Chương 19: Chapter 18 – Prodigal Son

Passage sat in the back row of the temple and listened. He hadn't attended a service since Cinder and Pike's visit a few days prior. The others were still tailing the pair, monitoring their activities in case they went off script and the plan had to adapt. If all went well, Sable would kick off the next phase sometime that afternoon. Passage wasn't willing to gamble on everything going well. So, he had come to the temple, but not to pray. The pews were still intact this far back.

The first few rows had been mostly replaced by whatever the locals and Harrow had on hand. A spare bench donated by a nearby bar. A handful of chairs from Harrow's own kitchen table. A few thick pieces of firewood repurposed as makeshift stools. They made do with what they could, the temple no less comforting for the eclectic mix of furniture. The sermon, no less sincere. Harrow, no less inspiring. The mismatched furniture seemed to Passage like scar tissue. Evidence of healing and a reminder of harm done.

In point of fact, Harrow had apparently centred his entire sermon on the topic. He hadn't named Tallow himself, nor Cinder and Pike, but he likewise had not left the damage unaddressed. For the past thirty minutes, he had spoken of the wounds that people inflicted on one another, and on themselves. He had talked about the suffering that each person endured from time to time, and of the choice each person had to make when it came their turn to struggle, likening it to the Forging of a Stained.

A crucible that could strengthen a soul, or warp it beyond recognition, depending not on the act of suffering itself, but on how a person let it change them.

"Pain is inevitable," Harrow reiterated. He had laboured that point throughout.

"But it is in how we respond to pain that we define ourselves. Just as the Planes themselves span the full spectrum of human experience, from the emotional to the physical, the good and the bad, we contain in ourselves those same multitudes. The capacity to be kind and cruel in equal measure. It is when our emotions are high that the veil thins within our hearts. The comfort that we draw from the Planes and the Aldaryn, the strength that they offer, can invigorate us or it can poison us.

So, we must drink of their power deliberately. Oftentimes one feels much like the other. In Wodfyr dwells both wrath and passion. In Seldun, both acceptance and fatalism. In Aerwyn, whimsy and carelessness. It is easy to blame forces outside ourselves for bringing close the aspects of the Planes. To say that others fill our cups and we but merely drink from them. When we lash out, it is because others made us angry. When we are callous, it is because others punished us for caring.

When we are meek, it is because others taught us fear.

"Comfortable, easy beliefs. These thoughts leave us blameless for our actions, and for their consequences. But they are lies. The truth is, we each make our choices. Hundreds of them, each and every day. Some are easier than others, some cost us more, some less, but we each bear the responsibility for them all the same. Take this temple, for example. It was ransacked the other day. It was done to punish me and my son for trying to help someone. Someone who is already struggling and in need of support.

And it would have been easy to take that message, that lesson. To believe that the cost of kindness is suffering and that it is better to accept a loss than to resist and risk a greater harm." Harrow paced back and forth on the stage, the front of the room raised just a single step higher to help everyone see without elevating the preacher needlessly. He had often told Passage that half of a preacher's job is making sure people never placed the Planes above themselves.

That the Planes were meant to be brought close, to be leaned on for the strength they could provide.

"I reject that lesson. Certainly, it would be easier to believe it. Easier to ignore when others struggle. To tell myself and my son that by helping, we only prolong their pain and bring a share of it onto ourselves. And in some sense, it is true. We could protect ourselves, protect our furniture," he laughed, gesturing at the hodgepodge of mismatched chairs, "simply by remaining quiet and uninvolved. But there is a hidden cost down that road. One far more expensive than a few pieces of timber.

It would cost us our decency. Our empathy. Our right to ask for help when we ourselves need it. By allowing monsters to prey on the vulnerable, we ourselves become a little more monstrous."

"Stelan," a few voices muttered from near the front in quiet affirmation. Passage stared at the floor, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts troubled while Harrow wrapped up the sermon. There were a few more quiet echoes of "Stelan" from the crowd and then it was done. Even the tolling of the Durnheim bell did not completely soothe the disquiet in his heart, though it was still a welcome balm, if only for a moment. Passage did not stand while the faithful trickled out.

He didn't look up when Harrow came to sit beside him, forearms resting against the pew in front while he waited patiently for Passage to say whatever was on his mind. That was the problem with having a father who guided the lost for a living. The man knew how to spot a troubled soul.

"Good sermon," Passage eventually said when the stillness and the quiet became too heavy. Harrow was more patient than the stone itself and would have waited as long as he needed to for his son to speak. Passage often marvelled that the man wasn't Durnheim Stained. But then, perhaps he was as troubled as everyone else and just better at hiding it. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Not my best work, but thank you. I just hope everyone heard what they needed to hear." There was an invitation in his voice. Not a question, per se, but an offer to listen to whatever needed to be said. Passage closed his eyes and tilted his head back, Harrow's patient warmth only worsening his guilt. The pair sat a while longer, the sun swiftly setting outside. It would be getting colder too, though the temple remained pleasantly warm.

Wodfyr Implements continued to burn merrily, heating the hall from all four corners and filling the space with a steady orange glow. Harrow leaned back, hands behind his head, and placed his feet over the back of the next pew, settling in to wait as long as he needed to for Passage to make up his mind.

"Sorry I've missed so many services this week," said Passage, struggling to find the words for what he really wanted to say. He wasn't entirely sure himself what he wanted from his father. Forgiveness and permission both, he supposed. Hard things to ask for from a man whose entire ethos centred on choosing to help instead of hurt. How could Passage explain that he planned to do one in service of the other? Harrow would probably still support him, even if he didn't agree with him.

Maybe what he wanted from his father was a little bit of condemnation; the one thing Harrow would never give.

"No need to apologise. I'm sure you've been busy," said Harrow, unbothered. He cracked open one eye and looked askance at his son.

"I remember what I was like at your age. Always out, always running, always getting into trouble trying to do things too quickly. It's the irony of aging, I think. We spend our youth making the wrong choices at every turn. I certainly did. Had so much pride that I doubled down on every mistake I ever made. By the time I knew the right decisions from the wrong ones, I was too busy dealing with the consequences of my own failings and didn't know how to change course. I did, eventually. Everyone can. Too few do."

"Working on another sermon there?" teased Passage, though Harrow's words lingered in his mind. What was he trying to say? Did he know what was going on, or just have a vague suspicion? Harrow let out a quiet laugh and then it was his turn to apologise.

"Sorry. Force of habit. I blame the robe and the temple. Hard to drop the role when you're still wearing the costume."

"Don't worry about it. It sounds like it'll be a good one."

"Thanks," said Harrow. Passage could feel his father's eyes on the side of his face and hunched over further, as if he could hide his guilt and his doubts behind shrugged shoulders.

"I'll be sure to have it ready for Ayrday morning service, if you think you'll be there." It was the closest thing to a direct question Harrow was likely to ask. For a man as steady and solid as a mountain, he could be surprisingly indirect."' Course I will. Wouldn't miss it," Passage finally turned to look at his father, feeling the guilt clinging to his face like mud and doing his best to hide it. It was the truth, after all. Just as long as nothing went wrong tonight. Harrow's eyes weren't on Passage, however.

They were on the canvas bag tucked at his side, between him and the edge of the pew. It was mostly empty, containing nothing but a folded linen sheet and a few scrunched-up rags.

"Good. Make sure you bring your friends. I'll put on lunch after. You lot can't live off nothing but sour wine and stale nuts at that bar of yours."

"We'll be there," said Passage, the words sounding like a promise and tasting like a lie.

"Alright, I'll look forward to it then," Harrow stood, stretching his arms wide and shrugging the stiffness from his shoulders.

"But for tonight, I'm going out. Got a card game with some friends if you want to join me. Let your old man teach you a thing or two while you're still young enough to think he's slick?" Passage smiled, doubting he'd ever stop looking up to the man, or wanting to learn from him. If anything, he worried that the day might come when his father stopped wanting to teach him. That he'd see just how little of himself was in his son. And that it might be sooner than either of them cared to imagine.

"I've got plans, sorry. Next time."

"Of course," Harrow shuffled out of the pew, stopping at the end to place a hand on Passage's shoulder. It felt like being given a blessing, which only made him feel that much worse.

"Just lock up on your way out. And Passage?" Passage looked up, finally meeting his father's gaze directly.

"Be safe." Passage could only nod. Harrow gave his shoulder one last squeeze and then he left, shutting the temple door behind him. Passage waited a few minutes longer, sending a few silent prayers to the Aldaryn. Caldr to make him brave. Miratheon to make him wise. Ulthrek, lord of stone, to forgive him for what he was about to do. Finally, he stood and took his bag with him to the altar. The Durnheim bell was about a foot tall and two thirds as wide at the base.

The crown itself was carved from thick black stone, utterly without crack or fault. The clapper was polished bronze. It was even heavier than Passage had expected. He carefully unhooked it from the yoke and stuffed rags inside the bell to keep it from tolling. With any luck, he wouldn't need to use it. It could stay silent and safe in his pack, and he would return it well before sunrise. His father need never even know it had been gone. But Passage wasn't willing to rely on luck alone.