The First Age

It was late when Lochlan Fletcher was alerted of a need by the Holy Father. He lay aside the book he had been reading, gently laying a ribbon to mark the page, and hurried to the Pope’s aid. Lochlan was young by standards of a priest, although nearly thirty-five. He had a tendency to stay up late, which was why he was likely the target of the Holy Father’s requirements. The Cardinal Secretary of State would be another option, but Boros did not accompany the entourage this time. Lochlan’s curiosity for these sudden trips to the fledgling dioceses bid him volunteer despite the role of his normal office. As Carmelengo, Lochlan had little authority of his own but what the Pope deferred to him. In the case of Patricus I, that was next to nothing. As such, Lochlan managed the Holy Father’s household finances and oversaw such matters as the cleaning of cassocks or paying of bills. It was only when a Pope died that a Carmelengo’s responsibility grew exponentially. Although Lochlan did not think of such things.

He did well to hold his surprise when Patricus issued his requirement. The Holy Father’s rituals were well known in the Papal household regarding this time of night. He was always retired to the privacy of prayer and reading hours before now. Sometimes, Lochlan caught a glimpse of Patricus puffing on a cigarette from one of his balconies, but such was always the extent of his outings. If it weren’t for the extraordinary errand imposed upon Lochlan, he might have thought everything was normal and they were all encased within the walls of the Vatican. The room that the Holy Father took in the hotel was on an upper level, and what Lochlan might consider a suite. But most of the decorations had been removed, leaving only bare furniture. Most striking was the entire suite was lit by candle light. The Holy Father sat near a window with the curtains drawn tight, but positioned as if he might have been peeking through the side of the curtain upon the city without.

With a serene kiss upon the Papal ring, Lochlan hurried from the quarters in favor of the elevator. Soon after, he was knocking on a door that he had faith was correct. When it was answered, he bowed his head in greeting.
“Good evening and I am sorry for the late disturbance. I am Father Lochlan Fletcher. You may not be aware, or perhaps you are, but His Holiness, Patricus I is upstairs and has requested your attendance.”

He glanced at the room beyond when the door opened, noting whomever he might behold within. His curiosity was piqued, and despite the hour, he was quite alert. Whatever he saw, he kept his thoughts to himself.

“If you would be so kind as to accompany me, I will show you the way,” he added.

Valeriya rubbed her nose again. it had swollen up to half the size of her face and the dripping made her want to claw it off.

She accepted all the comforts that her sister and beloved shared. There was something that made her breathe in deeply and swirled her head. Rowan and Armande talked about the same old stuff they always did nearby. She sniffed although it was possibly out of frustration aly much as practical suction.

“You are so impatient. I waited my whole life for the vision to be brought Above. It’s been hardly any time at all. Just wait. The way will be shown,” she coughed at the last bit about the time a knock came to the door.

She leaned far aside to see who it was. Black cloth fell to the floor. The man wearing it spoke so gentle and had such kind, soft eyes, Valeriya immediately sat up and smoothed the frizz of her hair aside. He was so clean!

She looked to Rowan. “Are most men of the Above so soft and pretty?” she smiled sly as a snake. Excepting their beloved, they were all dainty as little fish.

“Running out of time?” Rowan asked in a whisper. She had not known Armande to have visions of his own – away from the Eyes. If the Sight has blessed him, he had not shared the revelation with her. Perhaps it was nothing more than a hunch. Rowan knew better than most that one should always trust their gut; it was Spirit’s way of telling the average human of things to come. If Armande said he felt that there was a deadline to their endeavors, well, she would take his word at face value. But what was it breathing down their necks? Oh, the 'it' could most certainly be proverbial, but what if it wasn't? What if the Ascendancy or the Atharim had sent their respective lackies to stop them?

Rowan worked away at his foot as he gazed into the flames of the fireplace. Thoughts rushed through her mind as her sister chastised them once more for their impatience. She was right, of course. All things would be revealed to them in the fullness of time. Rowan had no problem with the thought, it was simply that the practice of waiting had begun to chafe. To dare, to will, to know, to keep silent – those were the strictures that had been placed upon her when she had begun her studies into the occult. Waiting fell under the later, of course. She had learned that years before she had been allowed to don the title of ‘Mambo.’

A knock sounded at the door, chasing away any thought of a reply Rowan had readied for her sister. Rowan gingerly set Armande’s foot back down upon the plush carpet and murmured an apology. He was in no state to deal with the housekeeping staff, and neither was Vale. With a graceful swish of her skirts, Rowan rose from the stool and walked over to the room’s door. She plastered on her most welcoming smile and opened the heavy, wooden door to greet a man of the cloth. It took an effort to suppress her surprise at the sight, though her burden was eased at the man’s introduction and invitation.

“Yes, of course, Father,” Rowan replied sweetly, “If you would be so kind as to give us a moment’s time to ready ourselves properly for the Bishop of Rome? I am Rowan Finnegan, by the way, so rude of me not to introduce myself first.”

Rowan found herself dipping into a semblance of a curtsy as if on instinct. She knew that it was a more formal gesture than was required of her, but still, one did not always meet a Priest from the Vatican itself. It would be best to keep up appearances whenever the Pope’s people were involved. With a quick turn, she all but rushed back to the bed in which Vale was nestled. The white, woolen shawl was waiting atop the coverlet and Vale purred her approval. Rowan could not fight the smile that curved her lips. She grabbed the shawl and bent down close to her sister.

“You will find that men in those garments tend to have the biggest appetites,” Rowan cooed softly and quietly into Vale’s ear, bestowing a kiss upon her cheek, “But do take care. A Goddess like you might break him.”

Rowan pulled the shawl around herself, feigning for a little modesty, and began to help her Soul Group dress and primp for the audience with Patricus. Whatever Armande feared, it would soon be put to rest. The Eyes would See tonight.

Rowan came back to grab a shawl. Vale shoved herself toward the edge of her seat. She was otherwise pretty comfortable and didn’t want to get up. However, the pretty man at the door was waiting. Rowan addressed him by a title that Vale thought to be very strange. Father Rasputin was a similar word, although the phrase among the Khylsty was spoken differently than the same version of the Above. Either way, he carried himself like a monk.

Rowan whispered in her ear, and an evil smile curled Valeriya’s lips. The monk did look rather hungry. Then perhaps they were similar to the monks of the Sacred. “Oh can I please?” Break him, she meant. She was quite satisfied with Rowan and Armie, but she had yet to really get to play with any of these shiny new toys that continued to parade around them. First Patricus and now this one.

She got up finally to get herself ready. There wasn’t much for her to do except grab a handful of those white tissues to carry along for the journey.

Despite his resolve, Armande found himself sinking into the warmth of the supple leather chair as Rowan's strong skilled fingers drew the tension out from his body.

The flames were hypnotic, enhancing the burn of the liquor he sipped. He sighed as he took in his little...what did he call them. Family? Somehow, it didn't seem right. The term was nebulous, ranging from simple blood relations to religious brethren. It was too weak.

Whatever they were, they were bound into the fabric of the universe. Behind the illusion of Maya, they were connected, perhaps even one, or part of one thing. 

Valeriya spoke, chiding him for his impatience. From another, he would have chafed. But from Valeriya, he only smiled fondly. She was the embodiment of joy and life- as if living in the caverns and darkness, the grime and blood and death, she had learned to see and take pleasure from every aspect of life.

In many ways, she was as innocent as a child- at least when it came to her openness to the world. She was not jaded and callous. For her, this was all an adventure.

And surprisingly, he found himself feeling a bit lighter. He looked at Rowan, noticing the missing eye- somehow it did not lessen her beauty. Strangely, it enhanced it, this visible reminder of the lengths she'd go to, the things she'd sacrifice for knowledge and place. 

The three of them were a strange pair, he was sure, at least to others. And yet just sitting here, in their company, he felt more peace. The worry, the itch was there. It would not go away. But he was with them. That was enough.

The knock at the door called his attention but before he could stand, Rowan was up and taking care of it. The man at the door was familiar. A slight smile touch the corners of his lips as he took in this new revelation. Fletcher. It was a face he had not seen in a very long time. 

He now wondered if his secret would soon come out. The new Regus was not a powerful man. Chosen for political reasons- appeasement for the Ascendancy chief among them- he would not command the respect Armande had. Fletcher might keep his confidence. There had been a time when Armande thought hr might be groomed as an eventual replacement. The man had been a promising apprentice, before Armande had become Regus. And then the return of the gods- and more specifically Apollyon- had taken all his focus. Those plans had never materialized.

But once again, the hand of Fate showed itself. Of all the Atharim among those following Patricus, he showed up. What that might mean would be interesting to discover.

Rowan was suitably respectful. Valeriya's comment on the men of the above made Armande laugh. He'd never thought Fletcher to be milk hearted. He did speak with a soft and light voice that some might consider weak. But a voice was not weakness.

Rowan's girlish playfulness with Valeriya sparked his interest, though, pulling his attention away from the priest waiting in the hall. Despite his desire to get answers, he found himself wishing they could schedule the meeting for the morning and enjoy the evening that had turned so promising. He didn't begrudge Valeriya's hungers. Radenyi was in her blood, after all. And he had his own, even if it was confined to the three of them.

He gave a put upon sigh as he allowed Rowan to help him change into something more formal for an audience with Patricus. Appearances and all that. He had been able to find a black cassock in an old shop months ago and yet had not ever put it on. It felt like another life. He was no longer this man.

But to the outside world, the appearance carried the necessary weight. It wasn't as fine a robe as the ones he had, but it was enough, long sleeved collared black wool flowing taut down his chest, held tight at the waist with a belt, hanging down to just below his knees over his black pants and booted feet.

Despite it no longer being his uniform, he did feel some of the virility of his youth. He turned and drank in The Eyes in all their beauty and power. Yes, more than some, really. Much more. 

Damn the time. He went to them, taking their hands in his, looking down into their eyes. Blue and green shined up at him, fiery jewels flashing. 

He smiled down at them. "Break them? Maybe. Let's at least see if they are on our side first." And see what the Pattern of Fate had for them.

They left the room and found Fletcher waiting. "Father Fletcher," He said, "How good it is to see you. We appreciate your escort." The blue ice of his eyes smoldered as they waited.

Lochlan had been prepared to escort the guests to the Holy Father. He prepared himself for any manner of person that he might find, and was aware that the company consisted of a single male accompanied by two female companions. It wasn’t his place to judge, but he prepared himself to encounter sin. He was layered with the armor of his faith, and would turn away from anything.

But he was unprepared to encounter the living breathing Regus-emeritus of the Atharim.

He knew this man well. Had only recently entered service when Father Armande reigned as the Director of the Historical Archives. Years of growth and learning followed, and Lochlan had genuinely mourned the apparent loss.

“Father?” he asked in surprise. He grasped Armande’s hand and smiled. “You are here. I cannot believe it,” he bowed his forehead to Armande’s knuckles briefly.

“The Holy Father knows you are here. He has asked for you?” he posed the thought like a question, but already the answer was forming. The Holy Father was aware Armande was alive, and knew exactly who he was. The Atharim did not know how high the Regus communed with the leaders of the Church, but there was no proof they were aware of one another’s roles.

Lochlan knew now how high the ladder climbed, but who deferred to whom?

“If you will follow me? I will show you the way,” he gestured. They spoke of many things along the way. Lochlan absorbed them all, seeking to understand a picture of events that were only now coming into focus.

Above, Philip waited for the Carmalango to arrive with his guests. He was sitting in the main room enjoying a cigarette. He’d recently taken up the habit after several years abstinent. It had been a frustrating time of patches and gum and shots, but hell with it. He wanted the real thing.

As soon as the gentle knock rapped the door, Philip turned toward it. He said nothing, expecting Lochlan to show himself in, and neither did he rise to greet those that filed through.

Lochlan kissed his ring and then bowed and showed himself out once it was clear that Patricus required no additional need for the priest’s presence.

He studied those that entered, not having seen them since their previous departure. Nearby a cedar box laid with brass waited. Within was the Key of Cunning. It was never far from his sight.

He did not hold out his hand as he had for Lochlan. These three were not ones to kiss the ring. Nor did he expect it. None of them were Catholic, after all.

He snuffed the cigarette after it was pulled to the nub and waved away the coil of smoke.

“I’m in Norway,” he finally said. “It’s really fucking depressing up here." He sighed and studied their forlorn faces. "You haven't found it yet, have you?”

Rowan stood just behind Armande’s left hand shoulder as the Holy Father extinguished his cigarette. He asked after the next key and Rowan adjusted her fringed shawl with subtle discomfort. Only Armande knew what passed between himself and the Holy Father, but Rowan had assumed he had been briefed on the important aspects – apparently not. The nicotine in the air smelled good to her. She had been craving a cigar. She hadn’t smoked one since her last Vodou ritual some few months past.

If the night proved a triumph, she would indulge. She would buy a bottle of the finest scotch and the best Cuban she could find in this wintry city. They four would celebrate and embark tomorrow. It would certainly happen.

With a light step out to the left, Rowan emerged from Armande’s shadow and addressed the Pope, “No, your Holiness. We’ve tried, but the way forward will not come. I think we need you for the mist to lift – and the first key.”

Rowan stepped back to her space next to Vale, just behind Armande. That last bit had only occurred to her as she spoke. Of course, they would need the first key to see further into the murk – why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? That was the one thing they had not tried – oh, one would assume that the Eyes could always see. And they could. But perhaps there would be times that they would need more to go further. What better than a relic directly tied to the other three?

The Eyes would see.

He was looking at Armande when one of the women spoke first.

He’d bore witness to enough of their encounters to discern the trio, unnatural whatever-they were. He withheld his judgement, though, firmly believing no sin was worse than another. He’d no sooner judge someone fibbing on their resume as he would polyamorous, out of wedlock relationships. Both sins would send a person to hell outside resolution. Outside the church. Outside of him.

Rowan’s truth was no less true because she spoke it though.

“Of course you need me.” That they didn’t recognize that sooner was more irritating than a mountain of sins laid at his feet. He had a billion souls to lead and a kingdom to manage. He came as quickly as possible.

But even Philip was eager to acquire the other keys. He’d told Nimeda as much.

His gaze shifted to the box on the table. It was a beautiful wood, once holding a cross that belonged to Pope Gregory VII, a pope from over 1000 years ago. He was one of the most significant popes of the medieval period, known for his role in the Investiture Controversy, a power struggle between the papacy and the Holy Roman Emperor over the appointment of bishops and other church officials. He also sought to reform the Church, particularly in the area of clerical celibacy.

At the Vatican, Patricus ordered the curators to move the relic and give him the box.

It now held something far more precious.

He rose and moved to it. The white cassock fell silently and smoothly around his ankles. Blood red Louboutins peeking as he moved.

There, he lifted the lid, swinging it on well-oiled hinges and reverently lifted the key from within. He held the precious object for a moment then turned back to them.

“You need cunning to find the others,” he smirked.

((So sorry he was over the top IC bitchy in that post. He’s in a bad mood. I’m all good though. *wink*))

Vale was bored with all the talking and bowing and scraping. She outwardly sighed and started picking at her fingernails to pass the time. Rowan and Pope were swapping words like knife fighters dancing around each other before the lunge. Armande was this man’s better. It should be him they all kissed rings and needed, but for all her ire, Valeriya saw the point. They found the first key when they were together. To find the second one, “Guess we should all stay together then this time,” she said, exasperated, without even looking up from her nails.