“Lord, though You sit upon a throne of unimaginable totality presiding over the vastness of everything You have created with the greatest of all powers sustaining it, I kneel before You knowing You have the greatest of concern for even the smallest portion of it. For in its smallness, it carries just as much worth and value to You as the greatest of things. Beyond all, rests Your name as a representation of Love, Love in its perfect form, complete form, unblemished or tarnished by the eroding condition of mortal life. And from Your Love flows the power of your Kingdom, a place so perfect, our minds struggle with its comprehension. And though I struggle understanding everything through Your perfect heart, whatever Your Will demands, let it be done in our world just as it is done in Yours. For in the active completion of Your will, all things will rest in Your glorious and uncompromising grace such that we will be provided that which sustains not only the body and mind, but also the soul.
“Yet it is not I whom I lift up to Your holy and hallowed Heavens, but Hundolis. He is young in his understanding of You, but he is hungry to know more. Forgive him, just as You have forgiven me, for his ignorance and hold him protected through his time in Lrossiduun. Avert the gaze of our foes from him that he may pass in and out of the city unharmed. See him thrive inside Your will and make plentiful his time with his family, for it may be the very last time he sees them. And though we face dark times, perhaps the darkest of them all, I hold fast to my faith in Your love made possible through Your Son, the one true King and Lord over all of Your perfect creation. Through His name, the glorious name of Jesus, The Christ, I come to You. As it is said, so let it be done.”
In quiet contemplation, immersed in the confident glory that his prayer has been heard and answered in accordance to God’s Will, Eriboth maintained his silence long into the morning preferring the stillness of meditation over the turmoil of thought, for there were many things plaguing the mortal wanderings of his mind. And though his mental fortitude had been honed through years and years of meditational strength, eventually his emotional concerns wore away his mental defenses and he found himself, to his surprise, reliving a particular moment in his life, a sad moment; but a moment vital in his education of things such as life and death. Perhaps it was God who had directed his thoughts to this specific memory as an instruction in its applicability to the inevitable collision set before him. For much like his past, he was set to a course that would see him end the life of something he loved. Years ago, it was his horse. Now, it was his son.
“I do not understand,” pleaded a young Eriboth.
“What is it you do not understand?” answered his uncle, Trosboril, Lord of House Leptilon.
The morning was cold, but not so cold that they had to wear thick furs yet as they walked through the grounds of their large estate on their way to the stables. Eriboth’s horse, the one he received on his tenth birthday from his father, The King, had injured its ankle during one of the training drills the previous morning. At first, the injury did not appear to be severe; however, over the course of the next several hours, Brandor’s ankle had swollen so large and become so painful that the horse could put no weight on it at all. In fact, after the horse physicians had examined the beast, they proclaimed the ankle to be broken clean through rendering it useless.
“Why can we not wait for Brandor to heal?” asked Eriboth.
“Because, little one, some things just cannot heal,” answered Lord Leptilon.
“How do you know he will not heal?” he asked.
“Because the physicians have said as much,” answered his uncle, picking up his pace.
“How do they know?” asked Eriboth as he sought for any opening to change his uncle’s mind.
Lord Leptilon stopped and turned toward the young boy. Squatting down so he was at eye level, he placed both of his hands on Eriboth’s shoulders. “Nephew, it is not for us to question the knowledge of those who have been educated in such traditions as health and healing. It is, however, for us to use their knowledge to better help us make the best decision regarding how to move forward.”
As tears began to form in his eyes, Eriboth sniffled slightly and said, “It is not fair.”
“Fair is a matter of perspective, young one. What you see as unfair now could very well be fair tomorrow, and unfair again the next day. We cannot live and rule with thoughts of fair or lack thereof. All we can do is live our lives by the edicts of The Stars. And the stars say this must be done,” he said as Eriboth struggled to keep his tears confined to his eyes. “Now,” continued his uncle, “let us be to it.”
They walked the rest of the way to the stables briskly, at least as briskly as a ten-year old’s weary from sadness legs could carry him. The rest of the horses had already been removed, a precaution against their response to the dying sounds of one of their kin. It had long been theorized by the elven wizard Thosdul Lesorigon that animals of higher development could form emotional bonds with others of their kind. True, these bonds were not so advanced as the mortal races, as their minds were not so advanced either. However, instead of having an emotional response tempered, albeit tenuously, by the sophistication of the mortal mind, these animals’ responses would reflect the basal nature of their evolvement. As a result, they would be less predictable and more severe in most cases. For that reason, always were the other animals taken out to pasture when acts of mercy were conducted.
Maybe it was the smell of a familiar scent, or maybe it was their footfalls on the crunching leaves, but regardless of the reason, when they were both just on the outside of the stable doors, they heard a weakened, almost sadness-laced, bray. So, contrasting from the excited whinny Brandor made whenever Eriboth approached was it that it instantly brought tears to the young boy’s eyes. Lord Leptilon entered without hesitation; however, Eriboth paused, allowing the stable door to swing shut.
From inside the stable, he heard Lord Leptilon say, “Procrastination will only make things worse, for you and Brandor both.” But when he was still frozen in place, Lord Leptilon added, “Step to it. He is suffering.” Steeling himself for what was to come, he closed his eyes, placed his hand on the large, swinging door, and pushed.
As it closed behind him, although the stables were largely opened to both the elements and light, they seemed to darken slightly, as if they both had less potency inside the walls than they did just the morning before. Eriboth opened his eyes to see his uncle standing outside of the farthest stable with his arms crossed. Though he was a compassionate ruler, often times even empathetic, he was less so patient once the obvious decision had been presented and decided upon. And sometimes, apparently this being one of those times, his patience presided over his compassion.
“Step to it, now. Bring the feed bag here,” ordered Lord Leptilon.
From a state of numbness, part of him still in disbelief regarding the whole of the situation, and the other part hoping he would still wake from this terrible nightmare, Eriboth absently did as he was told. When he was within arm’s reach of his uncle, he held out the bag of poisoned feed.
“No, Eriboth,” he said with his arms still crossed, “Brandor is yours.”
“What?” asked Eriboth.
“I did not tell you to give me the feed bag. Nor did you carry it here for me,” he said, steel lacing his eyes.
The young boy looked to the closed door of Brandor’s stable in reaction to a particularly ghastly neigh, completely void of the energetic life of his horse. He looked back to his uncle, not because he did not understand what his uncle was saying, but because there was no possible way he would be able to do what his uncle was asking him to do.
“Did you not hear his bray? Can you not tell he is suffering?” asked his uncle standing so largely over him that he appeared to be as large as the fabled Giants. But unlike them, his uncle existed in more than just the storybooks and mother’s legends. Clutching the feed bag with both hands now, he let his eyes fall from his uncle to the poisoned food he had prepared. Perhaps it was the single tear that fel
l from his wet lashes that landed upon the horse’s food, or perhaps it was the slight, side to side shaking of his head; but for whatever reason, the compassion of Lord Leptilon asserted itself and he knelt down putting a warm hand on Eriboth’s shoulder. “You are filled with compassion, are you not?” he asked, not to draw an answer, but to demonstrate his understanding of Eriboth’s tears.
“How?” asked the young boy, still not looking up from the bag.
After a long sigh, Lord Leptilon said, “I am not sure. When I was a boy, my father did not give me the option of a using the feed bag. We just walked to the stables and he handed me his sword.”
The word sword combined with this situation overcame Eriboth’s eyes and jolted his head to look at his uncle, “You used a sword?” he asked in disbelief.
“Indeed, I did. Though I am not sure it was the better way, for either of us,” he said as he wiped dry Eriboth’s cheeks.
“How did you do that?”
“I guess I just understood that every moment I delayed, Chestorin’s suffering increased. And seeing him continue to suffer was something I was not prepared to do,” he said.
“But it is so hard,” said Eriboth as his eyes began to well up with liquid sadness again.
“Yes. Saying goodbye is always hard to do. But I have always found it much harder to let the suffering linger.”
“What will happen to him? Will he join The Stars as we do?” ask the boy trying to find anything he could grasp onto that would refocus the ache in his heart upon the hope of life.
“That is a great question for the Lorekeepers, my boy,” he said with a little chuckle, “But I should say that if ever a horse was fit to run among the stars, then Brandor is it.”
“I hope so,” said Eriboth, “I would very much like to ride him again,” he said as his face began to crinkle up reflecting his resignation to the task at hand.
Another weak bray drew both of their eyes to the closed door this time, “I know, son, I know,” said Lord Leptilon. “Now, open the door and show Brandor a merciful end.”
“Will he feel anything? Will it hurt?” he asked as his breaths skipped signaling his sobbing was over.
“No. The poison is falsor-root. It induces a calm, sleep like state. He will feel nothing except the heavy eyes of slumber.”
“Ok,” said young Eriboth as he turned toward the door. Just after placing his hand on the handle to swing it opened, he turned his head back toward his uncle, the Lord of House Leptilon and Lord of Lrossiduun, and asked, “Uncle?”
“Yes, Eriboth.”
“Will you wait for me?”
“As long as you need.”
The next few minutes passed much like they would have if Eriboth had been sleeping, in a haze of diffuse reality wherein his dreams felt real and unreal at the same time. Even the shutting of the stable door produced a muted sound behind him, lacking the loud clacking of its latching mechanism that had become familiar each morning he prepared to ride Brandor. When he was mentally able to attend to his horse, he saw him laying down on a soft bed of hay with his head stretched out facing him. He was obviously in pain. Recognizing Eriboth by his scent, Brandor lifted his head and attempted to bray as he always did to welcome his young rider; however, what presented itself was a weakened, hollow sound more reminiscent of the Elven Death Flutes than an excited, life-filled welcome. Kneeling down next to the horse, Eriboth slowly and weakly stroked the side of his neck and the length of his snout. Brandor tried to respond, by lifting his head again, but was unable to sustain it.
“Hello, my friend,” the young boy said to his horse the same way he said it each time they met. Although it was laced with sadness, the horse still perceived it as joyful because he flicked his tail in response. Seeing the familiar gesture, Eriboth began to cry again.
Between sobs, he managed to say, “I will ride you each time I sleep.” Sliding the feed bag over Brandor’s long nose and securing it behind his head, he continued, “Now, just rest and eat so you can gain your strength to carry me when I am older.”
But instead of eating, Brandor breathed weakly and seemed to stare at Eriboth who continued to console the horse by stroking his strong neck.
“You need to eat now,” said the young boy trying rather unsuccessfully to hold back his tears.
But the horse did not eat.
“Please, eat. It is too hard,” said Eriboth as he continued to cry.
Perhaps because the bond suggested by the elven wizard was not just limited to their own kind, or perhaps because the horse truly was hungry, Brandor finally began to eat. Regardless of the reason, Eriboth was grateful because it meant that both the horse’s and his suffering in this moment would soon be over. As the horse slowly chewed its food, Eriboth said nothing. He simply continued stroking the horse’s neck and nose until its breathing ceased and its eyes grew distant and then still. When he could no longer fool himself into seeing the continued rising and falling of Brandor’s large lungs, he stood up, wiped his eyes one last time and swung the stable door open.
“Is it done?” asked Lord Leptilon.
“Yes,” said Eriboth as he looked up to his uncle, meeting his eyes.
“How do you feel?”
“I do not feel.”
“That is how.”
That is how indeed, thought the silent warrior as he continued in the stillness of meditation. To still one’s emotions to better progress through the inevitable manifestation of pain regarding actions that cannot be avoided was a lesson he learned well on that day. He had mastered it so well that its utilization had become almost a natural aspect of whom he had become, at least, before he was brought back to life and born again through the man named Jesus. How or why he had returned, he still did not know, but he was confident part of it was to face Jesolin and atone for the consequences he had brought to so many unwilling people. No, not people, the entire realm.
“That is an arrogant presumption indeed,” said a slithering voice behind him. “To think the whole of Avendia and her fate rests in the hands of but a single man, well, not even I dare to dream of such importance or relevance.”
He need not turn to know whose voice it was. There could be only one entity, masterful in its deceptive prowess, that could conceal itself from his sight without sight. And likewise, only one whose mere presence fouled the very air he breathed – Satan.
“Are you still maintaining the façade of your true form within that body?” he asked still in his kneeling posture.
“At first I thought to dispose of it quickly, but I have found that its powers, while juvenile and contrite, provide what I need,” he paused and then continued ominously, “for the moment.”
“Enjoy it while you can, this moment, for it is quickly approaching its end,” replied Eriboth.
“Ah yes, the inevitable battle between you and my son,” said Satan as he approached Eriboth to kneel in front of him.
“He is not your son,” calmly stated Eriboth, still with his eyes closed and hands resting peacefully on his knees.
“Indeed,” said Satan, “and yet, he is more my son than yours. Tell me, my dear Eriboth, do you even know who could be the mother?”
Eriboth responded with only silence, for silence was the only answer he could offer without acknowledging the truth behind Satan’s words. But even in his silence, he carried an admission to his guilt, a guilt Satan relished in.
Seeing Eriboth’s lack of words, he continued “How does this work? Do I have to kneel and clasp my hands to pray?” he asked, mocking the warrior. “Should I close my eyes and lift my head to the sky? And then, what do I ask for? Can I ask for anything? If it is that easy, why do not more people pray?” He paused for a moment while Eriboth remained silent. “I think I am doing it wrong. I just asked God to smite you down where you kneel and he did not do it. Ah yes, now I know why more people do not pray. God does not hear them. He only hears what he wants, but not what his people need.”
“God hears all and answers them accordi
ng to His will,” said Eriboth calmly.
“How can you not question him?” asked Satan.
Eriboth maintained his silent and stilled meditation.
“How? Can you not answer me that?” asked Satan again.
Again, Eriboth did not answer Satan’s provoking question.
“I will take your silence as an ascent to the validity of my statements,” said Satan as he leaned in, only inches away from Eriboth.
Eriboth opened his eyes, prepared and forged in the peaceful place of meditative prayer, and stared down the genesis of all evil, “Because I believe.”
“Believe? You Believe? Believe in what?” asked Satan in almost a whisper. “What has He done for you?”
“He gave me life,” answered Eriboth.
“And what a life it has been,” mocked Satan. “I was there each time you slew by the hundreds. I did not even have to manipulate you into seeking death as a reprieve from the pain and hollow existence you lived. You were lost well before my presence. In fact, it was your ability to unknowingly spread my work that gained my attention. Indeed, you were so prolific at carrying my banner that you brought into this world a boy and transformed him from an innocent baby filled with love, or at least its potential, into he who would orchestrate my symphony by no other means than simply the condition of your useless life,” said Satan as he stood up, “You completed all that without even a shred of my influence. Bravo!” he said as he started to clap. “Well done, my friend. Well done indeed.”
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