Interlude 15: Conviction and Truth
Dust hung like a smog in Grandbrook’s temple library, clinging to every surface like a thick packing of the winter snow he found so uncomfortable. High vaulted like everything in the church was, the roof was dominated by crisscrossing beams that would have been old a century ago, and Arc found himself penned in on all sides by stacks so tall and rickety that he wouldn’t be surprised if they had killed more elderly holymen than he had beasts.
It had been an ordeal to even reach this place. Half a dozen flights of narrow and steep stone stairs, each seemingly designed to provide as much difficulty as possible for the monks and priests who tended to its archives. At seven strides tall, and a third again as wide as a tall human or half-elf of a similar height, Arc had to edge his way up sideways.
It had been monk Thrial that had been his highest concern. The aged Holy One had clutched onto his offered forearm like a lifeline, their ascent had seemed like a battle-trial sent by the gods themselves.
Thrice he had pleaded they stop — that he could return in the morning, when a younger Holy One could escort him with greater ease and convenience. Thrice the holy one had refused, rebuffing his attempts with nothing but another wise smile and a pat on the arm.
By the time they had reached the library, monk Thrial had been panting — his movements even more unsteady and slow than normal. Undeterred, the monk had led him into the winding labyrinth of the temple's texts, soft yellow wardlights turning on as they entered. Well hidden, the lights had drenched the aisles in shadow — leaving only the rare alcove and reading table as islands of clarity.
He’d been lost by the time they made it twenty strides in, but monk Thrial was blessed by the providence of the Wayfarer himself. The Holy One had led them in, confident and unwavering, guiding him inwards at a slow shuffle.
They’d stopped at a reading nook — a low table surrounded by particularly plus armchairs. Arc knew not how the man had distinguished it from any of the two dozen others they had passed, not when the shelves lacked any sense of organisation that he could identify.
Monk Thrial had lowered himself into one of the chairs with a sigh, some of Arc’s nerves quieting as the holy one finally allowed himself to rest.
“I always liked this spot — my second favourite in this warren. Oaths, bonds, and honour are such an interesting topic of faith. It is a part of many deitys’ spheres of influence, so I’ve spent many an hour pouring over the tombs and scriptures we have been able to gather from around Vaastivar. This section has some of my favourites on the topic, and the ones we need.” the monk’s words had been soft, but fond.
Arc had only nodded slowly, before looking around at the precarious towers of books that surrounded them.
“Forgive me for my impudence, Holy One, but how do you find the books that you need? I have seen no system I can make sense of.”
Monk Thrial had laughed at his comment — a raspy dry thing — before he tapped his forehead.
“It’s all up here. Years of practice, and more than one Skill help. Now, I would much appreciate it if you could grab the volume that is third from the left on the bottom shelf behind you, the seventh from the right four shelves up, and the large black volume above me.” Monk Thrial pointed up to a massive tomb at the very top of the stack he sat by.
Arc, of course, heard and obeyed.
That had been hours ago. Finishing the last of the chapters that the Holy One had suggested, Arc closed the tome and leaned back, a frown on his face.
He was…conflicted. From the words of his own people’s prophets and Holy One’s, it seemed that his understanding of honour had been, if not incorrect, then incomplete.
It wasn’t an impossible thing. When he’d been young, he’d never had much interest in taking the path of the wise and holy — he’d only known what all knew. Most learned over lifetimes, consulting with the wise when their honour was tarnished.
He’d never gotten the opportunity — his first mistake had been grievous enough that exile was the only penance available.
That had weighed on him, when he’d first started reading. What if his exile was wrong? His honour maintained, through that moment of fear and grief?
That had been revealed early: his exile was just, and his soul was still blackened. The warring relief and old despondency at such a revelation had caught him by surprise. He was old by many people's standards, and had long since thought he’d come to terms with the life of penance he lived.
A coward once, a coward always. The blood of his brother stained him still.
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Yet…it seemed his understanding of the depths of being honour-bound had been incomplete still. A thousand infractions he had withered under — a century of accumulated weight — were not the chains he had thought, but guidelines to strive for. Tests, to prove your path.
His most recent dilemma among their number.
He thought of a passage from The Spirit of Sand and Bone, the first tome Holy One Thrial had guided him through.
“Honour and the bindings of the true are paradoxical. To live is to be stained, when the realities of our imperfect world thrust us into battles where victory in the war of ethic is unattainable. When all that is left is dishonour, turn inwards and seek the pyrrhic victory that blackens the world the least. Such stalwart conviction is honourable in itself, and the choice towards future betterment weighs much in the mind of Jorosh. Grieve your failings, and take comfort in the reality that without the purity of godliness, true honour, unbroken, is impossible.”
It was a revelation, one that had only grown — like when he had read Honour and Clan, perhaps the most relevant text to his current dilemma.
“Oaths and debts between one another are amongst the most heavy, the most binding, and the most fragile. They are the ultimate testament to will, duty, and sincerity. Yet it is the fate of mortal-kind to be transient and changeable — so unlike the immutable nature of honour and truth. How do you repay your bond, if the bearer demands your honour in return? It is a common reality for the hirgost, both in small cases and large.
You must turn inwards — acknowledge that the binding of Jorosh is a personal affair. It is not the bearer that binds you, but yourself. You do not make your oath to the true totality of a person, only the limited slice you can perceive at the moment of statement.
For a bearer to demand a bonded to tarnish their honour, is to tarnish themselves a dozen times over — to become oathbreaker, honourless, and blackhearted themselves in the worst cases. For the bonded, there is only the grief of their inability to judge true, and the penitent duty to prevent the future harm that has been revealed to them.”
Arc leaned back, scratching the back of his horns in quiet contemplation. He had come to the temple despondent and penitent, and now found himself bereft of many of the burdens that had weighed upon him for so long.
It left him light. Confused. Like he might drift from the ground, to be blown around as the wind pleased.
His greatest dishonour existed still — he was still blackened and tainted, true. But the thousand cuts that had built by the day? That his endless penance was enough, righteous even?!
“You have shown this one much wisdom tonight, Holy One Thrial. This one does not know if he can repay this debt.” Arc said slowly, turning to the aged monk.
Thrial smiled, shaking his head at Arc, “There is no debt, Arc’theros — not in this. I am a monk, it is my own duty to share the wisdom and understanding of the gods and those touched by them. They are the ideals that dream, and I am but a humble instrument to further their teachings. The unyielding piety, faith, and stalwart goodness you have shown in your years in Grandbrook is enough.”
He did not agree, but he bowed his head anyway. It was, in the end, a part of the lessons the Holy One had just imparted. When his own actions were rewarded freely with intention, it was not a debt. Strange, and far less flexible than he remembered the people of his village ever being, but he’d read the words himself — plain text in hand of his people’s own prophet.
“Tell me more of this crossroads you are at, Arc’theros — how much do you know?”
“This one knows unfortunately little — only that the blackheart who had once been the boy lies waiting close to Deadacre for his targets to exit from a delve. He is in hiding from the guild — wanted this one to hold off the Wardog and the Quiet. He would meet with me, if I swear my intentions to help him.”
“I see,” Thrial replied with a calm shake of his head. “To think someone would be so driven as to seek conflict with two of the few Golds in the province — ones who’d earned their goldnames so violently no less. In light of our previous discussion, have you decided what your honour demands?”
Arc’s nod came swift. His failings were many, but conviction had never been one.
“This ones path of penance has long been decided — to defend those who cannot defend themselves. The boy has long since blackened himself beyond where exile is suitable — this one will provide what assistance he can to Deadacre’s guild to cull this wound.”
“You won’t reach out to this man and strike at the meeting?”
Arc shook his head, “This one cannot — the deception would be curlike and dishonourable.”
The monk smiled knowingly, bobbing his help. He reached out an arm, and Arc leapt to assist — pulling the monk to his feet.
“Help me down the stairs, Arc’theros — it has been an absolute pleasure, but the sun will rise soon, and these old bones need their rest.”
He inclined his head.
“Of course, Holy One.”
…
The second Arc left the gates of Grandbrook, he broke into a jog to put distance between himself and the crowd that had gathered as he had walked the city streets.
A few of them screamed out. He sped up. The cries cut into the wound of his soul — sounded far too much like the dying cries of the brother he had abandoned so long ago.
He bore no weapon, shield, or armour. They were the implements of honoured warriors, of which he was not.
Besides — he’d been a brawler for long enough. He didn’t need them.