"Coffee, if you please. Black, one sugar."
Lelouch acknowledged the words with a perfunctory nod of his head. A quick series of steps took him into his kitchen, and he began preparing the beverage of request. As he waited for the water to heat, he called out to his guest in the other room.
"I'm afraid this is the limit of what I can offer. I had been planning to use today to restock on refreshments after my last guests."
"It is more than enough," called back Ajuka. "The fault lies with me for providing such short notice."
While he'd vaguely expected the visit, he'd imagined it would come with prior warning. He'd considered setting some form of magical alert system, but doubted he had the skill required to have it avoid the perception of an expert.
"Busy schedule?" he asked.
He couldn't see his conversational partner, but there was an undeniable wry smile in the response. "That isn't the half of it. Falbium, as usual, refuses to attend to anything not of dire emergency, and Serafall has all but disappeared again. The work gets shifted to their secretaries, but they still require the examination and approval of a Satan. Some days I wonder if that damned civil war was worth all this."
The irresponsibility from ones of such high station would have surprised him, if he hadn't already encountered a living example. He had a sudden twinge of sympathy for the aforementioned assistants.
"Is this a regular occurrence?"
"Falbium hasn't changed for centuries. Serafall? Only whenever something catches her eye I suppose, though that happens much too often for my liking. Are you aware that when she first met you, she'd teleported out of the middle of a meeting with delegates from the various Magician Circles?"
"Isn't that rather unwise for diplomatic relations?" The water had been brought to a boil, and he readied a mug. "I can't imagine they took that well."
"It is the lesser of two evils," joked the man. "She plays the Foreign Affairs role because the rest of us are unwilling. Despite which, it rather suits her."
He stirred the beverage. "Inherently commanding of respect, yet unthreatening."
"Quite aptly put. It takes more than a bright outfit and personality to allay centuries of mistrust, but she does her best."
Ajuka paused. "Well, most of the time."
He carried the drink back and placed it on his coffee table, taking care to not disturb the chess board that occupied the centre. The devil inclined his head in gratitude, and reached to begin their game.
He moved his own pawn forward to mirror Ajuka's opening. "How long do you plan to stay?"
"Until your patience with my presence wears thin, presumably. The daily drudgery can hold until tomorrow."
He examined the board before him, planning his next few moves. Already he could feel the difference to the last match they'd played.
"Your associates won't be seeking you?" he asked.
The devil sipped his coffee. "They are of the misapprehension that I am currently studying the Hyoudou boy's arm. In all fairness, I was. My hard work deserves a moment of respite, no?"
Mention of the limb piqued his curiosity. His own studies into the arcane had been notably lacking when it came to knowledge of the draconian, and any texts he'd found mentioning dragons tended to be some variant of 'Run away'.
"If I may invite a researcher to discuss his results?"
Ajuka smiled. "If you think you can keep up."
The words held twofold meaning, and he glanced back down at the game. As of yet, there had been a distinct deficiency of openings into the devil's defence.
He shrugged easily. "Humour me."
"My initial hypothesis, when considering the domineering nature of the dragon species, had been that the arm was parasitic. Cases where sealed magical beings consume their hosts are not rare; though among Sacred Gears, it can often be unintentional."
"It was an equal bargain, at the time. I believe the boy still has an understanding with his companion."
"You speak as if he weren't only slightly younger than you," said the devil, raising an eyebrow. "But yes, he told me much the same. In addition, Hyoudou has an unnaturally swift growth rate, even compared to what little data I have of antecedent Boosted Gear wielders. That, compiled with his seeming synergy with the Great Welsh, causes equal development of both rather than one feeding off the other."
He set out a bishop, to act as bait. Whether it was taken or not, it would give impetus to his next move. "A cycle of positive feedback. How long before measures must be taken to ensure the safety of his body?"
Ajuka tilted his head. "Exactly my thoughts. But it so happens the answer to that is void. Regular intervention suffices to keep the power in check."
"Is there no permanent solution?"
"Actually," chuckled Ajuka, lightly, "I think the boy rather enjoys the extraction ritual. As much as I would like to question Miss Gremory's choice of method, it nonetheless remains effective."
He made a mental note to tread carefully around the subject with the devils. Around a certain one in particular.
The board remained even throughout their exchange, almost unerringly so. Left to develop, it would result in a stalemate. Ajuka drained the coffee, setting the empty mug aside afterwards. It came to rest towering over an ever-growing graveyard of chess pieces, courtesy of the efforts of both black and white. Surveying the board, the devil spoke again.
"A tie, then, in two or three moves. Shall we reset?"
He raised his palm, halting the movement of his opponent's hands as they made to reposition the pieces. "No. Allow me see what I can do."
An arched eyebrow, but no further objection. A second joined the first when he moved his king forward.
"An unorthodox move."
He smiled, awaiting the reply that wasn't verbal.
Naturally, the obsidian monarch immediately came under threat. The next few turns were spent alternating between escape and attack as he evaded check, luring more and more white pieces away and allowing black to do its work.
"Checkmate."
He leaned back and closed his eyes, tapping an index finger against his leg. It had been a lengthy while since he'd lost. Strangely though, the sting of this defeat felt unexpectedly dulled.
Ajuka studied the result of their match - a few short seconds - then moved to rearrange. "That was an unusual decision. Why did you not accept the tie?"
Again came the memories of Schneizel and his Father; of himself, even, not too long ago. He opened his eyes and flexed his fingers, moving them forward to assist the devil in setting the board.
"I despise boring games."
Ajuka didn't look up, instead releasing a considering hum. The soldiers were readied, and the battle began anew.
"So," he said, returning to their previous topic, "your final results?"
"As is always the case with research, nothing exciting. Information on a Longinus is always appreciated, however, no matter how inconsequential."
Now there was something he'd come across in his readings all too easily. Thirteen unique Sacred Gears, elevated into a class of their own by value of their ability; each holding the potential to overthrow the very gods.
He spared a moment of pity for their wielders.
Ajuka picked up the coffee mug and attempted to drink, only to be met with air. Looking down into it and frowning, the devil snapped the fingers of his other hand, and dark, steaming liquid filled it once more.
Their second match played out in comfortable silence, easing both players into a routine sequence of light taps. It went much the way of the first, and he broke the impasse much the same way; by advancing his king. This time, the move was effortlessly weaved into his grand strategy, rather than hastily tacked on, and it showed as the imbalance between black and white grew further to his favour.
He won.
In was in the midst of their third game that Ajuka spoke, dispelling the tentative peace.
"You know, while I was at the Academy earlier, I also happened across Miss Sitri. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, we found ourselves on a rather curious topic of discussion."
The game went temporarily abandoned as his opponent leaned back, taking a long draught of coffee. Upon its completion, he was affixed with an undecipherable azure gaze.
"You."
"Me."
"While I say discussion, it mostly consisted of her regaling me with the accounts of your numerous exploits. She made you out to be quite the maverick. I hesitate to claim she was venting, but find myself at a lack for a more suitable word."
Several incidents came to mind. The chess match, the gambling, the church. Constant refusals to her offers of peerage. His little altercation with Riser. Her increasingly failing attempts to instruct him in the ways of magic. He vaguely wondered if Ajuka had come here to reprimand him, but banished the notion as frivolous.
"Tell me," continued the devil, "how much experience do you have with paperwork?"
He blinked, and all thoughts of the board in front of him went forgotten. "Pardon?"
"Paperwork," repeated Ajuka. "Partially in digital form, but otherwise mostly physical."
His days as Vice President of the Ashford Student Council answered for him. "…I am no stranger to it. Depending on the content, I can complete it reasonably fast."
"Excellent." The devil nodded. "That already makes you more useful than half the people currently under my employ."
He searched the smiling face for any sign of dishonesty. "You cannot be serious."
"Oh, it's true. Government occupations have the unfortunate trait of inspiring lethargy in people, be they devil or human."
"That was not what I was referring to."
"Why not?" Ajuka waved a hand dismissively. "It's not as if I never hire humans. Do you know how difficult it is to find a devil that knows how to code? I'll tell you; there's only me. Software engineers – and this may be hard to believe – are often not the first choice of devils for their peerages. Miss Sitri also informed me of how you are currently in need of, and I quote, 'Honest work'. I suspect she may secretly feel guilty about forbidding your main source of income."
He had a brief instant to wonder what possible use coding would be to a race that commanded magic, before pointing out the obvious objection. "Coding is not something I would consider within my skillset."
"No, but at least you don't seem too averse to the idea of learning. Have you ever tried to explain to millennia old devils that there are languages outside the scope of our racial ability to speak? 'But what good is a language if it cannot be spoken?' they ask. Ridiculous."
He pictured himself at a receptionist's desk, sorting through underworld building permits and navigating the tangled web of bureaucracy.
"I haven't the slightest inclination of accepting your offer."
"Well, it was worth the attempt," conceded Ajuka. "A shame nevertheless. Less time for my hobbies, I suppose."
"Perhaps you could request assistance from your peerage?" If it even existed. He'd caught snippets of gossip pertaining to Lucifer's, at the engagement party, but distinctly no word of Beelzebub's.
The devil, after a considering look, produced a small object from the folds of his clothing and placed it upon the exact centre-point of their game board. The white pawn was non-uniform among its surrounding compatriots, standing slightly taller above them. He picked it up, feeling out its contours with his fingers, and it pulsed – once – a deep, entrancing green.
"What do you imagine a Satan's peerage is comprised of?"
"I have heard tell that for Rias' brother, it is limited to close relationships. As for the others, I can only speculate. Personal interests, beings with ability, and deals for political gain, I expect."
Ajuka smiled. "Mostly correct. You heard right about Sirzechs. His Queen is his wife, and his retainers are close confidants. Falbium is only one of us who dabbles within the political sphere when it comes to his peerage members, however. It is quite hilarious, watching conniving nobles plot their way into such an esteemed role, only to find out they've achieved naught but the position of a glorified personal workhorse."
"And yourself?"
Snap.
Thirteen bleached-white pieces appeared on the table, ordered into a set of two lines that stood in an imitation of a chess game's beginning. Taking into account the Pawn in his hand, he ascertained the missing two as the King and a Rook.
"One. Falak of the Dead. A serpent prophesied to swallow all of creation."
It was his own eyebrow that arched this time. "A formidable title."
The devil nodded, and continued. "Similarly; Behemoth, King of the Earth, Kujata the Holy Bull, and Bahamut of the Deep Sea. One Sacred Beast each, among the four of us."
"A gift?"
"A duty. Stripped of their ancestral homes by the three-faction war, their rampages claimed countless lives before they were brought to heel. As partial reparation, our race agreed to the task of their imprisonment. Though with the creation of the Evil Pieces, they have since been successfully tamed. I believe Sera takes Behemoth on walks every other week. A nice little scare for newcomers to the underworld."
"So you have no peerage of your own choosing," he noted.
Ajuka shrugged. "It is unneeded."
"Because your position bars you from entering Rating Games?"
"Technically, we are free to enter as we please, but for various reasons, our participation is limited to the occasional show-match. Serafall or Sirzechs take care of those usually."
"Then you take no interest in your own creation?" It was somewhat disconcerting, if that was the case. He attributed the feeling to his experience with Lloyd Asplund's fanaticism; the Knightmare Frame developer had treated the machines with a greater deal of care than he'd ever seen extended to a fellow person.
"Quite the opposite. It's just – well, what was it you said earlier?" Ajuka smiled, a degree cooler than the devil's previous flippancy, and the difference made its way into his tone.
"I despise boring games."
And he reminded himself that this man too had led a rebellion, and here in this world, that meant both might and dominance.
"Now," said Ajuka, indicating their unfinished game. "Shall we continue?"
Gnarled, pudgy hands swept across the desk in a fit of rage, sending stacks of paper fluttering to the ground. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything was wrong! It hadn't meant to be like this, not at all!
Valper Galilei muttered a curse under his breath, and began to pace the dingy, cramped space surrounding him. It was another sign of how far he'd fallen; come to hide in an abandoned, beggarly excuse of a building in this godforsaken, backwater country. But that, if it was to be the extent of it, he could tolerate. Genius sprouted from hardship after all. What he could notstand, however, were the thoughts of the uneducated, dithering philistines that had driven him here.
The Church, and their pet dog Exorcists. Feh. Brainless thugs were what they were, only capable of taking orders from men of his own calibre. What use were they, without the weapons he provided them? And yet they'd turned on him anyway all those years ago, declaring blasphemy and immorality for simply having the valour to stand by his beliefs; persecuting him as if he were his namesake of old.
He'd thought, recently, that he had been gifted the opportunity to exact vengeance, but he should have known better. Two. Two. What was he meant to achieve with two, when all his preparations had been for three? Preposterous. Unbelievable! It was akin to giving Da Vinci himself a palette containing only white. No, he hadn't even the palette! His painstaking calibrations; all of them had assumed Freed as the wielder. Where sanity had been taken from the boy, skill had been endowed in its stead, and it made for a perfect test-subject.
But that skill could not currently be found!
And now he had to make do with the scrapings from the bottom of the barrel. A ragged group of miscreants and strays, the vulgar tones of whom he could even now hear through the patchwork door. How those ruffians had ever been men of the cloth, he had no idea.
He found himself, at the end of his pacing, standing over a pair of objects in the corner of his room. Leaning against the wall, the embroidered scabbards exuded a magnificence that was only exacerbated by their grimy environment. Gilded inlay and aged leather mixed in a beautiful example of a master's craft, telling a history of glory in battle.
But that was nothing compared to what they held within.
Grasping the unadorned hilt, he pulled the left blade free, and was struck by the same absence of breath as when he'd first laid eyes upon it. But already he could feel Excalibur Rapidly rejecting his hold, the very steel thrumming in an effort to be rid of him. Another minute, and his arm would become unbearably numb.
He savoured each second.
When the sword had been replaced, reverentially, back into its sheath, he knew his next course of action.
He would find Kokabiel.
He would do it. And he would tell the Fallen that he deserved a second chance. That he would not disgrace himself again. No, it hadn't even been his fault, the first time! It wasn't due to him the infiltration had come up short, just as it wasn't his doing that Kokabiel's hand in all this had almost been revealed to the Church. The plan could still be salvaged. All he had to do was make contact.
Except he had no means of doing so.
…
Didn't he?
Hurried hands rushed to gather strewn papers, and he prepared himself for a night of work. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way of drawing the Fallen's attention, of sending a message.
After all, while he no longer possessed the resources to contest this town's overseers, devils were hardly the only adversaries he could pick from.
If he was directing a contingent of shadowy foreigners recently arrived in Kuoh, he would possibly consider it ill-advised to occupy a popular hangout spot for the local teenagers. Displaced from their usual loitering-place, loud mouths would reach all kinds of ears. For example, an exorcist under the guise of a missionary - who could all too easily hear of such things from consulting the troubled youths. For another, a curious party who was actively looking into said exorcist's disappearance.
Such were Lelouch's thoughts as he idly flipped through the pages of a paperback novel. He was seated in a café, alone by the glass-front of the store as cheery synthesised music played lightly over the speakers. He made a pretence of reading, but found the book – a work of dystopian fiction – did not capture his interest. What did, however, was the derelict apartment block across the road.
Whatever he could make of it through the rain, anyway. The town had been experiencing a spate of summer storms as of late, and myriad colours paraded past him from his vantage point courtesy of a sea of umbrellas.
Perhaps he should give the fugitives a smattering of credit. Kuoh was a fine choice of location, under the noses of two prominent devil heiresses. It made for a den of proxy conflicts and espionage rather than a battlefield, and this densely populated area, at least, would provide some slight cover from prying eyes. Then again, it also made it rather easy for a lone individual to slip up against overlooked buildings unnoticed.
Much as he'd done earlier.
"Still no word?"
"None. Wherever the Sellzen kid ran off to, he left no tracks."
"A twenty says he's dead in a ditch somewhere. Guys like him; they all end up the same way."
"That twenty is mine anyway. Pair Kings."
"Ah, fuck. You're a lucky bastard, you know that?"
It was such an incredibly useful instrument, magic, allowing for the most miniscule of details. He'd counted at least a dozen differing voices over the past hour alone.
"Lelouch?"
He turned in his seat, and came face-to-face with a bedraggled Yuuto Kiba. The Kuoh uniform hung limply against the boy's frame, damp from the outside weather.
"This is a surprise," he noted.
"Fold. What kind of- "
He casually brushed a hand against his ear, disguising the movement by gesturing toward the empty seat next to him.
"Care to join me?"
He observed as Kiba obliged with a gracious nod. The boy had not been himself these past few days, and he'd often caught the blonde's eyes drifting during their lunchtime conversation. If the current strained smile was anything to go by, it would seem that whatever troubles that plagued the Knight had come to a head.
A young waitress came by with the offer of a warm drink, but Kiba dismissed her with a casual wave, sweeping back several strands of wet hair.
"No, thank you. I find myself needing the chance to cool off right now."
She stammered a response and all but bolted back behind the counter, blushing heavily.
"Do you do that on purpose?" he asked.
The blonde tilted his head quizzically. "Do what?"
"Never mind."
If he remembered correctly, the Occult Research Club was to participate in the school ball tournament today. He'd been extended the invitation to spectate, but he'd refused, and not only because of the way Akeno had framed the question. "What brings you here?"
"I could ask you the same. I hadn't expected to run into you when seeking shelter from the rain."
He looked pointedly at the boy's soaked form. Clearly, Kiba had been outside for more than just a few minutes of seeking shelter, but it would rude to say as such. "I came here on a whim, really. How was the match?"
The Knight exhaled, coating a small section of the glass in front of them with mist. "It seems my performance today was sub-par. Rias gave me a rather comprehensive dressing down because of it."
There was more that was not being disclosed, if the blonde was referring to his master by name, rather than title. "Something is on your mind."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Even if it weren't, I pride myself on a pair of rather keen eyes."
"Among many other things." Kiba gave a dry chuckle. "Well if even Issei could see it, I suppose it would be too much to ask for you not to notice."
"It must be rather serious, to break your composure so."
"Nothing you haven't managed to achieve," quipped the blonde. "But I guess that's an accurate enough assessment. Regardless, it's something I must take care of on my own."
He smiled dryly. "And yet I get the premonition there are certain individuals who will refuse to concede to you on that point."
Almost as if on cue, a streak of black dashed past the window, topped with a wild mop of brown hair. They both watched as Issei Hyoudou continued past them, head swivelling every which way in search. To no avail, however, as despite looking directly at them twice, the boy failed to recognise them and soon ran out of sight.
A few seconds later, the glare of a bright pink umbrella walked into view, pausing as its holder looked into the café. He raised a single finger to his lips and received a slight nod in reply. Then Koneko Toujou, too, left.
"What troublesome companions," sighed Kiba, "…I suppose I'll have to make it up to them later."
He hummed his agreement, and their exchange descended into silence. The Knight seemed content with the arrangement, so he returned his thoughts to other matters, flipping to a random page. There were several reasons for a group of Stray Exorcists to seek refuge, and most of them were promising. Humans were much easier to handle than the alternative, especially considering some of the tools he had at his disposal.
A short time passed, and he reached the end of the novel. The words registered in his mind, but remained devoid of meaning as he moved them aside for other considerations.
"What would you do, Lelouch, if you had everything stripped away, left with only your life? Hypothetically, of course."
The enquiry broke him from his reverie, and he looked up into the grim visage of Yuuto Kiba, seeming more exhausted than he'd ever seen him.
His reply came easily.
"I would find the one responsible and return the favour a thousandfold."
"You can be rather frightening sometimes, you know that?"
"I can't imagine why."
The blonde closed his eyes and smiled. "Right. My mistake."
"And what prompted you to ask such a question?" he asked.
"Spontaneity. Curiosity. I'm not quite certain myself. Perhaps it is simply this weather, making me feel sentimental."
"I had not held you for the sentimental type," he said.
"Oh, I have my moments. Doesn't everybody? But I suppose it's time I left anyhow. Wouldn't want Issei catching a cold."
"I suspect," he said, "that if he has Rias and Asia to take care of him, he really wouldn't mind."
Kiba let free a bright peal of laughter. "That he wouldn't. All the same though, one should take care of their juniors. Any longer, and I won't be able to find him. See you, Lelouch."
The blonde rose from his seat, but a quick remark brought the movement to a halt.
"Kiba."
"Yes?"
He deliberately focused his eyes on the boy, and his next words held an undercurrent of neutral calm.
"If I were after retribution, it would be meticulous and unyielding. Those who claim falsehood upon the phrase 'An eye for an eye' are either inexperienced in the ways of the world, or naively idealistic. While such idealism may be admired, the spouting of such empty words does nothing to soothe one who has had his very existence denied; beyond even the domain of despair."
No response, as Kiba waited for him to continue.
"…However," His hands found a nearby napkin, and he toyed with its folds as he structured the remnants of his address. "Above all, I would ensure that in the undertaking of such an endeavour, I would not suffer the loss of a single thing more."
The blonde remained quiet, and he provided a means of egress.
"Hypothetically, of course. I'll see you at lunch tomorrow, Kiba."
A chime of the tiny bell above the entrance preceded the Knight's exit, leaving him alone once again. He decided he would make his own leave soon; it was apparent from his deficit of results that observation would be vain when it came to this issue. At least for today, he would have to make do with only what his listening spell provided.
Brushing another hand against the side of his head as he stood, the abrasive sounds of conversation played in his ear a second time.
"-ther one yesterday. Pretty skilled, too, but not enough."
"That's what, the third? You'd think they'd start sending more than just one at a time."
He retrieved his umbrella from the rack by the door, and stepped outside to find that he had no need for it. The weather had begun to take a turn for the better, and a grey sky was slowly turning a pale, muted blue. From behind him, in the café, he heard the young waitress from earlier release a bubbly giggle.
Perhaps she thought Kiba had folded the origami crane and meant it for her.
"That's the funny thing; they can't. Too scared of the devil who owns things around here. They don't want to show weakness, either. What'd you think big man Satan would say, if he found out that the Church had two Excaliburs stolen from right under their noses?"
Had he heard that right? Two of King Arthur's legendary blade, with the indication of more? Focused as he was on the exchange, he briefly failed to notice his surroundings, and his shoulder collided with an oncoming pedestrian.
He uttered a brief apology, but the only reply came in the form of a non-committal grunt. The provider - a young man – sharply walked away, giving him the rear view of a silver-haired head.
"Might as well be hunks of metal for all the good they're doing us. Seems to me like we've been doing a whole lot of nothing recently."
"Old coot says orders will come soon enough. We just have to sit back and wait."
With this new influx of information his path was clear. Stray Exorcists and fugitives were not the only ones who could make use of this town's intrinsic protection.
"He's been telling us that since we got here. All I'm saying is that I signed up so I could off a few devils, and so far, we haven't seen a single one."
"Amen to that."
Angels, Fallen, Devils. How contrived, that one must limit themselves to only a single choice. Heading back towards his residence, he began to assemble a game board in his mind.
It meant that he would have no opponent, but he was no stranger to playing both sides.
[Patience, young one. He will not escape again.]
"You said that about New York," Vali Lucifer muttered, hands shoved in pockets. "Dublin, too."
[It was not I that brashly ran in head-first, giving our prey ample time to escape.]
"Azazel said he'd stand and fight if challenged."
[Your mentor's advice is coloured by his shared past. Our quarry has a goal, and it is evidently worth more than a clash with us.]
It was stupid, is what it was. This prolonged hunt did not suit him. Contention between the strong belonged on the battlefield, where it pumped adrenaline and boiled blood. Not here, striding down a mundane street in search of clues.
The only reason he'd agreed to Azazel's request was for the chance it presented. How powerful would a head of the Grigori be, compared to himself? What new peaks could he reach? Or would he be disappointed, left to seek a worthier foe?
[Vali.]
"Yeah," he said. "I sense them."
The reek of divine energy pervaded his nostrils, and he focused his eyes on the building across the street.
"…Kokabiel isn't here."
[No.]
Damn. Then he'd been too late again. No doubt the Fallen had already run to another country, off to pull strings and work machinations. He'd have to pick up the trail once more.
His shoulder rammed against an unobservant student, but he barely spared the boy a glance as he continued onwards to the crossing. Maybe he could chip away at his foul mood if he limited himself to one arm, and no usage of his Sacred Gear, but he doubted it. Stray Exorcists were usually weaker than he could account for.
[Leave them. The mice may yet lead us to larger game.]
He stopped in his tracks, uncaring of how he obstructed passers-by. "You think he's still here?"
[Perhaps. Regardless, there exists a better way to let loose your impulses.]
"He won't be strong enough yet Albion."
[Then we spur him forward a little. And if Ddraig suffers the humiliation of defeat as a result, well, that would be unavoidable.]
He considered the possibility. One inexperienced Sacred Gear wielder? No. Not even if it was a Longinus. But two high-ranking devils, complete with entire peerage?
Maybe they could give him a challenge.
"I must humbly request that the honour of this duty fall to the Eastern Orthodox Church. Please, allow us to make restitution for our failings," said a greying, rotund man.
"Your intentions are noble, but one of your men has disappeared already. It may be for the best that we consider other options; three exorcists lost is already three too great a number." The reply was spoken by a wizened nun, stern of voice and posture.
"I say we send a larger cell," came the clipped tone of a thin, bearded priest. "It is only a handful of Strays. Our men could be in and out before the devils even noticed."
"What of the Angels? What do they- "
Goodness, this was becoming tiring.
Griselda Quarta would not let that show, however, and schooled her features into a polite smile. Before her, an assembly of clergymen and church officials were seated around a large, weathered table, engrossed in debate. To her side, accompanying her and standing by the walls, were a scattering of her fellow exorcists; most of whom making no effort to hide their own boredom. It was no surprise, as the gathering had begun at noon - two hours hence - and there had not yet been any sign of progress.
She was somewhat displeased by this whole meeting, which consisted of most of the sect heads jockeying for position, but conceded it as necessary. She was experienced enough to realise the gravity of the situation; two holy relics were now within the territory of the sisters of Lucifer and Leviathan, and by excommunicated members of her own faith no less. If they so much as scratched the girls within the near future, fingers could and would be pointed, collapsing this tentative faction ceasefire as if it were a fragile house of cards.
Still, even that would not be enough to cause this amount of disagreement. There were two distinct reasons as to why this conference had stretched on so long, and the first lay with her superior, Dulio Gesualdo. When the clerics and priests became unruly in their discourse, it was Dulio that calmed them with honeyed words, the same way the man would read bedtime stories to the children residing in the Vatican's orphanages. One of the church's strongest combatants, possessor of the legendary Longinus Zenith Tempest, and representative speaker for her and every exorcist in this room and beyond.
He was currently fast asleep in front of her, head cradled in his arms.
Seated at the head of the table – though that was a lenient term for the way the chair bore his massive frame – was the second reason. It was Cardinal Priest Vasco Strada that had called this assembly, and yet the man had barely spoken a word, having spent the majority of it in deep contemplation. Whatever thoughts occupied the mind of Father Strada, she hoped would conclude soon. She'd promised Xenovia a spar later, and the young girl would be sorely disappointed if she could not hold to her word.
As if he'd read her mind, the man stood up, towering over every other occupant of the room.
"Peace, friends. If I may speak?"
It was a testament to Father Strada's legend that everyone immediately quieted. Out of the corner of her vision she could see some of the younger exorcists standing a little straighter, admiration in their eyes.
"How many years has it been, since the last major faction conflict?"
When it became clear the man was actually wanting for answer, some of the bolder ones began to trade whispers, desperately trying to recall their Sunday-school lessons.
"Fifteen centuries ago." Dulio Gesualdo yawned, stretching his arms to ward off the remnants of his recent nap. "Old Arty's final fight."
The cardinal smiled. "Yes. The Battle of Camlann, in the year of the lord 537. And even in that, the majority of combatants were human, unaware of the divine and demonic forces that shaped their destinies. For fifteen generations we have been blessed with peace. There have been unfortunate missteps; a number of which occurring in my own eighty-seven years on this earth, but on the whole, the Church stands as strong as ever."
A junior exorcist to the right of her began to applause with enthusiasm, only to stop as he realised nobody was joining him. A sheepish apology soon followed, and it was met with a round of good-natured laughter.
"To continue," chuckled Strada, "I would propose thusly. This harmony; why should we not share it? Is it not His instruction to love thy neighbour? We are preoccupied with the notion that the Devils and the Fallen cannot know of our misfortune. Why? Because we fear the vulnerability it would present? I, at least, do not consider our enemies of old to be so war-mongering that they would leap at every opportunity."
The respectful silence grew strained, and she could see the unease displayed by the more zealous believers in the room. This line of thought was commonly trod ground, and it had not been resolved for a reason.
"I can see the hesitation upon your faces. It is not unwarranted. Many of us here are old enough to remember the unfortunate missteps, and the rest have heard of the tales. Friends and family have been lost, even by the hand of those we once thought were our own."
The tense mood grew sombre, with many ducking their heads in remembrance. Several uttered a mumbled prayer.
"But I ask this of you. Do not pass this prejudice onto the younger generation. They are impressionable; I certainly remember being so at that age. Our children deserve a future where if a misstep is made, suffering will not be the result. Instead, it will be the gentle touch of a guiding hand. And to the offspring of our once-foes, this message too can be spread, so that one day the Three Factions will become a name spoken not in reference to the old years of war, but to newly-made peace. This, I believe with all my heart, to be possible."
"So what do you suggest we do, Father?" asked an archbishop. "Should we- "
The man was cut off as the doors burst open to reveal a bespectacled junior deacon, robes hoisted with one hand to make for easier running.
"Father Strada!" The deacon came to a stop at the cardinal's side, and only now could she make out the object in the other hand as a mobile phone. "I-I'm terribly sorry, but you said to inform you immediately of any developments in Kuoh."
"Not at all. Your haste does you well, young man. Please, share your findings with us."
The reassuring words brought a beaming smile to the face of the deacon, who proceeded to hold up the communications device for all to see. "Yes, of course! We've received a call from a mage; seeking parley. He said he wouldn't explain any further than that until I had brought him to you."
"Indeed," came a collected tone from the phone's speaker. "I'm told you are called Father Strada. A pleasure."
"I had not been aware there resided a mage in Kuoh," said the cardinal, intrigued. "To which circle do you pledge your allegiance?"
"None. You would be hard-pressed to find record of me anywhere. I rather enjoy my privacy, you see."
"A reasonable standpoint. But placing aside the question of how you came to be in possession of this number, I believe you have yet to introduce yourself."
"Ah, of course. Forgive my discourtesy."
There was a break in the words, and it was long enough to have her wondering if a penchant for privacy was enough to withhold even a name. But before Father Strada could speak again, the mage obliged in a tone that reminded her of the villains from her childhood fairy-tales.
"You may call me Zero."