Post by devilinthedetails on Jan 22, 2023 14:50:30 GMT 10
Title: A Knightmaster's Prayer
Summary: Wyldon prays for Owen's safe return from Scanra. Set during Lady Knight.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: Somewhat of a companion piece to "A Breakfast Conversation at Mastiff" but can be read and understood independently.
A Knightmaster’s Prayer
Wyldon entered the wooden chapel devoted to Mithros at Fort Mastiff. Anywhere soldiers and knights served for any length of time, there sprang up like April daffodils such shrines dedicated to the warrior god.
Silver starlight filtered through the windows. A reminder that the sun god even now was engaged in his eternal battle against the dark. Fighting the night to reclaim the dawn.
A golden sun disk hung above an alcove illuminated flickering votive candles. Each tiny yellow flame representing a prayer to Mithros. An appeal to survive the next battle. To live to fight another day. To be victorious in the god’s name.
Wyldon lit his own candle. Dropped to his knees on the kneeler cushioned with fabric red as blood. Gazed up at the radiant image of Mithros above him. Strove to feel the presence of the god around him–permeating this sacred space–as he struggled to compose a prayer. Not for himself but for his reckless hellion of a squire. A knightmaster’s prayer.
(Can you hear me?)
He asked the sun disk. Received no answer as the chapel remained empty aside from his own breath echoing from the domed ceiling and curved walls. Slanted so snow and ice would slide off in the winter. So that the roof wouldn’t collapse under the weight of snow and ice. Northern carpenters were clever. Had to be if they hoped to live to toothless old age in a harsh climate.
(If you can hear me, stay beside Owen of Jesslaw. Be his strength, his sword, and his shield in Scanra.)
Wyldon persisted in his prayer even though he had gotten no reassurance that Mithros was listening. Even though Mithros had remained stubbornly silent.
He tried to be grateful for his rigid rule about his squire being required to attend daybreak services to Mithros every Sunday. The day set aside for special worship to Mithros. The day named in his honor. The beginning and end of the week. Its sunrise and sunset.
It seemed to him that his squire’s dutiful appearance at such dawn services should increase the odds that Mithros would know the lad’s name. Care about his fate. Defend him on the battlefield. Champion him in the Black God’s court. Claim his soul for glory if he did die behind enemy lines in Scanra.
(I’ve trained him as well as I could.)
Wyldon felt helpless. A snaking fear in a world where all men must die and even heroes couldn’t win every battle that his best would never quite be good enough. A feeling he hated and sought diligently to avoid. Tried without success to comfort himself with the oft-uttered priestly platitude that the strength of Mithros was proven when the strength of men failed. That he had to trust in the goodness–the benign power–of Mithros.
Wyldon gritted his teeth. Even repeated in his own head, the words sounded like a hollow banality rather than a benediction. He had never been the sort of person who liked to rely on anyone’s strength but his own. Even the strength of the god of warriors and truth.
(He must seem insignificant compared to your majesty, but he’s not just anybody to me. He’s my son.)
Wyldon frowned–forehead furrowing–as he finished his prayer. Sketching the ritual sign against evil across his chest. Seeking to forfend disaster that felt as if it had already struck.
He hadn’t meant to refer to Owen as his son. He’d intended, quite properly, to call the boy his squire. That was the relationship between them, after all. The only bond that tied them together.
Yet, it felt wrong to change even a word of his prayer. Somehow sacreligious to edit or alter a single phrase of what was supposed to be a sincere, solemn offering to Mithros. Blasphemous as smashing a chapel window with a hurled stone or stealing a golden sun disk to melt down and sell for coin.
Besides, what was voiced in prayer was believed to contain hidden truths. After all, what was prayer–especially prayer to Mithros–except the expression of as yet unrevealed and unrealized truths?
Not that Wyldon thought it was likely to matter to the sun god whether he saw Owen as a son or a squire. Surely, they must all seem gnats next to the ineffable splendor of Mithros. Pesky gnats at which the warrior god must yearn to strike and swat.
Still, Wyldon left his votive candle burning alongside the others as he rose and departed the quiet chapel. His booted footsteps reverberating as they made firm contact with the oak floorboards. Figuring that the candle couldn’t do any harm even if it did no good.
Unless it sparked a conflagration that reduced the shrine to scorched cinders, of course. Which, given Wyldon’s recent spate of abysmal luck, was not outside the realm of possibility. Perhaps he needed to start sending up prayers to the Trickster god as well.
Summary: Wyldon prays for Owen's safe return from Scanra. Set during Lady Knight.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: Somewhat of a companion piece to "A Breakfast Conversation at Mastiff" but can be read and understood independently.
A Knightmaster’s Prayer
Wyldon entered the wooden chapel devoted to Mithros at Fort Mastiff. Anywhere soldiers and knights served for any length of time, there sprang up like April daffodils such shrines dedicated to the warrior god.
Silver starlight filtered through the windows. A reminder that the sun god even now was engaged in his eternal battle against the dark. Fighting the night to reclaim the dawn.
A golden sun disk hung above an alcove illuminated flickering votive candles. Each tiny yellow flame representing a prayer to Mithros. An appeal to survive the next battle. To live to fight another day. To be victorious in the god’s name.
Wyldon lit his own candle. Dropped to his knees on the kneeler cushioned with fabric red as blood. Gazed up at the radiant image of Mithros above him. Strove to feel the presence of the god around him–permeating this sacred space–as he struggled to compose a prayer. Not for himself but for his reckless hellion of a squire. A knightmaster’s prayer.
(Can you hear me?)
He asked the sun disk. Received no answer as the chapel remained empty aside from his own breath echoing from the domed ceiling and curved walls. Slanted so snow and ice would slide off in the winter. So that the roof wouldn’t collapse under the weight of snow and ice. Northern carpenters were clever. Had to be if they hoped to live to toothless old age in a harsh climate.
(If you can hear me, stay beside Owen of Jesslaw. Be his strength, his sword, and his shield in Scanra.)
Wyldon persisted in his prayer even though he had gotten no reassurance that Mithros was listening. Even though Mithros had remained stubbornly silent.
He tried to be grateful for his rigid rule about his squire being required to attend daybreak services to Mithros every Sunday. The day set aside for special worship to Mithros. The day named in his honor. The beginning and end of the week. Its sunrise and sunset.
It seemed to him that his squire’s dutiful appearance at such dawn services should increase the odds that Mithros would know the lad’s name. Care about his fate. Defend him on the battlefield. Champion him in the Black God’s court. Claim his soul for glory if he did die behind enemy lines in Scanra.
(I’ve trained him as well as I could.)
Wyldon felt helpless. A snaking fear in a world where all men must die and even heroes couldn’t win every battle that his best would never quite be good enough. A feeling he hated and sought diligently to avoid. Tried without success to comfort himself with the oft-uttered priestly platitude that the strength of Mithros was proven when the strength of men failed. That he had to trust in the goodness–the benign power–of Mithros.
Wyldon gritted his teeth. Even repeated in his own head, the words sounded like a hollow banality rather than a benediction. He had never been the sort of person who liked to rely on anyone’s strength but his own. Even the strength of the god of warriors and truth.
(He must seem insignificant compared to your majesty, but he’s not just anybody to me. He’s my son.)
Wyldon frowned–forehead furrowing–as he finished his prayer. Sketching the ritual sign against evil across his chest. Seeking to forfend disaster that felt as if it had already struck.
He hadn’t meant to refer to Owen as his son. He’d intended, quite properly, to call the boy his squire. That was the relationship between them, after all. The only bond that tied them together.
Yet, it felt wrong to change even a word of his prayer. Somehow sacreligious to edit or alter a single phrase of what was supposed to be a sincere, solemn offering to Mithros. Blasphemous as smashing a chapel window with a hurled stone or stealing a golden sun disk to melt down and sell for coin.
Besides, what was voiced in prayer was believed to contain hidden truths. After all, what was prayer–especially prayer to Mithros–except the expression of as yet unrevealed and unrealized truths?
Not that Wyldon thought it was likely to matter to the sun god whether he saw Owen as a son or a squire. Surely, they must all seem gnats next to the ineffable splendor of Mithros. Pesky gnats at which the warrior god must yearn to strike and swat.
Still, Wyldon left his votive candle burning alongside the others as he rose and departed the quiet chapel. His booted footsteps reverberating as they made firm contact with the oak floorboards. Figuring that the candle couldn’t do any harm even if it did no good.
Unless it sparked a conflagration that reduced the shrine to scorched cinders, of course. Which, given Wyldon’s recent spate of abysmal luck, was not outside the realm of possibility. Perhaps he needed to start sending up prayers to the Trickster god as well.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!