Short Story: A small parchment with a bit of holy text written on it


 * Author: Rachel
 * Google Document

The air in camp is thick with tension. Or rather, the water in camp is thick with tension? Every moment you spend in Laverathia is a moment you find yourself more and more impressed with Reides for making the opposite adjustment as well as he did. He's often mentioned how being tied to the ground feels so restrictive, but for you, the difficulty is the exact opposite. You can simply… go wherever you want. Things are up and down, and you've found yourself aiming spells at angles you've never considered before. And that's not even touching on how you're simply… out here. Here in the camp, it's fine, it's close enough to your normal, but outside of it, if you let your mind turn to it, the vastness of the ocean strikes you, as well as the idea that you could simply… turn the wrong way and never be seen again. Certainly, people have been living down here long enough that they must have countermeasures against that kind of thing. Reides would know, at the very least, and he'd never let you drift away to your doom.

And here you are, in the relative safety of the Aquosian refugee camp, imagining a far-fetched scenario when you're far more likely to be killed by a kraken tomorrow. Or an aboleth, or as Ashara calls it, an abalor. Alethus willing, you won't be, and neither will any of your friends or any of Reides's loved ones. Persana willing as well. You admittedly know little of Persana, but considering where you are, you suspect his followers' prayers will play no small role in whatever happens tomorrow. The two gods must have shared the duty of creation eons ago, and you pray that they will collaborate once more. Really, for you and your group, there's little left to do but pray.

That, and attempt to invoke the collaboration of a third god.

"Some parchment with some holy scripture" is what Jorah asked for. That and holy water, but the sorcerers of Persana are more equipped to handle that, now that you've exhausted yourself magically at the healers' tent (it's worth it, though, as much as there's a part of you where you can feel there's nothing left every time you do it; that part of you will come back anyway, a small price for someone's eyes to open once more or their face to unclench as the pain fades). You think you know why he needs it- if you were to lose your holy symbol, it might be useful to you as well. You're glad he's attempting to keep himself safe, as safe as he can be when he's… doing what you're all doing. You're trying not to think about it, if you're being honest. You've adjusted to breathing underwater and, with significant magical assistance, moving underwater. You also suspect that you won't make any further improvements in fighting underwater. Gods willing, tomorrow is the last time you'll ever have to do that. So, with Jorah's request, it's time to attempt writing underwater.

Ashara offered to help you, for which you're quite grateful. She makes writing with an ink-needle look so simple and graceful. Meanwhile, you hold the ink-needle to the membrane, guiding it across, and nothing happens.

"It needs to go through, Kilwin." She raises an eyebrow. "It's like tattooing, remember?" She seems to hesitate for a moment. "You do know how tattoos work, don't you?"

It's not something you've given much thought. Tattoos, piercings… "body modification" is the term you think you've heard Reides used, that he learned from an old friend, isn't something anyone really does back home. It does look very flattering on most of the people you've seen it on, but… that's a thought for another time. Dutifully, you push the ink-needle deeper into the membrane.

And directly through it. A small ring of ink bleeds around the hole, while a few drops make their way into the sea around you. Before you can worry too much about the effect of the ink on the surrounding sea life, as if you're the first person in the history of Laverathia to ever make this mistake, the ink has diffused to the point of invisibility, evidence of your crime erased.

Ashara winces. "Well. This one's just for practice, I suppose." You nod glumly as you move the needle to another part of the membrane, determined to apply the right amount of pressure this time. A few smaller holes later, and you've finally managed to get the needle into the membrane correctly.

"Thank the- I mean, good job." Ashara catches herself, not that you can really blame her. "Maybe you should, well, see if they have anything with a thicker back. You know? For Jorah's sake. Not that I'm forbidding you from taking more of what I have, mind you."

"I'll think about it." You already know you won't, if for no other reason than that you're scared to ask. You know Reides would just get it for you, if you asked him, but you're not sure you want to trouble him, especially since this wouldn't be an issue if you could just do this properly.

Your attempts at writing start off similarly rough. Penmanship has never been your strong suit, and your newfound hobby of journaling has done little to remedy that. Ashara has a few tips for you: don't lift the needle if you can help it, take your time, try loosening your grip but, ah, maybe not that much. Considering how stressful she's finding this undersea stretch of your journey, she's still quite a patient teacher. For half a second, you reconsider your refusal of her offer to teach you Celestial, but only for half a second. If you can't bring them back, you'll simply have to miss out.

You snap out of your reverie, having needled a nearly legible line of text. Take heart, my children, for My Light shall be within thee always. Fortunately, to your knowledge, the gods usually aren't offended by shaky handwriting, with the possible exceptions of Phoenicius and Deneir. You hope that Jorah's patron isn't a third exception, especially given the current circumstances. Ashara gives a little clap at your progress. You thank her profusely for her help, saying you've got it from here, freeing her up to bury herself in her own pursuits, to try to prepare herself for or distract herself from what's coming. We'll be fine, you think to yourself. We have the gods and each other, we have to be.

Left to your own devices, you're now faced with what you were hoping would be the easy part of Jorah's request: Deciding what to write. Your friends all follow different gods now. It was odd to you at first, having grown up with the word of Alethus above all others. Still, as much as it's never seemed the right moment to ask Reides for an extension of your religious education, Persana seems to have much in common with Alethus, even if he seems content to preside over the depths like the tritons who worship him. You don't know much about Ashara's religious proclivities, although so much has changed between her time and yours… She may very well be a follower of Alethus, but to the Vrinians, she may have been quite a different Alethus. As for Briar… You're still wrapping your head around him being from another world entirely. One who possibly doesn't carry the light of Alethus (or the comforting cold embrace of Persana, as you're beginning to learn)... Nevertheless, he's clearly a good person. You're glad he and Erak managed to find each other. You've heard Briar invoke the name Terathun a number of times, and you sometimes wonder if that's his god. But Briar talks little about himself, revealing some cosmic truth or hint of his own quest, then going quiet, evading direct questions with a grace and agility he doesn't physically possess until your little group's conversation drifts to another topic. When Father Glasny told you, just over a year ago, that he worried your world had been small, he almost certainly didn't imagine you'd meet someone like Briar. Staring at the blank membrane, you begin to smile until you remember you lied to him. It's the day you were meant to come back, your birthday, and, while you certainly had a good reason, one you think he'd understand if you could explain it to him, you lied to him. You'll have to find a way to make it right, assuming you survive tomorrow, which you will. You must be on this path for a reason, and it wouldn't be to die failing to save Reides's home.

You force yourself to bring your thoughts back to Jorah's deity of choice, although he might say that he had no choice in the matter. The Nameless God isn't K'thalios. You know that, have had it explained to you in great detail when you were younger. Both concern themselves with endings, but the Nameless God bears no malice. They simply perform their duty, do what they must. You don't think being chosen is a bad thing for Jorah, not at all, although if he had actually shown you the mark on his wrist before showing that priest of the Nameless God, you would have mistaken it for one at first. No, you have faith in the gods and you don't believe the Nameless God is watching over your friend to doom him, not any more than everyone is doomed by the natural order. As different as Jorah's patron is from yours, the gods don't extend their blessings to those they don't wish to help.

And you think Jorah wants to try too. It's almost odd, watching him become more "holy," so to speak. He's started assisting you with funerary rites, and you suspect that he's starting to learn them himself. You drafted him into it without thinking after that attack on the Desperado… but he didn't seem to mind too much. And then there's his new request, which you've made no progress on beyond tapping the needle against the membrane. You remember once, as your group traveled the Rune Road, Jorah mentioned that he never knew what he wanted to do, even now. Maybe, in their way, the Nameless God is helping him with that now. A perverse smile pulls at your lips as you think that it would be awfully funny if the two of you switched places now, wouldn't it? As the aboleth's whispers about escaping the pressures of the light and becoming your true self re-enter your mind, you pocket the ink-needle and membrane and stand up. It's time for a short swim.

It's not a crisis of faith. It's never been as dramatic as that. Alethus had a plan for before and she has a plan for you now, and you've clearly not strayed from that plan in a way that would give her cause to abandon you. It's simply that you have… choices. Options, even. You had never let yourself think about options before. You had one home that had taken you in, and you weren't leaving, weren't letting yourself lose the one you had known. And you haven't lost it, but it's almost like you have too many homes, potential homes, homes that are people who won't stay in one place. It's a problem you're extremely fortunate to have, you recognize this, but it is somehow making the task of thinking of something appropriate to transcribe for Jorah more difficult. If it were for yourself or Eleanor, you could simply recall a passage on all beings carrying the light of Alethus or the triumph of compassion against great odds. While the Nameless God might very well deem that sufficient to grant Jorah their further protection, you'd rather not run the risk of offending them, especially on Jorah's behalf. It also just feels wrong to treat your gods as if they're interchangeable.

As you circle the little corner of the camp you and your friends have set up in, you spot Briar, eyes closed and legs crossed, apparently deep in meditation. He has a stack of membranes around him, although you don't want to disturb him by getting close enough to see what he's writing. You wonder what he's thinking, if this is even close to the strangest situation he's been in, but you doubt he'd just tell you if you asked. You approach the training grounds, where you spot Jorah and Reides from a distance. You try to give them a wide berth, too sheepish to admit to Jorah that no, you haven't successfully written a single line of text on a page yet. Reides slaps Jorah on the back before swimming away in the direction of the large tent with the maps. You wonder if he's looking for Viglis. For all that Reides complained about Viglis on the surface, you actually think he's quite pleasant. And for all that complaining, Reides very obviously cares about his brother, and vice versa. It's nice to see, so you privately hope he really is seeking out some more time with Viglis before tomorrow. As Jorah, now alone, begins to draw Quickbrand, you make a sharp turn back toward your little corner. As you return, you pass Ashara. She sits with her head in her hands, looking away from her own stack of membranes. You suspect she's less distressed by their contents than the fact that her mind has wandered from them. Ashara looks up as you swim past and forces a smile. She raises a thumb tentatively. You attempt to smile back and shrug. Her smile falters for a moment, but she nods knowingly. It's difficult to do anything but ruminate on what's coming tomorrow, something you suspect is coloring all of your companions' current activities. And perhaps ruminating on tomorrow is just what you need to do too.

You return to your membranes and ink-needle, not refreshed but ready to try again. Death terrifies you. Dying terrifies you. You're reasonably sure this is normal, but death and dying have come up a lot in your recent line of work. Since Port Valor, since those elves in that cave, since Keras fell from that cliff, since that terrible fight in that terrible bar, since that goblin in that mine that you barely thought about in the moment, not until after it was over and he was lying on the ground, still glowing faintly. You used to avoid thinking about it, as much as you could anyway, but you don't have that luxury anymore. To embrace it fully would strain against everything you've always valued, the things you've been trying to work for since you set out on this journey. The people you meet may have a limited amount of time here, but you've always thought it should be as long and pain-free as possible. You've never intended to offend the Nameless God by that, and you hope you haven't. But again, this isn't about you and your god; it's about Jorah and his.

Still, the word of Alethus is most of what you have to work with. In your mind, you replay your studies and your discussions with Father Glasny (you'll apologize and he'll understand, you have to survive tomorrow so you can apologize, maybe someone in Reides's family will even let you explain the whole thing), for anything that could be relevant to Jorah's situation. Anything relevant to your current situation too, frankly. After all, you and Jorah are in the same boat in more ways than one. You didn't always realize that. It would be hard not to now, having seen what all of you have together, facing possible death together tomorrow, having seen Hommlin, now the only place you've seen that's smaller than Cowersby, smaller than your world once was, but knowing there was a terrible reason for it, the same reason that drove Jorah away. Maybe before that, they were even more similar. At the same time, your faith wasn't forged in the heat of Deepfloe Arena. Your sign wasn't a mark and a pain in your wrist. While you're much more aware of your commonalities now, you're also aware that Jorah's seen a lot of things that Alethus has seen fit to shield you from. As exciting as it is to have someone you can almost think of as a long-lost brother after all these years, you have to accept that you're also very different. And, as you keep reminding yourself, so are your gods.

Perhaps you don't know exactly what Jorah needs right now. Maybe, as nice as it would be if Alethus and the Nameless God were on speaking terms after all and had managed to find some common ground, you don't know enough about Jorah's patron to know what would please them and what would offend them. But the Nameless God demands only respect, not open veneration. That's what you've been taught, at least. The Nameless God must understand that. So perhaps, after all this, your best effort will simply have to be enough.

The ink-needle stabs through the membrane, but thankfully not all the way. Another few moments of thought and it begins to scrawl across it, shaky but legible:

"The light within your eyes may be extinguished one day, but do not despair, for the light within your heart remains eternal."

There. An acknowledgement, but not a betrayal of yourself or a claim to knowledge you lack. Less of an offering to the Nameless God than a word of encouragement to your friend, but you think it will do. As much as you'd rather not take the chance, you'll probably find out tomorrow. You can't help but think it shouldn't have been so difficult. You gently pull the ink-needle from the membrane and fold up your final product. As you start your swim to the training grounds, you whisper a prayer to Alethus to protect you, a prayer to Persana to do the same (if he's willing), and a prayer to the Nameless God to have mercy on you all tomorrow.