The Father's Mercy [PK]

[Draiden 326]

Spoiler

 

 

Today had been a breakthrough.

 

There had been many thoughts through Tyr Faretto’s mind throughout the years he had whilst walking in the realms of men and elves. Looking through his narrowed scope of reality, he had grasped so long for a deeper meaning; for some type of greater purpose. He had tried to search as many paths as he could to find himself, but was met with only ashes and despair. In retrospect, he referred to his life as a daze of sleepwalking – never truly feeling like he was aware of his surroundings. A steady stream of going through the motions, as it were. The only thing that ever felt like something somewhat reminiscent of a higher calling lay with the Hearthfires he had labored so long to uphold and maintain during his journeys. Those as well, however, he had also raged against behind the closed doors of his mind.

 

Many thoughts, indeed. Heresy, Ashen and Anathema thrashed about in his head betwixt his own thoughts like trapped and cornered animals, frantically searching for some way out. People he once called dear friends and people he once grieved deeply for their loss were damned in his heart and spat upon in his ramblings. Ideals and morals were trampled by the fervor of his own wants and needs. His tormentors were his own hands, tearing away at himself... Until he was only but bloodied ribbons and scraps of a world long forgotten by most. But then he came to, caught exploring the jagged peaks of his mind. He was alone in the tavern, the parchment laid out before him. Solvi had closed down some hours before, leaving Tyr to himself. The writ was addressed only to her, but held some key bits of text for everyone – Godric, Thora, Sigurd, Chadmyr, Jager, and anyone else who would be willing to read it. He sighed to himself, crumpling the note and throwing it into the fires. Everyone was so cold and impersonal these days, even Solvi. She had once been the one thing that had kept him going, and now they were hardly on speaking terms. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t blame anyone. He had done a lot of this to himself, disappearing for fifteen years and then intruding on the lives they’ve set up without him. Besides, he didn’t feel the need to justify himself to anyone anymore. His actions were always his own, and they were almost always met with some kind of resistance.

 

Heresy originates in the mind and is spawned from the tongue and through the fingertips. He hadn’t struck another of the Father’s children in anger. He hadn’t renounced any in the light of his holy embrace... But in his heart how he cursed them all. How his spirit and every fiber of his being longed for them all to suffer. Not all at once, mind you, but each in their own respective turn throughout the long years he spent trapped in his own head. He got up from his spot, dragging his flamebrand behind him like a child with his favorite toy. He made his way out into the street, and before long found himself before the Ash Tree. The Ash Tree was once a prominent symbol within the Faith, for every kingdom that shared the Faith owned one. The fires danced from the branches, turning to cold embers before they ever touched the water and cobbled streets below. He could recall a time the Ashwood was more important than the Hearth – for the fires betwixt the indestructible bark and wood were also from the Father... Though he had his doubts about any fires being holy from time to time. He also recalled the regarding of heresy from his oldest mentor. He remembered that to purify one’s soul was done in two steps, as necessary... And it was certainly necessary, for he had thought, spoken and done very impure and heretical things – most he would never tell anyone for as long as he lived. He had done the first step, as all children of the Father have. He worshiped and held faith with the Father and his paragons. He chuckled to himself, thinking that he was once the High Keeper. The High Keeper... To only fall so low.

 

The second part was for the children who had since recognizing the Father turned away fro his guiding light. They had seen and known truth and deliberately disobeyed. These misdeeds were only redeemable by the Father’s Mercy, though he couldn’t seem to recall the last time it was practiced. The wicked were burned alive, so that whatever impurities they had would be turned to ash with their mortal bodies so that their spirit may be unburdened when they approached the Father. He had tormented himself for far too long, enticing himself with the ideals and thoughts of one too impure to carry a sacred flamebrand, let alone be the High Keeper. Previous attempts at repentance were petty and were rewarded with vanity. He touched his left eye, feeling the smooth surface of the polished aurum sphere that now sat in its place. He was damned, and he was wicked... But maybe he was redeemable. He approached the tree.

 

The Ashwood’s sap was famed for being very thick, sugary and flammable. It was used for a great many things in its time, but was now mainly used to distill spirits and to stoke the fires in the flambrands that were carried by brothers of the Hearth. Tyr ran a hand down the bark, collecting a sizeable amount. He nestled his flamebrand amongst the roots and sat down, beginning the arduous process of marking himself. He made marks in ancient Norlandic across his body and robes, making a short chronicle of the things he had done. He jotted down his apologies to his family, country and faith who all had to either struggle or die without his help. The process took longer than expected, and it was the wee hours of the night by the time he was done. He looked to the moon for the last time. All his life, he had been blindly following his own desires. He hoped that his final act as a man would be to do what is right instead.

 

He held his hand over the open flame of his flamebrand, the fires licking his fingers and shooting up his arm, following the sappy trail he had made for it. In the blink of an eye, he was engulfed entirely. He had made romantic thoughts before of not screaming in pain and staying perfectly still while he payed his penance... But the holy fire of the Father seemed to brand his very soul. He screamed and yelled in the midst of the agony, the flames creeping down into his lungs with every breath he gasped to make. He twitched and shook violently, taking ever ounce of what little restraint he had to keep from falling over. He probably woke up several Morsgrad denizens in his little stunt. Any attempts to extinguish him would’ve failed – the sap would’ve made sure of that. Once it got hot enough, it’d get runny and act like oil to any water or blankets attempting to snuff it. Tyr writhed in horrible pain, hoping all his suffering would repent his lifetime of wrongdoings.

 

His last thoughts were of the people he was joining –loved ones who had long since parted this world, and people he’d never met. He thought of the people he was leaving behind, though he knew in his heart long ago that this new world didn’t need old men like him. He breathed his last upon the roots of the Ash Tree in a swirling inferno... A monument to all he ever truly loved.

 

Spoiler

TL;DR Tyr lit himself on fire in front of the Ashwood Tree, killing himself

 

[LaviniaTheRider 60]

Solvi would be the first to notice. The sun barely creeping over the horizon, rays falling across her scarred face. Her eyes open and she looks to where her husband normally rests, beside her, to find only empty furs. She would calmly stand and dress as if for any other day, despite immediately knowing that his absence means only one of two things. He has either left again, abandoned her with their children, or he is dead. Perhaps both. She dons her signature white porcelain mask, that hides her burnt features, wrinkled face, and emotion. Moving from the tavern that is their clan home, she walks up to the crumpled form that used to be Tyr, and crouches softly beside him. Her knees creak and groan, her fingers are bent and swollen with arthritis as she reaches out to grasp what was once his hand. The form crumbles away as she touches it, falling into ash, and her old voice croaks softly, “You have abandoned me twice now.” The High Keeper is wordless from then on, silent in the morning sun as she begins to carefully gather what was once her husband into a clay urn.

 

Thora would step out of the tavern soon after, finding her mother scooping the last of the ashes into the cold clay pot, seeming confused, “Ma?” She calls, but Solvi seems distant, far from the Ash as she looks to the soot on her hands. Tyr’s daughter would seem to grasp what was happening, having seen urns meant for the crypts before, “He’s gone, isn’t he?” She receives no response from the old woman, but had known the answer before she spoke the question regardless. She crosses her arms over her chest, face stoney, “Oh.” The woman does not seem heartbroken, having not known the man. In her mind, behind her stone face, she stretches to even remember the last interaction she had with him. He left when she was very young, left her and her mother to care for all of the children, while her older brother went off to war. Then, when he returns, he simply makes Ma more distant and removed. Thora shakes her head softly, grabbing her shepherd’s crook and moving off to tend to her musk oxen.

[Askuzai 505]

Chadmyr had only stumbled on the ashen corpse once Solvi had nearly finished scraping it into the urn. “What’s happ- Oh. ****.” he said, his lips now tugging themselves into a deep frown having noticed the fallen Flamebrand near the remains; He knew exactly who it was. Chad’s mind fell to memories of the old man, Of the gilded knife that he gave him to slay the undead and unholy alike, of the evil they slew together in that dreadful forest. What a time that was to enact on the fathers will, but those times were long past, and now Tyr lies dead and with the Allftather. The last memory was of Tyr telling him the words “Do what makes you happy, damn everyone else.” Chad muttered under his breath as he stumbled over one of the Ashtree’s  roots – bringing him back to reality; what was now and not distant past. “Is this what made you happy, old man?” he’d ask to nothing but the vibrant crackles of his own Flamebrand and the dwindling flames of Tyr’s; Little but embers and the occasional spark were left of the once brilliant blaze. He rests the fallen Flamebrand on a sapless part of the trunk next to Solvi. To let her decide what to do with one of the few things her husband had left behind. Only once the High Keeper was done with her task did Chadmyr walk off to the temple’s garden, to wonder of the future, to ponder as to why this had happened.

 

Whether this was an omen from the father, Good or bad, He couldn’t be sure. For it could have been a message of the old giving way to the new or a warning that his regency will be wrought with death. It wasn’t clear to him, not yet.