Liam crossed himself and rose with a groan. His knees, stiff and aching from their long time bent in prayer, began to heal immediately, and by the time he finished nodding in obeisance to the crucifix mounted over the alter, the pain was only a memory.
Sometimes he wished his Immortal body would let him cling to the small discomforts as proof of what he'd done to achieve them.
"Father Liam?"
He turned to see Father Xavier emerging from the vestry. The church was quiet this late at night, officially closed, though the front door always remained unlocked in the old tradition. Liam enjoyed this time because the people who came through the doors would be the ones he could do the most to help, even if only by providing them with a blanket and pew to sleep on for a few hours; should no one show up, then Liam could be alone with his thoughts—and in the last few days, he'd found those thoughts turning more and more to prayer. Normally Xavier would already be in bed, so his presence now meant that he had been waiting for Liam.
"I'm sorry," Liam responded, contritely. "Was there something you wanted from me? I wasn't needed elsewhere, was I?" Calls came to the church at all hours for hospital visitations and last rites, emergency visits that were assigned to whichever priest was available. Had he been so wrapped in his own prayer that he'd missed such a call?
Xavier shook his head. "You didn't do anything wrong." He was an old man, the ranking member of the assigned clergy. Though he was technically retired, he still lived in the rectory and fulfilled what duties he could. "I'd just wanted to have a word with you."
"Of course." Liam straightened his robe, worn more to stave off the chill that always settled in large, empty buildings than because the church required it, and made a quick trip up and down the aisles to check for visitors. With the weather warming up and the daylight lasting longer, fewer people had been seeking the refuge of the church. Tonight, only the two priests stood in attendance.
In his youth, Xavier had been a powerfully built man with broad shoulders and thick, bowed legs. Before answering his call, he'd worked as a furniture mover for whichever company needed extra muscle. Decades later, with only a wisp of white hair on his head and deep crags scored into his face, he still looked capable of picking up one of the pews and lofting it across the street without breaking a sweat. He lead Liam back to the office the priests used when consulting with parishioners about marriages, baptisms, funerals, and the like, and indicated for Liam to take one of the two seats on the near side of the desk. He took the other.
"You've been a part of this mess for how long? Two years?" Xavier asked in the contemplative tone of one who already knew the answer. His pale blue eyes shimmered wetly behind the thick glasses he wore.
"Almost exactly," Liam answered.
"Gotta say, you've made quite a splash with the people here, especially the young'uns. Your services are some of the best attended and everyone speaks good of you. I can't remember the last time this parish had a new priest who didn't start off on the wrong foot. The laity always take at least a year to adjust, meanwhile complaining a blue streak about how the new guy doesn't compare to the last one."
Liam forced himself to stay relaxed while he waited to see where Xavier was going with this. He didn't think the dioceses would be planning to reassign him so soon. Then again, if they were, that might be the answer he'd been seeking to his prayer.
"You get along with everyone, even our…most demanding people," Xavier continued. He paused then, his expression turning inward as he thought of someone in particular.
Liam's own thoughts went to Mrs. Miller, a slip of a woman who was flirting hard with a century, though on which side of it she stood, no one seemed to agree. Mrs. Miller had firm ideas about how every function of the church should run, and felt her age superseded even ecclesiastical authority—especially in regards to the funeral dinners, which she was in charge of planning. One or twice, her demands had brought Liam to the verge of telling her that he outranked her simply by being three times older. He always managed to keep his retorts to himself. Apparently, this hadn't gone unnoticed.
With a small shake, Xavier brought himself back to the present. "Yet you keep yourself at a distance. You've formed no observable friendships with any of the regular staff." Another pause while he ponderously rearranged which leg was crossed over the other. "Your reasons are no doubt good ones, and it's not for me to demand you explain 'em."
Nor was Liam interested in providing one. In his experience, when mortals found out, it always changed how they looked at him. Distance from his colleagues was better than facing their scorn, or worse, fear. "With apologies for my rudeness, is there somewhere you're going with this?"
"There is," Xavier confirmed. "Something is obviously weighing heavily on your soul. If it would help to seek advice from mortal ears, then mine are available."
Liam let himself relax now that he understood. This wasn't a job performance review; it was a fellow priest extending a hand in time of need. "Thank you, Father," he answered. "I appreciate the offer, but this is a private matter." Since he had nothing else to add, he started to rise to leave.
Xavier's head wobbled in a slow nod. "As some of these things are. I realize I'm no Brother Darius—"
Liam froze, fingers locking tight on the arm of the chair. "Pardon?"
From the stricken look that seized Xavier's face, Liam guessed his own expression must be frightening. Most Immortals, because of the times they'd lived through and the deeds they'd done, could summon their dark side and wear it like plumage. Until that moment, Liam would have sworn that if he ever had his own version, he'd destroyed the key to accessing it. Now he knew better. "Brother Darius," Xavier repeated in a choked voice. "You do know the name."
Slowly, Liam lowered himself back down, not trusting his legs to hold him now. "Yes. But how do you?"
"It's what we were told to say…Bookshelf." He waved a hand toward the bookcase that spanned the rear wall of the office. Haphazard rows of books crammed every row, most of them old and leather bound, their scent imbuing the office with the faint must that spoke of age and wisdom. Near the bottom, where it was harder for the casual visitor to see, were crammed more recent books with their bright paper dust jackets. "Second row up, third one in." He named a title.
"Just tell me what it says," Liam said. He didn't trust himself to move at risk of breaking this fragile moment.
Xavier sucked in a rattling breath, then pressed his palms together in a bid for composure. "A little over two years ago, I received a visit from an Abbess who had come to prepare me for the new priest who would soon be arriving."
"An Abbess," Liam echoed blankly.
"She told me a story about…" Xavier left the blank open for Liam to fill it in. A classic fishing trick, one often used by police and counselors alike when trying to get people to reveal details that weren't yet out in the open. Biting his tongue, Liam refrained from falling for it. "Well, I didn't believe her, of course. Until she demonstrated."
An Immortal Abbess? Someone Liam knew? No likely candidate came to mind, and certainly not among the few women Immortals in his circle: Amanda, Jade. The idea of either of them taking up the habit was laughable. Talia was dead, and not the type, regardless. He'd have suspected Rebecca, if she wasn't also dead. Religious orders were a common enough place for Immortals to go when they needed to escape from the Game, so he had no reason to suspect an untruth there. But without specifics, it was also possible this was a trap. But a trap for what reason? And why spring it now, in this way?
"She left a book that explained everything. I guess she knew that nothing she told me would stick in this old brain."
"Told you about what?" Liam prompted. He still hadn't been able to push back his darker side, not entirely, and he could see Xavier struggling with the desire to see this conversation through and with his own self-preservation instinct to pass it off as a bad joke. Gentling his voice, Liam added, "Brother Darius was a good man. One of the best. I seek only to follow in his footsteps."
"Was? Not is? I thought—" Once again, he shook his head, dislodging whatever thought had settled there. "So all of it is true then? Immortals, and the Game."
Liam's eyes dropped shut, his throat closing with a sudden rush of grief for Darius, a man cut down before he work was done. A man who had been stolen, not just from Immortals, but from the world.
The last time Liam had seen the ancient priest was in the spring before his death. Darius greeted him with open arms, as he did all Immortals who came in peace, then invited him for a walk around the church grounds. He'd done most of the planting himself, he explained, and it was Liam's luck that he'd arrived on this day, when both the weather and the buds were so cooperative. His pride in nature's choices was so obvious that Liam couldn't say no.
And it was an inspiring sight—or would have been. The new, bright colors of the flowers that bloomed contrasted with the pale, weathered stones of the buildings. But, rather than the blooms, Liam saw the cracks, the crumbling corners, the buds that had failed to open or never would. The scents that Liam would ordinarily appreciate, today registered only as an annoyance.
He'd counseled a couple that morning on some minor issue of marital strife that, for once, Liam couldn't understand. He'd kept up with the times, he thought: the changing roles of men and women, the changing expectations put upon people at the different stages of their lives, the changing needs of economy and familial responsibility. Yet, in that conversation, he'd felt completely locked out of his parishoners' world. He'd hoped Darius, with a thousand years more experience, could show him the way back in.
"How can we minister to them when our lives are so different?" Liam remembered asking.
Darius folded his hands together under the long sleeves of the monk's robe he wore and slouched so that his gangly height didn't stretch so far over Liam. "Longer, I agree. Different? The details, perhaps." He stopped and gestured to two flowers, one a dusky yellow and the other a pale pink, that had been growing side-by-side. "Beautiful, aren't they? Grown from the same packet of seeds in the same soil."
The metaphor was obvious, though the lesson he was supposed to glean was not. Liam turned with uncharacteristic impatience and plucked the yellow flower. "And now?"
Hurt flashed in Darius' eyes, then eased. "I have a vase we can put that in; I can appreciate it colors just as well on the table under my window. As for our ministry, when we feel too distanced from those we tend, the only solution is to get closer to the ground."
"What does that mean?" The ground beneath the flowers was black soil; the one they walked on stones that had been carved and laid centuries before Liam's birth. No matter which he touched, all Liam would gain was dirty hands.
Instead of the clarification Liam wanted, Darius's brow furled and his gaze turned inward. "Have you ever contemplated the limitations of our nature?"
iYou mean, like not being able to relate to mortals,/i Liam wanted to snap. This wasn't his first conversation with Darius, though, and despite his sour mood, centuries of training in politeness won out.
"Our immortality is, by its nature, selfish," Darius continued, speaking in the tone, and with the pace, of one trying to untangle a complex idea that he'd never tested out loud before. "In the years—centuries or millennia, if we should be so lucky—we add to our lives, we can accumulate untold knowledge, much of which we cannot share, and more we dare not. Additionally, we're charged with killing our brethren and taking their knowledge for ourselves." He stopped abruptly and gestured to a patch of tall flowers. "Perennials. As long as the bulb is intact, the plant will regrow." With a sweep of his robe, he turned and indicated a different patch. "Annuals. Though they die each winter, they also produce the seeds of their own continuity. Do you understand?"
"What's to understand? My mamaí taught me all about gardening when I was a wee lad."
Darius gave a single, deep nod and graced Liam with the patient smile of a teacher allowing the student to wend his own way to the answer.
As much as he respected its efficacy, Liam really hated being on the receiving end of Socratic technique. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to contain his frustration. It would be so much easier if Darius would just spell it out. Only, thousands of years of wisdom had also brought Darius the literal patience of a saint.
Liam turned the conversation over in his head until he recognized the key of what he'd said. "I learned when I was a child."
A spark of confirmation lit Darius' eyes.
And the rest fell into place. Most of humanity lived its version of immortality through its children, and passed on its knowledge through them, spreading it ever wider.
"As I am incapable of regressing my age or of becoming a father—the matter of celibacy aside—what am I to do with this?" Liam asked.
They walked the next few steps in contemplative silence before Darius answered, "Have you ever run a school?"
"A school?"
"Or a youth group. Observe the young, form relationships with them, and you'll know how to tend them at every age."
A youth group, Liam thought. He could do that. In fact, he should have thought of it himself. Other Immortals took students as their connection to the world. Liam, in giving up the Game, had also denied himself that tradition. On occasion, he'd helped tend orphans who hadn't yet come into their Immortality, but that relationship invariably ended when they found a home or attained adulthood. He nodded, and tried not to think about the flower that was already starting to wilt from the heat of his hand. "Thank you."
"Liam—" Darius stilled him with a gentle touch. "Mortal or Immortals, we all grow; we all bloom; and, eventually, we all die. Along the way, you may find that you can do nothing except find a new patch of soil and replant."
Blinking back to the present, Liam caught Xavier watching him with the steady gaze of one waiting for a response. "Yes, it's true," he answered. He licked his lips and tasted the salt of a tear he didn't know he'd shed. "I'm sorry, Father. This is not a conversation I expected to have. You've caught me unprepared."
"Then we don't gotta have it." Xavier gave a definitive nod. "The Church does what it can to look out for its own. If you need some help to carry the weight on your soul—" He glanced down at his powerful arms and thick legs— "I know a thing or two about lifting heavy objects."
A second tear worked its way out of Liam's eye. Priests usually served as confessors for each other; it had been decades since Liam had been able to take full advantage of that system, given the difficulties of giving confession when one had to withhold vital information. "That means a great deal to me, Father." He stood, remembering the fear a mere mis-chosen tone had elicited. "However, I think it may be too soon for that."
"Two hundred and forty years," Liam said. "Two hundred and forty years, and I never noticed, never gave it any thought." He swung his sword with a renewed strength. For the first time in their sparring, Richie wasn't fast enough on the parry. Liam's sword slipped past his defenses and laid open his upper arm.
Skipping back, Richie twisted his body so that the injured arm was out of range while it healed. "Why would you?"
"It's so obvious now that I think about it. I've always been reassigned before anyone can notice that I'm not aging. My posts have been spaced geographically so that it's unlikely anyone who knew me at one church would recognize me at another. Even the lack of interest at my 'inability' to attend the larger conferences makes sense now." Each sentence was punctuated with another swing of the sword, each more powerful and controlled than Liam's emotional state would have suggested.
Richie blocked another strike. The tremor of impact reverberated through him and his bare foot slipped on the vinyl mat.
"No one blinked when Liam Riley died and Liam Bennett took his place. I should have seen it then!" Liam lunged, coming at Richie's stomach with a disemboweling move that was only the first strike in a familiar sequence.
Richie intercepted the sword with his own, the squeal of metal along metal ripping through the gym. A flick of his wrist ripped the sword from Liam's grip and sent it flying across the mat. Following the momentum, Richie spun and swung his sword in a bright arc that mirrored the one Liam would have used next, if he hadn't been disarmed. He pulled the sword to a stop just before it broke the skin of Liam's neck, his muscles straining with the effort. "Enough."
No Immortal could ignore a beheading strike, no matter that it held no real intent. While Richie's training gave him the reflexes to spar at full speed with no danger beyond a few minor nicks and cuts, Liam's skills were too rusty, his control far from absolute. Liam's eyes went wide at the realization of what had almost happened. "God," he breathed, a prayer as much as a curse. Sweat dripped off his face, but he did nothing to wipe it away.
Tossing his own sword away, Richie threw his hands up in a sign of cessation. "You OK, man? That got a little too real."
"I could have killed you."
Though it was healed already, Richie rubbed the wound on his shoulder. A few drops of blood that his Quickening hadn't absorbed back into his body smeared on his fingers. "I stopped you. It's fine. Besides, this is still Holy Ground."
Adrenaline deserting him, Liam slumped to his knees. "That only makes it worse," he said. "I could have—This was a mistake. I never should have agreed to pick up a sword again." His head fell forward. The approximation of terminal surrender sent a chill down Richie's spine. "Forgive me."
Richie lowered himself so he was eye-level with his friend and worked to keep his voice steady so as not to further spook him. "Dude, it's all good. No harm, no foul. You didn't do anything I need to forgive you for." He offered a hand to help Liam stand up. "Sometimes we all lose control."
Liam's head remained bowed, the hand unaccepted.
"There's nothing wrong with being able to protect yourself," Richie offered. The vinyl mat creaked as he shifted his weight, trying to keep his balance in this position. Liam's blowup had opened a lot of questions, not the least of which was if the fingers the Church extended into its priests' lives meddled in other Immortals' as well. Such as, for example, his. It would explain a lot. "There's also nothing wrong with getting pissed at finding out the world doesn't follow the rules you thought it did. Hell, we've both been through that before…."
It was difficult to not keep talking. Richie had always found he did his best thinking out loud, but over the years, he'd gotten better at recognizing the value of silence. He sensed this was one of those times. Carefully, he lowered himself to the mat and a much more comfortable sitting position. He winced slightly at the creaking noises the vinyl made under his movements, each reverberating through the gym. He was so tempted to apologize for the flickering of that one overhead light, to comment on the vastness of the space and whether a small Catholic elementary school really needed that many bleachers, to speculate on whether the banners promoting the rival district schools that adorned the walls ever got taken down and cleaned.
Instead, he rested his elbows on his knees and tried to practice some of that mindfulness people kept talking about. They both needed to shower. Their workout, and its sudden stoppage, left them in a cloud of sweat and body odor. Unbidden, his eyes flicked to the door of the equipment closet where Liam's Watcher so often hid during these practices. What did she think of all this? Was she surprised by Liam's revelations, or did she already know about them because the Watchers were involved too. That would also explain a lot.
Richie didn't know a lot about mediation—despite Mac's efforts, he'd never been good at all that 'emptying your mind' stuff—but he did know how to deal with people who were freaking out. Call it another perk of the foster kid experience. Cajoling, begging, and further assurances weren't what Liam needed now. So, Richie did the only thing he could: He waited. Setting a slow, steady pace for his breathing, he closed his eyes in lieu of staring and prepared to stay put until he knew his friend would be OK. He didn't need the quiet to hear the jagged rattle of Liam's breaths, on the edge of becoming sobs, or need his eyes to see the frantic pulsing of the vein in Liam's temple. He'd been on that side of a freak out before and knew the physical symptoms well.
Eventually, Liam calmed and his breathing slowed and fell into pace. Another beat, then two, and Liam rose to his feet with a swiftness that pulled the acerbic tang of bleach from the nearby mop bucket into their midst. "I have to leave."
"Uh, yeah. Sure." Richie also stood, confused at Liam's sudden shift of mood. Where his friend had been on the verge of a breakdown, now he seemed resolute. Richie glanced at the mats, noting the splatters of blood and moisture their workouts always left. "I can get this all cleaned up, no problem. If you wanna leave your key with me—"
"No," Liam interrupted. "I mean, I have to leave to New York City. I made a mistake coming here." Hurt flashed over Richie's face too fast for him to play it cool. "Not a mistake. A misjudgment. I value the friendships I've gained here with you, and with Henry." He shut his eyes for a moment, his mouth pinching. "But I've also come to rely too much on you."
Richie shook his head, unable to join Liam's comments together into a coherent explanation. "What do you mean?"
"It's so easy to justify decisions in the abstract, isn't it?" Liam also looked around the gym, though it didn't seem like he was seeing anything there, until his gaze caught and focused on the swords. "I moved here assuming Connor's protection would be sufficient, without giving any thought to whether he was willing to grant that protection. When it turned out he'd moved on, I stayed—again, without questioning what that would mean for me. Then we met, and I guess I assumed God had sent you to do what Connor couldn't."
"That's one way of looking at it," Richie commented. The words sounded hurtful, and he regretted saying them as soon as he couldn't take them back. For all he knew, that's exactly what had happened. Regardless of whether it was, Liam was a friend. Of course Richie was going to look out for him.
Liam graced him with a brief, sympathetic smile. "If I've learned anything in my life, it's that vows are all or nothing. It's not clever or ingenious to look for loopholes; it's foolish. I can't help but believe that breaking my vow led to the withdrawal of certain grace." He retrieved the short sword he'd used during their sparring sessions and handed it back to Richie with a formality that gave Richie a glimpse of the soldier Liam had once been. "I won't be needing this anymore."
"But—"
"When it mattered, I couldn't protect myself. No amount of sword training prepared me to defend against a distraught child with a baseball bat. It was a lesson I needed to be reminded of."
The sword hung heavy in Richie's hand and he quickly set it back down. Glimmers of light from overhead bounced off the blade, as if the sword had struck another during a true Challenge. Richie didn't know what to say. His mouth opened and closed while he tried to find something that would make Liam reconsider. At last, all he could manage was: "You're really going to leave? Like, now?"
Liam's shoulders dropped and his hands flopped to his sides. "No, not tonight. We'll have time to say a proper goodbye, Richie. I could never leave permanently without doing so. It's the least I could do. After all, I owe you my life."
"Liam, Kenny and I already had a history—"
Again, Liam cut him off. "Be that as it may, I have taken a Quickening. It may have been centuries ago, but it's not the kind of thing one can forget. I know what you did for me."
"You have?" That was almost more shocking than Liam's announcement of leaving. Immortals never discussed their Quickening experiences with each other, and now Richie had to wonder what Liam's had been that made him think taking Kenny's was such a sacrifice—especially since he had no way to know that it really had been the worst Richie'd ever had.
"Two, as a point of fact. And I cannot in good conscience ever ask, or expect, you to do it again—which is one of many reasons I need to go where the Game isn't. Or, at least, isn't as much. However, as it's not an emergency, I plan to request a proper transfer and it'll likely take several weeks for an appropriate position to be located." He grimaced, then added, "And for my new colleagues to be read in. It's just as well, as I have a number of commitments here to tend to. It wouldn't do to break those vows, either."
"You're really going to leave?"
"I must." Liam gave a definitive nod, then exhaled slowly. "I thank you, Richie, for everything you've given me." He let the appreciation have a moment, then turned and retrieved the mop, dribbling a trail of pungent water across the mat. "As this means an end to our practice sessions here, perhaps you'd be willing to join me in a game of hoops after we've cleaned up?"
"Yeah," Richie answered. "Sure." It was hard to feel any enthusiasm for the consolation prize, but he also wasn't willing to give up what little opportunity he had left to spend time with his friend. Retrieving the swords, he took them off to the side for a proper wipe-down. Ever since starting their practices, Richie and Liam had each tended their own weapon, but Richie was smart enough to recognize that Liam's renewed disavowal of sword work extended to every aspect of one's use.
"Or, maybe we could go have a couple drinks and talk about what happened the other night," Richie suggested. As hard as he tried to play it cool, there really wasn't any way to be casual about breaking taboos; his discomfort laced the syllables. "It, uh, sounds like you could use a friend." Mentally, Richie kicked himself for not having thought to make the offer sooner. Why hadn't he? Maybe Liam wouldn't have decided to leave if he had.
And, maybe, if he stepped up, he could still change Liam's mind. It wasn't going to be easy, but Richie had never been one to quit when a fight seemed hopeless.
The mop swished across the mat, the scent of disinfectant growing stronger with each pass. At last Liam answered, "Yes, I think I'd like that."