Author's Note: Hello and welcome to the tenth installment of "Cross". Oh my, has it been ten chapters already? Goodness, time certainly does fly! As usual, I would like to take a minute to thank all my readers and reviewers, FireChildSlytherin5, Yuzu, Faith-Catherine, saichick, Inwe[z]247, Genius-626, and ShipsThatFly. In addition, I would like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. You guys rock! I do hope you enjoy this installment.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Priest.
Part X The Reunion
Someone was coming.
Priestess felt her heartbeat quicken as the tell-tale surge of adrenalin raced through her veins, making her legs feel weak. She tried to pass through the door of the shed, but Priest reached it first, pushing her aside with a powerful thrust of his shoulder.
She grunted in annoyance, rushing outside behind him into the sunlight which was already blinding. The intensity of the heat brought sweat to her brow and she felt the rivulets stream down her face, past the collar of her coat and along the smooth flesh of her back. The fabric of her coat stuck between her shoulder blades and the desert wind blew with all the fires of hell.
Priestess squinted and looked to the horizon. There were watery mirages dancing amongst the far-off dunes, although she thought she could make out a definite figure of solid black. The figure drew closer, speeding towards her and Priest on a motorcycle, the machine grunting and laboring through the loose sand.
Her heart rose into her throat.
"Who is it?" she asked, although she knew the question was unanswerable. She was beginning to feel like more than half a fool standing there, gaping at the stranger who bore down on them relentlessly. Instinct took over then and she reached for her knife, the silver handle jutting out of its sheath by her hip. Her mouth was dry and her sight obscured and she felt impossibly dizzy, held down by the sweat-soaked weight of her clothes and exhaustion and more than a little fear.
But she would never admit her fear to Priest, he who stood stoically beneath the sun with his frayed coat and the dried blood still on his shoulder.
Almost casually, he shielded his eyes with the side of his hand, looking past the dunes where the motorcycle circled in fitful laps.
And yet when he spoke, there was a strong hint of paranoia in his voice. "The Church," he said solemnly. "They have found us already." He paused, he hesitated before adding, "Stay here."
"What?" she barely had time to protest when he had took off into the desert, his footsteps light as he darted over the heavy sand..
Priestess realized at once what was happening and her own muscles tightened, preparing her for the chase. She decided, in an instant, that she wasn't going to listen to his half-hearted admonition and ran after him, streaming over the flatlands, a dark smudge on an overwhelmingly barren canvas.
Her boot heels crackled on the pebbles, kicking up dust as she tried to catch up with Priest. By the time she reached him, he had already closed in on the motorcycle. She saw him lift his leg and deliver a kick at the figure seated on the vehicle, driving the stranger back into a cloud of exhaust.
The black-cloaked figure, however, was quick. Quicker than Priest, perhaps, because he was on his feet in a flash, his body twisting in a fluid motion as he slammed into his attacker, driving his right flank into Priest who gasped.
Priestess saw him fall to the ground. His left arm flailed wildly as he tried to steady himself, to catch at the thin air and keep to his feet. But Priest fell. He tumbled to the ground in a wretched pile, fresh blood spilling eagerly from his shoulder wound, his cheeks smudged with grime and sweat. Desperately, he tried to grip his knife and thrust it up at his assailant, but the stranger snatched his wrist, bending it back until Priestess was sure she'd hear the bone crack.
Something stirred within her then. Wild anger, tainted by he heady promise of battle, strengthened her mind and body and soul as she rushed to Priest's defense.
Raising her knee sharply, Priestess caught the attacker in the gut. She heard him groan, but he maintained his balance. Priestess leapt to the side, narrowly dodging the edge of his fist. She tried to move behind him and deliver a fierce blow of her own between his shoulder blades, but the stranger suddenly lashed out, his sun-burnt knuckles folding over throat.
She had expected him to choke her. She had expected him to end her life with a cruel flick of his wrist, snapping her neck with the true expertise of a brutal assassin. But as soon as he had touched her, he let her go, raising both his hands in the air as he took a cautious step away from both Priestess and Priest, who was still struggling to get to his feet.
"Don't," the stranger rasped, his voice muffled behind the heavy hood of his cloak. "Don't, please, my brother, my sister. I was looking for you."
Without thinking, Priestess extended her arm, helping the wounded and exhausted Priest to his feet. They both stood together, with the blaring heat of morning sun pressed against their backs.
It had been so long, she realized. So long that she hadn't even recognized his voice at first.
The figure removed his hood, showing a square, strong-jawed face marked with a cross.
"It's me," he told them both, an unlikely note of pleading jumping into his low tone. "It's Seth."
It was a strange reunion. Not pleasant. Not something out of a fairy tale or a storybook, where comrades-at-arms were happily united once again. There were no grateful embraces. No shared stories. No sense of joy and contentment.
Suspicion drove a wedge between them that was almost physical. Priestess and Priest crouched by the door of the shack, while Seth was trapped in the corner, more of a willing prisoner than a resurrected brother.
And Priestess was aware, ever so painfully aware, that things had never been like this between them before. That before, yes, before, they would have had a storybook reunion. They would have been pleased to see each other. They would have been…comforted.
But what she felt now was not exactly comfort. Instead, she experienced some wary nostalgia as she glanced at Seth, as she studied the strong line of his heavy jaw. For it was Seth, after all, who had been the weakest of the novices, the somewhat chubby boy of fourteen who had had his jaw broken by the cruel Priestess.
Seth had changed, however, as they all had. He had grown tall. His arms were muscular, his chest broad and he had a face that was both handsome and dignified in expression.
He did not look like the poor, tormented child anymore. The boy who lay prostrate in the arena, his jaw distended and swollen, his face bruised.
And Priestess couldn't help it. She smiled at him.
I want the fairy tale, she thought, even though she knew her wish was founded on impulsion. I want a happy reunion.
But that wasn't allowed. Not for Priests. Not for the clergy, who could only mistrust. And it had been a long time since Priestess had trusted anyone…except for Priest.
She looked at him now, as he sat hunched beside her, one hand folded over his wounded shoulder, the side of his mouth pinched as he chewed on his pain. Priest was staring at Seth. Just staring.
"How did you find us?" he asked at length, throwing the question at their brother as though it were an accusation.
Seth, for his part, remained calm. "I was not looking for you," he said.
"But you told us-" Priestess began.
Seth cut her off. "I wasn't looking for you in particular. I was trying to find any of us… any of us that might still be alive. But the others are already in the wind. They know what happened on the train. What you did." He was looking at Priest.
"And what do you believe?" Priest responded. He jerked his chin at Seth, the sharp planes of his face highlighted by the thin shadows that fell through the pitted roof overhead.
Seth looked at his hands and smiled. Faintly. "I believe that we are at war."
Vibrant affection surged through Priestess and she tasted the beauty of renewed companionship, of the bond that they all had, the one thing that could not be broken. Never.
It was their shared cross. A burden that was not so weighty when borne by many. And she was happy to see Seth, truly happy. Priestess wanted to embrace him.
Priest, on the other hand, let his skepticism show. He bared his teeth at Seth, a fierce grimace making his face look unnaturally ugly. "Is that what the Church says? What the Monsignors have told the faithful in the cities?"
"The cities," Seth replied slowly, "are in chaos. They are some who still trust in what the Church has promised. They feed off delusion, off false security. They believe we will have peace. But they are others…there are some who believe you. They are frightened. I came because I was frightened too." He paused, his apprehension obvious. "And because I thought you might need me."
There was natural hesitancy in Seth's tone, a bit of fragile uncertainty that made Priestess's heart clench a little. Although he had matured into a strapping man, a force to be reckoned with, Seth had never truly outgrown the agonizing humiliation visited upon him by the cruel Priestess. He was, in a way, still that scared young boy howling in pain on the sand-strewn arena floor. Still the helpless novice who needed protection. And he still recognized, as Priestess did, all that Priest had done for them.
It was undying gratefulness that had brought Seth out into the far, inhospitable reaches of the Wastelands. Respect married with admiration.
Loyalty shone undimmed in Seth's soft brown eyes as he looked at Priest. Loyalty and trust.
"You've been our leader," he said, rubbing his calloused hands together in what was an obvious attempt to diffuse his own nervous tension. "We've all looked to you since the other Priestess-"
"She's dead," Priest interrupted him abruptly. "You know that she has been dead for a long time."
Silence. The desert wind battered the thin walls of their already rickety shelter. Priestess felt a creeping sensation of unease. She wasn't certain, but she thought she had detected a vague threat in Priest's voice. And Seth, for his part, appeared threatened.
"We will let the dead rest in peace, then," he said, wetting his thick lips with a flick of his tongue. "But what about the living? The others, our brothers and sisters, will be looking for guidance. I am looking for guidance. Tell me, Priest. Please tell me, what do we do now?"
Priestess herself wanted to answer him. Every fiber of her being was straining to accept his proffered help and renewed offer of companionship. But she found she could only defer to Priest.
Seth is right, she thought, we all do look to him.
Priest, unfortunately, seemed undecided. After a moment, he released his grip on his shoulder and looked at his palm wet with blood. "I think the more apt question," he said slowly, "is whether I can trust you or not. Well, Seth? Try your very best to convince me."
This time, Seth did not hesitate. "The Church took many things from us, Priest," he replied in a voice that still belonged to that scared young boy. "Don't let them take that from us too."
Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading! If you have some free time, please leave a quick review. I just love receiving feedback. ^_^ The next installment is in the works and should be posted in about a week. Until then, take care and be well!