I Think I’m Beginning To

As afternoon faded into evening, the monastery bell echoed across the valley, calling the monks and sisters to quietly set aside their work and make their way toward the chapel.

Flint rested the axe against the chopping block, wiping off his sweat.

“What’s happening?”

“Evening prayer,” one of the monks replied with a smile.

“I’d like to see it,” Isla said.

“I’m coming too.” Murry dusted the grain from his clothes. “Feels wrong eating their food and skipping the prayer.”

He looked toward Flint.

“You?”

Flint glanced toward the chapel before turning his eyes to the mountains.

“I think I’ll get some fresh air.”

“We’ll see you later then,” Isla smiled.

Flint nodded and quietly followed a narrow path leading to the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley.

The forest stretched endlessly beneath him, its sea of green slowly turning amber beneath the setting sun. Far in the distance, mountain peaks caught the last rays of daylight before surrendering to shadow.

Lowering himself onto the stone, Flint rested the Bloodblade beside him and watched the sun slowly sink beyond the distant mountains.

Eventually, footsteps approached from behind.

“…Shouldn’t you be with the others?” Flint asked as the Abbot sat beside him.

The old man smiled.

“The others are praying.”

“And you?”

“I’m exactly where I believe I’m needed.”

Silence settled between them.

The Abbot’s eyes eventually drifted toward the black sheath resting against the rock.

“Is it heavy?”

Flint let out a quiet chuckle. He doubted the Abbot could understand the real weight behind his question. The woodcutter answered simply.

“Very.”

The old man smiled.

“I’m not referring to the sword.”

Flint’s smile slowly faded, his eyes lowering to look at the Bloodblade.

“If I’m being honest… I hate it, Abbot.”

The man nodded.

“I understand why you would.”

You... do?

Flint looked at him for a moment, slightly surprised that he didn’t question him. That’s why the young woodcutter continued.

“It killed someone precious to me.”

His hand unconsciously tightened around his knee.

“And every time I draw it…”

He hesitated.

“…Someone has to pay the price.”

The Abbot remained silent, simply listening to the boy who stared at the valley below.

“So I decided. I won’t rely on it.”

“…Never?”

Flint nodded.

“Never.”

The old man looked toward the distant mountains, letting the silence linger between them.

“Then answer me something.”

Flint turned toward him.

“If tomorrow a child stood behind you… and this sword was the only thing that could save them… would you still refuse to draw it?”

The question lingered between them, but Flint already knew the answer. That, more than anything, was what frustrated him.

“I’d draw it.”

The Abbot smiled faintly.

“I thought you might.”

“I just don’t want to become someone who depends on it.”

“…There’s a difference.”

The Abbot pointed toward the axe resting against the nearby chopping block.

“When you were splitting firewood today, which tool did you use?”

“My axe.”

“Not your hands?”

Flint couldn’t help but smile.

“Of course not.”

“The axe existed to help you.”

The old man looked toward the Bloodblade.

“Tools are not shameful. They become dangerous only when we forget why we’re using them.”

Flint quietly followed the old man’s gaze.

His smile disappeared once more, brows furrowing.

“…I’m afraid, Abbot…”

The Abbot listened.

“I’m afraid that one day… I’ll stop reaching for the axe first.”

For the first time, the old man looked directly at Flint.

“The fact that you’re afraid of that is exactly why I don’t believe you will.”

Flint remained silent as he looked at the smiling man.

The evening breeze carried the distant sound of the monastery bell across the valley, caressing the long beard of the man.

“We do not choose the burdens we carry.”

The Abbot’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“We only choose how we carry them.”

Flint found himself replaying the old man's words over and over. Somehow, they had reached a part of him he hadn't even realized he'd been trying to hide.

The abbot hadn’t asked him anything about the sword. Or the cryptisim of his words.

Did he already know about the Bloodblade?

“How did you know?” Flint frowned in confusion,

“…About the Bloodblade. I mean.”

A small smile crossed his face.

“I’ve dreamt of it.”

Flint’s eyes widened.

“Only once. When I was younger than you.”

Flint studied the old man's face, searching for some hint that he was joking, yet the gentle smile never wavered.

“…I spent many years believing it had simply been a strange dream. But the memory stuck with me for decades.”

His eyes drifted toward the crimson horizon.

“And today I realized why.”

He smiled gently.

Flint searched for something to say, yet no words came. The burden on his shoulders hadn't disappeared, nor had the Bloodblade become any less dangerous, but for the first time he no longer felt as though he had to carry it all alone.

Could he one day stop seeing the blade as nothing more than a burden?

“What else do you know about it?” Flint asked gently.

The Abbot shook his head.

“Nothing that will be of use to you, I’m afraid.”

“I see…” The woodcutter nodded, choosing not to press any further.

𓌏

By the following morning, the monastery had already begun to stir once more. The smell of freshly baked bread drifted through the courtyard as the three travelers fastened their packs, where several monks and sisters had gathered by the gate to bid them farewell.

The elderly sister who had taught Isla smiled as she adjusted the girl's cloak.

“Remember. Magic isn’t measured by how much mana you spend. Only by how much is needed.”

She gently pinched Isla’s cheek.

“You’ll become a wonderful mage.”

Isla laughed softly.

“Thank you. I’ll keep what you said at heart.”

A familiar monk walked toward Murry.

“Travel safely, brother Murry. God bless.”

Murry scratched the back of his neck.

“…Yeah. See you, pal.”

The monk smiled before returning to his work as though nothing unusual had happened.

Murry watched him, eyes narrowed.

“I still think I could’ve carried three.”

Flint was munching on a piece of freshly baked bread as he walked to his comrades when a familiar voice stopped him.

“Young man.”

Flint turned to find the Abbot standing a few steps behind him. A smile spread across his face as he came to a stop.

“Abbot. I wanted to thank you.”

The old man shook his head gently.

“I believe you’ve already done that.”

Neither of them seemed in any hurry to speak. In the end, Flint lowered his head in a respectful bow.

“I’ll always remember what you told me.”

The Abbot smiled.

“I wasn’t hoping you’d remember my words. I was only hoping you’d discover their meaning for yourself.”

Flint blinked, his smile widening.

“I think I’m beginning to.”

The old man nodded firmly.

“Travel safely.”

Flint returned the nod before catching up with Isla and Murry just beyond the monastery gates. Together, the three stepped back onto the mountain road, now safe to travel after the horde had passed during the night.

The monastery gradually disappeared behind them, swallowed once more by the mountains.

Some places changed the world, while others quietly changed the people who passed through them. The monastery would never appear in the pages of history, nor would its name be remembered for great battles or legendary heroes. Yet for three weary travelers, it became a place they would carry with them long after the mountain had faded from view.