Boring. That is what I used to think of this life I was born into. Looking back a more apt term might have been “stable.” Mom and Dad were commodity traders. If the price was low enough they’d buy anything in any quantity and more often than not they’d make a profit on it. Learning to read I was told it would be an important skill for understanding the language of contracts and being able to predict future trends based on studying market history. I never really used it for that. How could I when the history books held so many better stories than those involving potato famines? No promised profit could turn me away from the tales of far off wars, assassinated kings, or magical creatures. We lived in a world where the dead could rise or fairies could cause earthquakes and I was expected to focus on the price trends of green tomatoes.
I played along as well as I could. Did what I was told during the day to day and turned to my books under the cover of dark. Swords and sorcery, noble knights and villainous vagrants; these thoughts filled my dreams and that is where I kept them for a while. But every boy, over a long enough timeline, eventually becomes a man. Soon I found that spending the nights with my books just wasn’t able to keep the wanderlust at bay any longer. Much to the chagrin of my parents I took what money I had saved and set out to find a life I could be proud of. Well….at least one that wasn’t quite so dull.
Maybe I should’ve paid a bit more attention to economic trends because after burning the bridge that was my relationship with my parents I found myself leagues from home and broke. Who knew how quickly a new sword and shield could drain your coin pouch. Far from home, tired, poor, and hungry I found myself at the doors of a monastery. I must have looked worse than I felt because the monks took pity on me and allowed me to stay with them, in exchange for work, without requiring me to take the oaths of their order.
Old habits die hard I suppose and I was once again in the routine of fulfilling daily expectations while reading anything I could get my hands on at days end. The reading selection at a monastery turned out to be rather disparate from those found in the city. In place of battles and barons the topics focused more on the humble and the holy. While my nightly readings still served to send me far away from my present state, in my mind at least, I didn’t find it nearly as appealing. I was used to tales on spilling blood not stopping its outward flow.
At first I thought this new avenue of study was failing to imprint on me as past tomes had but that was until…the incident. I only call it that due to the impact it had on me and not because it was anything truly remarkable, especially considering all the things that exist out there in our world. One of the monks had gotten into the wine a little early in the day when he had kitchen duty. This led to him adding the tip of one of his fingers to the carrots meant for the stew. I was doing dishes at the time when I heard the scream.
Out of sheer panic I grabbed a rag and wrapped the newly created sanguine fountain in an attempt to stem the flow. My mind went blank, adrenaline kicking in, and almost as a defense mechanism I was flooded with thoughts of my recent readings. Something must have clicked at that point as my makeshift compress began to glow. No, it was me who was glowing. A blinding sphere of white light grew from my hands until it filled my vision. Humming softly, at first, until the sound finally built and erupted in unison with the sphere. The deafening silence that followed was made all the more beautiful by the motes of pure energy evaporating and fading throughout the room. It was a moment before I realized the silence I was hearing was lacking the incoherent scream I was hearing mere seconds earlier. I quickly glanced at the drunken monk’s face who seemed to be just as confused as I was.
I slowly released the pressure I was maintaining on his appendage until the bloodied rag fell to the floor. To the surprise of both of us his fingertip had regrown and, while bloody, was perfectly functional. I didn’t know what to do so I just went back to washing dishes and the monk washed his hands and went back to cooking. Still drunk, though; I couldn’t cure that.
The following day I was approached by a monk name Luximus. He explained that the monastery would send out monks at the request of nearby villages to aid in fighting disease and injuries. My current work was in exchange for room and board but he offered to apprentice me. I could accompany him on his outings and when he deemed me skilled enough I could answer these requests myself. The people whom they help usually offer recompense in the form of donations. If I offer up a fraction to the monastery I could keep the rest myself and he would consider that compensation in return for his tutelage.
Two years have passed since I struck that deal and my understanding of the healing arts has only grown. I still haven’t gotten any use out of my sword and shield but they remain as shiny as ever. Luximus tells me I’ve reached the end of my practicum with him and if I wanted to continue to grow my skills I would need to seek out new sources of knowledge and continue to apply what I have learned. To that end he offered a suggestion: the library in Ilia.
It is there, he says, that I may be able to begin to find what I am looking for. Despite my love of reading and my eagerness to learn a trip to a library doesn’t exactly sound thrilling. Then again, neither did an extended stay in a monastery. And so I set out, eastward, toward the continent of Parvpora leaving my great mentor behind. Looking towards what is to come I am reminded of when I first left home just a few years ago. Even now I hold on to the same simple desire: I hope it’s not boring.