Martin had never been particularly great with expressing his feelings. Perhaps that was what made writing these letters so difficult.
Not for a lack of thoughts; he had plenty of those. Over the past days Martin had filtered his plan through his head over and over again, considering consequences, risks, back-up ideas, exit plans. He was as prepared to face Sandwalker as he could possibly be. Putting farewells in writing, however, added finality to his plans. It meant acknowledging that he might never come home to explain himself. That was what hindered his words.
When he finally mustered the will to write, he started with his teacher. For Autgar, he kept his letter straightforward and simple:
I'm sorry I didn't have your back at Ghimlyt Dark, but knowing you, I'm sure you were more than capable of handling yourself. With any luck, we'll have conquered both our foes today. If not, thank you for having faith in me when few else did. -Martin
Berrod's letter is more clipped:
You know what I've done and probably can guess at why I did it. I don't regret my decision. What I'm doing here is as much for everyone's sake as it is for mine. Don't you dare accuse me of acting without their interests at heart. You can chew me out all you want when I'm home. If I come home at all, it means I won. -Martin
For Flora, he embarrasses himself writing wishy-washy reassurances:
I'm sorry for leaving the burden of responsibility for her on your shoulders, but I know you'll carry it for the both of us if I'm gone. I'll try not to be long.
Take care of her, and yourself as well. Remember to eat. -Martin
With their letters signed and sealed, Martin tucks away for safekeeping, hidden in his locker in the Agent’s Ala Mhigan office. Luck permitting, he'd be back in time to trash the notes before anyone would think to look through it.
This leaves him with one final letter, and for Suhee, he struggles the longest. There is so, so much he has to say to her, none of it fit for a note he might never get to follow up on. A heartsick confession? An apology? How could he look her in the eye when she woke up, knowing the face of her teacher's killer? Knowing he had been an indirect accomplice to her misery?
How much blood stained his hands from his days fighting under Imperial flags? How many girls like Suhee did he rob of teachers and father figures? They all knew what he had done as a Skull, sure, but none of the misdeeds had ever had a personal face attached to them. Not until now.
He owed this to them, Suhee most of all. It was time to right a past mistake.
In the end, he can’t bear the thought of a farewell note. Instead, he leaves her a promise; a short, scrawled note on her bedside table with words he’ll do his best to fulfill:
The monastery still had a peculiar energy about it, even though it hadn’t been occupied in years— the aether was thick with the presence of other folk, the debris on the ground rife with stories. It was not a wholly lonely place to live, not in the slightest— And Flora found herself treating Sali as if the elderly monks still lived there. So, of course they needed someone to take care of them, and their memory.
The trek back down from the mountaintops was always especially precarious after a summer rainstorm— What was once rock-solid footing had now become a slippery, muddy deathtrap. So, one couldn’t really say Flora climbed down from the heights as much as she awkwardly slid and scrambled down. Her clothes were arguably white, once, but now she’s spattered head to toe in mud and caked-on dirt.
She’s tired from training, yes, and she thinks she’s broken another finger yet again, but grateful she had just the tiniest sliver of daylight left to guide her feet. These last rays of sunlight kept her from stepping on the wrong bit of earth and falling down into the Rothlyt Wastes below. As such, it’s with relief that she reaches flat ground again— a narrow little path that wound around the edge of the cliffside and led to the little valley where the crumbling remains of Sali Monastery lay. Sali herself was a happy sight, but the storm’s winds had blown all sorts of leaves and branches all over the place.
Flora’s pace quickens— it’s time to see what other damage had been done to the monastery— she truly hoped it was just a little bit of flooding, a little bit of mess, like usual. “Please,” she starts, looking up to the sky above, “Please, Lord Rhalgr, let this place still stand as it has.”
And, luckily, when she approached, not a brick was out of place, though with all the scattered twigs and wood and leaves, she’d certainly have her work cut out for her. “This must be a branch from every tree in Gyr Abania,” Flora muttered, picking up a big, wet branch and hauling it away from the entry. She picked up the little leaves and twigs, too, as she went— and little by little, the ruins looked a little less sad and forlorn.
The monastery still had a peculiar energy about it, even though it hadn’t been occupied in years— the aether was thick with the presence of other folk, the debris on the ground rife with stories. It was not a wholly lonely place to live, not in the slightest— And Flora found herself treating Sali as if the elderly monks still lived there. So, of course they needed someone to take care of them, and their memory.
This place had almost definitely been the place of their death, after all— Many elders of the Fists of Rhalgr were happier to end their own lives than let their teachings fall into the hands of the Corpse Brigade. If they had died here, she knew not where they would have been buried— or even if they had been properly lain to rest, given that so many of the Revolution’s martyrs lay in unmarked graves, or at the bottom of Loch Seld.
There was so much she’d likely never learn about the elders who lived here, or even the students they took in. She’d scoured the whole place a million times over trying to find any shred of writing she could from them— and, yes, deep in the catacombs beneath the monastery, there were a few little writings left behind, but it was too treacherous to pass, structurally. She hadn’t tried again for a long while.
“You are all well, yes?” She speaks aloud to the empty room. “Nothing is amiss?”
Of course, there was no answer, but that didn’t keep Flora from standing and waiting for one, holding her pile of sopping wet timber in her arms.
“Alright— very well. Uhm—” She awkwardly turns on her heel and steps toward the door. “I will be right back, yes? I am going to see about Aedadem Ei, and Monstrance, and— yes, I’ll come back and pray with you, tonight. Just— just a minute, yes? Ah, well, not a minute. Longer, you— you know, yes,” she rambled, waving a hand at nothing.
After the evening’s work was done, and the monastery’s grounds no longer looked like Ixion himself had trampled them, Flora settled back in to the corner of the main floor she’d staked out as her own. She did her evening prayers and then took a moment to eat whatever scraps of food she had left over from the last time she’d gone foraging— and then she spread out a coeurl hide on the damp stone floor and laid down, staring at the hole in the ceiling.
Her heart began to beat fast as she thought of what she was going to attempt tomorrow— it was going to be difficult to sleep, tonight. There had been an occurrence out near Coldhearth that some folk were calling a miracle: a field that had lain barren or two decades, but after lightning struck, little yellow flowers began to spring up everywhere.
“I suppose, ah, folk don’t need convinced, necessarily, yes? They know what they are seeing, it is just that— ah, it has been beaten out of them. By Theodoric, and then the Imperials. Did you— did you ever think it would be like this?” She speaks aloud, to the empty air. “They just— they just need to feel safe again, to call it for what they know it is.”
She tosses and turns for what feels like half a bell before she decides it’s time to read V.M.’s latest letter, for what must have been the twentieth time. It was too late in the evening to use the linkpearl and speak to her brothers, after all-- And her husband, too, is likely fast asleep. So she took the letter from the breast of her harness, unfolded it, and eased herself up to look at it in the lantern’s light. She scanned through the letter to get to the most encouraging part:
“This is one of the reasons I find you to be a remarkable example of Shadow sect monkhood— you live apart from folk, of course, or I would not know you. But that you have chosen to share the knowledge you have collected— This is not what I would have expected from you, given your leanings, but I was full glad to be proven wrong.
In truth, it is what the Fists of Rhalgr were always meant to be: shepherds of Rhalgr’s flock and leaders of men. And I am proud that you have not forsaken this holy duty when so many others have. Even though you have confessed your nervousness to me, understand that your knowledge of His will is more than enough to be a balm to the suffering people.”
It left Flora with a warmth in her chest, even after the millionth time she’d read it. Letters from V.M. had turned from brief scriptural discussions to long, winding, multi-page tomes, but she still knew nothing about the writer— they’d never met, still, even though the letters had become so personal. She told V.M. a lot, now— about her struggles harnessing Atala, about her every insecurity.
“Do you suppose V.M. is one of us? He— or, well, she, I suppose— sounds like he could not be anything other than a monk,” she murmurs aloud, folding up the letter carefully and putting it with the rest. “I had thought, when I took my vows, that I would never meet another ascetic at all— and look how things have turned out. All of my brothers, and this person, and— everyone else I’ve met.”
She lies back down, and her heavy eyelids sink shut— and sleeps well, knowing she does not rest alone.
"It is a...difficult thing to hear. It does not match my own faith, but I would not begrudge a man for holding it. Such a faith cannot strive for His sublimity in the way we do -- but it doesn't matter. Not to them, nor should it to us."
"Meaning Rhalgr could've been a man..?"
"Aye. A man who inspired the image we hold him in -- so those believe."
"Mayhap, according to this worldview, Rhalgr's Sublimity is all the more attainable...?"
"It does make some sense given depictions of him.."
"If he were once as base and sinful as man."
"Something akin to the saints spoken of in Ishgard, but on a far grander scale. I have spoken to a few who feel the same. For some it gives hope, particularly those misled by other leaders of faith."
"Aye, interestingly enough it reinforces our own faith in a way. It means that it -can- be done, and destroys any doubt in our hearts."
"He could've been.. an archon of some kind then?"
"We can be as divine, in some respects?. I find it a good means to think about the Twelve, because They have many names. and all that is written about them is by us Spoken. For good or ill?"
"I think that's the word, yes. I believe I've read it before."
"The person who taught me of this belief believes so, yes."
"Aye -- exactly like that."
"Who did teach you this?"
"The father of a friend."
It was heartening to hear Berrod speak again. I still think fondly back at Rhaglr’s Stone. We were now at another one. One we couldn’t be at before. One bought with more blood. And he spoke of tolerance.
To understand the views of others can be different, though towards the same end. To realize the potential within ourselves in reviewing these different views. And to see what we work so hard towards includes having tolerance.
A strong balance to have. A hard thing to say for all the changes I have seen happen with him. And I only have a sparing glance.
The greatest monk I knew stayed one of the greatest men I have met.
“Games of naughts and crosses.”
“The meals all those that the Fist of Rhaglr used to eat?”
“I like food.”
“Someone found a forbidden recipe in there? Now I’m more than interested.”
