The Priesthood

‘I am not innocent. I am guilty. I’ve done things; I’ve killed others... I am a murderer, and this is my trial.’

Such thoughts were only his own. Such thoughts were those of someone like him, someone who deserved to be here in this moment, standing before everyone who had gathered here. This courtroom, this trial. His trial.

No—not his; it was theirs; it was Ignars’s trial; and it was Hartar’s trial, but it might as well be his. At least he deserved to be here; he was the one who should be standing trial and who should be accused of murder. No matter how righteous that murder might have been, it still remained as such. No matter that the first was mostly out of self-defense, the two that followed were not. Should he have used so much force?

This feeling, this heavy guilt, forced itself on top of him, on top of his mind and his heart. It lingered above the confusion—the things that had happened the past few days. Decades? He had no clue how long he had been stuck in this collage, this gathering of visions. Doors kept opening. They kept closing. All at once, together.

Everyone was looking at him. In their eyes only disgust, they witnessed a murder. Why were they looking at him? His hands trembled uncontrollably; they refused to stop trembling. His heart refused to feel right in his chest. The world looked different, and the colors were more vibrant than they had been before. The people—the many Sharans that had gathered here—were all so tall. They were all so beautiful. And he was—he was—insignificant. He shouldn’t look at them; he should not speak to them. They should never be in the same room.

He tried to speak, to plead, but no words came out. Of the many accusations that he had and the many confessions that he might make, none of them found their way out of his mouth. His tongue felt so clumsy and weak. There was so much ache, so much pain.

They should not have hit him; they should not try to force out a confession from him. Out of them. They were innocent. But he was a murderer.

There were tables, there were chairs, and there were people everywhere. They all looked at them. They were all here to witness justice, to see a murderer be condemned for their crimes, and to see them sentenced to death. To see Hartar Agna, a murderer.

His hands. They were different. Strong, yet so small. Rough and worn, seen through many days of work and labor. Hands of someone who had worked all their life. Hands that were younger than his but seemed to have seen more work.

A gavel hit wood, and a person wearing dark, long robes stood. This demanded the eyes of all be set on them, for all to see only them and no one else, yet they themselves peered at the crowds, and then lastly, at Kanrel.

“The prosecution may present their case.” They announced, their eyes staying on Kanrel, observing him, measuring the person who was in the eyes of so many guilty before stepping into the courtroom.

A tall Sharan who wore dark robes and had hair grayer than ash stood up. They cleared their throat and began: “Your honor, based on the many investigations done by the Office of Peace and the Office of Justice around the death of Wiltem Torna, the tragic victim of a murder committed on the 23rd day of the 9th month in the 1207th year of the Common Times, has brought out much evidence related to the murder itself, the subsequent calls about corruption at the Office of Peace, the character of the victim, and then, the character of the prosecuted Hartar Agna.”

“We are ready to give all the facts and nothing but the facts.” They said and then presented the court with multiple files of written material about the investigation and the presumed evidence that they might’ve found.

“In these files, we have outlined our investigation from that very tragic day to this day of justice, and to condense these materials, we might as well say that the plaintiff is to be put behind bars to rot for the rest of their existence.”

“So let us begin with the simple facts: on Olruan Street, on that very tragic day, a body was discovered, a beloved member of our city now known by many, their character praised by all, as it is reported that they were an active member of the community, a frequent donator to charity, and someone placed in trusted positions in our city.”

“Wiltem Torna was a civil servant, a city guard, to be most precise, and their job was to keep the streets safe from people like Hartar Agna; in fact, our investigation has concluded that on that very day, they witnessed the plaintiff partaking in illegal activities, mainly the selling of explosive material, which was then later used in a terrorist attack on the 31st day of the 9th month, killing no less than a hundred people. Investigations on this matter are still at hand, but Hartar Agna’s involvement is clear, and there is plenty of evidence to back up this truth.”

“Wiltem Torna tried their best, but they were overpowered by those who would do such terrible things; thus, we do not only blame Hartar Agna for the murder of the beloved and innocent Wiltem but also for the planning, abiding, and partaking in the attack on Cafe N’Sharan and the deaths of over a hundred people.”

“And in these files.” They announced, taking a stack of them and walking up to the judge’s stand and placing them on top of it, “We’ve gathered the testimonies of hundreds of witnesses—people who vouch for Wiltem Torna and his character, and then the hundreds of testimonies of people who condemn the actions of Hartar Agna, but also who tell us of the character of this vile murderer.”

They took out one file and began to read, “This is a witness testimony by someone known as Uliad Brevn: ‘They have shifty eyes, they do, that Hartar fella... You know, I once saw them practicing destructive magic in their little bakery, the one they share with their parents. You know, you should question them parents as well. The apple never falls too far from the tree; who knows, maybe they were a part of it?’”

The prosecutor stared at the audience and then shifted their eyes toward Kanrel, who sat in silence, unable to fully grasp the severity of the accusations thrown at him, all of which were more than incorrect; they were all just made up, and they were all just wrong in more ways than one. It was incredible how something that was supposed to be used as a means to find out the truth was used in such a vile way.

“And this is just one of many such testimonies... Alas, we cannot spend all of our precious time quoting them, but, as a means of transparency, these documents will be shared with the public after this day at court, after the promise of justice has been fulfilled, after we all know that we can rest well, knowing that such a monster is put behind bars, or better, executed for his crimes against not only a fellow Sharan, but our city, our rules, and the morals which we all have agreed to abide by.”

They placed the file back on the table, then turned to face Kanrel again, saying, “The prosecution would like to question the plaintiff.” They announced with a gleam in their eyes, one that was hard to read at first but could never bode well.

“I will allow this.” The judge replied, and soon the prosecutor stepped closer toward Kanrel, soon reaching him and even leaning forward as they said what they wanted to say: “Even if you are such a vile murderer, I, like many other Sharans that have heard of your terrible deeds, wish to know if you would like to confess to your crimes; if you’d take accountability for your terrible actions.”

“Confess, Hartar Agna, and there might yet be retribution for your soul.”

Kanrel sat in silence; his mouth felt dry, his hands still shook, and so did the rest of his body, but the reason behind this was different than before. This was anger, one that was more justified than this performance that he was made to witness—that he was forced to sit through and experience.

Mere moments ago, he held within this confused sense of guilt, even when they had gathered to discuss the crimes of another, but to hear such accusations thrown at the body, which was Hartar's, was wrong. It was all so wrong. It was all to cover up corruption; it was all to vindicate the Office of Peace from all responsibility regarding the death of one of their own, not to mention the many that had suffered because of similar corruption.

He opened his mouth and spoke; his voice was so soft, and he pronounced the words that he himself might’ve not believed about himself but believed about this body: “Not guilty.”

It was simple; it was perhaps more brave than any action that he had been able to take in such a long time; yet in the end, it was meaningless; it was done after the fact. It was no more than a useless cry for help, words interpreted as lies by all others either way. In a way, it would’ve been better to not mutter a word, but defiance was now all he could have, even if it was the defiance of someone else, for someone more pure than he was, for someone he had promised to save but could never save.

Tears forced their way out, fulfilling the pitiful creature that Hartar Agna had been from the beginning: a frail child.

Anger flared on the face of the prosecutor as they slammed the table before Kanrel. “Your words of denial are no more than further evidence of your guilt!” They yelled and stormed back to their seat, and before sitting down, they announced, “The prosecution rests their case; we’ve nothing further to add; we don’t need to.” Then they promptly sat down.

The sound of the gavel echoed in the silence of the courtroom once more, muffling out the sounds of a child crying. “Normally, the defense would now present their own case, but there was none who would dare to do so, so we shall move along, and instead I shall take my turn, and I shall give you all the conclusion to what I’ve come to, what the Office of Justice has come to, and what the very conclusion that the Sharan of Judgement has come to.”

They cleared their throat and soon continued, “To present a case with so much damning evidence is almost unheard of; to even bring it all to court seems nothing more than a waste of everyone's time, for it is apparent that the person that is brought here before my eyes can only be the criminal, the murderer behind the tragic death of a beloved member of our city.”

Their eyes were sharp and full of disgust, like they knew it all—like they themselves had been there that day, like they themselves had witnessed how Kanrel ruthlessly murdered the three men.

“Hartar Agna, there is no one here to defend you; even your family refused to be here. Yet, for the life of me, I cannot understand the mind behind such a fragile frame, which still makes excuses and still accuses others of the crimes that you yourself have committed.”

“Never has a trial become so reported; there are so many that want to see that you are brought to justice and that you are sentenced fairly so that the memory of your victim can be fully respected.”

“So I have found that there is only one way to sentence a criminal such as yourself: a death sentence.”

“But it cannot be so simple; the laws of our city do not accept a death sentence so easily, so the only way it can be achieved is via a death sentence through games, through combat.”

“I will be criticized for this; the whole Office of Justice will be criticized for this ruling that I have had to make; but there will be justice through combat.”

“Twelve sets of fights, each more cruel than the previous; not just duels but melees with many others that have been sentenced to death, and even fighters that would just love to see you dead.”

The gavel struck the table again: “Thus I shall announce the sentence of Hartar Agna: death sentence through combat, twelve sets of fights, which, if you survive, you shall live, but I pray to the Nine Magi that there will be justice, that the body of a murderer will be severed and removed from this city.”

There was an uproar, and the crowds began shouting vociferously. So many were against such a way; they wanted blood, and they wanted it now.

All the while Kanrel sat in stunned silence, his teary eyes kept on the face of the judge who had banged the gavel against the bench, who had then promptly gotten up and left without any further words. In Hartar's eyes, they could see guilt where there was none, yet there was. There had to be. They must have somehow seen past the eyes of Hartar, past the tears that were only as real as the mind inside the body; they must’ve seen the murderer within.

Two pairs of strong hands grabbed him; one placed chains on his hands, and the other forced him to stand up. He felt so heavy, he could not move; he found no strength to fight back; he had no such strength; this body was famished; it was mistreated and beaten; it was broken and tortured.

Who would do such a thing? Who would torture the so-called truth out of someone so frail? This time, at least, Kanrel didn’t have to experience it himself, but in a way, he wished that he had. He wished that the pain that this person had felt was his own, that it was something they never had to go through, that it was all just a dream, all just a vision like this, all barely real.

Couldn’t this all be just that? Just nothing… Just a vision and nothing more—a spark of insanity that had gone too far, that had gone unchecked, and then became this device of torture pointed at him and no one else. If only it were so. If only this were never true or the truth, for reality should never be so brutal, it should never be so unfair, and it should never treat people who were more or less just children like this.

But the world wasn’t so nice, now was it? The world didn’t care if things were fair or unfair. Why would it? Such things hardly affected it in any way. People were either just a mere moment in the grand scheme of things. A passing thought, soon forgotten as the eternal darkness would claim all that was left behind, not even a memory of that which once was.

It was so dark here. The cell in which he now awaited his death.