Firsts among servants (Vatican City) [Closed]

[Patricus I]

A hiss warned of danger ahead, but the Holy Father was not slowed by foreboding atmosphere. An empty room opened before them, occupying a solitary figure. He was drenched in shadows as the vault itself was void of all light except that which trickled from the doorway. He was restrained but did not seem uncomfortable. Philip’s curiosity carried him alongside his host, but where the Regus paused, Philip carried quietly forward.

He was dressed in black clothing cut stylishly across the chest. Above patent leather shoes the ankles were secured to the chair. His wrists were similarly tied, but the hands were relaxed, and the knuckles were free of tension. Oddly, the tap-tap-tap of his fingernails suggested boredom. The nails, though, were wrong in the same way the eye sockets of the skeleton were wrong. Claws. He was tapping his claws in boredom. How bizarre.

Patricus held his place standing about two meters away from the chair, looming like Christ shedding light upon the abyss. As though the radiance was arousing, the man finally looked up, studying those that penetrated his slumber. He winced ever so quietly in the way of the hiss Patricus heard previously and pinched his eyes as though the light passing from behind the intruders’ shoulders extracted pain. Despite the tilt of shadowy planes and angles upon his face, the eyes were black discs. The skin so pale Patricus perceived the scrawl of veins beneath the surface. The same command with which the Holy Father banished the darkness resounded in his chest as Philip held the gaze of what he knew on instinct to be evil embodied. 

Its voice was a whisper, “Santo Padre Papa,” it said in heavy Italian. Then the prisoner curled its lip into a hungry smile, and Philip’s heartbeat betrayed him. He heard his own gasp as the thing exploded from its restraints, claws slashing at princely robes. Teeth gnashed, and the chain of the pectoral cross was yanked like the leash of a rabid dog. The marble floor hit him hard and he cried out in shock as much as pain.

[Armande]

Armande watched carefully. The man attempted to appear calm but it was the little things that gave it away. The carefully controlled breathing; the deliberate slowness of his movements; same look of rebuke against the darkness that he'd manifested before the Oni.

And there was another reason. The bonds for the creature had been put there by the Atharim that captured it. They knew their work. But Dreyken were not merely ferocious in the same way a rougarou was. No, they were cunning, deliberate in their words and actions, always watching, always seeking the smallest cracks. And deceptively strong.

It was whispering something and Armande put a hand to his hilt, blade telescoping silently, as Patricus foolishly leaned in to hear more clearly. "No, your holiness! It's a!-" he yelled but was cut off by the explosion of movement.

Claws swiped at Patricus, snagging only thick Papal robes and the heavy cross on his chest. It was fortunate, though the movements threw the man away to the ground like a rag doll, notwithstanding the audible smack of head on marble.

Blade whipped out like a viper at the striking claw, separating it from owner in one clean motion. Blood sprayed over Patricus as the thing clutched at its stump, the whining cry like nails on a chalkboard, like bone in a grinder, high pitched and boring into his mind.

Another of its tools, he knew. It looked at him with eyes of pure malevolence and the promise of infinite pain and flew at him. His blade whirred but even so, the thing was a snake. What should have gone through its chest slashed a shoulder instead.

But Armande had done this his entire life. He fell deeper into his Chong rann, letting his body become water, flowing and bending. Time had slowed to a crawl as it was just the two of them now.

And he pressed, what was a stream now a jet to cut through steel. The final strike was so quick he barely felt the tug against the fine carbon steel blade.

Time sped up and once again, he was here. The head was separated and the body only twitched slightly. A small mercy. The idea of a creature like this continuing to be dangerous after such a thing was terrifying. Snakes indeed, whose heads had to be handled and buried, lest a small puncture of fangs still deliver venom.

He went to Patricus and knelt down to help the man up. "I am sorry, Holy Father. That was not supposed to have happened." An understatement.

He pulled at his black sash and gave it to him to wipe as best he could. In the meantime, he went to the chair. The metal restraints had been thick. But closer inspection showed that where they braced against the chair, twisting had occurred. Very likely, the dreyken had been working those connections during its entire stay.

A growl escaped his throat and he looked at Patricus, roiling storm of blue lightning in his eyes. A whisper. "I will have....words with the Atharim that bound him."

[Patricus I]

Blood-curdling cries would cut straight to other men's souls. Warmth sprayed, and upon wiping his brow, his sleeve was colored red. The Regus of the Archives heaved and suddenly the fight was done. Heavy breathing filled the chamber, and the words washed through the rush of Philip’s mind otherwise wrestling with reality.

He told the Lord to deliver emotion, and with fervor, the Lord answered the demand. He looked at himself, and like the lamb of God, he found himself covered in blood, but where the spirit was strong, the flesh was weak. The heart pounded and fear crawled around the room, tempting him to delve into its comforting darkness. It was another emotion, however, that chased away the weakness. Anger spurred the red drenching his robes to the heat of the same weak flesh that wanted to curl and hide. He would not allow it. He stubbornly pushed away the Regus to allow himself to stand on his own, and tremors of the flesh were expelled.

The elegance of his typically spiritual face blanked to marble as his eyes peeled apart the body of this thing occupying the floor. After a moment, he exhaled long and steady and plucked the cape otherwise dispelled by the scramble back to place. Next, he carefully arranged the pectoral cross back to the center of his chest. His hands he swiped as though they were dirtied by dusty books rather than the blood of a beast. The zucchetto cap was within arms’ reach, and after a moment to arrange his disheveled hair, replaced it upon his head despite what marred it. Dirtied, bloodied, sore and pissed, the Holy Father cleared his throat while Regus studied the broken restraints.

His breath raced despite the composition of his exterior, “I don’t know which would be worse, that the Regus of the Archives cannot restrain the things he claims mastery over or that he purposefully weakens the restraints of the things he presents to me,” he said, anger overt. "What was suppose to happen? I see this thing and am instantly a believer? Well, it fucking worked."

He drank in the sight of this wizened Jesuit whom barely broke a sweat. He held some sort of sword still dirtied by the blood of his kill. Philip clutched the intense warrior's gaze undisturbed and wondered what sort of man it was that served the church in such a way.

He finally licked his lips, only to snarl upon sampling the blood of the beast. Disgusted, there would be no more discussion until he was washed of this filth, and discussion was mandatory. The ascension to the Papal apartments was swift, and before his attendants could make a fuss over his appearance, Patricus stripped himself, ready to have the robes burned for good measure. They could reunite at dinner.

[Armande]

Patricus stalked off in a fit of pique. Understandable. But Armande was happy. So maybe kidnapping wasn't the only route. It was catching someone off balance. He squirreled it away.

His eyes lingered over the corpse. That was one way to do it. A smile touched his lips. One way. The man would go to his apartments. Likely burn the blood soaked garments. It was natural. Such irony. Spiritual men lived in the physical realm. So sure of how the universe worked, they never consider alternatives.

He, a man of flesh, lived in the here and now. The world was not what he wished. What he needed. It was what it was. Irony was that it was the flesh that show the spirit what was true.

He called aides in to clean the mess. The Atharim responsible would face him soon enough. Their work was sloppy and careless. Armande had put much work into his choice of Pope. Patricus' death was not something he wanted. Justice scheduled, he relaxed.

He would wait. Phillip would contact him. A man did not see the world was bigger than he knew and not want to know more.

[Patricus I]

Stripped of the ruined garments, Philip was motionless in the bathroom as he considered the option to vomit. The thrill of the moment was passed, though, and instead, he entered the shower and promptly fell to his knees.

Knowing mankind to be shamefully heinous in standards of reliability, given his life as a confessor, he demanded proof of Regus' allegations independent of mankind's words. He trusted two things only: one more than the other, and his own emotions showed the way. Like John wildly beholding and unabashedly believing in the four beasts worshiping the lamb, there was no denial in Philip of what he witnessed.

The reason he was on the floor rather than enjoying the soothing heat of cleansing waters was the search for reconciliation. The church’s alliance with priests of war, the Lord’s creation of demons that walked the earth, and the rule of the Vicar of Iscariot as master demanded explanation. What inheritance is this?

The water stung his face as he leaned into its stream. Find your own answers, the thought bloomed. He opened his eyes and parted his lips to let the water penetrate. Soothing warmth followed.

Afterward, he sent word for the Regus of the Archives to join him for evening meal. The dining room in the papal apartments was simply attired and relatively unchanged for centuries. Despite available modern amenities, like electricity, candles illumined the space, a requirement imposed by Patricus I. They would remain the sole source of light the remainder of the night until he himself doused the final flute at bedside. In the meantime, others required his attention, but he dismissed any and all intrusions, choosing instead to study the well-worn pages of his Bible in solitude until the meal commenced.

At such time, he carried the small, black book in the crook of his arm, laying it carefully upon the table as he took the head chair. The attendant announced the arrival of a guest, to which Philip nodded allowance without discontinuing his reading.

[Armande]

Armande smiled. He had expected the invitation, of course. No one could see what Patricus had seen and not be curious. It was not always the same thing that interested people, though. For some, it was his collection of artifacts or the history, the lore. For others, the menagerie. But the dreyken, well, no one could be nonchalant about that. Not that it had been planned. Still...

He chuckled a little on the inside at Patricus' face. The spluttering rage, and the fear behind it. He was not a sadist. He did not play with his prey. One did not live as long as he had by toying with creatures that wanted to kill you, that were created to kill. No, he needed no ego stroking there. He was self aware enough to know that humility was not a trait he had in great quantity.

Few knew the dangers humanity faced. Fewer still could stomach it. And now, things were more precarious then ever. Only a year or two ago had they discovered a connection between humans- humans, not creatures like drainaka or harpies!- with inhuman abilities and the Sickness that had become a pandemic years back. That realization had angered him. They had lost so much momentum. They couldn't afford to lose more. Already, orders had been given to Atharim with connections in the World Health Organization. They needed names. It was not something he relished. But action had to be taken. Humanity would not be enslaved again. Could not.

But now it was time for the Pope. The doors were flanked by Swiss Guards. Garish colors, in his opinion. They looked like clowns. Not that he didn't understand. Dyes had been expensive. Brightly colored uniforms advertised wealth and power.

The table was not a long one and was set simply. Once again, the Pope shone brightly in his white robes, the only hint of color the scarlet slippers peeking out from the hem. As Armande knelt and kissed his ring, he wondered how long the man had stood in the hot shower, trying to feel clean. Dreyken blood was so much denser and darker than human. Blood was hard to remove in the best of times. He would bet the man had sent them off to be burned.

Not that he wore black for that reason. But it did have its advantages, not just in hunting. Prey sometimes wondered if their strikes hit flesh without the obvious indicator. It made them confused, off balance.

He sat at the other end of the table. "Thank you, Holy Father, for the invitation," he said simply.

[Patricus I]

Following the Papal kiss, his hand retracted automatically only to settle on the pages laid open before him. He intended to read a few more verses, only to turn the page and intend to finish the chapter. His own notes were scrawled in the corner, symbols and shorthand he himself recognized their meaning all these years after inscribing them. This was the note he sought, and he tried to return his mind to the place it was when his pen was first put to the page.

Patricus looked up to find a bowl of cold soup and a black-clad guest. He closed the book of his study and plucked a spoon to his fingers. For a moment, his gaze fell upon other hands. They were gnarled from old wounds, marred by scars, and thickened with muscle. The flash of a sword flared through recent memory, but Philip only grumbled in annoyance and tasted the soup. The soup was thin, bland, and perfect. It took the kitchen staff almost a week to get it right. Not a moment of thought was spared for the time that passed in silence.

Most of the evening was spent in consideration of the following conversation. Patricus did not intend to intimidate or manipulate the guest at his table; such tactics were unnecessary; in such, Patricus demonstrated that this was a pope unable to be chained, blackmailed or used. He spoke clearly, ”I don’t care about power or control. I don’t care about the Church.” He sipped from a tepid glass of water and fearlessly looked his guest in the eye. They were colorless. 

Forgetful. 

He didn't care about the Church, nor did he know if he cared about the Atharim, but like the church, he needed to know more about them. Patricus I was the church. Did it mean he was also the Atharim? How had this secret remained without leakage, for not a hint of it was known to the former Archbishop. ”Tell me about the Atharim. Who are your people? Are they priests? A priest cannot serve both man and God. He will serve neither.” Of course the question implied the futility of such a pursuit as well as his own role as the head of the church.

[Armande]

This time, Patricus' seeming to ignore him did not grate. Armande had some time in the Chong rann before coming to the papal apartments, and the serenity of his inner chambers, the quiet and cold of the stone floors and walls had seeped into his soul. He was utterly at peace and his mind was open to all. His vision seemed heightened, the smallest details now trumpeting themselves loudly.

The Pope's scrutiny of his book, the movement of his fingers to touch a line, the pursing of lips, the fervor made things clear. He was searching for some serenity. It made sense, of course. To find out the world was not what you thought would rock anyone. He remembered it well- and he had been secretly groomed for the truth!

Some semblance of pity warmed in him. Lost in time, he seemed not to notice the monks placing the food in front of him or of the guards leaving. They were alone and the quiet was complete except for their breathing.

And suddenly, the Pope came to himself, surprise at the food and Armande evident on his face. Armande then joined him in eating and it was his turn. The man was an ascetic. Interesting. He wondered if the man was following in the steps of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. When the man had been murdered, it had been discovered that he wore a hair shirt of coarse wool underneath his robes. The neverending chafeing and irritation a continual mortification of the flesh. Likely not that exactly. Becket's skin was pocked with lice and other vermin as a result. Patricus did not appear to be in constant agony.

But the blandness of the meal was intentional, as if fine tuned to the greatest degree of lack of flavor. Armande's respect increased. But he would have to go slow so as to not overwhelm.

He didn't really need to think on the question. He had expected it or something like it. One does not find out their is a secret organization within your own and not want to know who and what they are.

He sipped his water to clear his throat before speaking. "What I am going to tell you, your Holiness, will seem fantastical." The honorific was needed at this point. If their relationship progressed to where he wanted, it would stop being needed. "Something out of myth and legend. And in one sense, that would be exactly correct. For indeed, the origin of the Athari is rooted in the myth and legend of the ancient past."

He took a moment to assess how Patricus was taking this. Then, continuing, "The word 'Atharim' comes from an ancient language and means remnant. A remnant of what, though, is lost to us. It is what we have called ourselves for more than ten thousand years. But our purpose is and has always been the protection of mankind. From creatures like the one you saw, the dead ones I showed you. But also..." and here he did pause. This was where it was going to start sounding outlandish.

His voice was pleasant and his cadence measured so as to make it clear these were not the ramblings of a mad man. "...also from men and women. Specifically, men and women who were able to use the power of God to enslave and oppress humanity. The legends of old, the stories of the Titans and Olympians, the Lords of Xibalba and Huizilopoctli, of Set and Annubis, of Brahma and Siva, they are all true, in one sense. Humans with those names lived in the distant past. The legends and myths of today are merely distortions that have occurred over the vast distances of time."

He let some of his anger show. "These men and women used their power to create empires, to subjugate others, to use people as slaves to cater to their every whim. They battled among themselves, laying waste to hundreds and thousands of innocents. They thought nothing of those they claimed to rule. They developed weapons that used their power, devised the creatures like the ones you saw below, to use in their battles. Mankind was in danger. But the Atharim stood up, and using cunning and their own weapons against them, gradually defeated them, exterminating them."

Some pride did fill his voice at that last. "Since then, we have continued to serve as the bulwark to protect mankind. Those creatures are still around and we hunt them whenever we find them. And we vigilantly keep alert for any sign that the gods have returned."

It was bare bones and likely the man had questions. But it was enough.

[Patricus I]

He was a slow eater, tasting each spoonful as though evaluating the sensation of fullness following each one. There wasn’t much to do except listening and scooping bits of carrots, Vitamin A was important after all.

Of all the things that the Regus described, the words ancient past were the hardest to grapple. The past was a big place, full of all sorts of things. He frowned into the distance. 

Remnants were mentioned in many of the ancient texts. People who survived great catastrophe, of which Israelites were the typical group, essentially half of the focus of the Old Testament. A number of verses came to mind, as well as any number of translations referenced. Which language was the inspiration for their survived remnant? Like Regus said, remnant of what was an interesting question.

He paused for another drink of water, following the story. Regus’ held a steady, pleasant voice. In another life, he may have made a decent orator. Nothing like Philip himself, of course, nobody came close to comparing to even his weakest monologues.

Then he said it, men and women using the power of God. Allegations of myth turned to reality didn’t impress him, then again, after the demonstration this afternoon, a speech was a letdown. His princely expression fell bland as the soup.

”Do I believe you?” he shrugged, glistening lips pursed thoughtfully. ”I have no reason not to, but it doesn’t matter. I have no reason to believe in God either.” The pause that followed wasn’t intended, but the haunting call within his own mind pulled at momentary intrusion. All men experienced mid-life crises; a priest was no different.

After a minute, he continued without declaring his belief in either. ”Very well, and who are the hunters? What ties them to the Church? To me?” He groaned to think of their confessions. How to absolve the decapitation of a monster was not the sort of thing he desired to contemplate.

[Armande]

A ghost of a smile touched Armande's lips. Did the Pope not believe in God? Or merely equate the two. It was not unheard of, of course. Becoming Pope was a political act. Just because people were not privy to the machinations of the Holy See did not make it any less so. True, the Regus, using lines of influence developed over decades and centuries, ultimately pulled the strings for the final choice. Sometimes, to their horror. Pope Urban VI turned out to be a complete and utter fool. When your high handedness and cruelty literally lead the splitting of the Church, it was safe to say a colossal mistake had been made. Of course, the seeds were there, festering between the France and Rome, especially once Gregory XI had returned the Papacy from Avignon back to it's birthplace in Rome.

Regus Cavelli should have chosen a Pope to mend the breaches, to reach across the lines and sooth ruffled feathers. The Atharim needed the stability- and more importantly, the power and backing- of the Church. Instead Urban VI fractured the institutions, even having Cardinals executed. Those remaining Cardinals had gone to Geneva, claimed the election to be invalid and raised a new Pope. Cavelli had a hand there too. The result spoke for itself, Pope and Anti-Pope both rushing to excommunicate the other. It became so chaotic that a third Papal claimant appeared by 1409.

Cavelli had paid the price for his stupidity. His secretary had seen to that. By the end, neither Pope played a role in selecting the new Regus, though a few Cardinals had been involved. It took time to reestablish the Pope-Regus cycle and relationship. Sadly, the Church never recovered. The seeds of Reformation had been watered. What Wyclif and Tyndale had seeded yielded a bumper crop over the next few centuries, breaking what had been fractured into a thousand different pieces. True, the Humanist Movement and the scientific revolution had led to advancement in every field and had yielded their modern world. But perhaps there had been a way to arrive at the same place without such a terrible price.

The responsibility for choosing a Pope was heavy.

His attention returned to Patricus. The man had asked a question. "As I mentioned, the relationship began with Sylvester. By that time, the church had become aware of our existence and our work. While they saw it as a necessity, they also saw us- at least those of us in the Old World who while united- as a threat. He believed that we could not be allowed to exist unfettered." He saw no need to mention the fact that Atharim had existed in all inhabited continents for millenia, some who did not recognize the authority of their tradition.

It had bothered him, just as it had his predecessors. Contact and some measure of influence had been reestablished in the Americas. And he suspected more than one small tribe were Athari remnants themselves, carrying on a tradition without the full knowledge of their history. There were whispers of other types of leaders, styled after the Regus. He suspected the Soviet pogroms across Siberia had been partially motivated by Atharim working with the Russian Orthodox Church. There had even been a title. The Yaga. They were gone, now. Stalin had been brutally efficient. Ukraine was not the only region to feel his iron fist. Just the most well known. And that said nothing of Mao.

But given his lack of interest in Armande's historical collection, he didn't even bother to mention that.

"Many Atharim are Catholic. Some are priests, but they do not serve as hunters. Many of them hear the confession of those that are. But the Atharim and the Church have worked together for 1400 years as allies." He paused. He was unsure how Patricus would take this next. "When Regus Barnabas died, it was Pope Sylvester, in accordance with their sealed pact, who chose his successor, Metrobius of Corinth. When Sylvester died, it was Metrobius who chose Mark as Pope, then Julius I. A dance, back and forth, Regus and Pope, Pope and Regus. Throughout the centuries there have been less than ten Popes or Reguses not selected in this manner."