Completed [The Sanctuary] Nothing but Trouble (Timothy)

[Hirem]

32nd of Winter, 514 A.V.

Trouble lurked in Hirem’s mind, a sense of unease that would not abate no matter how much he tried to comfort himself.

Trouble first began the night that he brought the young child Timothy to the Sanctuary, after he had met the urchin in the streets. Head decided not to stay with Kavala and the child, but instead to return to the Rat Hole to resume his shift where he left off. Unfortunately, by that time Ardan had begun his shift in the early morning, leaving Hirem to try and explain why leaving the tavern in the middle of the night had been so damned important, why one young man was deserving of the complete anarchy that followed after the bouncer had departed. He only narrowly escaped that encounter with his employment, because no matter how many times Ardan threatened him with the streets, there wasn’t a replacement readily awaiting the already overworked bouncer. “One more time,” the head bouncer swore, cold eyes pressing deep into the Benshira’s. “One more time, and that is that, son of Yahal.” To make up for the inconvenience, he ended up taking over Ardan’s shift, presiding over the tavern until noontime. Many of the Rat Hole’s patrons were sailors on board the vessels that plied the Suvan for trade, and had taken up a ritual of christening each new voyage with a round of drinks in the early hours of the morning. The Rat Hole was especially busy that morning, the tables full of large men with serious eyes that spoke little. Hirem did not feel up to the task of policing the tavern, but thankfully little happened of note, leaving the tired Benshira to simply keep watch until it was time for him to leave.

That was when he first heard the rumours.

”…Was passing by my ship when I first saw him… little one, thin as a reed…”

“He slipped by as I was walking down the street, started reaching for my

“… The little bastard looked up at these big green eyes, and said, ‘Sorry, mister!’ Then ran off!”

“Hope the Kavran chase him out before too long. We’ve enough troubles with this damned plague, I don’t want to have another child thief on our hands.”

At first, Hirem dismissed these mutterings as just that: empty words from empty men, meant to occupy the rim of a cup and little else. But the more he heard, the more they pressed upon him, until finally it was impossible to deny that these rumours were of young Tim. The final confirmation he needed came when an Akalak correctly identified the strange brand that had been placed on the boy’s head. ”I’ve seen that before in Kenash,” he remarked, referencing the hammer image his angry friend spoke of. ”That’s a Radacke brand. They don’t give up their slaves easily. Wonder how he got let loose?” The news should not have affected Hirem greatly - it made sense for the child, being in the position that he was in, to resort to any means to survive- but he could not help but be disturbed by the facts. That young boy, little Tim with the broken wrist… was stealing from these men before he came to the tavern. No doubt there are scum worthy of being robbed, but the boy has also hurt innocents. For the child to resort to thievery for survival, instead of turning to someone for help… that was not the way a boy should think. Hirem’s heart curled uncomfortably when he imagined the boy with the green eyes alone on the streets, convinced that he could survive only by taking from others. That is not the way he should live. These thoughts continued to plague Hirem for the next few days, and only grew stronger with time. A child cannot live that way. He must not live that way. It was a shame that Riverfall did not have a facility to support the children that had no other means of living.

There was something else about the boy that kept Hirem’s thoughts fixated, long after he had left him in the capable care of Kavala. The Radacke brand on his forehead, the Benshira bracelet around his wrist, the devotion to Yahal, the green eyes… he needed to speak with Tim. He will not live this way.

One sombre winter morning, when the snows in Riverfall had abated for the moment and he felt confident enough taking to the roads, Hirem left the city and head for the Sanctuary. He arrived at the gates at mid-day, his shoulders quaking from the cold and his teeth chattering together. I would take a thousand boiling hot days in Eyktol than another chilly night in Riverfall, he swore to himself as he entered the compound, rubbing his hands together and waving courteously to the gardener. Red waved back, smiling as he strolled through the Sanctuary courtyard, inspecting the plants for… what, Hirem was unsure. ”Red?” The Benshira called. ”Do you know where the boy - Timothy - is?”

Red nodded and began to answer, then shut his mouth. Hirem could see the wheels turning in the gardener’s mind. ”Who?” He finally asked.

Confused, Hirem approached the man and shrugged his shoulders. ”Tim. He is no more than thirteen. Has green eyes. There’s a brand on his for-”

”Oh, Thomas!” Red nodded enthusiastically. ”He’s a spirited young man! Always has something bright to say, I’ve found!” He jerked his thumb over towards the kitchens. ”You’re likely to find him there.”

”Thank you,” the Benshira responded, trudging off towards the mess hall. His mind whirred with activity. Either the boy goes by both, or, more likely, he has lied about his name. A crime I once committed, but that does not make it any less of a crime. His countenance grew stern in anticipation of the talk he would have with Tim - Thomas - whatever his true name was. He pushed his way into the kitchen and glanced around, noting that Cadra was nowhere in sight. ”Tim?” Hirem murmured, clasping his hands together. There’s any number of places this boy could be hiding, he remarked, glancing at the many shadows spread through the storeroom. ”May we speak? I was hoping we could talk more of how you came to this city… and more of Yahal, if that would interest you.” The bait was laid, waiting now for the cat to spring the trap.

[Timothy Mered]

32nd of Winter 514AV

Thin veils of mist crawled low over the west pasture, blending with the dull skies above. Nature had been left to melt everything together as the foliage shriveled and retreated to the warmth of the earth. Frozen, the sullen remains of plants crunched under his boot. He scrunched up his nose. “Do you really have to do that?”

Ammoniac came steaming towards him as he watched the flecked pup empty its bladder over a chopping block. Scrapper, as he’d come to call the dog, had been a great companion lately, though the dog clearly still had a mind of its own. Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Timothy gazed up at the stone prison surrounding him. At first he had thought The Sanctuary to be a beautiful once-upon-a-time sort of place, where the grass was always fluffy and green and where the sun never stopped shining. Crouching, he quietly observed Scrapper leaving his signature puddle. A cold wind tousled his hair and altough he'd only been out for half an hour, his feet already longed back to the crackling hearth fire and the books he'd stumbled upon in the library. Many were too thick and difficult, but he liked the one about shielding, though he hadn't even tried putting any of the techniques into practice. Magic was still wrong after all.

“Come here,” Timothy clicked his tongue, trying to get the excited pup’s attention. Scrapper ran three circles around the log, sniffed, and only then came to his young friend. “That’s it,” Timothy cooed. He liked stroking the little dog’s warm, trim fur. Kennen had certainly been a good friend thus far, but there was something about the quiet, curious gaze Scrapper would give him as he rested his wet nose in Tim’s lap that made his chest light up like a firefly.
Though he could hardly blame them, the adults in and around The Sanctuary had shown only mild interest in his presence. Except for the children who he now avoided like the plague. They were young and stupid and he hated their wailing and screaming whenever one of the toddlers had stolen the other’s toys or something silly like that. Aside from the many odd little jobs he did to be kept busy, there were many hours on every day where he’d be left to wander around, questioning his purpose. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to muster his belongings and step out of that gate. Even with the gate almost constantly open, his feet refused to carry him out unless he had to courier some letter to the city or vice versa.

In spring he had decided. In spring he would crumple his belongings into a knapsack, leave a note, and venture out with scrapper at his side, if he could get the unruly pup to follow. For now he was preparing, nicking little useful items and hiding them under his mattress. So far he’d managed to get a few pieces of string, an old kitchen knife, a file, a few bits of leftover metal from the forge and, his most priced treasure, an old discarded compass. The thing he needed the most now was a better hiding place, or the strange bobs and bulges under the mattress would be too obvious.

“Let’s go back,” he whispered to Scrapper. “I’ll get you a nice bit of dried meat.”

He doubted Scrapper understood a word of what he was saying, but a whistle and a few clicks of his tongue were enough to make the pup follow him into the kitchen. Unfortunately there weren’t any meat leftovers, except for some fresh bacon on Cadra’s shelf. He checked over his shoulder and sighed. The young cook would undoubtedly hit him over the head with a platter for stealing from here stores again, but he couldn’t help it that her shelves had just the things a boy and his dog wanted. He took two large bacon strips out of Cadra’s icebox and tossed Scrapper one.

With one mighty gulp, the dog devoured his snack and whined softly at Tim, begging for more. “You’ll have to settle for just the one,” Timothy said as he stuffed his mouth with the other piece and closed the icebox. Once he would’ve felt guilty for stealing, but he found there to be a certain thrill to it. Cadra was no good at getting angry with him and he exploited her weakness. The Sanctuary was a good training ground for his chosen profession. Already, he’d learned from the mistakes he’d made on the streets of Riverfall. In essence, stealing only required a bit of boldness, quick fingers, and a stoic expression if you got caught. And if he was caught slipping his fingers into Aweston’s jacket or Red’s purse, he simply pretended to be joking and everyone had a laugh. Soon, he would be adapt enough to make a living out of it and leave this stone prison behind.

”Tim?”

The sudden voice caught him off guard. Scrapper bolted out of the kitchen and circled around Hirem, sniffing the desert man’s legs eagerly. Unable to hide, Tim traipsed after his dog and managed a wry smile. Undoubtedly Hirem would complain about him being too thin and too short again, whilst Aweston joked about his bear-like appetite in the evenings. Adults truly made no sense at all.
“Hi,” he greeted Hirem with the eagerness of a wet tea rag. Upon Hirem’s request, Timothy trudged towards one of the oak benches, plopped down and rested his elbows on the empty table. “I already explained to Kavala how I came here, you could ask her, unless you insist that I tell you.” Something snapped deep down. This man had saved him, being so distant seemed like a poor way to repay him…

“I know all there is about Yahal,” he said straightening up somewhat. “He’s the god of purity and all that, and I once thought his will had guided me here.” He chuckled, “well that’s not true is it? It was just a coincidence. Why would Yahal be watching over me? He never stopped my mother from dying, he never provided food for me or my mother and he wasn’t there when I was captured and chained.” Lowering his voice somewhat, he leaned in closer to Hirem and said, “none of the gods reached out to me when I was shipped off to Kenash. I prayed to Yahal, Hirem, but he wouldn’t listen so I’ve stopped praying. He doesn’t care about me and I no longer care about him, but if you must speak of him,” he blinked lazily, “I’ll listen.”

And that was about as grateful as he was going to get.

[Hirem]

Hirem did not have to wait long for Tim to show himself, for, sure enough, moments after he had called out to the boy, the dog affectionally known as Scrapper came bounding from the kitchen interior to greet him. And where this dog goes, my little friend is sure to accompany him. Hirem did not visit the Sanctuary too often, especially when the weather was this abominably cold and he risked succumbing to the chill on the road, but whenever he did, Tim was usually found with this particular dog at his heel. It was good that the boy had a companion, and it wasn't difficult to tell that Scrapper enjoyed the attention as well. Smiling down at the excitable pup, the Benshira kneeled down and pat the dog's head gently, murmuring, "Good boy, good..." Back when he had attended the Seat of the Sons in Yahebah, there had been an old, sweet bitch that would linger outside the academy and eagerly follow students when they departed, hoping for sweets. For Hirem, a boy that was more accustomed to handling goats and sheep, the bitch had been more than a little intimidating, but sure enough he had soon warmed to the dog's presence. Scrapper reminded him of that dog - they definitely were not the same breed, but the hopeful look in the animal's eyes kindled a familiar warmth in his heart.

Still. I would rather a good, strong goat than a thousand pups like this.

Glancing up at Tim as he entered the mess hall after Scrapper, Hirem frowned at the boy's rather sullen greeting. There's a smile on that boy's face, but none in his eyes. What have I done wrong? Unsure of what was bothering the child this morning, the Benshira decided to try his hand at some small talk. "Red tells me you spend a great deal of time in the kitchens, yet you look too similar to that boy I met in the streets." Putting a hand to his belly, Hirem grinned at Tim, hoping that the gesture would put him at ease. "There's no honour in starving yourself, child. Eat as much as you can - in fact, it would be a disservice to Cadra if you did not." He hoped that Tim might respond to his comment by laughing, shaking his head, anything that gave a hint of amusement... and was quickly disappointed. The smile faded from Hirem's face. Yahal, I think I might need your help once more.

Sighing, the Benshira pushed himself to his feet and approached the bench that the boy sat on, sitting beside him with his back to the table. His left hand trailed past his knee and dangled limp in the air, idly scratching Scrapper behind the ears when the pup sat itself underneath his fingers. “I already explained to Kavala how I came here, you could ask her, unless you insist that I tell you." Timothy said, confusing Hirem a great deal. Kavala's already spoken to him about his enslavement? Odd. For some reason that was yet alien to him, he had been hoping that Tim might explain to him first about his situation, as the act of confiding that secret was... well, Hirem was remiss that he did not get to hear the story directly from the child. I must ask Kavala later, then. No doubt Tim will refuse to speak of anything beyond the necessities to me.

Nothing prepared Hirem for what he heard next from the boy.

“None of the gods reached out to me when I was shipped off to Kenash. I prayed to Yahal, Hirem, but he wouldn’t listen so I’ve stopped praying." Shocked, the Benshira stared at his friend with his brow raised and his mouth hanging slightly open. By the gods, what a change is this! That hopeful light I saw in the child's eye when we first met, that brightness in his voice when he spoke of Yahal, the purity of faith I witnessed within him... was it just a dream? Or, worse yet... The possibility that Tim had lied about believing in Yahal just to get on his good side seemed slim to the Benshira, but he could not help but be offended by it. Tim continued with his rant in a casually contemptuous manner, dismissing the benevolence of the gods with ease. The words that came out of the boy's mouth were not unfamiliar to Hirem - in fact, he had echoed them in his darkest hours, when he had grown convinced that Yahal was toying with him and nothing more - but the fact that they came from a soul so young infuriated the Benshira. Children weren't supposed to be world-weary. It was their purity that Yahal so highly valued, and the retention of that purity into adulthood was supposed to redeem the faithful in the god's eyes. To think that Tim had already lost his way, when he had barely been initiated into the world's mysteries...

Hirem would not abide by this.

"Timothy, listen to me." His tone made it clear that there would be no argument. Straightening his back, Hirem placed one arm firmly on the table and rested the other on his knee, turning his body to the boy. "You must understand this about Yahal: his power does not stem from action, or his followers, or any arcane magic. He strikes down evil only when that evil is too great for us to surmount. Rather, his power... well, it lies within you." He pointed at Tim's chest, and then laid the hand against his own heart. "He is the lord of Faith, Timothy. He asks that we devote our faith to him, that we place all our hopes in the belief that he will save us... and in doing so, we save ourselves. Think about it - would you have been able to survive Kenash, if you hadn't been thinking that Yahal was protecting you? Despair threatened to overwhelm you, but you managed to keep your head up and escape your chains, because you believed that Yahal was protecting you. That faith is what saved you." Of course, he had no idea what actually happened in Kenash, but he felt that he knew enough of Tim's life just by looking into those green eyes, that he might speak his heart freely. "The gods are not going to adjudicate our lives directly, Tim. They inspire us, reach their hands from the Ukalas to lift us up. It is our role is meet them halfway."

"But this is not all I wished to speak to you about." Hirem's eyes were hard now, and he slowly nodded his head. "When I met you in the streets, I knew that you were poor and had little options available to you. I am aware that you needed to do whatever it took to survive. But now that you are safe here, at the Sanctuary, you must promise me this: you will not steal again." His mouth was set into a firm, hard line. "I know that you were taking from others in Riverfall, emptying their purses for your own gain. I am not asking that you make reparations. But that way of life is over for you now, understand? You are in Kavala's arms now, safe at last. You are..." Taking a breath, he finally shrugged his shoulders. "You are under my protection. I will keep you safe from desperation, Timothy, you have my word. Do you understand?"

[Timothy Mered]

32nd of Winter 514Av

“Timothy, listen to me.”

Annoyance flashed across his face. Hirem’s tone was all too familiar to Jed, sitting him down, explaining one of his gazillion made-up rules to him. Yet he obliged and turned to face the rigid Benshira.

“That’s ridiculous,” Timothy interjected when the Benshira claimed some of Yahal’s power resided within him. “If I were a God, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be a knight and have my own castle and my own servants and you would be praying to me instead.” The thought brought a smile to his face.

Undeterred, the Benshira droned on and on about Yahal. As much as he would like to pretend he wasn’t listening, the words lodged themselves in his brain. Eyes brightened and he straightened up a little. Perhaps Hirem had something interesting to say after all. “The gods aren’t going to adju-what? What’s the Ukalas?”

No matter how much he would’ve liked to remained silent, Hirem undeniably knew more about Yahal and he knew what he’d said before to be a lie. He did believe in Yahal, he had prayed to the God. Hirem was probably right that Yahal had guided him here. But why did he force me to steal? His jaw slackened a little as he realized the answer. He never did. I chose to.

Ash filled his mouth and his pain only doubled when Hirem brought up the subject. But before he could deny or confess, Cadra came storming into the mess hall.

“Timothy!”

His stomach shrunk to the size of a marble. Although she really wasn’t any good at being angry he had no desire to be reprimanded by two adults. Cadra beamed a gentle smile at Hirem before she looked down on him, fists resting on her hips.

“Did you take from the forbidden box?”

“Uh…no…?” he feigned ignorance.

“Then who did? This wouldn’t be the first time, nor would I mind if it wasn’t from that box. I need those ingredients!”

Scrapper whined.

His eyes flitted between Hirem and Cadra. “Just a little bit…” he murmured.

She smiled and pinched his cheek. “Honestly, I can’t believe him,” Cadra said to Hirem. “He eats like a horse but he’s not growing any taller or fatter, only more cheeky and dishonest. Eh?”

Timothy shrugged. “I won’t do it again.”

Nodding, Cadra was about to wave a finger at him and lay it on thick, but then decided against it. “Next time, just ask, okay?”

“Okay.” he mumbled.

Satisfied, Cadra eased up and turned to face Hirem. “So, you’re joining us for dinner? I would've made potatoes wrapped in bacon if someone hadn't eaten all the bacon" Once he’d accepted or declined, Cadra would nod and disappear into the kitchen.

Puffing his cheeks, Timothy stared at some distant point on the horizon. They were right. It made his blood boil, but they were right. He had stolen, he had lied more often than he could count and aside from a few polite thank-yous, had shown only ingratitude. But what Hirem demanded interfered with his plans. “I will leave soon, I may have to steal again, but you won’t have to worry, I won’t get caught and if I do…well,” he sighed, “that’d save me trouble of hanging me myself.”

Whether or not Hirem would be surprised to learn of his indifference towards death, Timothy would explain himself. "I am no use here to anyone," he said bitterly. "I'd rather be home, back in Sunberth, or someplace else...I don't know. I don't really belong anywhere and I think I'd rather be dead than sitting here and doing nothing..."

Chewing his lips, he listened to Hirem, urging him to never steal again, then offering protection. The latter snapped him out of his daydreams.

“The last man that told me he’d keep me safe got sixty mizas for putting me on that ship.” This time, he looked Hirem dead in the eye, seething hatred contorted his face into a grimace. “Besides,” he straightened up a little, “I don’t need your protection. I can manage by myself. I’ve managed without parents…”

Scrapper hopped onto the bench and rested his wet snout on Tim’s leg.

“My mother died over a year ago, I buried her myself. As for my father. Well, he’s gone.” A silence was left to hang between them, growing ever heavier. Finally, he spoke up again. “I always wonder…every face I see walking past could be him, my father I mean.”

[Hirem]

“That’s ridiculous,” Tim seethed as Hirem explained Yahal's nature to the boy; the Benshira could not help but be shocked by the comment. I have been called a liar, I have been called a monster, but nobody has called my faith ridiculous! Never before had he dealt with... well, anything like what he now faced in this petulant young boy. Struggling to remain patient, his anger flaring at the notion of Yahal being ridiculous, Hirem tried to see the situation from Timothy's perspective.

"If I were a God, I wouldn't be here. I'd be a knight and have my own castle and my own servants and you would be praying to me instead." The Benshira nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. Ahh, so the boy desires to be a knight. A hero. He wants respect and a home of his very own and glory and obedience and all the other things a young man lusts for at his age... I can understand that, at least. He knew little of knights, save that they were mounted warriors repeated oft in song. But, as a child, he had always looked up to the Rapas, the wandering priests that spread wisdom and knowledge wherever they went, heroes in their own right - he supposed the comparison was fair enough. Little Tim was not unusual in his dreams, and, for a moment, Hirem tried to imagine himself at the boy's age. I was taller, and much fatter, and was no orphan. That keening look in Tim's green eyes, however, that haunting gaze of a young child searching for more... he could see some fragment of himself in the northern youth.

Before he could make sense of how to deal with Tim's impudence, a thunderous stomping could be heard outside the door. "Timothy!" Cadra cried, making Hirem jump. She does not always stay in the skin of a cat, but perch me if she does not manage to yowl like one throughout the day. The girl's sweet smile did little to lessen the blow her entrance had dealt to the Benshira. Dazed, he watched the conversation proceed between Cadra and Tim, soon disappointed to learn that Tim had been stealing from Kavala's niece, of all people! Unbelievable! The woman takes him under her roof, without asking for anything from either me or him, and he repays her by breaking into her kitchen stores? Has Kenash soured him so to the principles of charity? Of honesty? Of honour? And this boy wishes himself a knight? Folding his arms, Hirem tried to summon up a gentle reply to Cadra, thanking her for the dinner offer and telling her he'd consider it. That done, the Benshira and the child were once again left alone in the mess hall, Hirem staring down at Tim. He said nothing. Into that silence, the young man seemed willing to speak. His voice was surprisingly solemn, worrying Hirem greatly. “I will leave soon, I may have to steal again, but you won’t have to worry, I won’t get caught and if I do…well, that’d save me trouble of hanging me myself.”

More silence, but this time, the tall man could not summon the words to speak. Did he... did he just suggest... He was trying desperately to prevent looking aghast, and failed miserably. His mouth opened and wavered for a few moments before shutting firmly. Timothy continued to speak, his words a buzz in Hirem's numb ears. I don't really belong anywhere and I think I'd rather be dead than sitting here and doing nothing..." The Benshira struggled to breathe. Oh, little one. How little you understand of the world. How short and terrible your life has been. Little do you know that I thought the same only half a year ago. There must be something Hirem could do - something![/url] - but his mind faltered. [i]“I don’t need your protection. I can manage by myself. I’ve managed without parents…” Tim protested, and Hirem could not help but wonder but if the child was right. What could he do, really? “My mother died over a year ago, I buried her myself. As for my father. Well, he’s gone.” Poor young Timothy, poor young Thomas Caine, was a child stripped of both his parents. Hirem could not hope to fill the void that they had left behind. He had nothing to offer Timothy. He was not wise, nor knowledgable, nor powerful. He could not ease his mind. He could not grant peace. He was little more than a vessel as empty as Tim -

No, came the sudden thought. I am not that man anymore. That man died the day I stepped into Riverfall. I have become so much more.

"You want to be a knight?" Hirem asked, seemingly out of nowhere. He unfolded his arms and stared hard into Tim's eyes, challenging this boy that thought himself smarter than his elder. "You want to ride on a big horse and strike down your enemies, one by one?" The Benshira shook his head. "You need to learn how to fight, boy." The 'boy' had ended up slipping into the statement by accident, a relic of Hirem's past martial instruction. But he did not correct himself. "Come with me," he commanded, approaching the kitchen door and pushing his way into the Sanctuary courtyard. He did not stop to wait and see if Timothy was following, instead making directly for the Sanctuary gates. Outside, the chill had grown no less dangerous, but Hirem vowed not to shiver in sight of his new pupil. He marched out of the Sanctuary and into the nearby forest, his eyes scanning the ground for what he sought. The low mist that Tim had seen earlier in the morning was receding, but the sky remained gray and dull all around. It only took the Benshira a chime of walking into the forest before he stopped, satisfied by their surrounds. The pair stood on a remarkably flat piece of terrain, the trees sparse and bare all around, frozen leaves crunching underfoot. A good place to start.

Bending down to the ground, Hirem grabbed a large branch abandoned on the ground and broke it in half, sizing up the fragments side by side. Nodding, he tossed one half over to Tim, trusting that the boy would catch it or else be smart enough to dodge the weapon. "Both the knights of your northern lands and my Yahalmen use the sword, child. I have used the sword in battle; I have fought men with it, I have killed with it." Spreading his feet, Hirem gripped the branch with two hands, beckoning Tim forward. "Let's see if you have the talent. Come attack me."

[Timothy Mered]

The challenge came as a surprise to him. He’d expected the wanderer to give up, to roll his vivid eyes and leave like others before him. Often it had pained him to be turned away, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom he reveled in the biting venom building inside. He’d seen the hurt in Hirem’s eyes, the confusion wrinkling his brows. It made his heart pound with joy and the look of horror lured a wry smile from his lips. Yet he wondered why Hirem had sought him out. The world was a bitter, unfair place, Kenash had taught him that.

For weeks now he’d grown more confident that Hirem was up to something. In the dark of night, when the dogs were sleeping and the cats curled up near simmering hearths, he knew for sure: he’d only been brought to the Sanctuary to be patched up, then Hirem would come and fetch him and take him back to the ships and all would be as before.

But then in the morning he would kick himself for even thinking that. The people at the sanctuary were good, honest, and hard-working. They had no reason to turn on him. Unless I keep lying to them. He swallowed. Never before had lies rolled of his tongue so easily. Never before had he relished in the looks of disappointment sent at him.

Unshackling himself from his thoughts, Timothy answered Hirem’s challenge with a curt nod. For the longest while, as man, then child, then dog, traipsed out of The Sanctuary and into the woods, Timothy remained silent.

Then he thought of something. It was a childish thought, a harmless urge to pass the time. He had to jog a few paces to catch up with the Benshira. "How much further?" Angling his frame so that his right hand could easily slip into the Benshira's pocket, Timothy continued his distraction. "We're not going into town, right? You and I...we might've made a few enemies there."

Without even a whisper, his fingers crawled like spider's legs into the Benshira's pocket. What he grabbed was hard and shapeless. He didn't have the time to look as he nicked it from Hirem's pocket and stuffed it into his own. For a tick he thought the bouncer had noticed, but perhaps he'd been lucky.

A grin, fleeting as bird, shattered his sullen expression when the Benshira handed him a sturdy branch. Dry as cork and rough to his hands, Timothy tested his grip on the glorious sword. But a mere branch and a challenge couldn’t shush the voice lisping in the back of his head.

Whether it was the fresh, outside air or simply being alone with Hirem, the urge to speak and confess grew like ivy in his chest. He hardly listened to Hirem, as his thoughts turned to Yahal. Perhaps Hirem was right, perhaps the God had guided him all along. And if that’s true, I should be thankful. Dozens of times, if not more, he had turned to the God of faith, murmured a quick prayer, sometimes for himself, but more often for others. He’d prayed Jed to become a kinder man, he’d prayed for Matilla to stay healthy and-

...never once had his prayers been answered. There had only been silence, anindifferent quiet buzzing in his ears. Nothing. Nothing. Only infuriating still and calm. Was Yahal testing his patience?

”Come attack me.” The Benshira's voice yanked him from his contemplations.

Not quite experienced enough to pick any stance, but not quite foolish enough to attack outright, Timothy simply held out the branch in front of him, threatening to poke his lethal blade of justice between Hirem’s ribs. But no sooner than he’d strafed left, trying to find a good angle to strike from, he stopped short and lowered his guard.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he started, eyes averting to the ground. “And…and-“
A scorching heat colored his pale cheeks. I should be thankful, he reminded himself.

“IdunnoknowIjust,” Timothy mumbled, electing to stab the ground instead. A few silent ticks passed. Grimacing, he looked up at Hirem, his savior, his guardian angel. I’ve already hurt him…. “I wanted to thank you for what you did.” The words came out as whisper, but were accompanied by such an intense, weighty gaze that no one could ever doubt the truth behind them.

He mulled over a few decayed leaves with his boot before he spoke again. “I don’t want to steal and lie Hirem,” he pleaded, shaking his head strongly. “I never did that, I never wanted to…to hurt others and take their stuff and…” he gasped for air and stomped the ground. Scrapper whined and retreated a pace.

“I just feel so angry, and grumpy, and annoyed…all the time. I can’t help it. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me, I don’t want them to help me and treat me like a child and tell me it’s going to be alright. It’s not alright and I just wish I could…”

He broke off his sentence there and shook his head, fighting off the inner turmoil. He’d said to much and he doubted Hirem would care. It was better to shush and do as he was asked. That had always worked.

“Never mind.”

Raising his makeshift blade again, Timothy sighed and leapt forward, bringing down a lackluster strike on Hirem’s defense.

[Hirem]

"We're not going into town, right? You and I...we might've made a few enemies there." Tim asked, to which Hirem could only laugh and shake his head. "No child, we're not heading into town. Nothing so drastic... and besides, I doubt your enemies remember you as anything more than a walking footstool." The Benshira was so amused with his little joke that he did not notice the young boy reaching into his pocket, mistaking the light brush as a gust of wind from the nearby coastline. He did end up glancing over his shoulder to make sure the urchin was following behind, but otherwise suspected the boy of nothing. What Tim ended up retrieving was worthless, a small block of roughly chipped wood that resembled nothing at first glance. Some semblance of a carving had been attempted, and indeed there might have been a little face poking out of the wood, but otherwise the figure was so mangled that it looked the work of a complete novice. If Tim compared it to the wooden figurine that graced his own bracelet, he might notice that the proportions were roughly the same and that the attempted face was located in the same position... in truth, it was a failed attempt of Hirem's to recreate the precious wooden carvings from his childhood, forgotten deep in his pocket.

The Benshira grinned as he watched Tim examine the branch, already wielding it as if it were a treasured sword. Boys from Eyktol and boys from the north may be different in all other respects, but they will always relish the chance to play at battle. Perhaps this would be the relief Tim needed after moping about in such a terrible mood all day... but soon after the boy took up his challenge of fighting a mock duel, he grew quiet and thoughtful. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Tim began, Hirem's first instinct being to remind him that it was very unlikely that he'd actually be hurt that this boy he dwarfed. But he curbed his tongue, instead waiting to see what Tim had to say. “I wanted to thank you for what you did.” The boy finally exclaimed, giving Hirem such a piercing look of intent that the Benshira was helpless but to return the gaze. He's telling me, he wants to live a better life than the one he leads. Not just in terms of how comfortable he is, but in how good a person he is. Setting the tip of the branch down into the ground, the man waited patiently for Tim to finish speaking, nodding all the while. Perhaps we are alike in more than just our shared faith? He wondered as the boy explained his confused feelings, memories of his own adolescence coming to mind. Even now, I struggle in this city against the charity of others. I need it... I rely upon the aid that those stronger than me can give, but I don't want to live forever that way. I want to rise to their heights myself, but cannot find the way.

Tim didn't seem happy to discuss his feelings, however, soon resigning himself to a weak attack upon his mentor. Frowning, Hirem managed to parry the blow choppily, the crack! of the wooden sticks filling his ears. Not content to let the boy put up a halfhearted effort, the Benshira launched his own attack at Tim, slashing at the boy's chest twice with his branch. The height disparity was actually a disadvantage for Hirem, who had to stoop low if he wanted to reach Tim with his sword. The lessons from the Seat of the Sons were dull in his mind, the echoes barely discernible after the fog of memory stripped them bare. Once I was quite the student of the sword... what has happened to me? Feeling sluggish himself, Hirem resolved to learn the art of the stick just as quickly as Tim had to, continuing to assault the boy at intervals with sudden slashes, slices, and lunges. He did not put a great deal of strength behind the blows, but ended up giving them enough force to give Tim a decent shallop if he did not defend himself. At all other times the Benshira was defending himself. At first Hirem was content to let the boy occasionally hit him, as a means of bolstering his confidence, but as time wore on it was actually getting difficult for him to block all the blows. Though the urchin seemed a complete novice when it came to a fight, the man's skills were extremely rusty.

And while they fought, Hirem spoke, his voice filling the quiet forest around. "I spent a very long time in a living hell, Tim," he began, breathing heavily when he was afforded the chance. "For years I wandered Eyktol, feeling just as you are now... but I directed my anger at myself, not others. And people felt sorry for me, and they always offered their aid like good Benshira, and I... well, I turned them down when I had the chance." Another crack! of wood and Hirem had to back away, rubbing a whacked nose and hoping it wasn't broken. "I didn't want their help, because it wouldn't have changed a thing. My life was worthless... my life was empty. There was nothing I wanted, and the only thing that kept me walking onwards was that a terrible death awaited me if I did not keep moving. I wanted to die, understand, but did not want my story to end ignobly. I was searching for a proper death."

Crack! Crack! Crack! went the wood, broken twigs falling all around. Hirem did his best to give Tim a fight worth having, but found that he was too clumsy with the sword to do anything but the most basic of moves. A barely successful block. A too-wide backhand. Lazy slashes. But a smile was wide on his face, his eyes dancing with excitement. "And do you know what?" He asked after a time of silence, parting from Tim and holding his branch out defensively. "When I finally found my proper death, I wasn't ready for it. I wasn't ready for my life to end. I wanted more, so much more than I had been able to have. So when the opportunity came to save my life, move it to Riverfall, and begin rebuilding, I took it. I seized my life into my own hands, Tim, and that is how I ended up being raised from the living hell. Yahal had given me the sign, but he left it up to me to take it. He can do the same for you, if you let him. He can help make you strong."

[Timothy Mered]

Hirem’s strikes were thrice as fierce as his own. The first slash hit made him stumble back a pace, the second grazed his upper arm and only stopped short of his ribs by a sloppy block. Digging his heels into the undergrowth, Timothy clenched his sword hard and met one of Hirem’s strikes mid-air. The strong, powerful blows were to be expected, but they lacked direction. He doesn’t seem to be too skilled, Timothy happily concluded. Bruised, but no less determined, Timothy lunged forward and began hammering down on the Benshira’s defense with renewed vigor. Within two chimes his arms were hot, tense, and strained.

Breathing sharply, Timothy kept his distance from the Southerner for a chime. Like a falcon circling its prey, he kept strafing in a circle, sometimes feigning a lunge to see if he could trick the living bulwark. Instead, Hirem indulged in his favorite occupation: talking. Part of him prayed dearly it wouldn’t be some moral lecture again. What did a broad-shouldered slug like Hirem have to say about morals anyway?

But this time it was Tim who was surprised. Death. He’d thought about it more often than he would ever dare to admit, but now that he had seized Hirem’s attention, the subject placed a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t want to die. Who would, really? Yet there was a truth to Hirem’s words that burned and throbbed more than the graze on his upper arm. No one wants to die uselessly, he thought. “I don’t want to hang either,” Timothy said. Some more red colored his cheeks as he confessed to having said that for show, to test if anyone would care. “But if you want to die,” he grinned devilishly.

The winter light beat down on them. Frozen lumps of leaves cracked under his boots as he refocused his attention-

-Just in time. Three strikes. One blocked, one dodged, but the last one caught him square on the stomach, knocking all air out of him. Doubling over, Timothy gritted his teeth. He’d be damned if he tossed his sword to the ground and threw a hissy fit now. Real Knights persisted, no matter what. And so he gave himself only a few ticks to clutch his stomach before steadying himself again. The pain will pass, he told himself. Besides, you’ve had worse.

A mischievous grin, slightly twisted by the lurching sensation in his tommy, was all Hirem got for a warning. Timothy threw himself at the Benshira like an enraged Glassbeak. Again and again he struck. It helped to imagine he was hitting Jed, or Adelaide, and knocking their teeth out one by one.

In the end only a few minor hits registered. He doubted Hirem would have to sleep at odd angles come nightfall to avoid pressing his monumental weight on Mered-made bruises. As for himself, though he could tell Hirem had not struck at full force, the coming days would be painful, but he was glad to pay that price.

Resting his hands on his kneecaps, Timothy listened intently to Hirem’s wise words. “It’s always about Yahal with you, isn’t it?” he said softly, barely managing to swallow down a burst of laughter. There was no telling how well Hirem would take laughter when talking about Yahal. He sounded all too serious about the God.

Waving dismissively, Timothy proceeded to give a better answer. “How?” was all he asked, “How can he do the same for me? Is this not enough to make me strong? It seemed to have worked for you,” he jutted his chin at Hirem’s strong, bulky arms. One day I'll be just as strong, he thought to himself.

Frowning, he thought back to the day he'd first learned of Yahal. The thought made him nauseous as he transferred himself to the endlessly rocking sea. Back then he'd been scared beyond reason, with only the shadows and rattle of chains for company. Back then, the mere notion that someone, somewhere, was looking out for him, had a plan for him and wished to guide him...it had almost sounded too good to be true.

But what had he gotten? Insufferable seasons of hard work at the hands of an insufferable dim-witted master who only clothed and fed him for his own appearance, and because he hadn't gotten three-hundred-and-thirty miza's worth out of him yet. So much for Yahal's divine intervention.

"What if I don't believe in the gods? What if Yahal is not as good as you say?" The question was delivered with genuine curiosity, though a tinge of hurt accompanied the words. "What if you're wrong about the Gods, all of them, what if I choose to never again pray to one?"

An even darker thought entered his mind. "D'you reckon you could kill a God?"

The thrill of relentlessly hammering down on someone else with a wooden stick was addicting. A new beast, not a snake, but something stronger, with wicked claws and teeth and maw large enough to swallow him whole, had awoken. Red hot blood pumped through the veins in his neck, his eyes remained fixed on his opponent, a slanted grin testified of his zeal. He didn’t mind the glimmering sweat gluing and darkening his unruly hair, he didn’t mind the smelly drops trickling down his collarbone. His heart beat steadily, his hands clenched a mighty weapon. Now he was alive. Defeating a God was an easy challenge in this high.

“Anyway,” he smirked, "we're not done yet." He pushed his limbs beyond their exhaustion as he aimed to strike down on Hirem’s right shoulder. There was no stopping, no surrender. Hirem would be the first to yield, or his name wasn’t Lord Mered, Southernslayer.

[Hirem]

Finally! Hirem thought, noting with approval the renewed energy Tim seemed to burst with as their fight continued. There was no mistaking the keen look in the boy’s emerald eyes for anything but total focus, and there was no mistaking the boy’s smile for anything but pure, overwhelming joy. Finally I find something he is interested in, the Benshira mused, thinking back on his attempts to bait Tim into conversation with talk of the past, Yahal, and ethics. None of those topics had managed to raise anything but sullenness in the child, and no wonder! The mind of a boy should not be focused on talk of the future or one’s place in the world, it should be filled with brightness and hope and determination. Hirem had feared that the boy’s past would prevent him from finding happiness in the simple things – for he was once a slave, forever an orphan – but that fear proved unfounded.

Indeed, Tim put up a valiant struggle against the giant he squared off against. Though he could not hope to best the elder man with strength, he was remarkably faster than Hirem, and no matter how many hits he took he would not let himself give in to weakness. Again and again Timothy came at the Benshira, and if the boy had brandished a real sword it would have been a formidable sight. A grin came to Hirem’s face as he repelled the attacking child, giving him a solid welt on the back for his troubles. Slowly, he grew more adjusted to the idea of fighting with a ‘sword’, adjusting his positioning to take full advantage of the weapon’s reach, keeping it at a ready stance to parry any incoming blows. Crack! went the wood, each piece becoming threadbare and close to snapping. Occasionally, Hirem would shout advice to his opponent, but those shouts became increasingly rare as the fight wore on.

After a particularly furious burst of slashes from Tim, it was clear to Hirem that the boy needed a break. Breathing heavily, the Benshira backpedalled away from the child, reasserting his grip on the branch. ”It’s always about Yahal with you, isn’t it?” Timothy cheekily asked, and Hirem offered a lazy shrug. ”I am a son of Rapa,” he explained, his tone merry. ”It’s in the blood!” Laughing at the knowledge that his friend was completely unaware of what a Rapa actually was, he listened to what Tim had to ask next. ”Is this not enough to make me strong? It seemed to have worked for you.” Shaking his head, the Benshira waved the stick about freely in the air, working up his muscles for another bout. ”There is more to strength than just size, Tim. Ask Kavala, ask Cadra, ask Red, ask anyone in this Sanctuary… they will tell you the same, and all are stronger than I am. They got to where they are because they seized the opportunities life had granted them.” The man then prepared for Tim’s next question, for assuredly he had more, but was shocked when he finally heard it:

”What if I don’t believe in the gods?”

Hirem blinked, raising his brow at Tim.

”What if Yahal is not as good as you say?”

It couldn’t last for long, he thought, realizing that Timothy had gone full circle, back to the doubting young boy Hirem had been talking with just a bell before. The same doubting young boy that firmly believed the gods didn’t care about his life, that had questioned the value of worship in Yahal. Frowning, the Benshira moved to speak, but Tim was not done. ”What if you’re wrong about the Gods, all of them, what if I choose to never again pray to one? D’you reckon you could kill a God?” Now Hirem gaped, unable to comprehend the seriousness of the boy’s words. Does he realize what exactly he’s saying? Does he understand the gravity of that statement? It was one thing to pledge allegiance to a god of malice or destruction, such as Rhysol, but it was another, graver matter to swear off all the gods… it was not something a boy should be exposed to. Whenever I think I have stumbled upon the boy at his happiest, suddenly he counters me with a far darker thought than I ever expected one of his age to possess. It was infuriating to deal with.

And then the boy came at him again, this time with a thousand times more ferocity. Taken aback by his dramatic pronouncement, Hirem found that it was much harder to repel Tim when in this state, and soon a number of surprisingly hard wallops had found their way onto his flesh. Gritting his teeth, the Benshira resolved not to give into the pain, blocking the boy’s attacks when he could and bearing them when he could not. Tim was merciless on the offensive, but Hirem was not without his own power, and he soon upped his game to compete with the enraged child. Shifting his feet across the forest floor, he grit his teeth as he parried another overhand strike from the boy. ”There are those,” he hissed, ”who wonder just the same as you, Tim. About whether you could kill a god. ” Spitting out the word god, Hirem shook his head. ”Murderers, thieves, monsters all, they scheme in the dark and rage against the heavens.”

”And when the time is right, they strike at us.” Crack crack! ”From the shadows they’ll come assassinate a priest, burn a temple, raid a city. They’ll slaughter the faithful where they find them and cut off the gods from their beloved.” Crack! Crack! ”They call themselves liberators, but they are lying. They’re no better than the slavers you met in Kenash, but they want to chain up the entire mortal race to their yolk.” Crack! ”Make no mistake, they bear no love for you or I. They would sooner see us dead than raised to the heights that they aspire to.” CRACK! went the fateful blow, as Hirem’s branch suddenly exploded against Tim’s own weapon in a final collision. Incensed, the Benshira surged forward and ripped the branch out of Tim’s hands, intent on delivering a lesson.

”They are monsters,” he hissed, voice full of rage. ”And they are our enemy.”

For a time Hirem was silent, staring down at Tim with a hard look to his eyes, the word ‘enemy’ echoing in the space around. Eventually, the Benshira sighed, relaxed his shoulders, and offered the branch to Tim ‘hilt’ first. ”And against our enemies, you will have to be ready. Understand?”

[Timothy Mered]

32nd of Winter 514Av

Coarse bark burned his palms like a rope being yanked from his clenched fists. Timothy leapt a pace back clutching his right wrist and stared at the fiery track on his palm. Glancing up, Hirem towered over him. Cold hard veins tense like steel cables in the Benshira’s neck. Gone was the compassionate, twinkle-eyed bouncer. The look boring into him was dripping with venom. It was one full of judgment, like standing under a tall, stern statue and being gazed down upon, making you feel like you could never tear yourself free from that petrifying stare.

“What’d you do that for?” Timothy absent-mindedly seized the outstretched hilt but made no attempts to restart the fight. It was during the brief silence lingering between them like a heavy fog that he noticed the strain in his arm. Tiny muscles twitched involuntarily under his skin, sweat clung like dew to his brow and he had to commit half a mind to keep his knees from buckling. “What have the gods ever done for you? Why do you defend them so? I don’t see them, I don’t hear them…”

Timothy licked his lips and plopped down, not too eager on taking on the infuriated Benshira. Lightning struck his mind. Of course… “You’re jealous,” he muttered. “You’re jealous that some people don’t need the gods to do great things.” The birds that had fled the trees returned now that the peace had been restored.

Puffing his cheeks, Timothy blew a loose strand of hair from his forehead and listened to the muted chirps and fluttering wings, the wind making the bare trees creak like old fishwives. For a moment, Hirem and his pointless noise and fury was forgotten, for a moment he was alone in the enchanted forest, hunting some foul wolf to save a King’s daughter. If Hirem was to be believed, the godless were like the wolf. Without morals, without guidance, just raw instinct and a merciless need to dominate and survive. Sunberth was a wretched place, filled to the brim with lunatics frothing at the mouth, drunks breaking every window and jaw on the way to their indulgence. Yet, the city survived. It were foreigners that needed to be on their guard in Sunset Quarters. Aside from the occasional row or stabbing, Sunberthians weren’t exactly the moral carcasses Hirem made the godless out to be. I am a Sunberthian too, mother didn’t pray and I am not a murderer…

Just a thief.

Shut up...

Unconsciously, Tim’s left hand slid into his pocket. There it was, a rough, chiseled little thing.

It wasn’t until his eyes met Hirem’s again that he was shaken from his daydreams. Slowly, he drew his hand from his pocket and unclenched it, a narrow grin revealing itself alongside.

“This yours?”

He hadn’t even granted himself a chance to study the carving he’d nicked from Hirem’s pocket. Not that there was much to study about it anyway. The thing was essentially a shapeless lump, a layman’s attempt at artistry. Truth be told, Timothy thought there was more artistry in having picked the bouncer’s pocket unnoticed than there was in the item itself.

“What is it?” There was the faintest resemblance of a shape in the carving. A face? An animal? “–Ah nevermind,” he shook his head and tossed Hirem’s belonging at the Benshira’s feet. “See, I didn’t need any gods to slip this from your pocket. I just did, because I wanted to…that’s what people do. They just…uh, they just do.”

Puckering the ground with his index finger, Timothy continued his train of thought. “If the Gods want to do their thing, let them do it, and leave us people alone."

Thin, glistening lips settled into a frown as he drew his knees to his chest and rested his chin on his kneecap, gaze set to infinity. "It’s just not right," he said lowly. "People don’t make any sense…half the time I am being told the gods are there, but don’t care, and most of the time it feels that way."

He sighed just hard enough to make a late, brown leaf come falling from one of the trees. The forest was bare, the ground was cold, and slowly but steadily his limbs turned into icicles.

"Then some nutter comes along and tells me the gods do care, and someone else says some gods care and others don’t. Then there’s people who say there’s no gods at all and-“

He swung his arms up into the air and sucked in a deep breath before his cheeks deflated like a balloon. “And then I come here and Kavala starts to tell me about magic and how everything here was built with magic. None of it makes any sense." He stood up and handed Hirem his makeshift sword.

"Can we go home now?"