Truculence

Ashrem was pretty sure that he wouldn't ever stop running.

He had been running for hours and he still wasn't sure where. By now he was deep in the Chultan jungle. On several occasions he had stumbled and fell as the thick underbrush wrapped about his ankles. The ground was soft and marshy and getting good footing was nearly impossible. He felt faint. The stump where his left hand had been had started bleeding again. His will alone had staunched the bleeding before, but he had more wounds now. Many of the jungle plants had thorns and razor like leaves and, in his haste, he had ignored them to his peril. He was pretty sure that some of them had contained toxins as well. He had been trained to expel such invaders from his body, but his concentration was lapsing. There were so many things to contend with and the sudden, pressing urgency of Ilmater's Call was ever present.

That's when it happened.

Ashrem was angling across what looked to be a clearing near a stream when eight large palm fronds exploded from the ground and captured him in a crushing embrace. He struggled against the plant as a sickly sweet nectar flooded his small prison. Immediately his limbs began to numb at its narcotic effects. He didn't have long to act.

His right arm was pinned to his side, so he drew his left up and reached deep within himself and summoned his gift. The power of the mithryl fist surged through him as he remembered the words on the first door of the cave at the Aerie.

Perseverance
For if we should fail, who would stand in our place?

Agony flooded through him as Ashrem’s mangled left arm struck low on the plant that held him. An explosion of crimson energy broke the ground beneath him, and, still in the clutches of the plant, he fell into a cave.
Ashrem fell hard on his right leg and spears of white hot pain told him that it had broken. The plant had not fared well either. Apparently the fall had killed it, as Ashrem was able to roll out of its grip and away.
Enough light filtered down into the cavern for him to check his wounds. A shard of brilliant white bone protruded from his shin and blood was seeping out around it. Ashrem cleared his mind, and summoned his will to once again staunch the blood flow. When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The blood was still flowing.

An image of the second door came to him.

Knowledge
To understand how we can improve the lives of those around us and ourselves.

He had to straighten the leg first. He had studied healing and knew what must be done. He started to drag himself over to a pair of rocks when a voice from behind stopped him cold.

"Let me help you with that."

Ashrem brought both arms up to ward off attack as he wrenched himself around. A slender elven woman stood behind him. She wore the abbreviated clothing of the Chultans and, even through extreme pain, he was aware of her beauty. She seemed somehow familiar.

Ashrem grimaced as he relaxed. "It is a trifle. I can attend to it."

The woman smiled gently as she walked toward him. "As I'm sure you would understand, I could not stand by and not get involved. I have too much at stake."

She reached down and took Ashrem's foot in her hand, closed her eyes and began to slowly pull. With agonizing slowness, the white shard of bone retreated into his shin and the skin closed over the hole. Ashrem was barely able to maintain consciousness through the pain. He felt nauseous and dizzy. Still there was the overwhelming desire to move…..to answer the Call.

The woman slowly ground the bone into place, all the while Ashrem fought to stay conscious. Her skin looked flush with the effort, and she opened her eyes slowly. “Better?”

Ashrem tried to concentrate, but he still couldn’t stem the flow of blood.
It slowed, but still it came. The woman turned and looked up at the hole he had fallen through.

“I’m afraid if we don’t get you out of here soon, you won’t be able to answer the Call of anyone.”

Ashrem’s eyes narrowed. “You know of my Call?”

She looked back over her shoulder, silky blond hair falling across her face. “Of course….I sent it didn’t I?”

Ashrem’s heart leapt into his throat. “That call was from my god.”

The woman walked to Ashrem and leaned down, her face close to his, “Don’t you recognize me?”

Ashrem looked at her sternly. “I will confess that you look familiar, but you aren’t Ilmater.”

She made a mock pout as she stood and placed her hands on her hips. “As long as we’ve known each other you don’t recognize me? We’ve been together for so long, Ashrem.”

She extended her finger and traced it down a jagged scar that ran between Ashrem’s neck and shoulder. A long forgotten memory of a whip strike suddenly became fresh and real and he groaned at the recollection.

“The first time you stepped in for a slave being whipped…..didn’t you see it? It was your calling. Was it so much about him as it was you? Absence of self….taking on the burden of another person’s discomfort….it isn’t about relief…it’s about suffering…pain.”

Ashrem’s eyes widened. That’s why she hadn’t jerked his foot into place.
She had nothing to do with Ilmater at all.

“The pain was but a trifle to you. You took his place, and that was noble, so that you might better understand pain…so that you might master it. Where he was weak, you were strong. You did him a great service.”

She continued, her tone matter-of-fact, “Ilmater and I aren’t so different.
It’s really just a matter of perspective. We both embrace pain as a teacher. We both understand the release of death. The only difference is, where he believes in weakness, I believe in strength. Power lies not in the suffering, but in the mastery of pain. When you overcome pain, when you can revel in it, what threat does life have? Those who understand pain never need know fear or suffering. Fear and suffering are rendered moot.”

Ashrem felt sick. “No. That is who I once was. Father Bron taught me a better way.”

She looked annoyed. “Did he? He trained you to protect his own interests.
He didn’t teach you anything that would be useful to you. He taught you what would be useful to HIM. He used you so that I would be denied a true follower. You’ve always embraced pain. How many times have you passed on healing when it is offered?”

“There were more worthy persons who needed the healing.” Ashrem protested “I could endure my injuries.”

Her eyes widened with excitement, “Yes, because you have mastered your pain! You NEED your pain. You know the real reason. You didn’t want to be healed. It’s your pain that makes you strong. Pain defines you, reminds you of your purpose. You are a man of action. You don’t need anyone to help you. You don’t need support. Pain holds no fear for you, and suffering is a state of grace.”

Ashrem began to anger. “No. It is written that Ilmater walks between his faithful and the pains of this plane.”

The woman looked pleased. “Yes. He stands between them and their rightful place. You have learned what He has denied so many. He denies you your destiny! You have overcome pain, understand suffering. How often have you sought another’s pain even when you knew such seeking would do no good?
For how many slaves have you taken the whip of today, knowing that the whip of tomorrow would come all the same?”

Ashrem bowed his head, confused. The glint of silver-blue on his wrists brought unbidden the memory of the third door.

Compassion - For when we cannot affect the world we can at least comfort the unfortunate.

He raised his head, looking for the first time into the eyes of the woman before him. They were ice blue, the color of empty skies. “Ilmater teaches that pain offers a lesson, but too much pain teaches the wrong lessons. Father Bron once told me that bringing pain on myself without at the same time at least comforting the pain of someone else was a waste of time.”

Slowly, Ashrem rose to his feet. He drew inside and found his heart, his core of strength. The echo of another Voice surrounded him as he willed his body to heal itself enough for him to move. He stood for a moment, then opened his eyes and looked at her again. “My Call still sounds, so it is not from you. I have a destiny and a purpose, just not yours.”

He turned away, slowly, his right leg still sore and not capable of taking
his full weight.

Her voice came again, sullen, edged. “You are mine, Ashrem. Every time you accept another scar, you know this. But draw it out a little longer, if you must.”

The silence behind him was suddenly empty. He ignored it, searching the cavern, focusing again on the Call, feeling its drive and impatient to
move. There had to be a way out. He sought further into the shadows,
away from the dusty light his entrance shed.

Ashrem worked his way further into the cavern, moving carefully on the uneven dry sand of the passageway. A scurry of movement off to his right caught his attention. In the darkness he could barely make out a small white mouse. It quickly fled through a crack sheltered by an overhang of rock. Ducking through, a gleam ahead of him caught his attention; he moved towards it, placing his hand on the wall next to fist sized crack in the rock. Sunlight sliced through the air from the break. He summoned the fire inside, brought once more the power of the mithryl fist, and landed a shattering blow on harsh stone. It cracked loudly, exploding away from him into the plants of the surrounding jungle. The final doorway stood tall in his mind as he stepped through into freedom.

To have come this far, a Broken One must be able to stand with another. To change the world, it must be done in number. Several small acts of courage done in unison to create an overwhelming good. In the end, credit belongs to each humble individual who is actually involved, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and knows defeat again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends themselves in a worthy cause; who at best, knows the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

Ashrem’s hand exploded through the side of the plant that still held him and he staggered through the savaged leaf. He managed a few steps before he staggered and fell. He shivered as the wind evaporated the nectar still clinging to his body. The shredded remains of the great leaves that had entrapped him lay in a victor’s trail at his feet. A sense of clarity came to Ashrem soon after. “There was no cavern, no woman.” he thought “It was all a delusion brought on by the nectar…..a narcotic to lull a victim while the plant digested it.” He stepped forward, feeling again the hurry of the Call. Once again he moved at the best pace he could through the jungle.

A small pink scar was barely visible on his shin. Lost among the ones like it.

If anything, she was patient.

By dusk he could smell the sea, and the Call grew more insistent. He hurried his pace, finding an animal trail that led almost directly where he needed to go and speeding up to nearly his full run. Ashrem burst through the edging of the undergrowth and skidded to a stop, the last light of the sun shining full through a man-high stone arch on the edge of a high cliff no more than ten feet from where he stood.

He walked over to the arch, feeling the Call pulse now like a fever in his blood. Two signs were carved into the sandy stone – a pair of bound hands on one side, a dove on the other. The sea pounded the rocks below the cliffs in a constant low susurrus. Ashrem rested his hand for a moment on the cool smoothness of the stone, then turned and walked a few feet back towards the jungle.

If he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly.

Ashrem turned. In a blur of motion, he raced for the center of the arch, leaped through and vanished.