Dawn Prayers
The sun never rose through the endless gloom of Crypha’s skies, but some could feel the dawn coming in their bones and rose early to meet it every morn. The heavy canvas of the tent’s front ‘door’ swayed slowly as it fell behind Vrinn Love, the elven man stepping out into the endless night that was still - somehow, impossibly - the morning.
Others were also stirring in the encampment, a trickle of smoke rising here and there from cookfires preparing breakfast, soldiers wearily emerging from their tents in search of the smell of such - or returning to them to catch some precious hours of sleep, as regards those who had night watch. He sought neither.
What light there was that pierced the forever dusk glinted off an armoured husk leaning up against the side of the Morninglight Company’s carriage. Once, it was the vessel that held Saint Felix, allowing him to touch the physical world. Now, it was merely metal and gears and cogs with nothing to power it, no animating essence for it to stand in defense of the innocents of Crypha.
An unmoving monument to a fallen saint.
Vrinn’s hand dropped to the cold metal of a pauldron, running along it, feeling the dents and scratches of battle-wear even where they’d been hammered and buffed out. Once armor faced conflict, it was impossible for it to ever be the same again. It carried the scars of battle as surely as any warrior’s flesh did.
His head and his gaze lifted to the east, to the horizon. In any other land, he would see the first scarlet kiss of dawn beginning to spread through the heavens. In this forsaken place, all he saw were the skeletal arms of trees reaching desperately up towards an uncaring sky. There was no rising sun to warm his skin, but he felt it instead in his heart, and knew that the dawn had come, even if it could not be seen.
He knelt there beside the saint’s armor, facing east, as he did each dawn if he could.
“I kneel before the Red Dawn,” he prayed quietly, “In the hopes that it will rise over this land soon. I carry out your will, a sword in your hand, to purge the corruption from this land and bring the promised dawn.”
“I ask you to welcome into paradise one of the martyred; twice-martyred, killed by those who embrace foulness and returned beyond death itself to continue the crusade, only to be felled once more in defense of the innocent. May Saint Felix find rest beneath an eternal dawn, for if any in this land deserve it, it is he.”
“I ask of you forgiveness that I set aside the armor of my cause,” he continued, eyes on the skies as if he could see the sun swelling upon the darkened horizon, “For the Saint’s legacy must continue, that the people of this oppressed land will find hope in their hearts and look to the coming dawn.”
“I am your sword, until the coming of the Red Dawn.”
He rose, then, turning and bending down to heft the heavy suit up and over one shoulder with a grunt of effort. Slightly bent by the weight as he carried it like a penitent’s cross towards the grey smoke rising from the encampment’s smithy.
There was work to be done, to ensure that the legacy of Saint Felix the Twice-Martyred would not be forgotten.
Others were also stirring in the encampment, a trickle of smoke rising here and there from cookfires preparing breakfast, soldiers wearily emerging from their tents in search of the smell of such - or returning to them to catch some precious hours of sleep, as regards those who had night watch. He sought neither.
What light there was that pierced the forever dusk glinted off an armoured husk leaning up against the side of the Morninglight Company’s carriage. Once, it was the vessel that held Saint Felix, allowing him to touch the physical world. Now, it was merely metal and gears and cogs with nothing to power it, no animating essence for it to stand in defense of the innocents of Crypha.
An unmoving monument to a fallen saint.
Vrinn’s hand dropped to the cold metal of a pauldron, running along it, feeling the dents and scratches of battle-wear even where they’d been hammered and buffed out. Once armor faced conflict, it was impossible for it to ever be the same again. It carried the scars of battle as surely as any warrior’s flesh did.
His head and his gaze lifted to the east, to the horizon. In any other land, he would see the first scarlet kiss of dawn beginning to spread through the heavens. In this forsaken place, all he saw were the skeletal arms of trees reaching desperately up towards an uncaring sky. There was no rising sun to warm his skin, but he felt it instead in his heart, and knew that the dawn had come, even if it could not be seen.
He knelt there beside the saint’s armor, facing east, as he did each dawn if he could.
“I kneel before the Red Dawn,” he prayed quietly, “In the hopes that it will rise over this land soon. I carry out your will, a sword in your hand, to purge the corruption from this land and bring the promised dawn.”
“I ask you to welcome into paradise one of the martyred; twice-martyred, killed by those who embrace foulness and returned beyond death itself to continue the crusade, only to be felled once more in defense of the innocent. May Saint Felix find rest beneath an eternal dawn, for if any in this land deserve it, it is he.”
“I ask of you forgiveness that I set aside the armor of my cause,” he continued, eyes on the skies as if he could see the sun swelling upon the darkened horizon, “For the Saint’s legacy must continue, that the people of this oppressed land will find hope in their hearts and look to the coming dawn.”
“I am your sword, until the coming of the Red Dawn.”
He rose, then, turning and bending down to heft the heavy suit up and over one shoulder with a grunt of effort. Slightly bent by the weight as he carried it like a penitent’s cross towards the grey smoke rising from the encampment’s smithy.
There was work to be done, to ensure that the legacy of Saint Felix the Twice-Martyred would not be forgotten.
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