Baptism by Water.
Posted: Sun Nov 07, 2021 4:38 pm
Kullu Monastery, Khadai
66th of Frost, Year 4587
It was the boy's birthday, but he did not know that. Neither did he know his family name, the names of his parents, nor many other things the average person would know about themselves. He was called Midhir. He was a novice of the Kullu lineage. Questions were welcomed, but only the correct ones received answers. This was the way of things and he was, by and large, content with his lot.
He knew this was his seventh winter. When Frost came, he was counted another year older. This mattered somewhat when it came to his responsibilities and his training, though that seemed to be a suggestion rather than a rule. The other children in the novitiate also progressed according to their own aptitude. All the children were trained according to their talents. It seemed as though his talents were a mastery of body and magic, for he was to receive his first Mark today. It had occurred to him to ask already what need they had for martial training and great magics if their lot was to remain in the mountains, meditating on balance. The monastery was remote, walled, and traded in peace with the nearest villages. They had no enemies. The answer was the lineage—the knowledge and the skill and the wisdom must be passed down against a future need.
Midhir knew that wasn't the full answer, but he also knew that no amount of asking would garner a fuller answer. He had to be patient, to learn, and to grow. When he was wise enough, steeped in context, more would be revealed. Being patient was easy today, the day he would receive his mark. He was tired after meditating all night, a vigil that showed he had the self-discipline at his age to undergo this ritual. It had been difficult, but overcoming challenges was a part of life, finding new equilibrium was a part of balanced growth. Despite his weariness and his hunger, he felt a sharp clarity. He wanted to know exactly what was happening and he didn't want to miss a detail or forget a moment of it.
The room was open to the elements, more of a loggia than anything else. Midhir shivered as he disrobed, unlacing his socks and removing his footwear, carefully folding the clothes until he was wearing only his smallclothes. Frost was in effect, and while there was some effort to keep the elements in alignment here, he was still cold. The air breezed through the columns, sharp from the high reaches of the mountains that were always crowned with white. Incense burned from censors and he could see the smoke eddying lazily in the firelight. Braziers burned, but he wasn't near them as he stepped forward and knelt before the abbot of the monastery. There was nothing soft between his knees and the stone of the floor, the same stone as made the mountains where they lived their quiet lives. Monks brought water by the ewer full to pour into the font that waited at the right hand of the abbot.
The firelight and the daylight filtering through the columns winked upon the crystalline growths that crawled up his spine from under his smallclothes to the crown they formed on his head. He kept them filed down, but there was no hiding them with how short they kept his hair.
He watched Midhir with his wise, discerning eyes. The man was not unkind, but he was demanding. Life required it, or so Midhir had learned.
When the font was full enough, the monks knelt along the walls, observing. Nearer to the fires than he was, still, it was cold. He admired how unfazed they all were, and knew he must strive to achieve such self-control. He still shivered, but he persevered, his attention respectfully held by the abbot, who eventually broke his silence with words.
"After the Bleeding, the uncorrupted Gods that remained came together in Muid and determined that they would no longer involve themselves in the affairs of Atharen, preferring the stability that their absence provided the world. The Path ended as it had been known, the Living Gods choosing security over engaging their creations in the wake of the disaster."
His tone was sonorous, but Midhir perked up immediately. The outside world was a mystery, and they were only offered crumbs. Those crumbs were precious to the novices and, assuming he was not bidden to keep what was said to himself, he could offer it up to the others as they attempted to make sense of the world around them.
"It was not long after this decision that the God of Chaos and her ally, Maztyx, determined to guide Atharen back toward the right path from afar. Her gift was an attempt to reduce the harm of the Bleeding and to prevent it or something like it from occurring again. It was from this that the Mark of Baptism was created, and with it, the Twilight Fulcrum. This Order would serve as an arm of Izonata's will, to guide Atharen to a state of balance, to prevent oppressive institutions like the Unbroken Empire from forming, and to restore the land. At least, this was their stated mission. The God remained aloof.
"In the centuries that came, the Ordinators of the Twilight Fulcrum became lethal agents of Izonata's will, investigating and culling threats to the world by slaying those with unshakable, dogmatic ideologies, and in particular those who would seek to subdue or control. As they performed their duties, many left the Order, and in their wake Baptism spread. By the Age of Industry, the magic had entered into the hands of many magi, although the Fulcrum remains. Some would say, as unshakable and dogmatic as any they hunt."
The abbot paused. Midhir continued to stare, due both to his curiosity and his weariness.
"Today, you will undergo your baptism by water, in order to become what many call Risen. In order to maintain balance, all magic comes with risk, with cost, with danger. Do you consent to your baptism?"
"I do," he replied immediately in his boyish treble. It was firm, though. Whether he was, at seven, capable of making this choice for himself was a moot point. Here in the monastery, he had been deemed ready, but the choice was still his. He wanted to continue to learn and to grow, to master himself. It was the unshakable, dogmatic ideology of the Kullu lineage: balance and evolution.
"Then stand," the abbot said, even as he rose and approached the font. "Come."
Midhir rose, a little shaky on cold, coltish legs. He came as he was bidden, and the abbot gave him a hand to help him into the water. The monks—bless them—had brought up hot water in their ewers, but it was already tepid. It felt warm about his calves, though, compared to the air.
"Sit."
He did. The abbot daubed his thumb in a thick, congealed oil and marked a small crescent upon Midhir's brow, about the size of an eye, that matched the silvery scar-like mark the abbot himself had. Midhir smiled a little, honored to be found worthy of a gift such as the venerable abbot bore.
"Initiation only requires the head be submerged," he explained. Every interaction was an opportunity to learn, and so Midhir listened. "We will submerge you entirely. This is no time for half-measures. Lie down."
"For how long?" Midhir asked, even as he slid down so his bony shoulders were submerged and he could feel the water lapping against his chin.
The abbot was chanting. The monks began their throaty, wordless song underneath it. Midhir felt his skin prickle, then tingle, then buzz with whatever power was entering him through the unguent.
"For as long as it takes." The abbot's hand pressed gently down upon Midhir's chest to guide him below. "Deep breath."
Midhir took a breath and closed his eyes as he submerged. Once below the surface, he opened his eyes. A trick of the light made the abbot seem almost as though he wore a halo. It did not seem to be a trick of the eyes when the scar-like mark on his forehead seemed to shine. But Midhir's eyes tickled, whether from the water or the passing of magic from one person to another. He felt strange, and then, eventually, confused. There ought to be more than this after all that talk of Gods and Orders and the power to ensure balance.
Then he realized he was going to need more air. He moved to rise; the sooner he got his air, the sooner he could resume waiting for the magic to happen. The abbot's hand held him down. Through the threshold where water met air, the man looked almost sad, regretful, but ultimately impassive. Midhir was disciplined, but eventually, his body cried out for air, and he panicked. He struggled, but the abbot was stronger and held him down.
His eyes tickled. His vision grew dark around the edges. His pulse pounded in his ears. It wasn't working; something was wrong.
The abbot held him down and he found he hadn't the strength to struggle any longer.
Midhir died.
He saw things. He stood at a threshold, and he saw things. Some he would remember. Some he might revisit in dreams. Some would be answers denied to him until he crossed that threshold, when he had the wisdom to understand. There was darkness and there was light; he couldn't say for certain which was the more blinding.
Then he was rushing—he couldn't be certain in which direction. Then he was gasping for breath, the font empty but for some dregs of water, and the abbot was holding him in such a way that his spasms wouldn't damage him. He was a wild thing for a moment, little more than a primal urge to live. When he had calmed somewhat, the abbot released him and stood.
"Rise, Midhir."
Obedient, he rose.
"You are Risen," the abbot declared. The monks were still chanting their wordless song as the man wrapped Midhir in a thick towel and picked him up bodily out of the font. He hadn't been carried like this since he was quite small and he found that he had no more energy. His head lolled against the man's shoulder. "Sleep," he bade him. "You are Risen. When you awaken, there will be much to learn."
66th of Frost, Year 4587
It was the boy's birthday, but he did not know that. Neither did he know his family name, the names of his parents, nor many other things the average person would know about themselves. He was called Midhir. He was a novice of the Kullu lineage. Questions were welcomed, but only the correct ones received answers. This was the way of things and he was, by and large, content with his lot.
He knew this was his seventh winter. When Frost came, he was counted another year older. This mattered somewhat when it came to his responsibilities and his training, though that seemed to be a suggestion rather than a rule. The other children in the novitiate also progressed according to their own aptitude. All the children were trained according to their talents. It seemed as though his talents were a mastery of body and magic, for he was to receive his first Mark today. It had occurred to him to ask already what need they had for martial training and great magics if their lot was to remain in the mountains, meditating on balance. The monastery was remote, walled, and traded in peace with the nearest villages. They had no enemies. The answer was the lineage—the knowledge and the skill and the wisdom must be passed down against a future need.
Midhir knew that wasn't the full answer, but he also knew that no amount of asking would garner a fuller answer. He had to be patient, to learn, and to grow. When he was wise enough, steeped in context, more would be revealed. Being patient was easy today, the day he would receive his mark. He was tired after meditating all night, a vigil that showed he had the self-discipline at his age to undergo this ritual. It had been difficult, but overcoming challenges was a part of life, finding new equilibrium was a part of balanced growth. Despite his weariness and his hunger, he felt a sharp clarity. He wanted to know exactly what was happening and he didn't want to miss a detail or forget a moment of it.
The room was open to the elements, more of a loggia than anything else. Midhir shivered as he disrobed, unlacing his socks and removing his footwear, carefully folding the clothes until he was wearing only his smallclothes. Frost was in effect, and while there was some effort to keep the elements in alignment here, he was still cold. The air breezed through the columns, sharp from the high reaches of the mountains that were always crowned with white. Incense burned from censors and he could see the smoke eddying lazily in the firelight. Braziers burned, but he wasn't near them as he stepped forward and knelt before the abbot of the monastery. There was nothing soft between his knees and the stone of the floor, the same stone as made the mountains where they lived their quiet lives. Monks brought water by the ewer full to pour into the font that waited at the right hand of the abbot.
The firelight and the daylight filtering through the columns winked upon the crystalline growths that crawled up his spine from under his smallclothes to the crown they formed on his head. He kept them filed down, but there was no hiding them with how short they kept his hair.
He watched Midhir with his wise, discerning eyes. The man was not unkind, but he was demanding. Life required it, or so Midhir had learned.
When the font was full enough, the monks knelt along the walls, observing. Nearer to the fires than he was, still, it was cold. He admired how unfazed they all were, and knew he must strive to achieve such self-control. He still shivered, but he persevered, his attention respectfully held by the abbot, who eventually broke his silence with words.
"After the Bleeding, the uncorrupted Gods that remained came together in Muid and determined that they would no longer involve themselves in the affairs of Atharen, preferring the stability that their absence provided the world. The Path ended as it had been known, the Living Gods choosing security over engaging their creations in the wake of the disaster."
His tone was sonorous, but Midhir perked up immediately. The outside world was a mystery, and they were only offered crumbs. Those crumbs were precious to the novices and, assuming he was not bidden to keep what was said to himself, he could offer it up to the others as they attempted to make sense of the world around them.
"It was not long after this decision that the God of Chaos and her ally, Maztyx, determined to guide Atharen back toward the right path from afar. Her gift was an attempt to reduce the harm of the Bleeding and to prevent it or something like it from occurring again. It was from this that the Mark of Baptism was created, and with it, the Twilight Fulcrum. This Order would serve as an arm of Izonata's will, to guide Atharen to a state of balance, to prevent oppressive institutions like the Unbroken Empire from forming, and to restore the land. At least, this was their stated mission. The God remained aloof.
"In the centuries that came, the Ordinators of the Twilight Fulcrum became lethal agents of Izonata's will, investigating and culling threats to the world by slaying those with unshakable, dogmatic ideologies, and in particular those who would seek to subdue or control. As they performed their duties, many left the Order, and in their wake Baptism spread. By the Age of Industry, the magic had entered into the hands of many magi, although the Fulcrum remains. Some would say, as unshakable and dogmatic as any they hunt."
The abbot paused. Midhir continued to stare, due both to his curiosity and his weariness.
"Today, you will undergo your baptism by water, in order to become what many call Risen. In order to maintain balance, all magic comes with risk, with cost, with danger. Do you consent to your baptism?"
"I do," he replied immediately in his boyish treble. It was firm, though. Whether he was, at seven, capable of making this choice for himself was a moot point. Here in the monastery, he had been deemed ready, but the choice was still his. He wanted to continue to learn and to grow, to master himself. It was the unshakable, dogmatic ideology of the Kullu lineage: balance and evolution.
"Then stand," the abbot said, even as he rose and approached the font. "Come."
Midhir rose, a little shaky on cold, coltish legs. He came as he was bidden, and the abbot gave him a hand to help him into the water. The monks—bless them—had brought up hot water in their ewers, but it was already tepid. It felt warm about his calves, though, compared to the air.
"Sit."
He did. The abbot daubed his thumb in a thick, congealed oil and marked a small crescent upon Midhir's brow, about the size of an eye, that matched the silvery scar-like mark the abbot himself had. Midhir smiled a little, honored to be found worthy of a gift such as the venerable abbot bore.
"Initiation only requires the head be submerged," he explained. Every interaction was an opportunity to learn, and so Midhir listened. "We will submerge you entirely. This is no time for half-measures. Lie down."
"For how long?" Midhir asked, even as he slid down so his bony shoulders were submerged and he could feel the water lapping against his chin.
The abbot was chanting. The monks began their throaty, wordless song underneath it. Midhir felt his skin prickle, then tingle, then buzz with whatever power was entering him through the unguent.
"For as long as it takes." The abbot's hand pressed gently down upon Midhir's chest to guide him below. "Deep breath."
Midhir took a breath and closed his eyes as he submerged. Once below the surface, he opened his eyes. A trick of the light made the abbot seem almost as though he wore a halo. It did not seem to be a trick of the eyes when the scar-like mark on his forehead seemed to shine. But Midhir's eyes tickled, whether from the water or the passing of magic from one person to another. He felt strange, and then, eventually, confused. There ought to be more than this after all that talk of Gods and Orders and the power to ensure balance.
Then he realized he was going to need more air. He moved to rise; the sooner he got his air, the sooner he could resume waiting for the magic to happen. The abbot's hand held him down. Through the threshold where water met air, the man looked almost sad, regretful, but ultimately impassive. Midhir was disciplined, but eventually, his body cried out for air, and he panicked. He struggled, but the abbot was stronger and held him down.
His eyes tickled. His vision grew dark around the edges. His pulse pounded in his ears. It wasn't working; something was wrong.
The abbot held him down and he found he hadn't the strength to struggle any longer.
Midhir died.
He saw things. He stood at a threshold, and he saw things. Some he would remember. Some he might revisit in dreams. Some would be answers denied to him until he crossed that threshold, when he had the wisdom to understand. There was darkness and there was light; he couldn't say for certain which was the more blinding.
Then he was rushing—he couldn't be certain in which direction. Then he was gasping for breath, the font empty but for some dregs of water, and the abbot was holding him in such a way that his spasms wouldn't damage him. He was a wild thing for a moment, little more than a primal urge to live. When he had calmed somewhat, the abbot released him and stood.
"Rise, Midhir."
Obedient, he rose.
"You are Risen," the abbot declared. The monks were still chanting their wordless song as the man wrapped Midhir in a thick towel and picked him up bodily out of the font. He hadn't been carried like this since he was quite small and he found that he had no more energy. His head lolled against the man's shoulder. "Sleep," he bade him. "You are Risen. When you awaken, there will be much to learn."
