The Priesthood

There was something so familiar about all of this. The angle from which they would enter the forest was something that he had seen so many times before. Not just forest, but this specific field, on which a memory now lay.

There was no proof of anything ever happening here; the memory was only his. He remembered... bodies, the field, the birds, the smell, and the... door? Why was there a door? It wasn’t here, not as a physical manifestation, but for some reason he remembered one.

Why would there ever be a door in the middle of a field? One overlooking a forest, and before that forest was a scene of brutal murder, a killing of innocence—not only his but the removal of so many lives, none of whom he remembered.

He had always wondered: Why had they died? And how they had died... He knew that they must’ve died through magic, for there was no other way in which such a scene could be possible in his mind. It had to be a group of people or just someone who was powerful enough to best perhaps a hundred other people and then lay waste to their corpses.

Who had done such a thing? Who would ever do such a thing? But, for some reason, it felt like he could’ve done something like that—not then, but now. If Kalma were to command him to do something like that, he would do it. He didn’t think that he could resist his wishes or go against them in any way.

He was a coward. But everyone is one. Everyone fears standing before a god.

But Ignar knew, somehow, that Kalla knew about what had happened on that field. He somehow knew, just by looking at Ignar on that day—that look in his eyes, that knowledge, and the pity that came after. Was it Kalla who had done something like that? Was it done following the commands of Kalma? Or was it just a random act of murder, a massacre with only one survivor?

But does one really survive something like that? Can a child remain pure even after witnessing something so horrible, something so traumatic? Ignar wondered such a thought, for perhaps, since that very moment, he had gone wrong; from that very moment, he too carried the thought of death with him.

The plan is simple: enter the forest and search through it. They would enter as a line of people, all of the knights, and then they would systematically walk through it; they would shift through it and find anyone or anything that might prove that the rebels use this forest as their base of operation. Or just a sign that this forest has some significance other than the fact that somewhere within still stood a cottage Kalla had called his home.

It was all really foolish. Everything about this. The conclusion of Kalla’s life. Why would he ever do something like this? Why would he ever try to resist his own father, the creature that was greater in power than anyone else on this earth?

Why do men find such a dream? A dream against tyranny; a dream where there might be a form of freedom. A dream where the Sharan would no longer be slaves. One where their lives would become more than just another fleeting moment before a creature far above their stature. Where gods would remain in the stars and not claim to walk among us.

If there were no rebellion, then there would be peace. Don’t we all want peace? Don’t we all want a world where people don’t die uselessly? But again… What is peace without justice? For there to be peace, war must exist. For there to be justice, injustice must exist. For there to be life, death must exist. There is nothing that can be without the other.

Sure, what people want is peace; they want the war to end, but above all else, people want justice.

They want the peace to be just.

They go to war to demand justice.

This is perhaps what Kalla wanted above all else. But can such a dream become a reality? When the resistance seems so futile, when the lives lost become greater, and when each moment proves that they never had a chance.

So they entered the forest as a great line of knights. Perhaps in their hearts, they knew that before night would fall, there’d be peace, but there’d be no justice.

How long had it been since that day, during which he crawled on the forest floor to find a place—a suitable bed of moss—where he could give up and die?

He wasn’t that weak child anymore. He wasn’t starved, and his mind was more or less sound. He had grown stronger and more powerful than even Kalla. But none of that seemed to matter. Here, he would always be that child, or he would long to be that child. A child, even with the memories of nightmares that he had, had the ability to dream of adventure and of something greater, which would be past the trees and the fields. A child who had not grown cynical quite yet.

On his right and on his left, tens of meters apart, he could see Erjen and Urgur; each of their steps was careful and taken with great intent; their eyes were sharp, and they were ready to react to anything that might be thrown their way. The very air around them had become more concentrated as the presence of powerful magic surrounded them, perhaps as protection, perhaps as a weapon, or perhaps as a reminder to Ignar that he would not kill them so easily, even if he were far more powerful than the both of them combined.

In the forest, there was a clearing, one with many stumps sprinkled between young birch trees, covering that which was once a place where Ignar had spent many hours of his many days just chopping wood, and during breaks, he would lay on the grass floor, his back against one of those stumps, as he looked at the skies and wondered what there might be past the trees and who he might be years from now.

During such moments, he would also face the doubts he had about himself. The uncertainty of the self and the experience that he had. Questions like: Am I really who I think I am? Are these feelings and these emotions mine, or do they belong to someone else?

It had always been so, or for as long as he could remember; he had always doubted himself, or the so-called self that he has. These thoughts—are they his? Would he have taken those same actions if he were in a different body? Or if he had a mind that felt more right…

He furrowed his brows as they walked past the clearing. He didn’t need to look at his sides, for he could trust that if there was something, then others would let him know. So he stared only ahead, in great anticipation, as with each step and with each moment that went by, they would come closer and closer to a place he had once called home.

First the field, then the forest with its moss floor, then the clearing with the birch stumps, and now... an overgrown path he walked upon. It wasn’t a thin line—not one where he struggled to keep himself intact as a man with the morals that he believed in.

This path was much different. Perhaps it was like redemption. As if the day when he had left was the beginning of an adventure that had taken years off of his life, and now, this path and the arrival on it. It meant something new; it was a redemption in the form of a return.

An ending to a journey of sorts. An ending to his adventure.

You yearn for it. You always want to return to it. You always wish that you could be as you once were. Before one becomes so sentient. Before one sees that the world around oneself is not so pleasant.

He believed that we all remember our childhoods. All our fears, all our anxieties, all our pleasures, all the things that make us—they come from there, from years ago, from those years spent in a form of innocence. They all came from that period of time we call childhood.

And we look back at it, even if we think that we don’t, and we miss it so dearly. Even though he had such a dark beginning to his childhood, even when he was unable to remember all of it, he still wanted to return here. To that time and place. To submerge in a stream of memories, in happy moments shared with loved ones.

A child should never be forced to kill his own father.

How can one live like this? When had he truly lived? When had he felt alive? When would he feel like someone who had worth—like someone whose life was worth something? When will there be forgiveness for actions that cannot be forgiven?

A door. This door was one he remembered. More clearly than the image of a door on a field. This door was stuck to something—a wall—and together they created the facade of the cottage.

It looked the same. Every detail remained pristine. It was like he had just left and arrived, but a day later. He had come to a halt, and he stared straight ahead, not daring to take another step forward. He did not dare break this image, this vision, this illusion—oh, it had to be an illusion.

What if… What if inside there was Kalla? What if he were sitting down on his chair, reading another book of his, and when Ignar walked inside, Kalla would call for him, and he’d ask him another seemingly random question to which Ignar would have to figure out an answer in a way that was clumsy, like a boy searching for an answer, thinking out loud, and trying to figure out the truth that he could find within?

Then they would eat. Stew, pea soup, something. They would converse until it was late, and then Kalla would tug him into bed. And he’d sit back in his chair and continue reading. Because he knew that his child was afraid of the dark—not because there would be something there, but because it would be so lonely—and not because Ignar had ever told him of his fear, but because he was his father. And that is what a father does for his child.

He couldn’t take another step. He didn’t want to break this illusion formed from memories. He didn’t want to face the possibility of it not being real, so he averted his eyes from the door, from the wall, from the cottage, and from the illusion that veiled his mind with regret.

And when he broke his cycle of thoughts, he only then realized that the others were staring at him. They had gathered around him. They weren’t the rebels, but they were his own men. He could feel the air; it was so dense. It was violent, this gathering of magical energies, and the hostility in which it was wielded.

Even then, even in this dire situation, this realization of what their plans were for him—the illusion that he wanted to hold so dearly—remained. It would not subdue.

So he let out a long sigh and turned around to face the other knights of the Order of the Dragon.

“It would seem that you’ve purposefully left out this part of your plan.” He said, his voice hoarse from tears that he wanted to shed but could not. Perhaps his thoughts and his emotions were more visible than ever before, for as he met eyes with Urgur, he could sense hesitation, and on the face of this jokester, there was a crack, something that allowed one to see past the mask they wore so carefully.

“Ignar Orcun, we’ve lured you here, to this time and place, with only one purpose in mind.” Urgur soon spoke; his voice was even, and the mask on his face became whole again—a wall without a window.

“There must be justice, and there must be retribution for the crime that you have committed,” Urgur announced, and again, Ignar could feel how they braced themselves; they were all ready to dispose of him if he made any sudden moves or if he even tried to gather magic for his disposal.

Ignar smiled, turned away from those who had betrayed him, and stared again at the cottage. Here, he could not do anything. Here, he could harm the things that were around him, lest the memory die with the cottage and its surroundings.

“I yield.” He whispered, and from his hip, he pulled his saber and let it fall to the ground.

Perhaps they were surprised by this, or perhaps they all knew that this would happen. He soon felt a hand on his shoulder, and he could hear Erjen whisper to him, “This is for the best.” There was no hate in her voice, no scorn in her actions. In this moment, she was like she had always been toward him.

“Yes.” He muttered, and he let them escort him further, toward the cottage, to the door where Urgur announced to him, “You are to be judged by our oracle, by the soul of our revolution.”

And so the doors were opened, and he was pushed in with only Urgur and Erjen following behind; the doors closed, and a familiar room opened before him, but this one was different. There were six others; they all wore masks of some sort; they hid their faces behind grotesque masks, the likes of which he had never seen before, but they clearly depicted Sharans.

But then, there was a woman. She sat on the chair where Kalla was supposed to sit. She sat on the chair, where the illusion of a loved one was supposed to be. She sat where his father ought to sit. Where he would read, and from where he would ask his questions.

The woman had her face covered as well, and so was the rest of her body; one could not even see their eyes or their lips past the veil that covered it all.

But one could imagine a smile on that face beyond the veil; one could imagine that the woman who had the audacity to sit on his late father’s chair was someone who knew it all. She was someone who held all the answers to every confusing question that Ignar had. He could just feel it.

“Kanrel,” they said, their voice flat, for there resides no emotion in her words, yet there was so much emotion found behind that simple word... That name…

“You have had to travel further than most for the answers that you sought. So I ask you now: Do you understand?” She asked, and her question almost lacked all meaning to him, but somehow, that name brought not only emotion but also a flood with it. A flood of memories.