Title: Sancta Trinitas – Part 1: Confutatis Maledictis
Category: Trinity Blood
Rating: 16+
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood and all immediate characters, themes and ideas are registered trademarks and belong to the late Sunao Yoshida, and THORES Shibamoto. Any original characters are however mine. No profit is being accumulated from this writing piece.
Spoilers: Yes

General Notes: An AU take on the story of Trinity Blood. Considering continuity between the novels, manga and anime is entirely disproportionate, I won't be following any particular order in how the events come to pass. The story will also follow a slightly different scenario to those presented in canon, in a bid to address certain aspects of the Trinity Blood world as it is portrayed, and in order to make this tale different, and consequently, interesting. That is the aim, in any case.
This first chapter is rather lengthy, but I really wanted to get things moving early on. I do hope people aren't deterred by it. Also, this has no Beta, so if you see any obvious mistakes, please let me know. And of course, if you have anything to say, please consider leaving a review. It will help me determine the course of the story by seeing what you readers like/hate, as well as encouraging me to update. While this may not be my first fan fic, it is the first in this fandom so I would highly appreciate any feedback. Cheers.

Warnings: High-level violence, coarse language, angst, adult themes, sexual references, torture, drug use, heresy
Genre: Action/Drama/Supernatural
Summary: Whilst tensions between humans and Methuselah continue to mount, a collection of individuals from both sides remain determined to uphold peace at all costs. However, the conflicting interests of independent forces, as well as the appearance of a new enemy, will threaten the very order and foundations of both worlds. As a game of survival ensues, the question of who to trust, of who is friend and of who is foe, will determine the victors, and the losers.

Part I

"And the devil, taking him up into an high mountain, shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time.
And the devil said unto him, All this power will I give thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomsoever I will I give it.
All shall be thine, if thou wilt fall down and worship me."
- Luke 4:5 - 4:7

A hollow wind, lacking all purpose and direction, whipped by unhurriedly. It passed over its lifeless obstacles; accepting no hindrance. With it, it carried a very particular scent; one bound to reveal a rather precarious secret to those who happened to be near. There was no mistaking the stale odor of demise and decay. Even to those auspicious few, living lives of mirth and amity – blissfully ignorant as they were – there was no mistaking the message told from such a stench.

The passing breeze whistled and cried; the sound akin to a haunting lullaby, song of some invisible phantom. There was no avoiding the poignant tune as it invaded upon any and all it could reach. Nor the cold the wind seemed to bring, intrusive and unyielding, as it seeped through even the thickest of robes, only to leave a shiver in its wake.

The night sky – it should be night – was anything but. Hues of molten red and flaming orange were visible as far as the eye could see. It was as if the brilliant orb that lit the daylight sky had exploded, leaving a memento of its former self in the heavens above. With such an odd atmosphere, one would have assumed that the land beneath would be glowing. Rather, the light was dim. A reminder, of course, that it ought to be a darkened night.

The only source of light was from the full moon above. However, one look at it was enough to unnerve even the bravest of men. It was unusually large, one could say colossal even. But that was its least defining feature. The moon that night was red. Blood red; stained by that very essence, spilt in abundance on Earth's soil below.

Upon entering the clearing amidst the ruins of some old, forgotten and nameless city, the Captain of the present Inquisition Guard couldn't help but hitch his breath. Two dozen of his men from the legion he'd been commanding were lying on the ground, scattered about like pieces of confetti. One poor soul had been nailed onto a protruding plank of pointed wood, his blood still dripping onto the growing puddle below. The rest of the men had been cut in two, their torso and legs meters apart. Others were missing limbs, of which were scattered carelessly about the area, several among them decapitated as well. Those bodiless heads still had their eyes wide open. The look of shock, and above all fear, was unmistakable. Even in death they revealed the traumas of what they'd been through.

The sight was uncanny… terrifying; a glimpse of the horrors of hell no doubt. One of the men behind him gasped, the sound cutting into the drawn-out silence. Including him, there were seventeen guards in all. The Captain raised his head, scanning the area in a meticulous fashion. The red moon threw an eerie illumination over the land, akin to the glow of some ravaging fire. The leaves of the few far-off trees appeared to be just that; burning embers emanating the last of their fiery radiance.

The Captain took a step forward, eager to avoid the splatters of blood in his path, however failing miserably. There was simply far too much. So much in fact, that it seemed unlikely that his men could have been the only source of it all. It was a disturbing thought.

As the rest of the legion checked their comrades – holding tightly onto the notion that even one of the lesser wounded could still be alive – his eye caught sight of an ominous silhouette, standing tall upon one of the higher pillars, with the bloody moon directly behind them.

It appeared to be a man, tall and lithe under black coats, which were moving with the current of air. With his back towards them, his long, light-brown hair moved in sync with his attire. Its movement, a dance of sorts as it fluttered in the wind, was almost hypnotic. He didn't appear to be doing anything besides looking up at the full moon, body deathly still as the cold breeze passed over and around him.

Nonetheless, all of a sudden, the stranger turned his head. His eyes were closed, his nose a mere inch away from a full bloom, deep red rose he was holding. He maintained the pose for several moments, and then he opened his eyes. Deep black, lifeless orbs instantly met his despite the significant distance between them. Eyes as dark as a night in hell; blazing with malice and cruel amusement. His skin was deathly pale, his lips touched by a tint of red. Again, he was reminded of blood, and he began to feel ill; a shamefully unheard of reaction by a member of the Inquisition, he thought, and yet his nausea remained.

He tightly clenched the metallic lance in his right hand as a sudden wave of dread consumed him. If this place was hell, then the being before them was none other than the devil himself. With his cunning wiles and deceptively angelic façade – indeed, he was beautiful – one would have expected the demon before them to beckon, smiling all the while,

'Will you walk into my parlor?' (1)

As if having read his mind, intrigued by the thought, the stranger suddenly smiled; the gesture entirely perverse in meaning and show. His attention returned to the long-stem rose in his hand, as he looked down at it thoughtfully before placing it against his nose, devouring its essence in carnal bliss. When done, his eyes, playfully sinister as they were, met his again. Considering his demeanor, it was evident that the man before him was responsible for the slaughter of his men.

The Captain was suddenly enraged, wanting nothing more than to strike down the perpetrator. Though at the same time he was afraid; another foolish sentiment he should know nothing of. Unfortunately for him, the stranger's uncanny presence was intimidating. But he reminded himself, recited in his mind what he and his brothers had been taught like a mantra, that he was a member of the Inquisition; declared by the Spirit of God to be at once the offspring and the image of the popedom (2). There was no room for cowardice or folly, they had been chosen, from all of God's children, to enforce his word. His law. His will. With their Lord watching over them, his will would be done, and they would not fall.

With new-found courage, the Captain prepared his lance as he moved into a battle-ready position. His men did not miss the sudden movement, instantly snapping into attention themselves.

"Sir?" his lieutenant inquired, coming to his side.

He motioned towards their assailant, occupied with examining his rose. His men readied themselves, lances in hand. Their comrades had been ambushed; it was the only explanation for the ease of their defeat. He highly doubted one man alone had taken on a squadron of fully trained Inquisition guards. He prayed, knowing they would be blessed with greater fortune. And then, they would take revenge upon the infidel before them on behalf of their fallen brethren.

"Steady men. We take him together," the Captain commanded, bringing his helmet's visor down.

"The bastard murdered them all. I'm taking him now!" one of the younger, and consequently brasher soldiers declared before making a run for the pillar.

"Stand down man! That is an order!" he commanded, as a sense of dread began to brew at the pit of his stomach. His orders were met on deaf ears.

He instantly looked up at their assailant, who with a ravenous grin, jumped from atop his post. His plunge was almost graceful, his coats billowing around him in haunting circles as he landed without so much as a whisper of sound. At some point he'd produced a long sword of sorts, possibly of Orient descent, and was currently holding it at the ready. He looked calm, impossibly calm, and if he wasn't mistaken his eyes were also closed.

"I said stand down!" he bellowed, his instincts realizing the threat.

Just before his man finished his charge, the stranger opened his eyes, his grin widening in a predatory manner. As the metallic lance came down on him, he swiftly brought the sword across, cutting his man's weapon in half. The front half fell to the ground, bouncing from the impact as the sound cut into the sudden silence engulfing the area. With no further delay, their assailant stepped forward, unhurried in his movements, as he plunged his sword into the surprised soldier. The Captain and his men watched on as the sharpened end appeared from out of his back, blood already staining his outer red robe.

The stranger retracted his sword, only to bring it up in an arc, and then right back down. No one moved, stunned and alarmed at the speed and efficiency of their assailant. Their comrade fell hard, back first onto the ground. The wound that had cut through his chest, from his right shoulder all the way down to his abdomen, was in plain sight. It had severed the metal armor under the red robe, and ran deep into his flesh. A pool of red was rapidly merging with the abundance already consuming the ground.

Another of his men made a dash forward, screaming like a man possessed. Despite his protests, another two followed after him. The man in front made a lunge for the stranger, only to miss as he swiftly moved to the side. Bending low, he swept his sword across the ground, severing one of the soldier's legs from the knee. As the man fell, screaming in apparent agony, the demon before them plunged his sword right into his torso. He pulled it out slightly, only to plunge it further in again.

The expression on his face could only be described as manic, with a sadistic grin and gleam in his eyes. He laughed as he looked upon the two closing in on him, retracting his sword from the now dead corpse. With blinding speed, he sliced the one to his left across the waist, before sidestepping and doing the same to the man on the right, laughing all the while. The bodies fell in unison, one even splitting in two before touching the ground.

He watched on in grim horror as the rest of his unit charged forward, forgetting any and all tactical training they had learnt. They were angry, he could relate to that, but charging blindly forward as they were would not work in their favor. And he was right. They fell one by one, their screams, and the demon's insane sadistic laughing cutting into his thoughts. He watched the long haired devil with a mix of fear and awe, his movements; whilst a little more brash than before, mirrored some deathly dance of sorts. And with every turn, and every slash, their demise quickly approached.

How could they fall so disastrously? Had they not their Lord on their side? How could he allow for this? Was this punishment for some unbeknownst sin, or simply a means to achieve a greater end?

The questions continued to plague his mind, but he brushed them aside, returning focus to the there and then. There was only one man left just a few meters from him. He was backing away, the lance trembling in his hand as the stranger slowly made his way towards them. His fear was contagious, leaving the Captain frozen in place.

"S-s-stop!" the man cried in desperation.

Their assailant ignored the plea, flicking his sword as he continued to stalk towards the frightened man. Before he could utter another word, the demon moved with such speed, almost vanishing from sight only to reappear directly before the Inquisition guard. With his sword he made a perfect arc, cutting right into his last remaining soldier. He could distinctly hear a gurgling sound as the man's head snapped back with his fall. A deep red cut ran from his chest, through his neck to his hairline, splitting his head in perfect symmetry. His eyes were wide open, pained amidst the gleam of fear. The Captain looked away, unable to handle the sight of them, and of the blood that was slowly trickling like ravaging snakes down each side of his face.

The sound of footsteps came to a halt, and he eventually looked up, knowing death had finally come to claim him. He removed his helmet, wanting to look the demon squarely in the eye. Yes, he was a demon, for no mere man could have done what he'd just carried out. They had been overwhelmed by true evil, and even though he knew he was going to die, he would meet his demise as valiantly as he could. He would not hide behind a wall of metal; he would fight his enemy face to face.

The demon's eyes were closed as he deeply breathed in the scent of his rose. When he opened them, he met and held his own, and smiled. The same hauntingly perverse smile from before. The Captain gulped down his panic, allowing it to be replaced by anger. Anger over the slaughter of his men. He believed the Lord could still grant him the strength he needed to destroy the beast of a man before him, even if he died in the process. All was not lost yet.

"May God's will be done," he whispered as he readied his lance.

The demon chuckled, a strange sound tinged with amusement and perhaps even insanity. His body took it upon itself to move then; a battle cry escaping passed his lips as he brought the lance down on his opponent. The man seemed to disappear, re-appearing a few steps away. He lunged forward, bringing the lance around in an arc but once again the demon's moves were too quick for him. Before he could move aside, his opponent managed to cut him across the tendons in his right elbow, rendering the arm helpless.

He held back a yelp, gritting his teeth as his lance fell from his crippled hand. He quickly picked it up with his left; bringing it across his attacker, only to miss again. Cold steel made contact with skin, slicing cleanly through the side of the Captain's neck and chest. He coughed, the taste of blood now in his mouth as he experienced trouble breathing with a damaged throat. Regardless, it wasn't enough to hinder him. Fighting back the pain he screamed, all his anger and frustration behind it. His mindset was simple; he could not fail!

The Captain moved, avoiding another hit, swinging the lance into his attacker. Again he missed as his opponent flipped around and up into the air. And in that split second, as he came falling down, the sword hit its mark.

He couldn't register the pain as he collapsed, staring up into that molten sky, and foreboding bloody moon. All he could register was that he had failed, and with that the metallic taste in his mouth seemed ready to turn into bile. The demon's face suddenly appeared in his line of vision as he looked down at him, smiling as always that deathly smile. Weren't it for that expression, and of what he knew him to be, he would have sworn an angel had come to greet him before his journey into death.

As his vision blurred he saw the rose fall, its soft, silk-like petals caressing his cheek as it landed against his chest. The hazed silhouette seemed to withdraw, his enemy leaving his line of sight which was worsening ever so slowly, coupled by numbing pain, as his life began to slip away. And soon enough, the world went black.

"Inconceivable!"

The Vatican, God's ruling authority on Earth. As a city, it stood tall and proud, Centuries of history forged into every brick and stone. Visitors and the faithful alike would flock like sheep before its majesty, only to look upon its center with all-inspired awe. It had fallen during the Armageddon of old, only to be rebuilt; stronger and grander than ever before.

As an administration, it had assumed a position of safeguarding the human interest, particularly against the vampiric parasitical slime known as Methuselah. To validate its position as protector and defender of mankind, the Vatican had raised itself above numerous obstacles to its current status as a military power, which ultimately made it a significant force to be reckoned with.

Politics aside, the Vatican, for all its power and supremacy, was still a congregation for the Lord's adherents. Peaceful hymns and prayers would regularly be heard over the deep melody of church bells. Hymns and prayers, that would often speak of love, unity, clemency and salvation; model ideals for the worshipers of God. Ecclesiastical branches of the Roman Curia itself would often be seen preaching such values at the helm of Mass, Lauds and Vespers.

With such ideals carved into the minds of every one of God's servants, being advocated at every possible occasion, one would have expected the halls of the Apostolic Palace to be engulfed by a sense of calm tranquility. At times, they usually were. On that day, however, it was the booming, enraged voice of the Duke of Florence that echoed across rooms, slicing into the previously established silence.

"This is preposterous! The entire Inquisition legion?" the baritone voice of Cardinal Francesco di Medici demanded an answer from a nearby aide relaying the latest report.

His Holiness, along with an assembly of administrative Cardinal heads, had been called into an emergency meeting early that morning. Having gathered into one of the larger meeting halls; a classically furnished room amidst a beige-veined marble interior, everybody was currently seated in their allocated places, ardently listening to the grievous report.

"Indeed, it is with great solemnity in which I relay this to you, Your Eminence. However, all preliminary intelligence indicates that the entire squadron of fifty-three men, along with six-hundred of the town's population, was routinely executed late last night. All communication with the legion's captain, Brother Michael, ceased at 21:40. Re-enforcements have only just arrived, but they deem the endeavor too little too late."

Looking upon the Cardinal Medici; a tall and intimidating figure widely known for his propensity for battle and boldness, several would have been alluded to the notion that he cared more for the slaughter of his small legion of men, as opposed to the town's former occupants. The heavy crease in his brow, as well as the quivering vein protruding from his temple illustrated the depths of his current aggravation. For as it was, the Cardinal held the position of Secretary of Vatican Papal Doctrine, and consequently, happened to be director and overseer of the Inquisitorial Department.

It would have been ludicrous to assume Cardinal Medici was feeling a dent in his pride; a grievous sin in the eyes of the Lord, from which all others sprung forth. And yet to look upon his frustrated and incredulous exterior, gave way to thoughts that perhaps the man was personally disturbed, seeing as it had been a department under his command that had failed, as opposed to any other branch. His complete disregard for his sister's band of agents, despite being soldiers of the Lord in their own right, was a testament to his disparities.

"All those people…" the young pope, Alessandro XVIII, whispered, perhaps more to himself than anyone else, before trailing off.

He was seated at the head of the room, upon a high throne of gold, ivory and velvet. Together with his papal robes, woven from the finest of white silks and golden threads, he was the epitome of God's presence on Earth. And yet, looks were often deceiving, as the young pope, upon closer inspection, seemed slightly overwhelmed and unsure as to how to proceed.

His brother, Cardinal Medici, was seated to his left. To his right sat a beautiful young woman; her head adorned by a crown of long, soft, golden curls. She appeared to be the calmest of the three, her eyes closed in contemplative thought.

The Duchess of Milan was no stranger to the bellowing rants and callous attitude of her brother. The differences in their ideology often led to heated debates which would place her at the firing end of his pubescent wrath. This extended to instances in which His Holiness asked for their council at times of indecision. Unfortunately, Francesco's mere presence was enough to frighten her younger brother, and as a result would eventually lead to him reluctantly agreeing with the Cardinal. It therefore went without saying, that there was absolutely no love loss between them.

"What depravity!" one of the cardinals exclaimed as discussion broke out amongst them.

"The audacity!"

"It was those damned vampires. I'm sure of it!" another added.

"Sister?" the young pope inquired, turning to the blonde woman for guidance.

Cardinal Caterina Sforza slowly opened her eyes, observing the current argument in dismay. It appeared the cardinals had already made up their minds regarding the matter, and if Francesco had his way, there would be quick and severe retaliation upon whomever they deemed responsible. At current, that appeared to be the vampires, despite the lack of any real evidence to support the assumption. That was, however, of little consequence. Most of the cardinals jumped with decadent glee at the opportunity to pin the blame on Methuselah, especially when it meant they could secure the rights to conduct a hostile attack.

"You must be strong in the face of adversity, Your Holiness. And patient. Further investigation is needed in order to determine…" she began, but was quickly interrupted.

"There is no time for such formalities, Your Holiness!" Cardinal Medici exclaimed with his usual dramatic flair, standing abruptly as his red robe billowed around him. "These vampires not only killed our men, men in the service of our Lord and Church, but mercilessly massacred an entire town of innocent civilians. We simply cannot overlook this abhorrent attack upon the Church and its faithful!"

As Caterina listened, she wondered forlornly where his care for the innocent civilians had been moments prior when the report had been read. As usual, her brother was quick to amend his 'priorities'.

"Ah! Then w-what do we d-do?" Alessandro stammered timidly, evidently intimidated by his older sibling.

"There must be swift retaliation!" a cardinal declared.

"Indeed, this is an insult to our Church. No doubt those fiends are laughing their heads off at our expense. We cannot stand for such insubordination," another agreed.

"In order to find those responsible, imperium in imperio must be declared in all surrounding regions in accordance with Vatican Law, Article Four immediately! The Inquisition shall then have no hindrance in their pursuit of these heinous perpetrators," Francesco stated with utmost fervor.

"Brother! You cannot be serious," Caterina exclaimed in pure disbelief, "You cannot impose martial law on foreign nations. Just consider the repercussions to our diplomatic relations!"

"Invitat culpam qui peccatum praeterit (3). We will not sit back and do nothing, not when other towns and cities are threatened by a similar fate. We will find and strike down these fiends in a show of divine retribution. Our enemies will think twice before they choose to attack us again, and if a few feathers are to be ruffled, so be it! It is a small price to pay in assuring God's will is done," Francesco countered.

There were murmurs of approval and agreement from the remaining cardinals, and Francesco's smirk widened as a result. Alessandro could do nothing to quell the blood-lust of the mob before them, lacking the necessary conviction. He may have been pope, but he was still a young, and above all, inexperienced boy.

Caterina fixed a heavy stare on her older sibling, displeased with his evident display of carelessness. He failed to see, no, they all failed to see that the world had changed. People would no longer view such archaic displays of power as necessary, or favorable. If the Vatican failed to change its policy and approach, vampires would soon become the least of its worries.

It was, in every sense of the word, a very beautiful day. The birds were singing their merry song, the sun was shining brilliantly from atop its high plateau, and there was not a single cloud as far as the eye could see. Such days were an absolute blessing, capable of bringing about a sense of serenity to even the most distraught of individuals. They were also a pleasing rarity to those who worked with no end in sight, or who were denied such simple luxuries as a small vacation of sorts every once and a while.

Vatican priest Father Abel Nightroad was no exception. Spending most of his time on missions for the AX, also known as the Vatican's Foreign Affairs department, there was often little to no time to truly kick back and relax. To enjoy the splendors of Mother Nature, in particular during such a calm, warm day, was the closest thing to a holiday, and an act he aptly enjoyed. For that reason, he was going to enjoy that morning break to his heart's content.

Whistling happily, at current within one of the Vatican's lush green courtyards, Abel brought a cup of warm tea to his lips. The smooth, syrupy liquor was like silk in his mouth, and he savored its slow descent down his throat. Naturally, it had been filled to the brim with a heap load of sugar; his foremost guilty pleasure. The sisters at the dining hall had watched on with pertinent amusement as he eagerly replaced one spoonful of sugar with another. The Mother Superior, however, wasn't as easily amused, and had given him a disapproving glare.

The old woman frightened him. He had heard various rumors about her from the younger sisters, and not one of them had been pleasant. As soon as her stern eye had fallen on him, he had made sure to get his cup of tea, a handful of shortbread biscuits he'd managed to stash away in his pockets, and himself, out of the room. It didn't bother him though, as he'd been planning to come out into the gardens. On the other hand, it did bother him that he'd missed out on the deliciously soft scones and rich strawberry jam.

He sighed at the thought as he consumed another sip of tea. He could always sneak into the kitchen if he wanted, and it wouldn't be the first time either. It was incredible if one were to assess the lengths he would go to for simple sweets. Gluttony was indeed a nefarious sin.

After another sip, he placed the cup on the bench next to him and reached into his pockets for the biscuits. His smile and cheerful expression suddenly fell, replaced by dismay and disbelief. Eyes and mouth wide open he hurriedly dug further into his pockets, finally bringing out his hands, palms facing the sky. He looked down at them solemnly. The biscuits had been crushed, and all that was left were crumbs in their place.

'How? How could this happen?!' he wondered dejectedly.

He could have sworn a dagger had pierced his heart as he stared down at the golden-brown mound. If anyone were to look at him then, they may have assumed he was just about ready to cry. Abel wouldn't be surprised if a stream did appear from the corner of his crystal blue eyes.

"Why?" was all he whispered out loud, imploring the heavens to give him a reply.

"Abel," a voice called out, startling him out of his somber reverie.

He yelped in surprise, jumping right out of his seat. As a result, the biscuit crumbs flew right out of his palms before falling like rain onto the grass bellow. He lunged forward, trying to catch the few bits still in the air. Just because his biscuits had been reduced to a thousand tiny pieces didn't mean he wasn't going to eat them. They were still bits of sweet, brittle goodness.

In his desperate attempt, he accidentally stepped on his black robe, which in turn caused him to loose his balance and fall face forward onto the ground. He landed with a heavy thud on his chest, his small shriek dying on his lips. He groaned while opening his eyes to find the numerous crumbs scattered before him. A sparrow had landed, having identified the feast at its disposal. It pecked at the crumbs diligently, paying no heed to the distraught priest. Another two joined it, devouring his precious dessert. A low moan was his only response as he closed his eyes, ready to sulk.

"Abel!" the voice called out to him again with a little more force.

He quickly got to his feet as he looked for the source. His eyes turned to the pathway, donned by decorative Doric columns at its edges. Red and orangey-pink bougainvillea, resembling small crimson jewels, had attached themselves to the white columns. There, stood a sister with a pleasant smile gracing her soft, angelic features. Ebony black hair spilled atop white-clad shoulders, moving slightly with the breeze as she started to approach him.

Abel fought back a blush as he identified the familiar profile of Sister Noélle Bor. She was a pleasant individual with a good heart, but that did nothing to quell his anxiety when she was around him. The sister was, simply put, an incredibly attractive woman. Her slim figure and ideal curves were further exaggerated by the less-than-chaste dress she wore. He was surprised she'd gotten away with wearing such an altered version of the nun's uniform, but he for one wasn't about to complain.

He tried to shake the thought, but it was near-impossible seeing as she was right there in his line of sight. His eyes moved to the split going down her left thigh, exposing the black lace stockings beneath. His anxiety worsened. He was a priest, but he was also still a man. He couldn't help but appreciate her appearance, and choice wardrobe.

"Ah, good morning Sister Noélle! Beautiful day isn't it?" he greeted with a wide smile, extending his arms to emphasize his statement.

"Indeed it is Father," she concurred with her own smile, finally reaching his side.

In all his absent thinking, Abel had failed to notice the plate she'd been carrying. The smell of hot, freshly baked sweets instantly filled his nostrils. He deeply breathed in the mouthwatering scent with elated glee. Looking down at the plate she held before her considerable bust, Abel's eyes and grin suddenly widened. A trail of drool was also making its way down to his chin.

"Are those…?"

Noélle smiled knowingly. "Indeed they are Abel. I just took them out of the oven."

"May I?" he asked sheepishly as he reached for one but the sister slapped his hand away.

"Is that anyway to ask?" she lectured, feigning annoyance, "After I slaved away all morning; this is how you show your appreciation?!"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Abel declared, falling to his knees, feeling another dagger pierce his heart. "You forgive me, don't you, lovable Noélle? Whose name is like a sweet song; Noélle… Noélle… Nooooooéééélllle…."

"Abel!" the sister shouted, cutting into his song of her name. It was a sweet gesture, if not ruined by his terrible singing voice.

"I'm sorry!" he apologized again, crossing his hands in a show of forgiveness. "May I please have one? Pretty please? You are such a kind person, and very nice, and…and have the face of an angel! Oh goddess of sweet desserts, please forgive me!"

"Well, seeing as you asked so nicely, you can have one," she said, satisfied with his begging.

"Ah! Thank you!" Abel exclaimed ecstatically through a wide grin, jumping up into the air.

He slowly and carefully took one of the strawberry jam filled, sugar powdered doughnuts from the plate. It squished a little between his fingers as he brought the warm pastry to his lips. Slowly, he took his first bite, savoring the sweet fruit centre and crusty sugary dough as he munched. He took another bite, rolling the piece with his tongue as he moaned agreeably. Unable to keep up the leisurely pace, he took a larger bite, eagerly devouring the piece before sinking his teeth into it again.

"They're that good?" Noélle asked happily.

"Mmm-hmm," he moaned over a mouthful, nodding eagerly. 'Definitely better than any scone, or shortbread biscuit' he thought to himself happily.

Noélle saw the disappointment on his face once he finished the last piece. Fortunately for him, she detested seeing that look, even if it was over something as trivial as a doughnut. It would often make her stomach turn, and her hands to involuntarily tremble. Being an Empath meant she was far more susceptible to other people's emotions, especially those she cared for. Where Abel was concerned, nothing was lost on her. And she felt everything.

"Here, I think you earned a second one. But no more until after lunch, you hear?" she told him sternly, pointing the doughnut at him.

"Really?! Wow, you're the best Noélle," he declared jumping up and down before taking the offered pastry.

His fingers brushed against hers as he did, and she instantly tensed up as a result. He didn't seem to notice, occupied with the doughnut now in his hand. As always, he was blind to such reactions. She laughed shakily before regaining her composure.

"And don't you forget that," she told him in a harder tone, despite her smile.

Alerted to the sound of approaching footsteps, Abel looked towards the pathway once again. The tall, stoic and above all imposing figure of fellow AX agent Father Tres Iqus stood out against the beautifully still scenery. He looked towards them briefly before closing the distance. He stopped once he was a meter away, as always, his expression revealing nothing in regards to his purpose or systematic thoughts. After regarding Noélle for a couple of seconds, he turned towards the tall, silver-haired priest.

"Father Tres! What brings you here this lovely morning?" Abel asked.

"Father Nightroad, Lady Caterina has asked to see you."

"I don't like this," Caterina stated over her cup of tea.

It had been twenty minutes since the emergency meeting had come to a close. As always, her brother's actions meant she was going to have her work cut out for her. As Minister of Foreign Affairs, it was her responsibility to ensure relations with other states remained favorable. That would soon prove to be a difficult endeavor if the Inquisition took it upon themselves to impose on every sovereign nation that could be found on a map. She desperately needed to find a reason to prevent that from happening. She needed her own people, who she trusted with her life, to investigate the incident and find out what really happened.

"I apologize for the delay in attaining any further intelligence reports, Lady Caterina. However, the Inquisitorial Department has placed a censor on all incoming information considering the nature of the incident. It will be some time before we can gain access," a holographic image of a blonde nun relayed.

Sister Kate Scott was a very old friend of the Cardinal, as well as a member of AX. She was a kind and pleasing individual with a talent for uncovering even the most obscure pieces of information. She was a highly competent captain as well, in charge of the Vatican battleship Iron Maiden. Her tea was another testament to her skills, as she was able to concoct some of the most pleasant and satisfying blends to be had.

"That is quite alright Sister Kate. I wasn't expecting any favors from the Inquisition."

The rivalry between the Duke of Florence and the Duchess of Milan extended to their department agencies, the Inquisition and AX respectively. Despite being on the same side, working for a similar cause, disagreements and conflict between the two was a constant. If only they could get over their differences, put an end to the petty internal fighting, they would be able to achieve so much more.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a light knock at her office door. Sister Kate looked towards it before returning her attention to the Cardinal.

"It would appear Father Nightroad has arrived. With your permission my Lady, I ought to take my leave now, and contact you when I'm able to find something of value to this case."

"Yes, and thank you Sister," Caterina said as the hologram disappeared from its place on the floor before her desk. Turning her attention to the door, she eased back a little on her seat.

"Come in."

The door opened a margin before the silver head of the priest appeared through the space. A lighthearted expression graced his features, and his smile not only lightened the room, but her current mood as well. A corner of her lips turned upright into what could be called a half smile. She couldn't help it; his goofy grin was quite contagious despite the circumstances. Then again, the mere sight of Abel Nightroad was often enough to bring a smile to her face.

She had known him for an even longer time than Kate, and considered him to be one of her closest and trusted friends. What he had done for her; from saving her from vampire assassins when she was still a child, to putting his life on the line to protect not just the church but human beings as well, was unparallel to anything else. He was also, despite his appearance of a clumsy and idiotic priest, her greatest and most secret weapon.

"Good morning Abel," she greeted gently.

"Good morning Lady Caterina. A fine day isn't it?" he asked merrily as he closed the door behind him.

"I'm sure it is," she whispered tiredly, realizing she had yet to go out or eat a proper morning meal. There were many more important matters to attend to.

"Is there something I can do for you?" he asked seriously, picking up on her thoughts.

"Yes, there is. I need you to go and investigate an incident that took place in a small town just outside Prešov in the Moravia region. A number of the town's people, as well as an entire legion of Inquisitorial Guards were murdered. We have yet to receive any further intelligence beyond that, so I would like you to go there and see what you can find," she briefed, noticing a flicker of emotion in his light blue eyes.

"I understand."

"You leave at once. Here is your train ticket and papers," she stated, handing them to him, "Good luck Abel, and may the Lord be with you."

"Good day, Lady Caterina," Abel finalized with a small bow before walking out. Once outside, he was surprised to see Sister Noélle waiting for him.

"I heard you were leaving on another mission, so I figured I should wrap these up to go," Noélle said, handing him a small paper bag, "Just don't eat them all at once."

"Thank you Noélle," he said softly, offering her a genuine smile. He saw a flash of something in her eyes, perhaps sorrow, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Take care of yourself, Abel," she finalized with a smile before turning around, taking her leave before he could say another word.

(1) Quoted from the poem 'The Spider and the Fly' (1829) by Mary Howitt;
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly."

(2) Indirect quote from 'The Book of Martyrs' (1563) by John Foxe;
"Such was the Inquisition, declared by the Spirit of God to be at once the offspring and the image of the popedom."

(3) Quoted from 'Sententiae' (Sentences), a collection of moral maxims by Publilius Syrus;
"Invitat culpam qui peccatum praeterit."
- "Pardon one offence and you encourage the commission of many."
Sententiae, being a tool of scholasticism, were highly popular in the Middle Ages as a form of rhetoric. Interestingly, they were used by St. Augustine of Hippo to convince the Church of the value of rhetoric, which was frowned upon by many churchmen as it was associated with paganism. How the times have changed.