The Burial of the Body
They were bent over a wounded man, with hands swiftly and methodically dispensing their care, a silver arrow sprouted vermillion from their neck. My mind became a haze at that point, just a series of interlocking blurs bracketed by the sounds of death. I had failed in my duty; I had one thing in life I had truly chosen that was now gone, so I did what best I could from there. I lifted their body, leaving behind a field spotted with losses that weighed as feathers to the lead in my fingers.
They were not to be buried here, their heart was made of growing things, and even though I could hear their gentle chiding of “death is a part of life” I still wanted better for them. My mind played a thousand memories on loop, the sound of a laugh from me and the wide smile they gave me, their gentle ministrations and admonishments after a brawl, and the ever present feeling of warmth hollow in its counterpoint—. They were a priest of a god I did not believe in, but at their altar I would beg to pray. The forest enveloped me as I passed beneath the verdant boughs, the scent of growth overcoming the metallic stench of blood and armour.
They were always of the mind to rest in such places whenever possible, their power leaking into the mossy floor to coax forth sweet smelling flowers to tease me with. My mind began to waver as I placed their body on the soft earth, my fingers digging into the soil recalling when we first met, from dirt to dirt. I had needed help and they provided it even as I railed against them, then they had held me as I wept, they even slept by my side in the dirt to ward against the night terrors. So I built the most comfortable bed I could for them, with an ancient tree overhead, moss tucked around, and flowers placed like ephemeral jewels.
They were so light as I lifted them down into their final bed, their body so cold, so I held them close to my heart and wept hot tears onto their body. My mind played tricks on me, the feeling of their body pressed against mine in the sunlight, the river water sluicing between us as they coaxed the first laugh in decades from my tired lungs. I looked up at the rain drizzling onto us, then laid them down gently and felt my finger catch on the amulet they had carved while wrapped in my arms. Carefully ascending upwards with their symbol about my neck I felt torn between the earth and the sky, simultaneously drawn down to the gravity of their remains while untethered from anything that kept me here - then I heard a small voice.
The Telling of the Tales
He was a young boy, born from little and recently left with nothing except his conscience due to the war. While hiding in the forest he spied a large warrior trudging away from the field of death; holding a little scrap of it to his chest. The warrior was run ragged, and about to collapse that was clear, but still he dug a grave with his bare hands. There were countless warnings ringing in the mind of the boy, but when he saw the grief etched on the warrior and could not resist, he raised his voice and asked “Do you need help? I know how hard it was to do alone for my da”.
He was surprised by how the amulet about the warrior’s neck flashed, and the silver tongue he appeared to have in accepting the boys assistance. While helping bury the healer the warrior spoke at length, interjecting frequently to say how they were terrible with words, telling stories the boy could scarce believe about the healer. The warrior started slowly at first, almost hesitant, but soon the stories poured forth and the boy was a sponge. There were battles of wits and swords, of healing beggars and kings, and of how deeply the warrior had been moved by the healer.
He followed the warrior after they left the grave, it was to deliver the amulet to the church that the healer had belonged to, and the warrior had never believed in. While the church mourned the loss of one so bright, they rejected the amulet as it belonged to a god not of their own. The warrior raged at them, the healer’s heart was always to the highest mercies and was not their god as such? There was much talk and when the warrior left the church the boy heard it all, how the amulet was sanctified under a god never known by them and that they could not take it lest they risk their god’s wrath.
He began to learn how to write on his journeys with the warrior, a desire to commit all he was seeing and hearing to permanent form. While the boy watched the warrior would perform miracles and simply say that was how it was done with the healer, and how they would now do the same. The warrior would not let the healer die in their heart, and indeed they both worked in their ways to keep them alive. There was a short eternity in their time together, but the warrior aged and they parted ways as they had met, in an ancient grove with a freshly dug grave crowned by a man weeping.
The Conception of the Canon
You may think, this is the end of the story, yet he refused to let this be the end, nowhere else had the prophet seen such powerful works or thoughtful application of empathy. What would the prophet do to tie their guidance onto the cart of the world? There is a simple question, with a simple answer, the prophet bound the stories into our Book. Then, when a young woman asked what the book he carried was the prophet shared the teachings that guide the world to a better place.
You may wonder, how the prophet could achieve such spread of their works on their own, but the Book has taught that the Warrior and the Healer are in all of us. What else would make sense for why the world over began to accept Them so easily, were They not already in the hearts of us all? There is the truth, so the ones who had known the Warrior and the Healer in life and shared their stories did add to the Book and the prophet carried it onwards. Then, when the prophet was old, they asked for us to lay them to rest beside the Healer and the Warrior.
You may ask, what lessons were we taught by the Book and by the Warrior and Healer to inspire faith, but know we are beyond such trivial pieces. What could be the force that binds together so many so fervently? There is but one answer, faith, we have faith in the Warrior to shield us and the Healer to restore us and in our ability to become one when the other may die. Then, when we die we spread through the moss and the trees to become a part of all that came before and will come after; so the Cathedral of Silver Moss was built to inter the prophets bones beside the Amulet in the town he met his first follower, the young woman.
You may know, that is beyond the lessons of the Book and indeed it is. What source do we have for such faith and in how the world may be a better place? There is a way, it is through each of our belief in each other and our remembrance of the past. Then, the way we live is the way we die and the way we die is the way we live, for that is the way it should be and it is our duty to recall that which came before us exactly so that the prophet may live on forever.
The Piece of the Prophet
We see now where we, the first among the followers of the Prophet, may have erred; our stories sat within our Book instead of within our heart. As with all the creatures under the light of the heavens and earth, nourished by the rain and the moss, we can make mistakes. So, when they came and stole the amulet and the bones of our Prophet we called on the Warrior malign. For we said they had misread the Book, the one bound in chains in our deepest vault to keep it safe from misremembrances.
We know what should have been done, but we were ashamed. As the church has grown so too did our power, and power was never one of the Healer, the Warrior, or the Prophet. So, when we discovered a heresy from our priesthood we called upon the Warriors wrath at the risk of harming the Prophet’s sacred memory. For they had seen something we had missed so long ago - the Prophet never liked cold marble, stained glass, and red velvet.
We fought them, and chased them across the world as they worked on their mission. As each of them spread their new word we saw our carefully cultivated strength waver. So, we were ruthless, squashing every instance of heresy lest it stain the memory we survived upon. For that misunderstanding is what fed us, what let us expand our influence with every church we built.
We know our sin now, as they have found what it was that the Prophet left for us all. As, when they found the sacred grove and placed the Prophet’s bones beside the Warrior and Healer, they saw the amulet release a great river of silver. So, we were displaced, our misremembrances brought to light by their eloquent speech and miracles of old. For our penance we copy the Book for all to see, for our sins we plant moss and trees.