Tradesman

Hanno stood from the chair, hands tucked behind his back as he spoke.

"We do not oppose the people of Vetia, nor do we come to preach our religion. Upon our consideration for trade, we were assured that Vetia is a melting pot and that we would be welcomed and allowed to practice our beliefs freely. And I have been greatly influenced by the hospitality I have received, in which I admit your son played a major role. Though his wish to join our community and worship in our temple was unexpected to us, just as it is now to you. We thought it was Vetian custom to do as such, so we welcomed him just as he welcomed us. Now he wishes to worship our god over you, and I assume that is why you have set out to remove us from these lands. I assume that's why you have told the people to boycott our businesses and protest our presence. But I assure you, you hurt no one but yourself over a matter this small."

The translator was jumpy and swift. And after he was done speaking, the priest slammed his fist against the armrest.

"To you, it might be a small matter."

"It is indeed. Perhaps my foreign ideas render me unable to understand the severity of the situation," said Hanno after a momentary pause, choosing his words carefully.

"Your religion is passed onto you through nomads, is it not?"

"Yes," Hanno responded.

"Your preachers never marry, nor do they bear children. Your religion is a product of a rambler's fantasy," the great priest said slyly.

"We believe only that our desires distract us from soul-searching. Our preachers do not make families, yes. But our beliefs do not change to the will of ramblers; our god is rather firm on his final word." Hanno's voice echoed in the grand hall.

"Your god—" the priest scoffed. "Your god wants you to not experience any of life? He wants you to live in the woods? Never to have children? Your kind should have died out long ago."

"I'm assuming you speak from curiosity. However, your hostility is greatly offensive." Hanno now wore a disparaging frown. His temper was untouched, yet today, he felt his emotions swirling in a goblet, ready to spill.

His words were ignored. The translator himself chose to listen rather to the priest. "Tell me, Hanno Galloway, if that is worship, then why do you wage war? Why do you trade and live in such a grand manor? Are you a sinner? Has my son been manipulated by a devil?" said the priest as he leaned out of his chair as if ready to pounce on Hanno.

"I trade, and in that is my worship. I am honest in my work and have not stolen from your people. I have only been honest with you therein. I live in a manor for the same reason you live in a grand temple—because I am a human with no holy spirit, and those before me, my ancestors, were slaves to their desires."

When the words were said, they all gasped together. He was tinkering in the wrong place, but he did not recoil from his form.

The priest screwed his eyes. "I'm assuming you want no forgiving for your transgression, Hanno Galloway."

"I will apologize if I see any wrong on my part."

"You have waged war on my insight. You have torn my family away from me. Then you crave my understanding? You have corrupted my son's heart." He pointed at Hanno in an accusatory way.

Hanno let a moment pass before responding. "Your son sought refuge in my world. I did not drag him from yours." His voice was measured, his hands still folded neatly behind his back. "If I have done any wrong, it is only by offering kindness. He was an apprentice who drank day and night. Was he not corrupted then?"

"I see it is in your religion to backbite as well." The priest smirked at Hanno. The entire hall erupted in laughter as he said that. But Hanno was taken only by the shrill laughter of the woman up above. Her smile exuded coldness, yet he could not help but feel alive, neither could he steal his eyes away.

"Never. He is my companion, and I assure you, you will grow fonder of him. He's a much more graceful man now. His kindness—" he said absentmindedly.

"You call it kindness," the priest spat. "I call it murder."

Hanno sighed, tilting his head slightly. "If you believe kindness is theft, then your faith is built on fear."

Gasps echoed through the chamber, followed by a tense silence so thick it smothered the air. Even the priestess above felt the weight of them, her fingers tightening around the banister as she searched Hanno's face for something—remorse, defiance, anything.

The priest rose from his seat, his fists clenched. "You speak as if you have wisdom, as if you understand what it means to have faith! But you, a man of trade, a man of foreign gods—you know nothing."

"Perhaps," Hanno admitted. "My personal belief is that kindness is owed. Grace is from God alone."

"I do not care for your philosophy or your concept of grace. In Vetia, if you turn your back on your god, you become an enemy of the state, a hypocrite. We decree death for those who turn their backs to our people for a foreign nation." It was heard across the room, and everyone fell silent. Even the priestess had suddenly fallen still and serious. And for a moment, as she returned his gaze, he felt electric. He couldn't help but lower his gaze.

"Would a father do that to his son?" Hanno asked with genuine concern.

"I have done nothing to him. He was killed the moment he renounced his faith. He became foreign to me and my people," the priest responded with an icy shout. And as though his temper were a reserved deed, he withdrew it. He fell back onto his chair again, and through jittery lips, he spoke. "Tell me, Hanno Galloway, if a man barges into your house, claims himself a seat as a guest, and then kills your only son, what punishment would you give to him? Should you pray for his guidance? Pray for your patience? What would you ask of your god?"

Hanno was taken abruptly by the question. He was humbled by the presence of the priestess and opposed the priest vehemently. But he spoke truth.

"You speak of a murdered son, but yours is alive."

"He is dead to me. To all of Vetia. And you have killed him."

"I am not a preacher like you, so I will not suppose a state of mind where God should direct me to do the greater thing. If someone killed my only son, then someone is getting killed."

Hanno could sense the eyes of the priestess on his skin. They were icy and empty. They had no bearing of God. No. Yet he felt his heart skip at the sound of her whispers.

The priest smiled faintly. "I have learned a great deal from our conversations about you, Mr. Galloway," he said with a sudden calmness that felt practiced, as if he were himself in admiration of his demeanor.

"So have I. I assume you will call off your protests and boycotts. These matters are personal and should be discussed in private. Now, if you will excuse me." Hanno bowed to the man on the throne before stealing a glance at the priestess of Vetia.

She had been drained of all color. Her wide eyes met his gaze for only just a second before she looked away herself.

"Yes, please," said the priest, but Hanno had already walked away, dismissing himself before a man who steered the fates in the name of God.