It was a waste of time. The books held no relevant information—at least not the kind Roslyn and Orfia sought. Instead, they were filled with data and notes about people, places, and happenings in Jersten.
It was a frustrating hour spent scanning and reading through practically useless text, in an awkward silence broken only by the frequent turning of pages, and the occasional confirmation that neither Roslyn nor Orfia had found anything of interest. After those twenty or so books, Roslyn made an excuse so that Orfia would leave her alone. Priestly responsibilities were calling her, so Orfia departed for the day. Before leaving, she thanked Roslyn for her time and said she'd be back tomorrow at noon. Roslyn managed to hold her sigh until the temple door closed behind her.
Roslyn was left alone in the temple, with twenty books scattered across the long benches. Her gaze explored her surroundings. She noticed what had changed. The benches had been replaced, and there were more of them now. An additional door opened to a storage room, with a stairway that led into a cellar.
An angel looked down from above the altar, wielding a sword and clad in golden armor—ready to tear free of the painting's frame, yet still chained within it. The painting was the same. The only thing that had not changed... but her feelings about it had; she had changed.
It felt heavy, like a stone of despair pressing her down, keeping her from looking, making her believe that her gaze should never meet another's; that it should melt into the stone, dirt, and grass beneath her feet.
She felt none of the old love. A humorless chuckle escaped her lips. She finally could understand Kanrel and how he felt. What a grand achievement, to at last fully understand the misery of someone else. A moment surely meant for celebration, either through hysterical laughter filled with fake joy, or a flood of tears plentiful enough to fill the emptiness within.
She sat in the silence of the temple, drenched by it, as if clouds above had opened and rained a deluge upon her. She let her thoughts wash away, and let not words sully this sacred moment.
But alas, she couldn't help but snort. To pick up the scattered books and return through the door back to the space she would call her home from now on.
It was only the first day, yet by now she already knew that this was all she would learn. That her desires for relief would never be granted, for why the hell would someone like Kanrel hide away anything so personal, and leave it behind? And if he ever did, then the Herald would make sure to find them, and keep them for herself, for where else would her son's memory live so vividly, other than her own memories?
Book by book, she reshelved them, feeling once more their dusty, worn covers and spines. When she placed the final one, her hands lingered, and so did her memories, which were at least as dusty and worn... so long it had been, too long. From them, she would find no solace. No reassurance that she had done the correct things; no rebuke from her master, for what she had become. There was simply nothing; just memories that kept on fading as quickly as the words in the book her hand lingered on. Roslyn let it go.
Wasn't it time to let it go? For too long she had thought about it all... how she would be the one to find out what happened, that she would be the one to uncover the great mystery of Kanrel's disappearance... But even those were dreams from long before the Ritual; from when she still truly cared about things other than commands.
What was the use of trying to uncover something that would give no solace to almost anyone? What was the use of wasting time on something when there were a thousand things more important, more impactful in this town that she could do?
What was the point of really anything at all? Was there ever one? Had she forgotten that there once was one? Surely. For if there never was a point to anything, any meaning at all, then life could only be relegated to something so sad and empty.
Roslyn's brows furrowed as she stared ahead. These thoughts she had—these lines of questioning—would only push people into taking actions that harmed others or themselves. It was well known among the people, and even among the priests, how foolish a mind can become when it argues itself into a corner from which it cannot escape. It was a failure of logic, a pattern of circular thinking.
Another humorless chuckle to grace her own ears, to depart her lips. She knew the next step. She crouched lower and looked at what might be on a lower shelf. Surely something, anything at all that might give an answer, some sense of useless meaning to feed the mind that yearns for explanations and purpose; to drown out the voice that dominates the conversation. Ignore yourself, your doubts, and your fears. Nothing has ever come out of them, so why listen to them? It was not like the world would end tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or even a week from now... All these things were so unlikely, so why worry about them at all? Why worry if an action, a thing, or a thought has meaning, when surely you can delude yourself into thinking that there is meaning after all; that there is a world even after the end of it...
She found more old books, more to read through. It wasn't as though she actually had anything else to do. No excuse to not go through them. So why not? She might as well, even if it only confirmed an earlier conclusion that there was nothing. Even if she would end up wasting her time, and only to upset herself even more than she already was.
Carefully, she placed them onto the desk, then sat down only to stare at them for a minute longer...
Why not indeed?
If nothing had been an earlier conclusion, then why worry that there would be nothing? She opened up the first book, only to confirm that there was nothing at all. No clues, only data, rumors of old, and names she might have recognized years ago...
The first one was as such, the second the same, and even the third, but the fourth...
The sun had already set when her gaze was graced by an envelope... There was no seal. There was no name. There was no one it had been assigned to.
Roslyn managed only to stare at it with her tired eyes. She licked her parched lips; her hands trembled as she reached for it. Carefully, she opened the envelope and drew out the note, unfolding it and placing it on the desk. Her expectant gaze met familiar handwriting. Tears welled, but she quickly wiped them away to protect the treasure from harm or to hide her tears. And then, she began to read:
"It has been almost a year since you died. A year of bitter memories and feelings. A year during which I've felt lost; I've felt uncomfortable with how I am, with what I feel, and with how I exist.
A year of shifting blame first onto you, but soon after finding that all this blame belongs to me. All this regret comes from within. All these emotions and lost months. For everything that has ever happened, I find that I can only blame myself.
Not only am I a fool, but I've also found that I am nothing more than a child lost in a world for which I was not prepared.
I wish I could start from the beginning. I wish I could better cherish the life I had before all of this. I wish I could accept the regret brought by the choices I've made. I wish I could escape, leave all of this behind, forget everything that has ever happened, and begin anew.
But I cannot. Those memories, I've found, are so precious. New ones can't and will not fix or replace them; they will never be better than the ones I already had.
I cannot forgive you. And I cannot forgive myself. With this, I shall live until the end of my days, perhaps trying to forgive not only you but myself. In the end, I shall regret all that I have ever done, what I ever will do, what I will become, what I have become, what I once was, and everything that there is that I am.
But I will not regret the feelings I had. The friendship we shared. I hope to one day forgive you, for it is so painful to live with my heart tense with bitterness."
Roslyn trembled. She stared at the letter and read it again—and again.
A friend who had died... Yirn? Blame and regret... Kanrel's. It seemed like... a goodbye, of sorts. A letter of forgiveness, yet of someone asking for forgiveness. A memory of regret.
She swallowed. Her throat burned, and her eyes burned as well. After all, there was something. It gave no answer, not really. It only confirmed a thing or two to Roslyn.
A universal truth known by all priests...
There is only regret. There are only bitter memories. There is nothing but this burden they all have to carry, and carry it they will. Until oblivion takes them, be it because of inherent grief or action taken against oneself. They all would pass the same. It was too painful, and it seemed like it had taken Kanrel, too.
Kanrel was dead, all this time he had been dead, and there were good reasons for it. The same ones all men suffered with, and even more so, priests.
There was no grand mystery. There was just a decision of a man to relieve his regrets.
Roslyn couldn't hold back her tears any longer. She shook as she wept.
Now, she could only hope that the man now rests in peace, without demons of the past to haunt his eternal slumber.
The night is dark; it is the fall, after all. She tried to sleep, but memories masking themselves as dreams stole any rest she could have.
- - -
A robed man stood upon a flat boulder in the woods. It was early, and a lonesome lark sang glory to the rising sun. The man was not alone; he was with the lark... and the crowd that had gathered before his chosen stage.
The man wasn't very young, nor was he really that old. Only a few gray hairs garnished his otherwise black hair; his eyes were amber-colored and keen, and he smiled before beginning his speech.
"The forest whispers; from beneath the ground, a voice calls for me. It calls for us. I am not a prophet, yet I can hear it. We all can. And only if we all would listen, then the True God would save them all." His voice was ambrosia—deep, resonant, and weighted with conviction. The man was someone accustomed to holding speeches.
"Faith... is dirt. It is in the weeds and the flowers in my garden. In the trees and the berries in this forest. It is in me, and in my brothers and sisters. Faith is for those who see that all reason eludes them," he let his gaze go from man to man, from man to woman, and from woman to child; he met all their eyes.
"This I know to be the case, for I remember a day from so long ago that has made it so…" Then, he paused. The man wore his faith on his sleeve; all knew that he spoke truth. It could be seen in their eyes.
But suddenly, the man became sullen. He let silence linger a moment, so uncomfortable, then he continued: "It was a day when darkness spread in my mind. An infinite realm of nothing, where no thoughts arose to give explanations, no reasons. Nothing at all to justify the things that had happened back then."
"What is one to do when there is no reason?" he looked at the crowd for an answer, but none answered; they only looked at him with reverence.
"Even when you try so hard to find such a thing. Even when you search far and wide, outside and within, for a speck, a tiny molecule of these things known as meaning and reason."
"Yet, there is none, when surely, there ought to be such a thing."
"It can't just be an invention of the human mind, now can it?"
"There must be something greater. But this something, back then, I couldn't find…"
"I had lain against the grassy ground, the wind tickled my face, and gently caressed my ears with the words of an old priest, a knower of the true faith... He had given me a great lecture, and I've kept it with me all this time: 'Where reason ends, faith begins.'"
"At first, I had assumed it to mean the following: 'One must abandon reason to gain faith.'"
"But who would want to abandon rationality? Who would wish to leave behind knowledge?"
"Now, I know to shake my head. Now I know that conclusion to be incorrect. I learned this from the old priest, slowly, as he taught me all that I needed to know to lead my congregation, when it was his time to accept the call of the void…"
"Where reason ends, faith begins... Words that do not call for one to ignore reality and place their fate or faith into the hands of fantasy and things that aren't real, but instead it means this: 'When reason can no longer give you the answer, only faith can.'"
"Or, 'At the edge of knowledge, there is a great, dark beyond through which you cannot see, and on the other side, somewhere, exists reason and meaning, but you cannot know what they are, they are not available for you to know; thus, to access them, one must place their faith into belief, for nothing else is able to give you the peace of mind to continue existing going forth otherwise.'"
"And so, I believe in the God Who Hung; I believe in the world He once wanted to create. I believe that false gods will be removed; that false prophets shall be toppled from the false thrones, and a new Kingdom for the True Believers shall be born from the ashes of the old."
"True God shall arise from beneath the earth; for His voice can still be heard by all," he finished his speech, his sermon, and let his words linger before the crowd erupted with cheers.
Of course, it was all a lie. Not his faith and what he believed in, but the anecdote he had used. The old, previous priest wasn't a wise man. He had been an ineffective glutton and fool, who only used his authority to bed vulnerable women of his own congregation.
Father Mitry was different. He was a man of true faith. A man of great temperament; a man of practicality. During his tenure, the size of their herd had actually grown and not shrunk. And so, he basked in the cheers; he basked in their love, and he loved them back. This was the essence of his faith: Love your neighbor, even the one whose faith was wrong and misguided, for they too would find themselves in the true faith... either in life or death.
Mitry loved his neighbors here, in this commune he had helped shape into something lively and safe for them all. And he loved his neighbors in the nearby city of Herelt. He even loved those who lived far in the east, in Lo'Gran; he loved even the neighbor, who was nothing more than a false prophet to a false god.
Mitry loved all, for his faith had given him the reason to do so.
And to show that his love for all was earnest, he had banned what the previous priest had allowed, even encouraged. Mitry disallowed the hunts for human sacrifice; he even disallowed them to choose from within their own. Instead, they would sacrifice other things. Food and drink; trinkets and gold. All these earthly things they would not need, for they do not nourish the soul; they do not fill the void of a man who has not learned the reason for his own existence.
If only the other communes, the other 'cults' of the God Who Hung believed like he did... Then maybe they wouldn't be so feared? Maybe then the true faith could be accepted by all? Maybe then... false gods could be toppled?
Nevertheless, even if the yesterday of our lives, and even today, have been difficult for us and our many neighbors, we can still pray for our tomorrow, and if not for the tomorrow of those of us who are here today, then we might as well pray for the many tomorrows of our children, and our children's children.
Change is an inevitable force. The people wake up, and we all shall shed the shackles placed upon us by false monarchs. The people will rise, and freedom shall grant itself to a tomorrow, where another lark shall sing its melody, a prayer in a silent forest for the peoples of tomorrow.
Mitry came down from the stone and, with his people, returned to matters more important than this. Life is difficult for most, and like the void within one's mind, the belly is another void that must be filled, or death shall take your hand and starve you, placing you into the shoes of someone who has no reason, for why would starvation be allowed in a world that is just?
Father Mitry's commune was deep in the western parts of the Kingdom, far away from Lo'Gran and its oppressive eyes; near Lake Ushantra, where, it is said, a fair maiden once drowned herself rather than become a subject to the crown's tyranny. Just a normal village by the lake, with a forest that surrounds it from the north and northeast. With fertile lands to the south and southeast, and a city, Herelt, not too far away by the southern banks of the lake. Many of the people in their little commune had come from there, all in search of a place where they might survive, where they might feed themselves and their families. Slowly, they became, first, a part of the village, for Mitry would not drive them away, even if there was a chance that they might report him and his congregation to the Priesthood.
But love brings all closer together, and these new folks soon found themselves not only able to harvest the bountiful lands and offer their artisan skills, but members of Mitry's flock as well. A wonderful gift from their God, new members to take care of. All those who came seldom went against Mitry's word, for they more often than not realized what the truth was; they soon realized that the Angels and the Priesthood and the nobles of this Kingdom did nothing for them, unless it was to take away the little they made, leaving just enough so that they might starve with little grace.
Here, in Mitry's congregation, in his commune, they would not starve. Father Mitry made sure that they would not. They would farm, they would fish in the lake, and they would hunt the forests. Mitry fed his herd, and so the herd trusted and loved him back. There would be no one here who would betray him, and he would not betray them either.
A Kingdom of Heaven is built, not by a tyrant who foresees all from the safety of his castle, but by people who come together for the sake of the common good, under the leadership of someone who has a further vision. Mitry had the vision, and the people knew what would be good for them...
Mitry bid farewell to his people, and they went their own ways, to work and such. Later, Mitry would join them. A good leader ought to work with his people, lest he become just another overseer; another tyrant who beholds from the safety of his castle...
He placed his hand on the handle of the door, his mind racing with new ideas, with thoughts through which he could better the lives of his people, as well as the lives of his neighbors far and wide. So, like every morning after the sermon, he would sit down, a journal before him and a pen in his hand, writing down what would become tenets through which life would become better for all. Theory that would one day become the foundation of their Kingdom of Heaven.
"Father!" a voice called for him from behind. Mitry turned around and saw Norlen running at him. Norlen was a young, lean man, someone whose primary job was to serve the safety of their village. He was good at brawling and using the bow; once he had been a troubled teen, but now he was a grown man who had found peace and denounced the violence of his youth.
"Yes, Norlen?" Mitry fully turned toward the young man, offering a smile to bring forth calmness, which was a central ideal to Mitry.
Norlen stopped a few steps away from him, "Father, there is trouble…"
"Trouble?" Mitry said, and looked past the young man, far away, toward where Norlen had run from. There, he saw a person, as nothing more than a speck of gray.
Norlen looked over his shoulder, saying, "It's a woman, a false priest…" Doubt mixed with hatred seeped through the young man's words.
"Look at me," and so Norlen did. "Do not let your hatred blind you, Norlen. We are better than that."
Norlen looked down, his gaze meeting the dirt of the road, "Forgive me, Father…" he looked back up, "But what are we to do? What if she finds out about our faith?"
Mitry shook his head, "Worry not, Norlen. We will accept this priest among us and treat her as we treat one another. But for now, we must hide our true faith... Go around the village, and tell the others, I will go meet this priest. I am sure she will tell us what her business is here." He calmed down the young man, whose agitated, nervous expression faded. Norlen nodded along, pronounced a silent prayer, and began his new mission.
Mitry looked on as Norlen ran to do his bidding. He would be lying if he said that he wasn't nervous as well... The members of the Priesthood were often cunning and greatly educated in many fields of study. He sighed and questioned himself: Would he be able to keep his congregation safe?
A slow smile came across his face. A calmness from within emerged. He could do this. Treat her with love, and she won't question a thing. Treat her with love, and she will leave them alone. He began walking down the road, toward the woman in her gray robes.
Her hair was blonde, and she was slightly younger than Mitry, perhaps in her late thirties. When Mitry reached her, he offered her a smile, "Welcome, miss. We are honored to receive a member of the cloak among us. It is not often one of you comes by our village."
She returned the smile, but it was an awkward one. "Thank you."
Mitry stopped right before her. The woman was much shorter than he was.
"I am Mitry, but the folk here often call me 'Father.' You could say that I am the leader of our little village," he said and extended his arm toward her.
She looked at him, meeting his gaze of amber, then she looked at the hand, and accepted it after a moment's hesitation. "I am Uanna, and I've been designated as the priest of this village for the time being," she said, smiling awkwardly.
For a moment, Mitry could not reply. This was bad; terrible, even. It could ruin everything he had worked for. But soon enough, he found his smile. "A pleasure to have you here with us," he said. Their brief handshake ended, and Mitry turned toward the village, hoping Norlen had managed to warn as many people as possible by now.
"Have you had breakfast, Uanna?"
"I have."
Mitry scratched his short beard and continued looking around, "Then would you like me to give you a tour of the village? We could surely have lunch afterwards," he suggested after a moment.
Uanna produced another awkward smile, "It would be my pleasure."