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Chapter Text

Bellini and Tedesco’s lover’s spat had been getting on the Holy Father’s nerves. That wasn’t to say it had ever been a subject of acceptance to the pope - from the first it had bothered him, but knowing that these sorts of relations amongst the cardinals were commonplace (and that anyhow they were better than the men letting out their frustrations on underage boys and girls), he’d allowed it to go on. In all other aspects, Bellini and Tedesco were upstanding members of the clergy, so he hadn’t feared that this new entanglement would alter their behavior.

Except over the last few weeks, it had.

Something had transpired between them - just what the Holy Father didn’t know, only that it had been terrible and involved some screaming per the poor souls who shared a floor with the men. Ever since, their relation had moved beyond the personal realm and bled into the professional. Recently, for example, their newly-charged theological debates often came close to becoming brawls. I’m tired of it, the Holy Father said to Vincent one evening over text. Vincent could practically feel the old man’s exhaustion through the screen, emanating across a gap of some 7,000 kilometres. The way things are going, those men will send me to an early grave.

It took a while for Vincent to respond to that. He wasn’t really over the fact that he could text with the pope whenever he wanted to - well, not whenever; mostly when he had good cellular service, which wasn’t often these days. But in spirit he was probably one of the few men who had the pope almost completely at his disposal.

Why, Vincent didn’t know. To an extent he felt unworthy of the honor. He didn’t see what made him so special, nor why the pope trusted him with his deepest, most secretive thoughts. Yes he was a cardinal, however covertly - a fact he still had trouble wrapping his head around - but the Holy Father was in Rome and he in Kabul; in spite of every technological advancement over the last ten years, that still felt like an irreconcilable distance to him, never mind that the leader of billions was now reduced to three jumping dots on Vincent’s so-called “dumb phone.”

To some other man, this might have made them power-hungry. Vincent, however, kept in mind his position: no matter what, he remained in every aspect the Holy Father’s inferior. No privileges or favoritism would ever change that. So whenever they spoke, he didn’t ask the Holy Father questions, and he trusted the man’s judgement, however confusedly. When a message lit up his phone screen, he learned to drop everything he was doing and answer the Holy Father’s request. It didn’t matter how bizarre it was - had the pope asked Vincent to film a video of himself upside down on his head, juggling three balls of fire, he’d have hesitated only to ask one of his charges in Kabul if they could get just the right angle.

Which was why he didn’t stop to consider the deeper implications of the fact that two upstanding cardinals were sleeping together, and were now going about it so unprofessionally. His only concern was soothing the Holy Father’s worries.

Vincent: Surely they’ll stop.

A few moments passed. Then the dots began to jump again.

The Holy Father: Oh, bless you; you don’t know these men. They’re quite prideful. That might be the one sin worse than their lust. No, they’ll hold onto this for quite some time. I can’t imagine they’ll stop anytime soon.

The three dots disappeared, signalling the Holy Father had finished his message. Vincent simply stared at it, unsure. Around him fluttered the signs of his camp - children giggling as they ran, food sizzling on ovens, chatter between the elderly women who gossiped furiously. All of this relaxed him, if just for a moment - it was familiar, completely certain to him, unike the dubious act of communicating with the pope over text message. He shut his eyes and sighed deeply. He was happy that he was here and not at the Vatican; everything the pope had described seemed frankly intolerable. These were the leaders of their religion, one based upon compassion and unity, yet the cardinals in Rome seemed to squabble like chickens over a pile of feed. Their greed and ambition sickened him. It had not been what he’d imagined when the pope had appointed him to such a high station.

Vincent: Well, I wish there was some way I can help.

The Holy Father: As do I… but what can you do? I’ve put up with things like this for the past ten years; what’s ten years more? Maybe you’re right, and the men will sort themselves out in the end…

A pause, then another message.

The Holy Father: But this is why I speak to you, and why you’re still in Kabul. Away from everything, you have hope - you give me hope. I know that sounds pathetic, coming from the pope, but it’s true. Sometimes I can’t see the woods through the trees. But you can. That’s what’s so special about you, Vincent. That’s why I won’t let you resign.

I wish you would, Vincent thought as a strong gust of wind made his tent creak loudly. Maybe it was blasphemous, or at the very least cowardly, but he didn’t want to get involved in this mess. His job wasn’t politics but helping people. So long as he gave the pope advice from afar, his mission remained as it was - the moment he stepped foot within the Vatican, however, everything would change. He’d have to sacrifice his morals for politicking. He owed it to his family, his charges, himself - his God - not to do that.

The three dots disappeared, and this time they didn’t return. After five minutes of inactivity Vincent turned off his phone and laid it face-down on his desk. His head fell into his hands and he sighed for a long time, the breath piercing every part of his body, from his head to his toes and back again. The sounds outside had not calmed down; rather they seemed louder in his silence. The children were not scrapping but screaming, the ovens seemed about to burst into flames, and the women spoke in tongues. Some people found it an unpersonable chaos, but this was Vincent’s home. People uplifted the strict silence of the Vatican, yet the noisiness of Kabul bore the signs of life that God had created and ordered to be celebrated in His name. If anything, the sparsity of their resources, married to their steadfast hope here in Kabul, brought them closer to God than any elaborate religious dress and ceremony. And Vincent wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next morning, Vincent woke to pandemonium.

It threw him out of his sleep like being shot out of a canon. He didn’t even bother to get dressed before springing out of bed and tearing out the door. His chest was heaving and already his eyes had begun to smart. He knew this sound all too well, the yelling, the chaos - it haunted him in his dreams. It was what he prayed to God he would never forget, for it was what reminded him of his mission - his mission to help the defenseless, the poor and the sick, the marginalized, those without a voice. Sounds like these, which he’d heard before in previous postings - those in war zones, places of infinite displeasure and doom where he never knew if tomorrow was a guarantee - were familiar to him yet remained harrowing and empowering. Such was the desire and the power of his God.

It took a moment for him to focus on anything in particular, and the moment he did, he became distressed by what he was seeing. All around him people were in a panic. Mothers clung to their children with cheeks as red as tomatoes, crying incomprehensibly. Some men had been stunned into silence; others argued. The few other volunteers on the ground, who were a mix of devoted locals and the faithful brought in from other countries much like himself, walked about in a daze, trying to calm the distressed while simultaneously panicking themselves. Even then, nothing close to productive was getting done.

Panting hard, Vincent jogged up to the closest person he could trust. He loved everyone in this camp, but some were lost causes once they were hysterical; however, Jamshid, one such local volunteer, always managed to keep a good head on his shoulders. It was why Vincent had promoted him in the first place. In his mid-thirties, he was tall and well-built, veering on the border of sin for his vanity in his good looks, but beyond that he was blameless - the kind of person Vincent needed to talk to the most right now.

When he met Vincent’s eyes, Jamshid’s were stone cold, almost emotionless, yet something about his demeanor told Vincent that he was still fairly rattled as well.

“What’s happened?” Vincent asked, catching his breath in quick gulps of air.

For a moment Jimshid was silent. Then he shook his head sadly. “The Holy Father…” He didn’t have to say anything more; Vincent knew exactly what he meant. He wished he didn’t; he wished he had reason for hope. But despite the chipper façade maintained by the Holy Father in their last few months of messaging, Vincent could tell that the man was sickly and not always in full possession of his faculties. Something very clearly had been the matter. Had he not jokingly mentioned his own death the night before when despairing of Bellini and Tedesco’s indiscretions?

Even still, it was like the ground had dropped out from under Vincent. He staggered backwards, his body rapidly losing all the warmth and stamina it had accrued in response to all the chaos. There had been signs, yes, but it still didn’t seem real; no, it seemed impossible. He’d just been chatting with the Holy Father last night. He’d done it on his godforsaken phone…

Jimshid had to tap Vincent on the shoulder to get him to look up. When he did, he was faced with Jimshid’s own smartphone which was open to the breaking news section on Google. All the headlines announced the same thing: the Holy Father had passed away peacefully at age 87.

Peacefully. He’d gone without struggle. Yet everything from here on out would be nothing but.

However distressed and terrified he was, Vincent couldn’t cry or break down because no one here knew he was a cardinal, never mind that he’d been speaking to the pope personally. Besides, he needed to hold everyone else together. After a moment he settled on a strangled sob, glancing mournfully at the ground, before gathering himself with surprising ease. Grieving could come later; for now, there was work to be done.

So he and Jimshid went throughout the camp, comforting people and listening to their anguish. Their everyday existence was nothing short of uncertain, what with the hostilities which loomed forebodingly around them - the death of the only pope who’d heard their prayers was too much to bear. Some people were already planning an exodus out the country to someplace more welcoming to Catholics. One man even entreated Vincent to take them all with him to Rome.

Rome? Rome? The mere thought made Vincent’s insides coil. The last thing his brave yet vulnerable charges needed in their hour of desperation was to be exposed to the true mechanisms of their precious, hypocritical church. How could he explain to them that a man’s power meant more in the Vatican than his faith? What would they say to the fact that in his final exchange with the pope - because, surprise, he was a cardinal - he’d been discussing the illicit sexual liaison between two members of the clergy? Just thinking about it made him want to vomit. It would destroy everything these people held dear in the world.

And yet, it was the truth, which disgusted and terrified him in equal measure. Had he not lied to them? Every promise he had made, every surety that whenever they were in pain they could call upon their priest or bishop, rang hollow now that he knew everything that transpired within the holy city. What they were following here was more a fantasy than a religion, a predicament for which Vincent was solely responsible.

It sapped him of all energy, and unfortunately Jimshid took notice. After the final soul had been appeased, Jimshid gave Vincent the go-ahead to return to his tent; being the much stronger of the two, he’d decided to take care of anything else himself. Vincent thanked him profusely, blessing him for his constancy to his people and the Lord, before returning to his tent and shutting the flap behind him. The moment he was alone, he threw himself into the closest chair, deflating in agony. He understood now why there had been such screaming this morning; internally he was screaming himself. His world had been turned upside down, and he didn’t know what to do. The weight of every life in the Kabul camp bore on him like a stone - least of all, he realized, that once a new pope was elected, he would have to reveal his appointment by the late Holy Father…

Slowly but surely the chaos dimmed. People grew calmer, more subdued. The crying women did not weep so much now, but merely sniffled. Men began to share their sentiments with an honesty that was brutal yet necessary. Even the children seemed resigned now to a life without their sacred pope, and together they convened to discuss who might become the next one.

This was something Vincent did not want to think about, nor did he continue to entertain the idea of all of them immigrating to Rome. By avoiding the conversation altogether, it had essentially died down into a distant, desperate fantasy, for which he was grateful: he still warred within himself about his role as liar to these people; however, this guilt had grown significantly quieter as grief turned to bitter acceptance.

He found himself keeping Jimshid’s company more and more. Ever since his help during that most desperate hour, Vincent appreciated the man more than he could possibly say. When they glanced at each other now, it was with the common understanding that they bore very much the same burden, and that in bearing it together they were lightening the load for the other man. Besides, Jimshid was quite nice even when under stress, showing all the hallmarks of a competent diplomat. Perhaps if the attitudes around him had been more tolerant, he would have made something more of himself. As it stood now, Jimshid had been reduced to an exiled and scorned servant of God.

One night Jimshid requested that they pray together. Vincent had never been asked this before, not in his thirty years of serving the Lord, yet he couldn’t find it within himself to say no. If Jimshid was asking for something like that, then certainly he had his reasons. Bowing his head, Vincent fell to his knees on the worn, dusty carpet of his tent. Soon Jimshid followed suit.

“And for what do you wish to pray?” asked Vincent, his hands already clasped. The moment he’d fallen to his knees, he’d shut his eyes so tight that the sunlight of the late afternoon showed as a faint orange through the lids. It was a thing of habit with him, closing his eyes when he prayed, yet with someone so close at hand, it felt more like cowardice than routine.

”For the late Holy Father,” Jimshid said. Judging by the noises he was making, he was settling down next to Vincent on the carpet. “And for his soul.”

Vincent cleared his throat. Immediately he was uneasy again. His mind flashed back to his last text exchange with the pope, which made him feel like a wretched and dirty secret-keeper. It was like he’d been receiving the very Holy Father’s confession for all those months of their covert relationship.

He was sure that the Holy Father was going to Heaven - if he wasn’t, then no one would - yet to pray on his behalf felt wrong. It stabbed Vincent in the gut like a knife, the blade plunging deep, then twisting in the utmost discomfort. He bared his teeth, wanting to say something, but before he could Jimshid continued evenly, “And I would like to pray for the cardinals, and for the conclave they must soon navigate.”

The cardinals? thought Vincent, almost horrified. The cardinals?! He suddenly felt nauseous. He couldn’t see, but he was sure his knuckles had gone white with the intensity of his grip. Each palm was now sweaty and struggled to hold onto the other, and he felt his entire body slipping further and further away from Jimshid, and deeper into some terrible realm of shadow and collusion.

How could he pray for the cardinals with a good conscience, not just being one of them, but knowing the horrid manner in which they conducted themselves? Once again his deceit reared its ugly head, chopping off all sense of breath. Yes, he wished the cardinals a fast and easy conclave; he wished to save their souls from eternal damnation, knowing their every action went against the teachings of Christ; but he could not bring himself to do it with an audience. It was a continuation of his lie to a hellish degree. Yet refusing to go through with the prayer seemed more suspect.

Slowly, he inclined his head. His mind elsewhere, he began to mutter a prayer that Jimshid followed easily; and by the end of it his friend seemed sufficiently satisfied. Jimshid was quicker to his feet, as Vincent had some twenty long years on him. The cardinal followed creakily, albeit with a delay. When their eyes met for the first time in a few minutes, Jimshid’s shone with gratitude. “Thank you, Father,” he said, bowing his head in reverence.

“It was my pleasure,” Vincent said, watching as Jimshid left the tent and disappeared into the afternoon hubbub of camp.

Lies, he thought sickly. It might have been the worst thing I’ve ever done.

The dumplings were sizzling loudly as Aziza moved them from pot to plate. Her tongue stuck out slightly from between her teeth which always happened when she was concentrating, and her eyes narrowed to focus on her task. A bit plump around the middle, she was a spright thirty-something who’d converted to Catholicism not two years prior. Now she was one of Vincent’s greatest helpers in managing the more domestic aspects of the camp.

“The conclave starts soon,” she remarked idly to Vincent. He was standing at her rear, watching her work. He couldn’t cook to save his life - it was one of the things he was most ashamed about. So in some part he was quite in wonder of her.

He let out a long breath. “Yes, it does.” In truth he didn’t want to think about it. Technically he was supposed to be there: as a cardinal under eighty he had every right to vote. But just like praying for the cardinals’ souls the other night, it felt like too much of a betrayal to everyone here in Kabul.

“Have you heard anything about who might be elected?”

“Heard anything? How?”

“Through the news,” she explained. In a second he was at ease. For an alarming moment he’d thought she’d figured out that he too was a cardinal. Smiling, she added, “You’ve got the best cellular data out of everyone.”

“Yes, that’s right…” Too relieved to be loquacious, he backed away from Aziza and busied himself with gathering plates and cups for the dinner ahead.

However, Aziza was very astute. She seemed to realize something was wrong. After all the dumplings and other foods had been plated and given their proper place at the table, she cornered him with a falsely innocent smile. “I know you worry, Father Benitez. We all do.”

Vincent visibly deflated, his face closing as quickly as the doors to the conclave once voting commenced. It’s not worry, he thought, trying his best to evade her. This was the last thing he wanted to discuss right now, and he was worried that some people were missing food - which wasn’t true; he’d seen to it that everyone had been fed; yet such was his anxiety and care for these people that quite often he second guessed himself. It’s something far, far worse.

Vincent’s throat was very dry, so he nodded instead of speaking. Fixing him with a quizzical expression, Aziza said, “I trust the cardinals will elect the man they see fit to assume the papacy - one who will be receptive to us and our cries, all the way out here.”

“No,” muttered Vincent. He thought he was speaking to himself, but apparently he’d been too loud; Aziza’s eyes ticked up to him, asking him wordlessly if there was something he wanted to say. There was no way he could stop now, so with disregard to his perilous position he continued bitterly, “No, I don’t trust them. You don’t know what they’re like. Dear Lord - they do not care about us. Not here. Not all the way out in Kabul.” He shut his eyes just then, and in his head he could see it all so clearly. The reunion, then the spats, the general villainy, the greed with which men scraped after the necessary two-thirds majority. These weren’t men of God; rather they were glorified power-chasers, concerned more with their own position than that of the billion and a quarter Catholics hanging on their every word. What did lustful cardinals care for the plight of a small Catholic congregation in the Middle East? They’d elect whatever pope they thought would give them the best promotion - and in the chaos of it all, Kabul would be forgotten.

Vincent was overcome then with terrible nausea. He knew he could not let that happen. Would he canvas like a politician? No, but he would not stand idly in this camp while haughty men up in Rome decided their fates for them. The pope had made him cardinal for a reason, though the mere fact of it remained increasingly incredulous to the distant and isolated Vincent. He decided then that he’d break this pectus decision no matter the fate that it brought on his head. Cardinals would be angry, but no one would be angrier than the looming hostile forces around them, and if he could just sway some holy man up in the Vatican to be sympathetic toward their cause, perhaps they could avoid the worst of the vitriol.

Thus he looked at Aziza with a rather winded expression. Taken aback by his sudden change in mood, Aziza returned his gaze in something of a daze, asking slowly if he was all right. Having nothing to say to that, he just leapt forward and kissed her on either cheek. “Thank you,” he muttered breathlessly, before he dropped the few cups he’d still been carrying and made off toward his tent.

Chapter Text

Vincent hadn’t intended for anyone to know he was leaving. He wasn’t even bringing anything with him - no possessions, never mind a bag with which to carry them. It would look suspect in the airport: given the publicity the incoming conclave was receiving, anyone with significant baggage flying straight to Rome would be considered a part of the holy order. Completely to the contrary, Vincent’s only desire was to slip soundlessly into the night.

Unfortunately just as he emerged from his tent, he was met with an exhausted and weary Jimshid.

Immediately Vincent’s fatherly instincts kicked in. Smiling kindly, he threw his arms open wide. “Jimshid! What - What are you doing out this early?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jimshid said. It certainly looked true. Even through the shadows, Vincent could see the darkness beneath Jimshid’s eyes. His shoulders were also sagging, which alarmed Vincent - he’d never seen them posed in any manner other than complete certainty. “God was sending me visions. Something told me to come to you.”

“Well, Jimshid, as far as I’m concerned, nothing’s the matter here. Perhaps the visions were misinterpreted?”

“No. No, Father, I’m certain I’m right.” So returned Jimshid’s confidence - only to bite Vincent where it hurt the most.

Inwardly he cringed, disgracing himself for his dishonesty. Outwardly he tried to maintain an unaffected visage. To betray his true mission would be to betray the late Holy Father, and to some extent the church as a whole. As much as he hated it, yet more lies were necessary. “Well then. Would you like to come into my tent? Perhaps we could pray together.”

Jimshid’s eyes leapt between Vincent and the tent behind him. Meanwhile Vincent said a silent prayer; thank God he had not moved with any baggage, because upon entering his tent it would have become obvious to Jimshid that Vincent had prepared to leave, the sight of everything packed-up and completely orderly being a dead giveaway. Now should Jimshid follow Vincent back inside, everything would appear as it always had been - and as it always will be, Vincent thought to himself, sealing off his musings with a strong amen.

Yet Jimshid would not go in now. His face was flooded with fear, which terrified Vincent: what was there to be scared of at dawn, and by a man so stoic as Jimshid? “My child,” Vincent began, reaching out to touch Jimshid, but the man simply staggered away. “My child,” he repeated sluggishly, “you are troubled.”

“Yes,” Jimshid said, croaking the word in earnest. Tears brimmed his dark eyes. His shoulders fell in surrender. “I am - quite troubled, Father.”

Vincent glanced every which way, anticipating that people would be awoken by the noise. Thankfully no one had, and Vincent had some confidence in the exclusivity of their conversation. He tried again to reach out to his friend, and this time Jimshid allowed it. Lightly Vincent touched Jimshid’s arm. “Would you like me to receive your confession?”

Jimshid’s trembling stopped gradually. Hope came to his eyes, though they were veiled slightly by his tears. “Yes, Father.”

Nodding, Vincent managed to get Jimshid to come along into his tent with him. It was a struggle, but Jimshid followed eventually, weakened somewhat by his sudden distress. As Jimshid got situated, Vincent lit candles and cast some light throughout the small and messy place. The glare they cast on the wall remained stagnant, reflecting Vincent’s own mood.

Eventually Vincent migrated over to Jimshid. Jimshid bowed his head, and Vincent took his spot beside his friend. He did not face the man, fearing that direct eye contact would be too much for him. He recalled that early on in his churchgoing days he himself had been terrified by the fiery gaze of his unforgiving priest. It had almost dissuaded him from confession entirely.

Out of the very corner of his eye, he watched Jimshid make the sign of the cross. Then, sagging into his powerful frame, Jimshid muttered morosely, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was five months ago.”

Vincent remembered it well. He tried to make it a point to track the spiritual journey of every member of his flock, and for the most part he succeeded; some people claimed that his remarkable memory was a gift from God in itself. On that occasion Jimshid had confessed to having lustful thoughts. This wasn’t entirely uncommon among the people of Kabul: given the poor conditions in which they lived, men and women were assigned to close and dismal quarters, and at night they often laid together to keep warm. Sexual indiscretions were somewhat inevitable. Not, thought Vincent with bitterness, like they are in the clergy.

Jimshid had walked away from that confession with Vincent’s personal assurance that he was forgiven, and that he should do the rosary once as penance. This was a comparatively light sentence, but Vincent knew Jimshid’s heart - he’d be able to overcome any obstacle his own spirit or the Lord laid before him.

Silence stretched between them. Vincent could have cut it with a knife. Realizing that Jimshid wouldn’t speak first, Vincent prompted, “And what are these sins, my child?”

A strangled sound came from Jimshid. It was so sudden that Vincent felt compelled, for a moment at least, to glance at him. What he saw left him rattled. Jimshid’s strong, handsome face, ordinarily so composed, had completely crumpled in dismay; tears tracked down his cheeks with fierce speed, staining his skin as they went. His entire body was slumped, too, and his hands shuddered in his lap.

Vincent’s mouth opened in shock. Then he looked away, feeling every bit the betrayer for breaking Jimshid’s boundaries. Yet he felt moved to say something. “My child…”

“I have lusted,” Jimshid spat out - literally spat, for saliva threw across the crowded space of Vincent’s tent. He watched it land on a stack of used-up journals.

Once it had dried, Vincent prompted him again: “Is that all?”

“No…” Jimshid shook his head suddenly, violently; there was a glint in his eye that momentarily frightened Vincent, but after sufficient self-admonishing he managed to compose himself again. “I have lusted… lusted… after a man.”

Oh, Vincent thought, oh, oh. This was not the first time he’d had a homosexual come to confession on the verge of tears, thinking himself the dirt of the earth, so unfortunately Vincent knew just what to say. “My child,” he began slowly, “know that your sin lies not within your lusting after men, but your lust in general. The object of your attraction is not so much to blame as the action is.”

Jimshid breathed in wetly. “Surely you can’t mean that.”

“But I do,” said Vincent. He weighed his next words very carefully. “That God finds homosexuality an abomination in itself is a complete fabrication. The word ‘homosexual,’ or any of its equivalents, did not appear in the Bible until the twentieth century. Some men may disagree with you on that point, but carry within you the knowledge that this decree of God’s word was corrupted by men, and does not have any bearing on if you shall go to Heaven. God loves all His creations, heterosexual or not, and through our deeds do we distinguish ourselves. Thus distinguish yourself through your chastity: do not lay with another until you are married, and even then do not allow it to impede on your love and purity for God.”

There was silence again. Then Jimshid laughed. Vincent could see him shaking his head, smiling weakly. “But it is not only that, Father.”

Selfishly, Vincent glanced at his watch. He should be on his way to the airport now. If he didn’t leave within the next ten minutes, there was no guarantee that he’d be able to make his flight - and if he didn’t make that… He shuddered. Then Kabul might very well be doomed, and all his flock along with it.

Vincent’s eyes flicked upwards toward Heaven. Dear Lord, offer me forgiveness as I do all that I can to make my way to Your holy election. This meant expediting this confession significantly. Trying not to sound irritated, Vincent started to fill in the blanks for Jimshid: “So you’ve laid with a man already. That’s alright, my child. If you promise not to do it again, and you do your rosary-”

“No, Father. Something else.”

Something else? What else? Vincent couldn’t imagine a sin worse than that. “What, my child?”

Jimshid hesitated again. He’d become more fidgety; the blur of his body was constantly moving in the corner of Vincent’s eye. He thought it was somewhat distracting, then reproached himself for continuing to put a single plane flight ahead of his friend’s confession. But the conclave…

“My child, please, I need you to speak. If you don’t tell me anything then I’m unable to help you.”

Thankfully the words got to Jimshid. Inspiration dawned on him like he’d just received a revelation. “The man I’ve been lusting after,” he said quickly, “is you.”

“Is… Is me?” Vincent couldn’t believe it - no, he wouldn’t. Just like the Holy Father’s death, there had been signs, he supposed - all of them flooded his mind now as Jimshid continued to mope in silence. Though Vincent had thought that he was the one seeking out Jimshid’s company, it had always been Jimshid initiating their conversations. Jimshid would have moved Heaven and Earth for Vincent, yet he was too scared to go into Vincent’s tent with him alone. And why? Because he supposed he would transgress with his very own priest.

All of Jimshid’s otherworldly certainty, his appreciative glances and otherwise confounding decisions, made sudden, terrible sense to Vincent. Yet he didn’t want to believe it. With the Holy Father’s passing, this was one discovery too many. “Jimshid…”

“I have imagined you, Father, in the most sinful of circumstances. Naked in my bed, on your knees for me - everything. More often than not, I suppose, I was on my knees for you. It disgusts me. Where my mind comes up with these things, I don’t know, but nevertheless they come…”

Vincent continued to say nothing, for what could he say? Nowhere in his spiritual training had he been advised on what to do when a member of his flock announced they were lusting after him, never mind that it was another man.

Jimshid took this as permission to speak. “I am horrified, Father. Is this the work of the Devil? Has Satan come to tempt me away from our Lord? If so, I’m afraid it’s worked to some extent.”

“Worked?” muttered Vincent hollowly, while at the same time Jimshid confessed, “I once… once touched myself to the thought of you-”

“Good God!” Vincent cried, leaping to his feet. He prided himself on monumental tolerance - it was why he’d excused Jimishid’s sexuality immediately, apart from the fact that he found nothing wrong with gays; unfortunately he had more in common with them than any other priest he knew - but this was too much. It stretched him too far: he could feel himself splitting right down the middle. His chest heaving, he tried to think of anything else to distract himself. Immediately his thoughts turned to the conclave.

He glanced at his watch. If he wanted to make the next direct flight to Rome, he’d have to leave now.

But Jimshid’s very condition forbade him. The poor man was catatonic, weeping upon the floor in a submissive fetal position. The tears from before had returned and now overflowed upon his face. His cries were so loud that Vincent feared he’d wake the rest of the camp, and make his own escape impossible.

There was only one way out of this that would satisfy both parties. After taking a calming breath, Vincent leaned down to get closer to Jimshid, who in his distress still refused to face him. He spoke as slowly as before, but softer now, like he was comforting a scared animal on the feast day of Saint Francis of Assisi. “Between you and me, my child, you shall soon be rid of your temptation, and so you shall be cleansed.”

Jimshid’s body went rigid. “What do you mean…?”

Vincent sighed, lowering his voice even more. “I’m leaving Kabul tonight. I can’t imagine I’ll be back for some time.”

“What?” Jimshid’s head tore up from the ground, his bloodshot eyes pinning Vincent in place. “But Father-”

“I am a cardinal,” he explained, “created in pectore by the late Holy Father. It is my duty as a Christian to vote in the next conclave.”

Jimshid shook his head, disbelieving. “No,” he muttered. “No, no, no, it’s not true...”

“But it is.”

“Why the secrecy?”

Vincent laughed, though it came out weak. “Have you forgotten where we are?” he asked before his smile smoothed out into a frown. Among other things…

But Jimshid still wasn’t swayed. “You’re abandoning us!”

“No, Jimshid. Don’t you ever say that. I’m going to Rome to ensure the next pope is receptive to our crisis, do you hear me? Everything I do now I do for you - I do for God.”

“The very God I have offended… no, I don’t deserve this sacrifice.”

“No! No, Jimshid, you do. Have you not heard what I said? You are clean, Jimshid. While I am gone you shall get yourself together - you will ask God for mercy, pray constantly, and so you shall be saved. When I return, nothing will be amiss. We shall continue on as we always have.”

Jimshid smiled and shook his head. “I wish I could believe you, Father.”

“As do I. Unfortunately I don’t have any more time to convince you. My flight leaves too close for comfort.” He looked down at Jimshid, still sprawled out upon the ground. His heart ached for the man; he was clearly distressed, and given the current circumstances there wasn’t much more he could do for him. He hoped whoever they appointed to be his temporary replacement (because that had to happen once the Vatican discovered he was indeed a cardinal) would look upon Jimshid with such grace, and help his friend along to salvation. That was all he could do for now. “I must head to the airport. You won’t suffer too much without me?”

Jimshid sniffed in uncertainty. “I will try not to, Father.”

“Good. Then I’m off. Please explain everything to the rest of the camp when I awaken. I fear the internet’s too spotty here to trust an email.”

Jimshid only nodded. It appeared he’d cried out his vocal chords. Vincent knew the feeling - it had happened to him when he’d discovered his “abnormality.” Back then he had not understood any of it. Now he had learned to accept it as a gift from God.

With that, he felt free to leave. He nodded to Jimshid, though given the man’s current position he could not be certain that this gesture had even been seen. Still, it was better than nothing, and Vincent was in a desperate fight against the clock. He was out the tent in an instant, striding through camp to its very border. From there he hailed a taxi - the only one, it seemed, that was available at such an early hour in such a remote part of the city - and threw himself into the backseat. The driver regarded him wearily in the mirror. “Where to, sir?”

Vincent sighed. At last he felt on his way. In just an hour he’d be that much closer to Rome. He even began to smile. “The Kabul International Airport.”

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry, Mr. Benitez, but your flight has just left. However, in an hour there will be a flight to Beirut through which you can connect to Rome. Does that work for you?”

The way the receptionist spoke was almost degrading, her tone so perfect it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. Glancing up at Vincent made it worse. Her gaze was sterile, her smile clearly disingenuous. Everything about this woman rattled Vincent to his core. She was what he imagined the cardinals in Rome to be like: superficial pretenders of morality.

Vincent couldn’t understand where things had gone wrong. His driver, God bless him, had his fair share of urgency and had disobeyed just about every speeding law in existence to get him into the airport in a more than timely manner. Having organized his documents the night before, everything leading up to this point had been easy. Now he’d hit an abrupt and debilitating roadblock.

Vincent stared blankly at the woman, unsure of what to say. An ungodly rage was boiling inside of him which he tried his best to temper. He shut his eyes, but all that succeeded in doing was highlighting his visions of an ignorant pope who had been elected without him. When his thoughts travelled to his flock in Kabul in chaos, he snapped out of his head. Even this awful receptionist was better than his crippling anxiety.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “that should work.”

The woman issued him a ticket, still smiling. He held onto it like a lifeline as he zigzagged through the sleepy airport crowd. He was the first to arrive by the gate and fell unhappily into his chair. As the people at the desk began organizing their papers and getting information in order, Vincent continued to consult his watch.

Dear Lord, blessed are You to have procured me another flight, and blessed are You for the strength you have bestowed in me. I shall serve You with my every faculty - mind, body, and soul - and as it is Your wish this shall extend to the conclave.

With this he lowered his head, intending to reflect silently on Jimshid’s confession - it was such a surprising thing that even all these hours later, he still felt bewildered by the entire encounter. However, the only thing that came of it was a long and much-needed nap.

A kind soul woke him up when it was time to board. Still groggy, he staggered onto the plane and promptly fell asleep again. He then arrived in Beirut, sluggish and completely disoriented, where he had a five hour layover. After traveling through all the necessary security checks, he made his way to the arrivals lounge where he slept his layover away. Needless to say, all this secrecy, lying, and scheming had made him exceptionally tired.

In the arrivals lounge, he experienced a dream. He hadn’t dreamt for quite some time, and even in sleep his body seemed to curl inward in anticipation. Was this the work of God? Perhaps he was experiencing a vision much like Jimshid - one he hoped would come to a more productive and positive outcome. But all he was met with was that same apprehensive expression of Jimshid’s which he had seen when he’d left the tent. In a dazed state he relived the dreadful confession yet again, only this time it seemed to span on and on, with new details that scandalized Vincent even more than the real ones. The longer it went the more garbled it became, until by the very end he could scarcely understand the man anymore. It was like he was speaking in tongues. Looking between Jimshid and a bare spot on his warped tent wall, he’d begun to ask God to translate what Jimshid was saying to him. It was then that Vincent woke up.

For a few minutes he was breathing heavily. Though it had previously been a disappointment to him, he now mused that his lack of dreams had been a blessing instead of a curse. Glancing at his watch, he saw that there were only ten minutes left until he needed to board his flight to Rome. He clasped his hands together, thanked God for waking him - and beseeched that unless it was absolutely necessary, he shall never receive a dream ever again - before continuing to the gate, where he joined the long, serpentine line of travellers waiting to board.

The flight itself was long and tiresome. There was a small television set into the back of the seat in front of him and he idly switched it onto the news channel. Everything there was all about the conclave. When he looked about, he saw that everyone else was watching the news, too. For a moment he contemplated blending in with them if only to avoid suspicion, but his anxiety got the better of him and he switched the channel to some benign soap opera. He didn’t need to watch any newscaster make predictions about who might be elected. He’d be inside the conclave himself soon enough.

At long last he arrived in Rome. Stepping off the plane, he couldn’t figure out what he was feeling. Refreshed? Reinvigorated? Relieved? Rash? Either way, he didn’t have much time to find out. Vincent didn’t need to make a beeline to baggage claim like everyone else, but it took a while to get a taxi, and every minute that passed felt like precious time wasted. How many other cardinals had arrived? He’d kick himself if he was the last.

Finally he managed to secure a car. He threw himself into the backseat, ignoring the confused glance of the driver as he realized that his passenger didn’t have any bags on him. “Dove stai andando?” the man asked.

Vincent blinked. He hadn’t heard someone speak Italian in a long, long time. With the people in Kabul he primarily spoke Pashto and English; he spoke only Spanish with his family. Even with the late Holy Father - because by this time he’d become reconciled with the fact that the Holy Father had in fact passed, and from here on out the pope would be someone totally different, and with whom he had not such a strong rapport - he’d spoken in English. He knew Italian because it was practically required for any Catholic of such a high station, but it was rusty and old.

Eventually his mind caught up with him. Where are you going? Vincent strategically picked a place close enough to the Vatican without causing alarm. “Castel Sant'Angelo,” he said, pressing a spare euro into the driver’s outstretched hand.

The streets were unimaginably congested. This worried Vincent - would he make it to the Casa di Santa Marta, where the cardinals would be housed for the duration of the conclave, in time? - but it also provided him the much-needed time to explore Rome for himself. He’d never been to Italy before and all he’d seen of its ancient wonders had been through books and pictures on the internet. Now the city in all its majesty was swimming right before his eyes. That weatherbeaten shade of beige covered everything, from the streets and the walls to the shops that pandered to ignorant American tourists. Stalls crowded the already overflowing streets, displaying cheap plastic wares for sale which had been ridiculously overpriced. Then there were the nonchalant natives who spoke loudly into their phones and passed through the roads unbidden. They didn’t care if there was a car coming: they assumed it would stop automatically for pedestrians.

Far from idle and sterile, Rome burst to life in front of Vincent and proved his haughty expectations to be entirely unfounded. He wondered briefly if he was wrong about the cardinals as well, but upon remembering all the stress Bellini and Tedesco had put the late Holy Father through during the last months of his life, the thoughts were immediately dashed.

The car finally came to a judding halt, and this time it wasn’t for the temperamental traffic. They had arrived. Vincent jerked to attention as the driver swivelled around to face him. “We’re here, sir.”

Vincent looked out the window to find a thick throng of pilgrims dominating the space. People must have realized that this was the closest place to Saint Peter’s Basilica that was open to the public and were waiting like they would be able to hear the announcement of the votes from three kilometres away. Vincent thanked the driver profusely, stuffing more euros into his hand, before jumping out of the car and disappearing into the crowd. Unfortunately he wasn’t Moses and this wasn’t the Red Sea, so he had to elbow his way up to the row of security guards on the perimeter. They were all somewhat intimidating despite their colorful garments: divided into vibrant orange, red, and blue stripes, along with a white ruff, silver helmet, and distractingly tall red plume, they could be easily spotted in a crowd and exuded more childish wonder than commandeering authority. Still Vincent weighed his words carefully.

“Sirs, this might sound insane, but I need to make it to the Casa di Santa Marta.”

“It’s off-limits,” said the man directly in front of Vincent, lifting his chin in a sign of superiority. “It’s only open to cardinals for the duration of the conclave.”

“Yes, well that’s the point.”

“The point?”

Vincent bit his lip. He was too close to other people for comfort, but he knew that he’d get nowhere if he kept being so vague. So he lowered his voice, leaned closer to the guard, and said in confidence, “I am a cardinal.”

He waited for a reaction, but for a long time he didn’t get one. The silence between them was even icier than the biting autumn wind slanting down diagonally from the sky. If Vincent could’ve brought anything with him, it would have been a jacket to insulate him against the cold. However, no measure was too far when it came to the secrecy of his mission, so he’d left even the most unassuming stuff behind.

Then Vincent swore he heard the guard scoff under his breath. “And I am the pope.”

“I’m serious.”

“Sir, we need you to step aside.”

He repeated, “I’m serious.”

There was another silence. The guard peered down at him - admittedly Vincent was somewhat short - as if in examining his face he’d be able to figure out whether Vincent was telling the truth or not. “There are one hundred seventeen cardinals eligible to vote,” he began to explain very slowly. “We have been provided with the names of all of them. Needless to say, you are not on the list.”

“Because I was made cardinal in pectore.”

They’d been talking for so long and with such intensity that other people had begun to listen. They were almost insultingly obvious about it, pointing their bodies toward the two men and widening their eyes with curiosity. Vincent almost expected the guard to continue resisting, but once he’d mentioned Latin terminology the guard seemed to realize the gravity of the situation. He glanced each way before taking Vincent by the arm. “Follow me,” he said.

They wound through numerous ancient statues and came to an off-shoot of the monument that he’d never seen before. It was cloaked in shadows despite the sun blazing overhead and was so isolated that he couldn’t hear the bloated crowd anymore. It was almost like something out of a novel, and Vincent wondered if the men of Roman times had used it for private conversations as well.

The guard came to an abrupt stop, shuddering Vincent’s body along with his. The silence was almost deafening, the only sound being Vincent’s heaving breaths and the sharp chirp of bugs. Just as Vincent was getting his bearings, the guard pressed their faces close together, gusts of air slapping warmly against Vincent’s cheeks. “And why in God’s name should I believe you?”

“Because I have proof.” He leaned back, wordlessly asking for space, and the guard gave him it. From his almost comically deep pockets Vincent produced his letter of appointment, heavy with the official seal.

The guard grabbed it instantly and examined it with care, rotating it this way and that, as if reading it from a different angle would reveal some secret message. A divot appeared between his brows, his lips moving silently as he read. All the while Vincent held his breath - in all honesty he had no idea whether the document would be sufficient proof or not. Finally the guard smoothed his hands over the paper. “Come with me, Your Eminence. I’ll take you to the Casa di Santa Marta.” Even more miraculously, he almost sounded apologetic.

As Vincent would come to learn, this trip entailed going through many backroads which had been closed off to the public. He was heavily guarded at all times, and his documents had been taken away from him - now the members of his small, impromptu security detail held onto this for safekeeping. Admittedly Vincent felt leagues out of his comfort zone, but, as he reasoned, so had all the disciples. In good time the car came to a skidding halt before the Casa di Santa Marta.

For a few moments there was nothing for Vincent to do but stare in awe. In preparing himself for the journey he’d looked at photos of it online, but nothing could have prepared him for witnessing it in person. Awash in the same yellow-beige tone as the rest of the city-state, row after row of squat, boarded-up windows, set against a pale white border, broke up any monotony in the flat stretch of wall. Fields of cobblestone hugged its exterior, though every so often there was a smattering of greenery along with some trees. To ensure the cardinals kept themselves in - and the rest of the world stayed out - a weatherbeaten stone wall topped with a metal fence had been installed along the perimeter, standing as both a reminder of their vow to secrecy and isolation, and also creating an apt comparison to a federal prison.

All at once, it dawned on Vincent that this was where he would spend the next few days in complete seclusion.

As cowardly as it was, a pit formed in his stomach. He clasped his hands together, beginning a prayer for strength, before the Swiss guard hopped out of the car, making a beeline for the entrance. Seeing as he was the one in charge of Vincent’s precious documents, Vincent had no choice but to unbuckle and follow suit.

Inside the building was cold, though it throbbed with quiet energy. The moment he entered he could hear the distant whisperings of his fellow cardinals as they caught up with each other, conferred on their vote, and made preparations to move into their modest rooms. Despite his knowledge of their character, Vincent wanted nothing more but to join them - the sooner he integrated himself into this self-contained society of hypocrites, the better. Unfortunately he had a great deal more steps to go through before he could quietly proceed to his own room.

The first was to convince the others that he was, indeed, a cardinal. He would have very much preferred to do this himself, but the Swiss guard insisted on taking care of it, at least until they reached a monsignor apathetic to their plight. “Being an outsider, I’m afraid they won’t like you right off the bat,” the guard explained as they wound through halls that looked just as nondescript and sterile as the last. Slowly but surely the chatter of his fellow cardinals died away, and apart from his almost giddy guide, Vincent was becoming increasingly aware of just how alone he was. “The guys know me here. I assure you, Your Eminence, an introduction from me will work wonders.”

Vincent’s eyes narrowed on the Swiss guard’s multi-colored back. He almost couldn’t believe that this was the same man who’d given him such a hard time at the Castel Sant’Angelo. Was everyone in Vatican City two-faced politicians?

Finally they came upon a small, unimposing office. It felt more like an off-shoot of the hall than a room unto itself. The tiled floor reminded Vincent of an elementary school, as did the trio of bright orange plastic chairs which were lined up against the wall. Even stranger, a long window stretching out from the door to the corner of the room made the inside visible from the corridor.

The Swiss guard told Vincent to take a seat in one of the chairs. Then he left Vincent alone as he went off in search of a monsignor.

For a while there was silence. Vincent stared down at his hands, only to find that they were trembling. Was it really possible that this time only a few days ago he was back in Kabul, swathed in its familiar scents and sounds? Now he felt as if he was a world away, having crossed a bridge no advancement could fill - not even the technology with which he’d spoken to the late Holy Father.

Fervently, almost hesitantly, he pressed his hands together and began to pray.

Oh Lord, forgive me my sudden flight from my post. Watch over the vulnerable members of my flock as I remain here, sequestered with my holy brothers. Keep in my eye my ultimate goal - to guide them toward a pure and compassionate end - and allow me not to succumb to their worldly temptations. Amen.

When he opened his eyes, he found the Swiss guard standing before him. In equally-vibrant dress was a man Vincent had never seen before, but judging by his uniform - virtually indistinguishable from a cardinal, save for its magenta ornaments - he was some sort of archbishop much as Vincent had once been. In complete contrast to Vincent was his relative portliness, as he had a young but fat face and beady eyes that worriedly surveyed the scene before him. On instinct, Vincent bowed his head.

“So, I couldn’t find a monsignor,” said the Swiss guard, panting slightly, “but I got us one better.”

The man cleared his throat, as if to distinguish himself even further, before launching into proper introductions: “Archbishop Wilhelm Mandorff, Father Benitez. Master of Papal Liturgical Celebrations.”

Mandorff held out his somewhat pudgy hand. Vincent was obliged to take it, and with all the strength which remained in him from such a secretive and daunting trip he shook it firmly. “Thank you for meeting with me, and on such short notice-”

“Please, there’s no need for gratitude.” To compound this fact, Mandorff held up his hand, smiling in a way that he surely meant to be humble but came off to Vincent as nothing more than insincere. It appeared that he was a man who was only rarely in a position of unquestionable superiority, and this sudden rush of seniority was getting to his head. “It’s my duty to the church.”

“Yes… of course…” Vincent cleared his throat. The watch on his wrist was thin from years of use but felt like a boulder from how it weighed on him; he was keenly aware that things needed to be sped up, and soon. “Now, the guard here has all my documents…”

“Oh, yes, let me see those please!” Mandorff cried with delight. Casting a weary glance his way, the guard had no choice but to hand him the sheets of paper Vincent had neatly organized for the occasion. Now he was forced to cringe inwardly as he watched all his careful neatness come undone at the clumsy hands of a deluded archbishop. “Well, there’s the official seal… quite impressive… Tell me, have you been in any sort of contact with the Secretary of State, Cardinal Aldo Bellini?”

Vincent grimaced as the late Holy Father’s messages floated into his mind. The way things are going, those men will send me to an early grave - those had been the man’s exact words mere hours before he’d died. Something about them felt terribly prophetic now. “No, I’m afraid not,” was what he settled on after much uncomfortable deliberation.

“That’s a shame. Given the Holy Father’s passing,” saying this the archbishop crossed himself, eyes ticking toward the ceiling, “Cardinal Bellini is the only person here who’d have the faintest notion of your appointment.”

Immediately Vincent’s heart leapt into his throat. Others knew? Worse, the other man in particular was Aldo Bellini? Why had he not sent for Vincent himself? Or had he gone through the late Holy Father’s messages and, seeing their contents, decided it was best for himself that he not take part in the conclave? Whatever the case might be, it had Vincent’s stomach churning. He found himself holding onto the flimsy arms of his plastic chair in a white-knuckled grip. “I thought I was made a cardinal in pectore.”

Mandorff laughed. “Oh, certainly!”

“Does that not mean it was in the strictest and holiest of confidences?”

“Why, yes. But Cardinal Bellini is still the Secretary of State.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, Bellini must’ve been told something of it.”

This was all much too vague for him. Sighing lightly, Vincent dropped his head into his hands, then, finding total stillness too uncomfortable for his liking, he began to rub a finger along the side of his temple. He’d barely been here half an hour, yet all this politicking was already giving him his worst migraine in months. (And it was not as if he could escape back into his fond memories of Kabul, for the second he placed himself in his modest tent again, he began to relive Kishid’s confession - that vile, confusing, life-altering confession…)

“Father Benitez?”

Vincent opened his eyes, though only hesitantly. The luminescent glare of the overhead lights seemed to slant directly into his face, making his vision swim. Even then he was totally sure that the man with his hand on Vincent’s shoulders was the somewhat deplorable Mandorff. He was saying now, “Father Benitez, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes…” he muttered, even as he shook his head. “Just - a long trip, is all…”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve been quite rattled by it. We all have.”

Mandorff chuckled, but this wasn’t anywhere near as comforting as he supposed it to be. It was all Vincent could do not to fix the pompous man with a glare.

Miraculously he managed to take a hint. Stepping back - thereby blessedly removing his hand from Vincent’s shoulder - he cleared his throat into the thick silence that had abruptly descended. “I must call for Cardinal Bellini, then. And Cardinal Lawrence - he’s the Dean of the College of Cardinals; he must hear of this, of course-”

“Yes, bring them please.” The sooner this was all over, the sooner Vincent could get around to doing what actually mattered: reminding these wretched men of their holy duty.

Mandorff nodded, then he was gone just as quickly as he’d come. Vincent wasn’t totally alone - the Swiss guard remained with him, watching him with rather intense, focused eyes - but the silence was welcome. He leaned back into his seat, legs spreading out as his feet slid across the linoleum floor. Then a voice whispered in his ear, How dare you rest while others suffer, waiting for the decision you shall make? How dare you, how dare you-

Vincent gasped, his entire body shuddering. An almost natural byproduct of working in such war-torn spaces was an all-consuming guilt which permeated his entire being. He’d tried many “cures” - therapy, meditation, confession - but found only one thing worked: praying the rosary. So he passed a cursory glance the guard’s way (which was somewhat ridiculous; he worked in the Vatican, what did he care for blatant displays of religiosity?) before fishing his own rosary beads out of his pants pocket. It was the only thing he took with him everywhere - being some thirty years old, they were quite worn down and threadbare now, but at the very least they were his. Shutting his eyes and taking in a long breath, he began with the first prayer.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Chapter Text

The sound made by the approaching Dean and Secretary of State was faint at first, then continued to grow louder with each passing second, gradually intruding upon his fevered concentration. By the time the two men were bickering under their breaths in the doorway, Vincent gave up on praying and shoved his rosary back into his pockets. He felt somewhat shaken: if he started a rosary he liked to finish it, and being stopped mid-way through felt like some sort of blasphemy. The two members of the Curia, seemingly oblivious to the interruption they posed, just went on speaking. Vatican men, he thought scornfully, before beseeching God to forgive him for his blind judgment.

Finally the men - whose names were Lawrence and Bellini, he remembered; he just didn’t know which name belonged to whom - finished their discussion with a semi-satisfied nod. The taller of the two, and also the older, though not by very much, placed his hand on the doorknob and held open the door, looking down upon the floor with a humble sort of resignation. (Had he won the argument he had just had with the other man or lost it? Though he seemed to wear his feelings upon his face, it was impossible for Vincent to tell.) Then the shorter and younger man stepped over the threshold, bobbing downward slightly in thanks - the way he moved confirmed to Vincent that he had been the loser in this fight - before fixing Vincent with an almost accusatory stare. The older man stepped into the room and lightly shut the door behind him.

Vincent braced himself for an immediate confrontation - after all, it wasn’t like a cardinal was appointed in pectore just every day. They’d be wanting verification beyond his documents; they’d grill him as to his relationship with the late Holy Father to ensure he wasn’t some sort of pretender, or worse, a spy. (Had there ever been spies during a conclave? He’d have to look that up when he was out of seclusion.) Vincent had gone over his answers to what he assumed would be their questions a few times in his mind, but he always thought that spontaneity rang much truer than any pre-scripted speech, so he didn’t try to worry himself too much. So as not to appear too threatening, he even pretended to be deep in sleep.

Nothing but silence stretched for an agonizing moment. Then the older man leaned slowly into Vincent, crowding his meagre space. A hand dropped onto his shoulder, though unlike anything he’d experienced with the Swiss guard or Mandorff, this touch was almost radically sweet and calm, like he was a child being comforted. All at once, he was swamped with the man’s scent - something like oak and pre-packaged soap. It was the first unique thing he’d noticed about anyone since dropping down in Italy.

“Your Eminence…?” the man began, speaking wearily to him. Still gentle, he shook Vincent’s shoulder in one uncertain hand. “Your Eminence...?”

Coughing slightly, Vincent pretended to shudder awake. He blinked rapidly at the overhead lights, then centered his attention on the older man’s face. Wrinkles like shallow gashes played across his skin, and his eyes, once blue, had become a washed-out gray with age. Yet he was somehow imbued with a kind, almost paternal quality, which Vincent himself wished to give off to all the members of his flock. It made Vincent’s insides twist, though not in an entirely unpleasant way.

“Your Eminence,” the man continued, speaking slowly and with care. “My name is Thomas Lawrence. Cardinal Lawrence, if you please - I’m the Dean of the College of Cardinals.”

Vincent bowed his head, though very slowly - he had to keep reminding himself that he was supposed to be tired and confused, which really wasn’t too far off the mark. Then, realizing the dean had stuck out his hand, too, Vincent quickly shook it. “Nice to meet you, Your Eminence. I’m-”

But he wasn’t allowed to finish. The younger man leapt in like a lion, teeth flashing as he spoke. “And I am Cardinal Bellini. Secretary of State.”

Vincent stared at the man with a half-blank, half-apocalyptic look. Frankly he was shocked by his gall, and he began to chew the inside of his cheek to quell the onset of his anger. He took Bellini’s hand in his in what was ultimately a very weak and uncertain shake. Not like Vincent didn’t give it his all; he had little strength left in him after his journey but whatever he could scrounge out of hiding he threw behind his movement and grip. Bellini, by contrast, seemed extraordinarily aloof. He stepped back from Vincent the moment his hand had been released, almost as if he’d been burnt.

Vincent smoothed out his somewhat shocked expression. “Nice to meet you, Your Eminence. I’m Archbishop Vincent Benitez.”

In the silence that ensued, Vincent glanced between both of them. They wore matching expectant expressions, yet this apprehension came from radically different places. Lawrence wanted to hear everything because he was interested, almost mystified, and maybe somewhere deep down, he actually cared about this strange, completely unheralded cardinal who’d been dropped on their doorstep out of the blue. Bellini just wanted to hear everything because he couldn’t wait to prove Vincent wrong.

Lawrence chuckled, and their rotten spell was broken. His hands were now clasped and raised close to his chest; from afar it might have looked like he was praying. “Well, now Cardinal Vincent Benitez,” he reminded cheerfully, glancing with muted trepidation between Vincent and Bellini. Much to Vincent’s shock, the man was smiling.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. Of all the things he’d prepared for, he’d never considered another cardinal being happy about his arrival being even remotely plausible. Suddenly he’d treaded into waters over which he had no control - yet. He slid his tongue across his lips, only to find that they were chapped. “Yes,” Vincent repeated hesitantly. “I trust you’ve received my documents-”

“We have,” Bellini cut in, shoulders lifting in quiet authority. Vincent wondered whether Bellini let anyone finish a sentence as he stared at the cocksure man. As it was, Bellini’s eyes were arctic cold, boring into Vincent’s face as if Vincent owed the secretary something - his dignity? An apology? Money? Unfortunately, every vice had its place within the Curia.

Bellini cleared his throat, lip twitching unpleasantly. “They’ve been studied extensively by professionals. As far as we’re concerned, we have no reason to doubt their legitimacy.” Vincent expected relief on the secretary’s part, but found only disappointment and weariness creeping up behind his eyes.

Thankfully, Lawrence continued on in his almost comically merry tune. “The only thing left to decide is whether you shall participate in this conclave.”

For a moment Vincent stared blankly at the dean. Besides the relief of seeing a face that wasn’t completely hostile toward him, he felt a bit overloaded with information. The lack of sleep had been getting to him slowly but surely, and now it was rearing its head like some demonic creature. One issue at a time.

He pasted a look of false confusion across his face, schooling his mouth into an almost childish scowl. “And why wouldn’t I participate?”

Bellini grimaced. “Well…”

“Well? Aren’t I as much of a cardinal as you two?” he pressed. Inside he was impatient, but outwardly he maintained his uncertain façade, as if Bellini’s strange scare tactics were getting to him. “It doesn’t matter that I was made in pectore, does it…?”

“No, no, not at all!” It was almost like Lawrence was rushing to assure him - something Vincent would have found sweet had the position he’d put himself in not colored it with some level of patronization. “In fact, the Holy Father did make some changes to the procedure surrounding such appointments prior to his death.”

Bellini muttered something under his breath. Vincent imagined it was about whether the Holy Father had really been in a sound state of mind to be making such decisions so late into his illness. Either way, he didn’t care. That wasn’t a playing field he’d be tackling on his first night. Lawrence, in all his bewildering compassion, he was sure he could crack; Bellini was an entirely different matter. So he zeroed in on the dean.

This time he paired his innocent face with his innocent tone of voice, lifting it by an octave. He looked right into Lawrence’s face, having no eyes for Bellini. “And what did these changes entail?”

“Oh, nothing major,” Lawrence said, accompanying the statement with the swatting of his hand, like the entire decision was merely some pesky fly to him. Maybe that was even true: Lawrence was fairly high-ranking as far as the clergy was concerned. He must have dealt with things far worse than an illicitly created cardinal. Unfortunately, for all the conversations he’d had with the late Holy Father, that wasn’t something Vincent would know. “In any case it shouldn’t interfere with your appointment.”

“Which means I should be completely cleared to take part in the conclave.”

Vincent swore that a smile lifted the corners of Lawrence’s mouth. “Well,” he said slowly, as if he was savoring every last sound, “well, yes...”

“Well, now that that’s out of the way! Archbishop, it’s my personal opinion that you really shouldn’t have come.” The first bit had come out fantastical, like he was announcing some circus show to the cheering crowd; the last bit, however, Bellini said casually, throwing the words out into the air without care for their significance. It was just as aloof, just as distant, and just as cocksure as everything else he’d said and done throughout the meeting, only now it was physically manifesting in his tone and expression, too: his eyes were half-lidded, his lips stiff when at rest, his tone disinterested - and that was to put it in the most generous terms Vincent could muster. Vincent was so shocked that he honestly thought that Lawrence would whirl around on his heel and scold the secretary. Forget rank - as men did often enough around here - he was being perfectly inhospitable! Yet Lawrence did nothing to rectify his colleague’s behavior except make up for it through his sickly sweet exterior. He was the Dean of the College of Cardinals, after all; his job wasn’t to ruffle feathers in the name of peace, but to keep things going smoothly.

So his kindness hadn’t meant anything earlier. It had just been a way to make sure his transition from archbishop to voting cardinal was as painless as possible - for Vincent or for Lawrence himself, only God knew. Which meant Vincent was left to his own devices. He would crack Lawrence - of that he was still certain. It just wouldn’t be anytime soon.

Deflating into his plastic chair, he turned to look at the secretary of state. The former secretary of state, he reminded himself, which might have been the smallest solace he could have taken in that moment. As long as they were in between popes, no one’s position within the Curia was certain - not even Bellini’s, no matter how much he puffed himself up.

“And why is that, Your Eminence?” Vincent asked, maintaining an almost naïve confusion.

Bellini scoffed. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? Coming here, revealing yourself to be a cardinal…”

“I thought we’d already established that it was my duty under God and the late Holy Father to take part in this conclave.”

“Yes, it might be ‘dutiful’ and ‘holy,’ but…” He began to struggle for words. His frustration was almost physically choking him, bulging around his temple. Glancing down at his hands, Vincent made sure to file that away for later. “The position of Christians in the Middle East is perilous enough already, without the provocation of you being made a cardinal and showing up in Rome.”

“Naturally, Your Eminence, I’m aware of the risks,” Vincent began, keeping in mind that he needed to tread lightly. A personality like Bellini’s was electric, almost dangerous - a powder keg about to explode. On reflection, he found it no wonder that it was the secretary of state who was doing such blasphemous things with another cardinal: their inhuman confidence called for some new way to break the rules. “That is one of the reasons why I hesitated about coming. But I can assure you I prayed long and hard before undertaking the journey.”

“Well, that’s all fine and noble,” Bellini said. He plopped himself into an identical orange plastic chair beside Vincent with a flourish, seemingly too tired - or too excited - to stand. “But what you’ve done cannot be undone. That is to say, you can never go back to Kabul again.”

A chill ran through Vincent’s body despite the oppressive heat of the Casa di Santa Marta. Apparently the Curia did not believe in AC. When he turned to look at Bellini, he felt winded, almost hollow. “Excuse me?”

“You’d put all of their lives in danger, going back.” Bellini laughed, adding with his eyes, Isn’t that common knowledge?

Thinking back on it, Vincent supposed it was. Really it should have been obvious. Yet he’d never considered it, and now that the idea had been presented to him he didn’t want to believe it, either. Bellini had already shown himself to be a liar, or at the very least a conman. Quite easily he could be saying this just to get Vincent out of Rome.

That’s what he decided to focus on, instead of the possible truth in Bellini’s words. Though he continued to look innocent, he made a point of meeting Bellini’s eyes. “Of course I’m going back. I’ll face the consequences of my faith just like thousands of others there.”

“But you’ll bring unnecessary attention to them. You’ll expose them. I can’t see anything about you returning that would make the situation there even a fraction better than it is now.”

For one, he thought, I’d be a constant in the lives of my flock who have experienced nothing but turmoil. After all, Jimshid’s confession still throbbed within his head. If anything, he needed to get back to resolve that conflict. Also, because he’d promise he’d return.

But this wasn’t anything he could explain to Bellini, despite his own knowledge of the secretary’s sexual inclinations. So he bit his tongue, averting his gaze just as abruptly as he’d held Bellini’s.

Lawrence was, yet again, their guardian angel, however dubious his reasons; sweeping into the silence with more organic pleasantries. This time he faced Vincent head-on. “Where are your luggages, Your Eminence? I’ll see to it that they’re brought upstairs at once-”

“I have no luggage,” he said slowly, as if it were obvious. Admittedly, he might have been testing the man with his tone, just to see how far this hospitable exterior went. Two can play this game, he thought somewhat guiltily. Or three.

So he felt incredibly gratified as he watched Lawrence blink at him. The dean gave out a sudden, incredulous laugh that seemed to startle even himself. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I thought that if I didn’t come with much, then no one would suspect me of being a cardinal. There’s so much fanfare around this conclave, you see - though I’m sure you’re already aware of that.”

Somehow this was incredibly confusing to Lawrence. His brow furrowed in dismay. “You mean - you really mean… no luggage at all…”

Vincent shrugged. “I slept at the arrivals lounge in Beirut before flying out here. I’ve been in Rome…” He pretended to count the number in his head, even though he knew it by heart: somewhat unconsciously he’d been keeping track of the minutes ever since he’d arrived. “Maybe two hours now?”

“Dear me,” said Lawrence, his cheeks pinkening. The way he worried over Vincent - or simply pretended to - reminded him faintly of a clucking mother hen. “We - We must fix something up for you, then - Monsignor O’Malley…!”

Vincent watched with dismay as yet another man in elaborate dress entered the room. This one was tall and gangly, young by Vatican standards - though given the general antiquity of the Curia, that wasn’t saying much. If Vincent had thought Lawrence incredibly receptive to his wants and needs, then this Monsignor O’Malley was even more attentive to his dean. He seemed to wait on Lawrence’s every word, his eyes bulging; Vincent half-expected for his ears to wiggle with concentration. This was the kind of man he suspected would share the announcement of his appointment the moment he left this room, though Vincent guessed that wasn’t a bad thing anymore. The sooner he became a recognizable figure around here, the better.

O’Malley swallowed visibly before nodding to the dean. “Yes, Your Eminence?”

Lawrence gestured vaguely to the monsignor. “Monsignor O’Malley is the Secretary of the College of Cardinals. He’ll try to get you everything you need: toiletries, clean clothes, a choir dress, I’d assume-”

“Toiletries?” Vincent asked. A lump formed in his throat - he’d have to explain that a shaving knife was completely unnecessary, which always ended up being more awkward than it needed to be. Also: “Choir dress?”

“For when we go to the Sistine Chapel,” Lawrence said.

“It’s where we vote.” Sniggering slightly, Bellini over-anunciated every word.

Vincent’s cheeks suddenly felt warm. Had he been a member of his flock in Kabul, Vincent might have assuaged an attitude like Bellini’s by speaking calmly and mindfully. But being tired and far from home, Vincent felt tempted to take the opposite approach. War-zones had tested his mettle; in many ways he was probably more of a man, of a fighter, than Bellini would ever be. If he really wanted to tear the secretary down, he could. But then he felt Lawrence’s eyes on him - patronizing, maybe, but still soft and sincere. Or at least pretending to be sincere. It was like a balm to his senses.

Slowly, he steadied himself. Burying his nails into his palms brought him back to the cramped off-shoot room. His rosary was heavy in his pocket, as if all the beads had been replaced by fat stones, and sometime during his mental absence, O’Malley had swept quickly and quietly out of the room. Eventually, everything came back to center. “Forgive me, dean, this is all quite overwhelming for me. It is… perhaps I…”

In reality he had no idea what else to say, but Lawrence took it as emotional distress. He leapt forward again, that paternal instinct returning. When he grabbed Vincent by the arms, his grip was strong yet oddly assuring, and at last - genuine feeling! - some real worry flashed behind his eyes. The well-oiled machine was still running, just on different instructions - one the machine had written himself. Lawrence’s tone changed with this. “No, no, don’t despair, Your Eminence. Really,” he laughed a touch, “we’re all quite out of our depth here. Even the veterans.”

Vincent tried his best not to perk up. He hadn’t expected his innocence angle to work so well, or move things so far in his favor, and he was still somewhat shocked by Lawrence’s sudden dip into vulnerability. Quickly he masked his delight with a new look of anguish. “I’m not sure I can believe you, Your Eminence.”

“I know it sounds silly, but no two conclaves are alike. There are curveballs and surprises around every corner.” The dean chuckled again. “I’m quite the fan of detective novels. Sometimes during this process I feel like I’m right in the middle of an Agatha Christie story.”

Vincent glanced up at Lawrence, his expression a little winded. He hadn’t been expecting that sort of comparison at all. He’d been led to expect that every cardinal went into the conclave thinking only of the power he could gain from it, yet here was one of the highest-standing members of the Curia describing it as a wonderful little mystery. And to think that he read Agatha Christie stories in his spare time!

If this had been anyone else, Vincent would have hated him immediately. He couldn’t believe other cardinals had enough downtime to take up inconsequential little hobbies. He wasn’t always in literal chaos, but because of the state of Vincent’s mind he always seemed fixated on some sort of problem. Recreation and entertainment weren’t luxuries he had.

But Lawrence’s authenticity made Vincent give him a pass. In fact, a drop of warmth spread through his stomach. In his head he imagined Lawrence in lay clothes, reclined on a weathered, faded sofa and reading in front of a fire. The flames casted an orange glow across Lawrence’s skin, and thin little rectangular glasses were perched on the bridge of Lawrence’s nose.

Finally.

It was completely, utterly genuine.

Vincent did his best to bite down the smile he felt prodding at the corners of his mouth. Almost bashfully, he looked away from Lawrence’s face. “You make it sound charming,” he said, laughing quietly. It was the one of the few true things he’d said over the last half hour.