6

Fiat Lux Chapter 1

It is a cold and stormy night; the sunlight has not yet climbed over the horizon when Roland lowers himself into the gaping maw of the building and repels down. Outside, the wind blows in fearsome gusts, sending colorful gold and red and brown leaves whirling through the sky like flickers of flames dancing in the hearth. Tree creak nearby, their massive branches swaying to and fro as the wind tugs playfully at the few leaves still stubbornly clinging to them. The sky is heavy with the promise of rain and large clouds making their slow migration across the sky. Already in the distance, he can see sheets of it falling to the ground. It is not the sort of weather in which most people were oft found outside; in fact, Roland would have greatly preferred to be holed up at home at this moment, reading a good book and warming his toes by the space heater. He'd been doing exactly that, watching in fond amusement as Olivier nodded off beside him when the call had come. A mission. Not anything spectacular or even grandiose, just a lost kitty collection, but the owner had been adamant that it had to be done immediately, "or poor Murrmurr will be distraught in this weather and never find his way home!" his boss had said tiredly, voice remarkably akin to an elderly woman experiencing a mild inconvenience. Thinking it to be simple enough, Roland had laughed and agreed to sweep the area as his apartment was relatively close to where the cat had last been seen. Finding the cat had been the easy part, for it was a beast of tremendous size, its luscious white fur glistening in the evening light so that it almost shown with a golden hue. Although the description given to him had made no mention of the striking pair of heterochromatic eyes this cat possessed, Roland had figured him to be a close enough match and approached confidently. Unfortunately, what he had originally mistaken to be friendliness turned out to be a skittish nature, for the little scamp bolted the second Roland shouted his name.

A fluffy white tail waving in the air was the last Roland saw of it before it disappeared around a corner. Roland had given chase, but by the time he'd reached the same corner, it had long since vanished. He'd searched around for a little longer and then returned, dejected, to his apartment to beg a favor from his roommate. Olivier had not been pleased to be awoken from his nap, grumbling crossly up at Roland as if he were the source of all his woes. Roland would have begged to differ against such accusations, but his thoughts are caught up in how Olivier's hair surrounds his head in an angelic halo as if they were made from obsidian rather than citrine. He'd had it cut recently, the locks now only reaching to his shoulders rather than his waist as they had before. Roland preferred them at this new length, for it means that he spent less time de-clogging the bathtub on cleaning days. However, their new shortness does little to mitigate their natural waviness, and even now, they formed in loose curls, clinging to Roland's fingers when he touched Olivier's head. It is when they are loose like this that Roland liked them best, for they framed Olivier's face in such a manner as to soften his sharp jawlines and bring a rare kindness into his sharp gaze. Olivier's brows are far too often furrowed in irritation, and Roland dragged his thumb across them now, seeking to smooth out the irritation brewing there. His efforts were rendered null when Olivier batted his hand aside, lips still curved into a downwards pout that made the organ inside Roland's chest throb.

Roland had kissed him then, intending only to silence him for a bit, but things had rapidly spiraled out of control when Olivier's hands settled on his ass. Fingers digging into the curve of his buttocks, his pinkies going so far as to brush across the bare skin of Roland's thighs, for his shorts were of the sort that barely extended past his buttocks. Without meaning to, he'd found himself perched in his boyfriend's lap, hands curling in his hair as their tongue intertangled in a heated kiss that left Roland breathless with delight. He'd laughed when Olivier's teeth had found his throat, clever hands slipping beneath his shirt and finding all the areas that made him see stars. Roland lost all coherent thought for a time. When it returned, seeping into his senses like the slow arrival of sunlight on a winter day, he had forced out the words of his question in between desperate gasps of air as Olivier moved within him, hands leaving bruising touches on his hips. The look of pure exasperation he had received in return had been amusing until Olivier reversed their positions, pinning Roland's hands above his head in a display of strength that sent arousal coursing straight to his groin. "You're beautiful," Roland had said, unable to silence the words even if he had wanted to, and Olivier's cheeks had turned a pretty pink even as he'd huffed crossly. Fingers had curled briefly around his wrists, and Roland had felt the magic sink in like a cold lock of metal around them, pinning him effectively to the couch; hardly a moment had passed before Olivier's hands were on his thighs, spreading them as far as they will go, and he has begun to move again. He had paused occasionally as if to readjust, clearly searching for something, and when he found it, he sped up in such a manner that Roland was sent tumbling straight over the precipice of coherency and back into mindless pleasure.

All things considered, it is not a displeasing state of being to exist in, and one that Roland relished lingering in for as long as he could get away with. His muscles have been rendered void of stress; his whole body, in fact, felt rather like he's been treated to a day at the spa, the pleasant feeling of Olivier's magic coursing through him relieving him of his tension. Lifted a hand and gently carded it through his boyfriend's hair, admiring how he leaned into it instinctively. "I'll need to shower now," Roland said, making little attempt to restrain his amusement. "And then, I'll still be requiring your assistance with that cat." Olivier had grumbled loudly, his voice more felt as a vibration against Roland's chest than actual words, but with some coaxing, he had stood up and wandered off to shower while Roland cooked them up a bite to eat. Afterward, he had cleaned himself up, and Olivier had cast the spell to track down their missing cat. Said spell was what landed them in their current predicament, rappelling into the inwards of a long-abandoned church. They'd tried the doors first, of course, but those had been locked through years of disuse, and the two massive chains wrapped around the handles had dissuaded them from trying any further. This left the windows as the only suitable form of entry; it had taken some time to find one that wasn't likely to shatter upon contact nor positioned in such a manner to render all entry impossible. In the end, they had settled on the roof, attaching a rope around the leg of the bell tower - although the bell that had once hung in it was long gone - and made their way to an opening bereft of a window at all.

Roland had gone; first, a flashlight clipped to his belt as he lowered himself down for what felt like an eternity before his feet found solid ground and he could look about. Even with the aid of the flashlight, shadows still linger in the corners of the nave, clinging to the pews lined up in neat rows and seemed almost to grow darker in his peripheral vision. He swings the flashlight, first one way and then the other, gauging the size of the building and trying not to shudder at the feeling of stale air entering his lungs. "It looks like an abandoned church!" He calls up, lifting the flashlight to point at the hole through which he'd entered. "You can come down."

"Descending with Hauteclaire," Olivier answers, and hardly a moment passed before the sound of flapping wings reached his ears, the air around him stirring in ways that it hasn't had to do for years. Roland steps out of the way, keeping the flashlight pointed at the ground so Olivier has a landing area to aim for. The small hairs at the base of his neck are standing up, and he imagines that he can hear boss music playing in the distance, for if this were a video game, they are surely about to be pounced on by undead creatures of some variety. Looks around again, but no creepy crawlies come crawling out of the woodwork, and the only thing his eyes land on is the judgmental figure of Jesus staring down at him from his cross. Roland stares back, resisting the urge to touch the place on his chest where his cross used to hang. It has a better home now, anyway, and if Jesus doesn't like it, well, he can take it up with his father at their next family get-together. Olivier alights next to him then, his wings blotting out even the feeble glow of the flashlight so that the only things it reflects off of are his eyes and Hauteclaire's teeth when she pants. He sets his familiar down on the ground with a grunt, murmuring a soft command that has her immediately taking up a defensive position. "Have you seen anything?" Olivier asks as he unstraps his own flashlight and flicks it on. His wings give one final shake and then disappear with a cascade of inky feathers. Roland catches one and shoves it into his pocket, intending to add it to his collection.

"Nothing but pews and old books," Roland answers; he spins around again, allowing the light to slowly traverse from wall to stained glass back down to the empty pews, eternally damned to wait for a congregation that will never return. "I wonder what happened here; it's in surprisingly good condition for a place that no one has been taking care of." He steps further into the building, pausing to inspect what had first appeared to be cracks but now seem more like claw marks in one of the walls. Reverently he traces a hand across them, noticing that they are longer than his own fingers, suggesting that whatever beast that had made them must have been huge. He spots another set of claw marks a few rows down, the pews near it laying in shambles, and when he turns his flashlight on them, he sees that the wood is coated in a dark material that flakes when he scratches at it. "Blood," he murmurs. "I think people died here."

"It's a church, of course; people died here," Olivier replies, sounding far less perturbed by this fact than Roland feels he ought to be. Roland stands up, hoping that Olivier can see his pout, but the sorceror isn't looking his way, his attention having been captured by the same statue of Christ that Roland had disparaged earlier. Quietly Roland makes his way over to him, close enough for their shoulders to brush. "Do you think he would have approved if he'd known what his followers were doing?" Olivier asks softly, his fingers hovering above the cross that hangs from his neck. It's the same one that Roland had once worn around his own throat for most of his life, he'd gifted it to Olivier last year, and though the absence still perturbs him on occasion, he finds that it suits Olivier far more than himself.

"No," he answers when the silence has dragged on for far too long to be comfortable. "I don't believe that he would have." Sees Olivier's expression darken, but there is little that he can say to soothe it, for the battle that Olivier fights is internal, memories of a time from before he met Roland when his people were hunted as criminals for the crime of being born with magic in their veins.

Roland had been seven when the soldiers had come to his village, plastering up signs of horrid-looking creatures with fire in their mouths and claws for hands. His mother had taken him to see the signs and made him read out loud the words that had been written underneath 'See something, say something. 1-800-Safety' over and over again until they had been firmly imprinted in his head. She'd then knelt down in front of him, her hands heavy on his shoulders as she'd stared into his eyes. "Roland, if you see something, you must come to me first, alright? Promise me." Roland had promised because she was his mother, and her words were absolute law in his eyes. What he remembers most is the piercing clearness in her eyes, the way that the green of them appeared almost to glow with some inner light. It wasn't until years later when he'd met a boy with cold eyes and lightning in his hands, that he'd understood what she'd been asking of him. And, just what exactly his mother had been, for, in the final years of the war, she had gone missing without a trace, leaving him to raise his little brothers on his own. Roland had searched for days and weeks, kept a secret hope burning in the depths of his heart, but the longer she was gone, the more it faded until it had become only smoldering embers. The only thing that kept it going was the knowledge that sorcerers were executed in the public square, not secretly disposed of in some shady alley. Roland himself had inherited no such magic, not from his father, who long ago turned into ash, nor his mother, but his little brothers were not so lucky. Charlot and Adelard seemed to have been stuffed to the brim with potential. Sometimes, Roland wonders if it was them that had caused his mother to go missing, for if she had possessed magic, it was only a trickle of it, hardly enough to lift a feather. However, her mothers had possessed power beyond all imagination, or so he's been told. Roland has no memory of meeting them; by the time he'd been old enough to remember them, they'd already perished under the cruel tyranny of the church, having sacrificed themselves to allow others to escape.

Apparently, self-sacrifice runs in the family, Roland thinks bitterly and then slaps himself for it, but even the stinging of his cheek can't distract him from the painful reality of knowing that he was helpless to save his family when they'd needed him the most. The eldest son was born without an iota of magic, and his little brothers were too young to control the power licking within their veins. They're safe now, though, tucked away inside the high walls of Sorina's School of Sorcery, where Adelard attends middle school and Charlot does whatever it is that elementary schoolers do in their free time. Roland hasn't the faintest idea what that could possibly be. He ought to pay them a visit, he decides; it's been a while since he's seen their smiling faces, although Adelard is reaching that age where even the slightest bit of attention has him cringing and running for cover. Roland doesn't understand it, but thankfully, he's not the dorm parent and thus doesn't have to deal with his brother discovering puberty.

"Roland." Olivier's voice drags him out of his thoughts far swifter than anything else could hope to, and he looks up to see that his friend is on the far side of the room, inspecting a doorway of some kind. "Come over here." Roland hastens to join him, Hauteclaire trotting at his heels as if it is her self-appointed duty to keep Roland safe. It's simultaneously flattering and irritating that both Olivier and his familiar seem to think him the greater priority when it comes to needing protection. He stops beside him, and when Olivier gestures, he peers around the wall, eyes alighting on their target. The cat is seated on what appears to be an overturned desk, casually cleaning its paw as its tail hangs over the edge, the picture of relaxation. Roland steps forwards, intending to grab the source of all their troubles, but Olivier's hand keeps him in place. "Quietly," he hisses. "We don't want to spook it and send it fleeing again."

"I can be quiet," Roland hisses back and frees himself with a rough jerk of his shoulders. Looks back to see that the cat is still oblivious to his presence and approaches on tip-toes, his attention more focused on it than watching where he's placing his feet. It is a mistake that costs him dearly, for his foot encounters something that gives off a great noise moments before it shatters beneath his feet and knocks him off-balance. The cat leaps several feet into the air as Roland stumbles forward, his hands slamming painfully against the desk. "Murr!" The cat swipes at him, claws passing a scant breath away from his head before it takes off with a yowl. Roland hears Hauteclaire bark in response and then the sound of her paws as she goes tearing off after the cat. He sighs and drops his head onto the desk, directing his curses into its uncaring wood. When he straightens, Olivier is watching him in amusement, his eyes glinting in the manner that they do when he's trying not to laugh. "Shut up," Roland hisses at him and rapidly limps back out into the nave. "Where did they go?"

"Mind your step," Olivier says in reply, neatly avoiding the swat that Roland aims at him and taking off at a jog towards the other side of the building once more. Roland follows after him, trying to ignore the way his ankle throbs painfully with each step. The cat leads them on a merry chase through the nave and the narthex and even makes a valiant attempt to climb one of the towers before the lack of opposable thumbs ends its tom-foolery. They corner it in the transept, Roland panting far harder than he would like to admit as the cat hisses crossly down at them from the top of a reliquary. It glowers down at them, eyes glowing eerily in the gloom, one purple and one blue, and Roland wonders if it truly is a cat, for he has never seen one with such distinctive markings. There is a collar around its throat, though, made of some dark material, but what most catches his eye is the single red jewel that hangs from its center. There is little doubt that it's expensive, for the jewel itself has been carefully wrapped in golden netting as if to protect it from any potential harm.

"You," Roland says dryly, shaking his finger at the cat. "Are a very naughty cat." The beast merely licks its jowls and looks utterly unrepentant, but Roland is of little doubt that it's plotting an escape. He takes a step forward, hand resting on Olivier's shoulder for support. "Why don't you be a good kitty and come along with us, hmm?" He takes another step and feels Olivier start to move as well, neatly paralleling his movements so that they are prepared to catch the fiend should it try to escape. Roland doesn't think that it will, though; it's a far jump from the top of the reliquary to the ground. Hauteclaire is there as well, and as fast as the cat might be, Roland would willingly place his life savings on the German shepherd catching it. The cat seems to have realized this as well, but rather than climb down, it backs up further until it is pressed as close as it can get to the wall. Roland exchanges an exasperated glance with Olivier. "Do you want to, or should I?" he asks.

Olivier makes a face and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out two gloves, slipping his hands into them in a manner that has no business being as appealing as it does. "I've got it," he says quietly. "Just makes sure that it doesn't escape your way." Roland nods and takes a step back, watching warily as Olivier reaches up towards the cat, seemingly unperturbed by its growls and hisses. Roland knows better, though; he has seen how the back of his neck tenses and his shoulders stiffen. Olivier is just as afraid of those sharp claws and teeth as he is. The cat swats at them, yowling angrily, and then makes a desperate bid for freedom by leaping clear over Olivier's head. Roland is waiting for it to do so, and the moment that it has begun his descent, he reaches out, dragging it against his chest and wrapping both arms around it, ignoring the paws that flail towards his face. It refuses to calm, not even when Olivier wraps his jacket around it and helps him hold it. "Goddamn pussy," Olivier grumbles, and Roland nearly chokes on his startled wheeze.

"Oli!" He gasps, scandalized only in as much as his amusement will permit. Sees Olivier's lips twitch out of the corner of his eye and finds his attention drawn to the way they curve when he smirks. Although surprising for one whose natural expression is one of annoyance, Olivier has many smiles. Roland's favorites are the ones that appear genuinely, without effort on his part, for they are rarer than a four-leaf clover. He's so distracted by its sight now, Olivier's tongue flicking out to wet his lips, that his grip loosens for a heartbeat. The next thing he knows, the cat has come alive with an angry caterwaul and launched from his arms, practically teleporting across the room in its haste to getaway. Olivier is too slow to catch it, his outstretched hand missing by a mile; Roland launches after it and takes one step. A second goes to take a third only to realize that there is no ground beneath him; looming darkness greets his foot as he tumbles forwards with a yelp. Hears a shout. Olivier's voice filled with panic. His fall is abruptly halted by fingers wrapping around his wrist, and he looks up to see Olivier staring down at him, terror in his eyes. He's braced himself against the edge of the floor, a leg hooked around the remnants of a railing, and Roland realizes guiltily that he must have missed the stairs in his haste to capture the cat. Looks down again, but there is only darkness beneath his feet; impossible to make out a floor or if he even is standing in a stairwell. "Th-thanks, Oli," he says rather than worry about it, hand scrambling for anything to grab onto.

Olivier grunts in response, and his grip tightens, his other hand reaching out to Roland. "Hurry up," he hisses, "I don't know how long this will hold." Roland takes a swing for it, cursing when he misses the first time, but then their fingers are brushing, and Olivier's hand has taken hold of his forearm. "Je vous ai," he says, voice tight with tension. "Je vous ai."

"You do," Roland agrees and politely doesn't point out that he's automatically transitioned to French, something that he only does when deeply stressed out. "Pull me up?" Olivier grunts again, but then his muscles are flexing, and all Roland has to do is hang there as he's being slowly lifted. Is almost high enough that he might be able to get a foot on the ledge when Hauteclaire barks loudly, a warning. Hears Olivier curse, and then he drops several inches as his friend slides forwards, the railing creaking in loud protest. Hauteclaire barks again, her usually deep bays becoming strained with her heightened distress. Roland thinks that he hears a miaow, smug and impossibly close, but that is all he has time to think of, for within the next heartbeat, his stomach decamps to his throat as the floor gives out beneath Olivier.

He plummets.

Sees Olivier fall as well, and behind him, a man. Tall, broad of shoulders with red hair like a lion's mane. His lips curled into a chilling smile, only one eye visible due to the eyepatch that covers the other. In his arms is the cat that they have been chasing.