Chapter Text
Sometimes, your dreams are indistinguishable from reality until the point of waking. But that is not the case for this dream which you are currently dreaming. No, this dream feels like a dream. Like you’ve been dragged from waking through the sleep-filled oblivion, only to fall out the other side, into some strange dreamscape. Some strange dreamscape which is not your own. It does not feel like your own dreams, there is no familiarity. No, instead it is foreign, as if you are an intruder within the scenes playing out in front of you. Or perhaps as if some unknown entity has slithered into the dark recesses of your mind, lurking there, projecting his own strange visions onto your dreams. For that has to be what is happening, surely? These aren’t nightmares, some ghastly conjuring of your own mind. It is too nonsensical. And not in the way dreams are usually nonsensical, with teeth constantly falling out or the inexplicable knowledge of how to fly. They are too vivid, these monochrome dreams in a colour you can’t quite describe. You’re falling through scenes and unfamiliar memories faster and faster, before one finally sticks.
A bare stone room, dimly lit, rapidly melting candles scattered all across the floors to outline what might be a pentagram. Two figures in the centre, their faces obscured by poor lighting. You can taste the heat from the candles, you can taste the lingering desperation in the air. They are hot and bitter upon your tongue. Should you be able to taste such a thing? Both figures are speaking, too fast and too slow all at once, in a language you couldn’t possibly understand. Unfamiliar. Inhuman. You cannot get a closer look, you cannot figure out who they are. What is this strange dream, what is its meaning? Do dreams need to mean something? Or wait — could this be some side effect of ghoulish magicks?
The taller figure, intimidating, strong, finally moves. He’s facing you, standing behind the smaller figure, and you recognise him. You do not need to see his face. That is the Devil, you are certain. There’s something in the way he carries himself, something that separates him from the mere mortals surrounding him. The figure in front of him — smaller, a woman, you think — is still a mystery to you. She’s speaking, begging for something, in a language you do not know. You are dreaming, this is a dream, but it feels real. As if it is a recollection of a memory long passed. But you cannot leave, the spectre lurking in your mind is forcing you to watch this strange sequence.
Something — you are not sure what, you are sure of very few things — happens, drastic and sudden. Light floods the room, blinding, too strong. If it wasn’t a dream, it would hurt. You feel nothing, however; you are an unwilling ghost, a passive observer. The light dims, you can see the stone room clearly for a moment, bathed in false sunshine. You can finally see the faces of the two individuals standing within the stone walls.
And you cannot be sure; for she is much younger. But you are near certain that the woman, in this dreamscape with you, is Sister Imperator.
But before you can examine the scene any closer, you are being dragged out of this strange and foreign dream, waking abruptly. Your alarm is blaring out at a headache-inducing volume. The time on your phone reads as five minutes past eight in the morning; it had been ringing for five minutes, aggressively loud, and yet you had slept on, blissfully unaware.
These past few weeks, you’ve slept so poorly. And yet, despite your bizarre dreams, you do feel well-rested. Very much so. Whatever the ghoul from your attic did, it worked. Aside from the dreams, that is. Were you supposed to see that — did the ghoul expect you to glean some essential piece of knowledge from those scenes? Or was it some magic-induced figment of your sleepy imagination? Sister Imperator and Lucifer together in a dark stone room, illuminated by candles, some sort of ritual going on. Both in strange clothing, both speaking in tongues.
And as much as you ponder upon it, as often as you replay those brief flashes of your dreams while readying yourself for the day, you cannot quite piece together its meaning.
The dream is a problem for a later day, you quickly decide. It was an odd start to your morning, a strange instance that you cannot quite explain; but you have more important concerns than unusual dreams, than ghoulish magicks. No, your focus, all day, has been on Lucifer’s task. You must gather information on Sister Imperator, despite not being a part of the Ministry, despite having little to do with her. You have so many questions, and very few answers.
Because why would he assign such a task to you? Where does he think you’ll get this information from? What could you possibly find out that would be of use to him? Is she even hiding anything of significance? Surely there are others who would be able to gather information, far quicker than you ever could? Can you tell others of this, can you ask Copia to help? The problem with having ghouls convey such a task is their annoying tendency to be a little too vague, overly concise. You hardly know what he wants. And you could go back to the ghoul in your attic, for he may have some answers, but quite frankly, you’re awfully intimidated by his presence. He’s… he’s an ally, you think. He will not harm you. But those claws, those teeth, that air of danger that surrounds him… no, you would not want to bother him. Not unless it was a life-or-death sort of thing. And you don’t think that this is.
You spend all day pondering the issue. Do you tell Copia, do you ask for his assistance in all of this? After all, he’s around Sister Imperator all day, they work together closely. Of all your possible ideas, this is the one that would make the most sense — you have no desire to fail in this task, of disappointing Lucifer, for you are far too aware of the fate that befell Reginald. And quite frankly, your other ideas are ridiculous. You are no spy, there’s no way you could bug the ministry, or break into Imperator’s office, or listen in to meetings. That concept is nonsensically bizarre, and there is no How to Spy on Power-Hungry Satanic Clergywomen guide anywhere online.
But the decision is made so easily for you, when you arrive at Copia’s chambers that evening. You breeze in with dinner — takeout, for you have both been entirely too lost in your thoughts in recent days, and neither of you feel like suffering through another burnt meal — only to find him at his desk, fast asleep. He cannot be comfortable, hunched over, face down against a tall stack of papers. And yet, he’s entirely oblivious to your presence, lost in dreams.
So, it makes your decision so simple. Copia is already stressed to the point of exhaustion, he’s already nearing his breaking point. He’s usually so put together, quietly confident. In recent days he’s been plagued by anxieties, his worries over the Ministry’s future growing ever louder.
You cannot — you will not — put more stress upon his shoulders. And it’s not as if you are lying to him, you’re not hiding anything. You are simply… omitting a few things. Skating over the truth. It’ll be just like how you obfuscated a little with the Gideon situation. Glossing over the truth. Relationships cannot thrive nor prosper when built upon lies, you know this. And you will tell him, you will! Just… not right now. If things with Sister Imperator calm down, you’ll tell him of your mission. Gideon’s death might not even come to anything. Maybe it was suicide. Maybe the murderer will confess, and your involvement with him will be dead and buried and left in the past.
Should you wake him, now that you’ve made your choice? It feels wrong, you feel as if you might be betraying him in some inexplicable way. And so, perhaps selfishly, you decide to let him sleep a little longer. To let your decision settle. To come up with a better plan. Quietly, for you do not want to disturb him, you grab a slice of the rapidly cooling pizza, chewing thoughtfully.
If Copia is not an option, how are you supposed to investigate Sister Imperator? Of course, you could spend your free time rifling through his desk while he’s stuck in meetings, reading his planners and papers and searching for scraps of secrets. Except, you’ve no clue what secrets are most significant, which secrets are superfluous. And it feels wrong, a true betrayal of trust. You cannot convince yourself that snooping through Copia’s things is the best way to go about this. And you cannot do this alone. There are too many things within the Ministry that you are blissfully unaware of — you’re not so great at being a devoted follower of Lucifer. There are few within the church whom you would call friends.
But, of course.
A conversation floats into your mind, one you’d soon forgotten about, lost in a tequila-fuelled haze.
Magdalene.
Sister Magdalene, Copia’s most trusted personal assistant, who knows most everything occurring within the Ministry.
Sister Magdalene, who has been so open with you about her distaste and distrust for Sister Imperator.
You cannot help the relieved smile spreading across your lips. Magdalene will help you, you’re almost certain of it.
Early morning meetings have become the norm for Copia in recent days. Meetings that stretch on for hours, hidden away in some secret chamber. He does not talk much of them; you can glean from his never-ending exasperation that it’s the same fight between Papa and Sister Imperator, over and over again. His early meetings deprive you of cosy mornings together, but for once you are not frustrated by it. Because today provides you with an opportunity. Copia is guaranteed to be occupied for a large stretch of the morning, and that gives you more than enough time to find Magdalene, to speak freely with her about these problems that plague you.
He’s about to walk out the door by the time you finally slip out from beneath the warm bed sheets. A small wave of guilt washes over you, as he comes over to press a gentle kiss to your temple, asking with tired eyes how you plan to spend the day. It hurts slightly, to respond with deliberately vague words, to obfuscate the truth once more. You are not lying. You are not entirely telling him everything. But he seems oblivious to your inner turmoil this morning, in a rush and already far too stressed about the day ahead.
Copia leaves for his meeting, you ready yourself, and you wait. You wait, to make sure he does not return unexpectedly soon, to be certain he’s not forgotten some crucial paperwork, to ensure you don’t bump into him on your way to Magdalene’s. Why do you feel so secretive about it? There’s nothing wrong with visiting his assistant, the two of you are close. But you fear it would rouse curiosity, should you cross paths with Copia in the ministry hallways. After all, it is a little too early to be making social calls. And you can no longer hide the turmoil of emotions from your face, your determination and desperation, your need for some sort of plan for carrying out the task you’ve been unwillingly assigned.
Reaching Magdalene’s door, you knock rapidly. Is she still asleep, should you have held off on this, waited for later in the day? Should you even be bringing others into this, is it selfish and wrong for you to be asking so much of her in the first place? But no. This is the best time to have this conversation. Neither of you busy, Copia preoccupied, little chance of being overheard. And you cannot do this alone; it is impossible, you need somebody involved within ministry life. You have to get a handle on the situation, quickly and quietly.
There are sounds of movement from within the rooms; someone is shuffling about, a low muttering on the other side of the door as it is cracked open. Ah, yes. Sister Magdalene is many things, but she is most definitely not a morning person.
“Magdalene, hi.” You grin — a little too widely, a little too brightly, most likely failing miserably at covering up your nerves — as she sticks her head out of the door, clearly disgruntled about having been dragged from her bed before eight in the morning.
“Hey babe, little early, isn’t it?” The sleepy annoyance in Magdalene's eyes fades, a curiosity creeping in to take its place. She wasn’t expecting you, that much is clear.
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just — we need to talk.” You do feel a little guilty about showing up so early, so unexpectedly, about having very clearly woken her up. But your desperation overrides any guilt you might feel.
She can hear it in your voice, that something is wrong. That sleepiness within her eyes dissipates, replaced with an alert apprehension. She knows that something is not quite right.
“Come in.” She swings the door open a little wider, pulling you inside before locking it once more. There will be no interruptions. “Coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.” You smile gratefully, though you’re feeling more than a little unsure of yourself.
A part of you can hardly believe you’re doing this, going behind Copia’s back. But then, aren’t you doing this for him? The tumult amongst the highest level of Church leadership is causing him so much agita. You don’t want to add any more pressure, or intensify the situation. It’s not wrong, for you to want to save him from more disruption… is it?
As you curl up on Magdalene’s sofa, watching as she heaps large spoonfuls of instant coffee into mugs, you steel yourself for what you’re sure will be a tough conversation. For you, at least. It’s inevitable really, that you’ll have to tell her about the soul thing. Lucifer’s task makes little sense with that tidbit of information omitted. It’s just that you’re still coming to terms with it all, still trying to make peace with your past. But it’s Magdalene; you are near certain that she’d never be anything but supportive of you. She’s your closest friend these days. She won’t judge you. At least, you hope she won’t. You pray to Lucifer she won’t. Finally she trudges over to the sofa with two mugs, placing them down upon the messy coffee table before slumping down next to you. There’s an expectant look upon her face, she seems unusually serious.
“So, what’s going on? I’m pretty sure I know what this is going to be about but… spill.” She murmurs quietly, as if she’s afraid of being overheard.
You are alone in Magdalene’s rooms. The walls are relatively thick, as are the doors. Surely nobody would be able to hear your discussion? Is she being paranoid? Does she have a reason to be paranoid?
Either way, you are risking nothing.
“We need to talk about Sister Imperator.” You tell her, keeping your voice low. She laughs humourlessly, shaking her head.
“Ha, yeah. We do. You been hearing about her from Copia?” Magdalene tilts her head at you inquisitively. You cannot blame her for her curiosity; Copia is well known for being a closed book. He gives so little away, about himself, about his work, about his past.
“Barely, I get fragments here and there. He’s stressed though. Whatever is going on, it keeps him up at night.” Maybe you shouldn’t be telling his assistant such things about him. But you want to help him, in whatever capacity you can. Perhaps doing this task for Lucifer will improve the situation within the Ministry, will ease the fraught tension of his days.
“It’s keeping all of us up. She’s… I don’t know what she’s doing. But the situation is getting pretty dire.” Magdalene commiserates glumly, pulling a face.
You cannot imagine working with Sister Imperator. Quite frankly, the woman is more than a little intimidating, with her cold eyes, her unwarranted disdain towards you. Truly, you’d be more than happy to never see her again, to forget she exists entirely.
“It’s caught a certain someone’s attention, that’s for sure.” You are deeply apprehensive, it is painfully obvious, reluctant to even speak his name — as if saying his name aloud would summon him here, as if it would bring more misfortune to your door. It will not, of course. But the words you need are hard to find, lost in a tangled mess of fear and anxiety.
“What do you mean?” Magdalene furrows her brow, perplexed. But there’s something in her tone that indicates that maybe she’s not so confused. No, there’s a part of her, deep down, that instinctively knows what it is you are so afraid to say. It’s not so hard to figure out from the fear in your voice, the trepidation within your eyes.
Swallowing deeply, you prepare yourself — this is not something you can avoid much longer. You need an ally in this strange mission you’ve been set, and Magdalene might just be the only one you can lean upon for help.
“Lucifer wants information on Sister Imperator.” You look down at your hands, clenched into fists upon your lap. Your words are quiet, barely audible. The silence following is loud.
“What? He — what? Explain.” Glancing up, you see she’s staring at you in utter disbelief, blinking rapidly as she tries to wrap her head around the bombshell you’ve just dropped.
Honestly, you can’t really blame her. From your limited knowledge, you’re pretty sure it is rare for Lucifer to make personal contact with his followers. Even those who summon him are not guaranteed his presence, no matter how hard they pray and beg and suffer for it. And very few, barely anybody, are on speaking terms with the Devil himself. You are an unlikely candidate to receive the honour of his presence, you are most aware of this; you aren’t so devoted in your worship of him, you are hardly one of his most ardent followers. Hell, you aren’t even an official member of the Satanic Church. Magdalene knows this. And so, you are quite certain you cannot get away with skating over your connections to Lucifer. She needs to know, for this all to make any sort of sense.
Magdalene will not judge your soullessness, right? It will be fine. You are terrified.
“There’s a bit of a story, as to why he wants me to do this, I guess. I — essentially, I accidentally sold the Devil my soul as a kid. It’s, uh, a whole thing.” The words feel clumsy, a poorly-told summary of a most complex and painful discovery.
For a moment, she says nothing. The tension is suffocating, and you consider leaving. How pathetic would it be, for you to bolt from the room? It’s beginning to feel like the only real option you have.
“Holy fuck.” She laughs and finally, the tension dissipates. “You have shit luck, you know that?”
Relief floods your veins. It’s fine. It’s fine.
“Yeah, I know. I only found out recently. It was… a bit of a shock.” Your smile is too wide, your voice is brittle. Really, you need to stop being so… emotional, about this. There is nothing you can do to change things. Crying about it solves nothing.
“A little insane of your younger self, but I support it. So you’ve met Him? Is… is He hot? The Devil just has to be hot, right?” Magdalene leans forward, intrigue colouring her tone. There’s amusement in her eyes, but you know she’s not joking — she absolutely wants an answer to her question.
“I — yes, I mean, I guess? In a weird, too-perfect, sort of way.” You blush, averting eye contact. Sure, most would consider Lucifer to be hot. In more ways than one, really, as you remember his burning hot touch. At the same time, he is terrifying, dangerous, inhuman. “But yeah, I met Him, just the one time. He showed me some memories of my past, it was all very weird. This time, He communicated with me through one of the ghouls.”
“The one that lives in your attic?” She asks, to your surprise; you’re almost certain you’ve never mentioned him before. Does Copia talk about the ghoul, does he talk about you?
“Yeah, it was — I didn’t realise you knew about him. So this attic-dwelling ghoul showed up last night, telling me that Lucifer wants information on Imperator. No other concrete details, aside from the fact that supposedly He can’t ask Papa or Copia to do it. I have to be the one to get this information. I don’t know why, but it’s what he wants.” You sigh, grabbing your mug and taking a large sip. It is hot and strong, it burns your tongue slightly, but you do not mind. You feel… better. To finally tell another about your task is a great relief; you feel as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders.
“Of course I know about your ghoulish acquaintance; I know just about everything that goes on. But… huh. I guess maybe the Devil thinks she’d be less likely to suspect you? You’re not a member of the clergy, you don’t exactly have any power here. But… what does he want?” Magdalene hums thoughtfully, taking a large swig of her own coffee, clearly unbothered by the temperature.
It’s a question you’ve been slowly mulling over for days. It’s a question you do not have an answer to. She does have a point though. You are the least likely suspect to be spying on Sister Imperator. But whatever the end-goal here is, you are lost in the dark.
“That’s true. I mean she doesn’t exactly like me, but she’d have no reason to ever suspect me of anything. But like… why? What’s the point of all this? I have no clue what this is about. I cannot figure it out for the life of me.” You cannot help the frustration creeping into your voice.
It’s unfair. Of course, that’s simply how life is; it’s naive and childish to expect things to be perfectly happy and fine all of the time. But fuck, if you aren’t so entirely annoyed at your thirteen year old self, for accidentally getting herself into this mess. You’ll forever be cleaning up after that one mistake, it seems.
“It’s strange. So there’s just… no specifics, on what Lucifer wants to know?” Magdalene is quiet, and you can tell she is thinking deeply. She seems nearly as clueless as you are.
A part of you had hoped she’d have answers. A part of you had wanted this to be easy and simple and over fast. That’s not going to be the case.
“No. I’m lost, I don’t even know where to start. I’m guessing it’s got to be to do with this whole power struggle that’s going on.” You groan, taking another sip of your coffee.
“Yeah, that’s gotta be it, it’s the only thing really going on with Imperator and the senior clergy. And it would explain why Lucifer doesn’t want to ask other siblings or clergy members or ghouls. It’d only make things worse, having more people knowing about it and all. I’m pretty sure that He’s not in support of whatever she’s trying to do.” Magdalene tells you slowly, carefully. Her voice is still quiet, she is still seemingly scared of being overheard.
But then, if Sister Imperator is posing a real threat to the Church, a threat that might lead to its demise, then perhaps caution is a good thing to have. Are you really equipped to deal with such a responsibility? You aren’t sure. It makes sense to have as few people involved as possible, if things are so unstable, you only hope there will be no consequences for dragging Magdalene into all of this.
“I — will you help me? I know it’s a lot to ask but —” You have to make sure. Because she might seem invested, curious, but to involve her in your mess… it’s a lot to ask. But she cuts you off quickly, waving off your concerns with her hand.
“Oh, stop it. Of course. You know there’s no love lost between myself and Sister stick-up-her-arse. I’ll do whatever I can.” She rolls her eyes, as if it was a stupid question to ask.
Perhaps, to Magdalene, it was. As a friend, she’s always been ferocious in her loyalty. It should not be a surprise that her devotion extends to spying upon a power-hungry clergywoman for the Devil. You are not so used to having others be so devoted to helping you, having people in your life who care for you like this.
“Thank you. I just — thank you. I appreciate it, seriously.” You tell her softly, earnestly. Truly, you do not know what you would’ve done had she asked to remain uninvolved. “So… where do you think we should start?”
You are hoping, praying, that she has some sort of an answer. For you are overwhelmed with the whole situation, and you do so terribly under pressure. A part of you feels frozen, unable to act, unable to think of any starting point for your mission. Most of you wants to tell Copia, to curl up within his arms and beg for his assistance, despite the fact that he’s dealing with his own stressful situations. But that would be selfish, and you are trying so hard to be good for him. To not be such a burden. He cannot solve all your problems. Neither can Magdalene, of course, but at least she can direct you towards a starting point. And you can gather your information, and Lucifer can have his knowledge, and then — hopefully, maybe— you can be allowed your peaceful life with Copia.
Magdalene sips at her coffee, slowly draining it, a thoughtful look clouding her eyes. You let her think, you do not rush the process. Anything, you’ll take anything. Flashes of the ghoul from your attic pinning Reginald against the wall flicker through your mind once more. That, you are certain, is a fate that might await you should you fail to meet Lucifer’s expectations. And you refuse to meet that same fate. Finally, Magdalene places the mug down, dragging you out of your thoughts. She’s got a plan, you can see the self-satisfied glint within her eyes. You cannot help but feel relieved.
“Hm. Good question. Now, your man and Papa are still in that breakfast meeting of theirs, but it’ll be over soon. Then, the Cardinal has another meeting with the senior clergy members and Imperator. But Papa? Papa is free. He usually decompresses after these meetings by hiding out in an empty office behind the library — nobody would ever think to look for him there, which is why he likes it so much — and you can go and talk to him about Imperator. He’s a little biased, because he fucking hates her, but it’s a good starting point. After all… this bullshit power struggle began between the two of them, right?” She speaks slowly, a familiar determination within her words. Magdalene is firmly committed to this, it seems. But then, she is not the sort of person to ever be half hearted in her actions. She is a fighter, a winner. Strong and confident, always. You admire her for that.
And it makes sense. A lot of sense. Best go directly to those involved, getting as close to the epicentre of Imperator’s chaos as you can. Even if Papa is more than a little biased, at least he’ll give you information. He’s your best chance to learn more about the origins of this conflict, you’re certain.
“You’re right. That’s — yeah. That’s a good idea.” You smile at her gratefully. It’s a simple enough plan, but Lucifer knows you’d never have thought of it yourself.
“C’mon. Let’s take a moment for you to finish your coffee and for me to dress, and then I’ll take you up there, alright?” She winks at you, before standing and stretching slightly.
“Sounds good.” You begin to say, realising something rather interesting as she strolls over to the closet. “But, uh, tell me; how exactly is it that you know where Papa likes to hang out when he’s avoiding everyone?”
And as Magdalene whips back around to face you, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks, you cannot help but laugh.
Papa’s favoured hiding place is not exactly what you had expected. He’s an opulent man with the most extravagant tastes. And yet, the abandoned office is small — tiny, even. A narrow window that lets in little light means the room is bathed in dark shadows, the furniture is aged and minimalistic. A desk, a chair, a sofa shoved in the corner. Even with the lights switched on, it’s a dimly lit room. It almost looks as if nobody has set foot in this room in years. Except, there's a distinct lack of dust, unlike the hallway outside. The cleanliness of it is the only sign of a human presence here in this office, hidden away in a forgotten corridor and the back of the library. So you sit upon the desk, swinging your legs absentmindedly.
You wait. Then, you wait some more.
And you start to wonder, panicking more than a little, if perhaps Papa has decided to skip his post-meeting ritual of hiding out in this abandoned office, for once not in need of his precious alone time.
But the wooden door swings open, and you find yourself face to face with a rather incensed Papa Emeritus III. Ah; you’d not thought of that possibility, that his time alone was a way to work off his Sister Imperator fuelled rage. You’re desperately hoping that your presence doesn’t anger him more, that he doesn’t demand your exit.
So you smile weakly at him, unsure of what else to do — after all, he’s blocking the only exit. He falters, looking at you with a strange expression. You can’t blame him, you are certain that your presence is once again most unexpected. While you’re allowed to roam the ministry halls, you tend to stick to Copia’s chambers or Magdalene’s room. Wandering around the halls alone for you often means strange looks from the Siblings, who seem confused over your continued presence, or running into a glaring Imperator. But he relaxes, the tension from his shoulders melts away, and he opens his arms wide as he greets you.
“Principessa! And what are you doing, hiding away in here?” He beams at you, before stepping into the small office and closing the door gently behind him.
Good. He’s — perhaps surprisingly — not irritated by your presence. And with the door closed, there’s little chance of being interrupted.
“Hi, Papa. Waiting for you, actually.” You hop off the desk, flashing him an awkward smile.
Internally, you’re panicking slightly. What are you supposed to say to him? You can’t exactly demand he tells you everything he knows about Sister Imperator out of the blue. No, you have to be smart about this. Except, you are no detective, no spy. You have no clue how to engineer a conversation in which he very easily tells you everything you want to know without arousing any suspicions.
But, luckily for you, Papa does not seem to register your internal strife.
“Eh, you’re waiting for me? Do you not already have an old man, il Cardinale, to have secret trysts with?” He winks at you salaciously, chuckling.
Truly, you’d rather be having mid morning sex with Copia right now. You’d rather be thinking about anything other than Sister Imperator.
“Copia’s not that old.” You roll your eyes; you’d always thought he was younger than Papa.
“Sei così divertente, principessa. But, tell Papa the truth. What is it you need, eh?” Papa walks around you, dropping elegantly into the desk chair, groaning as he settles into his seat.
He gestures for you to sit upon the sofa opposite him. You slowly move to curl up against the armrest, taking the moment to think of exactly what you should say. Because you can’t tell him outright that you’re running some stupid investigation for the Devil. So you breathe out slowly, and go with a twisted version of the truth.
“I’m… you know, I’m worried about Copia.” You choose your words carefully. It’s the truth; you’re very concerned about the stress the political dramas of the church is having upon him. It’s close enough that you can maybe, somehow, work your way towards talking about Sister Imperator. You hope.
“Hm, sì, I understand. He is stressed. More than stressed. Worrying about this, fretting over that… is he getting enough sex? Or is he this wound up even when he is… what is the phrase… getting his dick wet?” Papa asks you, with an almost genuine sense of concern. It’s so him, it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask, that you cannot help but let out a shocked sort of laugh.
How you’ve missed your strange chats with the Anti-Pope. It’s been far too long.
“Fucking hell, Papa. I — we — our sex life is fine, thanks for the concern.” You reply with an awkward smile, shaking your head at him.
“Ottimo. It is good to relieve that tension, no? If only we could relieve ourselves of Imperator, eh?” He laughs, but it is not his usual friendly laugh. It is mean, bitter. Angry.
Quite honestly, you can’t believe your luck. You’d been trying to think of some way to naturally bring her into the topic of conversation, without any luck at all. For once, things are falling exactly into place. Perhaps too easily. Still, you should tread cautiously; Magdalene’s warnings, her claims that Papa despises Imperator do not seem to be an exaggeration. Besides, would he not find it suspicious for you to be too interested in his dramas?
“You really don’t like her, huh?” You sigh sympathetically, hoping that you seem at least mostly normal.
Because you don’t feel normal. Your heart is pounding, anxiety has flooded your veins, and your brain is a tangled mess of panicked thoughts. You need this to work. For him to tell you something useful. Except you don’t know what that means, not in this case. So you focus on regulating your breathing, on keeping your expression as one of neutral concern. Look interested, so he keeps talking. Don’t look too interested, or else he’ll know you’re snooping for secrets. It’s a balancing act, you feel as if everything could collapse around you at any given moment.
Papa does not notice; he’s entirely blind to everything around him, you think. For he might be lounging in that chair as if it’s a throne, but there’s a rarely seen tension to him. A fire simmering just beneath his surface. Anger. Rage. All barely contained, all directed towards Sister Imperator. He has no time to pay attention to the inconsistencies in your body language.
“She is una stronza, I cannot stand her. Not since she arrived here in this place. She came not so long after il tuo amante, unexpected. Il Cardinale, his arrival was planned for months — he was to help with my transition to Papa, sì. But her? No. That stronza, she arrives later, out of nowhere, demanding to be installed as Abbess for this Ministry. I say no, Sister Margaret è magnifica, I would not replace her. The next day? Sister Margaret is dead, and I am being convinced by i miei fratelli to transfer Imperator here, for she is experienced in the role. The timing is… suspicious, do you not agree?” He leans forward as he speaks, and it’s almost as if he’s sharing the most scandalous tidbit of gossip; you cannot help but mirror his actions, intrigued.
Except, he’s not telling you gossip. There’s no salacious affairs, no dramas between friends. No. Papa is talking of murder. Of assassination. Of Sister Imperator committing a most grievous act in order to secure a role within this ministry.
“Are you telling me you think Sister Imperator killed someone to gain a position here?” You are entirely floored by his words, unable to process them properly.
Blinking rapidly, you cannot help but wonder if it could be true. Could Sister Imperator be a murderer? Really, you do not know her well. You do not know her at all. She’s cold, and hateful, and power hungry, but that does not make her a murderer. Does it?
You are clueless, as to what Lucifer wants to know. But this? The possibility of Imperator having murdered someone for her career here? That has to be useful, surely.
“Eh, they call me paranoico. Maybe I am! Sister Margaret had a heart condition, they said she had a heart attack. This type of thing happens, sì, I do not deny it. But the timing was strange. And they did not see how insistent Imperator was for that position!” Papa shrugs, as if it is nothing, but you can see within his eyes that continued dismissal of his suspicions has worn thin. He desperately wants someone to see it as he does.
That, you think, is your in. He’ll keep talking if you believe him, if you validate him. It’s terrible, you feel heinous for even thinking of it. But regardless… you cannot deny that it seems suspicious. It could be a case of unfortunate timing, sure. However, considering what you know about Imperator now, you highly doubt it. A large part of your mind believes Papa’s words, without question. It just seems like a very real possibility. But, you do have questions. Natural curiosity, partially. And a need to know everything, just in case — you cannot disappoint Lucifer. You cannot. Ending up as ghoul food is not what you want for your future. Not at all.
“But why would she kill someone for the sake of a job? I mean, I’m not discounting your suspicions, not at all. But like… it’s a weird thing to do, right? Kill someone for a job?” You’re pondering it aloud, trying to come up with some sort of motive, but you’re mostly drawing a blank. Of course, the fact that you’re oblivious to the ins and outs of clerical politics, probably doesn’t help.
“Ah, il mio agnellino, you are a sweet girl. Power. This is a most powerful ministry, and the Abbess has a most important job. It is a position of great power and influence, if you are liked. Sister Margaret, she was well liked. Imperator… less so. E quindi, she finds herself with less power than she hoped for. And now, we have a lovely little fight for power.” Papa chuckles darkly, shaking his head slightly.
His words only really affirm your belief that you’re rather happy with your little bookshop, that workplace politics is very much not your thing. Although, your own business is not exactly a murder-free zone, so you can’t exactly judge.
“I mean, I guess that makes sense. What do you plan to do about it?” You’re trying to temper your intrigue, at least a little. How curious are you supposed to be? Is it weird to ask?
However, he does not answer, countering your question with one of his own.
“Tell me, principessa. What do you think of me, eh? How do I seem to you?” He tilts his head slightly, looking at you attentively.
“I — what do you mean?” You aren’t exactly sure what he means. Is he — could he be on to you?
“My personality, disposition.” He clarifies, although it doesn’t clear up much of your confusion.
“I don’t know you all too well, I suppose. But from our few meetings, from what Copia says… I’d say; charismatic, a little mischievous, you don’t take things too serious.” You smile cautiously at him, hoping that your answer is right, that this is what he wants to hear.
“Esattamente. It is deliberate. I am not so nice, not always, not behind closed doors. But it is useful, to be well liked. It is useful, to be underestimated. Power, it is a game. I play it well. Sister Imperator does not appreciate these things. She is disliked, distrusted. I shall win this little battle she has started. After all, the people love their Papa, sì?” Papa is smiling, but it is chilling, it does not meet his eyes.
There is far more darkness to the Anti-Pope than you’d originally believed there to be. Of course, perhaps it was naive of you to assume otherwise; darkness comes with the Devil-worshipping territory. But he keeps this side of him underneath his joking and alluring charisma. And really, it is no wonder he is adored by his followers. He is magnetic and fun, he is a little ridiculous at times. You are sure that few pay close enough attention to see how calculating he can be, his cold and ferocious rage.
“What is it she’s even trying to accomplish? Aren’t you the last of the bloodline? She can’t exactly replace you.” You are pushing it a little, you think, this might be going too far. You are supposed to be concerned about Copia, not about Imperator’s power plays.
“Perhaps I am, perhaps I am not. The bloodline is a precious secret, eh? No, no. Do not apologise, you did not know. Now, I do not know why. Il tuo Cardinale, he does not know either. He did not know Imperator before here. She likes no one, it is true. But she likes him more than the others. He is a good man, good at his job; perhaps that is why she wants him to be Papa.” He brushes off your wide-eyed apologies before you can even truly make them, before shaking his head in a tired frustration.
You cannot imagine Copia as Papa. He would not wear the role as the current Papa does, brash opulence and fun-loving. No, Copia would be more reserved, a little more awkward — although you’ve seen him hold mass, so you know that he can command attention just as easily as Papa does. You’ve heard stories of Papa Emeritus II, who ruled most severely, a terrifying man. Copia would be far different as a leader. He’d make a good one, you think. But you are certain that he does not want this. He is like you — he wants peace and quiet, he wants to love and be loved.
“But that’s not possible, surely. He doesn’t want that.” It just doesn’t make sense — why would she push so hard for some sort of coup, when her chosen replacement Papa has no interest in such a thing?
“No, impossibile. That is not how things are done. I am not sure what possesses her. Besides, I have talked about this with him at length; he has no interest in being Papa. No… it is all a mystery. But neither of us can escape her wrath. Copia wishes to placate her, to calm her. I want her to suffer. Neither of our methods are working. Yet.” Papa sounds calm. But his words are filled with icy rage, chilling you to the bone. You have no doubt that whatever suffering he wants for Sister Imperator, it is brutal. Actually, you’d prefer not to know.
The pair of you sit with that for a moment, in dead silence. This conversation has been filled with revelations, you’d expected none of them. You’d thought Papa would have information about Imperator, sure. But this is far more sinister than you’d imagined. This is good, useful. Lucifer will be pleased, won’t he? You hope, desperately, that this will be enough. To start with, at least. Magdalene will likely have ideas about where to go from here, where to look next.
“What should I do? I mean, is there any way in which I can help?” You finally ask, voice soft. As much as you’d rather stay entirely uninvolved, as much as you’d love to be completely removed from this power struggle, you are involved. Even if none of the major players know it.
“Ah, principessina. You are too sweet. Perhaps encourage il tuo amante to engage in some sinning, sì? Have a lot of the sex, be lazy, help him release some of that frustration, eh?” He beams at you once more, his jovial mask firmly back in place, as if his previous ire had never existed in the first place.
And you go along with it. An angry Papa is a most terrifying Papa, after all.
“Okay, Papa. Will do. I’ll leave you to hide out alone for a while.” You stand, grinning back at him.
“Grazie mille, principessa. I will see you soon, I am sure of it. Dinner perhaps, some time soon? You, il tuo Cardinale, myself?” He rises, pulling you into a quick hug. His cologne is strong, a spicy sort of tobacco scent, one you could’ve sworn you’ve experienced before in a certain Sister of Sin’s rooms.
“And Magdalene?” You giggle at him, your smile only broadening as his eyes widen a fraction.
“Ha!” He scoffs, playfully gesturing towards the door. “Off with you. Arrivederci, principessa.”
So you go, wandering back down forgotten corridors, turning over the surprising wealth of information you’ve learnt today in your mind. There’s a lot for you to think about. But you’re confident that you’ve made a rather strong start to this assignment of yours.
Murder is never far from your thoughts these days. First, Gideon. Him killing you, him getting killed. It’s been a week since Sergeant Duncan’s visit to your shop, since she told you of his untimely demise, and you’ve heard nothing since. It’s driving you crazy, the waiting, the not knowing. There is far too much that you do not know, it has you stuck in a permanent state of apprehension. And now, there is potentially another murderer within your small circle of acquaintances. Could Sister Imperator have really murdered the woman she replaced here in the Ministry?
You’d gone to Magdalene’s room that evening, intent on telling her everything you had discovered. Sister Imperator might be a murderer, Sister Imperator is desperate to have Papa deposed. And he knows it, which only makes the fraught tensions between them that much worse. Would she be willing to resort to such actions again, if she felt circumstances called for it? These were the panicked concerns you had whispered to pale-faced Magdalene, both of you sitting there with wide eyes and grave expressions. Neither of you want anything bad to happen to Papa. Neither of you want anything bad to happen to the church. But you cannot cause a scene. You cannot draw attention to your concerns, your suspicions. So Magdalene began to form plans to snoop where she could, through all the paperwork she could get her hands upon. It made the most sense for her to do the brunt of the spying — for she has the sort of access you could never even dream of, as Copia’s assistant. She has good reasons to be borrowing paperwork, to be caught in offices that do not belong to her. You would be caught immediately, for you stand out in the corridors of the Ministry, the only being not dressed in robes or a habit.
And she is not the only one with a job to complete. For you are to somehow extricate information from Copia, who is so often unyielding and reticent when it comes to sharing. So you spend another wasted day, thoughts looping like a broken record. Gideon is dead. Imperator might be a murderer. You need to get Copia to talk. It’s unhelpful, unwavering, and you feel entirely hopeless. A part of you wonders if he’ll ever be willing to truly open up to you, if he ever will feel comfortable telling you the intricacies of his innermost thoughts.
These thoughts have you so distracted, you find yourself losing most of the afternoon. In fact, you’re so preoccupied with the troubling thoughts rattling around your mind that you completely miss your five o’clock closing of the shop. Instead, you’ve been sitting and staring at the contents page of a book you’ve been failing to read since opening this morning. But no, you’ve been gazing at the same words, words you have no real desire to read, for hours. You don’t even know what the book is about.
What you do know, however, is that you’re late. You should be arriving at Copia’s chambers around about now; the two of you had made dinner plans, although you’re not sure either of you are really present enough to focus on the cooking and the eating, too distracted by the many stresses of your respective lives. Even so, you find yourself scrambling to lock up and leave. While you’re most pensively immersed in thoughts of murder these days, things feel better when he’s there. It’s hard to feel too despondent when you’re in his arms. It’s hard to focus on death and dying, when he’s kissing you with such frenetic passion in the dark of his bedroom. Although, considering you probably sleep there more than he does — ever the insomniac, it seems — you might as well consider it your bedroom too. You do, in your own mind, at least. His chambers have fast become a home to you.
But you arrive late to empty rooms bathed in darkness. Copia is nowhere to be seen, you are alone. It’s peculiar; you are certain his meetings were scheduled to finish no later than six o’clock. Long hours are not unfamiliar to him — he’ll often bring work back to his chambers if the hour is getting too late, preferring to be with you rather than alone as the evening gives way to night. So you hurry over towards his office, hypervigilant and all too anxious about running into a certain Sister, only to find it locked. You knock, but there’s no response nor any sound from within. With a furrowed brow, you hastily return to his chambers. Perhaps you just missed him, perhaps he’s currently within his chambers wondering where you’ve gotten to.
But, alas, he is not. Copia is dependable, always. He is not one to miss meetings or flake out on you at the last moment. And these are his chambers. Ice cold panic is slowly seeping through your veins. It could just be paranoia. It’s probably just paranoia. But that dark and twisty voice in the deepest recesses of your mind cannot help but hiss the most abhorrent answers to your question of where he might be. Dead, bleeding out, in pain, suffering, dying; perhaps it will be your turn to play the role of grieving lover —
No. You will not go there, you will not listen to your traitorous mind. Instead, you curl up on the sofa, wrapping a warm blanket around yourself. It smells like him, like frankincense and old leather, comforting you in his absence. Perhaps a meeting ran long. Perhaps there was some emergency. Perhaps he too was distracted, mind elsewhere. Perhaps, for the first time, he has forgotten. Copia is fine. You are find everything is —
The door swings open. Your head whips up, desperate to confirm that it is Copia, that he’s fine, alive. And it is Copia. But he does not seem fine. He is so often a man with inordinately good posture; he takes a respectable amount of pride in his appearance, in how he presents himself. But his shoulders are hunched, he is a man defeated. Despondency is emanating from him in waves. Perhaps you were right to be worried for him.
You watch as he closes the door, leaning against it for a moment. Something is bothering him and it is heart wrenching to watch. So you rise, quietly approaching him. He looks at you with such a pained expression that you can’t help but wonder what is tormenting him so.
“Hey, you’re back late. Busy day?” You murmur, pulling him into a close hug.
Really, the hug is as much for you as it is for him. These nightmarish images your brain keeps producing have you deeply unsettled, you want peace but you cannot have it anytime soon. So you’ll settle for his arms around you, you’ll settle for breathing in his familiar scent and feeling safe within his embrace. And he clings to you, in a way he so rarely does. He struggles with vulnerability, you think. He struggles to let you in, parts of himself hidden away within an impenetrable fort that you are ineffectively trying to breach. Sometimes you wonder if his innermost vulnerabilities are trapped in there, if there’s a key that he lost a long time ago, one he’s struggling to find. Copia’s trying, he is. You cannot deny that fact. But there’s not much you can do, other than be patient. So you hug him, you hold him, and you take a moment together, in comfortable silence.
“Ah, no. After my meetings, I went for a short walk. I… I needed to think. To be alone, for a moment.” He finally speaks, his voice sounding rougher, more emotional than usual.
Slowly, you extricate yourself from his hold. You want to be able to see his face, as you ask him.
“Is everything okay, Copia? I mean, I know it isn’t. But do you want to talk?” Your voice is low, soft. Barely above a whisper.
“You are very sweet, and very kind, amore. I… I find that I am feeling very old these days. Very old, very tired. You must find it rather dull, eh? To spend your time with such a man.” He sighs, and for the first time, you think he looks old. There’s a hint of something you can’t quite recognise within his eyes, an emotion you cannot place.
“I… I love you. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be — you know that, right? C’mon, let’s sit down. You need to relax a little.” The words are still hard for you, that ever present fear, lingering and irrational, taunting you with the concept of him spurning your love the moment you vocalise it. But you force the words out regardless, for you know he needs to hear them.
“Let me remove my paint, change out of these clothes first.” He sounds defeated, exhausted, as if the world is collapsing around him and he is helpless to stop it.
What could have possibly happened to inspire such an outpour of emotion within him today?
Despite his words, Copia does not move. It’s as if he cannot bring himself to leave this spot, as if the idea of doing anything at all is utterly overwhelming to him. He looks lost. It almost hurts to watch.
“Or, alternatively, I could help you?” You glance at him, desperate to do something, anything. Really, you half expect that suggestion to spur him into action — the idea of allowing you to care for him a little too much to handle.
Yet, it does not. Rather, he nods, a barely perceptible sort of nod, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of thing. But you take it for what it is, a tentative acknowledgement that he needs something, needs this, from you now.
Wordlessly, you begin the arduous task of unbuttoning the many buttons of his cassock. You stop briefly as you reach the sash, slowly untying it, folding it neatly, placing it upon the coffee table. And then you kneel, continuing to undo the long line of small buttons. Briefly, you glance up at him. His mismatched eyes are on you, unwavering, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn they were filled with unshed tears. But you look away for a moment, only to find the glassiness gone as you meet his eyes once more. There’s a resigned sadness there, you wish you knew what the cause was. You wish you could fix it. But you do not know what needs fixing, he will not say, so you finish unbuttoning his cassock, standing once more to help him slip the now undone garment off his body. And then it’s onto his shirt, more buttons to be carefully unfastened. He’s watching you so intently, so carefully, as if he’s trying to memorialise you. It’s a familiar look; one you’ve worn yourself. Is the world ending, has Imperator claimed her victory? His shirt off, you remove his belt, the final piece. Each item lovingly folded upon the coffee table.
In a barely audible voice, you tell him to sit, that you’ll get something to remove his paints. It takes a moment — you aren’t sure he even processes your words at first — but Copia agrees, slowly lowering himself onto the sofa. He’s entirely lost to his thoughts, you think.
You think back to that night, as you wander to the bathroom. To feeling terrified at the idea of losing him, of being undeserving of his love, of the end of your relationship, of love being a thing with conditions. Of his own secrets poorly hidden, topics clumsily avoided. Secrets will always come out. You know this. Nothing can be hidden forever. You sigh, grabbing his cleanser, cotton pads. Nothing can be hidden forever. You’re not the only one telling half-lies and dodging the truth. Still, you cannot help but wonder what is so terrible that it could elicit such a reaction from him.
Copia is still sitting upon the sofa when you return, staring at nothing, deep in thought. That sadness is lingering, he is still slouching. So you settle yourself into his lap, ready to remove the remnants of his paint. His hands, gloveless, come to rest lightly upon your lower back. Just enough to hold you in place, but barely touching you. Not how you want him to be touching you.
Soaking a cotton pad, you begin to carefully remove the paint from his eyes. They flutter shut, and it’s almost better, you think. Not just for the purpose of removing the day old paint, but because you don’t have to see the utter despair entrenched in them. Whatever product he uses, it is strong, set deep within the creases and crevices around his eyes. But slowly, you wipe the black paint away, revealing the dark circles hidden beneath. He’s not been sleeping. That’s not a surprise; neither have you. It takes a while to remove it all, he is patient, still. Your touches are soft and tender, as you move on to the few remaining flakes of paint upon his lips. His face is clean, but his eyes remain closed. You might have cleansed away his paint, but you have not cleansed him of his devastation. Almost instinctively, you lean forward, lips brushing against his in the briefest of kisses. When you pull away, you can taste the lingering chemicals within the cleanser upon your lips.
“Thank you, topolino.” He murmurs, finally opening his mismatched eyes once more.
“Yeah, of course.” You do not know what it is he is thanking you for. But it doesn’t matter, not really; you would do anything for him.
A soft sigh escapes his lips as he finally leans back, relaxing against the sofa. He shifts you slightly, settling the two of you into a more comfortable position. You lean against his chest, resting your head in the crook of his neck. The silence stretches onward, as you wait for him to speak, finally. You think that he is desperately trying to claw his way through those near-impenetrable walls he has built for himself, to try and get the words out. So you wait, patiently, for him.
“I am — I have not been truthful. With you, I mean. I — I have been hiding something, and I feel utterly wretched about it.” He finally says, reluctantly.
You already knew this, of course. He is not as subtle as he thinks he is. But he does not need to hear those words. Tilting your head up to look at him, you smile at him softly, reassuringly, quietly urging him to continue. It’s funny, how when things reach that crisis point, how some things become so utterly clear. And fuck, if you aren’t at some sort of critical moment. You are bad under pressure, yes. But it’s like a switch has flipped. A light bulb moment, in which certain undeniable truths have revealed themselves to you. He loves you. You love him. Soulmates is the wrong term, considering that your soul has not been yours to give for a very long time. Your twin flame, perhaps. He is the other part of you, a part you did not know you were missing until he walked into your bookshop one morning. For the first time, you feel quietly confident in your love. This is not an ending.
“Oh? Is it — is it bad?” You ask, for you are concerned. There are so many things going wrong… it is hard to say what this could be about.
“I — perhaps not. Perhaps it is not so terrible, that I did not tell you. See, there was never exactly a right time to tell you such a thing. And it is such a fantastical thing, and you are so new to this way of living, to our church. I thought about perhaps telling you, once Lucifer visited you. In hindsight, perhaps I should have. For perhaps it might have helped. But you were struggling so greatly, and I thought it best to focus on comforting you in the way you needed, rather than adding another revelation to your already overwhelmed state. So I said nothing, and continued to tell you nothing, and time is so fleeting, that —” His brow is furrowed, you can feel his heart pounding beneath you; he is so anxious, this has clearly been playing upon his mind for quite some time.
So you cut him off, stopping his spiralling in its tracks, “Copia. Please, breathe. What are you trying to say?”
He pauses. You watch him, watch the trepidation in his eyes. And then he speaks.
“You are not the only one, who is no longer in possession of their soul, amore.” His words are so soft, you nearly miss them.
At first, you wonder if you’ve misheard him. But there’s a grim resignation about him, no glimmer of hesitation. Your breathing falters, you cannot quite wrap your head around it. Copia is like you. He is like you. No wonder he was so calm, that disastrous night. No wonder he accepted your confession as truth so easily. He is not looking at you, instead staring ahead most determinedly, as if he is scared of what he’ll see upon your face. If he looked, he would only see your acceptance, your understanding, and your love. And, of course, a hint of surprise. Because you are surprised — this was the last thing you would have expected from him.
“You — you sold your soul?” You ask him quietly, shock creeping into the edges of your words.
“Eh, not exactly. It is a longer, more complex story. There was no accident. But I did not have a choice in the matter.” He sounds so bitter, you think. It is a familiar bitterness, one you so often feel yourself. And he is not as indifferent as he is pretending to be, with his forced casualness.
“So what happened?” Perhaps you shouldn’t push him. But you are so curious. For the first time since finding out about the truth of your soul, that perpetual loneliness is fading away. For you are no longer alone in your pain.
He stays silent for a beat. You wonder if you should apologise, for asking for more. It is a little unfair of you, when he is so clearly struggling to speak even the most minimal of details.
“I will tell you the story, as it was told to me.” He tells you, a weariness to his words.
But he continues to stare off into the distance. You’ll take this odd detachment, so different from his usual demeanour. If this is the only way he can break through the cracks in his walls, the only way he can share this most intimate and protected secret… you’ll take it.
“Once, many years ago, there was a young woman. She was from a well-off merchant family, she lived a pleasant life. Until, once again, the magna pestilencia came to her city. There had been epidemics in other nearby cities in recent memory, but she’d never paid it much attention. Her family, her husband, all of them dead. She was left alone — alone, terrified, and heavily pregnant.” He begins, arms still around you, eyes still focused on some fixed point across the room.
It’s as if he’s reciting an old favourite fairytale. Like a strange bedtime story, told time and time again. There’s something you cannot place within his tone of voice. Does he resent this story? Is there a part of him that is nostalgic for it?
Regardless of that, the content is… perhaps not what you had expected. Of course, you had not anticipated him being soulless, just as you are. But you freeze at his reference to the magna pestilencia. You know that term well, from a life of teaching that seems so far removed from the life you’re living now. So you know, very well, what he is not quite saying cannot be possible. Can it? You’ve always found him to be strangely timeless, sure. But you are most certain that those who lived in the times of recurrent plagues would be long dead by now. To have been born during that period… he would have to be centuries old.
You do not interrupt, you do not interrogate him, or push him to say the words explicitly. No, you just wait for him to continue, silently supportive.
“From what I have been told, her husband was secretly a worshipper of the Old One. And so, in this time of great trouble, she too turned to Him. She lit her candles, performed her ritual. The Old One came to her, curious. There were not so many women who would call upon him back then, He claims. And when He asked her what it was she wanted, she already knew — she wanted to make a deal.” Copia’s voice remains level, but you know him well. Whoever this woman — his mother — is, he resents her deeply on some level.
“And what did she offer him?” You query, but you already have your suspicions. It's an old and familiar tale.
“Two souls. Hers, and that of her unborn child. And in exchange, she asked the Old One for life, for freedom, and for power. She did not enjoy the constraints placed upon the women of her time. She wanted to live her own life, uninhibited. Now, the Old One did not believe it a fair deal. After all, she asked Him for three gifts but only offered two in return. Unfair, no?” Copia remarks with a humourless laugh, you’ve never heard such bitterness from him.
And you cannot blame him for being bitter, not about this. He had no choice, no free will. You made a mistake, damned by your own ignorant hand. Copia never had a chance to make such a mistake.
But there is a grim humour to his words, in the Devil’s knack for twisting situations to his favour. Something you are all too familiar with.
“Sounds like Him.” You rest your head upon his shoulder once more. He holds you, just a little closer, as if he is trying to reassure himself of your presence.
No matter what he says tonight, you have no intention of leaving.
“Hm, sì. So, the Old One told the woman that He would give her two of these things. But He would be the one to decide. So, He granted her life. She would not die during the magna pestilencia. She would not die. And, He gifted her power. But she would not have her freedom. She would be bound to His church, until the end of time, or until He no longer wanted her presence.” He continues, reciting to you this strange fairytale of his past.
Oh, how it reminds you of Reginald. Your flawed and favourite uncle, fooled so easily by Lucifer, now dead and buried.
“Can’t outwit the Devil, I suppose.” You hum softly. It only serves as another reminder that you are trapped in his game, a pawn on his chessboard. Another reminder that you must complete his strange little tasks, or else suffer the consequences. And he would make you suffer, dreadfully so.
“No. He always wins. It is His game, after all.” Copia’s words are fatalistic. But you do not doubt them.
You will never have the upper hand over Lucifer. Both of you fall into a contemplative silence. He is haunted by memories of his past, you are sure. And you are haunted by the future, the inevitability of losing the dangerous game you have fallen into.
“What about the baby?” You finally muster up the courage to ask him, a curious edge to your words; you have oft wondered about his earlier years, what he was like before you knew him.
“She had a boy. And soon after the birth, the Old One arrived once more. He took the child, who was raised within an Abbey under the influence of the Satanic Church and the Old One himself. The woman was sent far away, where she would have no opportunities to know the son she traded away.” He tells you, with perhaps less detail than you would like. Because you want to know him, to truly know him, to have him bare his innermost secrets to you and share your own in return.
“And then what happened? To y— to the boy, I mean.” You correct your slip-up immediately. You’re certain there’s a deliberateness about disconnecting this tale he is weaving for you from his past.
He does not remark on your slight blunder, though you feel his hand flex against your back. Glancing up at him, you see he still has that faraway look in his eyes. What he is thinking of, you do not know. You wish you did.
“The boy was raised to be a most devoted follower of the Old One. He grew up, joined the clergy, rose through the ranks. He had what his mother did not; freedom. Of course, the Old One occasionally required him to complete a task, reminding the boy that his soul was not his own. But the boy did not mind so much, for those moments were few and far between, for the Old One had been almost like a father to him. And supposedly, like his mother, the boy did not die. He grew older for a while, but eventually that stopped too. He spent many years, alone, dedicated to the Old One. Working at ministries and abbeys across the continent.”
It’s strange hearing Copia talk about his life in a way that is so far removed. It has you questioning many of the things you thought you knew about him. His devoutness to his religion, his devotion to his church. Does he truly feel these things, is this habit after so many years of living and breathing clerical life?
You wonder what he would’ve been like, had his mother made another choice. But then, these are the choices that brought you together. Had his mother not traded him for her own selfish gain, had you not made a childish mistake, you’d have never met. He would have died centuries before your birth. You would never have returned to England. Without these cruel twists of fate, you would have missed each other. Does that make it worth it, worth the pain and the suffering?
Regardless, your heart aches for him. It sounds, in all honesty, like a melancholy sort of life. Isolated and sequestered within the walls of different abbeys. The world moving on without him, as he passed the years within the four walls of the church.
“And then he came to England, right?” You smile up at him, though you know he does not see it, for his eyes flutter closed at your words. The first real reaction you’ve seen from him since he began his tale.
“Sì, he began to work at the largest of the English ministries. He worked, and he translated texts, and he visited a local bookshop. One day, this old and weathered Cardinal set foot in his usual bookshop, only to find that the owner had died, had left the shop to his niece. And before I knew it, I found myself falling so deeply in love with her. With you.” And finally, finally, he shifts his position slightly so he can glance down at you.
Copia might struggle to let you in at times. He might find being vulnerable most difficult. But the way he looks at you, with such blatant adoration, with such earnestness… you would be a fool to not know how deeply his feelings for you go.
“I love you. So much. But, uh, to go back to the beginning of your tale — which plague are we talking about?” The words are hard for you and your irrational fear of rejection, but you’re working on it.
At your question — a slightly less direct way of asking his age, but you know he is aware of what you are getting at — he tenses up a little.
“My love for you, topolino, is all-encompassing. I adore you, very much so. But, I — it has crossed my mind, on many occasions, that I perhaps might be too old for you. And I would not blame you, if you wanted to end this. This is an abominably large secret to keep from a loved one.” His words are quiet, you can see his guilt written clear across his face.
It’s a large secret, sure. But leaving… you would not leave him, not for this. Is there a certain way you are supposed to react? Are you supposed to be angry at his hesitancy to reveal the truth, or freaked out over his age, or disgusted by his own lack of a soul? The latter would be rather hypocritical of you, honestly. You cannot deny that you are overwhelmed, at least a little bit. But your feelings — despite his soullessness, despite his age, despite the fact that he has waited to tell you — they have not changed. You think he might be the love of your life; you are near certain of it, in fact. Perhaps, although you are not certain you believe in such a thing, you were fated for each other.
And you cannot be mad at him for keeping it hidden, when you have been hiding things of your own. Gideon, Lucifer’s task. At least Copia has told you, has entrusted you with what must be his greatest secret. You are most grateful, for the privilege of knowing, for the privilege of loving him.
So, no. You have no interest in ending things. Your love for him is something eternal, something that will last far beyond the end of the earth.
“I don’t care about your age. That’s not — I’m just curious. You know I taught classes on this, back in my previous life; it seems like forever ago. I’m assuming some time during the second plague pandemic, but that’s still like… five centuries worth of epidemics, you know?” Your inner historian, who is so often shut away with the boxes of your past life, is finally making an appearance.
And truly, his age is meaningless. You’d previously thought he was around twice your age, it did not bother you. Your interests lie in wanting to know about him, about his past and about the history he experienced firsthand.
“Naples, in the 1650s.” He coughs a little as he says it, as if he’s embarrassed. His hesitation makes sense, you suppose — that’s a rather large age gap, to say the least.
But you don’t care.
“Will you tell me about it? Not now, but… one day. Will you tell me about all the things you’ve seen? The places and the events and the details they’ve gotten wrong in the history books? I want to know about it, I want to know about you.” You inquire earnestly, before pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
Before you can pull away fully, Copia’s capturing your lips with his own. It’s a tender sort of kiss, gentle and loving. And with it, he is saying all the things that he can’t quite bring himself to verbalise right now. It’s a thank you, an apology. It’s relieved elation at the fact that you have taken his confession well. He breaks the kiss, examining your face for any signs of doubt. He will not find any.
“Certo, amore. But… are you not — you are fine, with this?” He’s still scanning your face, your eyes, for discomfort.
“I mean, I get why you didn’t tell me. I didn’t exactly want to tell you about my own dealings with Lucifer. Not at all. And I was… I was a fucking mess, that night. I get why you’d keep quiet. I wish you had felt like you could talk about it. But I can’t be mad at you for it. You know? Everybody has secrets. It’s fine. We’ll be fine.” You reassure him softly, resolutely.
Oh, how you wish everything was fine. How you wish this was the last barrier between you and him. But you are haunted, you have skeletons in your closet, and you cannot rid yourself of them. Gideon’s death is still being investigated, you are connected to the crime. Lucifer is using you as some sort of player in this power struggle that is unfolding, and you are unable to escape his control.
“I find myself most relieved to have told you. That you have not chosen to leave. I find myself unable to picture my life without you, these days.” Copia sighs, tiredness filtering back into his voice once more. As if telling you of his past has utterly exhausted him, has drained him of any remaining energy.
“Me neither, I—” You say, only for him to interrupt you with a yawn. “Hm, you’re sleepy.”
“I am, indeed. Sister Imperator, she keeps us rather busy. And I will confess that the constant fighting, the power struggles, they are wearing upon me.” He groans softly, stretching out slightly underneath you.
“Is there anything I can do?” You press a kiss to his lips once more, sliding from his lap to sit next to him. Thoughts from your conversation with Papa filter into your mind, his suggestion of indulging in sinful behaviours. Tempting, but not tonight; Copia can barely keep his eyes open. You don’t think your ego could handle him falling asleep during the act.
“No, topolino. In fact, promise me this; stay away from Sister Imperator, sì? I do not want you dragged into this pandemonium. She… she’s dangerous. Papa underestimates her. I will not be so blinded by arrogance.” He might be speaking in hushed tones, but there’s a surprising amount of vehemence behind his words. Perhaps not so surprising, considering Sister Imperator’s supposed inclination for murder.
“I’ll do my best to keep out of her way. Alright?” It’s a lie, kind of. You should feel bad. You do feel bad. But you, like him, are trapped within this situation. Lucifer does not take kindly to disobedience.
“Thank you.” He says, groaning once more as he stands. “Are you coming to bed? Or shall you be returning to the shop?”
“No, no. I’m coming to bed. I just need to check a few things. I need to sort out a few dates for book shipments, you know?” You smile softly up at him. Bending down, Copia presses a soft kiss to your temple before trudging towards the bedroom, disappearing into the darkness.
There are no book shipments. Not for a while, anyway. You’ve nothing of importance, nothing that has to be done right this moment. But, you think, perhaps Copia needs a few moments to himself. He needs a moment or two outside of your presence, to decompress. To rebuild some of those walls around his innermost thoughts, to regain his composure. He will not ask for it; in his eyes, he has already asked too much of you tonight. But you know him, what he needs. So you sit on the sofa, for an indeterminate amount of time, giving him his space.
And of course, your obsessive thought cycles cannot help but return to places you’d rather forget. Murders and bids for power. Lies and the illusion of free will. Yes, it seems like no matter what, murder is never far from your mind these days.