The squalling babe was not unlike the dozen or so others brother Atreus
had cared for since he first began serving at the monastery decades ago.
The fruit of an ephemeral union, human and elf, the children were abandoned
on his threshold by reluctant mothers who knew few places in Serin would
accept them. He named this one Bethisk after a hero from the minor gospels
and brought her inside. He prayed to gods old and new that she would find
the peace that so often eluded those of her heritage. He changed her linen
diaper. He wept.
***
But perhaps this one was different. Bethisk lingered in the courtyard when
she should be performing chores, earning her penance that would set most
children straight for a month. No matter how many holes she was made to dig
and refill and then dig again, no matter how many stones she transported
from one end of the monastery grounds to the other, she was drawn back like
the storied moth to flame to watch the monks train at fighting with hands
and feet.
By ten years, they let her join. Atreus observed as he led the handful of
other children still in his charge to the library. Bethisk whirled through
the air, her fingers and toes curling into precise forms as her teacher
shouted instructions. He watched the little girl get swatted down with a
wooden training lathe that would surely bruise. A small tear escaped her
eye, but she rebounded to her feet as Atreus kept walking.
***
At seventeen, Bethisk lingered on his threshold once more. "Brother Atreus,
I am leaving for the monastery in Seringale," she said.
"We will miss your cooking," the monk laughed as he blotted the parchment on
his desk with sand.
"I will . . . miss your kindness," she said simply. Always a terse girl, her
talent for monastic fighting had given her confidence but not garrulousness.
As she turned to leave, Atreus straightened from his composition and reached
into his desk. He offered a hand baldly to the girl. "Take this. It is
all I have of your past."
Bethisk turned the signet ring over in her hands, tracing the lightning bolt
that indicated the God Olyn and his disciples. She deposited the ring in
her linen belt pouch as Atreus watched her leave. He changed the sand in
his blotting well. He wept.
Description:
Silver hair cropped close at the neck does little to conceal this woman's
elven ancestry: in fact, the tapered ears it betrays might be the most
remarkable aspect of her sturdy appearance. A nose once delicate but
spoiled by a series of poorly healed breaks denies her any claim to beauty.
Her mouth, a thin red gash marring an otherwise pallid complexion, rests
just below this clumsy mending, and wintry blue eyes cast the rest of her
features in comparative softness. She disguises broad shoulders winnowing
to a narrow waist in loose-fitting robes; she's belted the garb with
elaborate knots, the drape of which allows for unencumbered movement.
