Axiom ~ 15!

~ Fifteen ~

The mental space collapsed into kaleidoscopic memories behind him, and every step forward pulled forth ideals, beliefs, and remembrances. This path he now walked was a recollection of all he’d done and was again willing to do. Memories knit together and the new perspective opened his arms wide, walking straight ahead as he took his first step on the path of pain. No more gates to lock his agony behind. Blackened doors burst through their chains, and a deep breath was taken as he affirmed himself.

“I am neither Elder, nor old.”

“I am the weight of all my experiences, and the incarnate will of the path which I now walk.”

His hand snatched out and grasped a recent remembrance, slowing only to place the memory of Choppy’s death before him. The boy had never deserved that, and it hurt to keep it in mind. Sadness and a clutched heart squeezed the space of his surroundings. With acceptance of impending suffering, he took a step into the memory to make it part of his being. 

Crushing lamentation struck him immediately as he looked to the light, willing himself to leave the convenient lie his mind had constructed to protect his sanity. His real body convulsed, and his eyes snapped open. It was at least high noon by the time he came around, and aged fingers gripped the sheets as the first of many howls rang from his throat. His face was once again stained with tears as he immersed himself in loss. 

Survivor’s guilt beat him without mercy as he worked his way through the fugue that entrapped him. One last time, the old was relinquished and someone new was born to carry the torch. He had never ascribed to the idea that a person always remains that same person. People change, dramatically even, in times of crisis. He could never understand why others couldn’t grasp that this wasn't the slightest bit odd. 

He’d seen it countless times after a war. 

Great loss. 

Great grief. 

Great love. 

It all changed people.

How they thought and what ideals they held. Who they were, and how they saw the world. His physical outcry had several clerics by his side in an instant, ready to steady the uncontrollably weeping old man. 

Some had no idea what to do, and others ushered them out of the way as Keeper Irene waltzed her way through and violently waved the rests of the priests off. Her voice was brisk and cutting as she dismissed them. “Why are you all standing around gawking like a foolish bunch of art historians? Fetch me water and fresh cloth! This man is in severe shock and requires immediate tending. Where is Acolyte Tibbins? Isn’t this his duty?” 

Irene had the old man supportively weeping into her neck while the majority of the thin figure slumped over her shoulder. She clearly had a great deal of experience handling uncontrollably weeping children. Her attentive hushing resounded with gentle care, soothing what in her eyes was just another big baby. She found there to be little difference between the very old and the very young, having had to take care of both. 

“Tibbins!” Her words were as welcoming as they were grateful, the bony burden swiftly handed over to the Acolyte. He was soon holding the inconsolable Elder upright. As soon as Irene was free, she gave Tibbins a strong ‘it’s your problem now’ pat on the shoulder and walked off. Irene might have been good at this, but that didn’t mean she wanted to deal with it. She had scriptures to tend. 

Nothing the Acolyte said or did appeared to have the remotest impact. Sure, he succeeded in making the old man drink down some water, but this was an ordeal the young Acolyte still needed to learn to deal with. It took several hours for the heaving to slow down. Only then did Tibbins again attempt to reason with the man, who he was currently convinced was completely out of his mind. Granted, he could not blame the behavior. 

“My back hurts,” was the first set of cohesive mumbles he heard from the bleary faced old man. 

“Sir, my Name is Acolyte Tibbins. Do you remember yours?” 

The old man pathetically groaned in response. “My back hurts.” 

Tibbins had honestly run out of patience. The taxing hours had taken the goodwill right out of him with the unexpected and unwanted nursemaiding. Still, the man was his charge, so he used those strong cleric muscles of his to lift the aged old log with all the difficulty of bench-pressing a feather. Tired eyes squinted through the sunlight as the old man saw a long set of tents set up in a familiar order. “Ah. Clerics.”

He recognized the orderly campsite immediately. It was meant to be memorable, after all. The place you run to when you’re injured and trying to survive. Each was a higher quality than a common healer’s tent. The tent he was carried into, to his great chagrin after his most recent thought, was an abyssal common healing tent. Still, the cot he was laid on was significantly better than some sheets on the floor with bedding crammed under it. This was a resting place for the sick, and had a much greater degree of comfort to facilitate that rest. 

“Sir, do you remember your name?” 

The old man blinked, taking hold of the words. Recent memories were filtered and parsed. He was a new man after his mental shift at his campfire, so he needed something new. Something he could hold onto that was neither the ordinary, nor similar to any previous unordinary name. “Art...” 

The old man pushed hand into his face, kneading skin together. “...Orian?” 

He was grasping for ideas based on something vague a womanly voice had recently said. Art… historian? It was always healthy advice to listen to a good woman, and thus he pulled his ideas from the recent experience and released his face. Expression clearing, he extended a hand in greeting to Tibbins. “Artorian. A true pleasure to meet you, cleric, but truly unfortunate circumstances for it.” 

A weak smile slowly built upon his aged features, his voice slowly blooming with confidence as it all came together. “Yes. It is decided. My name is… Artorian.”