Author's Note: Hello and welcome to part twenty-seven of "Cross". Seth finally reveals some of his secrets in this chapter, although I am sure it's pretty obvious what he knows already. ;)

As always, I just want to take this opportunity to thank all my lovely readers and reviewers, Lystan, FireChildSlytherin5, Genius-626, Mss Heart of Swords01, saichick, Lonely Bleeding Liar and Jag. Also, I would like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/author alerts lists. Your encouragement is truly invaluable. Thank you all so much! I hope you enjoy this installment.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Priest.

Part 27 The Errand

Seth disliked the sound of his footsteps, the steely ring of his thick-soled boots as he paced the length of the hall. Cathedral City was an unfriendly wilderness to him, an irregular landscape that seemed to protest the defined flatness of the Wastelands. Although he had spent his years as a novice within the walls of the hulking metropolis, Seth's rural sensibilities could not adjust to the rigidity of the place. He was haunted by the shadows and distorted echoes. He was repulsed by the sooty air and crowded gutters and the people, who moved in mindless herds and lived like cattle packed into their tenements. Cathedral City was an aberration. It broke men and it twisted him now. Seth was no more than an animal trapped in a hutch, and he knew enough to fear the hunter.

The monastery was appropriately shadowed at night, a fitting mausoleum with iron walls and crude concrete floors. Seth continued his pacing, hoping to rid himself of the chill that climbed up his spine. The heat of his annoyance did little dispel the cold. He wasn't pleased to have been summoned by the Monsignors. He hated being pulled back from the front lines at City Seven to serve the petty needs of toothless old men. His musings of heresy were unwarranted, he knew, but deeply ingrained. Seth had little sympathy for his superiors, although he had taken strict vows of obedience. As it was, the red-haired Priestess had done her best over the years to dampen his respect for authority. Her casual cruelty had become a symbol tyranny and despite his devotion, Seth couldn't see anything benign or attractive in the Church's hierarchy.

Pausing, he ran the palm of his hand over his now healed jaw, feeling the hard ridge where the bone had been broken and then reset. Brutality went hand-in-hand with leadership. His masters were vile and so was Priestess. Perhaps, perhaps she had deserved to die…

Seth winced, disliking his indifference. He was not a hard man, but he could hold a grudge. Priestess had certainly never been a favorite of his and in his darkest moments, he could admit to himself that he was frightened of her. But the news of her death had stirred him from his apathy, and Seth was bound to a strange grief. He mourned for the loss of the familiar. He pondered the concepts of martyrdom and salvation. He thought about Priestess lying at the foot of Solar Mira, her jaw smashed and grotesquely distended.

That was not justice, Seth knew. The satisfaction of vengeance eluded him, especially when he realized that he pitied the woman. She had been alone, it seemed, even when she died. She had always been so alone…

Seth's fingers dug into his chin, the nails biting into his skin and he finally forced his hand away from his jaw. He wasn't feeling well. A headache gnawed at his temples and he was plagued by an unnamable worry. Cathedral City did awful things to him, reminded him of ghosts and the haunted past. In the stillness of the monastery and the solitude of his own mind, his warrior's soul began to miss the front lines. The world was understandable there, life simplified by the eternal struggle between life and death. But had death finally been awarded a just victory?

Seth closed his eyes. He wondered where they had buried Priestess. And he wondered why there had been no funeral.

It bothered him…

"Priest!"

Seth turned on his heel, drawn to the summons. A door at the end of the corridor had been propped open and he recognized the guard who had called to him. Seth raised his hand in acknowledgement, but stayed in his place.

The guard stuck his torso through the door. He slung his heavy weapon over his shoulder with a fluid twist, his bulky body armor creaking. "The Monsignors are ready for you," he said.

Seth appreciated the gruffness of his voice in this realm of smooth iron walls and unbroken, cement floors. His lips rounded in a companionable smile.

"Thanks," he said, unable to maintain the mystique and aloofness that the other Priests had deftly mastered. Plodding down the hall, he tried not to let his reluctance show. This assignment did not sit well with him and his discomfort was all too obvious. Before entering the chamber, he stood on the threshold of the door and said a prayer.

There were many things he never wanted to do and this was certainly one of them.

The Monsignors were perched on their high benches when he entered and he immediately disliked the practiced graveness of their countenances. There was a certain sense of bloated pride in each man that angered him, a desire to be God without possessing any of the natural godliness of clergymen. Seth sometimes thought that they were the most blasphemous old men he had ever met. And his father, if he remembered correctly, had been a pretty notorious scoundrel. Seth stiffened, recalling the acrid scent of whiskey combined with body odor and a mouth with few teeth that slurred every third word. At least his dear old Pa hadn't pretended to be a good man. Looking up at Orelas in particular, Seth noted his hypocrisy. It was deep, a river that ran through the soul, the course unchanged despite years and years of erosion. Where was the point, he wondered, when faith faltered? And did Orelas even realize how far he had fallen?

No. Probably not.

The Monsignor's smile was papery thin, a pantomimed expression that Seth found tedious. "Priest," he said in his resonant tenor, "thank you for coming to us. I know the journey from City Seven must have been trying."

"It was," Seth admitted. His back was still sore from sitting hunched over on his bike for two days straight, but he managed to stand tall. The smell of old incense lingered in the chamber. His nostrils burned. Smoke, he smelled smoke, but where was the fire?

Priestess had been all fire, hadn't she, with that red hair of hers. He thought of it growing wild and ratty now, twisted in a fraying braid along her decaying shoulders. How long would it be before her bones turned to dust?

He was aware of Orelas's gaze on him. Seth was tempted to offer him a taunting smile, but he resisted. Orelas looked threatened. His white eyebrows jumped together.

"Was your assignment explained to you?" he asked.

Seth raised one shoulder in a shrug. "No, Monsignor," he replied. "I only know that I was recalled to the capital." He paused, then added, "It was unexpected…in the middle of a campaign."

Orelas tucked his hands inside his robe, modeling a modest monk in prayer. "That is good," he said vaguely. "That is very good." He glanced at Chamberlain next to him. The other Monsignors sat wordless.

For the first time, Seth was confused. He stood still and tried to count the beats of his heart as his mind raced ahead. Priest had told him very little of his assignment, that was true, but why such secrecy? Suspicion was an inelegant thief. It stole his peace of mind yet left its prints everywhere. Priest was one of the few people that Seth had never second-guessed, admiring both his stoicism and restraint which were somehow never overbearing. And yet, paranoia made him consider the man in a new light. It seemed unusual that Priest should dispatch him to the capital in the middle of a hard-fought campaign. It seemed unnatural that orders should be deferred or concealed. It seemed odd that Seth should not know why he had been summoned.

And it seemed strange that Priestess hadn't been granted a funeral Mass.

Seth shifted his weight, his impatience evident. Orelas was meditating, his old eyes deep in his head. Chamberlain leaned forward over the high counter. He looked like a preening vulture, all neck and no head.

"You are discreet, Priest," he said and that was all.

"Not a word," Orelas murmured, his whispered tone still carrying with it a dangerous reverberation. "Not a word must be spoken.

Seth's tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He did not want to be troubled, but he was. The lights in the ceiling were hot on his head and he was reminded of the training grounds, where Priestess had stood over him all those years ago, taunting him viciously. She had kicked dirt in his face. Get up. Get up, boy. He remembered her eyes, Priestess's eyes. Has she seemed sad then? Had she not wanted to hurt him?

Seth exhaled once through his nose.

Priestess had deserved death, maybe, but she also deserved a funeral.

Seth closed his eyes. He knew that he didn't understand martyrdom. It wasn't a sacrifice, but a denial. In the back of his mind, he thought he heard a voiceless scream, someone crying out to him, reaching, crawling, digging her way out of a coffin buried at the crossroads. Begging, begging him.

Oh how he hated Cathedral City. Oh how he despised this fetid chamber with its burnt incense and ghosts that lingered and grew on the guilt of those around them.

Or was it all a misplaced fantasy? Something his grief and confusion had construed. Something his tired mind had invented to conceal the fact that he did feel sorry for Priestess, even though she had been a fiend.

The door behind him opened and Seth jerked, his eyes catching sight of Orelas's face, the mask of death carved into living flesh. What are you hiding, old man?

"A job for you," the Monsignor said, lifting his hands and beckoning Seth forward. "A very simple job."

Seth stayed where he was, but glanced over his shoulder. The same guard had reentered the chamber. He had a strange bundle with him now, a mass of dark blue linen.

"This package," Orelas explained, "must be delivered to the Sisters of Charity by tomorrow morning. You are to surrender the object to the Mother Superior and then return to your post in City Seven. You will say nothing of this to the others. You will never speak of this again. Priest, is that understood?"

Seth was afraid to answer. He knew, in some strange way, that he would be signing his life away, that in speaking he would transform himself into one of those hated hypocrites. His faith faltered. Without thinking, he touched his jaw. The bone was solid, back in place, but the scars remained.

"Yes," he said.

The guard handed him that bundle and Seth was surprised when he felt how yielding the mass of linen was, how soft and warm. The bundle squirmed against his chest. A small face showed. Two blue eyes. A tuft of reddish hair. The baby looked so much like his mother.

"Yes," Seth repeated, his back to the Monsignors. He understood then why there had been no funeral.

Author's Note: A shorter chapter, but the next one will be longer, I promise. Thanks for reading! I'm hard at work on part twenty-eight and should have it posted in roughly ten days. Until then, take care and be well, everyone!