The Priesthood

Everything was far too familiar: the bed, the sheets of the bed, the colors of it all—the entirety of the room was as if he had just left it all those years ago. Nothing had changed, and it all smelled the same. The smell of home, a smell that takes you somewhere—to another place, to another time. He remembered the morning when he had first found Deft, his long-dead cat.

It was a morning like this; outside, it was cold. It was among the very first days of winter, the first day during which snow covered the streets and the roofs of the city. But now, out of habit, he found himself looking outside, at the backyard of the mansion in which he lived with only his mother and a few servants. Looking back, it was truly a privileged life, one with few difficulties.

Sure, he might not know who his real parents were, but would such a thing matter? He had a mother—a mother who was more real than the hurt dreams that he had as a child of a mother he never knew—or a father who had abandoned him like his mother had.

Back then, such thoughts hurt him; even later, they would haunt him, but he had perhaps grown out of them, as it was apparent that they didn’t matter. The life he had lived was good, and the woman who had become his mother was even better.

He scoffed at his thoughts and memories and instead stared at the snow that had covered the backyard. A man covered in clothes swept away the snow that had snowed on top of the pathway that connected the mansion with the servant's quarters. The man who wore a serious expression at all times was none other than Jan, a servant who had worked for his mother longer than he had been alive.

They weren’t from a rich family, nor did they have, at first, an understanding of such things as manners or how to act or behave around those who came from a wealthy background. But they had learned quickly, and thus they were who they were. He was a serious man at all times who seldom smiled, but when he did smile, it was the smile of a jovial man and one who’d joke and laugh about many things, some of which were a bit darker than what Kanrel could laugh at back then. Perhaps now, if he could find anything funny, he’d laugh at Jan’s deadpan humor and the sly smile that he would at times showcase to the world.

They were a good man, but they too had passed away. Behind the mask the man wore, there was a man of deep empathy, a man who could not tolerate cruelty; behind the mask, there was a man who found Deft’s death to be devastating. A man who died suddenly, without much explanation, without anything that anyone could have done to help him.

The world, in its unfair way, gives and takes without rhyme or reason. It was perhaps another day like this when, out of sheer bad luck, he slipped while walking from the servant's quarters to the estate itself. If it had not been so early in the morning, perhaps he could have been saved.

He was found dead later that day; his skull had cracked open, and the cold soon claimed another soul.

Looking now at that man, he not only felt nostalgic, but also a sense of sadness overcame him; it washed through him, and soon tears forced their way to his eyes. All the things that he had lost in life might all be here. During this time, he was still nothing more than a naive child.

A house that was warm, a mother who he loved dearly, the servants who he found to be of great company, and a cat that taught him how to take care of another life. A simple room can hold such memories and emotions. Some of which were bitter, but most dear to his heart.

“If I were born again if such a thing could happen, I’d like to start it here again, and if I would have to make every mistake to have this again, then I would do them; I would do them without hesitation.”

“Torment and regret, surely they exist, but to have these memories and the many feelings that come with them, for that I would trade all the torment that life can give me."

It is clear that even if there is regret, then some things make all that regret worth it.

He smiled faintly as he looked outside, perhaps out of habit, as he had done so as a child—perhaps to relive a memory, even with all the bitterness and regret that had become mixed with it.

A knock came from the door, and a voice soon followed it: “Master Iduldian, breakfast will be soon served.” A voice that was not less familiar than the man outside. It was the voice of another servant, a woman named Dal, someone who he used to play with when he was younger, much before the beginning of his formal education.

“Coming!” Kanrel answered, not quite knowing why; other than that, it just felt right to do so.

He was already dressed, and when he, at last, looked into the mirror that stood behind him, he saw himself as he was now. A skinny man with a stubble of a beard on his face, eyes deep in their sockets, a tired look that accompanied them, and a long nose that stood in the middle of his face. Black hair that looked like it had gone without washing for months. Slowly, he touched his face, seeing how bony it had become. His hands were cold against the warmth of his skin, and the coarse beard that he carried felt so out of place in the room where he now was.

He had… changed. His body was somehow much weaker than before, and his mind was confused with all these experiences, new and old—all these memories that battled within to take hold of his thoughts for a moment longer. And how they would linger, leaving behind fear for the things that might come, and how this vision might soon change into another one; how his body might wither even more, how it might fall and never be able to walk again; how he'd never be able to see this room again, with his own eyes, to not be able to see his mother, to be held by her, just one last time.

His hands fell from his face, and he left the mirror behind, opening the door from which a knock had come, and he stepped outside his room, outside the comforts of it and the uncomfortable thoughts that pierced through this vestige of better memories that would soon be forgotten. We all forget.

The familiar corridor to which he stepped in, he used to run through it. With great haste, he would, as a child, run past the many doors of this corridor while on his way downstairs to have breakfast, lunch, dinner, or to go and play outside. Each time he did so, either his mother or the servant Dal would sternly remind him that running indoors was improper and even dangerous at times. But the ever-trustworthy Jan would just wink at Kanrel during such sermons as if to say that he’d always be on his side.

Jan was of the thought that a child ought to play, and getting hurt was part of play; it was useless to try shielding a child from the pains of the world, for they would end up always becoming a reality in every life that there is. In his words, "Suffering is an important part of the human experience; we must suffer so that we might learn to tolerate it, to battle through it, to overcome it, and to never succumb to it.”

Kanrel reached the stairs that would bring him to the first floor; he looked down them, remembering how he’d ride down the railings. There was one time that he had done so and then ended up falling from it as he reached the end of the railing. The next couple of days, he carefully avoided sitting down, insisting to his mother that he ought to make sure that he stands upright and that his posture should be made perfect, as it ought to be for a true gentleman.

His mother, of course, knew what had happened and made no comment about his little accident; instead, she indulged in his wants and hired a dance tutor, as, in her words, there is no better way to learn how to stand upright than from the graceful art that is dance.

Oh, how he hated it. Firstly, he had to keep holding hands with the tutor they hired for him, a beautiful but very stern woman whose only hobby and desire seemed to be just that: dance.

Dance in itself was way more taxing on one’s physical ability than one might think at first, and the rhythm one needed to have to not make any mistakes and to always keep in time was quite difficult at first. Later in life, Kanrel could, at times, still hear her counting to four and then pointing out when Kanrel had not been on time.

But he slowly, very slowly, learned to dance. Sadly, nothing ever came out of it. After a year of learning to dance, he never danced again; there was never a need for it, nor did he have the desire to do so. But now that he looked back on it, it had been fun, and the lady who taught him was much nicer than he had realized as a child.

Perhaps… He could dance again with her.

He had stopped at the doorway to the dining hall. Deepened in such thoughts, he was submerged in remembrance of times gone by and of people he had not seen in over a decade. Of this childhood, which he so dearly remembered and longed for.

But the reality was that this was all just a dream of sorts. And the things that had happened, he could not live through again, as they were. He had changed. Even if he longed for this, he was different from what he was then. Surely, he might want to live through it all again, but he could not. Such things weren’t real. Even this, a vision, a dream, or whatever, was not real.

You can’t turn back time and relive the life that you have already lived. You can only remember it, and even that memory is not as true as you might think it to be. Memories are deceptive, and they are selective at best.

He gritted his teeth. But can’t he? Could he not turn back time? Could he, truly, not return to this time of innocence? Who is to say that you could not?

There was, or is, an Angel, the Sharan of Time. The Angel of Time, of the Future, of the Past, and the Present. The Angel, who had seen the fall of N'Sharan and who had deemed it an impossibility to change such an outcome... Could they not turn back time? If they could see the future if they could see the past, and if they could see the present, could they then not change it to change them all?

And thus, he entered the dining room of his childhood home. The table was garnished with all kinds of foods, some of which he had never seen before and some of which were never meant to be served as food. The table was long, and it was longer than it was in the reality from which he came, and at the end of the table, there was not a woman, whom he called a mother, but a face filled with scales, one who intensely looked at the human who had walked into their presence, into their dining room...

With their eyes, they carefully studied the man that walked toward them; they carefully looked at the face, which they seemed to recognize for a reason or another; they observed as Kanrel sat down to the right of them and then met the gaze of time itself.

It was the first time that, within this collection of visions or dreams, Kanrel felt that a person, or a creature within them, would truly see him, look at him, and witness him as he was.

This creature, one far too familiar—a face from a painting, one that was painted at the Cathedral in the Academy of the Heavenly. So small he felt again, an insignificant creature who looked up to a creature of great wisdom and sight.

Within, he knew that this creature was none other than the Angel which was depicted most commonly as their god in many murals and paintings scattered all around the Kingdom. And to be seen by them, as they so carefully observed the man who had sat right next to them, felt like a blessing of acceptance. A god accepted the lowly creature that came to them for knowledge and guidance.

If this was not a dream, Kanrel might’ve fallen to his knees and prayed before this creature; he would’ve prayed for so many things: for forgiveness, guidance, and help, first and foremost. If this was not a dream, this Angel would lead him to greener pastures; they would guide him to a paradise meant for him and other humans like him. Surely, a believer faced with God would be rewarded for his or her zealous nature in which they did as the Angels willed them to.

But... Kanrel knew that he was not as zealous as one might ought to be. He was no different from a murderer, no different from a hypocrite, as he had believed so strongly in the tenants, the rules, and the laws that had been set for all of them who were in the Priesthood.

Could he truly say and prove that the things that he had done were righteous and done according to and within the laws that he must abide by?

He was not confident, and perhaps this doubt and lack of confidence could be seen in his face, as the Angel was the first to speak: “You have no fear, to so brazenly walk to me, to take a seat on a table set for me—and perhaps most curiously, you are not afraid to show such emotions on your face."

“I have seen you before, and I have waited for you; I have known that you would someday see this; see all of this... But what I had seen could never be as true as seeing your face, for on it I see it all—everything, all the sins that you believe that you have committed.”

“Yet worse is to come.” They said, and their voice was flat, an emotionless pit of sound that evenly felt like it expressed nothing; even the mentioned curiosity was far from their voice; it was not there to be heard.

Kanrel wanted to say something but found no words. Before, he had just accusations and despair for the situation that he had become a part of and the things that he had seen in this confusing bundle of visions. He could not critique a creature that could so easily see it, that could so easily read it, and, perhaps, even feel it for themselves.

“Words are useless.” They whispered, and a soft smile sprung to their face. It twitched there for a moment as if they tried to comfort the man that sat before them, but that smile lived for just that singular twitch, and the solemn expression they held overtook it once more.

“But words are what you seek: confessions from creatures far beyond your understanding; to explain things, to explain N’Sharan and why the things that happened to it happened."

The Angel slowly stood up, and they spread their hands like the wings of a swan, ready to take flight, but as they did so, the room shifted and changed. The familiar dining hall turned into a circular room with many doors. Three, to be exact.

The circular room had a dome-like ceiling, one that was garnished with engravings and murals; the floor was covered with mosaic, a depiction of something, perhaps a spiral. The meaning of the things that were there, perhaps just to make one ask questions about the reasons behind the existence of such things, was lost on him. Surely, they were all magnificent; surely, it must have been beautiful. And if he were a man like any other, wonder would have filled his insides and made him unable to move, touch, or harm the beauty that was all around.

He sat alone on a chair, as the table had gone with all the food that had been set before him. He sat alone and looked around, finally standing as well.

“Rules,” the Angel suddenly announced, "are what govern the lives of people; the Sharan and your people alike." They stared right at Kanrel. “And because of the rules that exist, I am not allowed to directly share with you the things that you want to know and that you need to know."

They gestured toward a door that was right across from them. “Thus, I can only show you, but partly, I can only answer you when you have seen some of it for yourself... I can only give you what you need if you can find me in the things that I will show you."

“I am the Sharan of Time.” They announced, and the door opened, “And I will show you the past, and I will show you the present, and I will show you the future."

“Enter.” They commanded, and Kanrel felt his whole body tremble; it was caused by an emotion he could not recognize nor name; he trembled as he slowly walked toward the open door, one that held only darkness, one that enticed him to enter, one that soon flashed with a light that pierced through his vision and the darkness alike.

Behind the door was a field, a green pasture, to which he took a step toward... He felt the wind on his face, the soft warmth that it brought with it; he could smell nature, the forest that was not too far away from him; and he could hear the song of a lonely bird that sang its song somewhere further away from him.

Within, there was peace, but around him, there was the smell death.