Return of the Priest

[Josephine Sterling]

After having found a bounty of Vitae, by the Grace of God as well as her own merits, Josephine returned to the site of her Creation Rite and the brutal assault of her Priest and Coterie mate. An assault which, unfortunately, had been enacted with her hands. That did not mean she considered the event to be her fault, however. She had not been the one in charge of ensuring the safety of all who partook in the rite's enactment, but she did, nevertheless, hope to help the event's victim recover as well as she could. Thus she returned to the basement and walked down to where she had left the linen wrapped body of Thomas Galilei. With careful hands she removed the shroud from his form and then she set to work prying his jaws open. That morbid task done, she return back upstairs, found a bowl, and opened her wrist into it with the edge of a knife. She let it fill until she judged her surplus of vitae to have been drained away, and then she healed the wound and carried her vessel of God's Damnation to the corpse. With hands steadied by the lack of blood pulsing through them, she tipped the bowl until a steady cascade of deep crimson liquid poured into the mouth of the corpse beneath her.

[Thomas Galilei]

Resurrection: Vitae as sweet as that first breath of God in the dirt mound that would be Adam sets life astir in broken, torpid Thomas Galilei.

Genesis 1:3: And God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light.

His long night recedes. Sensation returns. Perhaps it is too much at once--confusing: the feel of rough cool floor beneath him, the return of the ringing sound of eternity in his ears, the taste of blood like salt and copper on his tongue. There is life in unlife, precious for it's fleeting frailty, but for Thomas, then, those ounces weigh tons. He licks the little bowl of every sticky red drop--

Josephine . . . there, above him. Beautiful. She is poemia--poetry, God's worksmanship . . . a masterpiece, nursing him in the wake of rebirth. His hand shakes. His wounds ache. Memory returns, and euphoria fades. He remembers: their ceremony gone awry, vicious lacerations, his soul's dread as he sank into torpor. Yet still, there persists, these warm affections . . . Whose blood? His mind does the math in silence: vinculum.

He rises to his ass--such heights as his grandest deeds have known.

More silence: heavy with guilt, sour with failure, fogged with confusion, and . . . obstacle to friendship. He looks at her . . . really looks at her, rolling to one knee. The suffering had not been his alone, and though he had not known hers, he had been the cause. A trembling hand stretches toward her chest, touches a tenuous finger upon the place the burn was made. They'd both been marked by the occasion.

What words had he for she? So many, yet none at all. Anger. Apology. Gratitude. Sorrow and joy at once. He's unfit for so small and simple a task, and so offers God his tongue in some wordless desperate prayer. "Josephine, I . . . the only flaws in God's perfect plan are we, the broken vessels he's kind enough to let see use. By 'we,' I mean . . . I'm deeply, deeply sorry for this. And--" No 'and,' he decides. He plants a soft kiss on her hand--the hand that tore his flesh; the hand he failed to bind--before rising to his feet. Thomas deserves hell eternal; anything less is mercy. "The good news is . . . God doesn't seem to be finished with us yet." He manages a smile, finds it easy, actually. She's his best friend in the city--the world, maybe--and the first face he'd want to see after a thousand deserved torpors, all the more for their new bond. And there is work to do.

Luke 10:2: The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few.

[Cayce]

"No, we are not to join our brothers and sisters in hell yet," she agreed, setting the bowl aside and rising to stand with him. Her hand reached for his, offering the cool flesh that he'd kissed, and looked into his eyes. "I am sorry that your pride was punished, and that I had not spoken of my doubts before the Rite began. However, I do believe that I would not have reconnected to the core of my beliefs without the trials that we both faced. Regardless, I am glad to see you on your feet again. I have missed you, and the Domain has as well. You rise just before Court is about to begin again, but the spectacle of this court is not silly costumes or ill thought out engagements with trans-humanism. No, it is a scene from ancient history. A gladiatorial spectacle. Baldwin will be set to kill Travis, for erroneous judgement as I understand it."

[Thomas Galilei]

Cold reception . . . but he lives to be received. She omits the specifics of her "trial"--the last he'd seen, she'd been frenzied, fleeing naked into the world--and so, he is courteous enough not to ask, or to mention that it was not his Pride alone that had been punished. But who is Josephine if not his stalwart sister, stoic and self-righteous? There is, too, the subject of his Vinculum. Issues to be broached in time, as wounds heal . . . and new ones are made. Requiem offered time, at least, in abundance.

"Monomancy . . ." Foolish Invictus tradition: divisive, dehumanizing, short-term non-solution. Knowing both Travis and Baldwin, it seems tragically inevitable. "They're similar enough in the small details that they might have been friends. Alas, Travis is offensive and Baldwin is offend-able." Speaking of "offensive" and "offend-able," the same might be said of he and she.

Thomas decides to learn from his friend Travis' error. "Words are cheap, I know . . . but I have many--and many pennies make a dollar. It was never in my heart to hurt you." He digs in his pocket for a cracked vial of perfumed oil, applies some to his thumb. "You deserved a better ceremony than the one I give you . . . but you also deserve not having to wait any longer to be recognized."

Unless stopped, Thomas paints the symbol of the Lance on Josephine's forehead with the oil from his thumb. "By the power vested in me as a Priest of the one true God, I declare Josephine Sterling my full sister in the Faith, damned and sanctified, branded over heart as seal. Furthermore, I appoint her as Archivist of the Lancea Sanctum in Sacramento, amending her duties to include leadership of covenant laity and all it entails. Bless the works of she, your Holy Monster by purpose and design. In the names of Jesus, your Son, and Longinous, your vile Servant. Amen."

He waits in silence for her to offer her own words, scripture, prayers, or dedication, with hopes that it will never come to Monomancy between them two. No--he would never see her coming; and they'd never find him. He smiles. That a girl.

Next order of business: bring peace to Monomancy, if at all possible . . . or perform funeral rights for either of his friends.

Thomas had just been spared a death by Pride, or was it Faith? He hopes to learn soon, before he reaps Final Death from sowing virtue or vice.

[Cayce]

Her flesh was still as he painted the oil over her, and a well of silence bloomed from her after his words of benediction had faded. A few blinks fell from her eyes, as though in surprise or contemplation, and then she echoed his last word. "Amen." The phrase was solemnly delivered, her tongue inflecting it with the gravity it deserved rather than the flippant rapidity which most pronounced it with. She let another artful silence flourish and then she took a step toward the stairs.

"We have much to do, Father. I have told others that you have been in a period of secluded prayer, but I shall of course support you in whatever way you might wish to reintroduce yourself. Likewise, if there is anything that I might do to aid you, either as Archivist or as part of your coterie, then please ask it of me. Yet, do so as we walk, if you please. Let us put this basement behind us."

[Thomas Galilei]

Stiff legs--torpor will do that to you; he tries not to let her see as his feet follow hers up the stairs.

Moore House: they'd started an investigation there, paused for a ceremony. Ceremony complete, however unorthodox, the investigation could continue; best not to keep a Prince waiting.

Best thing about Ventrue-to-Ventrue conversation? BLUF: Bottom Line Up Front. "State of the Union, as I see it: priority one is attend court, salvage Michael if we may; two, formalize coterie so the city knows it's a thing; three, assure the Prince that, after minor setbacks, the investigation continues and is the best hands in the City." How's that for a Covenant meeting? There are other things: they two needed some relational maintenance in the form of conversation; the city needed to know Thomas was back and well and things were well with the Lancea Sanctum. He trusts, or hopes rather, that these other ends will come about as a result of the prior. "Agree? Disagree? Am I missing something?"

They're both Sanctified, yes, but they're Ventrue too. And what does a Ventrue do if not solve problems and get the job done? Thomas grips the front door. He leaves it to implication that he's starving, confused, and ashamed. "Had a saying in the Army:"--he tries to keep it upbeat, assure her of his full Faith in her and God, if it isn't so strong in himself--"We the willing, led by the unknowing, have learned to do so much with so little that we can now do everything with nothing." He has trouble meeting her eyes. "That's the Sanctum in this city, but we have more than nothing--we have God . . . and we have Josephine Sterling. They'll see what we can do."

Burnt havens, failed ceremonies, nude streaking, torpored priests, and potential converts lost to Monomancy? Occupational hazards taken in stride.

[Josephine Sterling]

"You forgot about Thomas Galilei. He is, I am told, a very intelligent kindred. Occasionally quite charming, too. Certainly that is another worthy asset?" Josephine returned with a wry smile, her hand rising to cup his cheek and lift his gaze until it met her own dark, ocular pools. "I know that he has a decent plan for us, as well. I am certainly inclined to follow it, so long as it might be adapted along the way. Certainly circumstance shall not contrive to make our work not demanding of effort."

Ready to close whenever you are!

[Thomas Galilei]

Thomas Galilei, indeed--return of the priest. It must be true if she says so; she's not in the habit of being wrong. He meets her eyes with new fondness. Strong, this one. He worries his affection is not all Vinculum. Hard enough, being a priest, without the complications of forbidden romance. But what worthwhile thing was ever easy? Ease cheapens.

He holds the door for her as she goes, and they two step again into Sacramento night--the Lancea Sanctum.

Scene. Thanks, Cayce. That ceremony arc is not one I'll ever forget.