Post by Deleted on Apr 29, 2016 9:48:33 GMT -5
He continued the argument. "It's more than just praying that the vulcano doesn't erupt, my lady," he explained calmly and gently. "To the people of the Clans, that would be not unlike praying for time itself to stop - our ancestors have learned to live with it all as a fact of life. It's more to do with the certain knowledge that there is always the Maker's Light to guide us back from death to life, from destruction to a new creation."
Her comforting words evoked a reaction in the High Laird that might puzzle the young lady: subdued anger. He interrupted her. "Don't be sorry," he said resolutely. "There is but one man alive in all creation who should be sorry for my father's murder, and who, Maker willing, will be sorry." He still could not forgive Vortigern for his father's murder, after all these years. Not so much for the sin itself, but for the reasons his rival had committed it: pure selfish hunger for power and resentment of the Cadags. He calmed down, feeling ashamed to have shown his bitter anger in his God's house. "The Maker's Light keeps us all after death, just as it gives the world life and light," he said. "I tend to agree. That is a stronger emotion even than whatever else I might feel about the manner of my father's passing." And the man responsible. The Maker damn the treacherous snake to darkness eternal.
A bell tolled high above, resounding through the complex. The hour of morning prayer was almost upon them. Merthen had no appetite for the ludicrous show the Council of Inspiration always made of the services. They just could never see the Faith in the simple way of its origins among the Clansmen, whatever they said. Used judiciously, liturgy could be beautiful - but the smells and bells employed in the Capital was simply so much it subdued the main message. "That must be the bell for morning prayer, my lady," he said. "I think that means it's time for me to withdraw. Thank you for your thoughts, and do pass on my warm regards to your lord father."
He nodded to her in farewell, then reverently proceeded out of the temple.
Isobel Cameron
(this is the end)
Her comforting words evoked a reaction in the High Laird that might puzzle the young lady: subdued anger. He interrupted her. "Don't be sorry," he said resolutely. "There is but one man alive in all creation who should be sorry for my father's murder, and who, Maker willing, will be sorry." He still could not forgive Vortigern for his father's murder, after all these years. Not so much for the sin itself, but for the reasons his rival had committed it: pure selfish hunger for power and resentment of the Cadags. He calmed down, feeling ashamed to have shown his bitter anger in his God's house. "The Maker's Light keeps us all after death, just as it gives the world life and light," he said. "I tend to agree. That is a stronger emotion even than whatever else I might feel about the manner of my father's passing." And the man responsible. The Maker damn the treacherous snake to darkness eternal.
A bell tolled high above, resounding through the complex. The hour of morning prayer was almost upon them. Merthen had no appetite for the ludicrous show the Council of Inspiration always made of the services. They just could never see the Faith in the simple way of its origins among the Clansmen, whatever they said. Used judiciously, liturgy could be beautiful - but the smells and bells employed in the Capital was simply so much it subdued the main message. "That must be the bell for morning prayer, my lady," he said. "I think that means it's time for me to withdraw. Thank you for your thoughts, and do pass on my warm regards to your lord father."
He nodded to her in farewell, then reverently proceeded out of the temple.
Isobel Cameron
(this is the end)