Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

Farewell to Friends

Saturday, 20 Adar, 5693

Francis stepped with some trepidation that sunny afternoon into the office of Arden Ditmer, a noted cleric among the Kingsmen in Garma and long Francis's acquaintance. Though in the past the two had always been friendly, on this particular occasion Francis failed to shake the uncomfortable feeling that something had gone horribly wrong.

"Francis!" proclaimed the thin-faced man with a grin, his brown eyes sparkling in the midst of his tanned skin from the fragments of sunlight which penetrated the room's many windows; "How lovely to see you!"

"Arden, always a pleasure," Francis replied with a warm smile and a courteous nod. He removed his hat and held it, unsure of where it should be properly set.

"I'll take that," Arden offered, indicating that he would expect the trench coat, also. "Thank you for coming. I've been trying to get in touch with some of my friends here in Bevel," the immaculately dressed cleric went on as he carried his guest's outerwear over to a small closet by the door.

"Yes. Well, thank you for the invitation," Francis replied, his eyes scanning the neatly decorated room filled with books and high end furniture. "Tea is an eternal delight!" he commented as his eyes flashed back to Ditmer with a glimmer of joy-filled merriment.

Arden laughed, "Francis LaPorte, I would be utmost astonished to find a man more in love with life than you are. Of course, I am not one to go back on my promises. There's tea there on the table. Help yourself."

"Thank you," Francis replied happily as he went to pour himself a half-cup from the porcelain pot brightly decorated with the orate image of beautiful pink roses.

His host waited for him to collect his drink and promptly offered one of two leather padded office chairs which he had arranged beside each other for comfortable speaking. It wasn't until they had sat and discussed the weather a bit that Ditmer came to the point of their meeting.

"Forgive me, Francis, but it wasn't all good will that called you here," Arden confessed. He said it as if he was joking, but his face suggested some grim seriousness behind the unwelcome statement. "I suppose that you've heard of the two officers who lost their lives in the riots this past week, Associates, members of the Protection Squadron. They will be lying in state here on Tuesday, and I will be conducting the service for them."

Francis watched silently as he spoke, carefully listening for what this all might mean and what Arden might be expecting of him, meticulously selecting the words for a reply.

Still, Arden went on talking, totally unaffected by his colleague's unspoken concern. "President Hausenfelder will be there, along with much of the National Assembly and many of the leading members of the Association — Ronald Truett, even Chancellor Freitag, himself, and I would like for you to join me, Francis! Come and say a few words," Arden invited him warmly with a careless smile; "It's an excellent way to show your support of the new order. So, what do you say?"

"What do I say?" Francis mused with a frown as his eyes fell down to his steaming cup of black tea. "Arden, isn't there more to the church than accolades?" he asked at last, his eyes returning to his friend... or, rather, the man who had been hitherto.

The older man looked at him, stunned. "Accolades! Francis, this is more than just us; this is the hope of our nation — stability and a future are only a short step away," he proclaimed almost frantically, seeming to feel it necessary to defend his honor.

"Do you remember when we honored our King above anyone, Arden?" he asked him calmly, seeking a diplomatic means of speech. "It seems that we've forgotten that. But our obligation is always to him first and then to each other. When all of this talk of strength and stability is through, when you have the protection you so desperately search for, just remember... truth and love must reign; not Freitag."

Ditmer stared at him, speechless. "You're not coming, Francis?" he bumbled.

Francis shook his head. "Arden, it is not my place. These are not good people. I cannot support them, and I must advise you to be very careful. You may find yourself in an inescapable trap," the younger man warned him with a nervous stirring of his tea.

His friend shook his head. "You would betray your country?" he asked disappointedly.

Francis shrugged. "Is it such a betrayal to Garma that I rightly serve my King?" he asked him. "Well, then. Let me be a traitor. Know that I love my country, Arden, but I will not betray my leader."

He stood up, and Arden stood with him.

"There are new laws coming, Francis," he warned him, "stricter laws of obedience to the state. All who are lawful will obey Freitag and show their support!"

Francis turned his head back to look at the confused man who stood behind him, so sold on such an atrocity that he could hardly hope reason with him. "You mean all who are lawless," he quipped, and there was silence for a moment as Francis collected his coat. "Goodbye, Arden," he said, and, without another word, he left him.

Outside the magnificent stone structure of the old cathedral which towered over the city block on Bevel's east side, Francis strode thoughtfully along with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his dark brown coat. He would have very happily continued in his thoughts alone when along came another man walking on the street in the other direction. He was just a normal citizen and, under any normal circumstances, Francis would have greeted him gladly with a warm smile and a tip of his hat, but the chancellor's recent edict had made that all so complicated.

There was no privacy now — not in post, not in press, not in telephone or wire, not in home or belongings, and certainly not in speech. Everything he said or did could be under the careful scrutiny of Freitag's government and the Good Fellows' Association. So, it troubled him when the other man turned with his greying hair, circular glasses, and worn expression to meet with the intense gaze of the wandering theologian.

"Garma above all," the man said with raised hand as he passed casually by him.

The words made Francis's heart sink, and his eyes pulsed with a sudden shot of discomfort.

"Garma above all," he replied half-heartedly, but he felt sick when he said it.

He turned his eyes down again, away from the man, and stared flat at the pavement. He felt as though a rock had settled in his stomach and an immeasurable weight fell over the broad width of his shoulders. He knew he had some letters to write — farewells to colleagues, farewells to friends. These were no passing acquaintances; they were men he had known for a long time, men he had loved, trusted, and confided in, and now... from whom he felt so eternally separated. He blinked his stinging eyes as his heart rent inside of him. He had never felt so alone.