The Priesthood

They made him a general and the man who would lead the Order of the Dragon. There were no other reasons for such a decision; just that, Kalla was no more, and Ignar was the only “suitable” successor to him.

And within the first few meetings, it was made clear to Ignar that he was unwanted. His deeds were unpopular among the other knights. They didn’t much care if he was the so-called son of God, nor did they care that Ignar was ordered to do what he did. All they saw was what Ignar saw in himself: a murderer, a coward, and a tool.

Most of the knights were people who had spent most of their time as knights, following the direct orders of Kalla. They had more allegiance to him than they had to Kalma. Many of them had done terrible things throughout their lives in the name of Kalma, but all of it was done under the careful administration of Kalla. A man who they could trust; a man who saw them as their equal instead of acting as their tyrannical leader. A man who had earned his seat at the very table where they all gathered and discussed many things.

And now Ignar was forced to take that seat, and he was to give them commands that came directly from Kalma. And among the knights, he found that he had no friends or allies that could give him guidance, for even Erjen looked at him with that same look that everyone else seated at the table had when they looked at him—sheer contempt.

But what was he supposed to do about it? He had no wish to prove them wrong or remove the contempt in their eyes. For him, their contempt was the judgment that he felt like he deserved, not the admiration that was given to him by everyone else who came into contact with him.

But regardless… One has to move on; one has to do the job that they are given; what else is one supposed to do?

And this is how many years went by: Ignar would receive information directly from Kalma’s spies, which he then would present to the other knights, who would then, without the help of Ignar, come up with plans on what to do with the information that was given to them. The rebellion wasn’t over, and those who had believed like Kalla, were plentiful.

Ignar could see it so well in the eyes of the other knights—how they didn’t truly care for the wishes of Kalma or the wishes of Ignar—and how they managed their missions, barely achieving what was wanted of them, but Ignar made no comment about it. Even if they had contempt not only for him but for Kalma as well, he decided that he would not intervene. He didn’t wish to have the blood of Kalla’s friends in his hands as well.

He could feel their scorn, he could feel contempt, he could feel their mistrust, their blame, and more, and not once was he allowed on any of the missions that they went on. All he received was a written report on their findings and the actions that they had to take to fulfill their commands. He then would present these reports to Kalma whenever it was wanted of him.

For years, it was like this: his only company was the prostitute who had become his closest servant. He couldn’t quite trust her; he knew that he would never be able to. In the end, she was just another one of Kalma’s ears, another mouth that would, without hesitation, share the things that the ear had heard.

But either way, he befriended her. She was the one who helped him with his grief when there was no one else to whom he could talk. There was no one else. Life had become a bore. He had no courage to seek absolution from the other knights, but he did not let the transformation happen. There had to be something that he could keep for himself, something that would make him not be the monster that he believed himself to be.

His anguish was for all to see, but none would comment on it. They never asked about it. They never talked about it. And the memories of loss that he has caused to himself bring him to that memory of a cottage, a small house he shared with Kalla in the middle of a forest, one far from others.

But then one day, he received another mission, one not much different from all the others—a simple hunt for the new leaders of the rebellion.

He stood at the table, in his hands, the documents that he had read through many times by now, but he could not present them to the knights that sat on their chairs and idled away, at times throwing annoyed glances at the man who was seemingly wasting their time.

In an awkward silence, Ignar stared ahead, and he knew what he had to do. His eyes sought Erjen, who stared at him. On her face, there was a curious expression, since in the past few years Ignar had always done as they had expected him to do.

Their eyes met, and an empty smile came to Ignar’s lips. “This mission is different from all the others.” He announced, breaking the silence and finally forcing everyone's attention on him.

“Get on with it.” Someone sneered.

Ignar’s eyes flared, and the person who had spoken flew from the chair toward the wall that was behind them. It caused a great sound of wood breaking and the scream of a man who had never expected that such an attack could ever come, and so quickly at that.

A new silence was born, just that this one had the anticipation of violence in it.

“I will accompany you on this mission, and if I am refused, then I will subjugate you.” He stated, as if it were a fact, as if he could do so easily, as if it wouldn’t be even a challenge.

The silence was broken with laughter, and a very familiar voice soon asked, “Do you truly think that a boy like you could defeat even a singular person here?” The voice was soft, but there remained an underlying threat in his tone.

Ignar met the eyes of Urgur, and a bewildered look came to his face. “And do you truly think that people like you can defeat the man who killed Kalla?” Each word had weight to it; it demanded a reaction.

And one he got: multiple knights arose from the chairs, with anger clearly flaring in their demeanor and magic suddenly filling the air. There was enough magic to kill everyone in this room and perhaps everyone in this castle.

But Ignar’s smile widened, and he showcased his abilities. He overwhelmed the insignificant amount of magic that they showcased; he veiled their magic with his own, magic that covered everything in a mile-wide area. His eyes sparkled as he looked directly into Urgur’s eyes.

“I have nothing to lose.” He said.

If one studied the expressions and demeanor of all the other people in the room, one could easily see fear. This wasn’t something that they had expected. Not the way their so-called leader had behaved, and never the amount of magic he so easily was able to showcase. Their discomfort was visible.

Urgur scoffed. “Fine, but do not expect to receive any help from us.” He said, and after his words, the situation calmed down. The people who had gotten up and prepared their magic sat down, and Ignar dismissed the magic that he had been more than ready to release.

He cleared his throat and began, “This next mission will take us far from the capital, to the northernmost parts of the continent, into a forest, which I know far too well.” He let his gaze wander through the eyes of the knights until he again met Erjen’s gaze.

“You’re all familiar with the fact that Kalla spent nearly a hundred years in a cottage in the middle of nowhere; that cottage was our home. Through our intelligence, we’ve learned that much of the movement of the rebels comes from around there. Which indicates that somewhere in that forest there is either a command center or an otherwise important location for the rebels.” Not once did Ignar avert his eyes from Erjen’s.

“That is where we are going next, and out of anyone in this room, I have the most knowledge about that forest and its surroundings.” He placed the documents on the table and said, “Now, begin planning whatever you wish; in that regard, nothing changes; you just must account for me in those plans of yours.”

There was a moment of silence after his words, but soon the knights began planning as they usually would.

There had been an important conversation that Ignar had with Kalla some years ago, perhaps during his late teens—one that he remembered vividly, for it was how he liked to remember him.

They discussed the nature of good and evil, the very question of what is evil and what is good, and what these words mean. As such they had agreed to disagree to a certain point; Ignar’s own rationale had been that good or goodness comes from the actions that bring forth happiness, joy, and so on—emotions that are by nature positive. And that evil is pain, and to be precise, pain that is formed without the consent of the other and pain that is meaningless; pain that is produced not for the sake of the other but for the sake of the self. So an action is committed in search of something that brings the evildoer some sort of selfish gain.

But there was a conversation that followed it—a conversation about life and death:

“Father, why is it that some men want to die?” He had asked after reading a story of a man who had killed himself after the end of a war that this man had not been on the losing side, but instead, he had been considered a hero and a great warrior, one talented in destructive magic.

Kalla lifted his gaze from within the words of the book and studied Ignar’s face, and he then said, “No one necessarily wants to die; they just sometimes choose to do so.”

“You see, no one likes pain, no one wants to suffer, nor does one want to live without reason or without meaning.”

“Boy, one day, when you have the chance to speak to someone who is chronically ill, only then can you truly see for yourself what something like this looks like.”

“This person might say that they want to die, that life has nothing else to give them except pain and more suffering, so death would do as an antidote for this suffering, the disease that they might have.”

“But if you were to offer him something that would take the pain away—something else than death—he would take it in almost a heartbeat; he’d at least try it even if there was a risk of finding out that such a magical antidote does not exist. Most people still want to live; most want to believe that they can still live.”

“But life is suffering. This is what we’ve mostly concluded through our many conversations."

“So what then is the antidote for life itself? What is the antidote for the inherent suffering that is caused by life, the yearning for life, the thirst for life, and the many ails, evils, horrors, and other meaningless things that one has to live through and suffer through?”

“I wonder.” Kalla smiled—a simple smile with a hint of sadness in it. His eyes seemed to wander somewhere far, but soon they found reality again as their saddened smile dispersed and a grin found its way in and replaced it. “And then I wonder of another question: If life is pain, and we have concluded that unnecessary pain is evil, is life then evil?”

Kalla had said such a thing in jest, yet Ignar could not help but wonder if there was some truth to his jest. For life to not be so... evil, one perhaps had to find meaning within that pain. Perhaps one has to conclude that life is meaningful and that all the pains that one has to go through have meaning, instead of just being there as they are, as just something that happens to one or the other based solely on some perverted form of luck.

We all suffer, some less than others, but still, we suffer. Even Kalma has suffered, and for his suffering, one almost wants to say that their suffering was what made them become who they are now, but also that the suffering that they went through is now something that they deserved.

And the same could be said for Ignar. He, too, would live a long life. He too would one day wonder if the suffering that he has had to live through has any meaning to it, if he too would have to see an antidote to life, to pain, and to suffering. But for such thoughts, he felt that he had no right to them. He now had to believe that he deserved the things that had happened to him and the suffering that was the byproduct of the things and the suffering that he had brought to others.

For now, he would condemn himself as he was. For now, he believed that he did not deserve any form of salvation. Torture was all that he deserved; let it rip through his mind; let it count every error and wrong committed; let it then observe them and then judge them; let his mind be flayed for the crimes that he had committed.

But at least, one has memories. Though they bring forth pain, they make one question more about the things that have been done. But memories are all we will have at the end of life.

What does it mean to have lived, perhaps a long time, surely partaking in many possibilities and choices in one’s life, perhaps even creating life anew, becoming a parent, and remaining not only a child but also someone deeply responsible for a child?

All the people that you must’ve met, loved, hated, forgotten, and all of those that still remain after you, that still remember you, as you were, or as a version of you that once was...

What are the implications of life and the effects it has on others? How about the end of life? How about death?

What does it mean to have lived a life until a timely or untimely death? One that is more so a tale of people that you have met since the memories that remain after are the ones that are owned by others and not by yourself. Everything that you remember—every thought and ideation, every grief and worry, every joy and smile that you might have ever had—is something that dies with you, at least the subjective version that you once carried with you at all times.

What remains are the memories of others. How they remember you. How they remember your smile, your words, and your presence. That is all that remains afterward.

Grief for those memories now forever forgotten, and some of them rekindled in the minds of those who might’ve been a part of your experience among their own experience.

How lovely is that? How a life can keep on living even after death.

Kalla was dead, and he had killed him. Kalla was dead, and the murderer would fondly remember his victim.