The Spirit of a Leader

"Your beatitude! Please leave! We shall escort you to the harbour!"

The Bishop sat that on his chair looking outside at the human tragedy, the torches beneath and the houses set alight shines the entire streets as bright as the day, he can see his people running around yielding from the blades of the Crusaders, he sighed in grief and despair. He can even remember some of the people down there, recall their faces and names, but now they are lying down there motionlessly as a cold corpse.

Why, why did he not stop those young man in the first place? Why did he give them the seal and the permission to ring the bell? Is it a prophecy? A message by God? Is it because of the blood Moon?

The bishop looked up at the blood moon, giving his a pupil a colour of red as the light is reflected into his eyes, suddenly he looks like he has aged rapidly looking like a complete old man in the age of seventies. This tragic event has drained all of his passion, energy, and life. He stood up with his body shaking almost falling down at one point.

The bishop staggered to the door with the support of his ruby staff, where two chantry guards are anxiously waiting for him to escort him out of this messed up city. But instead of leaving, the bishop has something else in his mind. He can feel that his energy is draining from his body, and he wants to do something for his people, his followers, his neighbours at the very end of his life, before he is called back by Christ.

"Open the gates of the chantry!" The bishop muttered in a feeble trembling voice.

"Your beatitude! The iron plated gate is our last defence! If we…"

"Open it!" The bishop wailed at the top of his lungs. "Is it my people crying outside? Is that my people crying outside? How can a church, a church of the city, built by the citizens, reject the good Christians from coming into the church? Reject them from coming in leaving them outside under the razor edges of those butchers? Have you ever heard of such ridiculous things?"

The guards looked at each other.

"Open the gates! Lead our people inside!"

"Yes, your beatitude…"

"And you." The bishop turned and tried climbing down the stairs by himself while the other guard hastily went forward trying to support the frail bishop. "Don't care about me, get a chair, the cross, and the insignia flag of the church, stick them outside the gate facing the streets… I shall be there to see which ass hole dares to enter the church and pollinate the scared land of God with their feculent mind and weapons."

"Yes… yes your beatitude!"

The old bishop Balša of Avlonya ventured down two fleet of stairs with the support of the holy staff. Once he reached the first floor, the nave are already flooding with refugees who came to their last known land of peace, the sacred church, to seek help and survival under the guidance of church guards, clergies and nuns, which most of them decided to stay behind following the lead of their bishop squandering the wit and courage of a life time, believing that the power of God will keep them alive.

While they are right, but it is their bishop, the represent of God, who will be the one keeping them alive.

The refugees continued swarming into the church weeping and crying our their tragic experience and their lost ones. They have went through too much this night, and this wound, this piece of history, this period of memory, will stay in their heart and mind forever, and well be recorded in the history of the city until time ends.

The bishop tries hard not to look at these poor fellows stained with blood all over their faces and cloth trudging in his direction. He paced himself in an opposite direction towards the gate. Soon the people noticed this unique old man and immediately recognised him, the beloved and respected bishop of their city who baptised them when they are born, taught them the teachings of Christ and Saints as they grow, organised their mass and liturgy as they age, witnessed their marriage, and finally vocalised the obsequies when they enter that rightful age.

The people stopped weeping as they see their bishop walking towards the gate. The bowed towards the bishop simultaneously and stepped aside clearing a path for the bishop. The fragile body of the old bishop seems to have a special aura that where ever he goes, the people would stop shedding tears and look at him. At this moment he is the greatest man standing on the ground, with the willpower and strength of a thousand men.

The bishop stopped at the gate, took a deep breathe, and dropped the ruby staff onto the ground.

He no longer needs it.

"Take all the icons, wealth, cross, relics, and my staff, pile them before the Altar." Bishop Balša ordered to the guards before he steps out of the gate. "If those arse holes insisted on assaulting the sacred land of the God, give them all the wealth of the church, in exchange for them to not disturb the neutrality of the Church."

"Yes! Your beatitude!"

"Do not worry! Your beatitude!" Another nun exclaimed with her face red from anger. "If these bastards ever dare to splatter blood inside the blessed land of Christ, they would go to hell and suffer there in agony until the end of eternity!"

The bishop turned his sight to the nun and remarked on her words. "My child, do not devote your trust into hell and the holy beings, trust our own strength, at least for now."

Then, under the eyes of almost everyone inside the church, the bishop trudged out of the church, never looking back again. His back, although frail in appearance, but is even stronger than even the hefty ancient divine hero of Zjerma and Handa in everyone's mind, blocking all evils prowling on them with his holiness.

The Crusaders arrived shortly after the bishop took his seat outside the gates.