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Rest in Gwynon


JoanOfArc
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Rest in Gwynon

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A painting depicting the white cliffs of Powys

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Father Griffith of Gwynon stood above white cliffs of Powys overlooking the northern sea of Aeldin in the summer morning. The breeze went through his golden sunshine hair as he pointed in the distance- over the vast and numerous waves- in the company of his friend and last companion, Daemeon Belcourt. The two kept silent and, for a mere moment,  they perhaps even caught a glimpse of their Fjordem’s island city of Austbo. But even if they did not, the waves bouncing against the cliffs drowned out much of the worry that had come over them. Not that there was much to be said, at least, for they comfort in each other’s silence.

 

The land they stood on was a modest plot that went through Father Griffith’s family’s line for many years. After his ancestor, Nikolaus, left the Kingdom of Oren in hopes to find a new and brighter future within this distant land, he finally found rest within the Duchy of Gwynon. Griffith wondered the same for himself and his child. His son, Nafis, had already braved the journey to care for their modest plot as inheritor of the land. He tended the land for several years already and his hands became coarse and rough from many hours of toil. It was never a dream of Griffith’s to have his only child becoming a farmer. He wished more for him like knighthood or clerical studies. Maybe it is better this way? He thought to himself, My child can find the peace I never found through this humble abode?

 

And just like that, the priest’s thoughts were overwhelmed about the self-pity he had for himself and regret he clung on to. Griffith was truly anything but a selfish man within his heart. He melancholically pondered of those who he treated as disposable but passed on from his life: Fatma, Juan, Seraphim, Arthur, Pelagius. But most importantly Vaeri, the priest innerwardly wept  to God, you took her from me. His thoughts were filled with evil, he knew it to be true as he cursed God’s name, but he felt these wicked thoughts all the same.

 

“Valerica must be coming up from the city now.” Daemeon said, breaking the silence. On que, the two spotted Valerica coming towards them from down the hilly slope. She was carrying some Gwynonese jewelry (if you could call jewelry from a humble side of duchy consisting only of farmers jewelry) and smiled deeply to them. “The spend-thrift blowing through our money in the first week of our honeymoon! She didn’t even pay a dowry!” he jested quiet enough for only the priest to hear. 

 

All three chatted some silent words as they began to walk towards the home. Griffith noticed some structural improvements and visual improvements in general like the new coat of paint while walking up. It seemed to him that Nafis had been hard at work taking care of much of the land and was very diligent in his craft when the group walked by some barley stems. As the windy path took a turn, one thing stood rather blatantly out. A crack went down the side of the house. They walked on through the windy path and at last found Nafis tilling the land.

 

Nafis looked up from the ground and stared blankly at the company before dropping his rake and running towards Griffith to hug him. The priest instantly was taken back by this, but embraced his child all the same. “Baba! I missed you so. You did not tell me you were coming! And who are these peopl-- oh! Your friends! You wrote so much about them. Valerica and Daemeon?” Nafis spoke. Well, he did not speak only that, speaking much and more about happenings. Griffith’s parents passing at last into the Seven Skies according to his son and the Duke of Gwynon was hosting a tournament of sorts and there was a brawl he witnessed a few days ago and the priest there was becoming more Akritian in natural and, and, and. His son spoke well into the evening.

 

When the sun began to set, the Belcourts took their leave and retreated into the far side of the house to rest. Father Griffith and his son sat quietly on the porch in their chairs, looking towards Fjordem. “Baba, why did you come?” Nafis asked, looking at his father’s ghastly face with a side glance. The priest offered an excuse for the honeymoon trip but Nafis could always see through his lies. “Why are you truly here…?” he asked again. And the priest finally answered.

 

“I am here to see my last kin and I shall not leave until I atone my sins I have committed against you.”

 

Father Griffith of Gwynon offered no words after those spoken. He peered towards the waters and hoped his son would take it as truth. And to his joy, his son did, looking at the waters with him. His son would never know the true reason his father left was because his father was a coward, escaping from his fears as always.


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Though many letters were drafted, only one was sent from the city of Powys.

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To Father Pius of Sutica, my brother,

 

When this letter is received by you, you will have known what has happened by then. I am in my homeland now, as you can likely see from the address. This humble land has often offered me much more comfort than the plague of Imperial modernism has ever brought. 

 

I write this letter to you to ask for your forgiveness twice. First for causing you to worry. I did not know how to speak these words to you before I left Arcas. It was selfish of me, I know, but I hope you can forgive me. Second, I want to ask for your forgiveness for not returning. I have forsaken my calling to lead the grand city of Helena and wish to never see that cursed land again. It has only ever brought me ruin. I hope, in my stead, you and Cardinal St. Julia shall guide it to be the grand city of God it should have always been. 

 

I hope me asking for forgiveness shall not be too much of you. You were always a light within that wretched and dark land. While pain troubled me, I took comfort in your advice and letters. Please, by the grace of God, forgive me.


 

Your friend and confessor,

Griffith of Gwynon

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Edited by JoanOfArc
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An elfess gone by ages silently sat within her abode above the starlight canvas, hands cradling her pale skirts, eyes fluttered shut. She would gently inhale with a heave of her torso, digits wrought about the white fabric, tears beginning to bubble at memoir. Her heart ache, and her mind numbed. Was it truly worth a century of sorrow for forever lasting solace? Death was merciless and she was cruel.

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After some weeks, James II discovers Fr. Griffith had truly gone away permanently. It stings him, if not because he knew Griffith too well, then at least because he had only just found rest after Vaeri’s death. Fr. Griffith had been good and pious; so respectful of the High Pontiff that James II sometimes felt embarrassed. 
 

He looks down to his left hand, which now shook gently but constantly, as his father’s once did. Once, advanced age had seemed venerable to the priest—he looked forward to dignified repose. He felt foolish now, to have overlooked the inevitable effect of cumulated loss. Would he outlive all his friends? Would he perish a relic, respected but mostly unknown? Why had he not wed?

 

Ashamed of his despondence, he prays that night that Fr. Griffith find satisfaction, wherever he had gone.

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Father Pius, the stoic Elf who rarely displayed outward emotion, was, for the first time since his baptism, in tears. The news of his dear Confessor’s departure was not an easy blow to take, and so Pius went to the foot of the Altar, prostrated himself, and poured out his heart to God. At length, he manfully steadied himself, resigned himself to God’s will, and did several things. “Not my will, but Thy will, be done,” said he, “It is God’s will; he is in better hands than mine.”

 

To his new work, The Life of Ven. Olivier, he adds a dedication to his spiritual Father, urging men to pray for him. “For this is the only service God gives me liberty to render him, separated as we are by the wild and wasteful ocean.”

 

He then writes a note to Father Griffith:

 

”Very dear, very respected and very loved -Fathe- [the word is crossed out], Friend. 

 

Do not reproach yourself with anything for my sake. But rather, gird up your loins like a man, for you have a much better friend than I could ever hope to be, namely, Almighty God. And as I am sure you are doing the right thing and have total and utter trust in your decisions, I must accept it as coming from God. And I will simply reproduce for you the spiritual maxim of Ven. Humbert:

 

“God has created me to do Him some definite service. He has committed some work to me which He has not committed to another. I have my mission. I may never know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons.

 

He has not created me for naught. I shall do good; I shall do His work. I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth in my own place, while not intending it if I do but keep His commandments.

 

Therefore, I will trust Him, whatever I am, I can never be thrown away. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him, in perplexity, my perplexity may serve Him. If I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him. He does nothing in vain. He knows what He is about. He may take away my friends. He may throw me among strangers. He may make me feel desolate, make my spirits sink, hide my future from me. Still, He knows what He is about.”

 

If you pray for me, I shall know more from reality than from your assurance that you are. 

 

Your loving friend,

 

Pius of Sutica.”

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Manfried sat within his office, a pen cradled within his lone hand, held before the page in contemplation of what to write. His gaze was soon drawn from the parchment however as a knock was heard at his door, “It is unlocked!”  the Cardinal called, “Do enter!” At that, a young Acolyte entered with no letters or pages of which caused a brow to rise upon Manfried’s visage. Instead, the Acolyte came in with news of which he was soon to tell, “His Excellency, the Coadjutor Bishop of Helena, has departed permanently from the clergy and traveled somewhere afar of which I have not heard the location as of yet.” Cardinal Saint Julia’s left brow soon furrowed, accompanied by his right as he looked to the Acolyte with confusion of which was met with the same from the Acolyte as Manfried sat in silence. Just as Manfried had contemplated what to write on the page, he was now met with even further contemplation. However, soon his face softened and the silence was broke with a, “Thank you, brother. Is that all?” to which the Acolyte nodded and was dismissed by the Cardinal with a, “God bless you.” 

 

***

 

Later that night, after Manfried had made decent progress on the sermon he was writing, the pen slipped from his hand and he leaned back into the chair of his. The office of his had once again succumbed to silence and yet he was surrounded by noisy thoughts. He had received no letter and the only news he was told had been from the young Acolyte who had informed him of Griffith’s absence earlier that evening. And so, Manfried was left with questions alone, of which would perhaps later be answered. With that, he was left to ponder.

 

***

 

An hour or so later, Manfried had decided he had pondered enough. While he certainly was left with no answers, merely guesses, his mind followed the same line of thought that Pius’s did. He knew that God watched over Griffith in his endeavor and that an action such as this meant something for the future of the Bishop. Of his friend. With that, he wrote no letter, he signed no name, he traveled nowhere (not yet at least). The Cardinal simply slipped his hand down into the bowels of his desk and pulled out a carefully procured bottle of wine. Expensive and tasteful, it had come straight from the vineyards of Ves, aged six years and saved by Cardinal Manfried for company. With that bottle of wine, he pulled out a simple glass. With the cork on the table and the bottle in hand he poured himself some and as he was not one to indulge, it would be the only glass for that night. 

 

Wine in hand, he stepped out into the gardens behind the reliquary and stared up at the night sky. He knew the Lord was up there and so too did he know that the Lord watched over Griffith. Manfried took comfort in that small connection they now shared. And so, his lone hand rose and with it the glass. A toast to his friend of who he had shared moments like their many years as friends before the Priesthood, their first journey to the Basilica where they would be inducted as Acolytes, their ordainments, their years as Priests, and their years as Bishop and Cardinal.

 

“May you forever be under God’s light, warmed by it, graced by it, blessed by it. Stay safe, friend.. and God bless you.” he said with a warm smile. And so he took a drink and finished the rest of the glass in the garden as if Griffith was with him, two friends forever connected by God in the Seven Skies.

 

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Edited by GoldWolfGaming
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“Come, son. Let’s be off.” Said an individual dressed in a Illatian suit. As he began towards a beautiful ship docked at port.

Edited by _Sug
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