Hey readers!! I'm sorry this and the last chapter were so slow in coming. School started, and then I became lost in all that stuff I'm supposed to be doing, and I completely forgot about the stuff I actually wanted to do. So here, at last, is chapter four. More Silas in this one!! Please read and review (I love reviews!!), and be sure to offer any criticisms or suggestions you may have. I have a general idea of the story from here on in, but I could use any details or whatever you'd like to give me.

Oh, and I suppose I don't really own Silas or Aringarosa. However much I'd like to. Oh shucks.

Chapter IV: Awakening

Silas was first aware of an electronic beeping. It whispered to him softly at first, but became steadily more bothersome as he slowly swam to consciousness again. The narcotic-soaked cloth of sleep still weighted heavily upon his eyes and face. He felt groggy, scattered; he couldn't focus, and that would have normally frightened. Now, all he felt was exhaustion. The pillow beneath his head was soft, heavenly. His eyelids had somehow become affixed to weights, forcing them to close…

The same electronic beeping.

His arms were relaxed, like dead anchors, at his sides. He was facing up, eyes to heaven, and had never felt so comfortable…

A sudden, aching pain tore through his side, below his ribs. Silas exhaled, a silent hiss of agony. The beeping was getting louder. A blinding light had invaded his calm state of relaxation, forcing his eyes open, slowly…

The first thing he saw was blurred. He blinked stupidly, groggily waiting for it to clear itself. His pale arm, stretched out beside him, blue veins showing on the pasty skin. A thin tube ran from under a nylon bandage at his writs, upwards towards the monitor at his right…

The electronic beeping.

Unbearable pain.

Hospital.

Silas quickly drew in a breath; the air hurt as it rushed past his lungs, through his diaphragm. A clammy hand groped weakly to the source of the pain, trembling, feeling the lining of the bandage attached there.

The explosion of gunfire.

Freezing, the grass of a clearing.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

His eyes widened. He was filled with fear as the memories came soaring back to him, through his fevered brain, scattered images, sounds, emotions he could only begin to describe.

An airplane.

Prison.

We are betrayed, my son.

Silas jerked his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut in horror. A pained, guttural groan escaped his throat, penetrating the maddening silence around him. He couldn't face this. What he wouldn't give for more of that groggy stupor, the free, floating comfort that had covered him moments before…

A pagan church, full of tombs.

Paintings.

Job 38:11

"Calm yourself, my son,"

The unexpected voice cut like a knife through the chaotic displacements of his mind. Silas opened his eyes, slowly allowing himself to accustom to the bright light. He would have known that voice anywhere.

"Father."

Silas was surprised at the weakness in his hoarse voice.

"Silas, my son."

Bishop Aringarosa sat in a wheelchair by his bedside. He was dressed in a thin hospital gown, but had lost none of his characteristic dignity. He reached out a hand and gripped Silas's pale, trembling palm in his own. Silas blinked stupidly.

"You've been injured, Father."

The Bishop's features melted into an expression of pity and worry. His brow furrowed, and he bowed his head for a moment. He glanced up again.

"So, I'm afraid, have you, my son."

Silas glanced around the stark hospital room, searching for some sign of the events that had transpired. Confusion still set upon his mind like a thick fog, clouding all rational thoughts or memories. He blinked, willing himself to remember. Nothing.

He gulped, feeling his dry throat constrict painfully with the effort. Silas stared up towards the ceiling, and expression of confusion playing on his face.

"How… what happened to us, Father?"

Looking up to the heavens, the Bishop sighed. Seeing his pained expression, Silas gripped with fear. It was not good. Bishop Aringarosa returned his gaze to his son, the soldier of God, the fallen angel.

"We were betrayed, my son. The Teacher had forsaken us. I'm so very sorry…"

Silas's eyes darted to the Bishop in alarm. Clouded memories now came tumbling back to him, policemen, panic, fleeing the London Opus Dei building. A gun in his hand. The Bishop, behind him. Gunshots…

Silas gasped, red eyes instantly filling with tears. Attempting to silence the demons inside him, he shook his head frantically. This cannot be true! Yet he knew his memory spoke the truth: they were betrayed, exposed, and he had injured the Bishop…

"Father…" he whispered, shocked. The tears pooling in his eyes suddenly overflowed, streaking down his face like raindrops down a cool pane. "What have I done?"

"I do not at all blame you, Silas. You were misled. I should have kept a closer eye on you. The Teacher was a fraud." Bishop Aringarosa paused to breathe, attempting to subdue the rage building within him. Enough blood had been spilt, already. "He assured me there would be no killing. I only now see how wrong I was to trust him."

Silas's world was crumbling around him. With the Teacher behind his actions, he had never questioned their morality. He also had assumed safety, not just for himself but also for the Bishop. Without The Teacher…

A sudden spasm ran through his body. Silas winced at the pain at his side, but his eyes never moved from the Bishop. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "B-but… the police?"

The Bishop hung his head in shame; Silas had never seen him so distraught before. It broke Aringarosa's heart to see Silas, his precious angel, fallen like Lucifer from his grace. His friend had been lost, a frightened lamb, before he was offered shelter and security from the outside world. The Bishop had long ago turned Silas's fate to the hands of God, certain that, with the faith of Opus Dei and their unlikely friendship to guide him, the man would somehow manage an alteration from his early ways. The events of the past few days, however… Aringarosa saw only a mess of damaged thread, the unraveled remnants of his fragile tapestry. He only hoped through faith and friendship to salvage it. Voice breaking gravely, Aringarosa spoke.

"I am so very sorry, my son. I had nowhere else to turn. The police have arrested the Teacher, so likely a confession will lighten our charges. Silas, I am prepared to take all responsibility for these events, but you must understand that we are now under their custody. They may want to ask some questions…"

Silas stared, unblinking, at the low ceiling. His lips wavered, jaw clenched in a set expression of fear and shock. The bullet wound in his side had begun to throb painfully, a dull, aching sensation that sent waves of agony rippling up his tense body. For years, The Bishop had acted has his protector, his shield from the horrors of the past. The words Aringarosa spoke made little sense in his mind, as if through the pain and confusion they had become warped and muddled.

Police?

Distant memories, long forced out of mind, now came thundering back. A grimy prison cell, freezing in purgatory, the taunting jibes of the prison guards, shining their flashlights into his weak eyes, blinding him to their cruel abuse.

Andorra.

Silas's muscled tightened, and he slowly returned his eyes to The Bishop's gaze. He spoke, voice a hoarse, guttural plea of agony.

"Which police?"

The Bishop paused a moment before responding in a whisper. "The French."

Silas felt his throat constrict painfully, his heart convulsing in his chest like a wounded animal. He blinked tiredly to the ceiling, refusing to look at the Bishop. When he spoke again, it was quietly and coldly.

"I'm sorry, Father. I'm feeling a little tired now. I think I would like to sleep some."

Aringarosa sighed, the exhaustion and worry apparent on his lined face. Slowly, he turned in his wheelchair and laboriously began to wheel himself out. He stopped once, speaking suddenly.

"I am more sorry than you can believe, Silas. We will talk later, once things have calmed. I will see what I can do in the meantime…"

Silas nodded quickly, tears pooling again in his red eyes. He winced at the pain in his side, cursing himself for his weakness. Now the Bishop, too, was upset. He murmured a silent prayer under his breath, begging for forgiveness. A doctor came, offering kind words of encouragement and injecting a needle of warm, comforting morphine into his arm. Still lost in prayer, sleep found him and he retreated once again into that calm, worriless stupor.