He would have to raise his hand in front of the entire class if he wanted to leave. If he did that, all of the other kids in class would look at him. If he didn’t do it, he would be late and his dads would be angry at him, maybe even yell. It had happened before. Do it, don’t do it, do it, don’t do it. His breath came quicker as the options swirled around his head, pummeling at him, forcing him to decide. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t make the decision.

He was shaken from his panicking thoughts by the teacher’s dismissal. In his distraction, the decision had been made for him, and he was unhappy with the result.

“I—I mean, there’s no way that I am the correct person to do this,” Alvin said. “I’ve got—got no crede-cred…”

The word refused to come to mind, and Alvin quickly gave up. “I’ve got no chutzpah.” Not exactly what he meant, but close enough. He looked up at Dietrich. The old dwarf was upside-down for some reason. So was his chair. And the broad desk next to him. Alvin shook his head, trying to clear out the warm, fuzzy cotton in his mind that was making everything far more difficult than it needed to be.

He was on his back. Ah, Dietrich wasn’t upside down, Alvin was. He flipped over onto his stomach, fought down the resulting nausea, and reached for the wooden cup that he had brought in with him. It was here somewhere, he was certain of it. Mostly certain. Why weren’t his eyes working? Oh. They’re closed.

“Alvin,” Dietrich said from somewhere above, voice strained.

“It—it’s—it’s.” Alvin took a breath. “It’s ridiculous. I can’t just talk to the—the leaders of the city. I’m not chutzpadik enough. Don’t—don’t have the strength of character.”

“Alvin.” Dietrich snapped.

Alvin blinked, and the room became a bit more clear. His head was still wobbling though, and his mouth was very, very dry. He could tell, though, that he was making Dietrich angry. Probably. He was making Dietrich loud, at the very least.

Alvin took several moments and attempted to stand. His hand got tangled in his beard, though, and he slipped back down, elbow landing painfully on the tiled floor. He managed to make it onto his knees, then after another two attempts, made it onto his feet and stayed there. The room—no, he wobbled slightly, which caused everything else to shift nauseatingly. It had been better when he was on the floor, and he wished that he could go back there.

His elbow hurt. Why did his elbow hurt?

“Now sit.” Dietrich commanded, and Alvin was quicker to listen this time. Sitting might help, he thought. He stumbled over to Dietrich’s stiff mahogany chair and plopped himself down into it, hands askew on top of the tall, cushioned armrests. Ah, that’s better. He felt like he had as a child at a dinner table—though he couldn’t remember ever being this drunk as a child. He couldn’t remember drinking at all as a child. He had always been too scared to drink, back when his friends had managed to steal away the last dregs of one parent or another’s bottle of schnapps.

Dietrich slowly pulled over one of the smaller chairs from the other side of the desk, legs scraping against the floor. So slow. Why is he so slow? Didn’t Dietrich use a cane most of the time? That probably had something to do with it.

The old dwarf swore, and Alvin craned his neck to see why. Ah, there was his cup, spilled out on the floor. What a waste. He was looking forward to getting more of the liquor into his—in—he had been looking forward to drinking it.

“Alvin,” Dietrich chided gently. Alvin swung his head over to look, but overshot his mark and ending up looking at a wall covered in bookshelves. He centered himself on the elder and blinked several times in an attempt to focus. Everything just felt so inconsequential. He could grow used to being drunk, if it was always like this. The voices that were constantly telling him to worry were quiet, all of the fears and anxieties were gone, replaced with blessed, blessed silence. No more Command, not here. No more voices in my head.

“Alvin.” Dietrich tried again.

“Sorry.” Alvin said. Why am I sorry? Am I doing something wrong?

“I’m glad you’re finally comfortable in this Enclave, Alvin. Truly, I am. Pater knows that it’s taken you long enough to emerge from your shell. But, well, despite what you may want, you are a politician now. There is a certain dignity of office that you must uphold.”

Alvin pouted. This is boring. Where did my cup go?

“That’s why I wait until I’m alone to indulge,” Dietrich continued. From beneath the wide folds of his robe appeared a thin, white pipe. With deft fingers, the elder packed the bowl and, a match appearing from the folds as well, lit up and took a deep pull. He sighed contentedly and blew out a thin line of smoke from the corner of his mouth. The movements were swift, and the pipe was lit almost before Alvin saw it come out in the first place.

“You see, Alvin, it never occurred to me before agreeing to public service, but the ‘public’ portion is all-encompassing. We are unable to let ourselves relax, for fear of somebody more vulnerable seeing and having their faith shaken. You think that it will be a normal career, a duty that ends—but it doesn’t. You, me, your orc friend—even Jotep Rule, all have a dignity that we, as unfortunate as it is, cannot just lay by the wayside. We must carry it, always.”

“What’s ‘we’?” Alvin asked. Dietrich was making a lot of assumptions, he thought a lot of things that Al thought he really shouldn’t be thinking. “I—I don’ want to be a public—public figure.”

“It appears that you don’t have much choice,” Dietrich said. He took another puff. “But I have often found it to be the case that an office is at its most ironclad when held by someone reluctant to wield the power that it gives them.”

What? The words missed Alvin, sliding off of his mind like rain on a slick rooftop. Dietrich’s words weren’t making him feel better, and so they were inconsequential. He moved as if to stand, but was stopped by a wave of nausea.

“I can’t,” he pouted.

“What, is it exactly, that you think is beyond you?” Dietrich asked.

What? How does he know I’m sick—oh, he’s talking about his thing.

“The things you are so reluctant to do are things that you have done already! Your friend, he asked you to stand by him, and defend his people. The very first time we met, your defense of him was what convinced me to allow him refuge.”

“But,” Alvin tried to interrupt.

“—And you fear the public eye. Sure, who doesn’t. But that didn’t stop you from attending those meetings when you were accompanied, and it shouldn’t change anything now. Your friend, Celeste, is still there.”

“She hardly ever goes!” Alvin said in a voice that even he could recognize was too loud. He winced. The cotton between his ears was beginning to thin, the conversation happening asserting itself more in his consciousness.

“A fair point,” Dietrich said. He raised a finger. “But, I myself am at many, if not most. Surely that must count for something, all the more since you are clearly comfortable enough in my presence to invade my office, imbibe from my personal brew, and then continue on to ask me for advice.”

“You’re different. You’re—you’re…” Pater, what was Dietrich that made him different. It wasn’t that he was a dwarf—wasn’t just that he was a dwarf, anyway. “You don’t act like you’re in charge,” he decided.

“Mm, I quite think I do,” Dietrich answered. “Just because I act less cordial doesn’t make me any less of a leader. Much like your reluctance to answer the call makes you no less fit for it as well. You will come at it with a much more cautious perspective, I think, but in truth that will be a boon rather than a curse. We live in troubled times, Alvin, troubled times indeed. What this city needs is someone to preach caution. More than myself, of course.”

Alvin didn’t feel like answering, so he chose to sit. Dietrich, sensing an end to the conversation, leaned back and resumed smoking, letting out the occasional grunt of pleasure. Time passed in irregular leaps and bounds, and the light bounce that Alvin felt was slowly taken over by a dull headache, which began to sharpen. Eventually it grew sharp enough that he let out a groan and moved to stand. The simple motion made his stomach heave. Dietrich, who had appeared to be asleep, cracked open one eye.

“You’re going to be fine, Alvin. These things have a way of working out in ways we cannot often foresee.”

The words pounded against Alvin’s skull, and with them returned the reason he had decided to get drunk in the first place. There, so quiet that he could hardly hear it, hidden deep in the back of his mind. A droning chorus, a series of voices chanting in perpetuity, commanding him. He shook his head, placed his hands over his ears. None of it helped, not when the voices were back. Alcohol had worked, Pater damn it. Why did it have to end?

He fled out of the office, leaving Dietrich looking confused, eyes that were now mostly pupil wide at the commotion, as the door slammed. His head pounded against his skull as his feet slapped the cold, rough-hewn tiles beneath. With each person he passed, the voices grew louder, faster, more insistent. Alvin shook his head, forcing back tears. He didn’t know what these people were doing, why would the voices be back? Why would the whispers be demanding him, forcing him?

He made it to his room, and slammed the door closed behind him. With nobody else there, the voices grew softer, and eventually faded into mutters, occasional whispers.

Alvin let the tears fall freely now, gross and wet, leaving streaks of wet in his beard. How could everyone have such high expectations of him? Him, who couldn’t even muster control over his own Command? He had no power, nothing. He couldn’t rely on himself, and neither should anyone else. It’s not this bad during the day, a thought rang, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t care about any other time when it was the now that was what counted. Nothing else was real, and the now was almost impossibly torturous.

As he had done every night since learning his Command, Alvin calmed himself. He forced himself to breathe regularly, and he prayed. He prayed to Pater Agathe, with every measure of his being.

“Blessed are you, Pater, king under all of the ground, who gives Commands to those who cherish. Please, remove from me this curse, and free me from these shackles. Sanctify me with your salvation, and grant me a share in your—in your,”

He looked down, into the floor beneath him, under which the firmament kept the world standing, holding up all of creation. That was where Pater Agathe was, and Alvin prayed to him. As the voices grew louder, he had lost the meter, stumbled over the prayer he had recited nearly daily for his entire life. The words wouldn’t come to him, so he swapped in his own.

“Take this Command you have given to me away. Give it to someone else, someone who deserves it more. I can’t handle it. I can’t be your justice. I can’t wield your sword. Get someone else to do it.” His voice cracked, and a sob escaped. “Please.”

He dropped to the floor, hands scrabbling at the polished wooden floor. The fall hurt his knees, but he was beyond caring about that. The voice was so loud, it shouted over his thoughts, made everything else smaller by comparison.

Judge.

Judge.

Judge.

“Please,” he got out through another gasping breath, “I don’t want this. Take it away.”

He laid on the floor for several minutes more, letting his tears wet the floor, hoping that they would drip their way down to the firmament so Pater would feel them, feel his wants, and save him. As the stone seeped the warmth from his body, his mind slowly stilled, and he fell into blissful, dreamless sleep. The nothingness was better than the alternative.