Blessings from Father Joe

The first light seeped through the stained glass window, casting fragmented hues of amber and crimson across the room. Shadows danced on the aged oak floor, moving sinuously as if alive with their own whispers. The dim glow from the windows intertwined with the flickering flames of beeswax candles, creating a chiaroscuro effect that heightened the room's solemnity.

Rustic charm permeated every corner, from the exposed wooden beams that arched overhead to the worn stone hearth that stood as the room's centerpiece. The air was thick with the rich aroma of aged oak and the subtle sweetness of beeswax, mingling to evoke a sense of timelessness. Each wooden plank seemed to tell a story, bearing the marks of countless prayers and moments of contemplation, while the gentle crackle of the candlelight added a comforting warmth to the otherwise austere setting.

Asdras lay sprawled on his bed, the rumpled blanket barely covering him. His body curled awkwardly, shoulders hunched and legs tangled, betraying the turmoil of a nightmare he couldn't quite remember. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath shallow, as if he's lingering between sleep and wakefulness.

He opened his eyes slowly, the first thing that caught his sight was his lute resting near his bed. The instrument, though well-crafted, bore the faint scratches of countless performances, its strings slightly askew. Asdras' face softened with a mixture of longing and doubt, his fingers trembling as they grazed a string, producing a discordant note. An eyebrow twitched involuntarily, mirroring his uncertainty about the night's unsettling dreams.

Seated on the edge of his bed, Asdras cradled his lute in his hands, meticulously tuning each string. His movements were deliberate, fingers deftly adjusting the tension while his mind wandered through tangled thoughts. The soft plucking of the strings resonated quietly in the room, each note echoing the unspoken memories that lingered just beyond his conscious grasp.

As he played, fragments of old songs from the tavern surfaced, intertwining with the hushed conversations he'd overheard — some laden with sorrow, others bubbling with joy. The melodies stirred something deep within him, his heart syncing with the rhythm of his playing.

As the strings were tuned in parallel with his dissonant memories, the door creaked open, announcing Joe's entrance with measured steps. Joe offered a warm smile, his presence a steadying force in the quiet morning. "Morning, kid," he greeted.

"Morning, Joe," Asdras replied with a nod, setting aside his lute.

Asdras felt Brian murmuring something before waking up, stretching languidly, and tasting something savory in his mouth, as if he had dreamt of savoring a hearty piece of meat.

"Oh, ol' man," Brian groaned, his eyes still heavy with sleep, "What time is it?"

Joe sighed before turning to each of them, handing out pieces of cloth made from fur and rough-spun fabric. "With the sun rising like a rooster's crow and the chickens still asleep, a dip in the river before breakfast, boys."

"Today is which day?" Brian asked, glancing between them.

"The third of the month?" Asdras replied uncertainly.

"Nah, today is bacon day, man," Brian responded, imagining the savory taste. "River we go; see you later, ol' priest."

Asdras watched Brian slip his shoe on before heading out. Joe laughed, shaking his head as he too prepared to leave. "See you later, boy."

As they made their way to the river, their conversation drifted to the unsettling events of the previous night. "Remember what we saw?" Brian asked. "Let's hope ol' Tom is in the river too; he always missed the fish but nailed the fishing tales."

They reached the riverbank, a small stretch bordered by remnants of winter snow where a few hardy flowers and resilient grasses defiantly peeked through. The edge was narrow, the water's surface still and mirror-like, reflecting the pale winter sun. On the opposite bank stood Tom, fishing with one hand while clutching a bottle of ale with the other.

Tom was an aged man, his hair sparse and receding, barely covering a frail beard. His chubby frame was a telltale of his fondness for beer, despite his constant nagging about its bitter taste. Cloaked in a thick fur garment that exaggerated his stoutness, Tom seemed larger than his actual height.

As Asdras and Brian approached, Tom snapped at them, "Rascals, you rascals are scaring away the fishes! Blast your foolishness!"

Asdras and Brian exchanged a knowing look before laughing. Brian replied, "Ol' Tom! There are no fish these days; the winter drove them deeper into the woods."

Tom took a gulp of beer before retorting, "What'd you know 'bout silverfish an' shadowwoods, pup? Our village lures 'em proper—toss breadcrusts 'n' beer dregs, and they come slitherin' like greedy lil' ghosts." He hiccupped, tapping his temple. "Ain't my first moon-dance 'round these trees."

Asdras noticed Tom's empty basket — no fish, but numerous bottles instead. It seemed the Deliverer had brought some city flavors, though scarce. The villagers had learned to ferment their own liquids, creating brews that only true men appreciated, often masking the taste more than savoring it.

Seizing the moment, Brian asked, "Hey, old man, have you ever seen wandering beings?"

"What?"

"Wandering beings, or... Well, I don't know how to explain. But yesterday we saw one in the woods; it was like a child nearing the village; it was fast! Like lightning tearing through a storm."

Tom's eyes wandered, weary and clouded, before he took another hearty swig from his bottle. For a moment, Asdras feared he might collapse, but Tom merely gazed toward the pale winter sun, a complex expression of fear and curiosity etched across his face.

"Those mist-spawn ain't natural. Born o' secrets so thick they clot your lungs. Hear cacklin' at dusk? That's their bony feet skitterin' 'twixt the pines—" He snapped his fingers, "—gone 'fore you blink. No tracks. No nothin'."

"What do they want, Old Tom?" Asdras pressed.

"What they want?" Tom barked a laugh when Asdras pressed him, uncorking a fresh bottle. "Sweetness, lad. Leave a basket o' plums 'n' blackberries on yer stoop, or they'll sour your milk 'n' shrivel yer crops. Lost three goats that way back in '37—" He shuddered, taking a fortifying gulp. "Or worse. Heard o' the Wicker girl? Vanished before her seventh winter. Folks say she… changed… out there."

"Have they... have they harmed anyone?" Brian asked.

Brian's question made Tom freeze mid-swig. "Harmed?" He wiped his mouth roughly. "Ain't harmed. They play. But their games leave men hollow as gourd-shells." His voice dropped. "Found Jeb Thornton's boy last autumn — grinnin' at the treeline, eyes black as crow's eggs. Never spoke again."

Tom staggered upright, clutching his bottle like a talisman. "Respect the mist, y'hear? Apples 'n' honey at dusk, prayers to the Thorned Mother—" He crossed himself clumsily. "—else them shadows'll slither under your door 'n' lick the hope clean outta of your bones."

Tom paused, as if the weight of his own words had taken effect. He hurriedly gathered his things, muttering, "Gotta — gotta check my wards. Salt circles don't reset themselves. World's gone thin. Can taste the rot in the rain now…"

Asdras and Brian watched Tom walk away, uncertainty clouding their thoughts. "That made me more confused than before," Asdras admitted.

"I agree," Brian responded, patting his belly. "My thoughts need food to work."

They headed to the tavern, pushing open the creaking wooden door. Unlike the restless night, the day inside was peaceful. Asdras's boots stuck slightly to the ale-stained floorboards as he stepped inside.

The interior was well-worn and rugged, with old tables and chairs marked by countless rings from mugs and tankards. A narrow balcony overlooked the main area, scattered with bundles of paper, bottles of ale, herbs, and neatly folded cloths.

Above the balcony, a bell dangled, a simple iron contraption that Asdras couldn't resist. He slapped it, the clear sound echoing through the pub and drawing a grin from him.

A thump in the back signaled Narder's arrival. He emerged through the curtains leading to the kitchen, a substantial man with a long, bushy beard flowing like a waterfall from his chin. Narder's simple yet crisp attire — light trousers, leather shoes, and a white cotton shirt with sleeves rolled up — contrasted his rugged demeanor.

"Well, if it ain't the dawn patrol," Narder drawled, beard twitching with a suppressed smirk. "Y'all here to clutter my floorboards, or you actually need somethin' that ain't trouble?"

"Mornin', Narder! We're starvin' for some bacon," Brian exclaimed, inhaling deeply to take in the rich aromas.

"Starvin', he says." Narder snorted, jerking his chin toward the empty fry pan. "Milk's gone colder than a witch's kiss, pups. Kitchen rules — you want grease, you earn it." He yawned wide enough to show a missing molar, thumbing toward the back field. "Third time this week you've 'accidentally' missed breakfast hour. Reckon them rabbits'll be right plump by sundown—" A pause as he examined his nails, "—if you can hit more'n bushes this time."

"Alright, Narder, you drive a hard bargain," Asdras chuckled.

Narder went to work, moving behind the counter with practiced efficiency. He sliced thick pieces of bread, added two strips of smoky bacon, and placed a generous slab of ham on each plate. With a flourish, he poured fresh water into their mugs. Brian and Asdras soon sat at a table, devouring their breakfast.

As they ate, Joe entered the tavern, spotting the boys and making his way to their table. He greeted Narder first, then them with a warm smile before pulling up a chair to join them.

Joe's usual crinkled smile didn't quite reach his eyes today. Asdras recognized the crease between his brows — the one that appeared when the priest was worrying over something unsaid. His initial hunger faded, replaced by the discomfort of being watched. Brian had crumbs of bread around his mouth, and Asdras sipped water, his throat parched. Their questioning gazes converged on Father Joe.

"I have news, boys," Joe said, leaning forward slightly. "After your coffee, you two will be traveling to the city."

"Today?" Asdras asked, almost choking.

Asdras caught the flicker of excitement in Brian's eyes, quickly masked by a tightened jaw — a telltale sign of his friend's unease.

Joe chuckled, breaking the tension. "It's not as if you were born here, boys. The opportunity you've been waiting for is here. In two weeks, you can enroll in the Academy or the Military. It's time to take that step forward in life."

"That's true," Brian sighed. "I still recall the day we landed here; it felt like a world away from home, way out in the boonies..."

"And you held your tongue for three weeks," Joe chuckled, tapping his finger on the table. "Because you were mad at me for picking you back then. But look at you now, can't stop talking!"

"Cut off, pfft," Brian mumbled with his mouth full, hastily chewing a piece of bacon. "Back then, I was just a kid."

"You're not an adult now, Brian," Asdras said, winking at Joe.

"You!" Brian exclaimed, pointing at Asdras and Joe, eyes wide, with a mouthful of food. "Both of you against me? That's hardly fair!"

"Manners, lad," Joe said, gently tapping Brian's head. "Eat first, then talk."

Their conversation tapered off as Brian and Asdras finished their meal, leaving behind clean plates. As they rose and headed to the pub's exit, Joe's voice halted them. "Don't forget to gather your things. I'll be waiting at the village entrance with Raffin."

They reached for the church, but before entering their room, Sheepy stopped them, speaking shyly. "I heard you boys are heading out. Is that true?"

Asdras scratched his nose. "How did you know?"

The girl stomped her feet on the wood, tears in her eyes as she ran away, leaving Asdras and Brian unsure how to react.

"What?"

"You break her heart, ol' buddy," Brian entered the room with a chuckle. "Everyone in the group knows she likes you. You can't see it, but each night you play the lute, her eyes spark like torches, blushes red like tomatoes."

"Forget it," Asdras shook his head as he sat on the edge of his bed. He knew Sheepy, but outside of Brian and Joe, he couldn't help but not feel or develop himself to like a girl like her. His eyes drifted to his lute, remembering that a wall was etched in his heart, albeit he couldn't find the words to express it to himself or for her.

Asdras carefully packed his belongings into his backpack. He noticed Brian adding an old book to his bag — "The Spells of the City — How to Charm a Lady with Spoken Words: A Guide for Newcomers to Formal Language."

"Are you bringing it too?" Asdras asked, mouth open in surprise.

"With words as honeyed as these, sir, you'd surely win any noble maiden's favor," Brian paused for effect. "Good, right?"

"Sure is," Asdras said, avoiding his gaze, as he saw his friend place a silver-plated necklace with the letters 'Crystallos' into his own pack.

Sensing Brian's shift in mood, Asdras tapped his shoulder and smiled. "Let's go."

They opted to circle out from the main path toward the village's entrance, not wanting to say goodbye to anyone in their way. As they neared the entrance, they saw Joe and Raffin waiting by an old wagon. The wagon's sun-bleached wood and the horse's dusty coat told Asdras it had seen countless journeys. He noticed the purplish herb tied to the beam — a detail he'd never seen on village carts before.

Curious, Asdras pointed at the herbs. "What's that for?"

With a warm smile, Raffin explained, "Ah, those are a traditional superstition among travelers in the North. It's called Lillian, believed to protect travelers from evil. Legend says the Empress Lillian swore to safeguard travelers in her final words."

"Huh," Asdras said.

Brian squinted at the herbs. "D'you think it actually works?"

"Doubt it," Asdras muttered, though he edged closer to the wagon.

Joe called the boys over, his weathered hands holding two items. He handed Asdras a steel sword with a slight pattern etched into the blade's edges and a faint yellow church cross on the hilt, symbolizing faith and protection. Asdras marveled at the sword's simple elegance, its weight reassuring in his hand.

"Oh!" Asdras' eyes glinted as he examined the details. "Thank you, Joe!"

When Joe handed Brian the spear, Brian's fingers danced over its joints, a grin stretching wolfish. "Clever, isn't it?" The pride in his tone made Asdras roll his eyes—but he couldn't deny the weapon's sleek design.

"Just don't stab yourself," Asdras said, earning a chuckle from Joe.

As Joe signaled with his hands his blessings, his voice heavy with hope and wishes. "May you find success and fulfillment on your journey, my sons. Remember, you carry the spirit of this village with you."

Brian's reply was cut short as he tightened his grip on the spear, knuckles whitening. "Promise me you won't leave this world before I get back."

Joe chuckled, his eyes twinkling with warmth. "You have my word, boy. But you better graduate in the first batch. I'm not getting any younger."

Brian grinned, his determination renewed. "Deal. I'll make sure of it."

"Asdras smiled, reflecting on how Joe was like a father figure to him. "Wish you the best, sir. Thanks for all, I own my life for you."

Joe shook his head with a laugh. "You don't know me, kid. But, you know your own answers, and I hope you find them. Now, go before the kids swarm here."

As they climbed onto the wagon, Raffin clicked the horse forward. Asdras felt a pang of unease as he watched Joe and the village recede into the distance, their forms growing smaller against the sprawling landscape. A subtle tension tugged at him, a sense that something was amiss about their departure, casting a shadow over the hopeful beginning of their journey.