[Having holed himself up in that room of his like a hermit, innate fear gripping and dragging him away from going near that door, the archbishop curved his ear to the rummaging sounds that echoed throughout the resounding church. From the very moment he had laid eyes upon his subordinate that had returned to him like the very Returning of the Messiah, he had been viced with a terror he could not begin to explain
( ... )
[ His ears burned like white-hot irons stretched over silk that had been pressed and melted against them the instant the Archbishop's voice carried through the extension of space between them, a strangled purl gurgling in the back of his throat. He turned around slowly, suspended in time, as though he might silently wrest and prey on that sound and pin it down, so very afraid that silvery Roman tongue was nothing more than a chimera-a mirage-something surreal his mind had compensated for in the midst of his loneliness, his yearning, and his uncertainty regarding his Brother's well being.]
Y-ye...Ye're oot o' yer room! Scarcelieh saed ae word tae mae since ah bin....Though' ah migh' bae dreamin'...
[A sort of surprised pull of brows elevating upon his stressed brow, a flickering half-smile put into place for a brief interval. The expressed joviality soon dwindled unto the pitfall of melancholia and regret he'd allowed himself to be stewed into every time he heard the door slam on its squeaking hinges, a storm that churned
( ... )
Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer everyone.
[The mild tongue of his subordinate could assuage the most pother of souls. A lilt seeped in lore and harmony that one could not help but turn an ear to and listen, though the words shrouded in mysterious brogue. Despite the former arcane horror and qualms in the face of this Beast of Christ's burden Maxwell found himself soothed by Anderson's apparent awkwardness for a man of his great size; usually a sight that would cause the archbishop to smirk callously at and taunt him over
( ... )
† Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me. †
[ Anderson's legs halted at the pull of a taloned grip that bide him so solemnly, unable to muster any degree of resistance towards the desperation in that call even if he wished to. The implications behind doing so would prove his Betrayal, engraving that which could never be undone in Maxwell's stony heart.
He was bound as an embodiment of the Triquetra: Hand and foot; Tooth and nail; Intertwined completely in an interlaced weave as knotted as the Book of Kells to be delivered heart and soul to Service the very man whose existence he had shattered.
Theocratic Slave.
Were he not torn by his own actions, were he not guarding a secret that proved his Failing, Alexander would have been..Less careful, less anxious. He knew with every twinge of Guilt that struck that he could not mention a word of it, lest the Trust he'd tried so hard to build between them crumble into Dust, all for naught. Not now, at least.]Maxwell, ah woul' ne'er..Leave ye completelieh...
( ... )
[A wreck. Shambles. Ruins likened to that very church they stood in. The noble aristocrat and Prince of the Church was hardly even a willowisp of that man Anderson had known and the wicked and the righteous of their world hand learned to fear. Malnourished. Maltreated. Browbeaten and broken. His clothing barely clung to him as it was once perfectly tailored to his lithe and lanky from. Pale cheeks were sunken, eyes once of a shocking and envious viridian, were deeply set and lacked any shine. A blonde mane that had grown nearly to his ankles without treatment had become ratted and jagged as a crown of thorns that weaved about his head and clawed disheveled down his backside. Maxwell was walking death; anemic and clinging to life by a thread with stubbornness in his cruel form that knew no bounds
( ... )
[ In sickness or in health, he would cleave to his Inquisitor of all things Super-Natural, his Broker of Punishment, regardless of consequence or demand, even if that demand threatened to unravel him. His Sovereign was his Enforcer, and his Holy Order law.
Even if he should be Destroyed by that steadfast fealty in the end..
Ah need be joos' ae Bayonet...Ae Bayonet named Divine Punishment.
Even if he were to Fade from Existence..
O Death, Where is Thy Sting? O Grave, Where is Thy Victory?
Father Anderson had made his decision the moment he was Reborn in this treacherous city: The Betrayal had awakened him to Loss, to Grief more poignant than the barbs of Melancholia.
...From now on He would be his Wall of Jericho; His Knight and His Sword to shield and defend him, Protect him from those who might seek to Harm or Revile him. ]
[The words of his shepherd had this black sheep bemused. Thin brows knitting, he couldn't discern just what it was Anderson was requesting of him... yet as he was suddenly lifted up, vertigo leaving him, Maxwell thought for a moment that perhaps he was doing what he himself had striven for in this debased city.
Familiarity.
Cleaving to whatever reminded them of home, so that they might not forget what they had been torn from.
The weeping child inside himself knew that the Father's nature was to care for him... as fruitless as it was. And so, as much as his body longed to struggle, he did not protest, simply curling into the cradle of those branching arms, just wishing to sink into himself and disappear into some dark space inside himself.]
If you must.. you must..
Help me.
[A final admittance stifled out through a pained gasp. Throughout his entire imprisonment here.. he had not asked that request from anyone.. Not even from his Almight God.]
[He would hold him close in the shelter of his vast bosom despite their mutual estrangement, breaching the gap of separation through an unsaid tenderness reserved to none other.
Even if he had once disagreed with Maxwell's methodology, he would not deny him this. There, bony and frail, the neglected Bishop spirited a strange spark of compassion in him..That he should be reduced to this..So..Vulnerable..gave him the deepest impression of that lost child that had came to the doorstep of the orphanage so long ago.
Without needing to be prompted further by the once proud and contemptuous viper the Defender brings his chiel to the edge of the baptismal waters and lowered down on his knees, propping him up on his lap but supporting him still with an arm slung loosely over his legs.]
Tae help ye ah need tae..Git thaes aff o' ye...Es thaet...
[Pliant as a doll without joints and just as lifeless, Maxwell hardly rebelled. As much as his childlike self would, as much as even the adult would, something in this city drained the fight from him other than to simply keep breathing. Even that, his respite was shallow and silent, shineless eyes cast to the reflective waters that steam danced off of. The priest must have spent hours boiling every gallon just for his dejected form. Selfless. Always so selfless was his shepherd. The radiant beckon of sainthood.
Such a shame his glory had never emanated in the fae-like man he held against the protective shield of his chest. After so many decades raised by him, one would have thought something would have curved the selfish child's demeanor.
Perhaps now after it was already far too late, something had bent.]
Sì... Accetto.
[Uttered hollowly as if he had no truly heard whatever the priest was asking of him.]
[Politely inclining his head despite the boldness in which he depressed buttons from their slits, Anderson started to peel back the blood-stiffened fabric slowly as not to alarm, nor inflict any unnecessary pain on his weary ward. It wasn't until he got down to the greying dress shirt that he realized the full magnitude of the other's sorry state, the extensive patches of dried crimson turned brown with age indicating old wounds.
The instant bare flesh was exposed the sight was nearly grueling to bear witness to, the Priest inhaling sharply to still his hands from quavering.
Never would he have been prepared for the extent of deep bruising encasing the other's ribcage, nor how emaciated Enrico really was.]
. . .
[Yet still, he wouldn't make a single utterance for fear of his tongue betraying him, the shock on his face probably saying more than enough.]
...Yer broken en 'ere..
[Didn't exactly take a doctor to know that, especially since the Knight was one to be well-versed in such matters given his experience in the battlefield.]
( ... )
[Silent sharp intakes puffed past his frigid lips as the drafty air of the church hit his paper-thin flesh. Bruised and marred beyond recognition, his once perfect and unmarked body, pure as alabaster stone, was tainted by thick patches of purple, black, and dyes of pink
( ... )
[He has the stripped Archbishop dangling in the makeshift shelter of his embrace for only a short interval before the consideration of cold becomes a factor, aware that to expose him for much longer than would be necessary was foolish given his sickly condition.
He couldn't verily lower him into the baptistry without getting wet himself, and as he wasn't keen on removing any articles lest his intentions seem less than what his Office called for, he would simply roll up his sleeves as far as they went, getting ready to immerse that battered body into the soothing bath waters.
The reference wasn't lost on him however and the Priest's lips quiver slightly though the rest of him gives no outward sign, eyes downcast.]
Ah'm goin' tae lower ye entae thae bath, nae. Et migh' bae ae bit o' ae shock on ye, sae..
[Gripping firmly onto him to offer a stable support he slowly brought him down, down to the very edge of stone, setting him in as gently as he could
( ... )
[A fae-like frame, delicate as glass, hardly disturbed the mirror of the steaming waters as Maxwell was descent into them. Every tendon and knotted sinew seemed to unfurl and allay till he was fully submerged up to his neck. Long yet thinning locks of white-golds spilled into the waters, nearly dying it in the pale yellow color. The shock did come in the form of his pangs soothing away in the assuaging heat, his back arching as a desperate sound gasped past his lips and was wrenched down between his stubborn teeth.]
A-ahhaa! I.. An..derson..
[Time spent here in this cesspit of despair and desolation has nearly wiped the princely man's mind of what it was like to feel the comforts of home. Nothing here was familiar or placating, only more forestalling and foul the longer he walked this false Purgatory. he had tried... once. With all his might to integrate and find his way to survive. Staking pains upon himself by unwillingly mingling with the unclean, and choking down the poisons he wished to spit at them like a cobra
( ... )
[The vigilant shepherd, ever-watchful, trained his eye on the blossoming baptismal waters, his earthen hands dipping beneath blessed heat on either side of frail shoulders. He did not know the extent to which the man had suffered, did not realize how far the other had come to perishing in this hellish dimension...No, he couldn't possibly.
And he worried. He worried that what he had to give to his ward was not enough. Would never be enough. Except now that they had found each other again..Now that they'd come so close to bridging that which divided..The good Father knew there would come a time when he'd have to tell him..Have to say the words that stuck to his tongue, bitter and broken.
Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.Yet, as he laid his hand upon Maxwell, offered him benevolence, he couldn't help but feel . . . Content. This was his duty: To Guide and Protect. This was his charge, his creed. And so his balmy fingers spread over the top of Enrico's scalp, a gentle smile spreading across his lips
( ... )
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[ His ears burned like white-hot irons stretched over silk that had been pressed and melted against them the instant the Archbishop's voice carried through the extension of space between them, a strangled purl gurgling in the back of his throat. He turned around slowly, suspended in time, as though he might silently wrest and prey on that sound and pin it down, so very afraid that silvery Roman tongue was nothing more than a chimera-a mirage-something surreal his mind had compensated for in the midst of his loneliness, his yearning, and his uncertainty regarding his Brother's well being.]
Y-ye...Ye're oot o' yer room! Scarcelieh saed ae word tae mae since ah bin....Though' ah migh' bae dreamin'...
[A sort of surprised pull of brows elevating upon his stressed brow, a flickering half-smile put into place for a brief interval. The expressed joviality soon dwindled unto the pitfall of melancholia and regret he'd allowed himself to be stewed into every time he heard the door slam on its squeaking hinges, a storm that churned ( ... )
Reply
[The mild tongue of his subordinate could assuage the most pother of souls. A lilt seeped in lore and harmony that one could not help but turn an ear to and listen, though the words shrouded in mysterious brogue. Despite the former arcane horror and qualms in the face of this Beast of Christ's burden Maxwell found himself soothed by Anderson's apparent awkwardness for a man of his great size; usually a sight that would cause the archbishop to smirk callously at and taunt him over ( ... )
Reply
Christ to comfort and restore me. †
[ Anderson's legs halted at the pull of a taloned grip that bide him so solemnly, unable to muster any degree of resistance towards the desperation in that call even if he wished to. The implications behind doing so would prove his Betrayal, engraving that which could never be undone in Maxwell's stony heart.
He was bound as an embodiment of the Triquetra: Hand and foot; Tooth and nail; Intertwined completely in an interlaced weave as knotted as the Book of Kells to be delivered heart and soul to Service the very man whose existence he had shattered.
Theocratic Slave.
Were he not torn by his own actions, were he not guarding a secret that proved his Failing, Alexander would have been..Less careful, less anxious. He knew with every twinge of Guilt that struck that he could not mention a word of it, lest the Trust he'd tried so hard to build between them crumble into Dust, all for naught. Not now, at least.]Maxwell, ah woul' ne'er..Leave ye completelieh... ( ... )
Reply
[A wreck. Shambles. Ruins likened to that very church they stood in. The noble aristocrat and Prince of the Church was hardly even a willowisp of that man Anderson had known and the wicked and the righteous of their world hand learned to fear. Malnourished. Maltreated. Browbeaten and broken. His clothing barely clung to him as it was once perfectly tailored to his lithe and lanky from. Pale cheeks were sunken, eyes once of a shocking and envious viridian, were deeply set and lacked any shine. A blonde mane that had grown nearly to his ankles without treatment had become ratted and jagged as a crown of thorns that weaved about his head and clawed disheveled down his backside. Maxwell was walking death; anemic and clinging to life by a thread with stubbornness in his cruel form that knew no bounds ( ... )
Reply
Even if he should be Destroyed by that steadfast fealty in the end..
Ah need be joos' ae Bayonet...Ae Bayonet named Divine Punishment.
Even if he were to Fade from Existence..
O Death, Where is Thy Sting? O Grave, Where is Thy Victory?
Father Anderson had made his decision the moment he was Reborn in this treacherous city: The Betrayal had awakened him to Loss, to Grief more poignant than the barbs of Melancholia.
...From now on He would be his Wall of Jericho; His Knight and His Sword to shield and defend him, Protect him from those who might seek to Harm or Revile him. ]
A-ah 'ave tae dae this, 'Rico. Ye...Ye dinnae ken...
Whit it woul' mean tae mae.
[The importance of Sacrifice. The need for Redemption. The constant hole in his heart that gnawed away at him, turning ( ... )
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Familiarity.
Cleaving to whatever reminded them of home, so that they might not forget what they had been torn from.
The weeping child inside himself knew that the Father's nature was to care for him... as fruitless as it was. And so, as much as his body longed to struggle, he did not protest, simply curling into the cradle of those branching arms, just wishing to sink into himself and disappear into some dark space inside himself.]
If you must.. you must..
Help me.
[A final admittance stifled out through a pained gasp. Throughout his entire imprisonment here.. he had not asked that request from anyone.. Not even from his Almight God.]
Reply
Even if he had once disagreed with Maxwell's methodology, he would not deny him this. There, bony and frail, the neglected Bishop spirited a strange spark of compassion in him..That he should be reduced to this..So..Vulnerable..gave him the deepest impression of that lost child that had came to the doorstep of the orphanage so long ago.
Without needing to be prompted further by the once proud and contemptuous viper the Defender brings his chiel to the edge of the baptismal waters and lowered down on his knees, propping him up on his lap but supporting him still with an arm slung loosely over his legs.]
Tae help ye ah need tae..Git thaes aff o' ye...Es thaet...
[A small clearing of his throat.]
A-acceptable?
Reply
Such a shame his glory had never emanated in the fae-like man he held against the protective shield of his chest. After so many decades raised by him, one would have thought something would have curved the selfish child's demeanor.
Perhaps now after it was already far too late, something had bent.]
Sì... Accetto.
[Uttered hollowly as if he had no truly heard whatever the priest was asking of him.]
Reply
The instant bare flesh was exposed the sight was nearly grueling to bear witness to, the Priest inhaling sharply to still his hands from quavering.
Never would he have been prepared for the extent of deep bruising encasing the other's ribcage, nor how emaciated Enrico really was.]
. . .
[Yet still, he wouldn't make a single utterance for fear of his tongue betraying him, the shock on his face probably saying more than enough.]
...Yer broken en 'ere..
[Didn't exactly take a doctor to know that, especially since the Knight was one to be well-versed in such matters given his experience in the battlefield.] ( ... )
Reply
Reply
He couldn't verily lower him into the baptistry without getting wet himself, and as he wasn't keen on removing any articles lest his intentions seem less than what his Office called for, he would simply roll up his sleeves as far as they went, getting ready to immerse that battered body into the soothing bath waters.
The reference wasn't lost on him however and the Priest's lips quiver slightly though the rest of him gives no outward sign, eyes downcast.]
Ah'm goin' tae lower ye entae thae bath, nae. Et migh' bae ae bit o' ae shock on ye, sae..
[Gripping firmly onto him to offer a stable support he slowly brought him down, down to the very edge of stone, setting him in as gently as he could ( ... )
Reply
A-ahhaa! I.. An..derson..
[Time spent here in this cesspit of despair and desolation has nearly wiped the princely man's mind of what it was like to feel the comforts of home. Nothing here was familiar or placating, only more forestalling and foul the longer he walked this false Purgatory. he had tried... once. With all his might to integrate and find his way to survive. Staking pains upon himself by unwillingly mingling with the unclean, and choking down the poisons he wished to spit at them like a cobra ( ... )
Reply
And he worried. He worried that what he had to give to his ward was not enough. Would never be enough. Except now that they had found each other again..Now that they'd come so close to bridging that which divided..The good Father knew there would come a time when he'd have to tell him..Have to say the words that stuck to his tongue, bitter and broken.
Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.Yet, as he laid his hand upon Maxwell, offered him benevolence, he couldn't help but feel . . . Content. This was his duty: To Guide and Protect. This was his charge, his creed. And so his balmy fingers spread over the top of Enrico's scalp, a gentle smile spreading across his lips ( ... )
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