Chapter Text
Revelation 8:6: The first angel sounded his trumpet, and there came hail and fire mixed with blood, and it was hurled down on the earth. A third of the earth was burned up, a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up.
~*~
I hear the rumbling of thick tires against gravel approaching, and look to the Acolytes who have gathered before me, awaiting further instructions. Joseph and Brother Nicholas have finally arrived with medical supplies, and despite the fury the decision to send them on this emergency run had incurred within my colleague, I regret nothing. Matthew had been so distraught-- I needed to take action. The Proselyte could not die. I had prayed for him alongside Matthew, and it seems the Lord has taken mercy while my Brothers were out.
“Go to the truck, and follow Joseph’s instructions. Do not speak to either of the Exorcists, and do so quickly.” I command calmly to my willing students. They nod; some appear confused, but eager to obey nevertheless, and I watch as four sets of gilded fabric shimmer through the dappled leaves before me. They file out of the woods, one-by-dutiful-one, and Joseph begins to bark orders at them, telling them which items to grab first and which could arrive last.
As I exit the woods, I can see that Ezra and his Head Exorcist are chatting in hushed, furious tones. The two only get louder as Ezra begins to berate his subordinate for causing the Proselyte to scream loud enough for my Acolyte to hear from within his chambers. Ezra is barely making an attempt to scold him. He has never cared which vile lengths his Exorcists would take to perform their rituals; I know this from experience. I make it a point not to engage with either of them. It will only serve to anger Ezra further if I so much as glance in his direction.
Instead, I focus on the truck which has been parked near the entrance of the wooded trail leading towards Joseph’s home. I see the driver’s door swing open and slam shut, and Nicholas is standing beside the vehicle with his hands clenched in fury; white knuckles straining against the strength of his grip. He is facing Ezra and Benjamin, and very clearly on the precipice of a righteous attack.
This will not bode well for either of us. I quickly rush towards him, careful to keep my steps light and my motions as undetectable as the required haste will allow. I manage to reach him in time, standing before him and blocking his path. I raise my hand in a placating gesture, keeping my plea close to the ground so as not to alert anyone. I watch as his eyes snap into focus, and I try to gently soothe his anger.
“Nicholas, do not step further.” I whisper, but he does not hear me. His eyes flicker in and out of focus as the conversation behind me grows ever-more intense. I repeat his name again, slightly louder this time. He still does not respond. On the third repetition, I can hear the barest hint of a plea within my voice. Finally, he seems to notice my presence.
“Nicholas. Will you please accompany me on a walk? You made it in time. I wish to clear my head.” I speak to him as gently as the anxiety within me will allow.
“I...but, I need to--” He tries to form words.
I place a delicate touch to his shoulder, trying to convey a sense of peace. I am almost certain that I am begging when I cut off his stutters. “Please. I sense that you need this too. Besides, we really must go.”
Thankfully, Nicholas concedes, and he returns to his vehicle. I take a deep breath before entering the passenger side, forcing myself to push down the emotions that simmer underneath years of practiced stoicism. When I enter the vehicle, I am relieved to find myself successful in my intentions. “Will you accompany me on a journey through the Path of Sorrows, Brother Nicholas?” I sound emotionless when I say it. This is ideal.
“Sure, Deacon.” He responds in a breathy tone.
I am hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion. I lean my forehead against the window, finding comfort within the coolness of its surface. “Simon is fine.” I correct him gently. I am too tired to accept the formality of my title. It feels too detached, too lifeless. I suppose it is an accurate assessment.
“Right, sorry.” He really has no need to apologize. “Do you care which side we enter from, or…?”
“I would like to start from the beginning, Nicholas. If that is alright.”
~*~
I was born within Saint Francis Borgia’s Cathedral and Education Center in silence. Most infants cry when they are born; I did not. I was premature, and dangerously ill. My mother, as I would come to learn later in life, was a teenage Proselyte by the name of June. She was raped within the chapel at the age of thirteen, and she was only a few weeks shy of turning fourteen when she gave birth.
By Ezra’s recount, and Joseph’s hesitant confirmation, she had taken one look at my eyes and screamed violently, convinced there was a demon before her. I am unsure of the truth to this statement, but have been told that most infants are born with blue eyes that may darken as they age. Mine still are as they were back then: a depthless, deep brown bordering on inky blackness.
I have been told that I was disgraced at birth, and I do not believe this to be inaccurate. I do not blame her for her fear.
I do not blame her for her following actions, either. She had refused to hold me, threatening to smash my unformed skull to the floor. Joseph kept me safe and tended to my sickness in the days that followed.
By the end of the week, my mother had taken her own life. Joseph does not like to speak of the way she had managed to climb to the top of the bell tower, or the way the spires had skewered through her on her descent. Ezra revels in recounting the story. He had been but a child then, just beginning his own studies under the Head Exorcist of those decades prior, but the memory of watching her fall had engraved itself into his formative years.
Part of me wishes I had known her. Another part of me understands that my very existence had caused her suffering, and I am comforted that she released herself from such pain.
Many different people had raised me. They say that 'it takes a village', and I believe that to be true. Various rotations of Acolytes, Lectors, and on occasion, Doorkeepers, saw to my care through my early childhood. Joseph was my primary caretaker until I turned six, and a new Priest was brought to the Education Center. The Priest took a liking to me immediately, and from that moment on, he took over my care and became something like a father to me.
Father Ananias was kinder than his predecessor, but also idealistic and passive. Taking in an orphaned child made him appear weak to our Deacon and Head Exorcist, and they had immediately capitalized on his perceived flaws. Father Ananias was more than content to simply focus his attention on raising me through scripture and lessons of virtue, while turning a blind eye to the actions of his subordinates. He became more of a finely-dressed figurehead than a Priest who held any authority.
I can recall the shift in Saint Francis Borgia’s, the moment the Exorcists realized they had the capacity to run their consecration rituals with a lack of oversight or enforced sanctions. What was once the occasional scarring of single, carefully placed cuts for bloodletting, became numerous incisions that ran deeper than one could ever deem necessary. I would watch as the Acolytes who raised me returned from their assigned cleaning duties with more crimson than gold upon their robes, and varying countenances of horror, disgust, and nausea. On more than one occasion, the Acolytes carried limp bodies in their sullied arms to a graveyard at the northeastern boundary of the property.
Some of the more horrified would eventually leave. The ones that remained quickly came to expect such violent acts, and they became much more disdainful towards their tasks. Or perhaps they had simply disassociated from it all.
I did not like spending time around them as much, after this shift. It was as if they had forgotten how to be joyful. Looking back, I think most of us did.
None of it fazed me. What should have been traumatizing quickly became a part of my life; as natural and ordinary as the way the stream runs its course down the gentle mountain slopes. Perhaps it was due to my young age, but by the time I could fully grasp what was happening around me, I had already become all too familiar with death and violence. It was the world I grew up in--the only one I had known.
When I was ten years of age, I approached Father Ananias about the way in which the Proselytes were being treated. I can recall the conversation word for word.
“Father.” I school my facial features so as not to risk angering him. He does not like to discuss the Exorcisms. “Why do you allow them to get away with such violent acts?” I speak this casually. It is merely a conversation, after all--one of the numerous questions a child asks.
“Allow who to get away with things?” he responds, almost cheerful. It makes my stomach churn in a strange way.
“The Exorcists. It never used to be this way.”
Father Ananias scruffs my hair playfully. “Well that's just what they do, isn’t it, Simon? It’s the way things have always been. Perhaps you're too young to remember?”
He picks me up and places me on his lap, opening a book of scripture between us and moving it closer to our faces so he can see the sacred text upon the pages.
“It’s easier not to question their behavior, hmm? I do not understand why they take certain actions, and it’s not my place to tell them what they can and cannot do.”
I think that he is well within his rights as Priest to tell the Exorcists what they should or should not do. I do not tell him this.
When I was twelve years of age, Father Ananias granted me the opportunity to attend classes with the Acolytes. I even wore the gilded robes. I remember feeling something akin to excitement at the new direction in my life: Acolytes could grow to become Deacons, Priests, or even hold highly-prized positions within Sanctaria’s government. It was a golden opportunity for me, someone born of a sinner. Back then, I had longed to leave this place, and I thanked my Father greatly for his kindness.
In those days, the Acolytes were not taught by an ordained Deacon. The Lectors would take rotations, teaching history and general education to the Proselytes and scripture to those of us deemed more righteous. Being significantly behind the rest of my class, my Lector had taken it upon himself to offer private lessons within his housing. It was inside those hollow walls that the trajectory of my life became altered.
I do not remember much from those evenings. I do not even remember the Lector’s name, or any specifics of his facial features. I think my subconscious must have decided to step in at some point afterwards, erasing the finer details of those memories. In all my recollections, there are only sensations.
It had begun very innocently, all things considered. He would twirl the loose coifs of my waves between his fingers while watching over my shoulder as I wrote. Those were happy memories. I had not received such affectionate touch before, and I basked in it, absorbing his warm caresses like one would the sun’s rays on a cloudless summer day. I would work harder in his classes, and harder still within the privacy of his room to ensure such rewards. I believe that, sometimes, he even made me smile. It is an incredibly challenging thing to do.
As time went on, he offered me wine during our lessons, despite my young age. I had not considered it to be anything of concern, seeing as no Crusaders were around to enforce such laws. I was not even documented--it did not matter what I consumed, or at what age. It did not matter whether I lived or died. The sensation was strangely freeing. Once that inebriation was brought into the haze of my recollections, everything became blurry.
It is worth mentioning that the following events were consensual. I had been aware of my attractions at that age, and the man was eager to assure me that he would tell no one. He had made me promise to tell no one in return. I think I had enjoyed being with him the first few times, in an innocent, child-like sort of way.
One evening, it had been painful. I had never experienced such intense pain before; it was like a revelation to me. I had suddenly felt alive, and the sensation left me shaken. When I had tried to tell him so, my Lector went into a violent rage.
Maybe I had screamed. Maybe he had hit me. Maybe I had run, blood coursing down my thighs, to the only man I believed at the time would care. It is even entirely possible that I had cried for the first time in my life--I do not recall, and I do not wish to.
Joseph had been furious. He has always had a gentle disposition, but an irrational temper at times. He told me to stay put within his treatment room, enfolding me tightly in an irritating, wool blanket. We still use them today, and I despise them as much as I did back then.
In the end, the Lector was sent before a firing squad. It was my own humanity, and my own emotions that were my undoing. Upon hearing of his death, I had been heartbroken over the loss of the closest thing to true affection I had ever felt. The following memory is the only one I can recall so vivid and precise from those years.
“Simon. Look at me.” Joseph sounds hesitant and afraid.
Through blurred vision, I look at him.
Joseph pleads again, with an expression I misconstrue as a request for honesty. His voice is clipped in a strange way--I do not know what to make of it. “Are you saying that this was an act you willingly took part in? Did it bring you pleasure?”
Behind him, the door to his abode is open, whisking inside a flurry of snowflakes that twirl and dance around a midnight-robed omen. It is close to nightfall. Red-trimmed, ominous lines flutter like floating ribbons amidst this contained winter vortex. The figure is standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorway and watching me with golden eyes that cause my consciousness to snap with a freezing halt. I still see him in my dreams most nights. He does not say a word, he merely watches.
I look back to Joseph, and with a blank mind, I tell him the truth. “Yes.” And without my consent, my mouth forms the next damning statement. “I miss him.”
Joseph's throat constricts as he chokes back a sob. The man in black and crimson grabs me roughly by the scruff of my golden robes, and he drags me out into the flurries.
The next morning, I awaken within a drafty, concrete building. There is a young woman snoring in the bed across from me, and colorless fabrics that shift with each motion of her lungs expanding and contracting. I sit up slowly, wincing at the ache between my legs. I look down, and I am wearing gray as well.
(Return to Consecration and Proselytes, Chapter Seven)
~*~
Revelation 16:10-11: The fifth angel poured out his bowl on the throne of the beast, and its kingdom was plunged into darkness. People gnawed their tongues in agony and cursed the God of heaven because of their pains and their sores, but they refused to repent of what they had done.