Author's Note: Hello and welcome to part sixteen of "Cross". As promised, there's a nice, big juicy hint in this chapter regarding Priest's secret. ;)

As always, I'd like to thank all my fantastic readers and reviewers, saichick, FireChildSlytherin5, Mss Heart of Swords01, Inwe[z]247 and Danae L. Black. Also, I want to thank all the readers who have added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. Your support and encouragement is greatly appreciated. I do hope you enjoy this installment.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Priest.

Part XVI The Unthinkable

Priestess was surprised when Priest shook her awake for the second morning in a row. After overhearing his rather tense discussion with Seth the night before, she was convinced that she wouldn't be able to drift back into sleep, into a world where awareness and understanding gave way to the cool release of oblivion. Her mind had been too sharp for rest, punctured by shards of discontent and suspicion, that poison, that private insinuation of hidden darkness. Priestess had felt ill at ease. She had laid with her back to the firelight and listened to Priest's breathing, which wasn't quite even. She had listened to Seth, who had continued to scrape the blade of his knife on the ground. And she had listened to the wind, which offered her things…the truth not least among them.

Somehow, amidst the roiling pain in her gut and the fever of her worry, her body had lost itself, slipping off into vague dreams that were soothing. Priestess slept until after dawn, when she finally felt Priest's hand on her shoulder. Gently, he pulled her back into a waking world of bruised shadows and a virgin sun. His lips were folded into a sad crease when he looked down at her.

And in that moment, as she glanced up at him, as she counted the scars on his face and the lines on his brow and the years in his eyes, which had aged him, Priestess thought what she had never dared to think before.

I love you. I love you no matter what you've done.

Priest responded with silence, although sometimes she wondered if he knew. He had to know…

Feigning a yawn, she stretched, crumbs of dust and sand falling from the folds of her coat as she climbed to her feet. The fire they had built the night before had burned down to cold ashes. It was if the dark itself had never existed, but came only as a nightmare, a fragment from a chaotic mind.

"You should have woken me," Priestess said, her voice not smooth, but strained. Her dry tongue felt rough against the roof of her mouth. "I would have taken a shift. It's not fair for you to keep watch all night."

"Never mind," Priest said, his shoulders lifting in an artless shrug. He was standing at an angle, his gaze directed away from her to where Seth stood. Their comrade had his back to the rising sun and the light colored his skin amber, his curly hair shining like jet. He was fastening his satchel to the side of his motorcycle and Priestess noticed that his movements, the tightening of the buckles, the pulling on the leather straps, were strained.

She blinked, feeling as though she had missed something.

"Did he tell you yet?" Seth asked, a jerk of his chin indicating annoyance.

Priestess was immediately alert, all the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end even though the dawn sun was blazing. The sweat on her forehead was uncomfortably chilled, sending cool rivulets down her spine. Perhaps, she mused, her playacting the night before hadn't been quite as convincing as she'd hoped it was. Perhaps Priest and Seth knew all along that she had, in fact, been an unwelcome eavesdropper. Perhaps they knew that she knew. And perhaps the truth of the thing would terrible. Priestess was certain it would be terrible.

Her mind filled with the memory of their whispers. Nostrils dilating, she detected the phantom odor of smoke. But there was no fire. Not yet, anyway.

"What's going on?" she asked in turn, trying her best to sound brave and unconcerned and thoroughly indifferent. But her collar suddenly seemed too tight around her neck and she was aware of Priest's presence beside her, his tall frame casting a shadow over her small life.

Maybe, just maybe, it would be better to ask him outright.

Seth, for his part, was not subversive. He finished fastening his satchel, the palm of his hand slapping down on the seat of his motorcycle. "Priest has changed his mind," he said. "And I can't say that I'm happy with it."

"I never asked your opinion," Priest replied quickly, his words jumping all over Seth's.

"But it might do you good to listen," he answered with equal heat, "for once."

Priest shifted his weight, his pale eyebrows jumping up his forehead. Priestess recognized his anger, which was not fierce, but grudging, a sort of irritated reluctance that made him seem grim and stubborn.

And Seth looked displeased too, although he was naturally retiring. Keeping his eyes on his hands, he again fiddled with the buckles on his satchel, pulling at the bag to make sure it was still secure on his motorcycle.

"I'm not used to questioning you," he said, unwilling to look Priest in the eye, "but this seems too close to madness for my comfort. It's sloppy logic and you are not stupid, Priest."

"I could benefit from an explanation," Priestess said at once, interrupting them both before they had a chance to continue their verbal melee.

Seth finally looked up and she noticed the hesitation in his gaze, the worried discomfort that made him seem like that young boy again ,with his jaw all shattered and bruised. He actually did rub his hand over his chin, his glove brushing over the stiff stubble that shadowed his cheeks. Seth's lips were lopsided, half-frowning, when he glanced at her.

"Priest wants us to go after the vamp pack," he said simply.

"They can't be far," Priest responded, his voice warm and eager, thirsting for the violence that had made hardened veterans of them all. "And you saw the one we killed last night, the young male. Very undernourished. The rest of the pack must be starving and they'll have to feed. The outposts around here are completely unprotected."

But in listening to him speak, Priestess thought she understood what Seth meant about sloppy logic. "There are only three of us," she told him, trying to be gentle. Her eyes found the dried bloodstain on his shoulder, the frayed edges of the gash in his coat. "And you're wounded."

"Which is what I told him," Seth said, seemingly pleased that he finally had a sensible ally. "In the old days, maybe, we could have done this. But not now. Not without the others."

"The others," Priestess said, feeling a hot glow infuse her cheeks. She dared to touch Priest on the arm, her fingertips plucking at the rough cloth of his coat. "That's our mission," she told him, hoping the steady rhythm of her words would remind him of himself and the sense he seemed to have lost in the dark reaches of the night. The wind rose, promising an early sandstorm and threw the ashes of the fire into the air. A great gust of them hit Priestess square in the face. She thought of Lent and of sacrifice.

But I love you, her mind whispered, finding no peace in his face, nor in his eyes, which held secrets. I love you, even if you've sinned…even if you've done the unthinkable…

But what was the unthinkable?

"Listen to her," Seth said curtly. He was standing in front of his motorcycle now, one hand outstretched in what could have been a desperate plea. Priestess knew that he did not want to displease Priest anymore than she did, but sense was sense and at that moment, Priest had entirely lost his.

"We stop by the old rendezvous point first," Seth continued, pulling his hood over his head to shield his face from the gritty blasts of wind. "If we find the others, then there is no reason why we shouldn't go after the vamp pack. But not now. There are so few of us."

"And you are wounded," Priestess echoed.

"And her transport is damaged," he added, pointing a thick finger at her motorcycle, the squat vehicle shining in the sunlight like a silver beetle.

Priest seemed to hesitate then, lost to their steady barrage of reason and persuasion. Priestess honestly thought that her influence would be enough to dissuade him from his fixed foolishness. It was so unlike him, she knew and the rarity of his obstinacy buried a tiny seed of fear within her.

But she stood in his shadow, beholden to him still. And she realized, with some creeping reluctance, that if Priest went after the vamp pack, then so would she.

Against reason. Against common sense. Against the most primal instinct of survival and self-preservation. It was a moment like the one on the train tracks, a holding of the breath and a stopping of the heart. A quiet acceptance of what had somehow become a part of her, of what had brought her to drive her bike straight into the train without a second thought.

Because she loved him, she had always loved him.

And Priestess was forgiving him even now, for this sin of ignorance and for all those he had committed in the past. The secret ones. The unthinkable. But what was the unthinkable?

"Please," the word worked its way past her lips and she touched him again, her hand on his still tender shoulder, her knuckles grazing the warm flesh of his neck. "Please," she begged, hoping he would do this one thing for her, this one thing…

Priest shuddered. She thought he looked like a lost boy standing there, a child who had been forsaken. Like her. Like all of them.

And she knew that he was going to give in. He was going to listen, if only because he loved her. Because he truly loved her.

Priest glanced at her hand on his shoulder. His eyes were sad again. "No," he said, his tone so utterly different from what it always was, the gruffness gone, the word soft and malleable, an echo of regret. "Seth," he said, raising his head to look at their brother, his expression devoid of even the slightest hint of anger. "Seth, you do what you think is best. It's all right. The rendezvous point is about half a day's ride from here. You should make it by noon if you leave now. I'm going after the pack. When I'm done, I'll look for you there, but I'm not asking you to wait for me if you can't."

Seth dropped his head, all the fight leaving him, his big body sagging against the chrome side of his motorcycle. He knew it was over. They both knew.

Priestess let her hand fall from Priest's shoulder. For some reason, she didn't exactly feel like touching him right then, but instead, let herself sink into the silence that swept over them. It was like a fog, the stillness, a heady mist that befuddled the mind and twisted the definite world into a mirage. Priestess could taste her own disappointment, as well as Seth's.

Something had happened here, not to them, but to him. Priest. He had slipped away into the night. He had replaced his heart and soul with a ghost. He had fallen away from them, into the dark. And neither of them could reach him, because he was already gone. So far gone.

Priestess closed her hands over her chest, feeling the exquisite loneliness wrap around her like a shroud. How had she have possibly let this happen?

Seth was the first to shake off the malaise of his disappointment and he reached out to her.

"Come with me to the rendezvous point," he said. "I could use your help."

But it was useless. It was hopeless. Priestess knew she couldn't go against Priest, even now. It was her sad fate, to always be the follower, offering up her soul and heart so freely, forfeiting what should have been hers to him.

And Priest might not even want it. She was beginning to think he did not even want it.

"You know I can't," she told Seth, reinforcing her solemn solitude, the bond she wanted to break free from but couldn't.

Seth understood. He was gracious and kind enough not to argue with her, a gentleman in a hard soldier's body. There was no reproach in his gaze when he looked at her, but an errant smile did tug at the corner of his chapped lips. "All right, then," he said. "I'll try to wait."

Climbing onto his bike, he initiated the start-up sequence and sped off into the dawn, a lonely pilgrim gone from their lives as quickly as he had come. There was no ceremony in his departure. No fleeting farewell or final embrace or sign that he would miss them at all. He knew better than to get bogged down in emotion and so did they.

But Priestess couldn't deny her disappointment, even though her mind easily adapted to lost hope. She was resigned, but not prone to despair. Her training had taught her to separate her heart and mind, to bear the burden that had been set upon her shoulders with indifference, to accept that life, her life, was not fair, nor would it ever be.

And she still had Priest, at least. That made all the difference.

"We won't find the pack now with the sun up," she told him, glancing at the vibrant streaks of molten gold that trailed over the eastern sky. The sun, though their closest ally in the war against vampires, was never forgiving, even at dawn.

"It doesn't matter," Priest replied, his manner brusque. Striding over to his own motorcycle, he dusted some of the lingering sand off the seat with a quick swipe of his hand. "You're not going with me."

"What?" She took a step towards him, her entire body jolting, electric fear charging through her veins.

Priest looked at her, his brows heavy over his eyes as he squinted against the light. "Seth's right," he explained. "Your bike is damaged. There's no way you'll be able to keep up."

"I can ride on yours," Priestess said weakly.

He shook his head. "You'll only slow me down. We need two vehicles."

"Are you going to leave me here?" she asked incredulously. The Wastelands lay around her, hot and dry, a leathery scar on the wounded flesh of the earth.

Priest shook his head. "There's an outpost. It's not far. You can have your bike repaired there. I'll take my time in tracking the pack. We'll meet up as soon as we can."

Priestess felt her legs weaken. This was not a plan, she realized, but a ploy, a tactic meant to push her away, to drive her off into the inhospitable reaches of the world while he went his own way.

He didn't want to be with her. That much was clear. He didn't want…he didn't want her…

Priestess immediately rejected the treacherous instinct that had somehow reduced her to an idealistic romantic. She was being unfair. She was judging what couldn't be judged, a simple touch of the lips, the hotness of his breath on her cheek, her own desire, which was dangerous. And she was wrong, so very wrong.

Shakily, she walked over to her damaged bike and leaned against the seat, hoping to disguise her sudden frailty. Her loyalty, her unwavering faith and devotion, had somehow been unsettled. The pillars shifted, fell, crashed into one another. Her heart broke and then broke again, the dust of it rising within her, reminding her of ash, reminding her of Lent and of sacrifice.

But this wasn't a sacrifice. This was a rejection, plain and cold and undisguised. This was a new sin, a fresh offense. This was the unthinkable.

Stiff upper lip, girl. You keep a stiff upper lip.

"All right," she said, her voice made rusty by her unshed tears. Behind her, she heard Priest starting up his motorcycle.

"You'll look for me?" he asked over the whirring hum of his bike's engine. "You'll find me again?"

Priestess wasn't sure, but she thought he was trying to assuage his own guilt, to steady that wretched revulsion she herself felt. And it sickened her.

"All right," she repeated, letting him only see her back, because her face was shattered and she was about to cry.

Stiff upper lip. Keep a stiff upper lip.

"I'll see you soon," Priest told her. "Be careful."

His retreat was hasty, a dog running away with its tail stuck between trembling legs. When the great noise of his bike, the grind of the tires on the sand, had faded somewhere into the distance, Priestess turned around and searched from him. He was a speck of black, insignificant, a meaningless dot on the faded horizon. A mirage.

"I love you," she said, the words like wisps, the stuff of dreams and wishes that were already dead.

If she had been a weaker woman, she might have cried then. But her brother had taught her better. Sage had taught her well.

Keep a stiff upper lip, girl, he'd say and she'd listened. Priestess always listened.

Priestess remembered the way to the outpost well enough. She had been there a few times before, during the war about a year before they were sent to infiltrate Sola Mira. Trapped between two hives, the outpost was itself a constant battle zone, a town that had been drained many times over until it was hollow, a shell of humanity filled with empty buildings and graves and bone fragments that could sometimes be found packed into the sand.

For Priestess, the town was haunted by death, not only because of the broken remains of lost life, but because it was last place she had seen the red-haired Priestess alive. At the time, of course, she had still hated the woman, even though she was the clergy's most celebrated general, a saint surely in the making. It was only when she was martyred that Priestess found some grudging respect for her old mentor. And after many years of self-doubt and dishonor and countless indignities, she found that could look back on the woman and see her as a symbol, a faded reminder of greatness past, when the world had belonged to the Priests and they had all been loved.

No more, of course. Not anymore.

By the time Priestess rolled into the outpost, her bike sputtering and choking with each turn of its dented front wheel, the morning shadows had shortened. Looking up at the sun, she guessed it to be an hour or so before noon. Seth, perhaps, had already reached the old rendezvous point and she couldn't help but wonder what he might find there.

The others, maybe. Or nothing at all.

She was terribly frightened that he would find nothing, that fate would turn against them and they truly would be the last of the Priests. And would it be worse, she thought, to be on the verge of extinction? Would it be worse to be remembered than to actually live?

Priestess stepped off her bike, switching off the laboring engine as she walked the vehicle down the main thoroughfare of the outpost. It was windswept, littered with small sand dunes and caved in buildings and smashed windows that opened like black sores in the sides of abandoned houses. There was, however, a vague hint of life about the place. Smoke rose in the distance, uncurling its grey fingers in the sky. The blades of a working windmill cut through the air, bringing the smell of cooking meat to her nose. There were people here yet, she knew and the thought saddened her. People clinging to the last, frayed edges of life. People who had been forsaken like her. People who probably didn't know enough to hope. People who were probably better off as a memory, a smudge on the subconscious, instead of living. It was strange, Priestess thought, how death could be more glorious than survival.

As she passed by the outpost's old armory, her mind surged, bringing up images she had buried along with all other remembrances, the inconsequential recollections that she should have discarded, but had held onto for so many years.

The red-haired Priestess had kept her headquarters in the room above the armory. It was their command center, a place of bustling activity and martial efficiency. It had been in that room, in that tiny square space with its long table and maps and mismatched chairs, that she had last seen the woman. And she had hated her then and the memory of that hate lingered now, stale, but powerful, like the scent of some old, familiar perfume.

She felt ashamed of thinking so poorly of her, though, and she allowed her remembrances to be softened with age, and what she hoped was wisdom. Glancing up at the second storey of the armory, Priestess said a quiet prayer for the woman. She had been brave, if nothing else. And strong. So unrepentantly strong.

A few days after she had last seen her, the red-haired Priestess had been deployed separately with Priest, first to Jericho and then Augustine.

Priestess remembered being jealous at the time, hearing bits of rumor, thinking of them together while she was all alone. She had counted the days until their return, hoping for a reunion that never came. The Church ended up extending Priest's deployment with the red-haired Priestess and the two of them spent nearly a year together working reconnaissance in Sola Mira. It wasn't until nine months later that the news broke. Priestess was dead, killed at the hive. Priest had assumed leadership of the clergy. And the Church had a new martyr, one that they praised gladly in death more than they ever had in life.

Priestess dropped her gaze, looking away from the armory. No one really knew what had happened at the hive that day and Priest himself didn't like to talk about it…except for the night before, when Seth had asked so many questions. Uncomfortable questions.

Priestess stared at her hands curled over the handles of her bike. The unthinkable, she mused. Perhaps she already knew what it was. Perhaps she had known all along.

Nine months…

The thought didn't have time to settle in her mind, to puncture her steadfast sanity with the insane. Someone was walking up behind her. Priest, she hoped, she prayed. It had to be Priest.

But it wasn't. It wasn't him. The voice that spoke was lazy, clotted with blood and blasphemy. And Priestess knew, she knew for certain that it was better for some to be remembered than to actually live. It would have been better for him.

"Have you come looking for answers here?" he asked, offering her a laugh that was rude but somehow tinged with a scholar's smugness.

Priestess turned slowly and she saw his eyes. They weren't green anymore. "Marcus," she said.

He smiled when he raised his hand and brought it straight down over her head.

Author's Note: A couple of surprises in this chapter. I do hope they were satisfactory. ;)

Thanks so much for reading! If you happen to have a free moment, please review. Feedback always makes me jump for joy. Chapter seventeen is in the works and should be posted in roughly ten days. Until then, take care and be well!