The Priesthood

Dreams are mostly nonsense, though there might be some truth to them. He believed that through dreams, humans lived through their worst fears and their greatest aspirations, but also through the mundane.

In one dream, you’re once again a child in your mother's arms, crying as you breathe in her familiar smell. You’re safe, and the world around you is beautiful. You’re safe, and darkness has no place where you lay your head. You’re home.

In another dream, you’re back at school. Going through days as you usually do. From lecture to lecture to book to book, trying to understand and learn about the world in which you exist. This life is simple; sure, it is boring at times, but its structure is something that you’ll surely miss in your later years. These could be the best years of your life.

But then there are dreams like the ones Kanrel saw. They were filled with betrayal. Filled with loss. Filled with things that make you bitter and that make you not want to trust. These dreams are nightmares, and they are the dreams that shape your fears and form traumas.

All these dreams and nightmares—the fantastical, the mundane, and the hellish—all shape you. One could do without some of them, but not without the rest. After all, a man is just a formation of experiences, and his dreams reflect those experiences.

Kanrel lay in the hospital in a private room. His body was fine, yet his mind was weak, and he had no wish to move; he did not want to leave the warmth of his bed. The warmth in which he lay.

There was a coldness within that refused to leave. A call that would have to be left unanswered. A priest ought not to remove himself from life. Not by force, not by your own hands.

This coldness was just the coldness he had felt the last year or so; it was something that belonged to him, something inherent to him. Something that would now forever be there with him.

How would anyone live with this? How could anyone move forward?

It stung. Not the cold, but the truth that was given. Betrayal of an assumed friend. Soon followed by his timely death at the hands of his mother. Kanrel should be thankful, yet he felt nothing of the sort. There had been so many questions left unanswered.

A motive could not be pinpointed; only one was assumed. This "truth" Yirn had spoken of and written about. An opposition toward the Priesthood and the Herald. All things that didn’t make much sense to him.

Now he felt like a fool who was led by someone who never had his best interests in mind. He did many things for Yirn—many things to please him, many things to help. And not once had he questioned the reason for those things or for those requests. Yirn had taken his hand and led him to this time and place. And nearly, just a small fraction away from death.

Looking back, those things that should have been questioned became transparent—moments where Kanrel should’ve been more suspicious of him. Him being almost always late to their meetings; how he just "happened" to find the eyes in the jars; how he "happened" to say the correct words to open the way to the chamber.

How he was the one to suggest Oidus as the mastermind behind all of this…

Kanrel was a fool—an apparent fool.

In his room, they had found no evidence; there were no words written, no loose blanks, nothing under the bed, and no connection to the attackers. Nothing, nothing at all. Only his actions spoke of his involvement in everything. There was no proof, other than the dead men, of the existence of a nameless anti-priesthood group. He had given no answers; his death had given no answers; there were only new questions that had to be answered, and those questions would be left unanswered. The truth would remain something unknown to him, perhaps for all time to come.

Only if such a group would lift its head from wherever it was hiding could they get any answers to anything.

The few days he had spent in bed were allowed because of his mother being there and because of the conclusions that were drawn from the investigations. He was innocent, and so was Yviev; everything that had happened was blamed on Yirn.

The graffiti, the disappearance of the students and then their murders, their own faulty investigations into the murders, and then the actions they took against Oidus. And according to the "official investigations," Oidus had been the one who saved the two students from certain death.

It was told that the murders were the work of a radical organization that had an anti-priesthood agenda and that their main target was Kanrel because of his ties to the Herald. There was no word of the eldritch monstrosity or how they had entrapped Oidus and questioned her. Nor was there a mention of the chamber that they had found; such things weren’t for the public after all.

Kanrel, Yviev, and Oidus were vowed into silence, and Oidus got some sudden investments into her research from the Herald herself.

The whole situation was dodgy.

He heard a knock at the door; it would either be a nurse bringing him food or Professor Forsvarn, who suddenly loved to visit him. She wanted to "naturally run into the Herald" or something.

"Come in."

The door opened, and a woman in her mid-forties entered the room; her hair was raven black, and her eyes were green. She wore simple gray robes, as did all the other priests. But her presence was something much greater; all could feel it. Normal people would feel it less so, but the priests could feel the anguish to its full potential.

"Mother," he said, "you’ve finally decided to pay me a visit."

Her smile was like his, unpracticed and horrific by nature, but at least it was a genuine one, not one of the many smiles of Yirn that had held so many lies.

"I was busy, and we both know that you are just fine and don’t need to stay here," she pointed out, pulling out a chair. She ever so gracefully sat down on it. "Are you perhaps sulking? I never expected your teenage rebellion to come in your early adulthood."

Kanrel scoffed. "We both know that this is the only way we will ever have this conversation."

Her smile faded, and her usual serious look took over her face. It was a look of authority, of someone who knew that if she asked for something, it would be perceived as a demand, a wish that ought to be followed.

"I suppose you have many questions to ask then," she said, crossing her arms on her chest. "Ask away, and I’ll answer as many as I am allowed to.

Kanrel raised his eyebrows and said, "Allowed to? The mighty Herald of the Gods isn’t allowed to answer questions as she pleases?"

As an answer, he only got a shrug.

"Very well… I’ll start with the original questions that I wanted to ask of you: Why are the Otherkind mentioned only now and not before?"

"Because now was the correct time to talk about them; the previous Heralds already had information about them, but they were not allowed to share that information with humanity."

"Why? Do you have any proof of such earlier information?"

"Because it is a sensitive topic for the Angels; there is something related to that, which I can’t share, that is very sensitive to them. And as for proof, you can think of the location of this academy and take it as proof.

"Do you perhaps mean the chamber?"

"Yes, it is the reason why the academy was built here."

"Was the chamber then built by the Otherkind?"

"Yes," she answered simply.

"What about the engravings within the chamber? What do they mean?"

"They tell history—well, a prophecy; they were made before any of the things that are shown in the engravings happened. A long time ago," she explained, "but I cannot talk about that further; it is past the information that I am allowed to share."

Kanrel sat in his bed and silently peered at his mother, who casually sat on her chair. She gazed back at him. It was difficult to tell if the things she said were the truth, but they were also the only things he would hear about them.

"How about the necklace Yi-… he used? The one that turned him into an eldritch monstrosity?"

She shook her head. "I cannot tell you; I am not allowed to." She let out a sigh. "You may ask another question about another topic."

Kanrel furrowed his brows, thought for a moment, and soon asked, "Does it have something to do with the Otherkind?"

"Yes, in a way," she answered simply, "I will not answer further questions about the Otherkind."

“There is something he yelled before his death—something about the true God and then the true magic… What did he mean by these things?” Kanrel asked, but for these questions, he got no answers.

"Why is the conclusion of the investigations so different from reality? Couldn’t it at least tell of the existence of the chamber or of how we captured and questioned Oidus?"

"Because the information given to the public is in the best interest of the Priesthood and the Angels, and in the best interest of you and your friend, Yviev."

"I do not wish your friend's future career as a priest to be ruined by her involvement, nor do I want that to happen to my son," she said.

"Besides, there is something that is wanted of you."

For a while, he could just stare at her. He couldn't go against her wishes, so he listened.

"You will be appointed as a priest to a village northeast of here, a few hundred kilometers away," she began her explanation. "There, your mission is the same as is the mission of any priest, but you’re also to look for things that might be unusual, be it stories told by the locals about mysterious things."

"Investigate them, and then report them via letter to me." She had said her commands, so she got up from the chair. "You’ll depart right after graduation, so it is time to get up; it is time to stop sulking like a teenage boy and to take responsibility." She looked deeply into Kanrel’s eyes and smiled her usual smile. "Meet your friends; say goodbye to them for now, before it is too late."

She left the room and left the door open. Kanrel could hear from the other side the busy hospital atmosphere. He just sat on his bed and thought about the things that were to come. His curiosity had not been satisfied; instead, there were far more questions that needed answers.

It was the last week of their studies and the last chance to be a part of the mundane that he would surely miss years from now, so he got up and faced the world. He had the last few days of classes to attend, not to mention friends with whom he had much to talk about.

So bitter and tainted are all the memories that he had with him. They were ingrained with betrayal and questions: did he do even this just so that he could betray him later? What things were done out of the goodness of his heart, and which were done with the venomous intent that he had had from the beginning?

What was the intent of all his words, all his actions, and all that he ever did to him? Was it all there just to lead him astray?

He stared at the bench and at memories of that bench. It was covered with snow, and none had sat on it, perhaps since the first snowfall. He had been on his way to a lecture, one of the last ones that he’d ever have here, but the sight of a simple bench had stopped him.

Feelings are so difficult. For months, he had believed that he would not feel anything other than despair. Now he wondered if one could love another even when it wasn’t so apparent. Did it really hurt so much to lose someone you only rationally thought of as a friend?

He dared not look further, not at the bench, not into his own memories of it, nor into the difficult feelings that plagued him. He ripped his gaze away from it all, away from within, and marched onward, leaving behind the bench and the memories that had become sour.

They stared at him as he sat down in the front row. Yviev was there, but she would only slightly look at him. The lecture was on, so it made sense that she would focus on that instead of him.

Kanrel knew that somewhere, at the back of the class, Uanna and Wen would be sitting down like he was. Perhaps looking at him, pondering all that might’ve happened if he truly had nothing to do with Yirn at the things that he had committed.

Oidus kept lecturing like she usually did, in her own erratic manner, and Kanrel wrote in his notebook the things she said, as he had done thus far. It was like it had been before; it was just that on his right side, there was no one there. An empty place where Yirn would usually be.

Sometimes Kanrel would casually, perhaps out of habit, look at where Yirn would’ve been and what he would write on his notes.

What was wrong with him? The enemy was no more; the murders were solved; his studies would soon be over; and he knew where to go after them… So what was the issue?

He wasn’t his friend, not anymore. He wasn’t even alive. He wasn’t here; he wasn’t there. He doesn’t exist. Not anymore.

Kanrel had stopped taking notes or even listening to the ongoing lecture. He just sat there and looked slightly to his side, where someone was supposed to be and where someone had been.

He was confused; his mind would go blank, and the only thing—the only one he could think of—was him. Yirn. The coldness was there more so than usual; it slowly reached into his mind and took a stranglehold of it; it slowly pressured his chest and his throat.

He swallowed, trying to swallow a piece that would not go away. He tried to breathe normally, but he felt like his head was underwater, as if he were drowning, as if he were under a blanket of darkness.

Kanrel closed his eyes and slowly tapped his notebook with his pen, creating a slow rhythm in a classroom filled with the sounds of writing and the singing of a person holding a lecture. It was just another normal sound in a classroom.

It dawned upon him, a slow realization that made him open his eyes again and look more openly at the position where Yirn had been and where his memory still remained.

He was his friend. He was alive. He was here, and he was everywhere. He exists, or so he once did. He was with him at all times. His memory remained in the things that they had done together, in the places that they had frequented, and in the people that they had known.

It was why it hurt so much. Not his betrayal, but what it had caused. He had lost a friend. But what hurt the most was that he had found that he couldn't forgive him; he was unable to.

At lunch, Kanrel sat with Yviev, Uanna, and Wen. In the loud atmosphere of the cafeteria, there was silence among them. Not a word left the lips of those who sat around the table. If a mouth were to open, no words would come out; only food would enter.

Perhaps it felt as unbearable to others as it did to Kanrel, which is why he said, "Only a few days left, then we are no longer priestlings, no longer novices." The words felt awkward as he forced them out of his mouth.

Uanna suddenly smiled brightly, as if she had been waiting for him to begin the conversation. "So you do talk! I was starting to wonder if I would ever again hear your voice." Her smile was that of habit and not because of true joy, but perhaps she would’ve truly felt joy in that moment if it had been before the Ritual.

Kanrel answered her smile with a smile of his own: "The last few days have been a bit... confusing." He said, and uncertainty could easily be heard as he stumbled upon the last word.

"But, I suppose, one can only move forward," he continued, his smile slowly fading. "It can be difficult to look back and not feel bitter."

Yviev listened intently as he spoke. She slowly put her fork down and cleaned the sides of her mouth with a cloth. "Have you decided what you’d like to do after graduation?"

"Professor Forsvarn seemed disappointed when he mentioned you not too recently," she quickly added. At last, she looked at Kanrel, as if no longer afraid of looking at him.

"I will become a village priest, so I am more or less doing the thing that Wen wanted to do," Kanrel explained. He could’ve told them the full truth but chose against it.

The others nodded. "I think it will do you good," Yviev said, patting Kanrel on the back. "Having something to do will keep your mind at bay; the Angels know we all need that."

It all felt awkward, but it was better than nothing—better than spending the last days that they would perhaps ever meet in silence. They promised to write to each other as often as they could, at least once, to tell the others what the mission was that they were appointed to by the Priesthood after graduation.

So the days went by, doing the usual things a novice might do at the Academy of the Heavenly. Though with a lot less erotic novels and skinny dipping in the moonlight, and not because they wouldn’t want to do such things, but because it was far too cold and there were better things to read.

They wouldn’t meet at the laboratory but instead at the cafeteria and the library across it; there were too many sour memories in their usual gathering places.

The last day came quickly, and all the novices had to gather at the cathedral. A year ago, they had the Ritual there; they all descended the stairs; they had lost the gift of joy to gain the gift of power that was the curse of magic.

The grotesque angels looked down upon them, as they always did, but one gets used to such things after a while. That feeling was something they were used to, but not the feeling that laying your gaze on the Herald of the Gods did.

She stood under the great angel of the painting behind her; her gaze was on them, as was the gaze of the angel. She was grand; she was much more powerful than anyone present. Her knowledge was infinite before this sea of novices and even priests that had come there to listen to her words and to her preach.

There was anticipation in the air and a disgusting flow of magic that ran through everything—a feeling much more potent than that of the laboratory. Her anguish was there for all to see, and they all found themselves within its grasp—the slow waves that would make them think that their own suffering was nothing—even that was nothing here, before her, or under her gaze.

"The first Herald wrote as follows in the book that would become the Book of the Heralds: Feeble was the moment before nothing; for a moment, I felt everything—all the joys and feelings that anyone can feel—it was ecstasy, life was beautiful, and I was happy—but after a mere moment, there was nothing. Just the darkness in my mind and the mist that now clouds it."

"This was her experience of the thing that most priests know as the descent; her’s was much more cruel than the one that you went through; it is also the same that every Herald has to go through. At the moment in which I was chosen by the Angels to be the next Herald, I went through that very same experience; all of the Heralds went through it."

"So not once but twice I have lost joy just to gain power."

As she spoke, her gaze traveled through the faces of all of those who were there—everyone who had found their way into the cathedral at that moment. Then she turned around and looked at the angel behind her. "It is unlikely for anyone to truly see an Angel, to bask in their glory, to truly feel filthy and useless before a creature greater than anything; yet I feel regret, as certainly do all of you."

She again faced the crowd and said, "That regret is something that will never go away; it will haunt you for the rest of your lives, as will the ever-present despair that gnaws at your existence."

"The life of a priest is not easy, but it will not be difficult either; your life is to be dedicated to service, not just for the Angels, but for the people that are around you."

"Out there is a world with far greater anguish, despair, and pain than any of us have truly ever felt. It is for us to carry a fraction of this torment."

"Thus I stand before you on this day to accept you as part of the Priesthood, as part of this sacred mission given to us by the Angels; recite thy vows!" She commanded, and the novices and priests alike declared their faith and vows in unison:

"In the name of the Angels, the Heralds, and the Priesthood, I pledge my life to the vows of duty that are given to us by the wishes of the Angels.

I vow to carry this torment without taking a life away from innocence; without succumbing to corruption or to a hunger for power; without killing myself; or without leaving those who are in need.

I vow that this duty I shall withhold, this duty I shall keep, and I vow that if I go against it, I shall receive the judgment of the Angels. May they witness and hear my words, and when I stand from my knees, I shall carry the mantel of a priest."

At last, when the last phrase was proclaimed, the novices stood up, and now that they were standing, they were priests of the Priesthood.

The Herald looked down upon them, and it was like her existence was illuminated by something—another existence—and thus she spoke: "We have seen and heard your vows, and they are accepted; now go and fill the duties that are given." Her voice echoed that of another; a more powerful presence lingered in the cathedral, one that wasn’t disgusting like that of the priests but one that was warm and joyful.

For a moment, even Kanrel felt happy, but that was soon washed away with a wave of despair.

Those who had just been novices were now priests, and one by one they were called upon the altar at the front of the cathedral. There, the Herald gave them a letter in which there would be their assignment until otherwise told.

There were so many potential places for all of them to go; some would become inquisitors, some would wander the kingdom, preaching and helping those in need, and some would find themselves in hospitals. Just a few things out of so many.

Kanrel already knew his assignment, but either way he received his letter, as did everyone else. Before giving the letter, his mother stared at him for a moment longer and even patted him on the head. Then he, too, was dismissed from the cathedral and from the academy as a whole.

They all now had to pack their things and adequate equipment for their journeys that had begun. It was a cold winter day as Kanrel marched out of the academy and into the city outside. He knew where he would be going.

After he reached the hills on the eastern road that would lead further into the north and the village that would be somewhere there, he looked back at the city and saw the massive complex that was the Academy of the Heavenly in the middle of it.

Dreams are what he thought they were. But the mundane dreams of your times at school can easily be soured, and even those dreams could soon become nightmares. Then what else would there be left, other than the sweet memories of your mother's embrace and the nightmares of everything else?

So bitter had become the memories that he once had of his time at the academy, and he had barely just left them behind.

Where do you find within yourself to dream again if all that is left are nightmares?

---The End of Part One---