Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
FRANE
At the peak of Frane's daily meditations, within the height of summer's part of the seasons, a hapless neophyte paid the veteran preacher a sudden visit at his mostly-hidden cave. It was not unfounded, they would both discover, the latter to a greater degree, and it certainly did nothing to better their level of enlightenment. It went like this:
The subterranean lake licked the feet of the cavern, conjuring an ambiance some could consider soothing. Frane didn't, however. The hollow of the wide cave gave the lake too much width, for sound and space both, and the echoes were constant and irritating. But, it had its silver linings. A hole in the top, which birthed the lake with its unending stream, gave way to a sliver of light, which reflected off the water, and gave the room a primitive sort of light. It was during noon, when the avians began piping, and the animals started concocting their own brand of hoarse mate-calls. The zephyr drifted in and out the cave's mouth, broken by the occasional rustling of leaves from the trees nearby, intermittently mimicking Frane's relaxed breathes.
Frane minded little of it, which, if anything, imitated a broken flute; it broke the queer quiet, and gave rhythm to the lapping waves. Ever since he was little, Frane always wanted to be an artist, or perhaps a musician. He was born under the tutelage of the Grodicci family, and though he was not related by blood, they treated him as his own kin. But luck and fate, the worst of all, handing him a parcel of regrets and a far-too humble job. The Grodicci family was swallowed by charges of corruption and witchcraft, claimed by the Hozan church. Ironically, he ended up working for the same system which destroyed all measures of normalcy in his life. Frane could understand. The church was desperate, and he intended to find out why.
His occupation as a monk provided a sanctuary, at the cost of celibacy (which, to be honest, not a single living soul in the monastery maintained) and devotion. The priests of Hozan were rarely touched by war, nor by any bandits, the last major incident of sacking and thievery occurring a century ago — sceptics and heathens were a thing of the past, the Hozan church becoming a part of the new age. Besides, the people needed a person to blame. It was a rough time, the past few years, with civil wars and invasions, coupled with bad harvests and a poorly regulated government. A systemic monarchy, they say.
The monk exhaled and relaxed his shoulders. It wasn't his job to blabber about politics. Only maintain peace, quiet, and the fucking Hozan religion. A definite departure from his previous life, which he couldn't bring himself to either hate or love.
Frane, who had up till now rested, shuffled awake, bones aching from his prolonged case of sitting. A noise had belted out, a product of clumsiness and haphazard running. His back stiffened and he looked around, eyes adjusting to the darkness.
“Brother Frane, Frane!” the voice — it was the voice of a man indeed, and sadly, the tenor indicated it belonged to a youth — became audible as the footfall closed the distance to him. Frane studied the cave's mouth with a half-lidded gaze. He mostly hid in the cave to escape the noisy processions of the other more vigorous, younger novices. He was prepared for the worse.
The monk lifted his head and squinted at the figure, who hadn't stopped yelling his name. Frane was unsure whether it was because the monk was blind or because he could not see in the dark. Yet, Frane could see him. The intruder was a another monk all right: a man who was medium in all aspects, with a rotund, salmon-pink face and nondescript features, topped off by the ridiculous haircut most monks wore. For the second time in his entire life, Frane thanked the gods for making him bald. The jaw of the young monk's neck, melding partially with the chin, was covered with a single fold of fat that veered dangerously close to becoming another chin. The eyes were dark, and the lips tightened.
“Brother Frane, Frane,” the youth said. He rested his arms on his knees, blinking profusely. Again, Frane was not certain whether it we because of the darkness or his apparent worn mentality.
“Ven? Is it you, brother Ven?” Frane said. The youth looked like Ven. Frane could remember only one man with such banal features, like the trite backgrounder of a heroic epic. Unlike others, Frane had an affinity for fantastical, dreamy scriptures.
Ven, he tried to remember, was a monk fresh out of university and assigned to this monastery just recently. This gave his city-folk accent a bit of sense, but sometimes, it did seem a bit too grandiose for the otherwise heavily rural monastery.
“Brother Frane,” Ven sputtered out, between his ceaseless panting.
“I've already heard, damn it, I know!” The monk's hoarse, raspy voice forced Ven into shutting up. Frane popped his knuckles and shoulders, creaking with satisfying clicks. “If you've anything to say, say it now. If it's about that broken kiln again, I'm going to crack your face.”
Ven spent a few moments thinking, sweating too. “Raiders are razing our monastery, brother! We must flee at haste!” he said with sudden urgency.
Frane sat still. His heart skipped a beat. How? Why? Of all places, why a monastery? he thought to himself. Worldly leisure were strongly beyond their imagination — though rumours said the abbot had nestled himself upon most of the coffers and the collected alms. Discreetly, of course.
Frane shook his head, pointing a thin, bony finger at Ven. “Are you sure you're not binging on mushrooms, lad?” he said, though part of him couldn't help but believe the youth.
Ven nearly fainted at the mention of drugs. “N-no, most certainly not, brother!” he cried.
“Figures, figures. But I can't and I won't trust you, fool.” Frane stood up and brushed away the dirt from his robes. “Where are the others?”
Ven gaped.
Frane's brows twitched. He was desperately close to killing the fool. “Don't tell me you were the only survivor, lad.”
Ven straightened up, shoulders sagging and eyes drooping. “I know scarce, brother Frane, but they were last in the outskirts of the Shaum, where I had left them in search of you,” Ven paused, breathing deeply. He seemed more doubtful than optimistic, contrary to his usual persona. “I assume they won't stay long. I fear the raiders may have scattered them.”
“Maybe if we embark in haste, and I'm assuming you know what it means, we will reach the fucking maidens in distress before the raiders do,” Frane barked.
Ven saluted. “Yes, sir!” After a couple minutes standing awkwardly still, he realized his mistake, his off behaviour, and stiffened. “I mean, well, brother Frane. What're we going to do now?”
A mirthless, lopsided grin spread across Frane's face. “Let me think. . .”
1) Kill the fool
2) Look for the fucking monks
3) Abandon everything and everyone
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