《RETRIBUTION》 In the Beginning In the beginning¡­ There was, Everything. The whole of the universe, not yet formed but there none the less. It existed in condensed forms of essence. Concepts of a thing not quite real¡­ yet. For all of these concepts knew no shape. Every concept and facet of reality were merely threads tangled together in the vastness of an empty universe. Until, there was Order. Suddenly every thread had a place and a purpose and Order bound them into the great tapestry of the universe and from this Tapestry, life sprang forth in all of its many facets. At the end of the tapestry, Order cut the heads of each thread, binding them as they thrashed. for the weaver had a singular purpose. To rule over all the colors of the tapestry. To guide its many threads into its own image. For a time there was quiet. For the people who sprang from the tapestry, there was only one God, Odrain the Weaver, the God of Order. For how could it not be so? There were no gods who survived to be mentioned. Until a single thread frayed and haggard, split from the whole of the cloth, and landed softly, on the shoulder of a priest. Chapter 1. A Broken Wheel ¡°It¡¯s your own!¡± THWACK! ¡°Fool fault!¡± THWACK! ¡°That it¡¯s broken!¡± THWACK! ¡°So hold it!¡± THWACK! ¡°Higher!¡± The warm afternoon air split with the pointed grumbling and punctuating blows of a wooden mallet. The rest of the country side was still, as if not daring the wrath of the diminutive woman hammering the spare wheel onto a cart whose better days were long forgotten since before she was even born. Holding it up was a great bear of a man who despite holding half the wait of the cart up to waist level for his companion, seemed as unperturbed as the field of wild grass beside the road. As the grass flexed and waved beneath the wind, so too did Theodren weather the tirade of the decidedly pregnant woman hammering at the replacement wheel. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. After several more hammer blows and much grumbling, the repair and her catharsis were complete. Stepping back to admire her work she blew a fire red lock of unruly hair from her face. ¡°Right! Think that¡¯s done it your holiness¡± though the last part was dripping with sarcasm there was no malice. She rather liked the quiet brute who lowered the cart with a thud. ¡°Sorry Elaina¡­¡± he grimaced. ¡°Come on Theo I need to get home to start supper before Evan makes another attempt.¡± They both shuddered, the memory of Evan¡¯s blackened sludge he called ¡°stew¡± still wafted, unwelcome through their memories. ¡°I¡¯ll get your steed¡± he agreed with an amused eye brow. Elaina snorted, ¡°calling Queenie a steed is like calling you bishop¡± He frowned in mock indignation, ¡°hey! I am a bishop¡± she arched a brow ¡°there¡¯s pig shit on your frock your grace.¡± Settling the mule to the front of her wagon he sighed defeated. ¡°Though the Weaver works in mysterious ways, I do not. So¡­ pig shit.¡± It was true that Theodren indeed was a bishop, and entitled to the airs and graces of a minor lord. He had no taste for such things. He found the best way to serve his community was not through empty sermons or passing benedictions, but through actively lending his rather large hands to tasks in need of accomplishing. Like for example, mucking out the stalls of Pieter the pig farmer who had fallen ill. Elaina sighed. She stretched up on her toes and gave the humble priest a chaste kiss on the cheek. ¡°We know.¡± She looked at him. With a hand on her belly she climbed into the cart where he passed her the reins. ¡°We¡¯re going to be alright Theo.¡± She insisted, seeking out the eye contact he was reluctant to give. ¡°I know you will.¡± He muttered. Wearing a tense smile, she turned to the road snapping the reins, Queenie let out a huff and set off. The cart rattled down the hill toward the small collection of squat thatched buildings the locals referred to only as ¡°Town¡±. As Elaina faded from sight, Theodren turned on his heel and strode back to his church. ¡°Church¡± was a generous term, it was made of stone and housed an altar. But that was where the similarities ended. The squat building was gray from roof to floor. While it once would have been considered a masterpiece of mathematical precision in a style of simplicity almost spartan. The years had taken its toll. Skewed ever so slightly by a foundation cracked by decades of wear. Vines grew over the walls as if the very land itself worked to reclaim the garish block of unnatural lines and stone insisting upon an orderliness that was foreign to the rolling hills of the hamlet in which Theodren now lived. Climbing the worn steps, he chewed at his lip. He would need books. Many books. He thought to himself. As he walked into his private quarters he found himself before the mountain he had already set aside when Elaina had come for his insight. Elaina was pregnant, the signs were clear and she had come to the church for a reading and a blessing as most expecting mothers did. Theodren had been overjoyed to hear of his friend''s budding family. But when he had administered the reading of order for her¡­ the signs showed struggle¡­ and death. Chapter 2. Midnight Toil Chapter 2. Midnight Toil The moon sat silently in the cloudless sky by the time Theodrens weary eyes wrenched themselves from the dry parchment containing an even drier description of the reproductive system. He sighed, the old master''s writings, while extensive, were based on an out of date understanding of the ¡°wamb¡± and its wandering properties. All of his books were similar. Mostly incorrect musings of stuffy old masters with the rare nugget of wisdom. He rose from his old leather chair, perhaps the only luxury he had brought with him from his old life as a nobles son. Stumbling past the bed that he knew should have been his destination, he made his way to the small forge he had made for himself behind the church. Theodren piled the furnace with kindling and coal, ordering the process of ignition in his minds eye. ¡°Air, plus fuel plus energy equals¡­ there we are!¡± He fueled the tiny flame on his fingertip with what little divine thread he had been blessed with. The miniscule amount of power he had at his disposal was thanks to the blessing of the Weaver. While he tried to be grateful for the power he had that others did not. It seemed almost ironic that he had enough to be whisked away from his family and the life he expected for himself. But not quite enough to be considered suitable for anything beyond the small town too inconsequential even to have a name. Lost in thought he handed off the tiny flame to the kindling as he grabbed the bellows waiting for the flame to need his assistance. Drumming his fingers along the wood he fruitlessly sought the answers he couldn¡¯t find from his books in the gently dancing flames of his furnace. He hadn¡¯t told Eleina the truth. How could he? He stuttered out an excuse of needing to research and interpret the signs. He could tell that she wasn¡¯t convinced. She was his first true friend since he had come to the village only a year ago. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. It was only at her insistence that the townspeople even spoke to him. Most men of the cloth were seen as lofty bureaucrats. More interested in the facade of benevolence than the purveying of it. And certainly no one was inclined to welcome someone who dwarfed their humble door frames in such dramatic fashion as the well fed son of a noble he was. It was Eleina who berated the townspeople into giving him a chance his second day making his rounds through the village. While not in possession of much power to speak of, he was never one to shirk a task. ¡°Only a bad craftsman blamed his tools¡± he grumbled remembering his father¡¯s guidance. And speaking of tools, he thought to himself. He turned his mind to the task at hand. No amount of brooding would provide him the answers he wanted. He didn¡¯t even know what the problem was yet. He did know that Pieter needed a new shovel, especially since his old one had snapped in his hands while he mucked out the last stall. Sighing at the memory, he lamented how everything in this little back water seemed to crumble under his hands. Perhaps he truly was cursed, he chuckled. Theodren was not an exceptionally skilled smith, but as a boy he loved to watch the blacksmiths of his fathers estate hammer out the steely works of bladed art his fathers lands were known for. This shovel would be no such masterpiece. But it would be sturdy. Pulling out the glowing orange ingot from the fire, he got to work. Being possessed of the thread of order helped him to see the process through which the shovel should take shape. He hammered out the crude iron to the shape the thread deemed appropriate, and then began hammering out the imperfections. Returning the shovel head to the fire every so often to return it to a more malleable shade of orange until at last he could quench the almost finished product with a hiss that pierced the pre-dawn air. It was then a simple task to attach a worthy handle and set it aside for his trip into town. Theodren released a breath he didn¡¯t know he had been holding as he leaned against the anvil watching the fingers of dawn slowly grip the sky. He knew he would pay for this sleepless night throughout the day, but truly the Weaver must have good tidings for a day that started with such splendor in the sky. He heaved his bulk off the anvil and trudged back to his room. He would need a wash and clean robes before he went into town. He stripped and began washing himself with the rag and basin set in the corner of his quarters. No need for warm bath water when the summer air was as warm as it was, he mused. Finally presentable in a slightly snug smock and smelling of Polly the herbalist''s new soap he propped the shovel over his shoulder and began the trek into town. Chapter 3. A Wild Road Chapter 3. A Wild Road Lost in thought, Theodren made his way down the dusty road towards town. He knew that the books in his quarters were laughably inadequate. Perhaps he could write a letter to the conclave? Not that much help would be expected in response to a letter from a town as small as the one he found himself in. No, he would simply have to create a solution as he always had. Determination, creativity, and not a small amount of luck. His time in the academy had not been an easy one. He struggled with the most basic of weavings that the other acolytes could accomplish with the flick of a wrist. Power, he knew, could be exactly tied to the depth of one¡¯s divine thread. And that could not be altered no matter how hard one might try. And while the average priest''s thread could be compared to a fine tablecloth, his was more akin to a handkerchief. Still, size wasn¡¯t everything he reminded himself. He managed to graduate by the efficiency with which he used his thread. Gaining an understanding of the process through which his goal might be accomplished and ordering it into motion. Unfortunately, no amount of cleverness could gain him a higher posting, not that he wanted one anyhow. He was quite content in this town of humble¡­ Bears¡­ He froze. standing in the road before him, not 30 paces, were 2 smallish cubs and one mountain of shaggy red fur. Silently cursing himself for his complacency, he stared at the mother bear who stared right back at the large human. They blinked at each other for a time and Theodren began to hope that she might let him past. Then that hope and the morning quiet were shattered by the mother bears ROOOOOOOOAAAAAAAR! ¡°SHIT!¡± Theodren cursed and readied his mighty shovel. He dropped into a low stance. Drilled into his very bones by his father, in the 18 years before being spirited off to priesthood. He held the shovel above his head pointed at the charging bear in a ¡°roof¡± guard. ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, NOW!¡± He roared at the beast as he drew back with his lead foot. As he moved he was only vaguely aware that the tips of the creature''s claws had scored his chest. Using every ounce of momentum and downward force from his footwork to his adrenaline fueled hands, he swung with all his might, and was rewarded with a loud CLANG! As the mother bear received the christening blow of his newly made shovel to her tender nose. She reared back with a roar and then a whimper as she went to rub her snout into her forearm. Now re-assessing the large human with the painful stick, she retreated to her cubs, urging them into the brush beside the trail. Her large hind quarters disappeared into the foliage. The priest shook himself from his cautious silence and shouted and went to brandish his impromptu weapon in victory until he noticed the new and sizable dent in the tool. ¡°Built and destroyed on the same day. That must be some kind of record.¡± He mused. The adrenaline was wearing off. And with its absence came a blistering new pain in his chest. He looked down at the angry red gouges in his chest beneath what was only minutes ago his last nice smock. ¡° I suppose it¡¯s a good thing I was going to see Polly anyhow.¡± he winced. Gathering his resolve, he pressed on towards town. Theodren stumbled into town. Doing his best not to draw attention to himself was more easily said than done when the front of his smock and trousers were soaked in red. Pieter looked up from his pens, bushy brows shooting to what was left of his hair. ¡°Priest? What happ¡­¡± Theodren shoved what was once a shovel into Pieters chest. ¡°I made you a new shovel. Where¡¯s Polly?¡± Bug eyed, Pieter looked down at the misshapen metal lump on a stick and then back at the bloodied priest. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Inside¡± he managed. Theodren nodded a Thankyou and pushed into the modest home. ¡°Polly! Do you have a minute?¡± Pieter stood frozen in his confusion. Looking at the shovel in his hand that looked like it had been bent around the middle. Inside the house he shared with his wife the herbalist he heard her squawk, ¡°What in heaven''s name did you do???¡± Putting down the shovel and shuffling past Rosie and Daisy, he made his way to his front door. This was a tale he just had to hear. Theodren sat on the humble yet sturdy chair Polly had carefully selected with his bulk in mind. She had cut what remained of his shirt down the middle, revealing the 4 jagged claw marks in his chest. He grunted in what he hoped was a stoic manner as she daubed a poultice on the last line. ¡°Oh hush.¡± She scolded, standing back to inspect her work. ¡°It¡¯s the least you deserve after barging in here. Scared me half to death!¡± Theodren looked sheepish. ¡°I¡¯m sorry Poll, wasn¡¯t thinking straight.¡± She nodded sagely, ¡°I should say! Running around battling bears in the woods? Seems to me you¡¯ve your head in the clouds boy!¡± There were few who would scold Theodren in such a manner. Polly clearly being one, and her daughter Eleina being the other. The two women used their fiery red hair and sharp tongues to devastating effect. Ruling any space they set themselves in. ¡°I was thinking about Ellie.¡± Theodren interjected. Polly paused. Her next admonishment dying on her tongue. She looked at him waiting for him to continue. ¡°The readings were bad Poll. Real bad. I was trying to read up on childbirth from the old priest¡¯s books but¡­¡± Polly snorted. That man knew as much about midwifery as Evan does about cooking.¡± Theodren glanced to the blackened hearth where the last of Evan¡¯s culinary fiascos had left its mark. Theodren sat forward resting his elbows on his knees. ¡°I can¡¯t afford the ignorance and neither can Elaina. I have to figure something out.¡± Polly¡¯s stern expression softened. ¡°No you don¡¯t.¡± Theodren¡¯s brows pushed together as he looked up at the woman. She sighed. ¡°You assume too much priest.¡± She walked over to a ream of cloth bandages sitting on her work bench. ¡°Do you know how many child births your predecessor attended during his lifetime here?¡± Theodren paused, ¡°I don¡¯t¡­¡± she began wrapping his chest tightly eliciting a wince. ¡°None. That man was as helpful as a hole in your shoe.¡± Finishing up the bandages she continued. ¡° I¡¯ve brought every child in this village into this world, and I did it without the Weaver¡¯s help.¡± Theodren wanted to interject something akin to ¡°all good things come from Odrain¡± but he held his tongue. ¡°But this time.¡± Continued Polly, ¡°I¡¯ll get an honest to goodness priest to assist in my charge. And together.¡± She looked him in the eye. ¡°We will do right by Eleina.¡± Theodren exhaled a breath he hadn¡¯t known he¡¯d taken. She was right. The birth wasn¡¯t his responsibility, it never was. He¡¯d gotten so caught up in the problem he hadn¡¯t realized that it wasn¡¯t his to solve. He realized that he was in fact lucky that she would allow him to assist in whatever capacity he could. He looked up at her. ¡°Thanks Poll.¡± She nodded, handing him a jar of ointment and a handful of fresh bandages. ¡°Now get out of my house or I¡¯ll sic Evan on you.¡± He chuckled, rising to his feet. Evan was not much of a town guard but he was the only guard the town had. He was boyish in his charm and appearance. An agreeable fellow to be certain. But of course one had to be to marry Polly¡¯s only child. As Theodren stepped out of the house Pieter was waiting for him with a sack by the gate post. ¡°Quite a morning then, eh priest?¡± Theodren groaned good naturedly. ¡°Between that bear¡¯s claws and Polly¡¯s sharp tongue, I don¡¯t know which whipped me worse.¡± Pieter chuckled shaking his head. ¡°Both will fade with time I¡¯m sure.¡± He nudged the sack with his foot. ¡°It¡¯s not much of a meal, but then that wasn¡¯t much of a shovel was it?¡± Despite his words, the sack looked fit to burst with sausage and other cured meats. ¡°It looked a lot better last night¡± Theodren shot back. Pieter cocked an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯ve heard that excuse before lad.¡± The priest rolled his eyes. ¡°Thanks for the meat Pieter.¡± Pieter¡¯s smile only broadened. ¡°I''ve heard that before as well!¡± He cackled. ¡°Pieter Tabin!¡± The color drained from Pieter¡¯s previously mirthful cheeks. ¡°You¡¯ve been told no such thing! Now quit scandalizing our only priest you wastrel!¡± Theodren dared not look back at the house, but when he heard the door close he thought it safe to breathe again. ¡°You got me in trouble, priest.¡± Pieter grumbled. He reached in the sack and pulled out a sausage which disappeared behind his bushy mustache. ¡°Hardship fee.¡± He stated, chewing. Theodren nodded. ¡°Understood.¡± Taking the bag, he strode off deeper into the town to find some new clothes that might fit. Chapter4. A Broken String Chapter 4. Broken String 6 months later¡­ Theodren sprinted the last stretch of the journey into town, Pieter was far in his dust, the middle aged farmer unable to keep up with the mid 20s priest fueled by anticipation, fear, and desperation. He finally came to a stop before the door Evan was pacing in front of. He looked up at Theodren. Expressions of hope and dread waged war for control of Evan¡¯s face. Every passing moan from within the house he guarded pitched the battles in one direction or the other. ¡°Theo! Thank the Weaver!¡± He grabbed onto the priest¡¯s robe. ¡°She just started shaking and she fell over! Polly said it would be fine but¡­ she¡¯s never¡­ she had these headaches and¡­¡± Evan was rambling. Theodren steeled his nerves and pushed past the man spiraling into despair. The dimly lit room was a flurry of activity, Polly was ordering around other younger women carrying rags or a basin of water. Orchestrating the chaos as best she could while holding the hand of her daughter who witnessed none of this. Her breathing was ragged and shallow. Sweat beaded on her face as she clung to life. Theodren rushed to the opposite side of the bed weaving between the women laden with sweat soaked bedding that they were clearing away. ¡°What happened?¡± Polly took a pause between barked orders. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. ¡°It wasn¡¯t supposed to happen yet.¡± Theodren looked down at her confused. ¡°What?¡± She visibly deflated under his gaze. ¡°She¡¯s blood sick Theodren. The headaches the swelling, I knew what it was I just thought¡­¡± tears started to well in her eyes. ¡°I was wrong, Theodren! It wasn¡¯t supposed to happen yet! I thought I had more time!¡± She looked up at him. She had done everything she could to ease Eleina¡¯s seizing. But by the time she had, her water had already broken, and Eleina could not be roused. ¡°It¡¯s my fault!¡± Her last sentence came out a whisper with the force of a wail. Theodren turned to look down at Eleina. Gone was the fiery wit. Gone was the bombastic confidence. What remained was the pale and ragged ghost of his friend. He reached deep for his divine thread. ¡°Holy Weaver. Father of all that is ordered, I beseech thee.¡± The priest reached out for Eleina¡¯s brow. ¡°If ever I have earned your favor. Bestow it now upon this woman and her child.¡± Theodren¡¯s thread soaked deep into her mind, questing for something, anything to grab hold of. But her mind was a maelstrom of broken thoughts and instincts, too scattered and fast moving for his meager thread. He grit his teeth, he would not fail here. Odrain must be testing him, willing him to find a solution, to beat the odds. He dug deep, his thread searching¡­ THERE! his thread latched on to a single grain of thought. A memory of no significance but present enough to grab hold of. He wrestled the grain before his mind''s eye, ordering it into motion. A memory, if given enough emphasis became a thought, a thought could become consciousness and a conscious Eleina could be saved. He poured the very fiber of his being into his work. He commanded his divine thread masterfully, rolling, coaxing, forming the memory until he felt a strand of Eleina¡¯s mind reach for it. He pulled. With all his might he pulled. Eleina¡¯s mind was but a fingers breadth away, so close her salvation was practically in hand, until his thread, snapped.