In the beginning
Posted: Wed Apr 08, 2009 2:23 pm
The magistrate's patience evaporated under the baby-faced priest's whithering glare.
"Listen to me, Thomasbecket, you ... infantile acolyte! The men you harbor in this abbey have broken the law, and they are to be dealt with! I asked you merely as a courtesy. I needn't ask you, nor will I again. This has gone on long enough!"
"I will not," came the reply, without hesitation or quiver. "They are men of the Church, and it is the Church which will mete out justice, not you. That is how it has always been, and how it shall be."
"Those days of ecclesiastical secrecy and absolutions have ended, Boy. Perhaps the news is slow to travel this far. I do believe the Church has sent you as far into the middle of nowhere as possible, so your ignorance is ... understandable." Rising from his seat, the magistrate added, "Though your arrogance and defiance are less so."
"Have you any more decrees from Theron, Magistrate Amrod?" Thomasbecket asked, gesturing to the hearth.
"Your youth and isolation have made you very brave, Boy. You completed seminary, what, a few months ago? Frankly, how you were given this parish, such as it is, is a curiosity. If nothing else, it's cetainly the subject of intense gossip ... in certain circles. My regards to the Bishop, by the way."
"If only were as well-versed in scripture as you seem to be in vulgarity, there might be hope for you yet, Magistrate. In any event, I tire of this conversation. I will not, under any circumstances, hand those priests to you, but I assure you that they will be dealt with, and they will be dealt with quite harshly. Now, if -"
A shout and crash from the upper floors drowned the priest's words.
"Oh," smirked Amrod, "they will be dealt with, Boy."
Scuffling feet and the jingling of heavy armor preceded the dragoons down the stairs. Two bloodied, limp priests were dragged behind them.
"Damn you, Amrod!" Thomasbecket screamed, his hands beginning to glow with a surging invocation. With surprising strength, the magistrate effortlessly flung the priest to the grey stone floor of the monastery.
"Suicide makes for poor martyrs, Boy," he sneered, punctuating the sentiment with a boot to the stomach. The immediate nausea spidered through his body, and Thomasbecket was immediately quite aware of his impotence and youth as he retched and vomited.
Amrod immediately regreted this turn - was he ever so young, so convinced of anything? Perhaps there was something to be admired in the priest's defiance, wrong-headed and dangerous as it was. The Bishop should have been there, not me, Amrod thought, but that shambolic wretch rarely did anything but count his money and bottles of wine. In any event, the Bishop, Amrod knew, could never face this boy and admit his concessions to Theron. Amrod had wrangled with Thomasbecket for days - the Bishop acquiesced to Theron in minutes, and the centuries-old power of ecclesiastical courts was gutted in a flash. When Theoron instructed Amrod to bring troops to the parish, the Bishop stood beside him, red-faced, looking at his slippers and fumbling with his prayer beads.
No, there was no secret as to why Becket was given this parish. The feeble remnants of virtue in the Bishop's soul took hold, for just a moment, and planted this young seed - perhaps to blossom in a better time to restore the crumbling Church. The corrupt drunkard, however, knew enough to plant the seed far, far away from Silvermoon, if not for Thomasbecket's sake, then for his own.
Thomasbeckett staggered to his feet, the stench of his stomach contents triggered another quesy wave, but he steadied himself and cast a simple heal, pitifully weak but enough to quell the pain. "You cannot do this," he spat.
"But I have. This is the way of the world now, Thomasbecket. I'm sorry."
Amrod closed his eyes and began to softly murmur. Behind him, the abbey wall seemed to wall twist and bend, and with a familiar sound, a portal opened behind him. Amrod flicked his thumb, and the dragoons heaved the priests onto their shoulders and stepped in.
Regarding the bewildered priest with a ripple of compassion, Amrod paused before stepping through himself. "Ask yourself, Boy, who you serve, be-"
"I serve the Church!"
"Do you? Do you serve the church, or do you serve the Light? Perhaps for you they are one in the same?"
"Wha-"
"Far be it for me, a student of the arcane, to tell you your business, Priest. Good day."
The portal snapped shut, leaving only its lingering echo. Thomasbecket sank into a pew, exhausted, trembling, losing control of the fear and despair he had been bottling up since Amrod first appeared days before. The path on which he once firmly stood felt as though it were falling away beneath him. For the first time in his life, Thomasbecket had doubt.
"Listen to me, Thomasbecket, you ... infantile acolyte! The men you harbor in this abbey have broken the law, and they are to be dealt with! I asked you merely as a courtesy. I needn't ask you, nor will I again. This has gone on long enough!"
"I will not," came the reply, without hesitation or quiver. "They are men of the Church, and it is the Church which will mete out justice, not you. That is how it has always been, and how it shall be."
"Those days of ecclesiastical secrecy and absolutions have ended, Boy. Perhaps the news is slow to travel this far. I do believe the Church has sent you as far into the middle of nowhere as possible, so your ignorance is ... understandable." Rising from his seat, the magistrate added, "Though your arrogance and defiance are less so."
"Have you any more decrees from Theron, Magistrate Amrod?" Thomasbecket asked, gesturing to the hearth.
"Your youth and isolation have made you very brave, Boy. You completed seminary, what, a few months ago? Frankly, how you were given this parish, such as it is, is a curiosity. If nothing else, it's cetainly the subject of intense gossip ... in certain circles. My regards to the Bishop, by the way."
"If only were as well-versed in scripture as you seem to be in vulgarity, there might be hope for you yet, Magistrate. In any event, I tire of this conversation. I will not, under any circumstances, hand those priests to you, but I assure you that they will be dealt with, and they will be dealt with quite harshly. Now, if -"
A shout and crash from the upper floors drowned the priest's words.
"Oh," smirked Amrod, "they will be dealt with, Boy."
Scuffling feet and the jingling of heavy armor preceded the dragoons down the stairs. Two bloodied, limp priests were dragged behind them.
"Damn you, Amrod!" Thomasbecket screamed, his hands beginning to glow with a surging invocation. With surprising strength, the magistrate effortlessly flung the priest to the grey stone floor of the monastery.
"Suicide makes for poor martyrs, Boy," he sneered, punctuating the sentiment with a boot to the stomach. The immediate nausea spidered through his body, and Thomasbecket was immediately quite aware of his impotence and youth as he retched and vomited.
Amrod immediately regreted this turn - was he ever so young, so convinced of anything? Perhaps there was something to be admired in the priest's defiance, wrong-headed and dangerous as it was. The Bishop should have been there, not me, Amrod thought, but that shambolic wretch rarely did anything but count his money and bottles of wine. In any event, the Bishop, Amrod knew, could never face this boy and admit his concessions to Theron. Amrod had wrangled with Thomasbecket for days - the Bishop acquiesced to Theron in minutes, and the centuries-old power of ecclesiastical courts was gutted in a flash. When Theoron instructed Amrod to bring troops to the parish, the Bishop stood beside him, red-faced, looking at his slippers and fumbling with his prayer beads.
No, there was no secret as to why Becket was given this parish. The feeble remnants of virtue in the Bishop's soul took hold, for just a moment, and planted this young seed - perhaps to blossom in a better time to restore the crumbling Church. The corrupt drunkard, however, knew enough to plant the seed far, far away from Silvermoon, if not for Thomasbecket's sake, then for his own.
Thomasbeckett staggered to his feet, the stench of his stomach contents triggered another quesy wave, but he steadied himself and cast a simple heal, pitifully weak but enough to quell the pain. "You cannot do this," he spat.
"But I have. This is the way of the world now, Thomasbecket. I'm sorry."
Amrod closed his eyes and began to softly murmur. Behind him, the abbey wall seemed to wall twist and bend, and with a familiar sound, a portal opened behind him. Amrod flicked his thumb, and the dragoons heaved the priests onto their shoulders and stepped in.
Regarding the bewildered priest with a ripple of compassion, Amrod paused before stepping through himself. "Ask yourself, Boy, who you serve, be-"
"I serve the Church!"
"Do you? Do you serve the church, or do you serve the Light? Perhaps for you they are one in the same?"
"Wha-"
"Far be it for me, a student of the arcane, to tell you your business, Priest. Good day."
The portal snapped shut, leaving only its lingering echo. Thomasbecket sank into a pew, exhausted, trembling, losing control of the fear and despair he had been bottling up since Amrod first appeared days before. The path on which he once firmly stood felt as though it were falling away beneath him. For the first time in his life, Thomasbecket had doubt.