malins
Stumbling Seeker
3
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In the wake of the war, they had taken in many broken things. Each of them broken in a different way. Some only needed care and time, and moved on with grateful hearts, and some joined the Order and were in due time initiated. Others were broken in body or spirit or both and would never quite heal, but they found a place for all of them.
Before the war, those taken in by the Sisters had mostly been dishonored women, fallen ones; those taken in by the Brothers often criminals. Sometimes it had occurred that one side of the monastery would come to house the violator, the other the victim.
But since in the end all could be purified, and all would put aside their old person upon initiation, to receive a new name, it was also not unimaginable that in the middle, both would serve side by side with the Order.
All of them were accepted as gifts. The war had brought many.
Then, after the spring of blood, that fearful flowering of white wreaths of Death and clouds of powder-smoke and that mad sound like a forest of trees all snapped at once at their base, had come a peaceful summer that never seemed to end, continuing far into the shortening days of autumn, Divine mercy not to follow the depredations of war with a harsh winter.
Sister Noiramas, who had taken the woman into her observation – 'care' would be saying too much as the hooded figure as of yet hardly interacted with anyone – thought with this one it must have to do with the war.
A late gift, from that cruel hand.
It would take time to find out though.
Time and patience were always in ample supply at the Order of the Merciful Redemption.
And as time passed, the hooded figure became a silent part of their community, rising with them, and soon falling unasked into the patterns of their duties. She recovered her strength, and never shied from demanding work, although her movements betrayed that many of the tasks were new to her, and her shroud hindered her in much of the work. Peculiar allowances had to be made – just think what a chore it was for her to take her meal in the refectory. Washing herself alone at night. And so forth.
Sister Noiramas saw well how she yearned to make herself useful to them, in return for their acceptance. She had been gradually opening herself to this world, the limited and well-controlled world within the monastery walls, reassuring in its regular rhythms.
She had begun to cautiously examine and then accept the idea of continued existence.
And she had begun to speak.
Surprisingly, she admitted to a name. Anri, she said.
-----
In the wake of the war, they had taken in many broken things. Each of them broken in a different way. Some only needed care and time, and moved on with grateful hearts, and some joined the Order and were in due time initiated. Others were broken in body or spirit or both and would never quite heal, but they found a place for all of them.
Before the war, those taken in by the Sisters had mostly been dishonored women, fallen ones; those taken in by the Brothers often criminals. Sometimes it had occurred that one side of the monastery would come to house the violator, the other the victim.
But since in the end all could be purified, and all would put aside their old person upon initiation, to receive a new name, it was also not unimaginable that in the middle, both would serve side by side with the Order.
All of them were accepted as gifts. The war had brought many.
Then, after the spring of blood, that fearful flowering of white wreaths of Death and clouds of powder-smoke and that mad sound like a forest of trees all snapped at once at their base, had come a peaceful summer that never seemed to end, continuing far into the shortening days of autumn, Divine mercy not to follow the depredations of war with a harsh winter.
Sister Noiramas, who had taken the woman into her observation – 'care' would be saying too much as the hooded figure as of yet hardly interacted with anyone – thought with this one it must have to do with the war.
A late gift, from that cruel hand.
It would take time to find out though.
Time and patience were always in ample supply at the Order of the Merciful Redemption.
And as time passed, the hooded figure became a silent part of their community, rising with them, and soon falling unasked into the patterns of their duties. She recovered her strength, and never shied from demanding work, although her movements betrayed that many of the tasks were new to her, and her shroud hindered her in much of the work. Peculiar allowances had to be made – just think what a chore it was for her to take her meal in the refectory. Washing herself alone at night. And so forth.
Sister Noiramas saw well how she yearned to make herself useful to them, in return for their acceptance. She had been gradually opening herself to this world, the limited and well-controlled world within the monastery walls, reassuring in its regular rhythms.
She had begun to cautiously examine and then accept the idea of continued existence.
And she had begun to speak.
Surprisingly, she admitted to a name. Anri, she said.