DISCLAIMER: I own nothing of it.
AN: Extreme AU. Don't like? Don't read.
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SUMMARY:
On a Danish shore, a Vatican priest is found - hanging on a cross.
Within days, the same crime is repeated...this time in Asia and Africa.
Meanwhile, deep in the legendary Catacombs under Orvieto, Italy,
an archaeologist unearths a scroll dating back two thousand years,
revealing secrets that could rock the foundation of Christianity.
It discovery makes him the most wanted criminal in all Europe.
But his most dangerous enemies operate outside the law of man...
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In The Name of The Father
Chapter
I
PROLOGUE
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Monday, July 10
Helsingør , Denmark
(thirty miles north of Copenhagen)
Samandriel was about to die. He just didn't know how. Or why.
After saying a short prayer, he lifted his head and tried to regain his bearings but couldn't see a thing. Salt water burned his eyes and blurred his vision. He tried to wipe his face, but his hand where bound behind him, wrapped in thick layers of rope and attached to the frame of the boat. His legs were secured as well, tied even tighter than his arms, which meant there was no hope for escape. He was at their mercy. Whoever they were.
They had grabbed him as he left his apartment and forced him into the back of a van. Very quiet, very professional. No time for him to make a scene. Within seconds they had knocked him out with a narcotic. He awakened hours later, no longer in the bustling city but on the open sea. Day was now night. His freedom was now gone. His life was nearly over.
Samandriel was tempted to scream but knew that would only make things worse. These weren't the type of men who made mistakes. He could tell. If help was nearby, they would've gagged him. Or cut out his tongue. Or both. No way they would've risked getting caught. He had known them for less than a day but knew that much. These men were professionals, hired to kill him for some ungodly reason. Now it was just a matter of time.
When their boat reached the shore, Samandriel felt the rocks as they scraped against the bottom of the hull. The sound filled the air like a primeval wail, yet none of them seemed to care. It was the middle of the night, and the coast was deserted. No one would come running. No one would come to save him. It was in God's hands now, as it always was.
Suddenly, one of the men leapt over the side and splashed into icy water. He grabbed the boat with both hands and eased it onto the narrow beach, just below a footpath. The other three followed his lead, and soon the boat was hidden in the trees that lined the section of the island.
They had traveled over a thousand miles but were just getting started.
Without saying a word, they loosened the ropes and lifted Samandriel from the boat, placing him on their broad shoulders for the journey inland. Samandriel sensed this might be his last chance to break free of their grasp, yet all he did was upset them. In response they slammed his face into the jagged rocks, breaking his nose, shattering this teeth, and knocking him unconscious. Then they picked him up and carried him to the place where he would die.
One of the men cut off Samandriel's clothes while the others built the cross. It was seven feet wide and ten feet high and made out of African oak. The wood was precut so the planks slid into place with little effort. When they were finished, it looked like a giant T spread across the freshly cut grass. They knew most people would be confused by the shape but not the experts. They would know it was authentic. Just like it was supposed to be. Just like it had been.
In silence they dragged Samandriel to the cross and positioned his arms on the patibulum - the horizontal beam - and put his legs on the stipes. Once they were satisfied, the largest of the men took a mallet and drove a wrought-iron spike through Samandriel's right wrist. Blood squirted like a cherry geyser, spraying the worker's face, but he refused to stop until the nail hit the ground. He repeated the process on Samandriel's left wrist, then moved to his legs.
Since Samandriel was unconscious, they were able to place his feet in the proper position: left foot on top of the right, toes pointed downward, which would please their bosses to no end. One spike through the arch in both feet, straight through the metatarsals.
Perfect. Simply perfect. Just like it needed to be.
Once Samandriel was in place, out come the spear. A long wooden spear. Topped with an iron tip that had been forged to specifications. The largest of the men grabbed it and without blinking an eye rammed it into Samandriel's side. No empathy. No regret. He actually laughed as he cracked Samandriel's ribs and punctured his lung. The other men followed his lead, laughing at the dying man as blood gushed from his side. Laughing like the Romans had so many years before.
The leader checked his watch and smiled. They were still on schedule. Within minutes, they would be back on the boat. Within hours, they would be in a different country.
All that remained was the sign. A hand-painted sign. It would be nailed to the top of the cross, high above the victim's head. It was their intent. It said one thing, one simple phrase. Six words that were known throughout the world. Six words that would doom Christianity and rewrite the word of God.
IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.
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TBC
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AN:
An adaptation of the story
The Sign of the Cross
Helsingør - Often known in English-speaking countries as Elsinore is a city and the municipal seat of Helsingør Municipality on the northeast coast of the island of Zealand in eastern Denmark. Helsingør has a population of 46,407 (1 January 2014) including the southern suburbs of Snekkersten and Espergærde. It is known internationally for its castle Kronborg, where William Shakespeare's play Hamlet is set.
Source: Wikipedia