Who am I?
It was the question he kept asking himself, irregularly, through the course of his life - but so far he had received no satisfactory answer, and he was only partially on his way to figuring it out on his own. He was born, he supposed, in Connlaoth and raised by patrons of the Church who taught him about the Faith of Ansgar. And he believed, he truly did in those lessons; so much so that he had sworn an oath of servitude to this God as soon as he'd reached an age where he was considered old enough legally to make such promises and be expected to follow through.
I am a child of Ansgar.
He probably wasn't that old the first time he voiced his most essential and by all means reasonable question, though at the time most adults with accurate knowledge would brush him off, on the account of his age. Instead of facts he was fed with the above statement. But who were his mortal mother and father?
He was told that his mother had given up her life to become an angel, and that she resided in Heaven alongside others of Ansgar's own choosing. No word of his father. When he persisted wanting to know the man's identity (and had grown old enough to be deemed ready to hear it) his guardians would tell him that his father was, or had been, a horrible man who used magic to corrupt the pure-hearted beings of this world. Joseph's mother had been one of these innocent beings whom his father had soiled with his sinful magic; and in the end only Ansgar himself had been powerful enough to cleanse her soul so that she would become pure again.
Joseph had by that point grown to see his mother's face in the likeness of every female saint or angelic depiction sported in the religious community of Connlaoth; often kneeling in front of such paintings and statues where they could be found, to pray.
He had often felt a bit intimidated by the prospect of speaking directly to Ansgar; and he reasoned with himself - and with others if he were asked - that he feared Ansgar would be too busy to have time listening to a mere child. His mother on the other hand was just that; his mother. Would she not watch over him like the mothers of other children he saw? And would she not kindly bring his word to Ansgar in the opportune time to do so?
Some uncompromising tutors deemed the child a heathen, but in reality he had acted from the very virtue demanding modesty that those same tutors spoke so highly about. And his willingness to do so were deeply rooted in the fear that his father's deeds were somehow reflecting onto him if he did not seek to live in such a way that his mother would be proud of him; and in turn Ansgar, whom eventually he learned to view as a holy Father-figure in place of the man who had failed so miserably at being a man to admire.
The question laid dormant for many years to come; overshadowed by many other, very different ones, and he discovered within himself a passion for pursuing the answers he sought through formal education and scholarship. Until once more it resurfaced. And this time he would not so easily settle. Yes, he was a child of Ansgar - but what more was he?
Still he had received no definite answer to that inquiry - but he had been given something of near equal worth; a clue.
He told himself that it should not be done. His responsibility to the church; no, to the people of Connloath, many of which were suffering through difficult times, were far too vast. Following the inherent trail given to him after all these years would be ill-timed at best. At its worst it might even be considered craven, or foolish; depending on who you'd ask. And yet...
Accompanied by a group of travellers, Father Joseph had left behind him a tense journey through the mountain pass bordering Serendipity. Plagued as they'd been by unfortunate circumstances during the crossing, the company had made a short stay in one of the northern provinces to regroup themselves before making further progress through the bountiful grasslands.
Evidently the area would be considered a particularly good one to enjoy life and the road, as merrily sung by the lighthearted fellow by his side.
The rest of them soon joined in; even Joseph , though he was not even as familiar with the lyrics as the second most dreadful singer among them. Sunshine warmed their bodies as they went, and the improvised musical number erupted into roars of laughter and amused gigglefits. A few commentaries made in good-natured humor were exchanged - but eventually they reached a stretch of a (for the region) unusually dense woodland introducing the group to the first signs of swamps; signalling that the riverlands were not far ahead.
One by one his companions armed themselves with whatever weapon they had hidden beneath their saddlecaps - and each of them tensely viewed their surroundings, clearly searching for a sign of danger - and danger would come.
"No need to be frightened Father," the man closest to him whispered into Joseph's ear. "But it would probably be a good idea to relieve a prayer just about now - that the bandits roaming these parts won't spot us, and start getting ideas. And if you do know to handle a weapon, I bet that's going to be useful - I mean, just in case..."
The warning, as it turned out, was spoken just in the nick of time. The priest had barely enough time to wonder whether his by Connlaothean standards poor battle skills would be a sufficient defence should they be targeted, before the ravaging band of thieves were all upon them.
Wish me luck, mother; and beg Ansgar to lend me a hand.
