Strong autumn winds howled its arrival all around us. They promised a harsh winter.

Dark hills rolled endlessly from where we stood, the ends of our black robes flapping. My brothers and I gaze onto a vague point on the far horizon. Brother Blake, our eldest, stood like an ancient oak tree; immovable even as the winds buffeted us. We surrounded him like black obelisks. Crows congregated in the twilit sky, cawing and circling above our heads. They have always welcomed us into our new home.

Woodrow’s silky voice cut through the unceasing winds as if he was standing beside me. “My, he’s taking his time.”

“Unlike you, Woodrow, Brother Swithin knows not to dawdle.” Knox sniffed, his gravelly voice impatient. He scanned the horizon. “Though, I must incline to agree. I wonder how far we’ll be traveling this time.”

Darkness rapidly swallowed the faint cloudy light above. It did not matter: we see well enough in the dark. But our nimble brother didn’t take quite so long in his travels. Did he perhaps encounter danger on the road? Could it be possible his heightened senses somehow failed to alert him of danger? There were increasing reports of villagers, townspeople, and city-dwellers resorting to violence even as we helped them. They are the ones still desperate to survive in this gloomy world, while nobles stay safe cooped up in their castles and keeps. I’ve heard of one noble that hunted all the animals in his forest, leaving his people to starve. He wanted to wait out the desolate world with his heirs. The noble bloodline lasted for three days before the people barged into the castle and ate whatever had meat on their bones. It was a gruesome event that reached beyond the boundaries of this country. Depending on who you asked, it could be taken either as a warning or a lesson. Not both. Peasants and their lords and knights eyed each other warily.

I shook my head. But, surely, Swithin had the means to defend himself from rogues. Surely, rogues presented no challenge to him at all; he could run, he could escape. He could fight back.

Finally, a movement. There! In the far distance, a lone figure appeared. The landscape stretched far ahead, but in no time at all, the figure crossed the ridges and humps of these rocky, grassy hills. I counted ten breaths, ten quick breaths for Brother Swithin to reach us. Swithin the Swift, we called him. He was the perfect messenger and scout; able to cross mountains in half a day, and though we relied on his speed, his sharp senses have saved us many times on the road. Traps were, after all, getting far more advanced than my elder brothers would have liked.

Swithin caught his breath; a clear sign of how far he’d traveled. He stood in front of Brother Blake and kissed his hand.

I grabbed Wilbur’s arm instinctively. It was an involuntary movement; reverting back to a child whenever my older brothers demonstrated their abilities. I hated myself for it. Years had passed since they found me and showed me their unnatural gifts, yet I still get unnerved. It was as if I kept forgetting like my memories were maturing tadpoles swimming out of a crowded pond.

Wilbur patted my hand, his gloves soft on my skin. Out of all my brothers, it was him I was closest to. I thought perhaps it was because he looked ordinary; his face wasn’t as gracefully sculpted as Woodrow’s, and his legs carried little litheness. Instead, he had warm hazel eyes, and a warmer smile he summoned just for me. He never harmed me – apart from the days when he took samples of my blood for analysis. But I went into that pain willingly. It was to discover my mysterious illness, after all.

His specialty was brewing potions and other wonderful medicines for ailments. Only he can concoct the red-gold elixir that kept me strong. Only he can understand the power of nature; in his skilled hands, petals and pebbles and herbs became cures.

But my affection for my brother Wilbur grew when he did not treat me like an enigma in an already odd group. His work was his main priority, of course. Brother Blake demanded it. But he was patient, he was kind. He put my needs above his own. That was more than enough.

Swithin nodded to Brother Blake. “It is quite far. Perhaps a week on foot. For you all.” I can see the smile under his hood. “But it’s a proper monastery, Brother. One of the few good ones we’ve seen in a long time. It still needs repairs, of course. Ivy and vines and moss have taken some of the walls. The stone walls themselves need fresh cementing.” He paused. From under his hood, I can see his mouth chewing his next words. “There is also a proper village near it.”

Woodrow huffed excitedly. Brother Knox and Blake, however, remained silent. They shared an indiscernible look, passing words with their eyes. Brother Knox nodded to Swithin. “How big is this village?”

“It could be a proper town after a few decades.” Swithin’s voice lowered, though no one but us can hear him. “But with our help, we can shorten the period of development to a couple of years.”

It was apparently good news to Knox. He stroked his chin and murmured something in his satisfaction. Something about his actions seemed strange. Knox never looked this pleased. He often looked sinister, like a cat planning to pounce.

Swithin then threw a look at Woodrow, eyes attentive, chest heaving, anticipating further details about the village’s layout. Swithin shook his head. He addressed Woodrow, but his eyes stared at the last sliver of sunlight. “Yes, brother. This one has a pub. A small one, but you can see to its expansion soon. And, coincidentally, plenty of good-looking youths.”

Swithin bit his lip. For a moment, he looked worried. He was about to continue when Woodrow whooped. He thanked all the stars, all the constellations in the night sky.

“I am glad we have our priorities sorted.” Brother Blake said dryly.

“Why did you hesitate when you told us about the village?” Knox asked.

“I cannot quite describe it, Brother, but I could not hear their voices as much. It was like my ears were clogged with water. There are also parts in the town that tricked my vision, like one of your illusions. I thought I saw a church and a road leading to a crypt, but then it was gone. Nothing there but trees and houses.” He jerked a thumb behind him. "The monastery, too. I cannot place the sensation, but there seems to be a presence lurking there."

Woodrow's laughter tinkled in the air. "Are you implying that there are ghosts in the monastery, Swithin?"

Swithin shrugged. "I told you. My senses seem off there. I hope it wears off as soon as we claim the grounds." He folded his arms and challenged him lightly. "Besides, is it so impossible to believe that there are wandering spirits around? With our existence."

"Yes, but in all our years walking on this earth -- with them presumably -- you'd think we'd have encountered at least one of them before."

Knox cut through their conversation. “As much as this conversation of deceased spirits fascinates me, I find this dulled senses of yours a bit peculiar, Brother Swithin. You cannot be weak from using your powers so soon.”

“That is just it. I do not feel weak, and even when my powers waned, I can still see and hear over great distances. My legs would still carry some speed.” Swithin looked flustered. They all didn’t like the weight of weakness. They dare not disappoint Brother Blake.

Brother Blake looked at the night sky, the clouds covering some of the brightest stars. “Do you feel all right now?” Thick clouds followed us, too.

“Yes, Brother. As I walked away from the village and monastery both, the world opened up to me again, crisp with detail.”

“Very well. We shall try to uncover that mystery once we get there. Let us hurry while the darkness hides us. Lead the way Brother Swithin.”

We walked in the formation of birds: one led the way as the rest spread. This was the only time Brother Swithin walked in front. I asked him before if he felt any different moving at a normal pace. Does it feel like slowing yourself down like a snail? He told me no, that our normal speed was the same for him, or else that world would be an agonizingly slow place to live in. He also told me that using his heightened senses for long periods tired him out. Like your reflexes are always waiting for an ambush that would never come, he said.

My brothers glided through the night. I, the least graceful of us all, stumbled over rocks that jutted out of the ground. It was necessary now to hold onto Wilbur’s arm lest I fall every step of the way until we reached our destination. I hated this dependency, yet another reminder of my weakness. Knox had scolded me more than enough times to stop being so arrogant, even though I wasn’t trying to be, and allow the others to do their duties without me getting in the way.

Our divine calling, Brother Blake once said. Charm everyone to comply. Heal the sick, feed the poor. Create illusions to pacify their questions, to conceal the real answers staring right back at their faces.

And in all these duties, I have nothing to offer. Long since I concluded that that was probably the reason Knox hated me: I was useless. The only thing that kept me within the brotherhood was Blake’s charity and Wilbur’s affection. And my inability to age, like them all. For decades, we have been walking this land. Years that had so blended together in my muddled mind that I wasn’t even sure of the order of events. All I was sure of was that Wilbur found me in the ruins and cared for me with Blake’s permission and that I was not only unlike them; not fast like Swithin, nor strong as Stuart, not charming and crafty like Woodrow and Wilbur, but simply weak and pathetic. Able to bleed when my brothers had skin like steel. Prone to hunger when their stomachs did not protest without food.

As I cling to Wilbur’s arm, I felt myself a heavy burden, an overgrown child that has overstayed his welcome. I released my grip from Wilbur and strained my eyes to see the path ahead. It was like holding a weak candle on a foggy night. I tripped.

Woodrow laughed as Wilbur helped me up and helped me dust off my robes. “Shut up, Woodrow.”

“Erin, please. Stop being a nuisance.” Knox sniffed, eyeing me from his side of the formation. He stepped forward, disappearing into the darkness outside my vision.

I got up and felt Woodrow’s hand on my shoulder. I shook it away and glared at him. He held his hands up, a show of surrender. “Come now, Erin. I was just teasing. I’m excited, that’s all.” He definitely had that mischief lurking in his mouth. Wilbur and Woodrow were both flanking me as we continued to walk. “I wonder what kind of people there are?”

Wilbur was not amused. “I am certain there are enough pretty maidens and handsome farmhands for you to pluck, dear brother. Not that you’ll have any trouble picking what with your diverse taste, since they seek for your company themselves.”

All of us talked to Woodrow in a tone that ranged from exasperated to irritated. He loved it. It was the reaction he craved from us.

“Company that I give freely, yes. I have offered some your way, brother. And some even went of their own volition, I might add!” He bit his bottom lip, chuckling. “They whisper about the mysterious monk with the quiet monk child tending to the ill. ‘Serious but gentle’, they giggled among themselves. Tell me, brother, do you not notice their cheeks flush when your hands examine their most sensitive –“

“There is a child here, thank you very much.” Wilbur’s hands covered my ears.

“Yes, my very chaste ears,” I said, sarcastically. Swithin laughed in the distance. I must remind myself to share secrets with Wilbur outside the monastery, beyond Swithin’s hearing. I moved Wilbur’s hands away. “Nothing I have not seen nor heard before, brothers.”

Woodrow agreed, and in a surprisingly serious tone said, “Erin may not age, just like us all, and he may forever look like a child, but a child he is not. Not after what he’s seen. Not after what you keep putting him through. But just as well. You don’t get to be in our ranks and keep your innocence, not after all the things we did in this humble quest of ours.

“That is why I don’t treat him like an innocent kitten, Brother. He is a dark monk that will someday find his own power. Who knows, maybe my taunts would bring them out, even if you find it crass. He could be a fellow charmer under those ice-blue eyes of his.” Woodrow licked his lips. “Oh, how delicious that would be. Years of training your little acolyte only for him to stray onto my path. You’ll regret not knowing all my tricks then, Erin.”

Wilbur braced his arms around me as if he was physically trying to prevent me from following Woodrow. Woodrow laughed again; getting a reaction out of Wilbur was one of his favorite things. He certainly couldn’t do that with the rest of the brothers. He charged forth.

“Quite frankly, I worry about your tutelage of him. If you truly view Erin as a child, why is it necessary for him to learn about your twisted version of advanced anatomy using the cadavers we excavate from unconsecrated grounds? Wouldn’t an illustration be enough?” Wilbur was about to answer, but Woodrow cut him off. “You cut open torsos and collect blood in those phials of yours, and then have the unflinching resolve to show him cold intestines and other rotting organs.” He shivered in disgust. “I prefer a heart beating.”

“Those lessons don’t scare me,” I said.

In each monastery we resided at, we must always have an underground room for Wilbur. He needed a private enclosed space deep enough so that the awful smell wouldn’t reach the surface, and to stifle the constant crashes and explosions of his experiments. Jars would line the shelves, glasses filled with a stronger-smelling liquid that both helped mask the stench and preserve different body parts for later use. Sickly, yellow fingers curled at me, unblinking eyes followed my every move. Perhaps it made Woodrow queasy to look at the parts of people he found fascinating, or perhaps it was a reminder that nothing is permanent in this world. Is this the equivalent of what Brother Swithin felt of his reflexes? Woodrow’s vanity and his fear of losing his beauty; to end up as a piece of dead meat on a surgeon’s chopping board, the parts of him removed, scattered, and displayed, but never more admired.

“My tutelage of him is necessary!” Wilbur protested. “We need to analyze each body for their cause of death, and to do that, we have to dissect them. How do you think I come up with such advanced medicine, a hunch? A simple round of trial and error? It takes months before I-” He huffed, frustrated. “It’s not as easy as looking into someone’s eyes and determining their sickness through their irises."

Wilbur defended himself. “Our methods are far better than the primitive bloodletting of their so-called doctors and wise women. I am showing Erin how to handle bodies and learn what I learned so that he could save lives until his powers surface. What will you help him with? Will he help everyone by charming them? Give them a few sweet, intoxicating words before death claims them?”

I watched them argue. In every department, they contrasted each other. My brother Wilbur was silent and studious, having little care for his outward appearance. He wasn’t homely, but he did not care for grooming his thick mop of brown hair. Woodrow’s fiery-red hair burned still in the black sky. He recently mastered the trick of capturing the dying light of the setting sun in the strands of his hair so that it still shone luminous against the pitch-black night.

Woodrow admired the beauty of life before it gets snuffed out, while Wilbur respected the dead and studied them to preserve life. Lives that are getting shorter the more I saw villagers today, despite his efforts, unfortunately.

Blake’s firm voice silenced them. His steps are as soundless as darkness. Wilbur and I tensed even when his voice sounded calm.

“Enough, Brothers. You are giving Brother Swithin quite a show tonight, and giving poor Brother Knox a headache. Woodrow, walk with Knox. Yes, that is your punishment. Saints have mercy, how many times have we scolded you this night?”

Woodrow’s lips immediately pursed shut. He would not speak again until tomorrow. Brother Blake had that effect on us; to unwillingly become the opposite of our nature, of my brother’s powers. I’ve seen before when Woodrow’s silver tongue stammered and Swithin’s senses truly dulled. I’ve heard from Wilbur himself how his mind muddled until there was no order, no reason left. Once Blake was around and used his powers, tempers cooled, sorrow stopped. But so did compassion and generosity. Everything, good and bad, drained away. Your head would be empty of thoughts and your body would move along without you in it, like a half-dead corpse whose only purpose was to do his bidding. All my brothers had experienced this terrible void. I thought perhaps that was the only reason he was our leader. His power. He was shrewd, yes, but so was Knox.

Wilbur told me it was because of something more sinister. He told me that he was the only one that can hear the great otherworldly voice – the one that was responsible for our gifts.

“Do you believe him?” I asked Wilbur once, outside of Swithin’s hearing. We were collecting plants in a hidden valley for his garden.

“I saw it, Erin. It was when the monks claimed me. It was the first memory I had since waking up to this life, foggy as it was. Everything before was empty like I was not born until that day.” Some pagan gods were born that way. Fully-formed, sometimes even wearing their armor. “I woke up on the floor not knowing who I was, like a fawn, blinking against candlelight. I remember Blake standing in front of an altar, praying. I remember there being no wind, no force at all for the embers to dim, but they did. Blake... he was hovering in the air, the whites of his eyes gone. I thought I was beholding a miracle."

Wilbur closed his eyes, clearly not comfortable with the memory. I learned since then that we all had forgotten our lives before our ‘Dark Awakening’ as Blake put it.

“Then there was this horrible chanting. Out of his mouth were Latin and words that were like Latin. Those abysmal eyes looked at me and I was kneeling down on the ground and I felt nothing. Not my hands, nor my feet, nor my neck. I was limp all over. I felt myself getting smaller and smaller, going back into true nothingness, sinking into that black sea.” He shivered. “After a while, I finally felt the earth beneath me. My hands clung to my shoulders, my legs screamed at me to run. But I didn’t. I didn’t think I could. Footsteps echoed on my left. Brother Blake was walking towards me with a pleasant smile on his face as if all that hadn’t happened. I was so scared, that I think I ran up to the edge of a wall. But Blake was calm. He said, ‘you might not remember, Brother, but you chose this life. Now get dressed and help the little boy down in the infirmary.’”

I looked at him. “That was me?”

“That was you. And thank the Four Saints above for you, because you kept me sane all throughout our many pilgrimages.”

Brother Blake now smiled at Wilbur. I wondered briefly if the same smile plastered on his face when he struck my poor brother down? “May I take your charge for a moment, Brother Wilbur? There’s something private I’d like to discuss with him.”

Wilbur’s fingers dug into my fingers softly. He didn’t want me to go alone with him, but he had no choice. Reluctantly, he let go. “Of course, Brother Blake.”