The church of Saint Maya was a wonderful sight from the town's uphill. Even after all these years, Ciril still felt it stir something in him. A triangle of stained glass above its gates, statues of the Three, then the bell tower, the tower just about level with the rest of the settlement that was otherwise above. A tribute to the Architect-Impeccable for all it was just a humble church beneath the artistry. Beautiful in both heart and sight. Even from as far away as Ciril stood.
“Father, something on your mind?” an old woman called from behind, having Ciril turn.
“Nothing, Magdalene, just pondering the wonder,” Ciril smiled at her, turning.
“The cart is ready,” she pointed at the hand-driven carriage, not more than 30 steps away. Next to it stood the woman’s grand nephew, having finished loading. “I am sorry about the delay.”
“I might be a man of the cloth but I am not of hurry,” Ciril smiled, turning back, then walking to the shop alongside her.
“It’s a lot more than you usually get, Father,” the woman noted.
“Yes, it is quite the occasion,” Ciril nodded. “Pilgrims will be arriving in the afternoon. I have been charged by the head priest with hosting them. There are said to be many wise men among them, which I am eager to meet.”
“Still, just vegetables for guests?” Magdalene frowned. “I would have bought at least meat.”
“They are pilgrims, Magdalene, not merchants,” Ciril chuckled. “To offer too rich a fare would be an insult to their humility.”
“You can do a lot more travelling on a full stomach,” she scoffed. “They shouldn’t be picky.”
“It is tradition to serve simple soup,” Ciril shook his head.
“I suppose,” she sighed as they arrived by the loaded cart. Plenty of legumes almost overflowing from it.
“I could bring it for you, Father,” the young man offered as they approached.
“Help your grandaunt instead, lad,” Ciril just smiled. “I am barely over thirty! I am still quite spry. Good day to you both, Tallast!”
“Tallast.”
“Tallast,” they both echoed back as Ciril began to push the cart down the way. It was heavy, but that was what the wheels were for on a paved road. All the way from the market to the church.
By the time he returned, there were acolytes already waiting on him, taking his load off as he had to catch his breath, then sat in their mess hall which lied right beyond the chapel itself. It was still a long way from town with a cart. One of the young clerks-in-training suggested perhaps they could start going to the market instead of him.
“I need my fresh air,” Ciril shook his head. “A bit of exercise does me good.”
The young boys took off to the kitchen with zest. The clergymen were expected to take care of themselves, though such duties were usually relegated to the younger among them. Youngest in this place. Saint Maya’s church rarely hosted any acolytes younger than the middle teens. At least not anymore. Ciril had been less than that when he first came here but times changed. The priest did not intrude on the kitchen, instead heading to his room to pass the time. He was in the middle of a book. A re-read of The Radiant, Life and Two Sins. It was his second favorite - after the holy Tome of the Three itself. He had first read it after attending the Hero’s last rites. It was… nostalgic, and reminded him of purpose. Of deeper thoughts than those of just a man.
Their guests would be coming later in the day. Some were wise wanderers… many would be lost souls. Undoubtedly, others had tried to help the latter before but that did not mean Ciril could not try his own rhetoric. And what could be better inspiration than that which inspired him? And surely he had much to learn from the sages among them. But to learn it was best for the mind to be ready. Open to that new knowledge. This did that quite well for Ciril.
It was not a day of sermon, neither did Ciril hold confessions nor any other duties. The preparations were in truth not difficult and were mostly distributed to the youths - leading them was more a position of honor than effort. Though he had gone to ensure nothing was out of place as the time approached.
Eventually, one of the acolytes not assigned to any duty rushed in from the outside, crying about the pilgrims finally arriving. Ciril as well as the others quickly left the mess hall, walking through the chapel and then outside to greet them.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The pilgrims were travelers without a real leader, though there were those who still took charge of their travels. Ciril greeted the three men: A fellow priest, a former bankrupt merchant, and a retired soldier. Of course, he had only found that much after introductions. For all they spoke for the pilgrimage there was not much to talk about. Their stop by the church was agreed to in advance, their travel companions already erecting humble tents on the clearing in front of the place of worship.
The acolytes brought out the large pots of soup when the camp making was somewhat done, which the clergy and pilgrims shared as late lunch; according to their verve, a great improvement from travel rations. For all Ciril was in ‘charge’ of hosting them, there were no actual duties involved. The pilgrims looked after themselves. Soon enough the travelers began to share their stories with the clergy and the many townsfolk who had followed the siren’s call of a tale from afar.
“Father, I am happy to see you again,” not even half an hour later, a young man approached Ciril from within the crowd. The priest paused for a second looking over their face. At a visage from a year ago. Changed greatly, but for the better.
“Richard!” Recognition struck him. “I could scarcely recognize you! A pilgrim? Quite surprising.”
“After my father passed I decided to look inwards more,” the former soldier nodded. “I will go back to the front eventually… my pa deserves that much. But I wanted to think more before I do.”
“I am just glad you are doing better, young man,” Ciril smiled, then pressed the once-rifleman’s elbow. “That is all I can ask for.”
“Thank you, Father,” Richard nodded. “There was actually something else I wanted to see you about. I spoke with an old sage and mentioned what you told me last year at the funeral. He wanted to talk with you.”
“A sage, you say?” Ciril smiled. It was said there were such among the travelers. “He is with among the pilgrims I presume?”
“Everyone looks to him for wisdom,” Richard nodded. “An old philosopher like him knows many things.”
“Then I will see him,” Ciril nodded. The word philosopher was not used lightly. Invoking likeness to the Philosopher-Insatiable was usually reserved for only the most learned of wisemen. Ciril would certainly want to meet one such.
“Come with me, Father,” Richard nodded. “He usually stays aside in towns but I know where his tent will be.”
And follow Ciril did. Among the tents, away from the circles of storytellers hogging most of the attention. Along the way he spotted the other kind of pilgrim: The quiet majority which did not care for the interest of outsiders. Some glanced that the two men travelling among them, most just ignored the duo completely. Ciril noted among them those who looked lost - in need of a guiding light out of the darkness the human mind could malform into.
The aforementioned philosopher was hosted at the very edge of the camp, watching as a few younger men erected his own tent. For indeed the man was downright ancient, decrepit and wrinkled. But unlike many others, the age had not decayed this man’s mind.
“Young Richard,” the man nodded, turning towards the newcomers. “And I presume the sagacious friar.”
“The pleasure is mine, sage. My name is Ciril,” the priest nodded. “May I know yours?”
“My own I have long foresworn, Father,” the sage smiled lightly. “But many know me as Vanum.”
“This is the first time I meet someone taking a different name by choice,” Ciril paused.
“In the days bygone it was once prevalent,” the sage shook his head. “Alas, times shift. Eras bleed out. Few wished to embrace a second self once a wall has first fallen, far fewer live still.”
“You remember the start of the War?” Ciril gaped. That couldn’t be.
“Nay, merely when a war claimed the ‘the’ before it,” Vanum shook his head. “I was a young fool in pursuit of the Philosopher’s immaculity then.”
“Are you not anymore?” the priest raised an eyebrow at the implication.
“Well, I am hardly young now, am I?” the philosopher laughed. “I have grasped a few crumpets of wisdom as well, I suppose. And yours has fascinated me.”
“Mine?” Ciril asked. “I scarcely have done much worthy of a philosopher.”
“Even a jester may unravel a truth, friar,” Vanum smiled. “And you are more. All may behold which of the Three you align with the most.”
“Then what have I said which deserves such praise?”
“It is a fascinating ideal: That a hero may be a sinner. That sin does not diminish a deed,” Vanum said. “It befits the Church of today.”
“I thought it only natural,” Ciril explained. “Heroes die but they remain Heroes. Why would that be different than ever.”
“Once upon a time Heroes would not die, Ciril,” the philosopher shook his head. “A Hero would wage war until the very day they broke. Then, through the grace of the Three they would depart without death.”
“That sounds like a euphemism,” Ciril frowned. “A roundabout way to deny the second sin.”
“Ah, but it is not such, friar,” Vanum shook his head. “You see, no one would see a carcass. And without witness nor proof, they vanished without sin. Unfailed, deathless. A relic and a legend the only proof they have ever been.”
“It is… difficult to believe such was ever the case,” Ciril frowned.
“History summarized,” the pilgrim laughed at that. “But we still try and tell it, for all it is often forgot. You should take part as well.”
“I can share wisdom with those who seek it with me,” Ciril nodded.
“No, you misunderstand,” the philosopher shook his head. “For all the thoughts I have accrued, they will vanish with my sin of death. Perhaps that in itself will be a failure. What I advice is that you inflict your words onto page. Only then may they last.”