CHAPTER 2.10 – LEAVING THORNWOOD: THAE

Thae flexes, shrugging each shoulder individually, hunting for discomfort from the new armour piece.  The breastplate is well-fitted, which is to be expected considering the level of craftsmanship of Rian’s own gear.  The man would not, to his companions’ best guess, recommend a tradesperson any less adept than himself.  Thae cannot prevent a sigh from slipping out, tries to mask it, suppress the true source of discomfort.  Which has nothing to do with the fit of the armour.

Certainly, there is a feeling of pressure between back and chest, but armour must needs be snug.  Being sandwiched between loose metal would be begging for disaster, for injury.  Besides, Thae hampers the party’s attempts at stealth without plates of steel ringing like a gong at the slightest impact.  The issue was never truly the armour.  Not directly.  Another flush at the mental image, the sensation of the men’s hands as they worked to adjust and secure the breastplate.

The burning in Thae’s cheeks intensifies as shame piles on top of embarrassment.  The pair were deferential, involving their subject in every decision, every action they took.  They were, in essence, perfect gentlemen.  And yet, Thae knows they were working on a crimson dummy.  Worse, a sweat-sheened crimson dummy.  Literally wordless when it came time to thank the smith and their forest guide.  The friend, Thae corrects, who initiated the plan to seek out additional armour for their least stealthy member.  Guilt for that dubious honour stacks the pile of shame ever higher.

The flush, the current one fed by the heat of the memory, persists as the acolyte spirals.  And there it is, the actual source.  One might imagine that temple life is to be perpetually surrounded, eternally observed.  And the notion is largely correct.  But without much trouble, an adherent could – for example – contrive to bathe in perfect privacy.  Particularly when one’s itinerary revolved around night duty.  This might be less true for worshippers of other divinities.  But in the tenets of a Goddess beloved for quiet wisdom, for self-knowledge, for virtuous purity, physical autonomy was fundamental. 

-x-

The cubicle is small, but to Thae it is a blessed space.  A space without need for masquerade.  It is one of a dozen, and contrives to be close by, but separated from, the communal baths.  Close enough that the sounds of other acolytes would intrude through the walls were it not nine bells into the evening.  Past the eighth bell, however, the area is bereft of anyone not preparing for night duty.  They are a quiet group, and while turning night into day has never bothered Thae, the others seem somewhat dazed by the duty.

Revelling in the solitude, the peace, the acolyte recalls discovering these rooms.  At the perfect time, too, Mother Sofia’s scrutiny having already fallen upon the foundling.  It had been nothing, really, the first of many minor injuries sustained in the acolyte’s beloved martial training.  The cubicles are clad in wooden slats over tile, drains fit for a wetroom.  Each cell is supplied with endless hot water, every second boasting a blazing charcoal burner.  The heat of the room had worked the kinks out of Thae’s bruised muscles that first time, but the humidity, the steam was precious, helping to mask concerns, soothe busy thoughts.

Things have been fraught, Thae feeling increasingly stifled by Sofia’s interest, her constant, inflexible demands.  Impossible for anyone to fulfil, never mind the Lady’s…

As though invoked, the blessed presence suddenly manifests.  The washcloth drops from slackened fingers as Thae’s eyelids flutter, as consciousness almost slips away.  One frozen concern interrupts what might have been a gentle embrace.  ‘I am naked in the presence of the Goddess’.  Panic bites down, hands moving to cover ‘shame’ while the kindest voice declares that one shaped by Her love should never feel such a thing.  The Presence exudes joy, pride as her instrument hesitantly lets guilty hands drop.  The aberrant masking instinct grows needles, a punishment for having been so unwise.  For not intuiting the beauty the Lady sees in Her disciples.  Her divine generosity.

And then all shame disappears as though drained.  Thae sits, palms crossed over naked thighs as peace fills the silence, the room, perhaps all of existence.  Shame replaced with certainty.  A certainty that Thae’s purpose is real and reaches far beyond this building.  That Her true temple is out in the world, delivering Her love, Her protection, far and wide.  That this place is not a prison, merely a training ground.  And it is simple, suddenly obvious.  The simplicity of something self-evident.  Once Thae has been prepared, been fully equipped for Her service, then the service shall commence.  Thae smiles inside the purity of Her love.  Her faith in this flawed mortal feels almost too much to contain.

But as Her presence leaves as gently as a kiss, a squirming certainty begins to germinate.  Mother Sofia’s plans for Thae stand starkly in contrast to the Lady’s.  The High Priestess has not said as much plainly, but Thae remains certain.  Sofia’s lessons swim together, the parables she chooses to instruct ‘her’ acolyte, the woman’s endless correction of her ward’s perceived failures.

Thae tries to recapture the Goddess’s certainty, fails to shake off the rising panic that obedience to the Lady must include disobedience of the Mother.  And thus, Thae begins consciously to construct a mask, utilising available materials already saturated with guilt, shame.

-x-

Thae’s current shame should be simple to shake off, a minor discomfort seemingly witnessed only by Rian and Orrin.  Some of the hushed Dwarvish passing between the pair must have related to the acolyte’s reaction.  And even then, they had done everything they could to pacify, to establish calm.  To assure the half-elf that the trial would soon be over.

Hugo and Anuk had soundly ignored the fitting, instead scrutinising the other goods on offer.  The pale girl seemed to be staving off boredom, possibly exaggerating the notion to appease the sweating cleric.  After all, paranoia’s fulcrum is the certainty that everyone is watching.  That others care deeply about the tiniest minutiae of one’s life.  Events which could never truly encroach on the actual concerns of their day.

In contrast, Hugo seemed genuinely eager to buy.  Thae is reminded of another instance of Rian’s kindness, another unbidden gift:  the rapier from Bertak’s forge.  As they had trained with it, his little friend’s adulations – exaggerated compliments of the half-elf’s artistry and dexterity – seemed applicable to the halfling’s own qualities.  Little surprise, then, when Hugo left Orrin’s with a similar weapon scaled for a smaller being. 

Of course, Hugo would not have been himself had he not engaged the smith in an intense sotto voce negotiation.  The fruits of this, a set of lockpicks and a short dagger blade mounted on a perpendicular grip like a corkscrew, would be difficult to obtain most places.  At least, difficult to obtain without invoking the interest of local law enforcement.  Tools for criminals.  On second thought, what Thae can only describe as a ‘punch dagger’ is more correctly a murderer’s tool.  Items one might acknowledge to exist but would never actually carry in good conscience.

And there it is again.  The foundation of Thae’s discomfort.  Martial training, after all, involved a lot of physical proximity and contact.  And while keenly embarrassing to the acolyte in the moment, the shame incited never really carried beyond the sparring session, the wrestling bout. 

But the niggling doubts always seem to persist longest in one’s mind.

Hugo had been so charming, on first blush.  Certainly, we all offer something of an idealised version of ourselves to new company, and Hugo’s charm remains inarguable.  But this had been intensive, unyielding until the halfling had seemed to relax.  Thae is not blind to the challenge of new, unknown people.  And to the additional complexity when that person is in service to a deity, but…

The niggle was how artificial the halfling had been in his initial dealings with Thae.  Very careful to keep his occupation obscured, a trait which itself raised concerns.  On meeting the clergy, Thae had observed others falling back into topics considered home turf.  For many, career was a subject on which they could expound safely, a teaspoonful of identity without the nagging doubt that one’s inner thoughts might be laid bare.  Or judged.  Thus, anybody obscuring how they earn a crust tended to occupy a grey area.  Or one that others might deem morally grey.

Thae would think nothing of ministering to a prostitute, would have more concerns rendering service to a debt collector or bookmaker.  But prostitutes coming to the acolyte for assistance almost always presumed their career would be a sticking point, if not a solid bar against acceptance.  This had wounded the acolyte, suggesting Thae, personally, projected such an aura of unforgiving puritanism.  Never true unless the half-elf’s gaze was pointed inwards.  And even that was masked as well as Thae could manage.

Had Hugo dealt straight, confessed that he was a criminal, this need not have raised concerns.  It might actually have accelerated them into friendship more effectively than the cloying love-bomb.  After all, what was trust based upon more than allowing another to see one’s flaws?  Sharing something so vulnerable, so actionable would have been nourishment to one as starved for friendship as Thae. 

Ironically, it has been in the blossoming of their closer friendship that true concerns have been kicked up.  They have saved one another, they have each seen the other at their lowest ebbs, in their worst lights.  And Thae does trust Hugo, as a friend and as a comrade.  Trusts that that faith is reciprocated.  But not without a stomach-churning pill to swallow.

Harald Skinner had rocked Thae’s world.  Hugo has fallen into character over and over in the short time they have been travelling together.  He has donned an impressive mask of likeability for a stranger they need onside, literally charmed his way into good graces.  And even seeing similarities to their own early interactions, Thae could write those off as innocuous.  In fact, having come to know the little man better, the gulf between his natural charisma and self-image might paint Hugo’s charm offensive as a compliment to Thae.

Skinner was no angel.  The man might have redeeming qualities, but those were not on show in his dealings with the pair of friends.  Even Rian had agreed Harald might well betray their passing through Thornwood.  Doubly so if coin were on the line.  And Thae is certain that Polly was an unforeseen casualty, unintended collateral damage neither of them could not have anticipated. 

But to see, or rather not to see any change of gear as Hugo slipped into gulling the merchant, turning him into a witless foil?  That had rankled, tested even Thae’s bountiful faith.

His little friend can act, can certainly spin a tale.  He reads people, intuits their motivations, strengths and flaws.  He plays to people and has utilised the talent to render them pliable, amenable. 

So, what if?

To Thae, the flattering but uncomfortable charm offensive had seemed to square with the Hugo who had later emerged.  The halfling’s self-doubts projected onto an acquaintance who had devoted their life to religious service.  Such an odd match. 

But what if?  What if the cloying approach had not been a misstep?  What if it was a pratfall, an intentional misdirection to melt the acolyte’s defences when a truer version of the halfling’s character showed face?

A more trustworthy face from beneath the mask.  An admitted criminal fleeing a city bursting with his ilk.  One who never has shared the exact reason for his flight.  Who already knew that the divine power Thae is privileged to channel could really help with those mysterious wounds and bruises.  What if one mask could be worn over another?

Dogma bites into Thae.  If the seed is false, then what of the tree?  If the tree is false, then what of its fruits?  The half-elf’s stomach constricts as though poisoned.  No fool am I, but then no confidence trickster would ever eat unless they felt true.

Thae looks up guiltily as up ahead, Anuk stumbles, curses.  She looks equally perturbed, albeit channelling more anger into the look than the acolyte has ever felt.  Their eyes meet and the pale girl forces the grimmest smile, barely a twitch at the corners of her mouth.  It is a tiny gesture, her expression otherwise a mask of hatred for their rural life.  She never seems too far removed from a killing mood.  As the woman’s eyes drop back to the ground, Thae is moderately certain she is cursing roots and other tripping hazards.

The acolyte dares not glance towards Hugo.  What a world, where Anuk’s unbridled fury feels less of a risk than Thae’s best friend.