This story is intended to be set beneath the backdrop of the Moral Reforms, a period of great social and political turbulence in the Amarr Empire. The Emperor Heideran V set the foundations of the Amarr Empire as we know and 'love' it today, taking on the established order of things, and no doubt upsetting the naturally conservative Amarr theologists. This is where we find ourselves, watching the ripples of the waves such titans cause...
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In Amber Clad
They brought him into the cell wordlessly. The room was dark and cold, and he shivered in their grip, in silent anticipation. The Circators knelt him, pressing his knees into the grit—even through the thick cassock—, stood and shuffled away, murmuring respectful obeisances. The darkness moved.
“My son, why have you come?”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Boney hands embraced his face, and he shivered.
“You, my son, who is righteous in the eyes of God?” The voice was warm. “You are Prior of San Shahan, no?”
“Yes, Father.”
“San Shahan is known to me, my son. I have heard oft of its firm commitments to our faith. What sins can you have commited?” The hands shifted, grasping his own, which were bended into the forms of prayer.
“Father, I can hardly bear to speak of it.”
There was a deep breath above him, and the hands withdrew.
“My son, you have come to me, as I asked. Will you not go on with me?” The darkness rippled ahead of him, and he heard boots crunch the gravel of the floor behind him.
“No! No, Father, I will speak! I will speak!” The footsteps behind paused. “I did preach of St. Tetrimon, Father.”
“St Tetrimon, my son? It is good that the monks of San Shahan know of their patron’s past. The Ardishapur family is blessed by their piety. What sins can come of preaching of St Tetrimon?”
Uncontrollably, he shivered. “I did speak of his act of martyrdom.”
There was a long, echoing silence. A hand rested lightly atop his head, and another brushed his shoulder. Behind him, a door creaked open, then closed.
“My son, pray continue.”
“Father…” His voice failed him.
“Pray continue.” Where once it had been warm, now it was stiff and cold. Corpselike.
“Father, I did commend his soul unto God, and speak of the will of the divine hand, and its actions.” The hand touching his shoulder withdrew, whilst the other tightened on his shorn scalp. All he could taste was ashes in his mouth.
“Child, you know that what you have done—”
“No, Father! We must do something about—” Something struck him from behind, and he crashed forwards. The gravel pressed into his hands and face. Wiry fabric brushed across his face and back, and something knelt beside him.
“You should not speak so intemperately, Prior. You have been commanded to speak of your sins. Actions of the past.” The voice drew out the word, linger on it.
“The divine hand of the divine God. A manu dei e tet rimon!”
“Do you think I know it not, Prior?” The words rested dangerously in the air. The hand gripped his nape.
“No, Father!” He blurted. “You are of the—” The hand clenched.
“We are not here to speak of me, Prior. We are here to speak of you, who speaks, but does know truly of what he is saying.” The fingers clenched tight once again, then loosened, releasing him. “The Priory has been let down by its Prior, if that is what you remember of St Tetrimon. Perhaps you have even forgotten the fundamentals...”
“Father?” His voice was plaintive, confused.
“This process, these great moral reforms… The Emperor has shown us the true way. Those who speak against the Emperor reject all we hold dear, and we must in turn reject them…” He heard the slippered footsteps receding, and the grinding boots come closer. He felt himself hauled up and disrobed. Cassock, alb and cincture were all stripped from him, and his arms were lifted. A woolen habit was tugged down onto him.
“Father…”
The voice was distant now. “Novice, I give you your first lesson. In the Book of Missions it is written that man is closest to God when he is stripped to his very foundations. This last chance, I give. To know the true path, but not to follow. That is the greatest sin.
“Circators, take this novice to the Cleansing pits, that he may be made clean. Let us see his true foundations.”
Strong hands grasped his arms and the darkness consumed him whole.
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I have dared to draw, I hope, within the implied boundaries of the lore. The many sources of 'canon' material are not easily reconciled to the details of the past, especially in a state such as Amarr that reconciles (alters) its past to such a degree, but I believe this to be non-contradictory to the rest of the lore.
I hope you enjoyed the piece and I hope you will check out the many other contest entries, which are, as always, very engaging.
Edited to fix the formatting and provide some background knowledge.
Edited to fix the formatting and provide some background knowledge.
