I am writing this down, because, quite simply… I find myself forgetting.
The wars have been raging almost its second decade now. Those of Faith and those whom had sided with the Divines in the conflict were now scattered, divided – slowly being circled and struck down, akin to a bird of prey flying high over the plains circling its next meal. The scales have tipped, and now those who had been deemed Immortal have been discovered to be, quite simply, mortal enough if enough force was brought to bear.
Was it the Mages and their Schools who first figured how to manipulate the threads of Fate to take certain men out of its weave – to make them able to strike true against those who cannot be struck? Was it those of Faith who did not choose to side with the Divines who shared untold secrets as to how to cut down those they worshipped?
Does it really matter?
In the future, it very well may, so I will commit to the page what I can recall or retell. I am hesitant, for this being in my hand and my name… should those who hunt us find this, I would no longer be able to maintain my guise of simple farmer – a stranger to the surreal cataclysm that has befallen our age.
The brazier on my desk still burns, but it is just a phantom of itself from years ago. The other three, once the central fixture of any of our great cathedrals, are like many men and Divines… casualties of war. “The Devout are the first to greet the light, and the first to fight the dark.” I feel neither devout nor ready to greet anything anymore. However, I still cannot stop myself from greeting the dawn of each day in our time-told way.
I do not know where He is… even though He now walks this plane, our connection to him is as wispy as the lone tendril of smoke rising from the incense beside me. I catch glimpses in my prayers some days, and in my dreams some nights. He and the few militant Devout remaining are fighting a losing war. A war not of swords, but of hunger, disease, pestilence - the bedfellows of wars which the bards never sing.
The war between the Nations and Divine would make for an excellent story, except for the simple fact that the story would leave out the true victim of the war – the people. Sure, the Gods decided to start their Crusade against the mortal races. Sure, they even had just cause. However, for every soldier a Nation fielded, there was at least four or five people, a family, working the fields and going about their normal day as they always have.
The Nations fielded thousands of thousands of soldiers.
Four or five thousands of thousands of mortals caught in the middle of our greatest war. Perchance in the middle of Mortalities greatest victory? In the middle, but under the armored heel of both man and divine.
Their blood ran the darkest. That will be the hardest stain on the world.
Tahln and the Devout. If you had told me when I was but a young acolyte that in my lifetime I would not only be greeted in person by my God while I still live, but I would also see him march off so He could boil water and bandage those caught in between the forces of war… I would have checked you for fever.
Now He is out there, a target the size of the world on his back… doing what he asked of Us. Help those whom cannot help themselves. “A price must be paid.” We used to conject and philosophize that the price was our vigilance and duty, protecting those who cannot protect themselves – the price being the lives we could have had.
It would appear that the price all along, is us. Did He know?
(In the same hand, on a new page)
It has been months since I last wrote on these pages.
Another Divine has fallen. There may be but two or three whom still walk this ground. The stars refused to show themselves for a fortnight in their mourning. Yet, that is not why I write this dawn.
I am writing again, even though I would rather not – I would rather live this façade created and keep up my silent faith in Him. Protect my wife and daughter. Shelter them from the danger the world has become.
It is why years ago He told me to bury my armor and take the last brazier out here into the middle of the great plains, right?
Alas, I already know the answer to that one. We spoke last night. He and I. A waking dream, talking to a God. The stuff of miracles. Our Order has Cannonized a handful of people over the ages for having that communion, and here I am procrastinating – doing everything to delay the inevitable.
“The Need must be filled. When the Shield is lifted, when the Call is made, the Devout will stand as Protector.”
He made His Call. And I will answer. And I will go willingly, because he understands my need – to protect my family.
This lowly brazier, the coals barely glowing, is perhaps His last artifact remaining. While Mary and my daughter tend to it, they shall be protected. Tahln assures me such, and even with the world changing around us, I do not doubt.
“May our bodies be worthy to lift his Shield. May our minds be worthy enough to understand why. May his Shield take the blows.”
(signed)Grand Cleric Antillen Torien
First Order of the Devout
Humble Shieldarm of Tahln
Husband of Mary Torien, Father of Jane Torien
(After a few blank pages, written in an steady, but unpracticed hand)
Antillen left a year ago. I miss him, but I understand why he left. I will admit to a barely passing understanding of the Order, and do what I can to follow their precepts… but in the end, I am but another widow of the wars. It is my daughter whom I worry about. I am old enough to understand the past, and can understand the enormity of such an uncertain future. Mortality won the war, that I can tell, but the world is now… fractured.
The Nations fell soon after their Victory. Some fell to outside forces – stronger nations deciding to continue their war machine and envelop their weaker neighbors. Some fell to internal strife. Others were just unable to survive the devastation wrought upon our lands.
I am writing this down, because, quite simply… I find myself forgetting.
Jane plays in the field outside, having already rushed out to greet the dawn, though she does not fully understand why. She knew Antillen used to do such, and since it reminds me of him so, I cannot stop her from doing it. She is my fairest one, so she greets the world. I still mourn our son, but even then, it is hazy – getting harder as time goes on to recall details.
I will do what I can to remember to write, but the last echos of my husband’s God are providing us food and shelter. If my price to pay is my memory, as long as Jane is safe…
Maybe I do understand His Order a little more than I used to.
(Signed) Mary
(After another few blank pages, a new entry. This script is decidedly unlearned and unpracticed.)
Mother says that I shouldn’t play with my friends. She says that it will not do me well. That they are imajuniary. That our needs have been met and we should be contempt, um, happy.
They are not imajuniary. This is my Home and our Home takes care of us. Me and my friends are even building a room for that smelly incense burner, so it has a Home too.
And since Mother says that the important stuff gets written down, I’m writing this stuff down too.
(unsigned)
“The fairest greets the world.”
“A price must be paid.”
“This is Home.”
I may not be able to remember much else… but we will remember these.
(Signed) Jane
