He knew the exact moment when Hastings' grip on life loosened, and the spirit of the man was whisked away. He couldn't for the life of him tell how he knew, but he did. He felt less remorse than he ought, he knew – he simply felt freer. Which made no sense to Carl – shouldn't his guilt have increased, now that he knew Hastings was beyond hope of redemption from any but God?
Instead, he remembered Mathilde Austin's raw grief at her husband's senseless death; the sorrowful faces of Tanya and Ben. He recalled his own acute unease at Derek Hastings' attitude towards him, and the night where he had tried so ineptly to explain to the hunter how he felt, and how Gabriel understood him anyway. He remembered Derek Hastings' efforts at convincing them to join him; the man's certainty that they would one way or another. The strange gleam in his eyes when he looked at them, his easy dismissal of Ancell's aggression toward Lamar. His drugging of Gabriel. And Carl wondered how all these things, now piling up thickly in his brain, could have been so completely forgotten.
Then, he remembered his conversation with Lamar, the few times he had spoken with the hunter before and after the trial. Realization was ugly, and he knew with sudden shame that he had been swayed by evil, his perceptions somehow twisted and manipulated. Disgust and humiliation warred within him.
But now he was left utterly conflicted, confronting fact and feeling in confusion that gripped him tightly, and refused to let him go. Gabriel had been right, in a manner. But the hunter had also admitted that Carl was right, as well. Mercy was underrated, seen as a weakness rather than strength on the part of both friend and foe. Carl knew, intellectually, that Hastings had committed awful crimes. But the part of him that knew he would never be able to draw a weapon and fire on a living being shied away from so final and absolute a punishment as death. Try as he might, however, he could see no other recourse. They could have kept the man imprisoned for life, yet unless his tongue was cut out, they risked the entire Vatican and Eternal City, should something go wrong. He was determined in his evil, yet Carl's pity was still the most prominent emotion that he felt. He could not reconcile that with the ruthless actions that the Order had taken, and for a moment he felt very young indeed.
So the friar left his workbench in the catacombs, to head for sunlight and quiet, somewhere he could think. He had not attended the execution today, his sense of caution and the memory of his friend's quiet, pleading request winning out over his sympathy for Hastings. He was suddenly glad of it, knowing instantly that he would have regretted seeing a man electrocuted to death. He had heard plans of the new device, a means of execution that was slowly being developed in the Order and also independently within different countries. Bare whispered rumors, horror stories of what had happened to criminals when the chair had failed, flitted through his mind and were firmly shut away.
He came to one of the highest pinnacles in the Vatican, climbing flights of stairs to ascend away from the people, and think. A cool breeze was blowing, the last sign of winter caressing Rome before being pulled away by rising summer. The sun was brighter, for it was only mid-afternoon, and Carl took a cleansing breath.
The activity in the St. Peter's Square, stretching out below him, was at a minimum. He let his eyes drift outside the borders of Vatican City, to Rome beyond. It was a magnificent sight. There, with only the wind and the stone saints for companionship, Carl closed his eyes, and began to order his thoughts and feelings.
It took time for him to come to a conclusion. The sun hung lower in the sky, signaling the dying of the day, by the time he was through.
A true self-examination was never easy. Carl had faced some hard facts this day. Perhaps – well, more than likely – he was not cut out for field work. He felt he had failed in his duty, allowing himself to be so used by their enemy. It was a little thing, but he had not known to resist, and so had been ensnared. Next time, who was to say what could happen? He was not prepared for the sometimes necessary violence inherent with the position, despite his academic prowess with weaponry.
He had no idea what, if anything, to say to the hunter. He had the feeling that Gabriel would feel nothing amiss, that he had known all along about the impact of Hastings' actions on Carl. If true, that was knowledge that the friar could do nothing with; why would his friend allow such to remain, when he was more than capable of stepping in, and helping?
Gabriel had also been right about Hastings. Carl still felt firmly, free of influence of evil, that there must have been another way to deal with the situation, instead of instantly and reflexively responding to immediately kill the warlock. But that did not change the fact that he had been wrong to think the man as innocent as he claimed. It was a mistake that he didn't know how to apologize for. Furthermore, Carl didn't know if he wanted, or was able to accept, forgiveness. He doubted that he deserved it.
For a man of the cloth, going to confession was not a simple matter. When you knew that you were baring your soul not to a nameless representative of the Lord, but to a friend and colleague who was human enough to judge you, courage was required. Having examined his words and actions from every angle, Carl gathered all his courage, and descended to the church. Slipping into a confessional was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he did it anyway.
Half an hour later, after a serious discussion with Jinette, he left to find Gabriel. There were too many things left unsaid between them.
He had searched for hours, well into the night, and was still unable to find the hunter. With a thoughtful frown, he recalled the time the hunter had spent in the Vatican after recovering his true identity. Oftentimes he would disappear for days with only vague explanations to his absence. Even Carl had no idea where the man truly went, knowing only that if he was still within the Vatican, he was deeply sequestered beyond Carl's ability to find him.
Retreating to his rooms for the night, he puzzled on the strange occurrence, but slept much better than he had in days. He rose in the morning to look for Gabriel once more. Searches of the gardens and outbuildings, the Apostolic Palace and the hunter's quarters, revealed nothing. By the time the midday meal was served, he was confident that the man was no longer in the Vatican.
After eating, he resigned himself to the fact that the hunter would be back on his own time, and he would have to wait. It struck him as slightly funny that, even after the entire mess with the Spear of Longinus, he had not been aware of when Gabriel had taken to disappearing for days on end. He had not noted the reappearances of the hunter in his life, and his own lack of perception niggled at him unrelentingly.
He wryly resigned himself to returning to work; Gabriel was well able to take care of himself, and would appear when he was done with whatever it was he was doing. Finishing his meal, he headed down once more into the catacombs. It was when he returned to his workbench that afternoon that he saw the first note. It was a small piece of paper folded and left conspicuously where he would see it. He opened it, and was frozen into immobility by what he found.
Wheldon - You are a traitor to our cause, sympathizer to evil. We know who you are, and will be watching closely. Take your steps cautiously; we are waiting. Should you do anything further to betray us, we will know and strike. Your days are limited.
It was not familiar handwriting to him, which meant that he did not know whoever had written the note. His name was clearly written so that there was no mistaking who the message was intended for. It was frightening, disconcerting, and the most worrying part was the signature. It was not a name; rather, a distinctive mark that sent a shudder tickling down Carl's spine. It slanted across the page, looking somewhat like an inverted cross. When he held the note away from him, however, it was chillingly clear. Not a cross at all, but a knife or dagger. A threat.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped, whirling in a panic. He found himself face-to-face with the elusive hunter. "Where have you been?" he demanded, gasping in surprise.
Gabriel shrugged. "Out and about," he responded vaguely. His smile slipped away as he examined the friar closely, noting the white face and racing breath. "Are you all right?"
Carl's brain froze.
"Carl. What's wrong?" a concerned look now, and Gabriel's eyes seemed to lose their distant gaze and focus in on him.
His words dried up. Even drawn in by questioning hazel eyes, Carl could not bring himself to tell Gabriel about the threatening note. Instead he smiled, a rough caricature of expression that felt brittle and false. "Nothing," he said instead, crumpling the paper in his fist and stuffing it into a pocket. "Nothing at all." Even as he said it, he didn't know why he didn't tell Gabriel. Two words stuck to his senses, dictating his actions. Watching closely. But how?
That was not important in this moment, with his friend staring worriedly at him, waiting for a response that he would be able to believe. Carl took a deep breath, and another, forcibly calming himself. And in the worried hazel eyes watching him as he collected himself, he found the hope that fixing what he had broken might not be so difficult as he feared.
He remembered why he had been searching, so avidly, for the hunter. "We have to talk," he said quietly, shoving his panic down as far as he could, hoping Gabriel didn't see it. "About Boxborough, and about Hastings."
Gabriel nodded slowly, and something in his eyes told Carl that he wasn't fooled. But the hunter decided not to push it. "All right," he answered the friar.
"Not here," Carl told him distractedly, and he took quick strides, leading the hunter out of the catacombs and into the light.
There were many things between them, creating an awkwardness in their friendship that had never existed before. As he climbed the stairs out of the underground lab, Carl prayed that the words would come to him, that he would be able to make everything right. Caught up in his worries of the here and now, the note he had received moments ago slipped to the back of his mind. In this moment, there was nothing more important than the friendship he had not even known he needed to salvage. But now, nothing would stop him from putting things right. All he needed was a chance. Glancing back, Gabriel met his gaze and smiled. In that motion, Carl knew that the chance was his – all that was important now was what he did with it.
Fin
Sequel to this fic is THE SICARII
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I want to thank all my reviewers. You guys are the ones that make this happen, with your words of praise, little tidbits of thought, questions, speculation and yes, even confusion. I treasure every response I receive, and try my best to respond if not in email, than in the content of the fic itself.
As for THE SICARII – my bio holds all the pertinent and usually the more updated info, but for now I'm going to take a break from my almost 24/7 typing. Your encouragement means a lot to me – it's what keeps the plot bunnies dancing in my brain. Thanks, and cookies, to all!