The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 18. Artistic Choices

Besson was so immersed in his worries, he barely caught another mention of his name.

"While Besson stayed with us, many in the community glimpsed a spark of divine inspiration in him," Father Nikifor was saying. "Given that the boy is of the junior line of your esteemed family, the monastery bids you, Prince, to consider allowing Besson to take the monastic habit."

You asked to be a monk? Why on Earth would you do that?

Besson shifted uncomfortably. I can't marry anyway, and... it's so peaceful here while Uglich broils with strife. It seems like a haven.

Okay, so I got it. Kind of. He was scared out of his wits and wanted a place to hide away from violence, cruelty and court squabbles. But this marriage thing? Unlike me, Besson wasn't immune to girls' charms. Or at least this one girl's charms. You can't marry or don't want to?

Can't. My Uncle has two brothers, so it would be unwise to divide the lands if everyone has children.

It sounded so rational; I didn't know what to say. I dropped into the sixteenth century from the other side of the Age of Reason, while Besson believed in unicorns. I identified as an ace. But here we were, on the wrong debate teams. I—teetering on the verge of defending romantic love. He—explaining the practicalities of committing to celibacy at eighteen.

Perhaps, his mind was only too happy to cut through the tangle of shame, guilt and horror his childhood at Ivan's court left him with. The abstinence beckoned as the most expedient way to shut the lid on that baggage. And yet, and yet...

You felt this girl was special. That's what people felt when they fell in love, or so I was told.

Have you ever been in love, Grisha?

Deflecting much? If he could understand what I meant by that, he could have thrown my question right back at me.

While we wrestled with either our differences or our similarities, uncle Vasilii took a dagger from his belt and used it to clean his nails. Save for the motion of his hands, he sat completely quiet, something so strange for him, it drew attention. For a few moments, the reign of silence was absolute in the guesthouse, respecting the prince's mood.

It seemed appropriate for uncle Vasilii to break it, and he did. "If the Lord answers my prayers and gives me a child or my brother picks a suitable bride, I shall consider your request. Until then, this cannot be done."

Here it was, the ultra-rational sixteenth century staring me squarely into the face, along with the depth of sorrow I couldn't comprehend. Besson started to. His eyes widened. He's old... How did I miss that?

Lineage. Legacy. Lands. I handled these notions as they slipped through Besson's mind like relics unearthed after the untold ages in the ground.

It wasn't by choice, believe you me, since in Besson's mind they blended with a much more relatable compassion for his uncle and his aunt. The couple was getting on in years, childless, and not for the lack of trying. The latter consideration brought blush onto Besson's cheeks and made me roll my eyes, but almost immediately, his heart throbbed with a reminder of his mother's death. It echoed through me.

What amazed me the most, was that Father Nikifor's dark eyes grew solemn as well. "I will pray for you, Vasilii." He sounded sincere, and I thought he would leave Prince Shuiskii to his gloom after this promise, but the monk moved to Besson, placed both of his hands on his shoulders and maneuvered him until they stood before his uncle. "Besson could too."

"Hmm." Uncle Vasilii was still occupying his hands with his dangerous manicure. It was hard to say if his mind was elsewhere or he thought that appearing distraught would help him ignore the monk's not-so-subtle hint that he could make a deal with God: Besson goes to the monastery and Lord grants Vasilli heirs.