Firsts among servants (Vatican City) [Closed]

[Patricus I]

The implication of threat was not lost to Philip. The story of Sylvester as the founder of the Atharim’s subjugation beneath the watchful eyes of the church suggested dangers hidden among Atharim autonomy. That some were priests, who worked among their number indicated an infiltration, an entwinement, an arrangement that Patricus was not particularly comfortable allowing unrestricted habits. ”I require a list of those priests who work with your people. I must know the identity of those who serve both God and men. For one cannot serve two masters,” he quoted Matthew. What he would do with the information remained to be seen, but Philip would watch.

He closed his eyes while the Regus continued, but he was only half listening to the tale of histories. A dream from years’ ago returned to memory then, with lines crossing the whole of the earth, of a dragon watching from on high while the church warred among their own. He was himself the dragon, a slumbering pope who bore witness to a church that splintered itself? Was it his own destiny he dreamed? In the dream, it was himself as a young Philip who followed the lines of fate that crawled around the earth like poison leeching along the main arteries. How did the Atharim fall into this reality? Were they the poison splintering the church? They seemed to be the key to mankind’s protection, a shield for the flesh while God shielded the soul? The two vicars of man and God side by side, eating from the same table? He shuddered to think of it.

The final proclamation lifted his lids, and while a chill flushed his spine, it wasn’t one of horror as the weakness of the flesh betrayed in the basements. It was one of revelation, of truth of only the kind bestowed by God. The clench to his jaw grit his teeth, buckling the lines of his throat to harsh cords. He knew his own ascension to the Papal throne was one of unexplained circumstances. There were others far more likely to bear the ring of the Fisherman before himself was likely to be an option. Yet here Patricus I sat, a figure of extreme declaration, of fearlessness, and of frustration. It would irk him to wonder how and why the former Father Sullivan, Archbishop of Baltimore, caught the attention of the Vicar of Iscariot. He would say it didn’t matter to the outcome, even if it mattered to him, but he would not say it aloud.

”This means I will choose your successor when you die, unless the Regus intends to retire at some point. Does the Church provide your pension too?” His smirk intended to draw ire, just as his jokes intended offense. ”Assuming also that I opt to select any successor. The Church is not the great power it once was. A billion people is enormous, but the truly devoted dwindle to remnants. What entwines the Atharim with the Church beyond tradition? Why does the alliance persist?” He must know.

He sat forward in his seat, and for the first time the entire evening, the candles flickered their reflections in the wide pupils of his holy face, breeching the darkness and casting forth new light; but it wasn’t the light of Christ that shone. It was that of Philip’s own reflection. Their future was his decree. At once in history, the Atharim needed the Church and the Church needed to monitor the Atharim, but the Dark Ages were long gone. This was the modern world, or so he was reminded daily. His old ways were not so well-received in the Vatican. A young pope with an antique soul retracted the gains of more ‘inclusive allowances’ so painstakingly sought these last few decades.
”Why should we continue this accord?” They each had the power to dissolve the past in favor of a new future; one to be written right now, if so chosen.

He thought of the dragon again, lifting its slumbering red eye and peering ominously into all that was happening around it. Was the splintering he dreamed a dissection of the church and the Atharim? Or of the faithful from the world itself?

It was nearly overwhelming. The pull to prayer tugged at his heart as his nails dug into the table. He must have answers.

[Armande]

Armande had the measure of the man, now. Reacting was no longer an issue. It wasn't like he hadn't expected the question. A hand dipped into his black cassock robes and a paper was produced. Of course, he would want to know who might be compromised. The name of every Atharim who served as priest. Patricus was arrogant. But so was Armande. Still, they both acted for the good of their organizations. He knew the man he chose wouldn't hamstring them. Hoped, at least. Contingencies were in place. A repeat of Urban VI could never be allowed to happen again. And a new Pope dying prematurely was not unheard of. Armande hedged his bets. Faith was a crutch for the weak.

His attempted insult produced a grin on Armande's face. "Few who hold the title of Regus ever die peacefully in their beds, Holy Father. I am sure I will not. My killer is already alive, somewhere. The office demands more than you can know." He waved a had airily, as if it was of no consequence. "Until then, I will keep my watch. There are those few exceptions who do, though. Still...ten thousand years of activity has not left us without influence, power or wealth. Those who do are cared for at no expense to Mother Church. There was a reason Sylvester sought to ally us together. Only a fool would think our reach or power or influence would have diminished in the centuries since then." The Church had swallowed them whole, not truly aware of what that meant.

He hoped Patricus could see the truth in this. The Atharim alliance was not one to be cast aside so lightly. The very union with the Church only serve to reinvigorate them and allow them to forge new connections across the world. They were supplicants no longer. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Atharim influence in corporations and governments were too entrenched to be uprooted so easily. He hoped Patricus was not so fanatical as to be suicidal.

Still, the question was valid. And one he had wondered himself. A thumb touched his chin thoughtfully. "I am not a slave of tradition." He hid the smirk that wanted to form. Patricus would not have liked the tradition of selection, the ritual murder, he was sure of it. The man was not weak. But the drumming of feet as men gave up the ghost was not for those who spent their lived behind a desk. "I have myself wondered whether this partnership should continue."

His gaze dropped to the book that Patricus had occupied himself with. He felt the fire gathering within. All he had was suspicion. There was no proof yet. But the gods were returning. That he knew. And Brandon's ascent was...disturbing, to say the least. Not solely for the fact that he was an American who had ruled the Ascendant Soviet Union. Or that his government had morphed into a dictatorship where he styled himself the Ascendancy. That any man would do so in this day and age baffled him. Did no one read history?

No. It went further. Brandon was his age, almost to the day. And yet he looked not a day over 30. True, pictures could be altered. And men could age so well that one did not notice the lines and sagging over the course of years. Small changes were imperceptible until they were compared. Armande had aged well. But no one looking at a picture of him at 30 verses now, at 58, would not see the huge difference. Brandon, at 58 was exactly the same. It wasn't proof of anything. But...it nagged at him.

And there was more. Some of the prophecy fit. The bloodless conqueror, who will conquer not with armies and machines of war, but with gold and guile. He was no fundamentalist, determined to see fulfillment in his lifetime no matter how much torture of facts was necessary. People had been expecting the end since Jesus walked the earth. And every catastrophe, every calculated date, whipped up fervor and mindless acceptance and panic.

The creatures the Atharim fought were not fairy tales. That gave their tradition a sounder footing. And the gods were returning. The reports and even videos- verified as being unedited- made it clear. Flee before the return of the dead gods.

The blue fire blazed in his eyes as he leaned forward, forearms on the table, hands lightly clasped, seizing him in his gaze. "The gods have returned. Few and weak, at the moment. I hope." He had his suspicions about Brandon. But what did it mean, The Great Serpent shall be torn from his flesh? "But they are returning." He nodded to the book. "It says so in your scripture. Please read Revelation 9:1-11. It has been prophesied."

[Patricus I]

Philip needed to read nothing. Delving into his prodigious memory, Patricus I recited the passages with barely a blink of an eye. Even as the passages rolled from his melodic tongue, the mind was working, assimilating all that was consumed these last few minutes into a formation of definitive opinion.

The struggle that Father Regus described was not against flesh and blood or the obvious monsters and creations of bygone men. The fight was against the rulers of cosmic powers. A spirit of evil to be unleashed from heavenly realms: men who wielded power of gods. From somewhere hidden in the depths of his soul, Philip shivered. Did he believe in God? Did it matter? Did he believe in the passages of John?

He fell quiet, answer dissipating to nothingness.

The Jesuit Father wanted to continue the alliance. Patricus I would not disagree. In turn, it was not the past that his thoughts fixated upon. The future and all of its unknown widened before him. When next he spoke, his voice was rigid with containment, a barricade between the present and the emotional past.

”A dark secret is shared among priests, Father Regus. When a sinner confesses their sins to us, we do not care what it is they said. It is boring and quite forgetful,” he said. The tone of his voice reflected this truth. A Jesuit priest, while experienced in the sacrament of confession, would only on rare occasion sit as the reconciliatory figure. If that Jesuit was the Regus of the Atharim, he was very unlikely to do so, unless the Atharim were not pictured as painted these last few minutes.

”I’ve listened to many. I have absolved thousands, maybe millions of sins. I forget them all – except one.”

Yet the practice of reconciliation for a priest was quite a powerful thing. Therein was the dark secret. It wasn’t the sin that was memorable, it wasn’t the sorrow or regret upon which the sinner bared their souls that the priest was moved. It was the power of forgiveness that flowed through them. Reminding the worst of humanity that even they are loved and the hope that was inspired in the believer was what carried the priest’s burdens. Philip spared no shred of lies as he disclosed these truths to Armande. It was known among them all even if he alone had the strength to say aloud what others barely allowed themselves to think.

”She knelt beyond the screen, and I could hear the sniffles of one who was crying. It wasn’t unusual. She didn’t say anything for a while, and in such instances, I break the silence with a few words. ”My child, may God compel you to speak the truth.” or something along those lines, I said.

She falls silent and says, “I am not Catholic, and I don’t know what to do.” Her voice was soft, feminine, and young. I guessed her to be maybe eighteen years old, of lower-education and socioeconomic status. She smelled unclean, and in that moment, I wondered if she was homeless.

It was not common but neither was it the first time I’d encountered a protestant or atheist seeking forgiveness. I said something pithy and insightful to encourage her comfort with confessing.

I follow with a simple: “What is your sin?”
Without hesitation, she responds "I set a house on fire.”

I ask her what she means, but she only says that she doesn’t want to do it again, and that she needs help. I was an old and long-lived priest by then. I’ve heard the inner workings of the basest, cruelest, most vengeful acts that a human can perform. Regardless of sin, forgiveness is the same in the eyes of Christ and myself whom acts in His place. I am neither one to judge, but I know a mortal sin when I hear it.

I stand up to break anonymity and confront the girl, but she runs by in a blur so fast, the air rustled past my cheek. There exists no acceptable views of her on the security cameras. No way to know who she was. So I forget her.

Months later, the same sniffling slips into the seat, the same aroma of the streets follows. Not uncommon in Baltimore, but my memory is piqued. My suspicion was confirmed when next she spoke. I intend to give her no chance to run this time, but my curiosity must be sated.

“What is your sin?” I say.
"I set a person on fire,” she responds.

An arsonist I think to myself, and a strange new feeling twists in my gut. I ask her what that means, but she only says she doesn’t want to do it again, but now she can’t stop herself. I stopped her before she could run, grabbing at her sleeve. She stops just long enough to look me in the eye. She wasn’t what I had imagined.

She was dark-skinned and wore her hair twisted in frazzled rows. Her clothes were mis-sized, worn and dirty, and the malodourous scent was all the stronger face to face. She was short and quite thin. Frail and homeless as I assumed, and younger than I originally thought. Fifteen at the most. A sheen of sweat slicked her cheeks and her eyes were red from tears and pain. We stand there looking at one another in silence, but she ran again.

I became obsessed after that. I searched for weeks, calling all the shelters and missions in the area, sharing descriptions with those I thought may encounter her. I finally take to the streets myself.” Others warned of the dangers, and Philip wasn’t delusional. His vows did not protect him. Worse, he was not ignorant of the allegations laid before the church. Revenge was a powerful motivator, but Philip believed in Christ, not the Church. He had to seek her out.

”The encampment where I finally found someone who recognized the girl I described was quite large, carrying on for more than a mile beneath the interstate. As soon as I asked about fires, their faces blanked white, and I knew I was close. Then I saw a shadow emerge from a tent. She turned just in time to see me approach, and she knew exactly who I was.

We stared at each other as we had the last time. She swallowed nervously, and that pit in my stomach returned. She began to run, and I ordered her to wait. She was fast, and I was not an athlete.

I don’t know how it happened, but in the next moment, a fire caught my hem. It wasn’t hard to put out. I heard a scream. People began to run. In the chaos, I saw the girl drop. I darted through their panic, and when I knelt at her side, she was already dead.”

Patricus stared forward in silence. To this day her ghost popped up at the worst times. I set a person on fire. It was very frustrating.

He exhaled and sought the gaze of the Regus, declaration at the ready. ”The Lord Omnipotent alone should have such power. The Abomination of Desolation stands in the Holy Place where it ought not. Idolatrous worship is a keen and guile sin. Contemptuous designations for man elevating themselves above God.  Shíqqûç shômem,” he said. The Hebrew phrase referenced the Abomination of Desolation. Scholars debated its interpretation, but the consensus identified idolatrous worship of emblems, altars, and statues. On that scholars agreed completely, and it was such a practice that led to the destruction of the temple of Jerusalem. Eventually, a final destruction awaited. Abaddon’s destruction. The Jews tended to avoid identifying the deities of pagan worship by name, but St. Mark may as well have penned the semitic equivalents of the Greek Zeus and Jupiter in his letters.

His declaration was clear, and finally, and looked to the remaining soup stagnant in the bowl. “In penance, I fasted for a month after she died,” he said, remembering taking her punishment upon himself in her absence. Finally, he pushed the spoon aside, done.

[Armande]

Only iron self control kept Armande from reacting to Patricus' words. That door, deep in his mind rattled and thundered against the locks and chains that kept it closed, the memory behind it clamoring to get out.

His pupils dilated as he assumed the chongg ran. It was something he had never done in front of another person. But he needed peace and serenity as his heart twisted violently, as if being wrung out. A fog clouded his mind and his ears were muffled, a voice distorted, green eyes floating accusingly, warmth hot on his hands, and a name....a name. Almost, he let himself hear it, before shoving that door closed, the click of the lock popping the bubble

He focused, his heart slowing. He took a sip of the tepid water to wet his dry mouth. His lips compressed for a moment, downturned at the corners, allowing himself to feel revulsion. "Shíqqûç shômem. Exactly. Abomination of Desolation. Matthew and Mark mention it. They were quoting Daniel. They are returning. Revelation mentions Abaddon, or in Greek, Apollyon. The Destroyer. The angel of the abyss. His brethren likened to a plague of locusts, tails of scorpions to sting and torment mankind. It is foretold they will come."

How they would be defeated, at least according to John of Patmos, was not as clear. Just a clue. Michael and his Angels. Who this Michael or his angels were, he did not yet know. He knew of similarities in Hindu myth, the final incarnation of Vishnu, Kalki.

"Atharim prophecies say something similar.

'He is coming. The one foretold of by Atropos. The Destroyer. The bloodless conqueror, who will conquer not with armies and machines of war, but with gold and guile. He will herald the beginning of the end. He will be marked with the slain beast, and the world will crumble with his coming. Apollyon comes. Flee before the return of the dead gods.'

And...

'He will move into the East and dominate the land. Where he walks, the Earth shall crumble at his feet. The Great Serpent shall be torn from his flesh yet his worm does not die and his fire is unquenched. He is an abomination to all mankind.'"

He took a sip, holding those grey eyes. "One can hear John and Isaiah in both of those. And yet they predate them by millennia. Clearly, the warning is real. You have seen them, in the form of a girl." The door rattled but he ignored it. "I have seen them." Brandon's face flashed across his mind.

Anger and determination laced his words. "They cannot be allowed to enslave us again! Not while I have breath in my body."

[Patricus I]

The paper was unfolded, the names skimmed. There were more than he expected, considerations for another time. He pushed the list aside.

The links connected prior to Father Regus’ stepwise accounting of future events was startlingly clear. Patricus was certain of what must be done, now. “Your initiation is successful, Father Regus,” he began.

The Bible out of which he was previously studying was returned to his hand, then, and appropriately nestled under his arm. The candles were the only witness to the continuity of history.

Prophecy was an interesting thing. In hindsight, the statements of those God chose to speak his word forged clear connection between events, but until they were unfolded, those living in the unknown were oblivious. He briefly considered revealing the visions that God bestowed upon himself, but like those forging into the unknown, he had no connection to their significance. Abraham, Daniel, Joseph, and many others were the recipients of important messages. It seemed also that Patricus I was among their number, and was possibly all the greater for it.  

The Holy Father took to his feet. He had several hours of contemplation, writing and prayer ahead of him before retiring to his bed. “I defer the matters of Apollyon to your expertise, Father Regus. I require only to be informed on major developments. Otherwise, I have no interest in Atharim operations. Furthermore, I desire to be excluded from them.”

“When will you return to the Vatican?” he asked before they parted.

[Armande]

A smile touched Armande's lips. Done was done. It seemed Patricus had accepted his words. It had begun. Father Regus. Not an Atharim term. But an acknowledgement nonetheless. He inclined his head briefly in acceptance.

A touch of energy showed in his cold blue eyes. "There are some carvings at Angkor Wat in Cambodia I need to inspect. Certain...references that have been discovered. The Atharim of old defeated the gods using their own weapons. While in our day, we have access to weapons never imagined, we may need more. The returned gods are unknown quantities. A few caches of Atharim artifacts have been found. Nothing like that. Not yet. Mostly writings. The prophecies I've mentioned. Statuary. Items I suspect may be related to their power. I am hoping this might lead to something more...practical. I will be leaving tomorrow and am unsure when I will return."

He looked at Patricus, getting the measure of the man. He was encouraged. For now, it appeared he had chosen wisely. "I look forward to our fruitful partnership. We are but the tools of God, you and I." That last was for Patricus. Armande was not sure there was a God or whether it deigned to notice mankind. Certainly there was power. And it corrupted. It was not meant for humanity. But an omniscient being who cared? That, he had never resolved- and likely never would.

Another inclination of the head. He would kiss the ring no longer. Still, he could show mutual respect as he left.