The Priesthood

One day, you’re young and naive, and the next day, the world expects you to be a man, one who is responsible and someone others can rely on.

What really is the difference between a boy and a man? Is it the number of days that have passed since his birth? Is eighteen years enough so that from a boy a man can emerge? Ignar wondered such things as he was thrust into a position where others had to rely on him.

For reasons unknown, he was selected to be the representative of his class of twenty other boys who had supposedly turned into men. And now his job was to make sure that they were all on time for classes and dueling practice; he had to make sure that his men took good care of their sabers. The very notion of having a sword was a strange one; to him, it felt so out of place. Even though they would practice with said swords, they would duel often multiple times a day. It was more so for sport than anything else, or so it felt like.

They still practiced with magic almost daily, but the duels and the use of a sword were no less important than that of magic, even though a saber felt like an archaic tool from a bygone era; a vision of times when magic wasn’t as common as it is today; perhaps people had grown more talented with magic with time; through general knowledge about the limitations of magic and all the things one could do with magic. Yet, this practice still remained.

The saber was like a sign to others that this man was someone who had served as a cadet, thus becoming an officer.

And said duels were a rather large part of the so-called “honor” that they all had to uphold. Sure, one could strike down a slave and call it even, but soldiers are all gentlemen, and all gentlemen ought to know how to duel.

In a duel, the use of magic was entirely prohibited, and usually, a duel would last until first blood; seldom did one end in death, and if one did end in death, it usually meant that the duel was fought with some magic, or it was between two people with the other having full intent of just outright killing their opposition. Such things happened, but they were strictly forbidden for cadets.

Killing a non-slave during a duel meant instant removal from the cadet school, and their name would be shunned, which would hurt the honor of one’s family. Thus, they almost never happened, at least between two cadets.

But dealing with the egos of boys who believed that they had become men was difficult. More difficult than one would think. Respect had to be earned, and boys would only listen to those they respected or feared.

Thus, the day that he was named as their representative, Ignar figured that things would be difficult unless he would do something about it from the very start. He had mostly stayed out of others' way, and he had made sure to not anger anyone, as his goal was to be invisible to his fellow cadets. Either way, he made sure to keep up with rumors and relations between people.

With people involved, cliques are sure to form, and in an environment that encourages competition, rivalries would form between people and their cliques. So, to bring unity and to make sure that he would have the necessary control to keep his class in line as their chosen representative, he decided that he would beat them into submission.

He had taken much liking to the art of dueling; there was just something about it, something thrilling that he could not quite put his finger on; there was something about it that he had missed at some point in his own life.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline of danger and aggressive physical activity, or perhaps it was the fear of death and getting hurt that just so much called for him. Either way, he enjoyed it, and because of this strange enjoyment, which often felt like it was not his but someone else’s, he got good at it—far better than he believed that he could ever be at it.

He hadn’t had the advantage of the other boys, who had perhaps taken part in dueling classes prior to the cadet school, but what he had over many of them was his size and strength. This body of his was agile and strong; it was a body that yearned to move and that needed to be challenged, lest it be bored.

So, at the beginning of their studies, he could barely keep up with others, but by the second year, he could go toe to toe with the best. Such things will hardly ever go unnoticed; this made him a popular dueling partner for those who wanted more challenges and wanted to get better than the others. And by the third year, when he was selected as their representative, he was undeniably among the best.

And so he did what any wise man would do when dealing with boys: he went to the two leaders of the two largest cliques in his class and challenged them both to a duel. With normal rules and an extra forfeit to make things more interesting: If Ignar won, the two cliques would refrain from useless quarrels and follow his rules and commands; if Ignar lost, he would resign from the school.

Astor, a young nobleman who was no less talented in dueling than Ignar, declined after a moment of hesitation; instead, he promised to keep his friends and followers out of trouble. An outcome that Ignar had hoped for since Astor was one who would always play by the rules. For him, if it was decided by their teachers that Ignar would be their representative, then he would not question this outcome, as he felt that it was not up to him to go against it; his duty was to follow orders, after all.

But for every Astor, there is a Jaren, a guy whose respect is absolute, and it must be earned through him. Jaren is a man who will do as is commanded, but he would only abide by the commands of someone who is much older and much higher in military rank than Ignar. For him, it wasn’t enough that others had decided that Ignar was their representative. He had to decide that as well. Thus, he accepted the duel in a strict yet polite manner.

He wasn’t a brute, nor was he dumb per se. He was an educated individual who just happened to have a very high level of self-confidence. He had a clear understanding of his own morals and the very concept of what was right, and for him, it was not right that someone whom he did not entirely trust or respect would be allowed to lead him without some contest or uproar.

Jaren would always stand for what he thought was right, and that was a commendable quality in any man. But above all, he was rigid. He would not budge unless given a reason good enough to do so, and words weren’t always a good enough reason, for actions would always speak louder than words. And even if Ignar won his duel against him, it would mean that he’d agree with how Ignar would represent them. He’d just stay out of his way.

His rigid nature wasn’t something that could be easily changed, for what can change the nature of a man? Would any man just change if the reasons were good enough? Most men are stubborn, and no man could hardly change the nature of another man, his very essence, that which makes him what he is. A man might slightly yield and bend with enough pressure, but that doesn’t mean that he has changed, for within he might still believe that his ways are the best.

The ability to yield and bend when necessary and to be diplomatic when a situation calls for it in itself is a characteristic. One that Astor had, and one that even Jaren had. They would have to work together so that things might go more smoothly.

Near their dorms, there was a courtyard, a small place only really meant for quiet studying. Decorating it, there were a few plants on the grassy floor, a tree that wasn't very tall, and a table surrounded by wooden benches. But for today, this courtyard would be empty. The benches and the table were carried away and set to the side, and soon only two men remained with their swords in hand.

As Ignar looked around, he could see many familiar faces looking out the windows, anticipating a duel to entertain their rather dull evening. Usually, such hours were strictly meant for quiet studies, reading strategy, history, or other liberal arts. But today was indeed quite different.

The duel was something that the other classes had also heard about, so many had gathered to see for themselves this spectacle. Ignar even noticed a teacher standing next to the other door that led back indoors. He was an old man who taught them strategy, and in his hands, he had a book. At times, a student would approach him and hand him something—something that looked like coins—and then the old man would smile and write something in his notebook.

Gambling wasn’t really frowned upon, and what other form of entertainment would an old man have?

Jaren was tall, about a head taller than he was. He was also quite lean, but the same was true for most of them. And he was talented with his saber; this was easy for Ignar to know, as he had himself dueled with the man many times before, and he had lost most of them. And their most recent one had ended in a draw, for they had managed to draw blood at the exact same time. Ignar still had a scar on his shoulder from that ordeal. Of course, he could use magic to remove said scarring, but for some reason, it felt proper to keep such scars. They weren’t lethal, after all. And they showcased his hard work to the world.

In that, he and Jaren were very similar, for he also kept his scars, even the ones that were on his scaley face; an apparent one remained on his left cheek, a small cut that he had received from Astor. Among them, Astor was the best, Jaren was the second, and Ignar was the third, or so it looked from the outside.

Jaren nodded, prepared himself, and took a standard stance, his right foot in front and pointed toward Ignar, and his left foot a little back pointed to the side, bending his knees as he did so. Most of his weight would be on his left foot. He then pointed his saber toward Ignar and kept his left hand behind his back.

Ignar took the same stance; he could feel his body tense up, and every muscle and fiber in him was ready to make a move. He was seemingly calm, yet the reality was that he wasn’t. Before him was a taller man, one who most definitely felt the same way as he did. The thrill of competition, the thrill of combat, the fear of pain, and even death. It was all mixed within. Their eyes were sharp and ready to begin at the moment when their swords first touched.

This moment lasted for so long—the anticipation as they both got ready, their swords approaching each other and the evening sun glimmering on the well-kept blades of their sabers. Before, he could’ve heard the low mumbling of speech from inside, but the students all keenly watched the performance, perhaps feeling the same thrill that he and Jaren felt.

You could feel it before you could hear it; their blades touched, and soon they were both in motion. The clang of swords was heard; it echoed through the courtyard as Jaren swiftly struck his opponent's blade away with a quick tap, then brought his right foot back in anticipation of a strike toward his leg in retaliation, but no such strike came; instead, Ignar went for the sword, locking their blades together as he stepped forward, only to then shove Jaren away. The tall man moved only perhaps an inch as their swords clanged against each other again.

He had gained his footing and began a swift assault of strikes, each strike coming from the upper guard, and each of said strikes was promptly parried and dodged while Ignar backpedaled. At times, Ignar would retaliate, pushing back on the relentless attacks of his opponent.

All you could hear were the two swords striking at each other, the steps that the two men would make, and perhaps the breathing of the crowd, who, in their anticipation, waited to see who would emerge victorious and untouched by the other man’s blade.

Soon, Ignar parried a strike, only to instantly counterattack while reaching forward, his blade quickly coming for Jaren’s unprotected chest, which the man tried to dodge by almost jumping backward, but the blade tore into his scales ever so slightly, and a clean strip of blood was flung to the ground as the saber returned.

First blood had been drawn... But Jaren was already retaliating, his saber cutting into Ignar’s shoulder. A roar of pain broke the silence of men as Ignar swore loudly and, in anger, separated Jaren’s hand from the rest of his arm with a powerful stroke of his blade. All could see as his hand flung across the courtyard, and the saber remained on Ignar’s shoulder.

Ignar dropped his own sword to the ground and quickly began healing his shoulder, ignoring the tall man who screamed in pain. When he managed to remove the blade from his shoulder and heal the wound, he looked for the hand that his dueling partner had lost. He walked to it and picked it up as Jaren screamed while looking at his hand. There was so much shock and horror in his face, and blood flowed out from his stump of a wrist and his chest as well.

And as Ignar came to him, he promptly slapped Jaren on the cheek as hard as he could, then crapped his bloodied wrist and brought the missing hand to it. He joined them together and began the process of healing.

And it didn’t take long for the cries of pain to end. As he was finished with his work, he let go of the hand and healed the wound on his chest. “Move your wrist for me.” He commanded solemnly, and he just hoped that the other man could not hear the regret in his voice as he did what he did.

Ignar was angry with himself; he had taken a risk, and the risk had at first paid off; he had won, but the way that he had reacted to the strike that had struck his shoulder was uncalled for. It was something that should have never happened. He should never sever the hand of another man. He should never, out of anger, take revenge without a moment's thought.

The duel was over; his action had been unnecessary. Now he had to hope that this would not soil Jaren’s or the other's opinions of him.

Jaren moved his wrist around, and it worked just fine. He then wiped the tears from his eyes and grinned widely. “You got me... Sorry for the shoulder... and the eye.”

“What eye?” Ignar asked, and then a fist hit his left eye, and he was sent a few steps back.

Ignar was left baffled for a while. “Deserved.” He soon whimpered, and they were left eyeing each other for a while.

Jaren extended his hand, the very one that he had just lost, and the very one that had sucker punched Ignar's face. Ignar stared at it for a moment but shook it soon after. Jaren had accepted defeat, even though many would say that he had the right for another duel, but he was man enough to admit defeat, and as he picked up his saber and got ready to leave the courtyard, he spoke before leaving, “We should do this again another time... It's good fun, you know; you’ve gotten a lot better than you were at first.”

After such a compliment, Ignar was left speechless. He looked as the man walked away with long strides. The students remained near the windows, but soon they too left, and the old man happily counted the coin that he had earned that day.

His face hurt a lot, and he knew that he would have to carry a black eye for a few weeks. Sure, it would be difficult to see any color past the scales, but the slight protrusion would be for all to see, another battle scar to showcase another valuable lesson that he had learned.

He was left alone to clean up after the mess that they had caused. He removed the blood from the soil and carried the table and the benches back to where they belonged. Then he lay on the bench and stared at the sky, the stars that were above, the gods of the old, and the ones that now were all named in the glory of Kalma.

There was something familiar about such thoughts, as was the action of healing another man. It was as if he had done it so many times before. Sure, here he had had to learn such necessary skills, but for some reason, it felt like he had healed many such wounds before, over and over again.

He couldn’t help but smile a little bit; he had won, and it felt good. This feeling felt good. He had achieved what he wanted to achieve; the tension brought by the duel was gone and relieved with the pain that they had caused. The punch that had landed on his face was just an extension of that duel, and it was, in a way, an honor greater than victory itself.

For some reason, he felt like he and Jaren were much more similar than he and Astor were. Jaren and Ignar would both question the command that they would be given, and they would both voice out their worries and differing opinions if there were any.

This questioning was healthy. It was necessary, yet something not needed in a soldier.

A soldier has to march, think, sleep, and eat in a similar fashion as the other soldier does. A soldier ought to be loyal and unquestioning toward the authority that gave them commands. And why?

If men are to die for an imaginary line, then it is best for all that they don’t question the command or the commanders. The absurdity of it all ought to be accepted as it is; otherwise, a soldier becomes useless. A soldier becomes one who wants to flee the battlefield, who wants to flee the imaginary line they were supposed to die for. Such soldiers are useless, which is why they, too, die.

But there was a great difference in deaths. The first one dies because he is commanded to; he dies from the arrows of their enemies, that demon who is always in the wrong and who would always kill you if they ever had the chance.

And the other dies court-martialed. As a disgraced traitor who is then promptly put before a firing squad or an executioner and then ceremonially slaughtered. It is as if, as a sacrifice to war itself, the ever-hungry God who always finds his way into the lives of the so-called civilized people.

Ignar’s smile had long faded as he stared at those stars, at those gods for whose wishes men would die. Men would always die; it was how things were supposed to be. But the unnatural order of things was that men would always end up killing other men. And always, there would be a king, a god, or a general who placed himself above others and who drew those imaginary lines so that men could die killing each other.

For some reason, Ignar had always thought of it as such. He imagined two men, generals, sitting in a dark room, drinking whiskey and smoking cigars. They look over a map, and without words, one of them draws a line on the map, and the other then looks at this line, only to carefully draw another opposite of it.

Now, for that line, thousands will die—maybe more, maybe less—but this all depends on how many the two men are willing to sacrifice for the lines that they have drawn.

Nothing good ever comes from war. This is what one had to adamantly believe; otherwise, one finds himself giving reasons and meaning to a given war. And those reasons and meanings may vary, and one can find many just things if one digs deep enough. And surely, there is much nuance in war—not the concept itself, but the many wars that have happened. They seldom happen without a reason. They seldom come without a cause. But are those causes, those reasons, and those meanings good enough for men to die over?

Yet, for some reason, one wants to believe that from war and chaos, good things can come. As if history, in its horrors, failures, and boring beauty, were there to serve the liberation of people. As if one could believe that in the end, good would overcome evil and that freedom would be universally given to all, as if the world were fair and as if the gods of this world truly cared for the people who worshipped them.

Ah, when had he grown so cynical? Ignar wondered as he let his mind drift away.