The Priesthood

It all began with a fall. One thinks that, and as one wonders about this reality, you can’t help but ask a simple question: If there is a fall, then when or where is the rise? Or had his years in youth been that great mountain which he had climbed—that peak of his own existence and experience in life—and that which now came after was part of that which he called the fall—this descent with no end.

Could there ever be a rise? Could he ever climb that mountain again? Or would he, on the summit of that great mountain, feel that even this was not enough; that even this has left him with this taste of ash in his mouth? How it fills him from within—this gray, fine substance that he is forced to eat, to breathe, to live, to love.

Pain. As he is crushed against it. As if falling from his bed, but that bed just happened to be tens of meters above the floor from which he now found himself. His body was aching all over, and as he tried to cry and scream, there was no sound. There was no air for him to do so.

In the coffin, he had felt like this; on the bed before his torturers, he had also felt like this. Not the pain, but the inability to move. He couldn’t move. All he had now was pain. But this pain was real, and with it was this weakness that he had not felt while still within the body of Hartar. And he couldn’t see a thing. All there was here was the darkness and the cold, stone floor beneath him.

But at least, sadly, he was alive. Be it tragic or not, he was alive. Be it painful or not, he was alive. Whether he was crippled or not, he was alive. And one begs to ask again the same question: After the fall, after you’ve reached the bottom, when does one rise, if ever?

So far, he wondered, had he shown the Voice that he, a human, was in fact like a roach? Someone capable of surviving things one ought not to survive. And, perhaps, this pain wasn’t so bad, as he was still able to produce thoughts, to remember, to ponder, and to look back on all that had happened.

What, now, did he have? He was no longer stuck in that city; he was no longer under the regime of Kalma; he was no longer fighting in that arena, biding for the moment and the pain in which he would pass in the end.

He had his body back. Or so he thought, so it must be, for why would the Angels lie to him about such things? They might lie about everything else, but this one seemed so useless to lie about. But even so, he might lose all; his body might perish in this darkness.

Kanrel was so tired. His body was so weak. His mind, even though active now, was hurt and numb; soon it would become dull and empty. Soon he would enter another form of darkness, a land of restless dreams and nightmares. He could already feel the cold sweat forming around his body.

He closed his eyes, or maybe they already were closed; he couldn't quite tell, and he didn’t quite care either.

Weak, so weak is this body that carries my mind. I feel my head pressing against me on the ground and my body giving way; my cheeks now on a smooth surface, my eyes towards the distance.

There is a white void somewhere in front of me, but it is all upside down. Full of nonexistent forms and forgotten memories, surely I can't know what you are or who you are.

I guess you are the silence that is intoxicating and deafening to us all. Maybe you are the sun, and with your white light, you extinguish our eyes, bringing an unfathomable darkness in the middle of all that light and warmth.

It would still be cold, and in this blindness, I would have to live until my heart fails, until your love fades away.

If someone would get lost near me and help me up, lift me off this smooth surface, and let me see the world I'm already used to, I could once again see and experience the life that is to be free from this weakness, but only if someone would carry me from day to night and to the next morning.

In your arms, I am not free. I can only blindly stare at you and silently witness what is eternal. Something born of nightmares has broken into my sleep; she stares back at me, waiting for who knows what.

You sit as if by my side, you demon of dreams. You don't move, and you don't really do anything special. Still, your weight crushes me; still, as I try to scream, I pray for mercy only from you. Could you not let me out of this hell, this constant pain and suffering?

Finally, against my will, you offer me your arms. In the end, I am only part of you, a memory for my loved ones. At last, I am blind and lie against the smoothness of the earth. Finally, it's cold, and my chest doesn't even rise anymore.

A sound echoed in the darkness. A harsh scrape, something against the rock of the ground, or the walls of the cave. Cold sweat, heavy breaths. Only he was stuck on this floor and unable to move. Silence ensued. More sounds, movement ahead, somewhere in that darkness, something that could move, something that could breathe, something that was not as lost as he was.

He tried not to breathe; perhaps they could hear. He swallowed, but even that felt too loud, and he felt that anyone could hear it—so loud it was to his own ears.

Then a fickle of blue cast its light upon the walls of the cave, reaching his vision from somewhere past this darkness. It became greater with each step that he could hear; the light, with its blueish hue, gave him vision after such blindness. First, he could see the walls, yet he remained silent, yet he still tried to hide his breathing.

Then it lit the floor before him—the skulls and bones that lie there, forgotten and dusty. His heartbeat quickened, and he couldn’t help but breathe in sharply. And in that moment, the movement stopped. The light didn’t come any closer. The steps that echoed through the cave came to a halt. And silence returned. As preset as ever, always there, always waiting for its moment.

Kanrel shifted his gaze from the bones and the skulls that lay abandoned; now he solely focused on the direction from which the light came. Perhaps hoping that whoever carried such light would come to his rescue or that he be left alone, lest that someone wants his death.

If only he could scream and beg for whoever they were to come to him, then he wouldn’t have to suffer with this anticipation and these two fears that he had. The fear of death and the fear of life—no, the fear of suffering.

Would he be passed by that potential savior? Would he even deserve to be saved? For all his crimes and wrongs, would someone like him deserve such salvation? Thus he waited and hoped for two things—two opposite things at the same time—wondering which he wanted more: Death or life?

By all means, he wasn’t nearly as smart or wise as he had once thought himself to be. At least for that, he now had some sort of concrete evidence. If he were as smart or wise as he thought himself to be, he would’ve never found himself in this situation. He would’ve never entered that dark mirror. He would’ve never entered the ruins alone, nor the forest, at that. He, too, was just another fool. And to excuse himself from that foolishness, like any other human, he could argue that he was just that: a human, and nothing more.

If such were his final thoughts, a confession of sorts, could he then be redeemed? Would his transgressions against the gods and their superiority be forgiven? If only he could scoff so as to mock himself. A fool indeed—a great word to describe exactly what he was and what he had always been. To believe in something or someone you don’t know the nature of—is there nothing more foolish?

The light approached once more; the steps could be heard, but they had grown cautious. Whoever might be his savior wasn’t so keen on finding out if there was death for them in the cave they were about to enter.

The light approached; its blue blinded him, and then he could see it or them. A frail creature. Its body was tall and lean, much taller than what Kanrel was, but not that much taller than the tallest of men that he had seen in his life; yet this one seemed malnourished, this gray-skinned humanoid creature with long fingers and large, bright eyes.

And in that moment, he began forming codes. After all, he was a priest, was he not? For so long, he had been someone else. Even if he were able to use magic then, it would feel different than now. This was real. Or so he believed, for what else was this?

Did he really want to die here? Did he want to survive? Still, both remained unsure questions to which he had no answer—he would only know after the fact.

It looked at him, observing the malnourished priest that lay on the cave floor; its expression was perhaps curious as it squatted not too far away from him. Then it spoke a deep, almost melodic line of words, or sounds, that Kanrel couldn’t understand.

Perhaps it was a question, maybe a simple greeting, but Kanrel had no idea. He couldn’t even begin to guess what it tried to say to him.

But as Kanrel gave no answer and remained motionless, only blinking his eyes at times, the gray creature stood up and approached him with steady, careful steps. It kept looking at Kanrel’s eyes, and so they stopped as they saw the panic in his eyes—the fear.

It smacked its mouth and then crouched closer to Kanrel, close enough that it could touch him, and that is what it did. It extended its long arm toward him, its fingers long yet careful.

He felt it on his face—a warm touch, a coarse texture that met his beard, one that had grown long and unruly. And then it opened his mouth, and from behind its back it brought out what looked like a flask; it removed the cap from it, brought it to Kanrel’s lips, and began to pour it in.

A sudden, bitter taste overwhelmed his mouth; it wasn’t something that he could ever enjoy; it wasn’t a taste he had ever had before; it burned as it went down; he wanted to spit it out, but he wasn’t able to; he could only feel it as the liquid poured down his throat, entering his system. Then came the ever-familiar aftertaste of ash.

He drank until there was no more liquid to be drunk. The flask left his lips, and the creature gently closed his open mouth. Again, saying something like, “Mu’u reu’n riu’n,” something that definitely sounded like a question, yet Kanrel could never be able to tell if it was or was not.

“What?” He whispered such a simple word, parting his lips. He could speak, but his voice was that of a man who had slept for a week while sick; he could barely understand his own words, and it was certain that the creature could not understand him, even if Kanrel’s voice was as clear as a child's laugh.

The creature took a step back and replied, “Mu’u?” This time, it was clear to even Kanrel that the creature had asked a question, so he cleared his throat and began his first true attempt at communication, but before he could do anything else at all, his stomach growled, and its sound echoed in the cave.

After the echo, a silence came, during which they just stared at each other. Two bemused, unknown to each other creatures just stared at each other until the other broke it with a rather annoyed-sounding smack of their lips.

The creature went for the small bag that they carried on their waist and brought out a small container made out of an unknown substance. It wasn’t wooden, but that much was clear; the lid was removed, and from under it a potent stench was released and something that looked like goo.

The creature, again, crouched before him, this time getting ready to force-feed Kanrel something he had never in his life seen before, so he did all that he could in protest, “Can we not do that?” He begged, trying to portray as much disapproval as he could in his shakey tone.

This made the creature stop for a moment, and it hesitated while holding the strange container with its stinky goo right before Kanrel's mouth. Then, another loud growl of Kanrel’s stomach was let out, causing yet another echo to fill the cave.

This was followed by another smack of lips as the creature scooped half of the goo into Kanrel’s mouth, for which he didn’t even have time to prepare, and as the goo hit his tongue, he was expecting an instant visceral reaction to take over him. But it really wasn’t so bad. He didn’t vomit, nor did he feel nauseous. The texture surely wasn’t nice, but in the end, it just tasted like ash.

Had he really forgotten who he was? Somehow, he felt disappointed. Now he almost wished that there had been that visceral reaction. Because this thing, this goo, was something that he might’ve enjoyed before he became what he now was.

For a moment, he let the goo rest in his mouth. He tried to find that visceral reaction, but there was none to be found, so he just swallowed it whole. All the while, the creature closely observed Kanrel’s reaction with an expression that was a mix of curiosity and confusion.

Satisfied with Kanrel’s reaction, the creature got up, took its things, and said, “N’iu k’eu’m m’ou’k,” and just left the crippled man behind, not looking back as they soon left the cave that was littered with skulls and bones.

“Wait! Come back!” Kanrel yelled after it, but all he could now hear were the swift steps, and he could see as the light had now begun to dwindle. But before that light would be gone forever, Kanrel quickly created a small fire on the cave wall, a new source of light, so that he might at least see what was around him.

With the help of this new light, he had gained back his vision on his own terms and began creating more little fires to light the cave and give him sight of his surroundings—the bones and the cave walls that surrounded him, the stones that lay on the ground. But even then, he could only see a portion of the cave in which he lay, as everything else that there might be was behind him.

But this situation wasn’t something that he would be unable to survive; that much was clear. For as long as he had light, he would have vision, and as long as he could see, he could use the thing that was often, with great irony, called the “gift.”

He scoffed. For the first time since he had gained that gift, it might be worthy of its title.