Daybreak Volume 4 Epilogue – The Revolution Begins

Spring might have arrived for most of Rhin-Lotharingie. But in the Highlands of the Glens, hard snow continued to fall while its people remained huddled indoors to escape winter’s frost.

The town of Scuin was no exception. Known as the ‘city of waterfalls’, the capital of the Kingdom of Gleann Mòr was built above the confluence of three rivers, which poured water down several cliffs to the fertile valley of Gleann Cairn to the north.

It was to this secluded valley that the ancestors of House Mackay fled after losing their ‘First War of Insurrection’ against the Imperium. The survivors built a stone fort above the cliffs to guard the last mountain pass before their new sanctuary in case the Imperial Legions pursued them here. These fortifications evolved over time into the Citadel of Highcastle and the quaint settlement that surrounded it.

Acclaimed by many travelling bards to be the ‘most beautiful capital’ in Hyperion, Scuin was less of a city and more of a cliffside town with its landscape dominated by its sheer cliffs and majestic waterfalls. During winter time, these waterfalls partially froze across their surface, creating spectacular formations of icicles that reflected light across the city. Meanwhile, the precipitous terrain forced the settlement to be built across multiple levels, connected by stairways cut through limestone rock as well as both wind-powered and manually cranked lifts.

However, none of these sights could be enjoyed right now as a late night mist enshrouded the city. The temperature had risen above freezing for the first time in weeks this afternoon, which partially thawed some icicles but left their humidity to linger in the frosty air. The resulting weather was dreary as it felt both clammy and freezing at the same time — which left few people willing to stay outside, including the guards on patrol.

Yet, the same did not seem to apply to a thin man in monk robes as he rushed up a steep rocky road. His path took him across several jagged outcrops as well as a gondola lift where he cranked the carriage across the gorge himself. He met no one during his journey and was only noticed by several soldiers on watch. His destination was only revealed when he took the winding path up a mountain towards the abbey where the Kingdom’s Stone of Destiny was held.

But while the city’s inhabitants paid the man no heed, two individuals perched atop a nearby crag followed the man’s every move through the mist. The woman who stood in the dim night looked as ethereal as a ghost. Her thin figure was surrounded by silken-white loose robes that offered little insulation from the icy mist. Meanwhile, her long, silver-white hair floated around her as though she stood in the calm of a storm.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Jan?” The woman asked in a serene voice as she turned towards her companion who sat on the edge of a sheer cliff.

“Everything has been done in accordance with the Worldwalker’s Treaty, Tara,” The plump man who wore loose robes and a scholarly cap responded. “I’ve done nothing except talk to him as a humble travelling theologian and inspire him to take a public stance.”

“Yes, I agree. You have upheld the rules more admirably than many of the Treaty’s original draftees,” The woman called Tara replied. “I am simply concerned, as once that manifesto is delivered, it will ignite a fire across the whole of the Trinitian realm that none of us can foresee an end to.”

“Why? Do you object?” The man asked. “You’ve never exactly been a supporter of Peter and his followers. Not since the Dragon-Demon Wars when you and Peter led the most successful army that humanity had seen in that legendary age.”

“That was millenia before you were born,” the woman smiled. “Your penchant for learning always amazes me.”

“Seek the truth, listen to the truth, teach the truth, love the truth, abide by the truth, and defend the truth unto death, for the truth will set us free from sin,” the man named Jan answered as though citing a personal motto. “Francis may have saved me from the flames and offered me life eternal. But that doesn’t mean I have stopped living as I once did.”

“It gladdens me to hear that, even if we disagree over what ‘the truth’ entails,” the woman answered. “But while I do not defend Peter or his creations, I do believe that conflicts of such magnitude are best avoided. Wars, and especially those waged with religious zeal, serve no one but those who seek power. And truth is too often the first victim of conflict.”

“Perhaps,” Jan responded with a sigh. “But turbulence also gives an opportunity for the truth to spread, for people do not ask themselves hard questions during easy times. And the Church of Arcadia has grown every bit as corrupt and as ignorant as the one that I once served in Rome.”

“But is that what you really want? To bring about the change that your mortal self failed to achieve,” Tara asked.

Meanwhile, the two of them watched the distant man wearing monk robes bend over to take a quick rest. His long journey across the city, not to mention his fast march up the hill, had left the theologian rather out of breath.

“Many would argue that my mortal life did succeed in bringing about the change that I sought,” Jan answered with a wry look as though he wasn’t sure he agreed himself. “My military genius of a disciple certainly took my ideas to heart. Though I would have never supported the violence that he brought. The sword should never be the instrument of faith, as any man could easily twist their ‘just cause’.”

“And in that, we are in complete agreement,” Tara responded. “I can only hope that millions do not suffer as the common man and women did in your world.”

The two of them fell silent as they watched across several kilopaces of darkness and mist which only magic allowed. The man in monk robes whom their gazes followed stood straight once more before he marched up the last few dozen steps up to the doors of the Church. He glanced about with a nervous look as though verifying that nobody was around first. He then pulled out a hammer, a nail, and a parchment scroll from his baggy clothing, which he proceeded to press against the oaken door.

*Bang, bang, bang*

The loud noise reverberated through the mist as the man began nailing his theses to the Church door. However, the solid oak was tough and the thin friar was hardly experienced as he struggled to drive the nail through. Nevertheless, with his course already set, he kept up the hammering while taking care not to accidentally smash his own digits in the dark.

His nail was almost halfway into the wood when the other side of the double doors opened to the light inside the Church.

“My child,” a fat man in the gilded vestments of high ranking clergy stood in the doorway looking out. “It is a late hour for you to be out hammering on people’s doors.”

Meanwhile, the friar with the hammer still raised in his hand completely froze as he stared upon the owner of the Church himself.

“A-archibishop Lachlan,” he stuttered as anxiety and fear filled his voice.

“In the flesh, my child.”

The Archbishop responded with a grandfatherly smile as he looked upon the man who had been hammering at his door. Only the corner of his lips betrayed a hint of playfulness as the glint in his eyes momentarily danced with the laugh that he would not express out loud. He took a step towards the frozen friar and grabbed the nail that was driven halfway into his Church door. It took some effort for him to pull the iron out along with its parchment.

“Y-Your Excellency, I-I…”

The friar was still at a loss for words as Archbishop Lachlan stepped back into the light and began to read the list of points that he had inscribed into his parchment.

“P-please accept my humble petition,” the man in monk robes finally gave a coherent voice to his thoughts.

“This is less a petition and more a list of demands, wouldn’t you say?” Lachlan responded as he raised his eyebrows.

However, his face remained more of an amused smile than one of anger or annoyance as one might expect from the lofty owner of a Church whose door was being hammered down in the dead of night.

“To say that ‘inner repentance is worthless unless it produces a determinable deed of the flesh’ is rather contradictory to the teachings of our Mother Church,” the Archbishop pointed out from the first point listed on the parchment. “So are many of the others on your list, though I have not yet had a chance to fully read.”

“But where in scripture does our Lord and Savior claim that to repent alone is sufficient?” The petitioner replied with greater confidence this time as though his will had been fortified by his zeal to argue. “When Hyperion the Dragonlord called out for our ancestors to repent for their sins, it was not merely in thought and speech but in action and deed.”

“Indeed. It is something we may broadly agree upon,” Lachlan interjected before squinting his eyes to scrutinize one of the later points written on parchment. “I for one certainly welcome the discussion, even if we seem to disagree upon certain details.”

The Archbishop’s response left the friar frozen once more before his opened lips could continue onto his next point. The monk’s eyes swelled with astonishment as though he could barely believe what he had just heard.

Meanwhile, the cleric who was several decades his senior merely smiled as a playful light danced in his gaze once more.

“My child, you should know more than most that our Church is not a monolith,” Lachlan pointed out. “There have long been voices of disagreement with established policy even before the recent turbulence. The northern monasteries certainly have little in common with those in the southern lands, where the monks have abandoned lives of simplicity and faith to indulge in wealth and earthly pleasures. Therefore, is it so hard to believe that there is disagreement among the upper clergy towards the direction of the Church as well?”

“N-no, Your Excellency, I do not mean to insinuate…” The friar stuttered once more.

It was as though none of his mental predictions of this moment had prepared him for this.

“Of course, you could not have known, when I have so rarely taken a stance to speak out,” the elderly archbishop smiled once more before he looked at the darkness outside. “Power and influence, unfortunately, come with their own trappings. And perhaps I have grown too accustomed to them to place my conscience before politics.”

The friar could only stare back as he nodded faintly. His lips formed a scowl as he seemed to understand all too well what his senior spoke about.

“Regardless, I think we have stood in this freezing mist for long enough, don’t you?” Lachlan added as he stepped back and gestured for the other to follow. “Please do come inside. I believe we have much to speak about.”

And with that, the petitioner friar followed the Archbishop into the Church and closed the heavy oak doors behind them.

Meanwhile, back on the cragtop nearly three kilopaces away, the ethereal woman asked her companion:

“Did you know that would happen?”

“No. But I had hoped,” Jan replied as he turned towards his senior as a Worldwalker with a hopeful smile. “Archbishop Lachlan is a true believer of the faith who always prays at this time of night before he departs for rest. And it is my hope that the reformers of this world would find allies in high places which I myself never had.”

“And in turn, you hope our humble petitioner might finally inspire the Archbishop to take a stand,” the woman beamed back in response. “Truly, not even Kartikeya — you would know him as Archistrategos Michael — could have played a more cunning move.”

Her words made Jan look down and chuckle to himself.

“Now that is truly praise too high for me to receive, even if it does come from someone who once fought against Satan’s forces with the commander of the heavenly host himself.”

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