A devotion to peace and preservation stands innate in me, and of me forms an instrument delivering consequence unto evil. From our days of infancy, we identify the wicked phantoms striking our base hearts and beckoning our constitution. Thus, the sensibilities of men and women bear the brunt of physical and mental torment; they withstand the contiguity of avarice and cruelty... There has to be a line, one that expands and shoves away at those detriments. Knowledge is imperative, the sharpening of mind, but the natural order of this world constantly entreats our change of character. Thus, our true strife is not devolving into that which we set out to combat.

A lone and grand monastery in the glades. A holy place designed for the masses, it passed as fort occupied men-at-arms with pikes and halberds. Their sharp points gleamed in noon sunlight, along with their sleeves of metal ringlets and pot-like helmets.

Even from a distance, he could hear the chain-laden steps of foot soldiers roaming over the stone. They wandered every nook except for the large sanctum nestled at the western corner, a sanctum situated at the terminus of a ring wall; clean doors of thick hardwood at one end and a white bell tower rising high over its domed and slated roof. This Sanctum was flanked by green lawn on both sides, well-trimmed - a place where few deacons and priestesses would converse leisurely: white-robed women in bonnets; red-robed men in long caps.

From the sanctum, there led a wide and paved pathway bordered by two shading walls of white clay. The wall on the right demarked a cloister: one square vicinity of garden and bench surrounded by arcades - four adjacent hallways accessing to and fro the garden via stone archways. The north wall on the left marked the chapter house: a wide and ornate marble room with a high, concaving roof. A peek through its stained glass windows and someone might find the occasional audience of crown and tiara.

Coming from the sanctum and passing the walls, a spectator would observe a wide area of kempt grass and trimmed hedges: a courtyard evenly groomed to the aesthetic delight of any passing avian, and dominated in the center by a concentric fountain flowering with pristine water. Reaching the other side of the courtyard, before the terminating eastern wall, there were situated two opposing hostelries on either side of a large gate. As long as they were, the extent of their walls ran and extended into perpendicular buildings reaching back to the chapter house and cloister.

Against the fountain and situated betwixt parallel hedges, one inconspicuous individual sat in quiet meditation. Hooded in clean white robes, he blended beside the fountain's marble. As priestesses and monks passed him by, he twitched. Whenever an armed guard drew near, he shuddered; yet he never opened his eyes.

"Kalen!" said a familiar voice.

Opening his eyes and falling out of meditation, he assigns the voice to a face and observes a woman dressed in white robes. She is a comely sort, with brown hair and a matching broad-brimmed hat of pure white, an entire getup lighter than her light skin.

"How may I assist thee, priestess?"

"Kalen, why do you acknowledge me so?"

"Why do I acknowledge thy station?" He looked around as if air would reply. "I say, I believe it a blessing to be reminded."

"And so doth refrain from addressing us by name? Of late, you tread with a dark aura. Troubling, especially when you refuse to lend succor to those who seek the Ecclesia's hospitality. Prithee, listen. Ihirum's holy sanctuaries are reserved for all His children. Thus, we cannot refuse any who-"

"Prithee!" Kalen stood up. Tall as he was, he made the priestess seem minute in stature. "I must say, despite the walls of our hospitable institution, we are still gifted the individual will. Mine would lament the oblivion on display by my 'faithful' brethren."

"Not oblivion, adherence to His will. Even in wartime, the holy Word is the word of the realm, the rule of men for men enforced by the Holy's betrothed."

"Feigning breath escapes thy tongue," Kalen started condescendingly. "Only your conviction staves my disdain! At the least, 'tis principle guiding thy ineptitude!"

A mourning expression befell the priestess, one fast-growing irritable. "Apparently, thou wouldst forsake the correct practices carried in thy vows!"

"No. I carry all of it and more."

"Dissent does not distinguish a martyr! I set eyes on thee as thou doth meditate. Grant thyself a moment of deeper insight within and witness a flicker without the fire."

"I am and forever will be a faithful. But, the Word I listen to does not adhere to the will of tyrants and war."

"I grow weary..." The priestess caressed her forehead as her aging eyes fell, fatigued. "Misled Kalen, beloved cleric, peer of words, understand the subjects of His will and end your condemnation of those who serve Him in protecting The Holy Seat. By our faith, be a suitable host worthy of His compassion and let these warriors know thy succor."

Allowing himself a moment for strong consideration, Kalen let out a deep sigh. "I shall speak plainly now. The Consortium's army...these men barricading themselves in our holy places, overstepped their bounds the moment they initiated war against the commoners, maiming the helpless and destroying the border villages. Yes, hearsay has tormented my ears with tainted truths. And testing their bounds, these men arrest crops from the people they claim to defend. Understandable, had they left anything for the sowers. The very same victims would be sheltered in our walls now, were it not for the same offenders garrisoned in them already.

"Whatever horrors visited by the Voracians, it is inconceivable that men deigning to fight for the Matriarch would requite the misery sustained by our own. Though we are passive, we are sinners, Seren, accommodating dark deeds so that way may fall unto their lot. Thusly, I ponder the honor left me the day I meet Death."

With those words, Kalen turned and walked away.

"It is war, Kalen!" exclaimed the priestess, Seren. "It is a war the Voracians wage against the faith... and the people! Thy convictions are wayward and thy purpose in this monastery inexplicable!"

Returning his gaze, Kalen took his time before a reply. Indifference reflected on his visage, masking a hint of encapsulated sorrow. "My heart is tied to this place."

"Tied by what, prithee? Debt? Necessity? Or is it simply thy convenience?"

"Call it a recompense in the form of years." He leans on his staff, tired and less imposing. "Meditate on the matter, Seren. Everything I say and do is for the Ecclesia's integrity."

"I shall sustain belief that you believe that," replied the priestess, before turning around and stomping off.

From his place in the courtyard, Kalen scrutinized the multitude of rugged men in metal occupying the stone wall; like carrion on a once majestic beast. 'Tis eternal perplexity when we consider the inevitability of unfortunate events when we scarcely lack for choice in such alterable matters, especially when we recognize the evils directly before us. By day's end, most men-at-arms would abandon the courtyard, leaving the walls, houses, greens, and sanctuary to solitude.

A solemn night arrived. A time of rest for some, vigilance for others. The clergy slept while several armed guests guarded and surveyed the entire perimeter; as it was, making a fort out of a monastery.

Kalen, restless, maintained vigilance for himself by patrolling every square meter of the grounds, leering at every man-at-arms with which he crossed paths. And after treading past the dark corners, he stopped at the base of the terminal sanctum. Its marble steps led up to the carefully carved oak doors: its tall, marble architecture gleamed cleanly off the moonlight. Like The Ancients, ever majestic and imposing.

Only the doors remained invisible behind the looming shadows of midnight. A subtle and unsuited sensation then ran along the thin hairs of his body—like an itch but not quite; just short of a desire to scratch. Such a sensation, brought by his keenness of mind, stirred his irritability as it lingered. That feeling evolved into an instinctive chill. He held his staff leveled, assuming a combat stance.

"The contents within do not belong to you!" he exclaimed. But only silence accompanied his stare into the darkness.

Deftly, a vague silhouette crept away from the steps. Like a supernatural configuration of the night, it materialized then blurred out of existence. Its disappearance fell in line with the ghostly, and Kalen felt mystified, perturbed even. There was nothing there. He kept his stance with his staff forward, awaiting motion in one form or another.

"You must have the eyes of an owl," said a croaky voice.

"Perhaps it lies not within the eyes," replied Kalen, rolling his gaze to pinpoint the voice's origin. "Tread carefully, intruder."

"The gods are not in my favor. Consider yourself lucky this night." Total silence followed. Kalen sensed his presence fade. Even under guard, there is a spy with enough brass to infiltrate this holy place. Whether through hubris or simple carelessness, after a few minutes of pondering the infiltrator's purpose, Kalen dismissed the encounter as inconsequential.

***

The next morning, sundry spears, shields, and cuirasses made their way out the great gates. In the courtyard, clergy would farewell their armed guests and the chaplain's entourage. The chaplain's company was comprised of several men in red robes who arrayed themselves within the military ranks, thereby accompanying weapons with prayer. As for the chaplain, he chanted at the forefront in his distinguishing black robes. And the rest took after him, praying and hoisting their scepters, scepters bearing molds of an eight-sided star that glistened in the morning sunlight.

Only Kalen stood passively on the northern wall as the ranks funneled through and outside the eastern gates. The golden stars shined unto him even from a distance, and blue banners brandished by the proud warriors rose high above steel rims. Banners reflected perfectly the symbol of the scepter simultaneously brandished by those priests, a sight altogether irksomely harmonious.

Upon their departure, the priestess, Seren, stepped lightly alongside him. "May their endeavors vindicate them of thy scorn," she said. "When it is finished, the world shall continue as it has. These tribulations shall be ingrained through the Consortium's survival and shall ensure our Ecclesia's prosperity."

"Hmph," Kalen sneered. "Do not compare my behavior to that of a malcontent lordling. I do not judge for self-righteousness. But, thou doth fail to measure the weight of our decisions. We are not always present for the outcomes, but we ought to contemplate them like true peacekeepers. If virtue is subject to dogma then isn't the latter's purpose defeated?"

***

As the sun delayed its glinting descent, Kalen sat against the northern wall, reading and reading two—reaching three—books, as much as he could carry at once to dictate and plow through his mind. And in this endeavor, he was alone, like no other loitering member of the present clergy conversing and reciting hymns from memory. They proceeded casually in their tranquil exploits across the monastery grounds, attending pilgrims as they did. That is how the present day distinguished itself from the past - less of the average pilgrim; more nobility.

He was too absorbed in his thoughts to account for every count and countess, baron and baroness borne in carriages past the eastern gate; they were various persons of interest as denoted by their servant assemblies and colorfully arrayed clothing. The Second Estate, despite their eminence, was not worth his pause—moving past the courtyard as they did. But there were also knights in their ceremonial bearings, then squires attended to by bowing priests: a social rainbow of elites. Trivial proceedings, for he had no reason to believe that these people, frolicking so casually and mundanely, had any grasp on current events. He could not relate to or understand that life if he tried, and could not begin to grasp the priorities of their class. So far as he was concerned, this march of nobility was a portraiture of silks, majesty, and dynamic entourages belying their own measure of insignificance.

With the return of nightfall, Kalen warily patrolled the grounds before making his way to the sanctum. Then past its oaken doorway, he found an unadulterated hall, one marble pathway appearing before him. Off the tiles reflected faint lights, a solemn array of wax candles upheld by the corner pedestals. Said light also reflected off the walls to reveal a mural masterfully painted by impressionistic hands - entities articulated with heroic brush strokes, romanticized in their illustrated deeds and triumphs. The most alluring illustration rose immediately on Kalen's left, of a man garbed in golden armor against an azure background, his stature hyperbolized by the painted sun singularly shining upon him. And so lifelike lay the mural, the hero crossing blades with a larger husk of black steel. Horns protruded from the opposition's head—sinister in comparison to the obvious hero, further rendered so by the black clouds hovering above those horns.

Trivia: Ihirum = God (This world's God)

Ecclessia = form of Church