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Hrathen remembered best the blood, simply enough. Rebels had fought in the streets like starved wolves in winter, through a city coated in corpses, with nothing but the heavy scent of blood to remember them by. It had stained the stones as people screamed - in anger, in pain, in fear. The screams had seemed easy to distinguish, then, with a sword in his hand and eight of the Dulish rebellion's highest leaders following behind. It had been harder to interpret their faces as he betrayed them so easily, but now it seemed all too clear. The betrayal that registered on their faces as the monks of Ghajan drew their blades had become all too familiar that night, and would, he imagined, haunt him for a long while.
He shook his head and blinked, grounding himself in reality. The camp was silent about him - the monks had long since gone to sleep, and there was no need for anyone to be up at this hour. Save for the guards, of course, but posted at the perimeter as they were, Hrathen doubted they would notice his silent debate. The smoke from his dying fire flitted about, though he paid it little heed. He was tempted to kick it out and go back to his tent, but Hrathen knew sleep would not come easily.
So instead, he added kindling to the fire, ensuring himself at least another twenty minutes of light to read by. Tonight’s reading would not be the same as most of the times he read from the Do-Dereth; tonight would be more personal. Hrathen read from the holy books daily, in meditation, prayer, or in quotes delivered to groups. He doubted he would even need to see the words to know them, at this point in his life. Yet holding the book was a small comfort, the worn leather familiar to his hands. A copy dyed deep red for a priest, it had been the first he had been given after the...events...of Dakhor. He had kept it for the last twenty-odd years he had worked as a priest, even though his rank entitled him to a more lavish edition.
He ran a finger over the simple stamped design on the cover, slowly gaining control over his cluttered thoughts and stamping out the urge to panic. It may have been some months since he had required such calming methods, but Hrathen had memorized the methods early in his career. The simple techniques had proven valuable over the years - guilt and doubt had both been frequent in the years after he fled from Dakhor.
It had been able to push the guilt aside, during the chaos of Duladel - in the midst of battle, he had found it easy. Simple, even, to follow his strict orders and rationalize it as the right thing for him to do. His orders had been simple: Get to the center of the city and hand the rebellion leaders over to the Gragdet. Let the rebels rage through the night, fighting and burning the city as they went. Watch as the monks of Ghajan conquer the remaining few so easily.
Turn your back on those who had trusted you, Hrathen.
There hadn't been much room for doubt. He had become enamored with the thought of a challenge, even if the task at hand was deceptively simple. Hrathen hadn't had much issue in organizing the rebellion, so he had hoped this one last task would be something more. Watching the heads of the rebel leaders hit the ground, he remembered feeling disappointment the game had been won so easily.
Only now, he wondered if it had been the right game to play.
How many had died? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? And all of it was at his order.
He could console himself with the knowledge that it was for the betterment of their nation; under Fjordell control, the people would grow and strengthen into a respectable, faithful people. Those who had died for this future would be remembered, on both sides of the conflict. He could only pray Jaddeth would welcome those he hadn't been adept enough to save, and forgive Hrathen the imperfection.
It had also been a direct order from Wyrn, the first he had ever received. Orders like those were holy scripture, tailored for one man alone. A blessing in physical form, and one of few ever handed out. An order from Wyrn could be counted as an order from Jaddeth Himself - who was Hrathen to challenge God’s own will?
Taking the country was undoubtedly the right thing to do. Uncountable future generations had been saved from Jesker before their birth, and while true converts would be hard to find in the Dula survivors, those who did come would stay. They had seen the chaos inflicted upon them by the rebels, the true order of the Church, and a select, intelligent few would make the right choice. Hrathen had allowed them the opportunity to be saved, and a government to support that; it was up to the people to save themselves, now.
What was a few thousand dead Dulas in comparison with the a nation freed from a culture permeated with greed and materialism? What was one man’s guilt compared with all those the action had saved?
Hrathen opened the book, reading from the beginning. The familiarity of the passages was soothing, as was their messages. It was not as if he had been neglecting his reading lately - far from it, in truth. As a Gyorn, he read and prayed and meditated for hours on end. Most of it was by rote, a memorized routine to clear the mind and ease the body. It was something that kept him settled and at ease throughout the turmoil of politics and his other work, but the repetitiveness of it could occasionally feel impersonal, or distant, even. Hrathen knew the prayers of common men and lower arteths would be different from his own, and through inexperience might well be more truthful. Those who did not serve as highly as he did found their own interpretations of what Shu-Dereth was. Yet however subtly flawed those views may be, there was something to the lack of logic and formality that Hrathen could appreciate. The hope and excitement he so often saw in the eyes of young people introduced to the Church for the first time, the quiet and calm faith he heard in their prayers and words...that he could appreciate. That he could work for, strive to protect. It was a reason to continue, even if it was thin and weak in the face of all that death and destruction.
The soft crunch of footsteps in the dirt made him turn, looking up at the approaching man. Even in the dimming firelight, he could identify the distinct red of a priest's robes draped over broad shoulders. With a sharp face, high cheekbones, and numerous scars peppering his skin, it was hard to mistake him for anything other than a seasoned warrior. Even if his hair was greyed and his skin wrinkled, the Gragdet of Ghajan Monastery still appeared as stern and direct as Hrathen remembered.
"Gragdet Vriden," Hrathen said, easily jumping to his feet and bowing. Gragdets might not have been directly linked to the Chain, but even so, Vriden was his clear superior. A man worthy of respect, regardless of rank - he ran his monastery with skill, and had directly contributed to turning Hrathen into the man he was now.
Vriden nodded in acknowledgment, sitting down across the fire and motioning for Hrathen to do the same. "It is awfully late, Hrathen, even for religious readings."
He nodded, closing the book and marking his place. "One can never read too much, I would think, Gragdet."
"Indeed," he murmured, features still. "Yet rest is important for any man intending to serve in Jaddeth's Empire as best he can, no? The monks will be up in a short while, I should say, and yet you have not slept yet."
"I apologize for such a lapse in judgement."
Vriden smiled faintly as he spoke, waving a hand. "There's nothing to apologize for, Hrathen. If you were still one of my monks, well, then I would discipline you, of course. You are a Gyorn now, and very adept at what you do. I may be your superior, but your personal habits are not a concern of mine. Especially considering how thorough and effective you've proven to be, given your efforts in Duladel."
“Thank you, Gragdet,” Hrathen said with a soft voice. Always Duladel. Where he should speak with strength and clarity, he could only conjure weakness and murmurs. Duladel was his greatest achievement, and he knew it - why was it so difficult to come to terms with this heaviness draped over his shoulders?
“It’s a shame no one will ever know, though. The Gragdets, yes, and the other Gyorns as well, and maybe there’ll be whispers of a Fjordell Gyorn’s involvement in the region during the rebellion - that armor is quite distinct, you understand - but your name will never be publicly connected to the incident. Sad,” he said, frowning slightly. “It’s for the best, of course.”
Hrathen could only nod in response, fingers tightening around his book. He’s praising you, Hrathen thought, chiding himself, say something. Respond. Accept it. I am one of the finest orators in Fjorden, and yet I cannot even produce a bit of thanks. What’s happened? Memories of Dakhor were all too present in his mind, and Hrathen couldn’t help but dwell on the few times those monks had praised him -- only to drag him through their torturous rituals hours later, disappoint burning in their fiery eyes. I was wordless then, too.
"Ah, I think I see," Vriden stated quietly, crossing his arms. "That's it, isn't it?"
"How--"
"I trained you, didn't I? I remember you, Hrathen. You came to us as a scared child with enough determination and strength for all Wyrn's armies, even after Dakhor turned you away. I had thought you'd go far in the ranks, though I will admit I would have never guessed you would be a Gyorn, after all you had to endure. You were my most dedicated apprentice - but you haven't ever done something quite like Duladel, have you?"
Hrathen clenched his jaw, ashamed to have been read so easily by his teacher from twenty years ago. He folded his hands in his lap, unable to look Vriden in the eye. Vriden knew about Dakhor; Hrathen had suspected he did, given his rank, but this was confirmation. Though Dakhor was far from what he wanted to consider at the moment -- Dakhor was stark pain and vivid nightmares, deadly monks and harsh chanting. "I would rather not discuss this, Gragdet, if you will forgive me the denial."
Vriden shook his head. "We all have our flaws and our grievances, Hrathen. Whatever it is you decide to do, don't let it interfere with your work and your life. You are on quite the path to success, and, truth be told, I would hate to see it wasted. Now get some rest, we'll be back to Wyrn's seat by tonight, should things go well, and you may very well wish you had rested when you go to deal with that snakes' nest."
They both stood, Vriden turning on his heel and walking back to his tent without further comment. The Gragdet was right; he should sleep, or at least rest for a time. The sun was already starting to show over the treetops, faint wisps of pink promising the bright light of dawn soon to come. Vriden's estimate of an hour was an overstatement, then - it seemed foolish for him to sleep only for an hour. He could do so, of course, as no one would disturb him, and for now he felt calm and at ease. The conversation with Vriden hadn't done that, however. If anything, the Gragdet had disrupted that sense of peace he had sought.
Still Hrathen sat for a time, attempting to center himself and sort through mixed praises and burdens. He read through another chapter quickly; one that dealt with success and contributions to Jaddeth’s Empire. The words weren’t exactly comforting, but they were reassuring. He had done something grand in Duladel, and Wyrn Himself had given him such a task. How could he bear the weight of his conscious against the knowledge that Wyrn’s - and therefore, Jaddeth’s - plans had been advanced by his deeds? It had been the right thing to do, he was increasingly certain. The guilt that came along with it would simply have to be accepted. There were other matters to attend to, and the past could not occupy his mind as it had when he was young. Hrathen knew he had to acknowledge both the weight of his actions and their significance - no matter what his heart may cry in the silence between sleep and dreams.
It was his reading from the holy books that had contributed to his acceptance of last week's turmoil, however temporary he knew that acceptance to be. Details nagged at him, demanding his attention and threatening to drag him down. But for now, he could put it off. If nothing else. Hrathen knew he was not through with this issue; far from it. He had simply accepted that it was an issue, and that he would eventually have to come to terms with what he had done.
Not tonight, however, and not today. He ducked into his tent and began to silently strap on his armor, thinking ahead to what his challenge for the day would be. If Vriden was right, and the group reached Wyrn's seat this evening, then surely Hrathen would be called upon to explain his actions in Duladel. Perhaps he would be rewarded, though he did not ascribe much value to physical possessions. His reward would be the fact that he had been chosen at all, and his burden the blood of all those nearly innocent civilians.
Hrathen buttoned his cloak about his shoulders, musing over the reward of a burden. It was his gift and his curse, his accolade and his strain. He had saved thousands, and yet he had murdered just as many. But what were those killed in the face of those saved? What were the deaths compared to uncountable future generations who would grow in a world of truth and logic?
He stepped confidently out of his tent, shoulders squared and head held high, face clear of emotion. Questions for another day, Hrathen decided as he went. Questions for after he had given his reports. Questions that would haunt him, he knew that well enough. But he believed he could bear it, if only for those he had saved. He was their savior, and while he may never be thanked for his endeavors, Hrathen could bear the guilt for the ones freed from Jesker and Shu-Korath, and for the children born in a world blessed by Jaddeth's favor. It would be difficult, and he suspected Duladel would find its place in his nightmares next to Dakhor. Yet he would bear it. It was the right thing - the only thing he could do.