[ A rivulet of sanguine winding a path down the seam of lips to the end of his chin, soaking into his Sovereign's pristinely washed hair. A sickening crack and a seething hiss, the limb that hung so limply having pressed inward in a way that stirred the touch of Agony. A cruel mistress was she indeed, the Goliath palpitating from strain and blood loss anemia. His complexion was far paler than usual, and he was short of breath, the fatigue and weakness clearly a result of his disobedience.]
[The right sleeve of his cassock was completely drenched through and torn in several places, clerical garb utterly ruined. The fabric hung in tattered strips about his abdomen and chest, though remarkable his collar remained untouched.]
....O-o'ch...O'...Nn..T-thaet smarts, ye ken.
[Real pain. He, Alexander Anderson, Regenerator of the Judas Iscariots, feel pain?! Oh, yes. Very much so. Like bursts of white-hot lightning being fed through a tube into his skin and setting his nerves aflame, sensory-receptors exploding all-too-happily.
His threshold, among other things, had been significantly reduced, including how much punishment he could endure.]
[Allowing his irritation to mask over his deep-seated concern for his spiritual father, Maxwell maneuvered the man's weight onto his shoulder, letting his uninjured arm to sling over his own back.]
Let us... get you cleansed..
[He would tend to that arm as soon as he got the giant seated. With a wicked inner laugh, Maxwell had thought for sure with the man's re-arrival, his life here would have lessened in it's strenuousness. Ha!]
With you shackled down like this, those freaks have the upper hand... Please, you must show some discretion.
[Such words he followed himself were the only decree keeping himself alive in his den of demons. With a small grunt he managed to deposit Anderson unto the pew right in front of the baptismal pool, it's water just short of being stagnate; still usable.]
[Oh, to sit. To rest. What torments were these! Every waking moment possessed in him raged of suffering, of shooting barbs that chanted a Crusader's battle hymn; A multitude of voices clamoring for Destruction and Retribution. Yet a weariness fulfilled and spilled into him, flowing over like the crashing down of the Red Sea.
There was nothing more to Give. Nothing more to Prove. The Paladin had sated his ferocity, but at what cost to the Body? Of what cost to the Mind?
And the chastisement would make him hang his head like a lectured school boy, albeit a very large, murderous, blood-covered one.]
[And the Archbishop asked nothing more of him than to rest. Allow him to take the reigns of pain and retribution. A silky pale hand contrasted to Anderson's stained cheek, a strange sort of maternity permeating off the elegant man as he lifted the priest's crown and touched his blessing in a kiss to his forehead.]
Si.. it is. I have something that will commemorate it and assuage you if even for a little while.
[How incorrigible was his foolhardy priest. So alike in that regard, Maxwell could not find it in his cruel body to reprimand him any further. After all, he was doing God's work, and in turn, working and slaving for himself.]
Un momento, caro Padre.
[Uttered in a most doting way, the Archbishop left with a sweep of blond tresses fluttering behind his graceful steps to the back rooms. He returned some five minutes later, a slight crease in his brow as if he had done something rather.. strenuous. Under one arm was what looked to be a bundle of ripped cloth.. in his hand was a steaming saucer, and under his other arm was the bottle of wine the priest had procured for them both the week beforehand.]
Lay your ill thoughts to rest, father, and let me wash you clean.
[And just as on that night their Sovereign washed the feet of his disciples, to show that the humble and the meek would inherit God's kingdom, Maxwell knelt before the priest upon the pew and dabbed one of the silky cloths.. upon closer inspection.. were shredded from the man's prized bed-sheets.. into the disc of warm water and began to swath away the blood from Anderson's weather-beaten face.]
[ The shepherd and guardian of the Church who was made lifeless and desecrate by his own eschatological ideals could be nothing less than a solitary vision of savagery and brutality in the face of those who would challenge him, or Iscariot's Creed; For the Face of the Sword was two, both Man and Beast; Split; A Divider of hellacious ferocity between Silencer of Atrocities be they mortal or immortal and Christ's Apostle, the Living Word of God. But how surprised was he, who brandished the Fiery Burden of the Holy and the Sacrosanct! How surprised to witness Kindness in his lamb, whose compassionate hands laid Grace and were so very gentle upon him.
The normally frigid icicle of an Italian shied away from physical contact, let alone a kind of contact that involved dirtying his perfectly manicured nails. What had changed him? Did this place have the power to transform a man so completely?
He heard his Bishop speak in dulcet tones and gave himself permission to let limbs go lax at once, like a trickle of flowing water streaming into a placid pool. For once the turmoil boiling below the surface did not swallow him, but rather the void of exhaustion fed the nothingness and swallowed it.
He could barely move. Every flex of joint and muscle agitated fresh wounds, making him flinch even when he registered that swiping cloth being cooled against his aching flesh.
The dried browns and bruising crimson soaked the fabric through and turned the water to a reddish-pink, revealing the pale sheen beneath bronze, how utterly ghostly he truly appeared, as though he neared an End.]
[Indeed something had changed in him through this harsh trial, infliction after infliction, forced to forge the cold and plague and famine alone. Learning to stand again on his own, and perhaps for a brief moment, take the aid of another. Surely he knew this world was driving him to an insanity that exceeded what he was in the world before this, yet all around him were those thinking he was finally finding sanity. Wrought with inanition day and night, he cleaved to the One whom he had forsaken, crying out to Him, desperate to have his call heard.
With the return of the man who shepherded him and shielded him with silver wings, Maxwell received his answer and took it graciously when the fear of the Lord clouding his mind finally lifted like a veil.
Drawing white lines through the grime and blood, parting folds of clothing to expose damaged flesh and tourniquet the wounds well with that perfectly absorbent cloth, he tended to the man gently in turn, knowing well with Anderson's strength, his own salvation would be solidified. Bandaged and bound with all the care the older man had reflected on him in his youth, Maxwell then pulled away to bite down on a cork, popping it from the bottle of unadulterated wine.. pure from the vine, yet aged well.
Upon his knees, resting his hand upon Anderson's own, he bowed his head to bless the communion they would take in honor of their Lord's one request.
This means my blood. Keep doing this in remembrance of me.]
Bless, O Lord, this drink which Thou hast created, that it may be a salutary remedy for all who partake of it, and grant that all who taste of it may, by invoking Thy holy name, receive health for body and soul.
[Pausing, he took a long savoring gulp of the untainted wine, it's heavenly sensation causing his misty eyes to flutter, before he drew it away and touched the lip of the bottle to Anderson's own.]
[He repeated softly, bowing a blood-stained crown in reverence for the commemoration evoked in the name of the Lord. His heart twisted and ached in response to having his broken body assuaged by the one he was sworn to Protect, and consequently, as the glass kissed his own mouth he drank deeply in sincere gratitude.
The flavor that coated his tongue couldn't have been sweeter, and it drew a contented little burble from chocolate-toned tiers, the soothing product of the vine sating both palate and his parched throat.
Tiny ruby droplets bead down the corner of his chin and he leans precariously forwards, having to grip the pew instinctively, which only sent another jolting pierce of anguish up his right arm.
The Priest grit his teeth, and released, feebly moving those fingers though the arm itself was useless. Every movement was pure agony . . . And even a man like Enrico would be able to perceive his pains, no matter how badly Anderson wanted to hide it.]
[The priest's agony was unlike any he had witnessed before, drawing a disquiet line down Maxwell's thin mouth. How this world could dare inflict such a piteous Warrior of God was heresy unto itself, and seethed the innermost parts of himself.
His shepherd, his minister, his teacher... his last companion. Maxwell let his fingertips smear away the carlet dribbling down the priest's chin, bracing his jawline to keep him upright, and lips touching the beaded hairs to mop the last remnants away.]
Take your reprieve.
[He murmured against a robust throat, watching the shudders of pang ripple through his knight, and praying the drink and their sanctum around them would soothe his ails.]
["After the Supper, He went outside the Old City of Jerusalem, crossed the Kidron Valley, and came to the Garden of Gethsemani. There He suffered in three ineffable ways: He knew exactly what would befall Him physically and mentally -- every stroke, every thorn in the crown He would wear, every labored breath He would try to take while hanging on the Cross, the pain in each glance at His mother; He knew that He was taking on all the sins of the world -- all the sins that had ever been or ever will be committed; and, finally, He knew that, for some people, this Sacrifice would not be fruitful because they would reject Him."
The trials of Christ were borne anew; but where the Betrayal of the Lord transpired, Father Anderson was blessed.
The softest smile set upon the humbled holy man's steadfast tiers, the sincerity of a Bishop beheld in compassionate murmurings more of a blessing than the vindication he'd sought before. Anderson's esteem for his superior knew no limitation; Like the Disciples who witnessed the agonies of Christ, Maxwell would comfort and care for him, cherishing in Brotherly affection the true Shepherd of the Lord.]
...A'...
[A subtle distress surfaced in him when the one who he'd sworn to protect drew closer, tearing gasps away from weakened flesh. What guilt and sorrow would wash over him, who was treated with an undeserved kindness.
Yet the more his tongue was sated by the garnet liquid the stronger the compulsion set upon his ailing mind. Yes, he was set at ease...But perhaps not in the way the other would be expecting.]
[Pale lips smoothed over the end of that glazed bottle, a velvet pallet slaking down another over-generous quench till the archbishop was mewling in the warmth of red spirits spreading up his torso. It had been so long since he had found a moment of peace like this, the quiet of the sanctum for once was welcoming, now that it was filled with a presence that was tangible. Lithe arms crossed over Anderson's lap, till locks of heavy tressed blond pooled over robust thighs, and a noble crown laid itself down to follow.]
I'll take mine as well.
[Even with his shepherd's injuries, knowing he could withstand the burdens this callous world through at him whilst shackled down, gave the inquisitor hope for their coming exodus together. Nestling into that cradle of warmth, he was the picturesque of the moment they had last seen eachother alive... Back in Midian... Back where Maxwell's nightmare began and still plagued him.]
I've had such dreams of torment, teacher... for the months captive here I have not a single respite.
Breath comes.. and yet I cannot feel it's relief.
[No matter how he gasps, the ache in his chest still lances him with many pains.]
Shutting my eyes, there is nothing but anguish.. yet opening them..
[Tilting his head up, till the back of his crown was comfortably nested, there was almost a ghost of a smile etching it's way along Maxwell's slender mouth as he looked up to his minister, and allowed his fingertips to brush that marred cheek fondly.]
I'm released.
[And what he could touch, certainly must have been the truth.]
['Canst thou draw out Leviathan with an hook? Or his tongue with a cord which thou lettest down? Canst thou put an hook into his nose? Or bore his jaw through with a thorn? Will he make many supplications unto thee? Will he speak soft words unto thee? Will he make a covenant with thee? Wilt thou take him for a servant for ever? Wilt thou play with him as with a bird?'
The vision of tumbled gold and suffusion of porcelain with damask streaked retinas white, the eidolon of the Bishop's lifeless husk flashing before him. He nearly choked back a dry convulsion in his throat, the partially stifled noise swallowed down again like the quivering of his spirit.
To see the progression of the Church's Prelate from narcissism and vanity to charitable cherub had given him Hope that the Peccancy would be washed away...Somehow. Yet the Terrors they had succumbed to made him less than enthusiastic about the exchange for diligence and bestowed royalties when he Knew. Betrayal was not so easily erased, even after his Return.
The scar that twitched beneath tapered retractiles hardened, his lips beset in a grim line that accounted for his Imputation. Guilt, heavier than the burden of Atlas bore down on his broad shoulders, slumping him down in distressed silence. How could he tell him...?
'Ah, but you owe him this...Do you not?'
Excused he was not. His Sovereign he could not obtain for royalties nor charity, nor by force or steal, or in defense of his life or actions.
And much like the Scriptures themselves, Anderson was an open book, especially given the loosening of his tongue where Truth unwound from the Paladin's stalwart clutches.]
...'Rico...Pleas'...Ye 'ave tae understand...
[His fingers curled over Enrico's own, holding them there though he trembled, his eyes downcast.]
[A face of utter repose lifted in bemusement. Pale and slender digits were taken up in a dusky and robust grasp, tremulous warm surrounding the what would be known as the Archbishop's perpetual chill. What caught his as atypical was not so much the severed words.. but the way the priest relaid them and held him as he did so.
Tender and maternal. As if he would shred as a butterfly's wing beneath glass.]
Anderson...?
[Maxwell sat up, watching the man's usual noontide glow beginning to drain and pale like himself. A mountainous countenance shaken before him, that almost piqued his own sense of dread at the very sight of it.
The terror you inspire and the pride of your heart have deceived you. You live in a rock fortress and control the mountain heights. But even if you make your nest among the peaks with the eagles, I will bring you crashing down.]
[Rolling thumbs across the back of white knuckles the Priest felt his heart clench and sink faster than a wrecked ship dragging on the bottom of an open sea, piercing aquamarine causing his Faith to drown.]
We were nae meant tae....Nae meant tae meet agaen. Ye lost control..
[He spoke low, and when his lips parted his own frailties poured forth like a raging river, thumb smoothing gently over the back of his palm. Unravelling the secret he'd bound close was more difficult than he'd originally thought...When he knew he couldn't pray for absolution.]
Ah'll nae expect yer forgiveness..Maxwell...
[The Shepherd lifted his head to stare at the other level, looking more brave than he felt.]
[The right sleeve of his cassock was completely drenched through and torn in several places, clerical garb utterly ruined. The fabric hung in tattered strips about his abdomen and chest, though remarkable his collar remained untouched.]
....O-o'ch...O'...Nn..T-thaet smarts, ye ken.
[Real pain. He, Alexander Anderson, Regenerator of the Judas Iscariots, feel pain?! Oh, yes. Very much so. Like bursts of white-hot lightning being fed through a tube into his skin and setting his nerves aflame, sensory-receptors exploding all-too-happily.
His threshold, among other things, had been significantly reduced, including how much punishment he could endure.]
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[Allowing his irritation to mask over his deep-seated concern for his spiritual father, Maxwell maneuvered the man's weight onto his shoulder, letting his uninjured arm to sling over his own back.]
Let us... get you cleansed..
[He would tend to that arm as soon as he got the giant seated. With a wicked inner laugh, Maxwell had thought for sure with the man's re-arrival, his life here would have lessened in it's strenuousness. Ha!]
With you shackled down like this, those freaks have the upper hand... Please, you must show some discretion.
[Such words he followed himself were the only decree keeping himself alive in his den of demons. With a small grunt he managed to deposit Anderson unto the pew right in front of the baptismal pool, it's water just short of being stagnate; still usable.]
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There was nothing more to Give. Nothing more to Prove. The Paladin had sated his ferocity, but at what cost to the Body? Of what cost to the Mind?
And the chastisement would make him hang his head like a lectured school boy, albeit a very large, murderous, blood-covered one.]
...O'...Today's...Holieh Thursday, es et nae so?
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Si.. it is. I have something that will commemorate it and assuage you if even for a little while.
[How incorrigible was his foolhardy priest. So alike in that regard, Maxwell could not find it in his cruel body to reprimand him any further. After all, he was doing God's work, and in turn, working and slaving for himself.]
Un momento, caro Padre.
[Uttered in a most doting way, the Archbishop left with a sweep of blond tresses fluttering behind his graceful steps to the back rooms. He returned some five minutes later, a slight crease in his brow as if he had done something rather.. strenuous. Under one arm was what looked to be a bundle of ripped cloth.. in his hand was a steaming saucer, and under his other arm was the bottle of wine the priest had procured for them both the week beforehand.]
Lay your ill thoughts to rest, father, and let me wash you clean.
[And just as on that night their Sovereign washed the feet of his disciples, to show that the humble and the meek would inherit God's kingdom, Maxwell knelt before the priest upon the pew and dabbed one of the silky cloths.. upon closer inspection.. were shredded from the man's prized bed-sheets.. into the disc of warm water and began to swath away the blood from Anderson's weather-beaten face.]
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The normally frigid icicle of an Italian shied away from physical contact, let alone a kind of contact that involved dirtying his perfectly manicured nails. What had changed him? Did this place have the power to transform a man so completely?
He heard his Bishop speak in dulcet tones and gave himself permission to let limbs go lax at once, like a trickle of flowing water streaming into a placid pool. For once the turmoil boiling below the surface did not swallow him, but rather the void of exhaustion fed the nothingness and swallowed it.
He could barely move. Every flex of joint and muscle agitated fresh wounds, making him flinch even when he registered that swiping cloth being cooled against his aching flesh.
The dried browns and bruising crimson soaked the fabric through and turned the water to a reddish-pink, revealing the pale sheen beneath bronze, how utterly ghostly he truly appeared, as though he neared an End.]
. . . Maxwell.
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With the return of the man who shepherded him and shielded him with silver wings, Maxwell received his answer and took it graciously when the fear of the Lord clouding his mind finally lifted like a veil.
Drawing white lines through the grime and blood, parting folds of clothing to expose damaged flesh and tourniquet the wounds well with that perfectly absorbent cloth, he tended to the man gently in turn, knowing well with Anderson's strength, his own salvation would be solidified. Bandaged and bound with all the care the older man had reflected on him in his youth, Maxwell then pulled away to bite down on a cork, popping it from the bottle of unadulterated wine.. pure from the vine, yet aged well.
Upon his knees, resting his hand upon Anderson's own, he bowed his head to bless the communion they would take in honor of their Lord's one request.
This means my blood. Keep doing this in remembrance of me.]
Bless, O Lord, this drink which Thou hast created, that it may be a salutary remedy for all who partake of it, and grant that all who taste of it may, by invoking Thy holy name, receive health for body and soul.
[Pausing, he took a long savoring gulp of the untainted wine, it's heavenly sensation causing his misty eyes to flutter, before he drew it away and touched the lip of the bottle to Anderson's own.]
Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
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[He repeated softly, bowing a blood-stained crown in reverence for the commemoration evoked in the name of the Lord. His heart twisted and ached in response to having his broken body assuaged by the one he was sworn to Protect, and consequently, as the glass kissed his own mouth he drank deeply in sincere gratitude.
The flavor that coated his tongue couldn't have been sweeter, and it drew a contented little burble from chocolate-toned tiers, the soothing product of the vine sating both palate and his parched throat.
Tiny ruby droplets bead down the corner of his chin and he leans precariously forwards, having to grip the pew instinctively, which only sent another jolting pierce of anguish up his right arm.
The Priest grit his teeth, and released, feebly moving those fingers though the arm itself was useless. Every movement was pure agony . . . And even a man like Enrico would be able to perceive his pains, no matter how badly Anderson wanted to hide it.]
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[The priest's agony was unlike any he had witnessed before, drawing a disquiet line down Maxwell's thin mouth. How this world could dare inflict such a piteous Warrior of God was heresy unto itself, and seethed the innermost parts of himself.
His shepherd, his minister, his teacher... his last companion. Maxwell let his fingertips smear away the carlet dribbling down the priest's chin, bracing his jawline to keep him upright, and lips touching the beaded hairs to mop the last remnants away.]
Take your reprieve.
[He murmured against a robust throat, watching the shudders of pang ripple through his knight, and praying the drink and their sanctum around them would soothe his ails.]
You've earned this much.
Reply
The trials of Christ were borne anew; but where the Betrayal of the Lord transpired, Father Anderson was blessed.
The softest smile set upon the humbled holy man's steadfast tiers, the sincerity of a Bishop beheld in compassionate murmurings more of a blessing than the vindication he'd sought before. Anderson's esteem for his superior knew no limitation; Like the Disciples who witnessed the agonies of Christ, Maxwell would comfort and care for him, cherishing in Brotherly affection the true Shepherd of the Lord.]
...A'...
[A subtle distress surfaced in him when the one who he'd sworn to protect drew closer, tearing gasps away from weakened flesh. What guilt and sorrow would wash over him, who was treated with an undeserved kindness.
Yet the more his tongue was sated by the garnet liquid the stronger the compulsion set upon his ailing mind. Yes, he was set at ease...But perhaps not in the way the other would be expecting.]
Maxwell...
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[Pale lips smoothed over the end of that glazed bottle, a velvet pallet slaking down another over-generous quench till the archbishop was mewling in the warmth of red spirits spreading up his torso. It had been so long since he had found a moment of peace like this, the quiet of the sanctum for once was welcoming, now that it was filled with a presence that was tangible. Lithe arms crossed over Anderson's lap, till locks of heavy tressed blond pooled over robust thighs, and a noble crown laid itself down to follow.]
I'll take mine as well.
[Even with his shepherd's injuries, knowing he could withstand the burdens this callous world through at him whilst shackled down, gave the inquisitor hope for their coming exodus together. Nestling into that cradle of warmth, he was the picturesque of the moment they had last seen eachother alive... Back in Midian... Back where Maxwell's nightmare began and still plagued him.]
I've had such dreams of torment, teacher... for the months captive here I have not a single respite.
Breath comes.. and yet I cannot feel it's relief.
[No matter how he gasps, the ache in his chest still lances him with many pains.]
Shutting my eyes, there is nothing but anguish.. yet opening them..
[Tilting his head up, till the back of his crown was comfortably nested, there was almost a ghost of a smile etching it's way along Maxwell's slender mouth as he looked up to his minister, and allowed his fingertips to brush that marred cheek fondly.]
I'm released.
[And what he could touch, certainly must have been the truth.]
I think my very subconsciousness is betraying me.
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['Canst thou draw out Leviathan with an hook? Or his tongue with a cord which thou lettest down? Canst thou put an hook into his nose? Or bore his jaw through with a thorn? Will he make many supplications unto thee? Will he speak soft words unto thee? Will he make a covenant with thee? Wilt thou take him for a servant for ever? Wilt thou play with him as with a bird?'
The vision of tumbled gold and suffusion of porcelain with damask streaked retinas white, the eidolon of the Bishop's lifeless husk flashing before him. He nearly choked back a dry convulsion in his throat, the partially stifled noise swallowed down again like the quivering of his spirit.
To see the progression of the Church's Prelate from narcissism and vanity to charitable cherub had given him Hope that the Peccancy would be washed away...Somehow. Yet the Terrors they had succumbed to made him less than enthusiastic about the exchange for diligence and bestowed royalties when he Knew. Betrayal was not so easily erased, even after his Return.
The scar that twitched beneath tapered retractiles hardened, his lips beset in a grim line that accounted for his Imputation. Guilt, heavier than the burden of Atlas bore down on his broad shoulders, slumping him down in distressed silence. How could he tell him...?
'Ah, but you owe him this...Do you not?'
Excused he was not. His Sovereign he could not obtain for royalties nor charity, nor by force or steal, or in defense of his life or actions.
And much like the Scriptures themselves, Anderson was an open book, especially given the loosening of his tongue where Truth unwound from the Paladin's stalwart clutches.]
...'Rico...Pleas'...Ye 'ave tae understand...
[His fingers curled over Enrico's own, holding them there though he trembled, his eyes downcast.]
Seein' ye agaen...Ah ne'er expected tae....
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Tender and maternal. As if he would shred as a butterfly's wing beneath glass.]
Anderson...?
[Maxwell sat up, watching the man's usual noontide glow beginning to drain and pale like himself. A mountainous countenance shaken before him, that almost piqued his own sense of dread at the very sight of it.
The terror you inspire and the pride of your heart have deceived you. You live in a rock fortress and control the mountain heights. But even if you make your nest among the peaks with the eagles, I will bring you crashing down.]
Teacher, I'm listening now...
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We were nae meant tae....Nae meant tae meet agaen. Ye lost control..
[He spoke low, and when his lips parted his own frailties poured forth like a raging river, thumb smoothing gently over the back of his palm. Unravelling the secret he'd bound close was more difficult than he'd originally thought...When he knew he couldn't pray for absolution.]
Ah'll nae expect yer forgiveness..Maxwell...
[The Shepherd lifted his head to stare at the other level, looking more brave than he felt.]
Et was nae a dream.
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