The Faithful Father

By: Aerek Posted on: August 12, 2010

It was still dark when the old priest rose, the promise of twilight far over the horizon, hidden by the majestic Vashnar mountains that surrounded the Cyrenian Valley. He dressed in his robes and donned his shield and armour, though it was largely a ceremonial gesture at his age, and set off toward the north side of the city. He took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air as he exited the residential terraces and wound his way through the heart of Cyrene. Much of the city still slept, only the occasional guardsman broke the stillness of the city, greeting him with a nod or smile as they passed.

"Good morning, Father," a young knight greeted him as he turned onto Merrilon Avenue.

"Good morning, lad," he replied, "I trust that all's well?"

"Aye, sir. A cold night, but a quiet one."

"A cold night makes the dawn all the warmer."

"Aye, Father. Algiz protect you."

The old priest continued on his way past the bath house as it made its own morning preparations, crossing the Imperial Plaza with its great stone sentry, the likeness of the Lady Czanthria standing silent watch over her city. The heavens still twinkled with starlight, with only the street lanterns illuminating the news stand where the old priest spotted a stately-dressed gentleman reading and conversing with the others there.

"Good morning, Father," the stately gentleman said as the priest approached, "That was a rousing sermon you delivered last week. Planning to match it this morning?"

"Thank you, Senator," the old man replied, "I only wish I had more pleasant topics to speak of."

"You're right to concern the populace when there is cause for concern. The other Senators might be reluctant to see it, but we're practically at war with the Baelgrim already."

"Have faith, Senator. These are dark days, but good men like the Duke Ruminic and the guard make sure that dawn always comes. Perhaps I'll see you this morning at Prayer?"

"Perhaps you will. Be safe, Father."

"You as well, old friend."

Parting ways and making his way around the old courthouse, the priest turned onto Bard's Way, passing the quiet farmland that surrounded the small chapel on the northern side of the valley. Already hard at work, the brothers Vico and Ciro labored on a broken fence as he walked by. "Good morning, gentlemen"

"Morning, Father," they replied.

"Getting an early start?"

"Aye," said Ciro, the younger, scratching his beard, "We've a man out ill today, but his work won't wait for him."

"You should send your man to see me, and I will stop by after Prayer and lend what help I can." the old priest said to the pair.

"There's no need for that, Father," replied Vico, but the priest held up a hand, accepting no argument.

"I am not too frail to work, yet, and I will do what I can, while I can." the priest said as he started off again.

The brothers stood and watched him make his way out of sight.

"A blessing, he is." said Ciro.

"Aye. Quieter, though, since they took his son."

"Gods bless him," Ciro said, somberly.

"Gods bless him," Vico agreed.

The dim twilight hours had just begun to illuminate the snowcapped peaks when the old priest arrived at the chapel grounds. He swept the aisle, made ready the altar and lectern, and opened the doors in preparation for those that would come for the Rite of Prayer. His labor finished for the moment, he took a seat upon the front pew, and bowed his head in prayer.

"Lords, I pray You, grant me strength to see through this day.

Ladies, I beg You, grant me safety along my way.

In Your service, I know Faith;

In Your realms, I find my place.

Now I wake, ere come the light,

To do good works, ere come the night."

As he finished his verse, a small breeze entered from the chapel door, and the old priest became aware that he was not alone.

"Yes?" he said after a moment's pause.

"Forgive me, Father, for I will sin," came the sarcastic reply.

The old priest stood and turned slowly to meet the intruder, a tall man standing in the aisle, clad in armour streaked with char marks and wrapped in a tattered grey cloak. His helm and cloak concealed much of his him, but he stood confidently, the air of contempt about him, hands resting on the hilts of the longswords that hung from his waist.

"Why have you come?" the priest said, slowly.

The intruder paused for a moment, studying the old man.

"My masters tire of your slanderous sermons and foolhardy calls to arms. They've sent me to end your influence here. A fitting test for me, I think."

"I am merely one voice. Cyrene will not bend to your oppression over my death."

The infernal sneered.

"We will see. You will be our example, and Cyrene can decide for itself when it finds your remains this morning."

The old man shifted his weight subtly, preparing himself for what was coming; remembering the steps, the strikes, the parries, testing his aged frame.

"Not so old," he thought, "Not too old."

"Citizens will begin arriving soon," the priest said aloud.

"Then we'd best not waste any more time."

The infernal reached up and lifted off his helm, casting it aside. Throwing back his cloak, out came his blades with a cold, sibilant note. In kind, the old priest took the old shield from his back and called his weapon to him, the white, ethereal mace manifesting in his hand. With a silent plea, his companion flowered into existence beside him, and with a silent prayer, he felt the familiar strength flow into his limbs.

For a moment, the two studied each other; the infernal, poised and threatening, with his twin swords and menacing aura, and the priest, firm and resolute, mace and angel ablaze.

"I do not wish to fight you," the priest said, futilely.

"Then Cyrene should know its place, and you should have known yours." replied the infernal, and leaned in with the first blow.

Instead of prayer or bells this morning, it was the clash of steel on steel that sounded from the chapel as the old priest caught his foe's blades on mace and shield, staggering back under the force of the strike. The priest uttered a prayer and responded in kind, the infernal turning his mace aside with a deft manoeuvre. Back and forth they fought, the old but vital priest keeping pace with his younger opponent. The infernal weathered the piercing glares and searing gazes of the priest's guardian, but could not break through the old man's staunch defense. The priest held back his nausea from the infernal's putrid aura, praying that he could hold his ground until someone heard the commotion.

But he couldn't. The priest set himself to parry, but instead of following through with a blow, the infernal shifted and bushed a gaunt finger across the old priest's hand. Pain shot up the old man's arm as his flesh shriveled, forcing him to lose grip on his shield. Seeing the opening, the infernal swung his blade in a controlled arc, slicing across the priest's exposed flank. The old man staggered back, wounded but not beaten, until horror crept across his face as the sinister venom locked his limbs in place. The next blows came lightning-fast, inflicting little damage but releasing their toxins into his bloodstream.

Without his healing channels open, the priest stood helpless, the insidious poisons holding him paralysed, wearying his body, and muddling his thoughts. With a grim expression, the infernal raised his weapon overhead, swinging it in a wide arc. Gathering his will, the priest forced his plea through the fog of confusion as the infernal bore down upon him. His guardian heard and obeyed, soothing the ailments from her companion's mortal frame, and he let loose a righteous yell as he blinded and dazzled his foe with a ray of divine light. The infernal's great cleave fell to the side as he focused through the haze, and he did not see the old priest draw his mace back in preparation for a devastating strike. With a mighty blow, the old man connected with the young infernal's knee, sending him tumbling to the floor. The priest stepped purposefully over to his fallen foe, raising his own weapon into the air as it began to crackle with a blue-white flame. As he looked down upon the broken youth, however, he hesitated, ceasing his judgment before the killing blow. Seizing the opportunity, the infernal let loose an unearthly screech, driving the old man back into the far corner of the chapel, away from the foul sound.

"Pathetic," the infernal said, forcing himself to his feet, "Weakness like yours is why I left."

"Mercy is not weakness, child, and cruelty is not strength," the old priest argued, regaining his composure.

The sound of a raised alarm in the distance interrupted them, and razor-thin beams of light entered in through the chapel windows. The infernal's shriek had not gone unnoticed.

"Until next time, Father," the young man said in an acidic tone, and exploded into a miasma of black, murky mist, quickly vanishing from view. The old priest stood motionless as the city guard began to manifest around him. Safe among them, he sank slowly to his knees and softly wept. "Be safe, my son."