"my father once told me that respect for truth comes close to being the basis for all morality." from basim
athelstan smiles, a small expression that warms his face. the other man does not mention family. the monk is honoured to be told even a needling truth. he does not mind basim's needling, his provoking questions. his blasphemy. the light of his smile is in athelstan's eyes when he asks with genuine affection, "your father was wise, then? as you, basim."
there is quiet in this corner of the rectory, near the well grown all around with box and blackthorn. the others do not wish to be too near to athelstan—like a bad animal, they tolerate his presence without acknowledging it. his scars remind him of the dangerous potential in their own failures. so, too, do they give basim his berth, even if the bishop welcomes him. they are afraid of him. of his foreignness and his treacherous questions that they are not equipped to answer, every one a trap. as is his tendency, athelstan walks willingly in—plainly submitting to the danger.
"conflict arrises from what men must agree upon as truth."
athelstan has his habit in his lap, wearing only his white tunic that is usually beneath it. the hem of the roughspun sack cloth is torn and he is at work mending it with quill and thread borrowed from the storehouse. basim is seated near him. not so near as athelstan would like, if only to be closer to the comforting resonance of the man's voice. it has a pitch like chant. athelstan feels it in his chest when basim speaks.
"in all great and honest conviction, i know there is a kind of truth. i have seen it, felt it. been under its sway. i have been called to believe strongly even in those who i know lie—because in the passion of their conviction there is truth, even where all else is measurably false. what you describe... is faith, is it not? we know truth through shared trust. trust and faith are active and reactive, subject to change in most, not absolute. so too is respect."
he is focused on his task but still athelstan's brow knits and his eyes flick errantly upward time and again, seeking basim's face. he is caught by it, longing to indulge, to immerse himself there. there is knowledge behind basim's eyes, knowledge that athelstan wants. it is his great weakness in life, his worst sin outside the fickle tenderness of his in-born heart. so easily moved. so easily broken.
"then—morality is a kind of faith. we must believe in it, or it has no real power in our lives." the statement has a blasphemy that moves in many directions, enough that it would fluster the bishop badly. but basim is not a man easily flustered. basim goes about, prodding the brothers with his impossible ideas. brothers who, though they have that name, are as a strange to athelstan now as though they were birds and fish all being made to fit in the same confused and unnatural nest.
"if morality is faith, then the law is its ritual. it is an act of worship. as a monk dedicates his life to the worship of god, a just man worships justice. that would be a comforting thought to those who believe they they act in the right. but—" athelstan knots the thread and draws the tail up to his mouth where he severs it gently between his teeth. the hole in his habit is closed up. taught to mend in the monastery when he was very young, athelstan's stitches are neat, even beautiful. "it allows for men to make idols of themselves and their institutions all the same."
the monk sets his habit in his lap and looks earnestly into basim's face. he tries to think of basim's father, his mother. those he may have loved, once. those he may have lost. there is something there he cannot name. a feeling like fear or reverence, or perhaps too eager an adoration, rises in athelstan's throat.
"in god's absence we invent him, basim—such is our loneliness."
