- Duality is a strange thing. No race can be said to be 100% good, as there is always at least one person in it who professes the complete opposite. But nowhere is it written that it cannot be changed. That a bad person doesn't have to start out good. They would be happy stories if people didn't know how the good change was made. Because those who underwent this change were not without pain and suffering. I was one of them.
- I was guilty. For quintuple murder, I was guilty. Why did I do that? Did I get any use out of it? Maybe. Maybe it gave me a sense of superiority that I too could be the master of a life other than my own and forget for a moment that I was a street kid who couldn't read, let alone write. Or I didn't understand the full weight of what I had done.
- To take someone's life, a heinous crime that can hardly be repaid with anything. The first death was an accident, if murder can even be called that simplistically. It was during a fight, the reason for which was as simple as my way of life. But, it is not important. Once a man kills, he finds that it's easy… that it's as easy as snapping a finger. Then you have no inhibitions or conscience.
- Can I defend myself somehow? Defend your soul from what was to come? Before the ultimate ortel of Light, who would be right in every way? Yes… yes I can… but only by trying to become a better person. Thanks to something breaking inside me. A wise man once told me, "People who have done evil but repented shine more brightly than those who never needed to repent."
- I'm not proud of what I did, but I'm proud that I tried to change it. Even if it never washes away, so many lives that I have on my conscience, I will never do a thousand good deeds, I try to draw at least a spark of Light from my entire miserable existence, the Light that penetrated into my soul perhaps too late. And yet… after all, that spark was able to ignite the whole soul, which most of all lacked Light just as a flower lacks sunshine and water…
- So the question is: What is the value of the human soul?
He was barely twenty-five when he was brought before the court at Stratholme. Perhaps precisely because he had this memory vividly in his mind, he had no reason to write it down in his diary. That day, he almost beat up one of the bystanders - no one knew why and they didn't want to know - before the guards managed to pull him away from the victim. He had a terrifying strength for such a wiry man, although the aggression was much worse. After all, what can a street that fills the entire horizon from birth to the end of life do to the human mind.
The detainee, known to everyone only as Thomas without any last name, managed to murder one of the guards, beat another in such a way that even the priests could no longer help him, and the third lost his left arm for good. When anyone dared to ask them how the nothing had managed to do that, none of the survivors could answer. Only the commander of the city guard managed to stun the man. However, the man Thomas attacked first succumbed to his injuries within a few hours. Three dead in a single day and in a single incident.
Thomas used to be a shy child who hid from the eyes of everyone who walked the streets, and would come out especially at night. No one remembered where he was married, when he was born, or who his mother might have been. She either abandoned him or died, barely weaning him.
Thomas could not read or write, as was not unusual for a street child, and although several people showed interest in helping him, he immediately ran away or hid. He was said by many to be wild, though no one had ever seen him venture beyond the gates of a great city into the woods.
However, he learned to speak. Whenever he could, he climbed onto one of the slate roofs or hid behind the corner of the houses and listened to what the people on the street were saying to each other. He often heard terms he did not understand and words that seemed terribly foreign to him, and he never learned what they meant. Every day that he knew more and more, he was angry that he knew less and less.
Maybe that's why he was starting to get into fights and he just couldn't ignore people's taunts that were completely stolen from him before that. The first time he just broke the person's nose. Sometimes it's probably better not to understand people. However, the person in question got out of it and brought reinforcements. They were three very well-built people, about whom it would be fair to say that they could act as protectors even for the king himself. Thomas, however, was undaunted. His wild nature prevented him from feeling any fear. When they rushed at him, with shovels or a wooden pole in hand, Thomas snatched their "weapons", punched one in the ribs until he broke them, knocked out almost all of the other's teeth and broke his nose. The unfortunate man, who drew the reinforcement, took his legs on his shoulders. And the other guy who didn't run was so paralyzed that such a frail person could have the strength to overpower a bunch of four muscular people. Thomas rushed at him in a rage, smashed his face with his fists, kicked his knee, and as the wretch fell to the ground, took his head in his thin bony hands and slammed the back of his head against the stone pavement so many times that his skull was shattered. When his ardor passed, he hardly realized what he had done. Despite his wild nature, a little voice in his head had prevented him from killing anyone until now. But he had already done it and it wasn't as difficult as it seemed at first glance. Every new thing is hard until we do it.
At that time, he left the scene of the crime with a cool head. It didn't bother him that he had killed someone…not then. If only he knew that the man with broken ribs didn't get help and died by morning because he couldn't catch his breath. The other, with his teeth knocked out, survived, but after that ugly incident he never got into a fight again and couldn't even tell the guards what happened.
For a few days, Thomas hid in dark alleys and secluded neighborhoods because that was what he did best. And then… then they found him. A hapless bystander spotted him first and called the guards, at which point Thomas tried to silence him for betraying him.
The guards managed to catch him after a hard fight, and the commander of the guards was so enraged at the loss of two of his men and the maiming of a third that he had a court called that very day.
Thomas was not even placed behind bars to await sentencing. He was being dragged by two men, handcuffed in the bloodstained clothes he was wearing that day. The commander of the guards, all beaten and covered in blood, appeared before the court, with a face of anger and the conviction that he would put the murderer and disturber of the order of his city on the gallows.
The court was composed of the baron of the city himself: Baron Rivendare, a young noble who had inherited the title and position from his father, who had died of old age a few years before. There was also a judge he didn't know. And also a bald priest of small stature with bright eyes that gave a person joy as soon as they met.
Thomas was covered in blood, they wouldn't even let him wash his face, so angry was the commander of the city guard that he decided to behead him as soon as possible.
There were few witnesses. Only the aldermen, a few guards and a few people from the street who knew Thomas from birth and who managed to get in such a short time.
“Kneel!” The commander's gruff voice echoed through the spacious town hall. Thomas fought back for a while before finally being forced down with a powerful kick to the shin. He hissed in pain and indignation, but his wild eyes were fixed on the judge.
“What is your name?” the young baron asked formally.
Thomas replied with a frown.
“Can you talk, you hideous beast?!” the guard commander roared, a wonder he didn't punch Thomas.
"That's enough," said the small stocky priest who had been sitting next to the other two judges, standing up, stepping down from the dais and coming closer to the accused. They grabbed the guard's shoulders so he wouldn't try anything.
The priest gave them a sign that there was no need for such a commotion and fixed his deep eyes on Thomas. As if the accused had died, he stopped rebelling, until finally he calmed down like a child who is soothed by the words: every storm dies down.
"Don't yell at him. Can you talk, boy?” he asked him in a kind tone, as if he was talking to both of them equally.
The commander could not believe what he was witnessing. However, it was clear from him that he could not afford to be a priest. That's why he raged quietly rather than loudly.
Thomas looked at him with the same dumb ferocity in his eyes and seemed unable to utter anything more than a few guttural yelps. This was how he affected everyone, even though he was a human being just like everyone else in the room.
"Yes," he said at last in an unworn voice; I couldn't even call it anything else.
"Do you even know who you're talking to, you scum?!" shouted the enraged commander. “It is Archbishop Alonsus Faol himself! Archbishop of the Church of the Holy Light!”
“It's okay, Daniel. They talk to each other as equals," the bishop reassured him.
“An equal?!” shouted the named Daniel, commander of Stratholme's city militia. “He killed five people! Two of them are my men! How can it be-”
"That would do, Captain," the judge, whose name Thomas never learned, cut him off. Captain Daniel shot the judge a grumpy look and, with the urge to spit juicy, he preferred to stand at attention again.
"What's your name?" Faol continued patiently.
Thomas couldn't seem to believe that someone was talking to him so calmly. Like the friend he never had. "Thomas... Thomas, sir."
“Where did you grow up? Do you have any family?"
Thomas never thought he would be bothered by that question. They asked him about it only once, when he was still small and not so shy. Finally he shook his head.
"I want him brought to justice. I want to order his public execution!” the captain spoke again, still not cooled down after the hot day. "Murder is punishable by life imprisonment or death!"
"Yes, Daniel," countered the priest calmly. He spoke like a father to a child who doesn't know which way out of a maze. "However, I maintain that Thomas is not a murderer."
The captain turned red. How could the archbishop be so… naive? Stupid? What was that word that the archbishop's demeanor fell far short of?
"It is," the captain whispered, willing to argue his truth calmly even with King Terenas himself.
“Can you give us some basis for your opinion, father?” asked the young noble. His hands were clasped and he himself appeared much older than he actually was. Perhaps it was the piercing gaze he inherited from his late father. Whatever it was, the sight would make a dead man speak.
"We are all children of the Light. Me, you… and Thomas. We are who we want to be. But we are often what we have been shaped by a fate we did not choose. The fact that the mind is corrupted does not mean that the Light does not penetrate the soul.'
“What do you mean, father?” Daniel asked, his voice perhaps horrified at the bad foreboding.
"I will take Thomas under my protection."
There was a shocked silence in the hall. The witnesses, the jury, and especially the captain, were silent in silent astonishment.
"Under... your protection?” Daniel asked, not far from breaking down.
“Yes, dear Daniel. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
"You're insane!" This time the captain shouted at the calm archbishop. The Baron wanted to admonish him to be polite to the High Cleric, but he himself was so shocked that he forgot to admonish him. "They will kill all the healers, the priests,…everyone!"
"The Light is not interested in the judgments of men, dear Daniel."
That decided it. That day, Faol made more enemies than he could have imagined. He ordered the accused to be shackled and led him out of the hall himself, like a father leading a lost child back home. The captain of the city guard looked after them and resigned his position that very day.
- To this day I cannot say why the Archbishop did this. I was a murderer. I had the blood of several people on my hands. The captain had the right to behead me. But Faol wouldn't allow it. To this day, I don't know if I'm thanking him or cursing him. My soul was in decay. She was like a cracked mirror whose surface was clear but broken.
- It was certain that the archbishop made many enemies that day. Many began to think he was crazy, even if they didn't say it out loud in public. He jeopardized his reputation as a wise and fair person. And yet he did it... Sometimes just the fact that someone treats us as an equal can move us forward or throw us into the abyss. The choice is always up to us.
- There are only two beings in the world who have such unlimited power to mess with human lives. Beings both light and dark that can unseen force people to good deeds and terrible things... And then... then it's just us.
The rusted hinges creaked as the door swung open to reveal a small, simply furnished room. The room was narrow, it contained a bed with a simple blanket, a chest in the corner for personal belongings.
Thomas stepped into it very cautiously. He felt confused… as confused as he had ever been in his life. He would hardly be able to answer to himself whether the bishop offered him redemption or suffering. But doesn't every redemption also bring great pain? Because if the soul is like a cracked mirror, can such a mirror even be repaired? It can be trimmed, it can be replaced, so that only a decorative frame remains... but it is no longer the mirror it used to be.
He looked around slowly and shyly, just as a recently captured animal, still accustomed to freedom, looks around its cage. In his slender long hands he clutched a spare cassock, almost the same one he had been dressed in after he washed in the washroom. He felt like a wild horse that had been tamed, led into a stable, raked and shackled.
"We don't have very large rooms because we spend most of our time outside and in the temple gardens," explained Faol, who personally led him into the chamber. He didn't seem to mind the fact that the town was slowly starting to say that he had lost his mind. People can judge as they like. But only the Light knows what is right and what is wrong. People often don't know it themselves. "We come here to sleep and meditate."
Thomas didn't know what to say. He didn't need a big room. He never needed one. He lived in cellars, in dark alleys, sometimes he ran away from the city and slept in the open air. He always managed to get some fur to keep himself warm, or even make a fire so he wouldn't freeze. He didn't know if he felt like a guest or a prisoner.
Without answering the bishop, he placed the spare garment on the chest and sat down on the bed himself. "Do I have to be here?" Thomas asked suddenly.
“You can leave whenever you want. No one is keeping you here,” the archbishop replied kindly. "Sleep as long as you want, you must be tired. Someone can bring your food here tomorrow if you don't get up for breakfast in the refectory.'
"I'm not hungry," Thomas replied.
"Food can't always fill us up. Good night, Thomas.” Faol closed the door, leaving Thomas to his thoughts. No one knew what was going through his mind and no one even thought about it. We cannot often think of people who have been brought up on the streets as having minds brimming with meaningful associations. And even if we knew, we couldn't describe it.
Thomas listened warily to see if the footsteps died away. Only moonlight came into the room through a small window.
He quietly came to the door, took the handle and tried to open it. To his surprise, no one had bolted or locked them. He really could have left. That confused him. Why were they showing him such mercy? No one has ever treated him as anything other than dirt, as something far from human… and that often happens that a man becomes what others make of him.
He slowly stepped out into the cold corridor. The cassock, which fell to his ankles, provided him with at least minimal warmth. He never had clothes that really belonged to him. As he grew out of his baby clothes, one day a single old lady, apparently a seamstress from Hearthglen, a town beyond the hills and river Thondroril, noticed that the boy wore only ragged rags. It was she who gave him the name Thomas, the simplest name, because even he himself could not answer her this question. He didn't know who he was or what his name was. She sewed him clothes and gave them to him. When he grew out of them, he was forced to steal more. He couldn't work and earn at least a few coppers because no one wanted a street child. He was often chased away when he tried to do this as a small boy, and perhaps this caused him to start hiding from people - even the good ones. And all that happened was that he almost went wild. It could be said that if the archbishop had known about him earlier, perhaps he would have reversed the terrible process of decomposition... But the questions seem to be useless.
Thomas looked around the corridor lit only by a few burning beams. There was a strange calm and peace here. Peace and tranquility that perhaps seeps into a person's soul. No one bothered him, no one scolded him, they accepted him as their equal. He could run away… but then he would become a game again. He was safe here. He could rest his head in peace here, he could eat here. His subconscious was aware of all this. But consciousness kept asking itself the question: am I really safe here? Isn't it a trap? Isn't this just a trick to really punish me for what I did? And how serious a crime did I actually commit?
He wanted to run away down the corridor and get outside the Stratholme gates. But what he did was that he was wanted. If only anyone found out that he had fled the monastery...
He backed slowly and deliberately back into his chamber and sat on the bed. Even though it was only lined with straw, it was strangely soft. He was here as a prisoner… but it was the kindest prison he could ever wish for.
He was used to hunger and fatigue, but he could not sleep, nor did he have thoughts of food. The archbishop's kindness caused a lot of other questions to arise in his head, to which he did not know the answer. He was confused… terribly confused.
Although we should be more interested in the soul, we still always want to know what a person looks like. Whether we realize it or not, our souls shape the face we wear in matter. The soul carves it like a stone, every bad deed is a blemish on the statue, on the other hand, the inner Light seems to radiate outward through the eyes.
Nothing could be determined about Thomas. When the soul itself is confused, the appearance does not tell us much about it. Thomas's face, considering his twenty-fifth year of age, began to grow a short beard. They weren't long, they weren't very recognizable, rather it was fluff that was just getting to know the face it would grow on for the rest of its life. If Thomas had done a bit of grooming, you could say that his beard would grow in places where it would accentuate the nicer features of his emaciated face. The face itself was sharply cut, well remembered, the nose was perhaps a little larger and more prominent, but no other would have suited his face type. His cheekbones were protruding from prolonged starvation, and it seemed that nothing would change that. The unkempt eyebrows were prominent and accentuated his deep brown eyes laced with green threads even more. However, no one had ever really seen the color of his irises, as Thomas wouldn't let anyone get that close. He wasn't the typical handsome man, and he wasn't even like the peasants, who were so massive that they slowly resembled dwarves. But often only the inner radiance forces us to look only at the soul, which shines through even the ugliest face. But if the soul is noble, then even the face does not interest us so much.
If there was anything Thomas could do with his raven hair, which grew longer and harder with each passing year and became harder and harder to care for, people would find it ebony, shiny as a satin ribbon. But since long hair often gets in the way, gets tangled, Thomas once in a while had to find some sharp piece of stone, glass or rusty dagger or sickle to cut it short. When he arrived at the monastery complex in Stratholme, it took him a long time to get used to grooming. But when he started it, no one would even recognize him...
Alonsus Faol performed divine services in the morning immediately after breakfast in the refectory. During the day, he walked around the temple gardens, read in the scriptorium, went to the city to see the seriously ill or the deathbed, in order to heal with the help of the Light or caress the souls as they left for the other shore. However, he did not see Thomas anywhere that day. Therefore he went to his chamber to see if he was still asleep.
When he knocked and opened the door, no one was there. He ran away as I told you! the already former captain of the city guard would surely tell him. But Alonsus kept his cool. He went to look in the refectory and ask the monastery cook if he was here, but she didn't know. He made his way into the gardens to the fountain, whose gurgle he always found soothing.
He did not admit to himself that he could run away, although he did not rule out the possibility either. Then he thought of looking into the scriptorium.
He walked through the cold white stone corridors until he reached the library. There were scribes, priests, who sought wisdom in volumes large and small. He greeted them all, and when he was about to ask if they had seen Thomas, the white-robed, auburn-haired healer - she herself had read one of the books - looked up at him and pressed a finger to her lips. Then she pointed to a corner that was hidden behind one of the shelves.
Faol understood, thanked her with a look and went to look at the places where the healer was pointing. He found Thomas behind one of the tables, his head resting on his forearms. In front of him lay a tome opened somewhere halfway. Thomas was apparently asleep, but given his condition it was impossible to tell if he had been up all night. Alonso could only deduce this from a candle that burned out sometime in the morning.
He smiled, happy that Thomas didn't run off and hurt anyone. Placing a hand on his shoulder in a parental gesture, Thomas jerked into a sitting position. It was only when he looked back and saw Faol that he realized he was not on the street, but in the safety of the monastery. Either it was a guilty conscience or just reflexes caused by many years of struggle for survival that he turned so sharply, as if startled.
"I… I didn't mean to… I'll bring her back…" he apologized, but there was fear and something quite different in his voice.
"That's fine." Alonso looked at the book. The pages were not creased or bent. Thomas was certainly trying not to hurt her. "Can you read, boy?"
Thomas stared at him for a long time, as if he was ashamed to admit it, even though most of the townspeople and villagers had never learned to read. But it was strange for him to take out a book, even though he could hardly read what was in it. Finally, he shook his head with a scornful expression, as if reminding himself that he belonged at the bottom of society and nowhere else.
Alonso sat down next to him, carefully turned the first page, and pointed to the first ornate writing at the beginning of the text. “This is called an initial. Unlike the other letters, this one is much larger and more ornate. With all the pages decorated like this, and the whole volume rather resembling one large work of drawing, you could buy a whole farm for this one book. a single bound book has a price, Alonso was aware of that. And he did it for the reason to find out what is more important to Thomas and how he thinks.
Thomas was silent. He went through all the possibilities in his head. Yes, he originally sneaked into the scriptorium to take one of the books. He was aware of the price of such volumes, but then the other voice in his head reminded him of the situation he was in. If he took the book, ran away and tried to sell it, would that help him? The buyer would know where the book came from and have him arrested. There was wealth in the monastery. Gold coins or knowledge. And he realized at that moment that at this moment he had only one option: at least to look closely at the book. Therefore, he took one from the shelf, read it in the dying candlelight, and his soul seemed to rejoice over the beautiful delicate work. He regretted that he couldn't read, because there must have been a lot of information hidden in the text that he wanted to get to. On the one hand, he was a street child who had no feeling for art, not even for such fragile things as books, and on the other hand, he had a kind of innate desire for knowledge.
That's why when Faol told him information of such a nature, after which many people of his kind would wait for the night and run away from the monastery with three volumes in their hands, he was aware of it and maybe that's why he didn't show anything about himself. One part of his personality had an urge to pick up a few books, the other wanted to learn to read and write. He was not used to being nice to people because they didn't treat him well, but at least he was fair to that bishop. Neither friendly nor hostile.
“I'll teach you to read and write, Thomas. If you wish," the bishop offered him, when he was convinced that Thomas was more overcome by curiosity than by the instinct of a thief.
Thomas was shocked. Why did he want to teach him that? Why was he so nice to him? Was it really as selfless as it seemed? Whatever it was, Thomas thought. He always wanted to be able to do it, even if he didn't know what it would do for him.
He finally nodded in response, not realizing that he had taken the most important step of his life.
Faol sat with him at the tome all afternoon and into the evening until it was unbelievable. Some priests saw his mission in this, others still could not understand the kindness that Faol abounded even towards such people as Thomas. He taught him letter by letter, to distinguish written from printed, small from large, and slowly taught him to read. The thought of what the boy must have been like had he taken care of him earlier had crossed Faol's mind quite a few times that day. He was unusually intelligent for growing up on the streets and not knowing anything else. Despite the fact that he was twenty-five, and people know what the saying "you can't teach an old wolf to hunt in other regions" means, Thomas was literally devouring information. Perhaps because his mind was not worn out by learning, and everything he had learned so far in his life he had learned voluntarily, he remembered the information perfectly. The environment one grows up in often doesn't have to affect a mind that was made to be sharp. Faol knew that if Thomas overcame his age, he would learn to be a good person who would fit into society without a problem. But at the same time, he knew that it took little to learn to read and write just to become unusually dangerous.
Be that as it may, Faol was willing to take responsibility for Thomas. He believed that his soul was not dark, only lost, like a ship carried far from shore by the storm of life. He didn't know exactly how terrible a struggle Thomas was waging within himself, that every day he asked himself the question: why should I stay here? What prevents me from killing them and stealing what I can? Why am I willing to learn all this? But the fight was certainly terrible. The battle of the soul with the mind. Which of these two powers of existence was corrupted? Which fought on the side of good and which wanted to drag the soul into the abyss? Alonso prayed to the Light that the light would be his soul.
After the whole day, when Thomas came to his room, still confused, but a little brighter in his eyes, he sat on the bed and did not know how to take everything. The man taught him everything he wanted. Should he abuse it? Should he kill him? Why should he treat him well when no one has ever treated him well?
The more Thomas wrestled internally, the more he realized that it might be easier if he went to the gallows. The mind was restless and the soul divided.
He fell on the bed and stared at the stone ceiling that slowly began to melt in the coming night. Nevertheless, a kind of calming aura seemed to permeate the monastery.
He's helping me, Thomas realized. He teaches me to read. He saved me, he treats me as his equal. Why?
There were many such questions, and the more he thought about it, the more he did not understand the kindness. A tear ran down his face from the corner of his eye. He gave me a second chance, he realized slowly. And the more he realized it, the more tears rolled down his face. Finally he hugged his knees and wept completely. He was crying. This is what happens when the hard shell that protects our soul from the injustice of the world is cracked by kindness and a good heart instead of a hammer. And as Thomas wept, it was as if his soul was emerging from the darkness. It was as if she began to realize her existence, and that he no longer wanted her to continue in this direction. He will not take a single step on this path. No longer…
Two months passed in the monastery. Thomas finally began to eat a little more, though still slowly, as if he didn't want to take more than necessary from the others' rations. He got up early in the morning to have breakfast, then went to Mass where he felt as if he had nothing to do. And then he went to the scriptorium, where a brown-haired healer named Aneth took over the teaching. She was kind to him, despite what she knew about him. Thomas read more and more fluently every day, making great progress because he wanted to. When another dark thought came to his mind, he immediately dismissed it, even though he had to exert a tremendous amount of effort many times to push it back into the depths of consciousness.
Then he learned to write. At first, you could tell how rough his hands were, how clumsy he was due to his previous life and didn't have the right feeling in his hands. But with each sentence he got better, he even stopped moving so spasmodically, he started to be confident in his movements. He was becoming a new person without realizing it. He knew that he would probably never make such beautiful initials as he saw in the large volumes, but he gradually learned to write.
Then, when he had some free time, he read. Quite a few times he came across a term that he did not understand, so he asked young Aneth what it meant. She calmly explained everything to him in such a way that he was always able to understand it.
His appearance was beginning to change. He seemed torn, but you could see that he was trying to fight it. However, he still felt like a prisoner here, and the feeling was so terrible that he once came to Faol himself.
The bishop sat by the fountain in the gardens every afternoon after lunch, and that was why he found him there.
Thomas had already learned to greet him, as the bishop deserved, because Aneth was also beginning to teach him the principles of decent behavior.
Faol looked at him with a smile. “Let the Light guide your steps, Thomas. What bothers you? Here with that. We'll deal with it.” He indicated that he could sit next to him on the bench in front of the fountain. Thomas began to feel more and more every day that he was not even worthy to speak to Faol, but sat down.
"I… feel like a prisoner here," he admitted bluntly. He felt terrible when he told him. Faol treated him well. He wasn't holding him here… and yet he didn't feel free.
"A person who can go where he wants doesn't have to feel free, even if it looks that way on the outside. While a person behind bars can be free even if he is only and only in his cell. Why is that, Thomas?” Faol asked him such questions often. It forced his mind to think about the meaning of existence and being. He refined his mind, cleansed it of dust and darkness.
“A person… who has everything, doesn't have to feel happy?” he asked uncertainly.
“That's right, Thomas. Why is it that people who were born into a rich family, moved in good circles, could read and write from an early age, could travel wherever they wanted, were never happy? Why do you think that is so?'
"So you think we lock ourselves up behind bars inside ourselves, even though we're free on the outside?"
“Exactly, Thomas. Exactly. You have a sharp mind. Society and fate often reshape us, but we can never deny the foundation we were born with.”
Thomas folded his arms. He didn't feel free here. He felt dejected. "But why is it so with me?"
“You can't accept your new life. You blame yourself, perhaps only subconsciously. You feel like you don't belong here. One part wants to be here, the other knows she's not worthy.'
“How… how do you know all this?” Thomas didn't know whether to be horrified or happy that the bishop knew so much about him.
"Light has understanding for all its children. He loves us without distinction. We are not perfect. We are wrong. But if we can learn from our mistakes, then that's the best we can do. We all have our own path and nothing is a coincidence. You have to accept yourself, you have to know yourself that you are welcome here. You must learn to be welcome within yourself.'
“But I… my thoughts… I often have the urge to do something. Something wrong, something I shouldn't do.” He was afraid to confide in him, but he knew he had to. "But I do not want to. I don't want to do it. I fight it, but often I don't know if I should stop fighting it. Whether it is worth changing what is my nature.'
“And what if it's not your nature? What if it's just a habit, thinking this way? There are many difficult things in the world. Coming to terms with the loss of a loved one. Seeing a lifetime's work in flames. But the hardest thing is to start thinking differently. And that doesn't happen overnight. The mind defends itself, it is like a cold piece of steel that cannot be properly cornered. We ask ourselves why we should change our thinking and what is wrong with our thinking. But the basis is to start asking yourself these questions. You're on the right track.”
Thomas did not speak to him again that day. He thanked him for his help and left. Lately it has been feeling worse and worse. Shouldn't he give up? He defends his nature. He pretends to be what he is not in order to survive in the monastery environment.
No… He shook his head. No longer. I don't want to be like that. I will do anything to change. I have to
He didn't know why the determination was so strong. Maybe the soul was crying for help. And he was going to give her a helping hand, even though he hesitated quite a few times.
Thomas was not used to touching people, let alone having them touch him. A kind touch of a hand on the shoulder and even a friendly exclamation embarrassed him. A soul, so much scourged by the injustice of the world, was apt to burst into tears at a kind word; so much did the expressions of friendship affect Thomas. They hurt him and somehow comforted him at the same time.
It was Aneth, who took care of him, who often did this. Whenever he made a mistake, she kindly corrected him. Whenever he raised his voice at her, she answered patiently and that helped him realize that he was treating her badly, just because she didn't raise his voice at him too.
She was aloof towards him, she still didn't trust him that much, just because of what she knew about him and it seemed like she started to trust Thomas more and more every day just because he never laid a hand on her. He kept his distance from her, he never tried to touch her, as if he had a certain respect for her, and at the same time he was aware that she was like a small bird that he could scare away with a sudden movement.
Aneth and Faol were just showing him the kind face of humanity and Thomas was slowly starting to melt. He began to believe, he began to understand kindness. One would have thought that he would not understand the expressions of friendship, but the fact that he was able to weep slowly just at the word of thanks proved to Faol that Thomas's soul only lacked friendship and understanding.
Aneth had become so used to his presence that she allowed him to go with her to the sick and wounded. Some were placed directly in the hospital of the monastery, others went to the city. However, Thomas did not want to go to the city for many months. He was afraid of being recognized, despite the fact that he started grooming himself a bit at Aneth's prompting, he slowly let his hair grow long since he already had the chance to keep it in good condition. And the fact that he was afraid showed him that he did have a conscience.
Whatever it was, he came to regard Aneth as a kindred spirit. She was aloof, still a little afraid of him, but once her attitude disappeared that she only considered him a "necessary evil" she started to be a little more cordial towards him.
Once she took him with her to a badly wounded soldier who had been badly bitten by a hungry wolf somewhere around Darrowshire, a settlement near the river Thondroril. Thomas was always interested in what the power of the Light looked like up close, so he went with Aneth. Perhaps the fact that he did not know about the existence of the Light at all caused his soul to fall into more and more damnation.
It was a miracle that they were able to transport the soldier as far as a farm near Stratholme, but it was no longer possible. It seemed that even the two miles could not be managed by the soldier.
Aneth originally wanted to ride a horse in order to save the soldier in time, but thanks to Thomas, she changed her mind. She didn't know if he could ride a horse or if she would like him sitting right behind her with his arms around her waist.
As they stepped out into the busy street, Thomas at first retreated back behind the gate to the monastery courtyard, but remembering that he had crossed it several times before, he decided not to delay the healer. He stepped behind her, still watching the surrounding bustle in alarm.
The streets were full of life, but of a kind he had never known. It was strange to start dating people he had avoided for years. As if someone was forcing him to become someone else. But after a few weeks in the monastery and conversations with Faol, he knew that the only one forcing him to change was himself. And that was a good sign.
Aneth noticed him trying to look away from the guards so they wouldn't recognize him, so she grabbed his forearm. Thomas jumped in shock, but quickly calmed down when he realized that Aneth wasn't going to reprimand him for anything.
"Don't look at them. Are you going to do a good thing or not?'
Thomas stared at her dumbfounded for a moment before answering, "You're the healer."
"And so will you if you try to help people."
"Who were never kind to me?"
"Not all people are the same. There are good and bad people everywhere. And even the bad ones should be given a second chance, because we never know if they will change for the better."
This completely freaked Thomas out. She was right. He was one of those people. And they gave him a second chance. But in that time he knew it would have been a lot easier if they had let him behead that day. Changing at his age was really difficult and required a lot of effort. And he felt that he would never quite succeed anyway.
It was strange walking outside the city gates without fear of someone stopping him and trying to lock him in a dungeon. Perhaps he was wanted, as he judged from the incredulous looks of the city guards, who, despite the great external change, still found the old Thomas in him.
The old one. Thomas realized that he had thought "old". Wasn't it him? What he did and how he lived was a long closed chapter in his book of life? No… he felt that there was still one thing left that connected him with a weak thread to his past life. And he had a bad feeling he was going to find her out anytime soon.
Aneth almost ran. They passed small houses along the main road until they arrived at the place. At the entrance stood an elderly man, apparently the master of the house, who had taken the liberty of keeping the wounded soldier with him.
“Good to see you here priestess. I'm afraid it might be too late for him,” he told them, instead of greeting and gesturing them on.
"It's never too late," Aneth said to herself as she stepped inside with Thomas behind her.
The house was small, with only two rooms, one of which they had just entered. On the other side of the room stood a fireplace, on the ledge a few small things, to which none of the visitors paid any attention, let alone the other necessary equipment of the room.
The only thing Aneth was interested in right now was the straw-lined bed on which lay a badly wounded and pale soldier. He was stripped of his excess armor so that it wouldn't cause him more trouble, and a larger woman was still standing by him, who immediately made room for the priestess as she rushed to the bed.
Aneth knelt next to the soldier, Thomas next to her in case she needed help. The priestess placed a gentle hand on the cold forehead and whispered prayers, the words of which Thomas could hardly register. Still, the litany began to show. A pleasant warmth began to spread from the princess's hands, and her palms seemed to glow faintly. The light really existed, he could see it now, he could feel its warmth on his face and it seemed to touch his insides.
The soldier opened his eyes after a while. He was deathly pale and his gaze glassy. He turned his head towards Aneth and studied her for a moment.
“Breast… pocket… letter… to the captain…” he said jerkily, trying to move his hand to reach for the named item, but it seemed frozen. Aneth calmly nodded and placed her hand on his chest to still have time to ignite the cooling heart that had stopped beating. However, the soldier closed his eyes after a while, and not a single muscle on his face moved after a while.
When Thomas arrived, he knew perfectly well that the soldier was dying. And he knew after the first second that he had died. He had seen death before, but in the few months he had been in the monastery, he still hadn't fully realized how serious and definitive death really was. That person will never come back, never open their eyes again, never wake up. And neither will the ones he killed. Is it true? Did he really kill? Wasn't it just a dream? A bad nightmare?
Who was he to decide such a definitive thing as death? Now, as he knelt next to the priestess who whispered the last words to escort the soul to the other shore, he realized the last thing that connected him to the dark past: he had killed.
"He's dead, isn't he?" asked the old woman, standing at a respectful distance from the bed.
"Yes," Aneth replied calmly, her hand still resting on the dead man's forehead, "yes it is."
The words seemed to hit Thomas in the chest like a battering ram. So it's true. How could he be so oblivious? How could he not realize such a fundamental thing as murder? Steal someone's life time and chance to live?
He looked at Aneth, who had already gotten up from the bed, clutching a letter in her hand that she had taken from the dead man's breast pocket. He didn't know what to do. He could not stay in the monastery. He didn't belong there and never deserved it. The priestess looked at him, not knowing what was going on in his head and nodded to indicate that they must go.
And Thomas only went so that he could run away at night and no one knew where he had gone.
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