The Orphan at St. Pelnuss

Father Ognacius sat down with a contented sigh. Spring had arrived on the mountainside with a fanfare of bird-song and fresh flower-buds. Clouds drifted lazily across a blue sky and the sun was only just now beginning to dip behind the cliffs to the west. The small winter-farms dotted across the mountain were harvesting the last of their produce, a healthy portion of which went to the Church of St. Pelnuss to help in the restoration effort and out of gratitude for its role in the crisis 20 years ago. Indeed, because of the events of that time, many of the younger folk had taken to calling the church Salvation rather than St. Pelnuss. Initially Ognacius had pushed against it, but over the years he had accepted it. Many of the older folk stubbornly stuck to the old name, some out of habit and some out of a refusal to let the crisis affect their lives. The old father could not balk at them for that. As for himself, he had wavered between the two until the church’s central statue had been restored some 10 years ago. The artisan had been one of the surviving heroes of the crisis and Ognacius had been glad to see them again. 

At the onset of aututmn 20 years ago, a being had attacked the world at large. It had been called Nax, though whether that was its essense, its title or its name was still unknown to this day. Locations all over the world had been attacked by mysterious armies, ambushes in the night or mysterious magics before the being’s intentions were learned, by which time it was making all speed towards Mt. Elano and the Church of St. Pelnuss. Unbeknownst to many, even Father Ognacius, the church held certain artifacts within its walls and crypts that Nax required for its dark designs. A group of people from all over the world had followed it in a last-ditch effort to avert its plans, and managed it in a titanic battle that had raged across the mountain for nearly a day. The battle claimed many of their lives but saw the being destroyed, banished from the world. Even today the mountain still held the scars of that battle, clefts torn from the rock or the scars of magic. The church itself had been badly damaged and Ognacius had only survived because one of the heroes, a brave woman called Balamente, had pulled him from his chambers at the last moment before the roof collapsed. For all her bravery, Balamente was killed by Nax’s spear. For years afterwards, the old priest still awoke shouting in the night, haunted by nightmares of being crushed under rubble or staring in the abyssal visage of that dreadful monster. 

But the church roof had been repaired, the statue of St. Pelnuss restored and the roads leading to the mountainside repaired. The world was recovering slowly but surely from the monster’s ravages. 

Father Ognacius’s musing was interrupted by the sounds of boots on the flagstones at the entrance to the church. The ornamented double-doors, survivors of the crisis, had been thrown wide open that morning to let in the spring air and sunlight, and now a person stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light.

“May I enter, Father?” The voice was of a young man and contained a strange quality that Ognacius found hard to place.

“Of course, my child, of course.” Father Ognacius rose from his chair and smoothed his robes with his hand. 

The young man at the door bowed ever so slightly and stepped further inside the church. Out of the harsh light, Ognacius could see that he was dressed for travelling. Sturdy boots, warm clothes and a well-worn cloak, but despite the road the young man must have travelled to get here, there was remarkably little dust on him. He carried some kind of staff wrapped in linen over his shoulder. His hair was black and long down his back, framing a pale face with a serious expression. He approached the old priest with steady strides, saying nothing.

“What brings you to church today, my son?” Ognacius said after a moment of tense silence, keeping his hands folded in front of him so he would not fidget. 

The young man did not respond till he was standing in front of Ognacius. “This is the Church of St. Pelnuss?” 

He was a foot taller than Ognacius, so the old priest had to crane his neck to look him in the eye. “It is indeed, my son.” Ognacius turned and indicated the restored statue with a sweeping gesture. 

If the young man was impressed or glad, he did not show it. “That is good, then. I have travelled a long way to be here.”

Ognacius indicated one of the wooden pews that flanked the church’s central aisle. “Sit down, my son, sit down. You are very welcome, my church is a place of respite for all.”

The young man turned to look at the pew for a moment before sitting down, placing a pack and the wrapped staff on the floor in front of him. 

Ognacius sat down beside the man on the pew and extended a hand. “What is your name, my son? I am Jeriah Ognacius, Father of this church for, well, nigh on 43 years now.”

“My foster parents call me Relann.” The young man said without looking at Ognacius, neither did he shake Ognacius's hand.

“Well, Relann, welcome to my church,” Ognacius said, “May I ask what happened to your birth parents?”

Relann’s expression darkened. Before Ognacius could even be sure he had seen it, it was gone again. “They died in the crisis.”

“Killed by the Nax?” Ognacius asked, then silently reprimanded himself for asking so directly. Relann’s grief must be why he looks so serious. 

Relann glanced around the interior of the church and responded with a question. “This is where it ended?” 

“The crisis ended on this mountain, yes. Some of it took place here, but I did not see the thing’s end with my own eyes,” Ognacius said, glad for the opportunity to change the topic, “I regret to say that I passed out when the church roof nearly collapsed on me.”

The young man nodded and looked at Ognacius. To the old priest, it seemed like the first time Relann had really looked at him. “Father, I have made mistakes and failed the trust others have placed in me. May I confess to you?”

"Of course, my child, of course." Father Ognacius said enthusiastically, pleased at the thought of someone having travelled far to come to his church.

Relann was silent for a long moment, his gaze a million miles away. He was silent for so long that Ognacius nearly prodded him, thinking that perhaps he had drifted into some tragic memory from his birth parents, when the young man began to speak. Father Ognacius saw a serious young man in front of him, but turns of phrase and certain words began to cause the old priest some unease.

"When I was brought into this world and came of age, great hopes were placed upon my shoulders. Plans, lifetimes in the making, were told to me where I would play an integral part. I was trained and taught so that I would be able to rise to these expectations." 

Relann’s voice grew heavy, the anger that Ognacius had sensed earlier growing more pronounced. "But when the time came for my knowledge and my skills to be tested, I came up short."

"Relann, coming short of the expectations of another is no sin." Ognacius said, trying his best to emulate how his mentor had sounded when discussing serious topics. 

"The plan was very important, Father. What was more egregious was that I discounted Their judgement. I said They had been remiss in their training and faulty in their teaching. In my arrogant youth I could not fathom that I was the reason I had failed."

Ognacius could not think of what plans would involve the young child that Relann undoubtedly must have been during the time of which he was speaking. "How long ago was this? You must have been a child, your parents cannot seriously have pinned hopes and dreams on the skills of a child."

Relann had begun running one of his fingers across the back of the pew in front of them. His fingernails, Ognacius saw, were longer than most. "This was over 20 years ago now, but I assure you, had I not  been so arrogant and, dare I say it, cocky, I could have been ready for it."

"Ready for what, my child? What did they expect of you?" Ognacius asked, shuddering involuntarily at the years Relann was talking about. 

"I was to come along on Their grand quest and assist them at key points. But They deemed that I was not ready, and so They left without me." Relann said.

"Your parents left you behind?" Ognacius said. The unease was settling in his stomach and becoming something else. 

Relann continued, ignoring the priest's question. "You must understand, I am not angry at Them. I am angry at myself for failing their trust in me." Now he matched Ognacius's eyes, and the priest recognised something in the young man’s eyes. 

"In all I have heard, Relann, your parents failed you. They expected too much of a young child and abandoned them. There is nothing to forgive for you have done no wrong. Your father and your mother are the ones that wronged you, not the other way around."

Relann gained a puzzled expression. "My mother never even knew me, priest. She died during birth."

Ognacius placed a hand on the young man's shoulder to reassure him. "I am sure she would have loved you, Relann, any mother would. What of your father?"

The puzzled expression remained. "Father? I have no father." 

"Every child has a father, Relann, even if they do not wish to acknowledge them."

"I have no father," Relann repeated, "but perhaps you mean my sire."

The odd choice of wording caught Ognacius off guard and his words caught in his throat. 

Relann stood up and, now that Ognacius was looking up at him from below, he recognised the sensation of seeing Relann’s eyes. It was the same sensation of otherworldly dread that he had felt when he has seen the Nax. 

“Their designs were perilous and risky, and so they conceived me to help Them see it through, but when the time came, I was not ready, and I blamed Them for it. I cannot undo the past, but I can carry my sire’s legacy forward.”

Relann knelt quickly and lifted the wrapped staff. An unseen knife flashed and the linen fell away. It was no staff, but a spear. A spear that Ognacius had last seen two decades ago in the hands of the Nax. The tip was covered with a dry substance the colour of rust. The young man with the eyes of the mysterious monster raised the spear and slammed the butt into the floor of the church, creating a ripple of magic that spread out over the flagstones and the altar and the mosaic windows.

“Thank you for the talk, Father,” Relann said through the howl of the magic he had unleashed, “I wanted to have no regrets before I ended this pitiful world.”

Father Ognacius was sure that, this time, there would be no heroes in the nick of time.