Of Knights and Dragons
Chapter XVII: Lance
"Rescue me, Lord, from my enemies;
I have fled to you for refuge."
(Tuesday Night Prayer: The Liturgy of the Hours)
Twenty-six years later,
just outside Paris;
a small town in the French countryside.
He stared at the rough-hewn shape, running gentle, dexterous fingers over its unresolved form. His hands caressed the t-shape, flowing over where the arms would be, their wrists mercilessly pinned against the wood with heavy iron nails; they trailed along the bent lines of where the legs would show every strain and tremble in their muscles as they tried to support His weight, to save Him from suffocation, regardless of the way the flesh of the feet would tear from the impossible task… his thumb drew a soft curve over where His head would rest, bowed, against His chest, as He uttered up that final cry:
"Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?"
His lips parted ever so slightly as he breathed the words that the Christ had uttered at his last; eyes that had gleamed with hate and anger and passion now sparked with love, the kind of love that comes only at the uttermost end of pain, when all else in the world is lost and only this remains.
The only kind of love that he believed in, now. True love. Perfect love. Unconsciously his hand rose to the black scar that ran around his throat, just beneath the Roman collar of his garb. The edge was startlingly rough beneath his fingers… funny, you would think with all the scars he bore…
The priest bowed his head slightly, his hands hovering over the rough-hewn outlines that would one day become the form of the Crucified Lord, guided into being beneath his skilled artisan's fingers. His eyes closed, hiding the gleam of gold behind shut eyelids, and he breathed; and how sweet the air was that moved into his mouth and his lungs, filling him: this is the air I breathe; Your holy presence, living in me…
Unbidden, before he began his work, his hands closed themselves in prayer, and he found the words flowing smoothly from his mouth—he, who had uttered obscenities and laughed at the death he dealt. They passed from him on the breath of air he had drawn in:
"I confess, to Almighty God..." and how strange the words would have been at one time. He had never believed in God. "…and to you, my brothers and sisters…" It did not matter that he was alone in the Church at that time. The sentiment was the same, here or elsewhere. He had always been a single child, a lonely man, condemned to a prison the world placed about him, one he had angrily reinforced. "…that I have sinned, through my own fault—" yes, mine, all mine, not God's; I cannot place the blame on Him! "—in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do…" And in which case, Adonai, are my sins the worse? …oh God, oh God, you would have every right to abandon me, to condemn me to my prison of darkness as I so vainly thought you had, in those days of ignorance… "…and I ask blessed Mary, ever Virgin, all the Angels and Saints," and I do not number among them! How foolish now my game seems to me. "…and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God…" he finished the prayer on a slow breath.
His eyes opened, fixed onto the form that had led him out of Hell and refooted him on Earth, looking longingly towards the sky, praying desperately for the forgiveness so often toted and so rarely seen. His golden gaze locked onto where the eyes would be, if the crucifix were completed, searching desperately for the look that would tell him My trust is eternal; if you stumble I shall lift you up; if you knock I shall answer. He must have found it, for he smiled; not a hard, bitter smile, but a softening, the edge of joy, the heart of sorrow.
He had come a long, long way.
Death does that to people… with her, wrapping her loving hands about his throat… his shoulders tensed at the memory, and he deliberately forced his mind away from that moment. No! not now! He would forget how those moments had gone… his golden gaze connecting with familiar almond eyes… snapping sideways into the youthful face of none other than the Vicomte de Chagny himself.
That sudden terrible silence.
The roar of the crowds, covering the screams and shots and the fight that erupted in bloody violence in the middle of the Parisian streets. Their blood, also, on his hands.
Water is stronger than blood, he convinced himself softly.
…and I ask blessed Mary, ever Virgin…
He picked up the chisel and carefully set it to the joint of cross and shoulder and began the slow process of laboring away, turning the rough wood into the figure that would stand at the back of the Church in silent testament to the true meaning of love eternal.
He wasn't even aware that he began to pray, softly, chanting the words: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee… blessed art thou among women…
They came up to the entrance of the wayside church. They came with the thunder of hooves. They came with the clank of arms, and the snort of horses. They came with war, and death, and justice; with vengeance in one hand and the law in the other and their duty hanging over their heads. Seven they came, six in the uniforms of the Parisian Police and one in the fine cloth of its aristocracy. The courtyard, once overrun, was filled now with quiet flowers; the walls of the church were clean, the windows repaired and fitted with bright glass that displayed a myriad of colors, dazzling the eye too much to decipher its pictures.
They came, these seven, and found the doors of Our Lady's Shrine wide open to welcome them in. But they did not enter; written above the doors, boldly carved stone from stone, glittered the words:
HE WHO BELIEVES IN ME SHALL NOT DIE
From the entranceway, the seven trespassers on holy ground could see deep into the heart of the nave; the altar was framed, its gray marble sheathed in holy white. Off to the left, somewhere in the gloom, a red candle flickered, marking that the place was not empty; it was His house, after all.
And his as well; it was for him that they had come, after all. He stood before the altar, his back to them, seemingly bent to the work that occupied his hands; a rough figure, vaguely cross-like, propped up against the sacrificial stone, across which his hands glided like doves, sweet and gentle, the dichotomy of the natures of the artist and the sculpted striking in its absoluteness.
His back was to them, and his head bent slightly, exposing no more than the unrelieved black of his priestly attire, and the black of his hair—greying now—set against it. They didn't need for him to turn, though; they knew that if he did, they would find a pair of golden eyes gazing at them from behind the comfort of a shielding white mask. They knew who he was.
Six pairs of feet stopped uncertainly upon the threshold. The owner of the seventh turned to look at them. "Why do you recoil?" Raphael d'Halier said in a dark voice. His black gaze fell on one of the six, the one whose pins and emblems marked him as a Captain among them.
"I will not bring Death into the House of God," was Christophe's quiet answer.
"God does not live here," the d'Halier, no longer young, sneered. "If He exists at all. I tend to doubt it. But if He did, then He would praise you, not punish you, for bringing justice to one such as this monster who cowers in His house."
The Captain steadfastly met his gaze. His face was more careworn, his hair flecked with silver; but he might have been the same man. "I will not apprehend him," the man said, lifting his chin slightly in defiance. "He is a Priest of the Church, a Holy Father, and I will not touch him."
Raphael's expression twisted into a sneer. "Very well, good sir," he spat. "I shall be informing the Parisian officials of this… turn of events."
"You do that, monsieur," Christophe said, perfectly evenly.
Raphael spun, his hand going to his pistol, and he stalked into the church, a blind eye to the quiet, simple beauty of the place. He scanned it almost contemptuously, then fixed his dark eyes on the man standing at the far end. He stopped, and his hand rose to the level of his eyes, pistol up and ready to fire. Along the sights, he took careful aim.
One shot, he thought. I'll bring this fairy-tale to an end in one single shot. God knows it's more than that monster deserves…
Erik paused to flex his fingers and look over his work. It was almost done; it was rough-hewn, yet, but that was how he intended it to be, to show the unfinished nature of humanity itself. Only the face was complete, complete and perfect in an expression of Christ's innate divinity. He had chiseled the lines so that the entire sculpture flowed into it, one vast surge upwards towards pain and suffering, and then beyond… to God Himself.
Only one thing remained; the mark on Jesus' side, where the spear had pierced his flesh, bringing forth both blood and water in a holy mix that was repeated hour by hour across the world as Mass was celebrated… here was the most important wound, the one that had proven His death, and thus secured his return in Everlasting Life… Erik's eyes closed, and he found his hand was trembling. That was no good. He could not make this most important of marks if his hand was uncertain… it had to be perfect… he drew in a slow breath, and opened his eyes, positioning the chisel, lifting the hammer carefully.
Crack.
For an instant he thought that his stroke had gone astray, that he had struck the statue in the wrong place, and ruined it utterly. But then the pain blossomed in his ribs, gnawing away, like fire… it seared into him, every bit of his being and his mind in absolute agony, Fire Incarnate, shifting his bones to coals and his blood to living lava…
His hand trembled uncontrollably, and the tools fell from his grasp, clattering like death knells on the floor, wood on stone, wood on stone… he staggered, swayed, and at last succumbed, the shock of his knees hitting the floor jarring the bars of flaming coal that were his bones, almost making him cry out with sheer agony. His hand sought his chest, and came away red with his own blood… he tore his eyes up and away from it, somehow, with strength he didn't realize.
I must… finish it… hands groped blindly, sliding along the arms of the crucifix, painting it with his own blood, searching. Things slid in and out of focus, and he couldn't seem to control his arms. They wanted to do their own things, not what his mind demanded of them, and he had to grit his teeth and force them to slide along, searching… numb fingers fumbled blindly across the figure, and he forgot what he was searching for.
There, a nick perhaps an inch long, deep and smooth, beneath his fingers; the wound that proved Christ's death. His strength gave way completely, and the floor rose gently to meet him, catching him in loving arms of the softest stone… so warm against him, gently lifting him away; and in his mind, his prayer finished.
Now, and at the hour of our deaths…
Raphael stared down the barrel of the pistol he had fired and let it fall from nerveless fingers; when the Opera Ghost had fallen, he had found himself glaring down its length, aiming unerringly at Jesus Crucified. The d'Halier brother took a step back, then another, and turned and fled from the church; and the place was silent, undisturbed by the slightest sound, by the faintest echo or breath of life.