Author's Note: Hello and welcome to part thirteen of "Cross". Honestly, I thought this chapter was going to be about 2,000 words shorter than it turned out, but I suppose the story just ran away from me, haha.

As always, I would like to thank all my wonderful reviewers, saichick, Genius-626, FireChildSlytherin5, Inwe[z]247, Mss Heart Of Swords01, Amanda16, StandingOnTheRooftops, J-lily, R-Bizzle and Fault. Wow! I'm so thrilled that so many people are enjoying this story. Thank you so much, guys. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Priest.

Part 13 Ordination

Two years after Priest entered the clergy, Rowan herself was brought into the chapel to take the cross. She was seventeen when the Church ordained her, deeming her seven years of harsh training sufficient enough to transform a pig-tailed girl from the Wastelands into an eager killer. But in her heart of hearts, Rowan knew that her admittance into the clergy was being rushed. Although protected within the smothering steel embrace of the city walls, she was not shielded from the vile insinuations of rumor.

The war, by all accounts, was not going well.

Too often, she would encounter Priestess whispering nervously to Priest, the two of them packed away in some tight corridor with all the heavy care of battle-worn soldiers etched into their faces. Most of the vampire colonies were deeply infested in their hives and it would be years, Priestess predicted, before the clergy could gain any permanent foothold in the ravaged and drained Wastelands.

At seventeen, Rowan realized that such grave responsibilities had been readily placed onto her young shoulders. The reality of it all, the notion of becoming a hardened veteran overnight, had effectively vanquished whatever glamour ordination itself held. And as she shed her adolescence in favor of tentative adulthood, she was painfully aware that she was about to dedicate her life to a doubtful cause, to an ideal that already seemed decayed, rotting away from within.

On the eve of her ordination, Rowan lay in the novices' dormitory for the last time, savoring the feel of her now familiar cot only because she knew it would be hers no more. The others slept, the soft sound of their even breathing and sleepy sighs goading her own restlessness, which manifested itself in her legs as a discreet tingling. She clutched the edge of her bed in a vain effort to keep her body still when all she wanted to do was run. Run.

Run away.

Could she run away?

Rowan rolled over onto her side, her eyes picking out the sleek shape of the young girl who dozed on the cot beside her. For once, she found she appreciated the dark of the dormitory at night. The bleakness fit her mood and she gave into the dampness that chilled her heart.

Run. I could run away.

Her lips were chapped and she picked at the dead skin with a trembling finger. She could run, yes, she could run. But then what? Rowan wondered what would happen if she refused the cross. No one had done such a thing in the past, as far as she knew, and the threat of some unknown punishment was enough to render her very hopeless. She was, it seemed, signing her life away before she could claim it. She was dying, yes, dying before she ever had the chance to live.

But I can leave in the morning, she thought, the words repeating themselves over and over in her mind like the endless static over the speaker in the confessional. I can sneak out before matins and before Priestess comes for me. I can leave, if I want. I can be free.

And yet, even with mutiny on her mind, Rowan's began to surrender to the inevitable. It was impossible for her to think of running away when she would finally be joining him. Him. Priest.

I've decided…I'll be like him. Him.

It was as close to Priest as she would ever get. It was the fulfillment of a secret vow she had made to him and had made to herself so many, many years ago.

I'll be like him. Him.

Tossing about on her narrow bed, Rowan splayed her fingers across her brow and felt her clean skin. This was the only way. And she had waited so long…

Tomorrow, she thought. Yes, tomorrow.

The entire process of ordination, as it turned out, took no less than three days. Rowan herself was aware of this, her knowledge relying mostly on rumor and the briefing she had received from Priestess earlier in the week.

Ordination was, put simply, a journey. It was the long, last leg meant to reinforce the years of conditioning, of deprivation, of painful, unrelenting sacrifice. It was a spiritual trial that also required physical endurance. It was a final attempt to weed out the weak and the unworthy. It was, in all respects, a calculated torture.

On the first morning, Rowan was brought to the chapel in silence. No bells. No hearty congratulations. No warm, well-wishes. Only silence.

She was led by Priestess, a veritable lamb on a string, her rubber-soled boots slapping rudely on the concrete floor of the iron-walled courtyard. The sound was intrusive, a second heartbeat and Rowan was almost glad to be brought within the strong walls of the empty chapel. The cool, quiet sanctity of the place immediately enveloped her. No candles were lit. The altar was bare save for a single standing cross. A light fog hung in the air, an echo of incense burned and sent heavenward on the holiest days of the year.

Priestess brought Rowan to the steps of the altar, a curt gesture from her hand indicating that she should drop to her knees.

Without question, Rowan did as she was told.

"You may kneel upon the steps or prostrate yourself," Priestess said. "You may not sit or lie upon the pews."

"I understand," Rowan replied. She fell silent, awaiting further instruction.

Priestess, however, said nothing. Turning quickly on her heel, she strode down the center aisle to the entrance. The door was locked behind her. Rowan was left in the chapel for three days.

In the years to come, time softened the memory of the experience, dulling what was horrific into a vague remembrance of discomfort. But in the present, with the stone steps of the altar cutting into her knees and the terrible silence building around her and the smoke taking on the shapes of phantoms, Rowan was broken. Utterly broken.

She cried sometimes and when her mind was clear, she prayed. It was impossible to tell day from night, impossible to count the seconds and the minutes and the hours and the days. Rowan slept fitfully, her hot, tear-streaked cheek pressed to the cold floor. She crouched in the dark and tried to remember all that she was forgetting, Sage, her mother, the hovel in the Wastelands. She stared at the cross on the altar until the intersecting steel beams were blurred, until she thought that the mark had already been set into her flesh and she wasn't saved, but damned.

They were all damned.

When it was over, she had nearly forgotten about ordination and it took a sharp slap across the face from Priestess to rouse Rowan from where she lay in a stupor. Hands pulled her upright and brought her outside, where even the uncertain glow of the electric light bulbs in the courtyard was blinding. She was given water and fresh clothes. Someone washed her face and combed her hair with a rough hand. And then it was Priestess who was kneeling before her, holding her chin upright as she sat slumped on a stone bench.

"You will walk back into the chapel," she said, "and you will be received by the clergy."

Rowan was too weak to be ashamed of how wildly she reeled and staggered when she reentered the chapel. To her bewilderment, she noticed that the rest of the ordained Priests had gathered. Some were sitting in the pews, while others stood on the altar, but they all bore the cross and they were all ugly to look at, with their blotchy scars and hard faces, and eternally vacant eyes.

An extraordinary sort of fear came over Rowan then. The smoke in the chapel and in her mind had cleared and she suddenly realized that she was going to be one of them, no better than a monster, but one of them. She had somehow allowed herself to be trapped here, in this wretched place and the years had worn down her will to fight against them. Where was that angry young girl who had refused to cry? Where was the child she had been, the child who had vowed not to be overcome by them, to be taken and stolen away by these unfeeling shadows.

Gone. She was gone. And Rowan had become one of those shadows. They had taken her from her home and they had changed her. They had ruined her.

She wondered what would happen if she ran away, if she fled, if she just left…

But then she saw him. Priest. He was standing on the altar behind Priestess, his tall frame recognizable in a sea of uniform black, his blue eyes not sad, but kind. Welcoming.

It was almost as if he were offering her a promise, extending his hand out to her in a gesture of longed for solidarity and companionship. The pale reflection of hope was enough to soothe her.

I've decided…I'll be like him.

And Rowan found herself walking down the aisle to meet him, a willing bride.

When she reached the altar, Priestess slapped a hand onto her shoulder and pushed her back down on the stones. "Kneel," she commanded.

Rowan tried her best not to wince when her sore shins came into contact with the steps. It was a repeated torment. It was meaningless and yet, at the same time, necessary. Rowan thought vaguely of obedience. She had a lifetime of servitude ahead of her and she was only seventeen.

She was only seventeen.

Priestess raised her hands slightly. The movement was fluid, practiced, a call to prayer. When she spoke next, there was an unlikely softness to her voice, a chanting rhythm that was almost beautiful to Rowan. Almost.

"Brothers and sisters," she intoned, "you see here before me one who would be brought into our sacred and blessed Order. After seven years amongst us as a novice, she requests entrance into our house. If there are any among you who knows in her anything for which she should not be granted admittance, you should tell it, for it would be a better thing for you to say it beforehand, then after she has been ordained."

Rowan realized she was holding her breath. Slowly, she let it go, hoping no one would hear her deep exhale. Silence stretched over the chapel. None of the clergy spoke.

After a full minute of perilous waiting, Priestess seemed satisfied with their response, or lack thereof. She nodded to herself and offered Rowan a look which attempted to be steadying, but only came across as cold.

"Having known this novice for these past seven years, will you all vouch for the goodness of her character and her devotion to our holy Church?" she asked.

This time, the Priests spoke, the tone painfully neutral. As one, they replied, "We will."

"Do you wish her to be brought in on behalf of God?"

"We do." The undulating echo of the multitude of voices somehow seemed small in Rowan's ears. As she knelt on the stones, she tried to picture herself back at home, away from them, away from Priestess, away, even, from Priest. Perhaps she would have her own little house by now. Perhaps she would be married. Perhaps she would have been killed, long ago, in a vamp attack.

Rowan folded her hands in prayer. Maybe she should count herself as fortunate. Or maybe she should admit to herself and to all those gathered and to Priestess and to Priest, that she did not want this, that she had never, ever wanted this…

Do I want to be like him?

Priestess was speaking again, her measured words now directed at Rowan, her sharp chin tilted down as she looked at the humble supplicant before her. Was there some hint of sympathy in her gaze? Rowan couldn't tell, but the mere thought of it was enough to terrify her. Did Priestess know what was about to happen to her? Did she know how horrible her life would truly be?

Yes, Rowan thought. And she wants me to be miserable. She wants me to be like her.

"Novice," she said, "you see now gathered before you the true power and glory of our Order. You are witness to our esteemed bearing and the honor which is rightly given to us as soldiers of the Lord. But I tell you now, you do not know the harsh commandments which lie beneath, for with great difficulty will you ever do anything that you wish. You will be sent to lands that are full of peril and you will not lay claim to any place as your home. You will be asked to kill not only vampires, but your fellow man. You will be expected to live chastely and eschew all carnal relations with men or with women. No matter your standing, you will be told to carry out the basest of tasks for the glory of the Church and for God. I ask you now, knowing full well all the hardships of our Order, do you wish to be, all the days of your life henceforth, a serf and a slave to our holy Church?"

More silence. Rowan wanted to give into it, wanted the moment to wash over her until all was nothingness. But Priestess was staring at her and she was compelled to speak. The words were on her lips. She could not stop them. She was already lost.

"I do," she said.

Priestess's right brow twitched, her mouth hitching up at the corner. There was a subtle shifting noise, the sound of bodies moving on the wooden pews and of booted feet shuffling. Rowan realized that she was shaking.

"Is there any cause which might impede you from being brought into the Order? If there be something unknown to us, you should speak of it now, for it will be better for you to have it discovered forthwith then after ordination."

"No," Rowan said, even though it seemed like a lie. She didn't want to be brought into the Order. She did not want to be ordained. Was that not enough cause?

"Do you wish to be brought in on behalf of our Lord?"

"I do, if it pleases the Church and our God."

Priestess arched her left eyebrow, her expression not skeptical, but perhaps a little disappointed. Why was she disappointed?

"Will you take the cross now?" she asked, her tone suddenly business-like.

Rowan did not hesitate, even though she wanted to. "I will."

"Give me the instruments," Priestess ordered. She turned away for a moment, reaching off to the side where a dutiful Priest handed her the equipment, the needle and the ash colored ink and the holy water that would be used to purify Rowan's profane skin before the honor was bestowed.

And as soon as Priestess planted the heel of her palm on her brow and pushed her head roughly back, Rowan realized that there was nothing sacred or beautiful about receiving the cross. It was a quick, almost sloppy act, less of a sacrament and more of a stale ritual. Her forehead was wiped clean and then the needle plunged into her skin, each tiny jab injecting ink, marking her for life. It was the permanency of the moment that truly bothered her, that made her want to squirm and scream and cry out every time the needle threatened to puncture her skull. At one point, when Rowan was feeling particularly restless, her neck and back aching from being held in such an awkward position, Priestess offered her a callous warning.

Leaning close to her ear, she whispered, "I was only fifteen when they did this to me, and I already knew enough not to scream. Don't disgrace yourself."

Rowan stilled, although she was mindful of the wild chaos inside her head. Once Priestess drew the needle away and wiped her abused flesh for the last time, her body seemed to lose the last of its nervous tension. Legs buckling, she sat back on her heels and the world swam before her, a vision of ash-colored ink and frowning Priests and steel crosses that promised everything but forgiveness.

But Priestess reached forward and pulled her to her feet. And the woman was smiling then, something of true joy making her scarred face look almost beautiful to Rowan. Almost.

"Welcome, little sister," she said and kissed her quickly on the lips.

Rowan blinked, taken aback. And then Priest stepped forward and he too kissed her. The rest followed, all of the clergymen and women getting to their feet, embracing her, the warmth of their arms and their hearts bringing Rowan back from the cold brink and into a world that loved her.

Loved, Rowan thought numbly. I am loved.

The doors to the chapel were thrown open and the bells started singing, ringing in the belfry above and the crowd milled around her, bolstering her failing body and her bruised mind. Priestess was by her side, her hand clapped on her shoulder, smiling her garish smile as she tried her best to comfort Rowan, to extend to her the care of an absent mother.

And Rowan herself was weak, because when she glanced at Priestess and saw her ruined face and her loneliness, she could only say, "I didn't want to do this"

The woman did not look at her, but her smile faded a little. "Neither did I," she said.

And the bells continued to ring.

Author's Notes: Most of the vows referenced in this chapter were adapted from similar vows used during the admittance ceremony of the Knights Templar. The Templars were an order of so-called "warrior monks" founded during the Crusades to protect pilgrims en route to the Holy Land, although they also engaged in nearly every form of holy warfare. They were later disbanded, disgraced and even put on trial by the very church that created them early in the 14th century. Because the parallels between the Templars and the Priests are indeed striking, I couldn't help but use some of their rituals as inspiration for this chapter.

Thanks so very much for reading! The next installment is in the works and will be posted as soon as possible. I hope everyone has a great weekend. Take care and be well!