Tyvia
Establishing Nation
Once, when he was much younger, Dagos had approached his father with a question. Stepping up to the reading man's armchair, set close to the center of the richly decorated study, the crown prince had peered up at his father's steely eyes and gaunt face and spoke.
“I was talking with Ronnovos today,” Dagos said, slowly and nervously.
One of the Catovegalíx's brows slowly came up, a languid, measured gesture. Saying nothing, he simply bade his son to continue with but an idle wave. The cuíx did so, and each subsequent word he uttered was more coherent and confident than the last: “how do you know,” he asked his father, “that you're His delegate?” That keyword—that one word—was uttered almost at a whisper, said with a childish awe and reverence that brought a thin smile to the older man's otherwise downturned lips.
“The priest teaches you history?” the líx had asked, unable to conceal the amusement in his tone.
Wide-eyed, the cuíx bobbed his head forward, fidgeting as he shifted his weight onto and off the balls of his feet—uncomfortable with standing so in sight of his father. “He does,” he admitted, “I was learning about the—the concord. Of Armin--. . Arminiea? Arminium? That.”
There was a pause. Silence reigned, and the cuíx found his father's gaze expectantly absent, his eyes instead directed up—thoughtfully—towards the domed and painted ceiling.
“Let me ask you something instead,” the líx suddenly said, breaking the lull with a voice whose tone was oddly solemn, uncharacteristically stern. “Have you seen miracles? Have you witnessed the divine?”
It had seemed impossible, but Dagos' eyes widened yet further, he looking up at his father with what might have been genuine shock. He didn't come here to be interrogated, but to ask questions himself. Racking his brain, he couldn't resolve an answer, and being thus forced to mutely shake his head instead.
The Catovegalíx sighed slowly, breathed deeply, and spoke sagely: “no. No, and neither have I, for all the years I am your senior.”
He played with the decanter upon the table, lifting it up to pour a small serving of its amber-coloured contents into his empty cup. A faint smile now accompanied his following words, “every man must believe as he will, and every man shall believe differently. It doesn't matter, Dagos, that's what I believe. I don't think it matters if there is or isn't a god or gods, nor does it matter what form they choose to take. I choose not to worry, to not be concerned by that. It doesn't matter who's right or wrong, for death will serve as vindication for all men and thoughts.”
Shifting in his armchair, the líx regarded his son in silence for some moments following that explanation. He sipped absently from his glass with grey eyes intent all the while on the youth, watching with vague amusement his puzzled expression. Preempting any response, he continued: “but what I believe, you shouldn't feel obliged to. Always remember, cuíx,” the líx spoke, “the greatest of men are those who choose their faiths, rather than are merely born into them.”
'twas a lesson that he'd kept close to his heart, soldering it deep into his conscious memory. Even now, he explored the spiritual—the side of him which yearned for truth, for explanation, for that small succor that the certainty of faith affords. And now, many years older and much larger, Dagos stood within one of the convents of this newest order, this “Concordist” faith that had sprung up sometime during the last century. It was a curiosity to all, and its strange prevalence in the military had finally resulted in the cuíx desiring a taste as well.
Above a raised dais hung the crucifix, lifted up by a half-dozen iron chains just over the bronze-plated marble altar. Affixed to that plain wooden cross were nails, but no figure—the beaten, bloodied, and holy figure of Christ that one might expect nowhere to be seen. It was meant to raise questions, and so the priest that kept a silent vigil at the foot of the dais, facing perpetually outward, was entirely unsurprised when the cuíx finally voiced his question. He saw where the lordling stared, and so answered his question before it was even said.
“We must forever remember the act, an expression of divinity,” the priest, cowled and robed, said. He peered up at the cross himself, turning to stand beside the cuíx and speak to him in low, reverential tones. “Yet his form is inconstant, so we do not show it.”
“Inconstant?” came the inquiry, the cuíx's voice still coloured by the genuine curiosity and naivety of youth. The lordling's grey eyes were narrowed, as if in worry, as he stared up at the display. This question earned him a smile and a nod from the attendant priest.
There was no direct answer given, and instead the priest lifted up a hand and pointed up towards the painted ceiling—resembling so much that of his father's study—where dozens of different faces and scenes were depicted. “There's no covenant in the conventional sense,” he thus said, “but instead a concord between god and man of passion unbridled, and provided in every form. He is wrath, He is love, He is hate, He is mercy. What he feels, he does so in a magnitude unimaginable to us—what must it be to be wrath itself, to be love, hatred too? Inasmuch as he is them, we too embody them. Divine, maybe, but so too are we inconstant.”
The finger danced, pointing at different shapes as he spoke. The sword, the cup, the heart, the horse, the bull, many and more and many and more. Dagos' eyes settled upon a particular one, reflecting in painted form what the hanging cross did not.
“The martyred Christ,” he breathed, gazing up at that particular effigy with wide, blood-shot eyes. It was afforded no great prominence here than any other image, no central role that it might have had in any other church. “Are we, then,” Dagos asked, “too aspects of Him?”
“The Christ represents it best,” the priest agreed. “He represents the divinity of expression, of action, of existence. Inasmuch as he is those things, and we embody them, so too do we reflect in him. The concord.” Here, there was a pause, as a second robed figure shuffled over to briefly commune with this first one. The cuíx kept his tongue, content to, for the time being, simply allow his gaze to wander across the space. This faith's appeal was becoming increasingly clear to him.
At length, they spoke to him again, with that second priest lingering. “Omnipotence is not perfection,” the first said, bowing his head slowly forward 'till his cowl covered all his face in shadow. Beyond, the moonlight reflected off the white of his teeth, granting the priest a ghastly, skeletal visage as he smiled ahead at the soldier.
“In allowing his own existence,” the second spoke, his voice softer, more melodic than the first, “and in providing for his aspects, he has made himself fallible.”
“There is no concord but that concord which we make,” it thus followed, “and the concord of god and man is one of passion unbridled, provided in every form. He is wrath, He is love, He is hate, He is mercy.”
“And so are we, by the concord,” finished the second, bowing his head and murmuring the final “amen”.
It'd have to require some more investigation.
“I was talking with Ronnovos today,” Dagos said, slowly and nervously.
One of the Catovegalíx's brows slowly came up, a languid, measured gesture. Saying nothing, he simply bade his son to continue with but an idle wave. The cuíx did so, and each subsequent word he uttered was more coherent and confident than the last: “how do you know,” he asked his father, “that you're His delegate?” That keyword—that one word—was uttered almost at a whisper, said with a childish awe and reverence that brought a thin smile to the older man's otherwise downturned lips.
“The priest teaches you history?” the líx had asked, unable to conceal the amusement in his tone.
Wide-eyed, the cuíx bobbed his head forward, fidgeting as he shifted his weight onto and off the balls of his feet—uncomfortable with standing so in sight of his father. “He does,” he admitted, “I was learning about the—the concord. Of Armin--. . Arminiea? Arminium? That.”
There was a pause. Silence reigned, and the cuíx found his father's gaze expectantly absent, his eyes instead directed up—thoughtfully—towards the domed and painted ceiling.
“Let me ask you something instead,” the líx suddenly said, breaking the lull with a voice whose tone was oddly solemn, uncharacteristically stern. “Have you seen miracles? Have you witnessed the divine?”
It had seemed impossible, but Dagos' eyes widened yet further, he looking up at his father with what might have been genuine shock. He didn't come here to be interrogated, but to ask questions himself. Racking his brain, he couldn't resolve an answer, and being thus forced to mutely shake his head instead.
The Catovegalíx sighed slowly, breathed deeply, and spoke sagely: “no. No, and neither have I, for all the years I am your senior.”
He played with the decanter upon the table, lifting it up to pour a small serving of its amber-coloured contents into his empty cup. A faint smile now accompanied his following words, “every man must believe as he will, and every man shall believe differently. It doesn't matter, Dagos, that's what I believe. I don't think it matters if there is or isn't a god or gods, nor does it matter what form they choose to take. I choose not to worry, to not be concerned by that. It doesn't matter who's right or wrong, for death will serve as vindication for all men and thoughts.”
Shifting in his armchair, the líx regarded his son in silence for some moments following that explanation. He sipped absently from his glass with grey eyes intent all the while on the youth, watching with vague amusement his puzzled expression. Preempting any response, he continued: “but what I believe, you shouldn't feel obliged to. Always remember, cuíx,” the líx spoke, “the greatest of men are those who choose their faiths, rather than are merely born into them.”
'twas a lesson that he'd kept close to his heart, soldering it deep into his conscious memory. Even now, he explored the spiritual—the side of him which yearned for truth, for explanation, for that small succor that the certainty of faith affords. And now, many years older and much larger, Dagos stood within one of the convents of this newest order, this “Concordist” faith that had sprung up sometime during the last century. It was a curiosity to all, and its strange prevalence in the military had finally resulted in the cuíx desiring a taste as well.
Above a raised dais hung the crucifix, lifted up by a half-dozen iron chains just over the bronze-plated marble altar. Affixed to that plain wooden cross were nails, but no figure—the beaten, bloodied, and holy figure of Christ that one might expect nowhere to be seen. It was meant to raise questions, and so the priest that kept a silent vigil at the foot of the dais, facing perpetually outward, was entirely unsurprised when the cuíx finally voiced his question. He saw where the lordling stared, and so answered his question before it was even said.
“We must forever remember the act, an expression of divinity,” the priest, cowled and robed, said. He peered up at the cross himself, turning to stand beside the cuíx and speak to him in low, reverential tones. “Yet his form is inconstant, so we do not show it.”
“Inconstant?” came the inquiry, the cuíx's voice still coloured by the genuine curiosity and naivety of youth. The lordling's grey eyes were narrowed, as if in worry, as he stared up at the display. This question earned him a smile and a nod from the attendant priest.
There was no direct answer given, and instead the priest lifted up a hand and pointed up towards the painted ceiling—resembling so much that of his father's study—where dozens of different faces and scenes were depicted. “There's no covenant in the conventional sense,” he thus said, “but instead a concord between god and man of passion unbridled, and provided in every form. He is wrath, He is love, He is hate, He is mercy. What he feels, he does so in a magnitude unimaginable to us—what must it be to be wrath itself, to be love, hatred too? Inasmuch as he is them, we too embody them. Divine, maybe, but so too are we inconstant.”
The finger danced, pointing at different shapes as he spoke. The sword, the cup, the heart, the horse, the bull, many and more and many and more. Dagos' eyes settled upon a particular one, reflecting in painted form what the hanging cross did not.
“The martyred Christ,” he breathed, gazing up at that particular effigy with wide, blood-shot eyes. It was afforded no great prominence here than any other image, no central role that it might have had in any other church. “Are we, then,” Dagos asked, “too aspects of Him?”
“The Christ represents it best,” the priest agreed. “He represents the divinity of expression, of action, of existence. Inasmuch as he is those things, and we embody them, so too do we reflect in him. The concord.” Here, there was a pause, as a second robed figure shuffled over to briefly commune with this first one. The cuíx kept his tongue, content to, for the time being, simply allow his gaze to wander across the space. This faith's appeal was becoming increasingly clear to him.
At length, they spoke to him again, with that second priest lingering. “Omnipotence is not perfection,” the first said, bowing his head slowly forward 'till his cowl covered all his face in shadow. Beyond, the moonlight reflected off the white of his teeth, granting the priest a ghastly, skeletal visage as he smiled ahead at the soldier.
“In allowing his own existence,” the second spoke, his voice softer, more melodic than the first, “and in providing for his aspects, he has made himself fallible.”
“There is no concord but that concord which we make,” it thus followed, “and the concord of god and man is one of passion unbridled, provided in every form. He is wrath, He is love, He is hate, He is mercy.”
“And so are we, by the concord,” finished the second, bowing his head and murmuring the final “amen”.
It'd have to require some more investigation.