When Tarun and Mendoji first started out on their journey to Mendoji’s old monastery, they expected the trip would take about a week and a half to go and come back. After several unexpected detours and distractions, they were finally in sight of their destination after six weeks. In the course of that time, they had each saved the other’s life on multiple occasions, and had gained a greater respect and appreciation for one another. They also had some unbelievable stories to share with the others back home.

But those are stories and adventures for another time.

***

As Mendoji’s hooves climbed the icy stone steps of his former home, he felt a chill that was much deeper than the mountain air. It was all so different from his experience the first time he had climbed those steps, and Mendoji’s mind was swept up by the vivid memories.

Mendoji and his mother had approached the monastery carrying packs that contained everything they owned. Mendoji’s young legs and hooves had been sore from the long and rocky climb, but he had forgotten about all of that the moment he had seen the dozens of brightly colored banners flapping wildly in the mountain wind. The orange and yellow flags had been so vibrant that Mendoji had felt as if he were seeing colors for the first time.

“Have we arrived?” Tarun asked, pulling Mendoji back out of the old memory. Mendoji looked sadly at the broken spires and flagpoles that the bright banners had once flown from. Without them, the entire structure seemed to blend in with the same bluish gray stone and white snow as the mountain cliffs surrounding it.

“It would seem so,” said Mendoji. He took a deep breath and adjusted his pack. “Come. We have many more steps to climb before we can find any shelter from this cold wind.”

With each step, the howling of the wind in Mendoji’s ears reminded him of the great horns that used to blow from the monastery to mark the beginnings of festivals, herald new arrivals, warn of danger, and announce every sunrise and sunset. Mendoji repeated a soft, calming chant to himself over and over. As he continued to hear the memories of the great horns echoing across the mountain sides, he tried to assure himself that they were sounds greeting him back home, and not a warning of a returning enemy and traitor. But there was only one way to find out, one stony step at a time.

***

Tarun climbed the steps behind Mendoji, grateful that the tall, broad frame shielded him from the majority from the wind. In fact, there were several things that Tarun was grateful for, and as he continued to ascend each wide, flat step, he tried to count off each point of gratitude. He was grateful for the warmth of the fur cape that the goblin merchant had given him after he and Mendoji saved his life from a cave bear. He was grateful for the sharp sword and tough pengolin hide armor that Mendoji had found for him when the two of them fell into that underground maze. And he was grateful that after so many weeks and so many detours, they were finally within sight of their destination.

A patch of ice on the steps broke away and slipped under Tarun’s foot, nearly making him lose his balance and begin the long, painful fall down the hundreds of stairs they had already climbed. Fortunately his other foot had a firm grip on the ground, and Tarun was able to correct himself. As he looked down at his feet, he realized he had something else to be grateful for. Cucumber slime.

After he and Mendoji had narrowly avoided crossing paths with a huge, omnivorous, wormlike creature in the woods, Mendoji had shown Tarun how to use the slime from the “forest cucumber,” as he called it, to permanently patch up the gash at the toe of Tarun’s left boot that he had accidentally caused with a woodcutter’s axe months before. Since then, Tarun had noticed that the boot sealed with the slime was both more waterproof than his other boot, and it had a bit of a permanent stickiness on the bottom. As that stickiness had now saved Tarun from a nasty slip on the ice, he started hoping they might find some more cucumber slime on their trip back to the Homestead.

Not for the first time, Tarun’s thoughts turned back to the Homestead and his friends there. He thought about his friend Seth, and how the healer was settling into his new role as his clan’s patriarch. He thought about Lady Aluanna, and the band of traveling musicians who loyally followed the gifted enchantress. He thought about her most devoted follower, the satyr Toj, and his brothers Soj and Roj. And he thought about the lively music the band would play every night when the darkness of the evening would remind some of the Homestead’s inhabitants of the gloom that used to lay over the whole Stronghold back when Mendoji was still known as the necromancer Vdekshi, and the Stronghold had been the fortress for his undead army.

Tarun looked up at the minotaur in front of him, quietly walking up the steps. It was hard to believe that this humble monk who he had now traveled with, fought beside, and learned so much from, could be the same person who had been the target of his rage mere months ago. Tarun again looked down at his foot where the damaged boot had been mended, and in many ways strengthened and improved.

Tarun thought about his friend Shon. His first friend. His best friend. Tarun thought about how Shon too had been damaged, far more than any simple cut. But now that he had been healed and was beginning to bond with his own staff, maybe Shon would also end up even better than before. Strengthened and improved like the boot.

Tarun thought about Shon for many, many more steps. He wondered if his friend would be able to hear his thoughts if he thought about him hard enough. “I hope you’re doing alright, Shon,” Tarun thought loudly into the mountain air. “I hope you’re not worried about me. I’m doing just fine. Mendoji and I are taking care of each other.”

A moment later, Tarun got a face full of thick wool as he stepped into Mendoji’s back, bringing Tarun out of his reverie. The minotaur had stopped abruptly in his tracks. A long moment passed and Tarun could see the hot steam of Mendoji’s breath several times before he turned and addressed Tarun.

“Please tread softly now,” Mendoji said in a quiet, reverent whisper. “We’ve arrived.”

***

Mendoji remembered the way his mother’s voice had caught with emotion the first time she introduced him to Sister Quecholli. “I know I don’t deserve to ask to for refuge after the things I said when I left,” his mother had said, “but at least consider taking in my son, Mendoji. He’s such a thoughtful, gentle soul, and he could learn so much from you, Quecholli.”

Before Sister Quecholli could respond, the young Mendoji had passed out, falling face first towards the ground in front of him. Since he hadn’t woken up with any cuts or bruises on his face, he had always assumed that he must have been caught as he fell, either by his mother, or by the wise monastery leader who would go on to become such an important mentor in his life. He never asked about this however. In all the many years since, Mendoji had never completely gotten over the embarrassment of fainting that day.

Mendoji’s mother had told him she was sure he had lost consciousness because she had made him walk all those steps without stopping for a break, even though he was so young his horns hadn’t even come in yet. Sister Quecholli believed it was likely due to the fact that Mendoji simply hadn’t been accustomed to the thin air so high up where the monastery was located. But Mendoji knew the real reason, and he had never told anyone.

When Mendoji had met Sister Quecholli, it was the first time he had ever seen a harpy, and he had been mesmerized simply trying to look at her all at once. The feathers the frilled around her neck were a deep violet, the downy feathers just above her talons were a fiery red, and all the rest of the feathers on her wings and covering the rest of her body seemed to shimmer with every possible color in between. It had simply been more color and beauty than Mendoji’s young mind could have handled, and that’s when the world had spun in great somersaults around him.

He had woken up a few moments later to the sensation of a feather tickling his large nostrils. “Wake up, child,” a gentle voice had said. “Though you may be young, you’re still too big for my old hollow bones to carry inside. You must get up and walk. There will be time for resting soon enough.” Mondoji had opened his eyes to find the same stunningly beautiful harpy looking right at him.

“So m-many c-colors,” Mendoji had managed to stutter out.

Sister Quecholli had cocked her head to one side and smiled with her eyes. “Yes, not very subtle or modest, are they little one?” she had said “Still, we all have our gifts and burdens to bear. Even when they are one and the same.” Then she had given him a wink.

It had confused Mendoji at first when Sister Quecholli hadn’t moved her mouth to speak. She had opened her mouth and the words had come out, but her mouth remained in the same open shape the entire time. As Mendoji got to know Sister Quecholli better over the years, he had learned that like all harpies, she spoke with vocal chords far more sophisticated than his. Her syrinx could produce sounds fully formed in her throat, without needing to shape them with her tongue, teeth, or lips.

Mendoji remembered how, when he had tried to sit up, Sister Quecholli had put a wing on his shoulder and looked at him with a serious expression. “Before you come inside, I must ask you a question,” she had said gravely. “In all the time your mother has been raising you, has she ever mentioned me?”

Mendoji had nervously nodded his head yes.

Sister Quecholli had then stared straight into Mendoji’s eyes and asked, “And what has she said about me?”

Swallowing hard, Mendoji had answered, “She said you’re her favorite person to argue with.”

Cocking her head to the other side, Sister Quecholli had stared at him a moment longer, and then laughter burst out of her like a choir. It had sounded as if she were laughing with three voices at once, all harmonizing together. She had continued laughing until there were tears in her large, round eyes. “A purer soul has never crossed these steps,” she had said with a final giggle.

Sister Quecholli had then thrust out one of her magnificent wings to pull Mendoji’s mother out of her kneeling position into a warm embrace. She had held Mendoji and his mother like that for a long moment, and Mendoji had wished he could fall asleep surrounded by the soft, cozy feathers.

“Burimi, of course you and your son are welcome here,” Sister Quecholli had said. “Always. It’s wonderful to have you back. Now let’s get the two of you fed, clean, and rested. You can tell me more tomorrow about the reason for this unexpected return.”

Standing at the top of the cold steps, with Tarun standing close behind, Mendoji could practically see through his mind’s eye, a vision of Sister Quecholli leading his mother and himself into the monastery to be warmed by their fires, nourished by their food, and taught by their wisdom. Then he blinked, and the vision was gone. Replaced by the bleak, broken, and frozen structure in front of his eyes.

Sister Quecholli had told him he would be welcome there “always,” but that had been more than a lifetime ago. That had been before Sister Quecholli’s mysterious affliction and self-exile. It had been before he had broken his vows and corrupted himself in order to try and save the monastery. And Mendoji felt like so much time had passed that even “always” must have expired by then.

As he silently led Tarun past old courtyards and through the broken doors to the monastery ruins, Mendoji hoped that he might at least be able to bring peace to some of the tortured souls of his former brothers and sisters who might still be lingering in this place. With a heavy heart, he silently lamented that Sister Quecholli couldn’t be one of them.