Fragmented Palace

[Ataraxia]

A pale messenger bird was liberated from the eastern window of the clinic in the dockyards, its wings carrying it above the ghost city of Sarshel in the night to set its course northwards. The small case that was attached to its leg carried a letter, sent so quickly that the ink did not have time to perfectly dry but its weakened handwriting remained clear enough to read.

Brother Athas,

It’s been some time since my last message. If you were left in the dark because of me, I apologize, but I did not know what words to share. At the time I am writing this, the kingdom is victorious. Victorious, but rattled. When the forces of the enemy rose in the north, countless civilians were evacuated to the south, leaving the defense of Sarshel in the hands of those who were ready to fight for it. The daemon prince returned to the city and was invited within the walls for one last battle. One last battle where the living claimed their own salvation by force. Even if the muddy streets of the city lay silently empty, Sarshel still stands thanks to the sacrifices that were made. Some do not see it yet, but they will come to understand that all things are temporary. And as any garden, all the kingdom now needs is sunlight, care, and time.

The pigeon that will have delivered you this letter was wounded when it came to me, but I looked after it as best I could. In its mind, I saw it ride the wind above the barrowlands until it was struck by what felt like a projectile of lightning. Do you have an idea of how that may have happened?

The shawl you gave me is no longer in my possession. I am not skilled with words and expression, and I do not know how to explain what happened to me, but it left me weakened – ancient – like I’ve outlived myself. A strange feeling. The daemonic realm was not made for men, but I defended the soul that I laid bare, along with that of another. I gave the shawl to an angel who had lost its way. In the parallel fires, I learned that it was not human malevolence or the Gods that failed Impiltur on the 7th of Mirtul, but a man’s moment of weakness.

Winter came and is now finally passing. It was a supernatural creature that veiled Impiltur in a shroud of ice, but the cycle resumes. I hope the Tower has been keeping well, and that this letter finds you well. There is more I’d like to say, but my hands grow too cold for the quill.

-Erlas

[Kilaana]

Nearly twenty days pass before a messenger pigeon finds its way back to Sarshel. It lands on the same windowsill from whence the previous one was sent, and when Anton reaches to take it inside, it croons a short melody in recognition of the one who cared for it.

Brother Erlas,

It is good to hear from you, and the news you bring has eased many a heart here at the Tower.

I had faith that it was not in err to have sent you back on the road from which you came. In return, I owe you an apology for what you must have perceived in those uncertain hours as a trial by fire, but I have only this to say to you: Many who arrived at our doorstep were lost, but rare is the one who comes to us who already knows the way. It is not because you lacked, that the Tower took you in, but because you had everything to give, and nothing to lose.

We have suffered many casualties since your departure, for the fires in the north you speak of had found their way here before trouble erupted in the south. Our brothers and sisters met with a contingent of Warswords in the northern badlands soon after your departure, to seek the place where a red rose blossomed in the sky. Only one made it back, but he did not live long before the Tower was under siege by abominations. I will not speak more of it here, but of the lightning you saw, it was most likely a result of the unnatural climate that plagues these lands. I do not refer to the winter of the south, but of an entirely different matter. There is perpetual lightning in the heights where no man can reach, but it is a fortunate day when there is rain, and when it does come, the land turns into sea. It is the reason why there were no Warwands sent to accompany our fight, for their talents would have been useless here. It is also why the Gardens are constructed the way they are, for this way they will be irrigated when the rains do come, and bear the worst of the floods when it rises past our ankles.

The loss of a shawl does not concern me, but that you spoke of another realm is most interesting, and that of the feeling it left you with I must admit, baffling. I have never seen an angel in my time here, but I trust that your compassion guided this soul on the right path, however difficult the journey must have been. Tell me, Erlas, will it accompany you if you return to us? Forgive my questions if they stir bittersweet memories, but perhaps in time you may find the clarity to share the truths you have seen so that others may learn from you.

Brother Yenig sends his regards, and asks of when you will take your place again here at mealtime, now that there are only fifteen heads at the table when once there were thirty.

~ Athas

[Ataraxia]

The pigeon did not get to stay long in Sarshel, as a new letter was soon rolled up and inserted into the cartridge hanging from the bird's leg. The page was blemished by dry tear stains here and there yet its message was intact.

Brother Athas,

I am sorry that so many have died, but I am glad the Tower still stands after everything that has happened. I admit that I was concerned for all of you when I heard of an explosion in the barrowlands. You do not owe me an apology, but it makes me wonder why I carry on making leaps of faith. Maybe I have been holding onto the idea that good things happen to those who are patient amidst uncertainty. Trials by fire are what I know best even if their purpose is unclear, and as much as I wish I could stop burning from within, I feel that I am beginning to understand that they are where I belong. The edge of a precipice is where I have always been, and perhaps it is where I will always be.

Life seems to be a sequence of revelations, each one more tangible and truer than the last. It is not the revelations themselves that shine a light on our world, but the flight from one to the other. As long as our personal paradigm shifts now and then, we will continue to head in the right direction.

When the twisted tree in which the angel was trapped cracked open to reveal its wings, something struck me: we are already the people that we wish to become. We only have to see it. I do not know what has happened to the angel after my hasty escape during which it was, I think, wounded. I have been thinking about the place I visited, and the possibility that other souls are still imprisoned and tormented somewhere out of my reach. Just as suffering and despair have the power to corrupt, endurance and compassion have the power to purify. The damned have sins that I wish to eat, shackles that I would see unmade.

When you sent me away so soon after I had arrived, I felt that I had been given a taste of what I craved only to have it be ripped away. For the months that followed my return to Sarshel, I felt useless, wishing that I was at the Tower again. I do not regret your decision now. I have learned that it is easier to find clarity amidst confusion if one returns to helping others in the most simple ways, without worry about the past or future. When one dwells on the grand scheme of things, they risk forgetting who and what they fight for.

I am pleased to hear Brother Yenig still draws breath, but I do not know when I will return. The Triadic Temple has yet to be restored, and it seems like I may be able to aid in the ritual. If I survive that ordeal and walk the thousand miles to the Tower again, what would you like me to bring along?

-Erlas

[Ataraxia]

Even if preachers projected their voice to bring the masses together around this goal or that dream and beacons were erected to shine their light on the lost and guide them to the nearest haven, there would always be those that slipped through the cracks in the floorboards, through the fingers of the helping hand; those who were often deemed too far gone to be helped or the ones who had sunk so deeply into the city’s desolate background that they were invisible to all others. There were still deep stains of a wallflower on Anton’s skin and no matter what he did to scrub them clean they would always remain to remind him of what it meant to be one of them.

The broken one was still the same man even if he now stood one or two steps ahead of the past, but since he no longer possessed the shawl that was recognizable from a mile away - the faded mask that aided him in the quest to draw out his inner self - he came to the realization that it was time to embrace the symbol of his order. It was not in an act of devotion or spiritual pride, but out of justice for himself and compassion for others that he fashioned the sturdy red cords around his forearms that he would, in time, learn to define.

Darkness was the blanket underneath which marginal personalities sought concealment and solitude from the rhythms and noise of sunlight and societal life, and so it was in the dead of night that Anton wandered in the crooked alleys and the darkest corners of the city to find those who were forgotten, and watch over them from a distance without intruding on their lives whether they were cynical street-raised children, disillusioned whores, maddened beggars or traumatized guardsmen. He offered them the confidence of his watchful presence and the strength of his fists if they were needed. He shared what little food he had on him and gave his company to those who stood alone - a squeeze of the shoulder - whatever wisdom he could spare to help them through the night and hopefully the day after that. He spoke to them as a simple man who made an effort to be in the right place and at the right time for them. He had no interest in telling others what to do or what to think, which gods to reject or hold dear, and he firmly believed that individuals had only as much strength as they dared accept and cultivate. A strong collectivity had to be built on the backs of strong individuals, and one by one, Anton would draw them out of the shade and back in the light where they deserved to belong.

As a stern but fair father watching over his children, he knew the ones he wanted to help needed to make their own mistakes in order to have something to learn from, and he would wait for them until they were ready to open themselves to outside assistance. It could take days, tendays, moons of regular efforts to earn their trust but as long as he stayed true to his infallible loyalty, he would express little trouble in casting aside his doubts.

[Kilaana]

Sunset hangs low over the city of Sarshel when the messenger pigeon found its way back to the man who had once taken it under his care. This time, a small brown cord with a small, crude brass bell hung around the bird's neck, heralding its arrival with a soft chime. It brushed its head against the calloused palm of Anton's hand in recognition as it presented its message to him.

Brother Erlas,

A long time ago I was told of the story of a man who was determined to defy the gods by capturing Death in chains so that no mortal ever needed to die. When Death was eventually freed and it was time for the man to die, the latter planned a deceit to allow himself to escape from the underworld. But he was finally found, and the gods decided to punish the man by condemning him to push a rock up a mountain for all eternity. Upon reaching the top, the rock would only roll back down, and the man had to start all over again. Perhaps you too, like this man, have found that your leaps of faith are simply meaningless tasks with no horizon to mark their end, but remember the example of Ilmater - who is Endurance Above All. When we have accepted our fate, like the man and the rock, we can accept our situation with a content and the certainty that our fate is what we make of it.

In several scriptures left behind by those who have gone before us, some have spoken of sightings of the divine - a dove that crossed one's path in flight, a host of sparrows in the sky; some texts do speak of a brilliant white light, and of miraculous healing and pain relieved from a mere touch - I cannot but wonder if in that dismal place, you had been in fact a witness to His favor?

In your letter you spoke of other souls that might be trapped in the eternal torment you faced, and of how you desired to liberate them. Would it have been another, perhaps of a different path, I would have easily cautioned them of the dangers or dismissed them as madmen who do not know what it is they ask for. Yet to you, Erlas - with such a limited understanding of the truth your eyes have seen, to you I would beseech the same: To tread on the path most unholy, is madness. To what end? How many souls do you think to free, before your life is spent?

Know that I ask of you these questions not to turn you away, but to prepare you for the deeds that made martyrs of men.

When you have found the answers to those questions, perhaps you would like to bring them home to the Tower, and we will turn words into tools that are mightier than the sword.

~ Athas

Credits: 'The Myth of Sisyphus', by Albert Camus, for the first portion of this letter.

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[Ataraxia]

The pigeon’s arrival was greeted with a gentle hug as well as water, worms, and grains to reward it for its good work. Anton hosted it in a guest nest built out of a hand-crafted basket so it could wait comfortably by an open window while he read and pondered over the letter he had received. It was two days later that the pigeon was sent back with a reply.

Brother Athas,

I’d never heard that tale but I think I understand the inevitability of acceptance. The man in the story had no true way out of his punishment, and thus had no real choice other than accepting the circumstances that were forced upon him in order to survive. I remember being much like that in the past, and I’m grateful to say that it’s not the case anymore. To be a victim of circumstance is something I would not wish on anyone. It is why I learned to believe in the power of free will and the potential of all mortals. The only story I was told about the Broken God was related to the conscious choice he made of connecting himself to every living being so no one would have to suffer alone. It is not the hand on the shoulder that gave me comfort, but the head-strong choice he made that inspired me. He could turn his back at any point, but he doesn’t. To persevere and to never give up on others even if one has the option to turn away without retribution is, to me, the epitome of endurance.

In the past, I have been able to bear the pain of others for them. The ‘how’ of it is unknown to me, but I remember that it is out of Will and empathy that it happens. The bird that carries our correspondence was also healed by my hands but that had never happened before and so I wondered if He had empowered me in that moment. If such things are considered to be miracles, then I dare consider myself to be on the right path.

That is why I believe in this one wish that I have. I know I am ignorant, but I can learn. To help others is not a means to an end, it is an end in itself – and it is not about the quantity – It is about reaching out to those who have accepted that they are too far gone; to seek the souls trapped, like the man and the rock, and show them that there is something more than contentment and acceptance: Hope.

Thank you for making me ask myself those questions.
I will return as soon as I can.

-Erlas