Old Habits

1 - Courage

Father Abaye, a man hired for his man-management skills, really didn't get along with people.

Oh, he could deal with priests, and servants, and workmen. Even civilian visitors to the monastery, if he knew what they wanted. People, however, were a puzzle to him. Abaye could just about handle professionals, but on a personal level he was lost. Without a strict agenda, conversations were anarchy. Names, unlike job titles, told him nothing about the person he'd met. "Normal" people were anything but, and without rules and protocols he found them confusing, unpredictable, and very, very scary. Abaye would never get used to them.

He hadn't met many people. His father, now Brother Berith, had brought him to the monastery as an infant. Abaye couldn't remember his mother, or a life outside of those stone walls. His father, not one to answer questions, hadn't helped. All Abaye knew was that Berith had arrived one day, destitute, with only three requests.

First, that he become a monk. Second, that Abaye was to be taken care of, in the monastic orphanage. His third request was that no questions would be asked. They hadn't been. The monastery had taken in many strangers over the years, fleeing past troubles. In fact, if he'd arrived alone, Berith would have been far from unusual.

 If he hadn't brought a child.

Monks, as a rule, were celibate. The monastery raised orphan children as a service to society, but monks were forbidden from having any themselves. This seemed illogical to the forward-thinking Abaye, with the presence of the orphanage surely removing any burden on the parent monk, but it was thought that the emotional connection would be a distraction.

It hadn't been one for Berith. Now one of the most senior and respected monks, his unstoppable rise to power had not been hindered by the son he barely visited. That is, until last spring, when the old Abbot had died, and Abaye had been selected above Berith, the favourite, to replace him.

City authorities, mindful of changing times, had wanted a young and dynamic leader to drag this monastery into, if not the present, then the not-too-distant past.

Their relationship had grown even colder after that. A stranger of his mother, estranged by his father, raised by strangers, as a monk Abaye was forbidden from loving others and, as a professional, forced to stay distant from those around him. He had not met many people, and so they confused him. Abaye was Father of the biggest family in the city, and yet he had never felt more alone.

He knew how to give speeches, but not how to make small talk. He could chair a meeting, but was lost amongst chat. He could command great crowds without fear, but, left alone with a stranger, he turned to jelly. The monks in the orphanage had taught him how to be a leader, but they had never thought to teach him how to be a boy. Now, he didn't know how to be a man.

He held power over a great number of people, yet they terrified him. Every single one.

Right now, it was the people in The Shape. He bowed his head as he passed by, grateful for the cover of his ceremonial robes, and yet cursing their flamboyance. Scuttling through packed crowds, he listened as an outsider to the sounds of everyday life. Salespeople were as muggers, calling for his money. Greetings, in the husky tones of street urchins, sounded like threats. People of all sorts, living lives he would never understand.

And then there were the protesters.

The Shape was their home, but they were a feature of the whole city. It had once been called The Square, and then The Rectangle, and then The Diamond. The voices of Lydelia believed passionately in no fewer than three alternatives at once. What was remarkable was not that they protested anything and everything (from Foreign Policy to the weather, and sometimes both at the same time), but that they protested both sides. For every set of protestors, there were antitestors. For every group protesting that taxes were too high, another group would be complaining that they were too low.

Fortunately for the King, the two sides typically negated each other. Consequently he could generally get away with not listening to either, and just doing whatever he wanted. If the 99% screamed injustice that 1% had most of the wealth, the 1% could call minority persecution. If the proletariat rose, the antiletariat would rise as well; in both cases, the diplomatic solution would be to do nothing. In this sense, unlike any other, King Malkior was a model of tolerance.

The one exception, when the protestors had actually achieved something, had been in overthrowing the King himself. A group of republicans had argued, quite convincingly, that this tendency to protest showed a preference for democracy over monarchy. They'd stormed the Palace, thrown out the King, and held an election.

What they hadn't counted on was that people rather liked tradition, and stability, and that the King really was very charismatic as a leader. In the absence of any well-known challengers he'd won by a landslide, and his first move as Prime Minister had been to eliminate the democratic system. It had been a revolution in the full sense of the word, and the republicans had all decided to take long holidays. Hardly a success.

Abaye was on his way to see the King now. He hurried from the noise and business of The Shape, and adopted a more regal stride through the cobbled streets to the Lydelian Palace. Even to a man used to the looming, sculpted facade of the monastery, the Palace was impressive. In the dawn light it cast a shadow over the city, a constant reminder to its people. It didn't have to be a reminder of anything, of course. It just generally reminded.

This morning, it was reminding Abaye that he was a very small man in a very big world. In actual fact he was almost average-height, and current science was leaning towards the idea that there were much bigger worlds out there, but memories don't always have to be accurate. Nothing demonstrated this further than the curious observation that, if it wasn't for misplaced nostalgia, the palace might today be playing host to a form of rudimentary parliament.

By this time he had reached the gate, where a single guard awaited him.

"Father Abaye. To see his majesty." He spoke clearly, forcing himself not so much to suppress the tremor in his voice, but to rescue his voice from the ocean of tremor in which it swam.

The guard did not speak: a blessing. Abaye followed him into the cavernous antechamber of the King's throne room, kicking himself for being so nervous. This was, as one might expect, a practice requiring great balance: one of the few qualities of his person of which Abaye was proud. Presently, the pair came to a row of chairs, and the guard motioned for the monk to sit whilst he continued through.

This chamber, like the rest of the palace, was designed both to impress and to intimidate. Look at what I can create, it boasted, but also fear what I could destroy with this same power, should you displease me. Portraits of the King and his predecessors lined the walls. Gazing down upon visitors with a look of haughty derision, a newcomer would think them a good preparation before meeting the man who lived and reigned here.

They would be mistaken. Portraits, especially those of the wealthy, were intentionally made to show their subjects as more impressive. This often rendered the men themselves something of a disappointment. King Malkior, though, was the opposite. The man radiated power. No imitation could fully dilute that, but neither could any compete with the real thing. 

Abaye looked up: the sound of footsteps had interrupted his musing. It was the guard. He opened his mouth to speak, but Abaye already knew his words well.

"He is ready for you."