I died, but was dragged back, and I don’t know what that means for my faith. I’m not even sure why we call it faith when angels and divine beasts, emissaries of the gods, walk among us. We have such solid proof of the matter yet struggle because the gods themselves are so distant. History says it wasn’t always this case. The wizard assures me they’re quite real.
He has always been dodgy about the matter of their godliness however. Depending on the question, he has given different answers. An aspect of them is infallible truth of the world and perhaps that aspect is what makes them gods. They embody the iron laws of nature, but would that not be akin to worshiping the idea that objects fall down? That things of matter occupy space? The laws of mathematics that govern the twist of a snail’s shell can be understood by any man of learning but that doesn’t make him a god.
Our world is dotted with great works: the sun, the moon, even the dragon’s peak. Only the guidance of the Shepherd can be shown to have a personal touch. They have a flavor of kingly tombs for those that came before. Monuments to be remembered by and proof that the path of wisdom stretches long before the feet of men.
But, what makes them godly? What makes them worthy of adoration, sacrifice, and worst of all the violence between men caused by them.
In the snowy land of my home, tradition holds that the souls of the dead live on as shades. The hunters run through the endless woods as part of Luna’s pack until such time as they need be called back. We have a legend of the White Army, the great host that she can call upon against the darkness and once a generation there is a woman born with the stigmata of an oracle, blessed with the gift to reach those distant memories held to the wolf mother’s bosom.
The fact that there is darkness is no secret to me. I’ve seen it first hand and helped cut it down. I have never seen a White Army.
But it is inarguable that I have lived my entire life with a blessing from the gods. Worse, that is a subject the wizard has never explained. I think it pains him.
We met with the wastelanders today, but I have not been able to ask my questions. They had the man I expected, Rodrick of Jeameaux. They say the boy beat him in single combat, but also that many men were fought first. A difficult balance he had to thread. While these loyal slaves from the south have done nothing to harm the man, nature itself has ravaged him. His sword arm was cut clean off and infection has begun to fester. Fever keeps him delirious or asleep. In any other care I would not expect him to live three days more, but the angel is tending to him as she tended to me.
I suspect within the week the world will assume he is dead, given a private mercy even if the wounds didn’t claim him. Perhaps he will still perish, but there are few hands in the world better to bringing a man back.
We sequester ourselves now in an old quarry. The man who lives here was a sculptor, but has ruined his body trying to dig out a proper piece of marble to work upon once more. Though the roads are old and sturdy, there are no travelers to bother us. Vi says that long ago, this was the womb of many great statues now adorning the temples of the land. If that is true, and I have no reason to doubt her, I can only surmise it was a very long time ago.
It has only today occurred to me that, in a sense, she too was brought back from the dead. For over a century, Vi was little more than a corpse, sealed away in a temple several days' ride east of this quarry. She was brought back by the misguided conniving of some bandits with delusions of conquest. That was how we first met. I had thought she was another of the monsters the wizard was always hunting, but he was willing enough to cut deals with her instead.
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I finally asked her what it was like to be dead and she denied that she was anything of the sort. Skipping over the biological aspects, she said, “Simply put, I didn’t die because my soul was never handed over to the goddess. It’s hard to say that I was alive, because I didn’t even dream while I awaited my return. If I had to make an analogy, I would say I was like a closed book. Everything that made me who I am was still there, it just wasn’t being used. To die would be either that the pages burn, or the binding is stripped and the pages scattered to nonsense.”
I said, “A scattered book could be put back together.”
She smiled in that way that made me forget I had even asked a question. “And just because a binding has been broken doesn’t mean the pages are scattered either. I like the book analogy, don’t you? Because even a burned book may live on in the memory of those that read it.”
I asked, “In this analogy, who are the readers?”
The angel laughed and rose. We had been eating and she needed to change the bandages on Rodrick’s wound. The bone was threatening to tear out of his skin and infection could set it any moment. But, she answered in a vague way. “If an analogy was perfect, it wouldn’t be an analogy. We are all readers and all books. To live is to read one another while others burn to keep us warm.”
Who burns? Who sets the fires? Perhaps it is too simple an answer to say the demons. Perhaps it is too childish to think it’s not the gods.
I pray that the pages of my brother are still out there to be read by the time I rejoin with the boy, but I think the answer lies in a nuance of his power. He heals faster when surrounded by death, and I don’t think that’s because of his excitement level or something. I’ve noticed it too. Perhaps everyone with a stigmata has seen the effect ebb and flow. With my battle fervor raging, I have cut straight through steel armor and thrown back men twice my own size.
Worse, I can’t think of any particular reason that the powers we’re granted would be fundamentally different from the wizard’s magic. I know that reawakening Vi required sacrifices, and I doubt animals sufficed.
I should have kept the wastelanders, rather than let them escape. They are a curious folk, barely more than a bundle of instincts until they are older and their violent nature makes it a near certainty that any adult has killed in their time. By an old custom the boy adopted, they take their names from those they slay, as though claiming that life for themselves. They certainly claim the blessings of the gods from the dead, though I do not know if this is an effect of their stunted souls or the machinations of their demon god.
I asked Vi why my own stigmata had changed when I came back from the dead and she said that they could have either saved it, or me. Every moment I was with the shepherd I was fraying and I was far more valuable than a mere berserker blessing. Until then, I had never thought of my blessing as common. No two divine sigils are quite the same, even if the wizard flippantly groups them together. Men say my brother Nikolai also had the blessing of the berserker, but he could never match my strength. They are all unique, but human needs mark some as more useful than others.
I must admit my new power is far more potent though. While the gift I was born with could only affect my own body, just as the boy’s power only affects his own flesh, now I can change the laws of nature themselves.
A younger me would have happily experimented with it, stretched it to its limits and learned what I could do. But if it comes at the price of burning the pages of the dead, I fear I should not.
She says it is not like a muscle. It will not grow stronger from use. Her words were like a command, that I should not let such fears come at the price of my life, for it is merely the way of the world. All things are consumed by time.
I asked her who the soliedar were.
She would not answer, just as the wizard would never. I know they came before men, but little else. However, I do not believe time consumed them entirely. I shall ask that question of the shepherd, when I meet her again.
Tomorrow, I will write of my death. My body is tired, but the hot air of Giordana still makes sleep difficult. Arranging my thoughts will occupy me and I will put them down in the morning.