The Paladin Writes

It was a quiet evening. Snow was softly falling on the steps up to the temple district, and Vero pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders. He was unarmoured, but not unarmed, as his Avenger sat hilted at his waist, tapping gently against his thigh as he climbed the steps. The newly restored temple to Tyr was located at the far end of the district. 

As he passed the still-decrepit temple with Mask’s sigil above the door, Vero slowed his pace. He paused, looking up at the cracked symbol, and frowned. He bent at the knee, leaving a single gold piece on the crumbling steps, before continuing on his way. 

Reaching Tyr’s temple, he shook the snow from his hair and entered, nodding solemnly at the cleric who greeted him at the door; a young wood elf girl, no older than 100, dressed in comfortable priests robes. 

“Good evening, Mr Helder.”

“Evening, Feynri. I won’t be long, sorry to disturb you.” 

“Not at all, take as long as you need, ser.” 

Feynri tottered off, candlestick in hand, and continued checking the enchantments in the corners of the building, humming softly as she worked. Vero smiled gently as she passed him, and headed towards the statues at the far back wall of the temple. 

On either side of an ornate altar stood two large statues. On the left, a dark set of armour stood ominously, hands folded over the pommel of a pitted iron greatsword that was staked into the podium before it. On the right, a marble man with golden hair held a shield aloft before him, kneeling with his shield angled towards the snow-covered skylight above the altar. Vero placed several gold pieces in the donation box just behind the altar, and knelt before the statues. 

“I hope this channel of communication is still amenable,” he thought, pushing his thoughts to form a connection with his deities. 

“It is,” came the gruff response, and Vero saw a vision of blackened plate armour, followed by one of his prior companions, the man he still fondly referred to as Tyrion. 

“Though it is unusual for you,” Tyrion stated. “I admit some confusion as to why you did not approach us in your usual manner.” 

“I thought this setting more appropriate,” Vero responded. “I wish to discuss the commitments I made in my Oath. There have been several years of peace since the fall of Brassaris, and my personal need for revenge has mellowed over the years. I admit that I no longer think myself worthy to carry an Oath of Vengeance into this new era.” 

“This does not surprise me.” The armoured Tyr’s voice was steady and deep, almost echoing in his empty metallic shell. 

“Though your worthiness has never been in doubt, your ability to uphold such a vicious Oath has caused me some concern,” Tyrion admitted. “However, it would be more concerning were you to abandon a faith you have upheld through such hardship.” 

“I do not intend to abandon either of you as my deities,” Vero assured the pair of gods. “I simply wish to enquire as to whether it would be feasible for me to serve in a new way going forwards. While my drive for vengeance has brought me through much, I no longer believe I hold the same desire for revenge I did when I first forged my Oath.” 

“There are other paths,” came the grumbling response. 

“Indeed. Perhaps your duty is no longer to seek vengeance for destruction, but to protect what has not yet been destroyed,” Tyrion mused. 

“‘Tis an ancient vow,” said the armoured god, “and not one to be undertaken lightly, though I am aware you are no stranger to hardship in following, Vero Helder.” 

“An Oath of knowledge, protection, and growth. A far lighter burden than the one you have carried thus far, my friend,” Tyrion said, a warm sensation tingling across Vero’s scalp as he did so. 

“What is this Oath?” 

“An Oath of the Ancients. Guardians of the Light, beacons of Hope in times of Darkness,” came the echoed answer. Though the armoured god was faceless, Vero could sense the caution with which he spoke. 

“Those who kindle the Light of Hope, allowing others to grow in times of Despair,” Tyrion continued. “Personally, I think it far more fitting for your new command. You have outgrown the anger you carried in youth. If we do not allow you growth then we, as your guides, are no better than those who seek to stifle the Light you seek to shelter.” 

“Then what must I do? If I wish to prove myself worthy of such an Oath, I-”

“Vero, be calm,” Tyrion soothed, and Vero took a shuddering breath. “You have done more than prove yourself. In your short life, you have committed more to our cause than some who live on far past your own years. It is on your shoulders our very faith was carried, and it would be my honour to allow you to recommit yourself in the fashion you see fit.”

“I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you, my lords.” 

“Do you, Vero Helder, vow to shelter the Light of Hope from the wicked who seek it’s extinguishment, to kindle the Light of Hope in the face of Darkness, and to embody the Light as a Beacon of Hope for those who seek enlightenment?” The rumbling echo of his god’s voice shook Vero to his soul, but he swallowed his nerves. 

“I, Vero Helder, shall shelter, kindle, and embody the Light of Hope. I vow to protect the Light in times of darkness and despair, and to share the Light with any who seek it.” 

“Then it is my honour to declare your Oath renewed. Go forth, Green Knight, and take the Light to those in need,” Tyrion said, pride evident in his tone. 

A sudden warmth enveloped Vero, as his cloak tinged a deep forest green. Vines twisted around the Avenger’s hilt, and small flowers sprouted in the hems of his clothes. 

“You have our blessings, Green Knight,” spoke a fading echo as the vision of his gods began to fade. 

“Thank you. I will not let you down.” 

When his vision faded, Vero took a heavy breath, and stood. Taking a last look at the statues, he smiled, before turning to leave. 

“Good night, Feynri. I’ll come by tomorrow,” he said, waving to the young woman as he exited. 

Kayden wakes with a start, a scream sticking in his throat. Bleary from the nightmare, it takes a few moments for his surroundings to settle in, for his breathing to slow again. It had felt so real, so close, and then nothing all over again. Head still spinning, he gets out of bed, stumbling across the room to the small bathroom, practically punching the light switch as he passes. The light, through the partially open door, illuminates a small strip of the bed, and the mess of ginger hair belonging to his partner. Kayden leans over the sink, splashing water in his face, before fumbling through the cabinet for relief. Grabbing the near-empty tube, he sits down on the toilet lid and takes a breath, trying to calm the sea of anxiety rising and falling in his chest.

The aching scars covering his back are old, years old, but feel as fresh as the day they were branded into his skin. They always do, after the nightmare. Screaming, making his head spin and his ears ring, and the pain. Always the pain. It never leaves him and, as he rubs the soothing cream across the scarring for the millionth time, he was sure it never would.

The word was close to illegible after the marring from the skin graft, he was thankful for that small mercy, but the photo taken for evidence was forever burned into his memory. Thinking about it now, it almost didn’t feel like he was thinking about himself, as if the picture had been taken of some other scrawny 16 year old, pre-graft, with ‘faggot’ scrawled on his back and set alight. He remembered the pain, though, and that was what made it feel real again. He stretches his arm to reach between his shoulder blades, and winces.

“Need some help?” Kayden looks up to find Adam leaning against the door frame, hazel eyes sleepily half-lidded and hair beginning to matt on one side. “You need to start waking me up.”

“I… sorry. Can you…”  

“Yeah,” Adam said, stepping into the room and taking the tube from Kayden. “I’ll get it. Turn around, love.”

Adam rubs slow circles across the scars, and Kayden began to relax under his touch. Feeling him stop, Kayden looks back over his shoulder, nervous that this would be the time that Adam had finally cracked. It never was, but the fear never left.

“You okay?”

“Asks the guy who just woke up in a panic attack.”

“Adam…”

“I know, I know, I just… this… shouldn’t still hurt,” Adam mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s been years, and it always feels like the first time. Nothing ever got fixed. We’re still fixing everything, and it shouldn’t’ve broken anyway.”

As the sun sets on the palace a third time, Vero finally manages to pull himself from his bed. The room is unfamiliar and bare, and has a soft orange glow cast across it from the setting sun. Vero stands at the window, watching the shadows from the nearby forest grow, thinking for a few minutes, before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

He pads down the hallway, bare feet cold against the tiled floor, and stops in front of another bedroom door. As he raises his hand to knock, he hesitates, chest tightening as he brings himself to rap his sore knuckles against the varnished wood.

Andre opens the door almost immediately, and smiles when he sees Vero.

“What brings you here at this hour?” he asks flirtingly, but Vero simply shakes his head. Andre frowns, confused. “Are you alright?” Vero shakes his head again, and flinches when Andre rests a hand on his shoulder. Andre falters, worried. “... Would you like some tea?” Vero hesitates, but nods his head, and Andre steps aside so he can enter the room.

The room is relatively simple in decoration, but has a distinctly warmer feeling to it than Vero’s. Unlike Vero, Andre appears to have moved some of his things from the Shepherds’ base into the castle already. Nobody in the group has many personal items, they were extraneous and took up space, and resources were better spent on weaponry and materials, but Andre seems to have more than most. Several books are stacked on the dresser, tattered and worn from reading, and a rough clay teapot sits beside them.

Andre passes Vero and stands by the bed. Vero watches him blankly for a few moments.

“Do… Do you want to sit down?”

Vero considers the suggestion, and nods, taking a seat on the bed. Andre sits beside him, quiet for a few minutes, not wanting to push. There is a pregnant silence, broken only by the soft wind outside the window.

“... I got those men killed,” Vero says after a while. Andre looks down at him, and is surprised to find tears in his eyes.

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. They trusted me with their lives, and I led them to their deaths. I shouldn’t have asked them to risk that for me, they didn’t deserve to die for my fight.”

“This wasn’t your fight,” Andre says softly, and Vero grits his teeth in frustration, biting back the desire to shout and scream and break everything he can see.

“Their fight is my fight, I’m part of this now. But I shouldn’t have involved the Order, and it’s my fault they’re dead.”

There is quiet again as Vero’s thoughts begin to settle, but the silence does not feel as full this time, as though the release of emotion is finally beginning to thin the heavy atmosphere.

“Would you have come if they called? If you knew that you might die?”

“Of course I would. I would die for any one of them. But that isn’t the point.”

“Yes it is. They knew what they were doing, they joined the Order to support others like themselves, and they died upholding that.”

Vero is quiet again, but the cogs turning in his brain might as well have been a slowly ticking grandfather clock, echoing in the silence.

“No. It isn’t that.”

“Then what is it? Vero, you can talk to me, I’m right here.”

Vero hesitates and bows his head, tears beginning to flow freely down his face.

“... The last time I was in a battle that large, I was nineteen. I almost died, I saw my friends die, and… and I ran away. I carried my friend Bran from the Dusk Republic to Vordrung, and the whole time I thought he was going to die in my arms. All I could think was how much he had left to live for and… and that I-I… I should die in his place, if I could. Every time I bound his wound, I promised him that I would never let it happen again, not to him, not to anyone I could protect. I could’ve protected them, and I let them all die.”

“Vero… That isn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself.”

“But I do. Every decision I make ends up with someone I care about dying. I left, and my family died. I ran, and Bran died. I tried to fight, and the Paladins died. It’s my fault.”

“I’m still here.”

Vero very nearly convulses, trying desperately to keep the pain of his immediate thought inside. His chest tightens suddenly, and a fresh wave of tears spills over. He slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, but Andre moves it gently, letting him fall against him as he cries.

“I’ve already died once, sweetheart. I’m not about to do it again anytime soon,” Andre says softly, rubbing soothing circles into Vero’s back. “... Stay here tonight, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, I want to know you’re alright.”

“I’m not.”