Thelonius
The boy arrived alone. Out of the wastes and winds he walked, this young, lone child. No foolish duke led him by the hand, asking the monks for warrior’s training. No caravan of merchants, asking to unload an extra mouth. No note. No sign of others in the miles you could view from the monastery’s tower. Just the boy, trudging silently into the courtyard of the Walled Steppe.
The watch questioned him kindly, then roughly, but he would not answer. It was Augustan Iao who pushed past the others, took the boy by the hand and led him inside to a meal. Augustan, not yet leader, who accepted Thelonius without judgment, who showed him to a thin bed, who fetched him in the morning for milk and chores. “How many of us have arrived as he did, lone wanderers drawn by the holy radiance of Vestrel? If he is younger than we, the greater is his potential.”
Thelonius slipped into the steady routine of the monastery. The rigors of monastic life – little sleep, little food, much labour – soon cured most would-be brothers of their “calling” but Thelonius seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. He still would not speak of where or who he had left, but in all other ways blossomed, growing physically stronger, mentally keener, spiritually resolute. The Wind Through Hills nourished him and, wherever he had come from, it was clear he was now home.
Then the dark day came. The brothers journeyed to the Rock. And the Rock was shattered. And Vestrel was gone. And a girl, a few years younger than he, was found lying nearby.
The brothers were aghast at the reliquary’s destruction. Though no sinister mark lay on the sleeping girl, some would have her bound in chains. When she eventually awoke and said she could not remember whence she came, a few called to punish her or turn her out of doors. Again, Augustan refused to pass judgement, giving Lo Malanga the same chance he had given Thelonius years before.
Her presence at the Walled Steppe was like a spark; some hoped to kindle it to a fire, some wished to stamp it out. If she had been open and approachable, perhaps things would have gone easier, but even as a child and still more as a young woman, she held herself apart. In another monastic, it would be an admired quality, but here it gave room for whispers and the seeds of discontent.
When it became clear Lo was having nightmares, awakening the brothers with her screams on occasion, the displeased seized on her behaviour to demand her ouster.
Augustan stood firm against the discontent and Thelonius stood ever with his mentor. There were similarities between the girl’s mysterious arrival and his own, though she claimed to have no memory of what came before whereas he…
Before a confrontation erupted between Augustan’s disciples and the splintering brothers, the girl left. Augustan bitterly lamented her loss, rebuking her critics when they said the needs of the many must come before the needs of the one. In her, Augustan said, the many are wound up. We have failed more today than the day the reliquary was destroyed.
The monastery has never been the same. Under an atmosphere of tension and, more so, without Vestrel’s holy presence, many of the brothers have returned to the road as wandering monks, cutting the Walled Steppe’s population in half. The steady stream of gifts from nobles of the Western Highlands - sent to ask the brothers for prayers - has slowed to a trickle. Truthfully the monks do not mind the absence of these donations, so often the obsequies of guilty consciences, but reduced visits of messengers and traders limits their news of the wider world.
Thelonius grew in strength and certainty, the Wind making his steps swifter, his mind sharper. If anything, Augustan and he drew closer after Lo’s departure; with the old monk sharing many teachings his contemporaries were denied. Twice he was been sent on pilgrimage, taking a journey across the land to manifest a journey within. In the plains he learned diligence and kindness in his search for water, food and the shelter. On the mountain he learned to balance courage and detachment, striving for the peak but releasing his body’s fate to the cosmos.
This year Augustan has sent him on his third journey: to the north, to learn humility at the hands of the unconquerable cold. But unlike the other trials, Augustan drew him close and whispered instructions to return speedily before he left.
“It is not right to deny you this journey, but do not stay long away. A force is moving in the world. What began that day at the Rock all those years ago is not finished, it is growing. We will need your strength, brother, if we are to rally the others.”
What others? The monks of the Steppe? Augustan would not say, but dismissed him to his travels.
The watch questioned him kindly, then roughly, but he would not answer. It was Augustan Iao who pushed past the others, took the boy by the hand and led him inside to a meal. Augustan, not yet leader, who accepted Thelonius without judgment, who showed him to a thin bed, who fetched him in the morning for milk and chores. “How many of us have arrived as he did, lone wanderers drawn by the holy radiance of Vestrel? If he is younger than we, the greater is his potential.”
Thelonius slipped into the steady routine of the monastery. The rigors of monastic life – little sleep, little food, much labour – soon cured most would-be brothers of their “calling” but Thelonius seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. He still would not speak of where or who he had left, but in all other ways blossomed, growing physically stronger, mentally keener, spiritually resolute. The Wind Through Hills nourished him and, wherever he had come from, it was clear he was now home.
Then the dark day came. The brothers journeyed to the Rock. And the Rock was shattered. And Vestrel was gone. And a girl, a few years younger than he, was found lying nearby.
The brothers were aghast at the reliquary’s destruction. Though no sinister mark lay on the sleeping girl, some would have her bound in chains. When she eventually awoke and said she could not remember whence she came, a few called to punish her or turn her out of doors. Again, Augustan refused to pass judgement, giving Lo Malanga the same chance he had given Thelonius years before.
Her presence at the Walled Steppe was like a spark; some hoped to kindle it to a fire, some wished to stamp it out. If she had been open and approachable, perhaps things would have gone easier, but even as a child and still more as a young woman, she held herself apart. In another monastic, it would be an admired quality, but here it gave room for whispers and the seeds of discontent.
When it became clear Lo was having nightmares, awakening the brothers with her screams on occasion, the displeased seized on her behaviour to demand her ouster.
Augustan stood firm against the discontent and Thelonius stood ever with his mentor. There were similarities between the girl’s mysterious arrival and his own, though she claimed to have no memory of what came before whereas he…
Before a confrontation erupted between Augustan’s disciples and the splintering brothers, the girl left. Augustan bitterly lamented her loss, rebuking her critics when they said the needs of the many must come before the needs of the one. In her, Augustan said, the many are wound up. We have failed more today than the day the reliquary was destroyed.
The monastery has never been the same. Under an atmosphere of tension and, more so, without Vestrel’s holy presence, many of the brothers have returned to the road as wandering monks, cutting the Walled Steppe’s population in half. The steady stream of gifts from nobles of the Western Highlands - sent to ask the brothers for prayers - has slowed to a trickle. Truthfully the monks do not mind the absence of these donations, so often the obsequies of guilty consciences, but reduced visits of messengers and traders limits their news of the wider world.
Thelonius grew in strength and certainty, the Wind making his steps swifter, his mind sharper. If anything, Augustan and he drew closer after Lo’s departure; with the old monk sharing many teachings his contemporaries were denied. Twice he was been sent on pilgrimage, taking a journey across the land to manifest a journey within. In the plains he learned diligence and kindness in his search for water, food and the shelter. On the mountain he learned to balance courage and detachment, striving for the peak but releasing his body’s fate to the cosmos.
This year Augustan has sent him on his third journey: to the north, to learn humility at the hands of the unconquerable cold. But unlike the other trials, Augustan drew him close and whispered instructions to return speedily before he left.
“It is not right to deny you this journey, but do not stay long away. A force is moving in the world. What began that day at the Rock all those years ago is not finished, it is growing. We will need your strength, brother, if we are to rally the others.”
What others? The monks of the Steppe? Augustan would not say, but dismissed him to his travels.