The Priesthood

Perhaps there was no clear action that would save him from possible danger. Quickly, he turned around and returned to the damp and old tower hidden beneath that, which looked like a hill. In the complete darkness of it, he prepared codes that he would use to demolish any threat that might show itself before him.

The silence of the forest had been broken, and it did not take long for a man to yell loudly, “Come out! We know you’re there; we’ve seen your trails on the ground!” There was no anger in this voice, just a simple demand, and no threat attached to it.

It made Kanrel question if he truly was in danger or if this was just another trap—another lie—to lure him out into the open and make him an easy target for well-timed arrows.

In the end, he knew that he would have to walk out, and he would have to hope that they had no ill intent toward him. Because he could not know for sure if they were part of the cult—if they had his demise in their minds. All he knew was that they had a mask and might be part of some cult.

Those outside could be just hunters that had found such a mask, and even if they were cultists, he could not just kill them without being attacked first.

This was a dilemma that he weighted heavily in his mind before walking out of the tower ruins, still prepared to stop arrows and launch balls of fire at any threat directed at him. To his surprise, no arrows flew at him, and no sword or similar thing was ready to pierce him. Just a group of men who peered at Kanrel suspiciously.

“You’ve not taken anything that is ours, right?” The same man asked; he seemed like someone who often spent his time in the woods, a ranger of sorts.

As Kanrel observed the men, it became obvious that they hunted for a living, but why hunt so far north? These faces were so unknown to him; not one of them had he seen around the village.

“I have not; I am merely exploring these ruins and hid myself as I thought that I might be in danger... One can never be too careful when traversing the woods alone.” Kanrel quickly explained, he walked slightly closer but remained at a comfortable distance.

“What brings you lot so deep into the forests? Game? Ruins?” He then asked and gestured around, loosly pointing at the ruins around him.

"Bears roam around here, and selling fur makes a man a great profit. The ruins are just a safe location to camp at; we've been doing so for a good decade.” The man explained and slowly approached, “You’ve come to explore these ruins? Why and from where? Not many settlements anywhere near this place."

“From Jersten, less than a fortnight travels southeast. I read some old records that suggest that there might be old ruins in these parts of the forest. I spent two years looking, and this is the first time I found anything.”

“I see, nothing much to see here, but be our quest and explore as much as you wish—not like we own the damn ruins.” He stopped in front of Kanrel and offered his hand. “Petyr, a surprise, but a great pleasure to meet anyone in these man-forsaken woods.” The man introduced himself with a slight smile on his face.

Kanrel shook his hand. "Name's Kanrel, and I’ve not seen another man for almost two weeks, so company, at this point, is always welcome.” He could feel relief go through him in waves. These men might not be as dangerous as he had first believed, but he would still have to remain careful around them. He should not outright declare what his business was, nor should he trust these men completely.

The huntsmen accepted him into their camp, offering him goods and asking how things were at the village he had come from: “Does that beautiful wench still run the local tavern?” Asked one of the men, he had a glimmer in his eyes as he seemed to be reminiscing about times from long ago.

“I think I visited that place six or seven years ago, and there was this fiery woman serving ale to me at the tavern; during lonely nights, my mind always returns to her visage, and oh, how it soothes a man in his nightly dreams."

“Jared… Shouldn’t you remember your wife instead? I hear she’s quite lonely these days; I might go give her a visit the next time in town.

The man called Jared scoffed, “We are barely married. And if I was ever given the chance, I would marry that wench from Jersten in a heartbeat!” He declared and peered at Kanrel with a grin on his face, “Is she perhaps married?”

Kanrel shook his head. “She is still looking for a husband; I hear she prefers a man with wealth and a manly beard.”

“Too bad you have neither.” Petyr pointed out and patted Jared on the back, “Our new friend at least has a beard, but not sure how manly is manly enough for her... Sorry, Kanrel, it would seem that I shall be the first in line at her feet; you all can attest that I am surely rich, and my beard is just manly enough to woo any lady in these lands."

Franc was the name of the third man, and he seemed to roll his eyes quite dramatically. “You see what kind of fuckers I have to deal with every day? Both believe that they would have any chance with her; when the heavens be my witness, I surely am the most suitable man for any woman as lonely as her.”

“Weren’t you more interested in Jared’s wife?” Kanrel asked; the conversation was not one he had imagined that he would have to take part in.

Franc got up and bowed very curtiously. “A true gentleman would never leave a lonely woman in distress; there is more than enough of me for them all.”

“And as you can see, he is not any better than the rest of us... Pity, I for one had expectations for him.” Jared exclaimed and soon offered Kanrel some dried meat and a loaf of bread. “Sorry about the food; I haven’t had much luck with game in a while.”

“I am not sure if it is the area we hunt in or just a lack of luck, but this is all we have to offer for now.”

Kanrel took the meat and the loaf of bread with a simple thank-you and got to eating. The ever-so-familiar taste of ash filled his mouth as he ate to get rid of the hunger that had become more and more apparent as the day had gone by. At least the company was talkative, and he learned interesting things about his new friends and the area that they had hunted around for some time now.

Enter.

He heard a whisper, a demand.

Enter.

A voice begged. He looked around, and the world spun; the ruins became one with the trees, and the trees turned into darkness. Whispers, demands, wants, and laughter. Men with their grotesque masks leering over him, their eyes dark, and grins wide.

They laughed as he entered the darkness. Enter. Was the final whisper he heard before there was nothing.

“… foolish men come and they go, thinking we don’t recognize a priest when we see one…”

“His heart for the god..." “There is still time…” “Let us speak to him first.” “Let us make him one of us.” “Let him enter first.” “He calls for all, not just for us; let him enter first.”

Voices, so many, gather around in his dreams, in which he battles against their hands. They touch him; they investigate him. Everything moves around and becomes one with the ground. They touch him, and he goes from warm to cold, from light to dark.

Enter! Begs the voice as if its life depended on it, as if without him there’d be nothing but loneliness from hence forth.

His head hurt when he woke up. Darkness was around, and he could not see. There was something blocking his view—a rag or a piece of cloth—something tied around his head. Kanrel tried to remove this thing, but his hands were tied as well. He used all the strength that he could muster, but he could not move his hands—he was unable to remove his blinds.

He lay somewhere, and all he knew was that he could not see. He was awake, or so he thought—for if he were not awake, then there’d be no thoughts that he could form. He had to be awake. He could hear the wind and nothing else; it traversed inside to a place he might be in.

His mouth was not gagged, so there was at least that. “Hello? Is there anybody here?” His voice sounded strange, confirming at least that he was indoors, but wherever he may be, it was not very warm.

No reply came—not a whisper, not a word. Just silence, which gave no answers.

He tried moving side to side, and he could do just that, but he did not know where he would end up if he decided to roll around. What if there was a ledge? What if he had again found himself on that staircase? What if the fall continues? What if it had never ended?

He could form codes, but they would be useless, as he was unable to see. All magic was useless if he could not see the things that he would want to interact with. All he could do was wait for anyone to come here—to make one mistake and let him see again; let light once more enter his world.

So in silence, he awaited, thinking through the things that had led him here. The mistakes that he had committed. Was he truly a man incapable of learning from his previous mistakes? He had seen the mask, yet he accepted the food that they had to offer—without any sense of danger, he had let the food enter his mouth. Poison—something that made him hear things, that made his world twist and turn, that made him fall asleep.

It wasn't quite the same thing that had happened with Yirn, but either way, this blind trust or his own, perhaps foolish, sense of right and wrong had brought him here. On a cold floor, his hands tied and his eyes bound, with nowhere to go. With no one to help. With death perhaps awaiting, beckoning him to join the many that had died a foolish death.

Thoughts—not those of others, but the thoughts that you have within—can, at times, be your greatest enemy or a savior of sorts. Here, where there was no savior, at least he could think over the things that had brought him here—how he had failed and how he should have gone through things.

A repetition, a new mantra. One most familiar to a priest. “A fool. A useless fool.” That is what he was, and that is what he would be until the day that he died. Unless, during this time, he somehow figures out how to rid himself of these binds. Or when he could somehow realize, perhaps manifest, the answer to a simple question: When does a man learn from his mistakes?

If history were to be believed, then simply never. The collective, which is humanity, was more or less incapable of learning from the mistakes made perhaps only a few years ago. But forget that and question this instead: When does a singular man learn from his mistakes?

All this time, he had thought that he could, but here he was, blinded and bound, ready to be killed by his captors. He had not so deeply aquinted with anyone during his time at the village, but the first moment he walked out of its close proximity, he was on the ground, blinded, bound, and ready to be killed.

Surely there was humor in this situation. Surely the outcome would make anyone laugh loudly as they witnessed the ending of a miserable man! The man is killed, and the final curtain comes down. Laughter ensues. With a roaring applause, the actor wakes up and receives roses as the audience rises with him, screaming his name and begging for an encore.

What a waste of time to even form thoughts! Can’t he just hit his own head on the ground until there was the realease of death? Kanrel gritted his teeth. He wasn’t allowed, or was he? Were the vows there only as a lie to keep him alive, just for another useless day to go by?

Though at last he heard steps coming closer, from above it seemed. The sounds of someone decending ladders, one at a time, perhaps observing the man laying awkwardly on the ground. With them, they brought a faint light, which brought the most feeble of changes in seeing things.

As the man came of that which Kanrel thought to be ladders and approached, he could ever so slightly, if he looked down, see. He saw his own nose, and when he slightly angled his head, he could see the light reflected on the stone floor.

There was a way out, but he would have to be careful not to burn his own face off.

“The last time we saw one of your kind was over a decade ago... He came here like you did, no worries whatsoever—we killed that bastard, cut his heart from his chest when he was still alive.” A voice spoke to him, and it was one that was rather familiar. It was the voice of Jared, the man who had offered him bread and dried meat.

“I suppose that old bastard, Rant, finally shared his dark secret with another soul... Losing a wife wasn’t enough, I suppose.

“If I remember correctly, he had a son... To lose another loved one must be rough on an old man with an old heart.” Jared muttered and spat on Kanrel, “But I pity no traitor, and I don’t pity you, priest."

“There is a question I want answers for, one related to your vows... What was it, ‘to carry the suffering of the weak’ or whatever?”

“I’d like to put that to the test, you know? What if you suffered in place of that old fool and just told us everything you knew? And don’t you leave anything out... We’ll figure out your lies sooner rather than later.”

Pain exploded in Kanrel’s stomach as a powerful kick landed on it. Then a coarse hand lifted him from the neck, and an equally coarse voice asked a simple question: “Who told you of this place? Speak now or we’ll see how devout you are to your ‘oaths’…”