Shavine

Shavine, long gray hair blown back by the wind, studied his opponents. Shavine was not old. He had simply grayed early at twenty five, giving him a striking presence with his healthy figure and deep green eyes. His orange on blue cloak flowed behind him, whispering above the violet, red and yellow flowers dominating the open field. Long ago the need for boots had been cast aside, one of the steps leading to his young elevation to that of Hram Master. Now, the nature beneath his naked feet was welcoming, embracing his stance and every step.

He kept his mind in his heart, counting the beats with prayer. The sun was at his back, though in an open field his position could change at any moment and Shavine would be blinded instead of his enemies. Shavine had learned to fight without sight at the age of fifteen. But with eyes closed he would rely on other senses, and with the strong blowing wind and the mass of flowers bending to and fro under it, even with his attention in his heart, even in his deep heart, it would be difficult for his spirit to hear the heart beats of the men trying to kill him.

The mercenaries moved slow, faces disfigured in their contempt at the lone figure before them. There were five total, enough to pose a threat to many combating without aid, but Shavine had already found each man's weakness by watching them breathe. The biggest and leader of his enemies, face scarred over so that nothing human could be seen save his bloodshot eyes, held a long spear, tip chipped from many battles. But his breath was coming too fast and uneven, punctuated by small gasps. He was no doubt expecting fear to be the cause of victory today. Shavine had conquered fear at the age of twelve, and scar face would die today for his pride.

The other four were the same. The shirtless short man, belly protruding from a life of guzzling beer, would wait for the others to act before swinging his scimitar. The youngest of the five had experienced a victory in life already, maybe two, for his breath was eager without constraint. He did not fear his imperfections and his scimitar would be his end. The two men with great swords were more experienced. The first was covered with tattoos to hide his appearance, no doubt a military deserter or branded criminal. The second had the smile of a wicked man, the leer of one lustful for forcing pain on another. Their breath held violence, anger, and death.

Shavine kept calm and even by regulating his heartbeat with a steady intake of air. He was in touch with his body, every nuance of posture, and kept all thoughts from stealing his attention away from the battle at hand.

Shavine could see his foes were deadly among those of the out-world, if not by reputation then by appearance and sheer evil. But to one who was trained in the way of Hram they would soon be dead. More than their breath, Shavine felt with his attention through his spirit that the mercenaries' hips were jutted back and not keeping alignment, knees bent in and were not pushed out, arms disconnected from his waist, eyes in constant movement. Shavine could see their center of gravity to be around the chest. Just a simple lesson in gathering would work wonders for this poor fools.

Shavine relaxed as the mercenaries charged, and brought his attention to the tip of his sword. Shavine lunged forward, touching the leader's spear with his sword tip just enough to push it aside. The man could not stop his forward charge and impaled himself. Shavine pulled his sword, letting the leader's lungs empty themselves. He fell back gurgling for air. Shock came over the man's face. Shavine spun. Off went the man's head.

The scimitar of the youth sped towards his head. He heard the blade cut the air, and shifted his weight only a span to avoid it. The great sword of tattoo sought to intercept Shavine's position. Shavine twisted at the waist, whipping his sword to slap tattoo on the wrist. Tattoo dropped his sword with a grunt, his wrist attached to the hilt. Shavine put forth his attention to his own sword and let his blade rebound through the ether and seek the heart that thought of killing him. The youth fell to his knees, throat sliced open.

Shavine slid his leg forward to drop his height. The second great sword had sought his head with the sneering mercenary's attention, though even the mercenary was not aware of this. The great sword passed over head by a mere width of a finger, but in one motion it did not matter. Shavine let his sword rebound as it chose, splitting wide the belly of tattoo and hacking deep into both leg roots of the sneering man, causing all of his blood to gush out in mere seconds.

Potbelly stood still. Shavine praised the man silently for not urinating on himself. At least potbelly would die with some self-respect. He made no sound as Shavine impaled the man's heart.

It took several minutes for peace of mind to return. He drew his mind out of his heart slowly, letting nature fill his senses. Like normal, when his attention returned from being inward, the shaemon attacked with all manner of blasphemous thoughts. In the beginning, when he first learned the sword according the way of Hram, thoughts of anger and hatred were his mental foes when he left his heart. Now that he had progressed in Hram, the shaemon could not bear with the grace he possessed, and gnashed their teeth as they silently spewed their foulness at his heart.

Shavine sheathed his sword, not bothering to wipe the blood from its blade. It was his known mark of experience to leave it there. Offering silent prayer for the mercenaries, Shavine also prayed for his own salvation.

"You have one more foe to fight."

Shavine spun to face the voice behind him. He gathered as he put his hand on his hilt.

Before him stood a woman, her body glowing from the light of the sun. Shavine squinted his eyes to adjust them, and saw her head shaved and faced tattooed with the art like those of the Dialo Wastes. She carried no weapon, save the prayer rope in her left hand, which moved knot to knot very slow. Slow, but even, in perfect rhythm and time. Shavine knew she was dangerous.

"May peace enlighten you spirit," Shavine said He let his heart begin to pray again. "I do not know who you are. What foe is left for me to fight?"

"You know me, Shavine. You forget too easily. Remember the Wastes, Hramvi!"

Shavine pulled his attention away from his heart, and searched his memory. He had not spent much time in the Dialo Wastes, just enough time to visit the monastery dedicated to the Great Martyrs of the Thousand Day War. The only memorable thing was the prostitute dying of starvation and abuse. Shavine brought her to the monastery and nursed her back to health himself. He gave the first instructions of her life on the Hram way of being.

"I do remember you. I am glad you have progressed in Hram."

"You saved me from death of soul, Shavine. Now I will save you from the same."

Shavine pushed away a grin as he picked up the prayer again.

"For thirteen years I studied under Hramvi ancients, and was given the title of Master though I was too young. You have only begun to walk our life. I do not say you cannot help me, but think of your soul, and of silence. Let this be your help."

Her prayer rope continued its slow, steady pace. She sighed, shaking her head.

"You understand nothing of Hram, Shavine. You have never suffered and still remain without spiritual fruit. And today you will be defeated and bear fruit as a tree is dunged for the same. Only in appearance will you be victorious."

Shavine unsheathed his blade, and walked cautious towards the woman.

"By your words you claim the right to prophecy. Have you, as yet unformed, become deluded? Perhaps you are one of the servants of shadow now?"

"You do not understand the way of Hram, and refuse to listen or see. You have come so far and yet know nothing. Attack me and you will discover the truth I speak."

"You have no weapon, woman."

"I have a weapon, one you mistake yourself to have."

"My weapon is grace, with which I must defend against the shaemon daily. Have you ever dealt with the shaemon, prostitute? Their blasphemy can drive a man insane. You still have much to learn. Humility would be the first step."

She smiled.

"Blasphemous thoughts attack those full of love and those full of pride. Are you so certain of your standing?" Her prayer rope never stopped moving as she spoke.

He attacked giving her no time to respond. It was a simple thrust, with his intention going into her abdomen. As a Master he had the right to teach her humility. Soon she would feel the pain of slashed intestines, and the coming blackness of the other world. Then maybe she would repent of her vainglory.

That was his plan at least. His attention went forth only to falter and scatter. The sword tip dropped. Confusion overtook him. He looked at the prostitute, who stood still with her prayer rope barely moving.

It was a sorcerer's trick. He knew how to deal with such witchery. He gathered, quick but strong, and put his intention into his blade. A death strike was his aim, a shattering blow to her skull to split it and her life and her pride.

Weakness overcame him, and he could not lift his weapon. His arms refused to move, as if weighed down with chains from the vessels of the Divided Seas.

"You will die, this I vow," Shavine snarled. "Your magic is no match for the way of Hram."

"It is not magic I possess, Hramvi. I merely possess my heart, but you are possessed of pride."

He paused, relaxing his grip on his sword. Seeking his heart, he listened to its rhythm, and went inward and from there into his deep heart. His strength returned. He felt his attention turn to intention, felt it whip up his arm from his leg from the earth. His sword became an extension of his spirit, cleaving the air and ether apart before him.

He met unbearable sorrow, while the compunction of a wailing penitent overcame him. His every breath was filled with tenderness, weakening but consoling tenderness from the ether. He fell and buried his face in the earth, crying.

"What sorcery is this?" he sobbed.

"This is true Hram."

He heard her come closer. Now was his time. He was the master. It was his right to be the exalted one. Tears came without stopping and his heart was torn, but he would not lose. He would prevail.

His sword pierced her flesh easily, as if she not only accepted it without defense but even greeted it willingly. She stood, blood streaming out, prayer rope moving, a smile honoring her face. Shavine realized that moment, as he watched her eyes fade and the smile grow deeper, that he had murdered a saint.

She exploded. From where she stood at death fire and light made a pillar reaching to the heaven as thunder resounded without stopping. The wind was no more. The field dissipated in the light. The sun became a dark object in the sky.

Then silence. Darkness. Tears.

Shavine knew he had killed a saint, a true Hramvi, who died like the ancients. He was now an apostate and had no hope of salvation. Suicide would be a better end.

He lifted his sword to point under face, where the jaw meets the neck. He would let his weight impale his head, quickly and forever being no more. For those guilty of self-murder, there was no salvation.

A thought came, sudden and strong. It gripped him, seized him, laid hold of his attention and almost of its own accord brought his mind into his heart. He had no choice but to heed, no choice but to pray.

"Help me, Hramvi! Forgive me! Help me to repent for killing you that I may spare others from walking the way of pride and delusion." He cried, tears flooding over and spilling onto the earth, bitter sweet nourishment for the field of flowers.

"Please. Forgive, forgive my pure Hramvi! Have mercy!"

Another thought came and he saw his life before him. Slowly Shavine entered his inward heart, and there he stayed for as long as the grace of Hram granted him life in this plane. He would not let himself deserve a monastery, or a home, or temple to reside in. But he wandered as a vagabond and nomad for the decades given him instructing everyone he met by his exhortation to humility, the tears that were his new mark of experience, and his ceaseless cry, "Forgive, forgive my pure Hramvi! Have mercy!"

At his death it is said neither the temple nor even the streets of the Royal City were enough to hold those who came to honor his memory.

To this day it is said because of him, Pride is the sure cause of death and Humility exalts higher than any royal throne.

The end.