Essence as something akin to mystical powers.”
“Possibly, he’s idolizing us. I don’t want to jeopardize a useful view like that, even if it is… deceitful.” Tibbins did a poor job concealing that he disliked being a liar and didn’t want to be one to a gentle old man in the last stages of his life. Tarrean—on the other hand—had a glint in his smile as it spread across his face.
“No, Acolyte, that’s alright. Indulge the man. Tell him everyt
hin, and then more and more until you’re out of things to say. A man that old has no chance of doing anything with the knowledge, much less spreading it about all alone in the Fringe. When you’re all out of things to say and the old fool still hungers for more to feed his nightly dreams… send him to me. I will do the hard part, Tibbins. I know you’re a gentle soul, not forged in war and fury like I was. Ex-adventurer, right?”
Tibbins nodded. “Yes, Sir. F-rank eight.”
The Acolyte’s expression turned somber. He never made the cut as an adventurer. He never made it to the D-ranks, solidly stuck in the upper Fs. The fishy rank. The failure rank. Tibbins then glimpsed a different path his future could take. “Would you tell me about your cultivation secrets along with the old man, sir?”
The Head Cleric, unfortunately, was ready to crush such a hope, yet found that incentives could be applied here. “I tell you what, Tibbins. You’re a good soul. You keep that old man interested enough to the point where he comes to ask me things, and I will overlook whatever he might tell you in return. How’s that?”
It wasn’t direct knowledge, and using the old man like a filter wasn’t ideal. It did get the required motivation for the Acolyte to stop slacking so much in his care of the Elder. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, the old man wore an utterly dour expression when he was referred to as ‘Elder’. He decided it was best to keep that to himself. “Yes, sir!”
Tarrean nodded and was about to dismiss him from the tent. “Good lad. Before you go, the old man, does he have a name?”
Tibbins nodded. “Artorian, sir.”
He saluted and left the tent as the Head Cleric pondered on the name in bewilderment. Artorian? What kind of a name was that? What region was that from, nay, what country or kingdom? A dukedom, perchance? Naming conventions and types changed depending on what corner of the world one was from, but this… was out there. He shook it off and decided he didn’t care. With the Acolyte motivated to take care of his charge, it meant one less thing on his plate and more time for… other pursuits.
Axiom Page 12
