The Viscount's Decision

Don't you think making decisions are difficult? Well, here is Part 1 of a short story, a parody of a socio-philosophical ideas ;) Hope you enjoy! For the full thing go to 'The Viscount's Decision' Page.

Part 1

It was a decision, one that had to be made.

It didn’t have to have heart and soul, like so many might say, but it was a decision that had to align with him.

The man had plenty of experience making decisions, he made them every day, in fact: Which of them is guilty or innocent, which of them should be hired or fired, which of the Baron’s letter’s to reply to and send his aid, when to hold a celebration in his own honour. His was a Viscount, after all.

The ‘them’ he was referring to are the townsfolk down in Twyn. Twyn was somewhere in between a city and a town, for it had all the prestige and influence of a city, however the population wasn’t quite so varied. Nathless, the Viscount found his Manor, his personal lands and the league of hills, cliffs and the Sichase river he protected to be pleasant and most certainly not superfluous.

Whenever, his Manor was set upon to host some of those townsfolk, the commoners he liked to call them, he only deigned to visit them for one reason. “Good morning, your grace, how do you do, your grace, we are here for your expertise, your grace.” He liked that honorific, ‘your grace’, it relayed the symphony of congratulations and gratification, apropos to his divine work. Whichever fool proposed entitlement alienated the common man from the peerage ought to be drawn and quartered, as medieval and barbaric as the method was, the Viscount thought. They deserved that right to express their adoration for his noble work. On occasion, he would even ask his wife to call him that – on those days he had thought he had made a mistake.

The Viscount pondered some more. The decision shouldn’t be too difficult, for it concerned his duty to the Viscount, himself and the next, and he always did right by the Viscount.

“Hmm,” he frowned, suddenly recalling a faded memory, far in the distance, sun-bleached and trapped behind a wardrobe.

It was the previous Viscount. The late Viscount had been a grave man, serious and unyielding. He had never failed in his quest to secure his family the wealth and position the current Viscount enjoyed. He had taken his job and his legacy as a solemn oath, no matter how arduous the decision and its repercussions.

That Viscount had come often enough into the current Viscount’s room as a child, muscling in through the small door- frame with his heavy-set jaw, tailored, pressed clothes and his usual litany. He was a giant in the small room, his presence booming and proud, like he knew he was an idol.

However, in this moth-eaten memory, the norm had inflected.

“You are a viscount,” the late Viscount had said in his gravelly growl. “Do you know what that is?”

It was late, the window was dark, and the house was quiet. The servants had left a long ago and his mother had just dragged him crying away from his toys. Now he was tucked into bed, eyes red and raw, throat scratchy and sore. He had shaken his head, because he had been young and ignorant of the ways of the world. Plus, he rarely saw the Viscount and hence rarely dared to speak to him.

“You are a name, a great person,” he had said, his silhouette dark, but his eyes flashed as a sliver of moonlight adorned the Viscount, as though he had commanded the moon to give him a spotlight.

The young viscount-to-be had smiled, awed at his powers. “Like a King?”

The older viscount had frowned then, and the shadows lengthened from his heavy brow, so that he had transformed into a figure from a nightmare, a knight of the underworld.

“A viscount does not dream, that is for the serfs. We make decisions, that is what we have been chosen for – our divine right. A viscount trains in his childhood, away from his toys, so that he can make decisions when others cannot.” He stepped forward, and the young viscount-to-be shrunk back in his silk, plush covers away from this great guardian. “Remember, never let a decision just happen or unfold. Own it, control it. We are a dream. We make decisions.”

The young viscount-to-be had straightened up as he listened and watched the late viscount once more, eyes wide with wonder at his assisted epiphany.

“But, don’t overstep your mark, young viscount,” he said as he turned to leave. “Study hard in your philosophies, young viscount, so you know your duties to those that do not know theirs. You decide what you should be.”

Encouraged by his words and wisdom, the young viscount said bravely as the viscount turned his back to open the door again, “Isn’t it who do not, sir?” He had just had his lesson on decorum and oration that morning.

The late viscount had paused and glanced around, something strange flickering in his eyes. Was that the divine power he talked about? “It was my decision to use ‘that’. Do you want me to call you ‘it’?”

Something lodged in this throat as he stared at the late viscount with those dark shadowed eyes. The present viscount shook his head, what the foolish young boy he had been.

He now recalled those nightmares he’d had as a child, of being swallowed into those infinite obsidian eyes. He had been frightened of that word ‘it’ a lot in his youth. He’d grown out of that word, but that feeling of helplessness lingered whenever he used ‘it’, so he avoided the word and only saw fit to use ‘it’ to make himself feel better.

The previous viscount had been right, of course, about decisions. To control was to own, and to own was to live. Pure and simple was his philosophy. So, who better to make the decision but him?

He had a few things to consider, however, for it was not a simple process for him to provide for his family and his people. He was not the King, but the true King was so far away and hardly called upon him, for he knew the name of Viscount Mont-garret commanded presence and power. Hence, until the King visited, the land he protected was his and the people his to protect. Thus, this decision had to respect the fine balance of leadership, recognising its wholly dependence on this viscount’s decisions.

Philanthropy would promote his image, the Viscount thought at his grand desk, book shelves crammed full of theories of philosophy and the more practicable economics. Experience had taught him the power of adoration and respect amongst the townsfolk, and also how to tip the scales of give and take in his favour if he simply disguised taking as giving.

So what to do?

It would be one more mouth to food, but that wouldn’t break his private accounts. However the mouth would grow to require more food and clothes. There was little need for it to read, he mused. It could aid the new young viscount and his older sister, after it had been trained up a bit.

The Viscount nodded slowly. Yes, he thought. I think I will adopt it.

He rang a bell, the finest for leagues. Let’s see what the Viscountess thinks about this decision.

(if you want to know more, see the rest of the story - The Viscount's Decision)