Chapter Text
Chapter 13
Roland squeezed the fallen button in his hand, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t allow his mind to wander into more dangerous possibilities. The button could have been loose already, and with all of the commotion recently it was an easy detail to ignore or outright forget. If a thread was pulled and stretched thin enough, the button could easily fall—it was the normal wear and tear of clothing. The normal wear and tear of life.
Beside him, Olivier paced back and forth, running his fingers through his hair periodically—again, and again, like a nervous habit. The two had decided that returning back to the church might lead them to wherever Astolfo had gone. If he had decided to walk back on his own, Roland had thought their paths might intersect eventually. But, of course there wasn’t any way to be sure of that. So they waited together outside, on the steps of the church.
“That’s it. I’m going back,” Olivier announced suddenly. “He could have taken a different path and gotten lost.”
Roland stood up then, having been seated on a step above Olivier. “He knows the way back,” Roland replied calmly.
Olivier whipped around, glaring back at his partner. “Obviously. But he wasn’t feeling well earlier. And he’s still not…not well .” Olivier’s fright had shifted to anger, and Roland knew the pattern all too well.
“He’s not helpless either,” Roland retorted.
Olivier scoffed in dismay, rolling his eyes. He had looked like he was about to fire back a sharp criticism, when his attention suddenly turned to a figure approaching the main steps of the church. At first, Roland couldn’t identify them, but as the figure got closer, he recognized the features immediately.
“Gano?” Olivier spoke first.
Gano was in uniform, and he appeared as though he had returned back from a mission. There was a bruise forming under his right eye, and a clear scratch down his left cheek. When his eyes met Roland’s, he smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. Yet, there was something uncanny about it all—his smile, his face, the scratches. He’d undoubtedly been in a fight, a recent one too.
“Back from a mission?” Roland asked, calmly at first.
Gano paused mid-step, standing shoulder to shoulder with Roland. “A personal errand,” he replied.
Roland couldn’t say why, but the response unnerved him. Purposefully vague.
“You haven’t happened to bump into Astolfo, have you?” Olivier asked.
Roland watched Gano’s face carefully, studying the way his features seemed to tighten, as though deliberately trying not to move, not to show expression.
“No, I haven’t.” Gano’s voice was flat, monotone, entirely void of interest. It had always been clear to Roland that Gano disliked him, and it was unlikely he would join the search party, but Olivier was more easily tolerated by him, given his name and family status.
So, Olivier pressed him further. “What are those scratches from? ”
Gano didn’t answer. Instead, he continued making his way up the steps and towards the main entrance-way into the church.
“Gano!” Olivier hollered.
Gano didn’t answer, nor turn around.
Quickly, he had disappeared behind the double doors of the church, slammed them shut, and the night’s quiet had returned at once.
“Gano!” Olivier started climbing the steps, ready to confront the chasseur again.
“Olivier, calm yourself.” Roland grabbed his partner by the arm, pulling him in close.
Olivier refused to look at him, instead turning and twisting himself to face the doorway. “I don’t trust him,” Olivier grumbled. “I don’t trust him,” he repeated.
Roland pulled Olivier in closer, embracing his friend fully for the first time since they had returned. “Come now—you’re right. Let’s just retrace our steps from before. There isn’t any use waiting here.” It was his attempt at distraction. Should Olivier and Gano fight—the result could lead to their immediate expulsion. After all, fighting amongst each other was the one chasseur rule no one dared to break.
Olivier stiffened in the embrace, unaccustomed to an early compromise. Reluctantly, Roland detached himself—still keeping one arm over Olivier’s shoulder.
The two descended the staircase once more. And this time, when they reached the bottom, two more figures could be seen from a ways off—walking steadily toward the church steps.
As they got closer, Roland could see they were two men, of similar stature, one just slightly taller than the other—dressed in white and blue respectively. And they were moving quickly, as though in a great hurry. Olivier watched them too, squinting against the night to better see them.
That was when he saw him. Rosey hair in complete disarray, tucked beneath a white overcoat that didn’t belong to him. Roland ran. There wasn’t anything else to do but run towards them, but sprint madly towards the one person he swore to never let go of again. His heart pounded in agony as he pressed forward—faster, then faster. His footfalls were impossibly heavy, and undeniably rattled. For what on this round earth could have led to this moment?
To Noe and Vanitas of all people in possession of the child Roland thought of as his own, because he was his own—ever since that day. Astolfo was his responsibility, his apprentice, his child . Like a cycle that never seemed to end, he felt like he was at the beginning again: The beginning of this fuge of hatred.
Breathless and mortified, he caught up to the pair that he had only just recently met, yet trusted in good faith. Roland believed, truly, that their paths had intersected for a reason: A divine intervention. And the reason was finally before them now.
“Roland!” It was Noe for sure. And they were finally within earshot of one another. It was Noe who had carried Astolfo—even after everything he’d been through—it was Noe who brought him home. But his stomach dropped at the realization that there were few if any circumstances in which Astolfo would tolerate the presence of a vampire, let alone be held by one. It was like an anchor had dropped deep in the pit of his stomach, stopping Roland dead in his tracks. Something was horribly wrong. Something unthinkable had happened. Suddenly, the world around him shrunk and narrowed. Everything was shrinking. In his stupor, Olivier had ran past him, hurrying to meet Astolfo. Roland hardly processed the white jacket covering the boy’s body. It had been Noe’s.
“Roland!” Noe shouted again and this time he really snapped out of his despair. “I–I—I don’t know what’s wrong—I don’t know what to do!” Noe’s frantic and nervous all at once. He transferred Astolfo to Olivier’s arms and Olivier held the boy protectively close to his heart. Astolfo had been unconscious— of course he had been— there was no other way Noe could have gotten so close.
For the first time, Roland was afraid—truly afraid of the truth. What had happened? How had this happened? He was so terrified of the answers, that he didn’t dare to ask those questions. He could only trust that God was still there. But all the same, he still felt helpless. Olivier was helpless. Vanitas and Noe were helpless. And it was then that Roland realized that God in His infinite wisdom and mercy and loving kindness, God in all His omnipotence, was just as helpless too.
All Roland could think to do was what his body did best. In a rush, he embraced Noe and Vanitas, pulling them together tightly, squeezing his own eyes shut against the world for just a second longer. “Thank you,” he breathed into them. “Thank you, thank you, thank God…” His breath hitched at the mention of God. Roland pulled away for a moment, to look, really look, at Vanitas and Noe. They were twin hopes that stood before him; meeting them had always been destiny—a hallowed encounter.
That was a beautiful mercy, Roland thought. Despite everything, God put a smile upon his face, even though his smile trembled against the grief of almost losing this child again.
Vanitas was the first to break away. “Yeah uh…don’t mention it.” Roland knew Vanitas wasn’t fond of so much affection, but there had never been a greater act of kindness than this, than in bringing Astolfo home. “Other than a fight, I don’t know if anything else…” Vanitas paused, unsure how to phrase it sensitively. “ Happened ,” he finished.
“A fight?” Olivier echoed. “With whom? Did you see them?”
“Kind of…” Noe began. “He was a tall guy—I think he said he was a paladin.”
“What else do you remember?” Olivia pressed.
“His hair was sort of curled…and dark…and, did he have scratches on his face?” Noe asked.
Vanitas nodded.
Olivier’s eyes darkened. His lips pursed together forcibly, as though to hold his tongue, his temper, his composure, his whole head. When Roland’s eyes met his, it was a look of mutual knowing. Roland’s entire body tensed at the realization that they had just let Gano get away.
“Is he…someone you know?” Noe asked.
Roland stepped forward and placed a firm hand atop Noe’s shoulder. “You two should go.” Roland hadn’t meant for it to sound so abrupt and dismissive. But the pieces of this puzzle were finally falling into place. And the more Roland thought about it, the more he realized how wrong it was to involve Noe and Vanitas in his own predicaments. He knew Noe was more than willing, and the two of them were inherently good people—Roland knew that from the day they had met. They were two souls who cared deeply for one another, who moved to a rhythm that was their own benign sense of justice. They sought to do good in this world, just like Roland did. Vanitas and Noe were much more similar to him than he’d initially thought. It was a beautiful thing, a sacred thing, but Roland couldn’t possibly ask for anything more. They had brought Astolfo back, therefore Roland didn’t have the right to ask for anything more than that. They’d done enough and there was no telling what their involvement in this particular affair could entail. Roland didn’t fully understand the evil forces at play, but he did know that they were his own cross to bear—and he couldn’t stand to bring harm to the pair before him. “We owe you a great debt, and we will repay you.”
Noe had looked like he wanted to protest, but before he could open his mouth to do so Roland had already turned his back. And he didn’t dare to turn around and catch another glimpse of his friends now. Beside him, Olivier held Astolfo tightly. The two exchanged a brief look before they made their way back to the church’s double doors.
Roland watched as Olivier gently lowered Astolfo to his bed, the young paladin still concealed by Noe’s white jacket and Vanitas’s scarf. Roland couldn’t look away from the blackening bruise below his eye or the laceration that started to bleed on his left cheek. Or the way his hair tangled in small mattes, in complete disarray. Roland’s chest tightened at the realization that this child before him would never be free of the church’s exploitations, not as long as he remained there, as long as he maintained his title as paladin.
For the first time, Roland froze. He didn’t know what to do, or what to say when the child would wake. And even though he’d been there through all of Astolfo’s hardships—when his family disappeared in front of his eyes—when he clawed at his own bite marks—he wasn’t prepared now, or rather didn’t know what to say, when he might be asked “ Why would God allow this to happen? Why did God make me this way?”
Olivier broke the silence first, looking over his shoulder at Roland as he spoke. “I still think we should take him to the infirmary.” His voice was quiet, and calculated, like he was working hard to hold back what he really wanted to say.
“We can’t do that,” Roland replied. “I’m not sure…I’m not sure who we can trust, so until we know more…”
Olivier’s face turned red and Roland knew that look all too well. He knew Olivier was frustrated with him, angry with him, and it wouldn’t be long now until he raised his voice.
“I’ll go and fetch some supplies and bring them back here then,” Roland added. “I’ll be quick.”
In a panic, Olivier stood up and crossed the room swiftly to stand face to face with Roland.
“You’re leaving ?” Olivier snapped. His lip seemed to quiver.
“Just for a moment, Olivier…what’s gotten into you?” Roland grabbed Olivier’s hand reflexively, all too familiar with that disquieted tone.
Olivier shifted where he stood, no longer able to hold Roland’s watchful gaze. His breath faltered for a moment, until he looked up at Roland again.
“I’m not good at this sort of thing,” he breathed. “You’re…you’re much better at consoling him than I am…”
Roland squeezed Olivier’s hand tighter, rubbing circles on the inside of his palm.
“I don’t know…I don’t know how to…” Olivier’s breath hitched, unable to finish his thought. Roland gathered him into his arms quickly, pulling his companion in as close as he could.
“Nonsense…” Roland whispered. “Neither of us are doing this alone, never again.” Olivier finally returned the embrace. “I’ll be quick, no detours.”
Olivier nodded and reluctantly detached. “Just…don’t get lost, idiot.”
Roland forced a smile and had to will himself to shut the door behind him. He couldn’t let his gaze linger on those two for much longer, or it’d be impossible to walk away—even if it was just for a moment.
The catacombs at night were eerily quiet. Every footfall produced an echo and the only source of light were the mounted torches on the stonewalls. Each flame flickered as he walked past and Roland knew the other chasseurs were honoring curfew. Past midnight, no one was to leave their chambers, unless ordered to do so. Roland had broken that rule many times now, when he thought about it.
The infirmary was one level lower than the sleeping chambers were. When he began to descend the spiral staircase, he noted that the torches had all been burnt out along the way. There weren’t many things Roland was genuinely fearful of, but suddenly the pitch black enclosed staircase was enough to remind him of the lower catacombs and all their tunnels and crevices. For a second, the air seemed thinner, the space around him tighter, and his heart stuttered at the darkness and closeness of everything. He reminded himself to count to ten and to breathe, like Olivier had counseled him to do before. There wasn’t time to freeze up now, not when Astolfo needed medical attention, not when Olivier was waiting for his return.
The way down seemed to take longer than usual, and Roland figured that had been due to a trick of the mind. Dark, enclosed spaces were hardly his forte, and so the seemingly long time it took him to descend all the way down had merely been an illusion.
As he neared the bottom, two golden lights flashed across his vision. They were small sources of light, no smaller than a coin, and they seemed to bob and weave as though moving. Roland blinked against the light and still the golden orbs remained a few paces ahead of him. At the bottom of the stairwell, the torches had been burnt out too. Roland couldn’t remember a time when this many torches had been left unattended. It was always the duty of whoever was on night shift to keep all hallways and staircases lit. Roland wondered who was next on rotation, and where they had been all night.
When he reached for the door handle that led to the infirmary, it was oddly cool to the touch, almost frozen. Roland turned the handle to the right and felt the gears were jammed.
“It’s locked?” He whispered to himself, jiggling the handle again.
From the corner of his eye, he saw that golden light again and he turned over his shoulder to see it more clearly. This time the two orbs were unmoving, static, and seemed to stare at him head on, like a pair of eyes.
Everything seemed colder then and his skin reacted to the sudden chill.
“Pardon me.” Roland jumped at the sound of a voice other than his own. The golden orbs got closer and closer until they were right in front of him. A silhouette had shouldered past him, unlocking the door swiftly in front of them. Roland’s chest tightened and his heartbeat clamored—there hadn’t been any signs or any sounds that another person had been with him in the stairwell. Not a sound or noise or anything at all.
With the door open, the staircase was illuminated and finally Roland could see who had been beside him.
“Gano?”
When he said nothing in return, Roland grabbed him by the shoulder, and when he kept moving despite that, Roland squeezed forcibly into his arm, into a tender spot that he knew would inflict pain.
Sharply, Gano turned around. With his face half illuminated, there was something sinister about him, about the way his eyes seemed to darken and flicker simultaneously, like an almost extinguished flame. And the way the shadows seemed to pool beneath his under eye hollows, making them seem deeper, darker, as though endless. Beneath his eyes was a long red scratch, undeniably the work of human hands. The blood had dried and cracked along the crevices of the wound, turning a dark scarlet hue.
“Where have you been, Gano?” Roland asked, calmly at first, though his heart beat protested at their proximity.
“Here and there,” he answered. An insidious grin formed at the corners of lips, and his eyes shrunk. “I did pay your apprentice a visit,” he whispered. “You really ought to work harder at teaching that boy to respect his superiors.” Gano traced his hand over the scratches on his face. “A pity he turned out the way he did...” He picked at the wound then, wiping away the tiny flakes of dried blood. “He’s still entirely covered in vampire bites, you know? All over his body, even his—”
It happened quickly then. Everything had turned red, like a crimson veil over his eyes. The blood beneath his skin seemed to sting and prickle. His heart thundered against his ribcage, demanding to escape. Suddenly, every inch of him was warm, hot, burning —an unrelenting white heat overwhelmed him. Roland’s body reacted before his mind could and in one swift motion he had a fistful of Gano’s hair in his hand and slammed his head, face first, into the stonewall behind them. The impact sounded off a loud pop, so loud he couldn’t even hear Gano grunting into the stone. Then, Roland gripped him tighter this time, by the collar and still by the root of his hair, and again sent his face crashing into the stone-–this time harder, faster—and there was not a single force in the world that could have told Roland to stop. Even the presence of blood, so much blood, that dripped down the stone and pooled at the ground beneath them in puddles—wasn’t nearly enough to make him stop.
If Gano hadn’t fought back, Roland was sure he would have killed him right then and there. But swiftly, Gano turned around and pushed back against Roland with a measure of strength he hadn’t anticipated. In an instant, Roland was on his back with Gano above him and before he could react a fist had plowed into his jaw, resounding an ever louder pop down the corridor. Roland could hardly feel the sting at his mouth or the ache of the impact—all of it was secondary. His mind couldn’t focus on anything but harming Gano—killing Gano. It was the first time he’d ever wanted to take a life. It was a horrible feeling. All of the times before had been different–he had been following orders, and taking the lives of vampires that threatened the church—that threatened God . But, when Roland caught a hold of Gano’s collar again and flipped him over so Gano was now the one on his back and Roland couldn’t justify the action the way he could in the past. This wasn’t for God. This wasn’t for the church. It was instinct. It was impulse. An indescribable darkness he never knew he had.
Roland blinked away that drop of blood that landed on his eye lash. “What did you do?” He asked between gritted teeth.
Pinned beneath, Gano smiled again, but said nothing.
Roland picked him up by the collar again and shook him harder. “Tell me, Gano!” In a whirl, Roland sent a fist careening into Gano’s jaw. His neck jerked violently to the side when the hit landed. “He’s just a child, Gano! He’s a child !”
Gano spit out the blood that was pooling at his lower lip. “What did I do ? Or what did I plan to do?” Gano teased, looking back up at Roland with those flickering eyes, that suddenly grew wide with curiosity. “Oh, it’s inside you too.”
In a second, all at once, Roland finally snapped. It was a clean, instantaneous break in his rational mind, from which there was no return, and from which he could lose everything. Roland grabbed him forcibly by the neck, this time slamming his head deeper into the ground, creating cracks in the stone below. But it wasn’t enough. Something overcame him then, something possessive, insatiable, and irrepressible—a sudden influx in strength, stronger than the output of any of the chasseur injections. The feeling overpowered him at once, and he used the force of his own forehead to pound Gano deeper into the gravel. But, one hit wasn’t nearly enough. So he struck him twice…three times, four times, five times, six times—repeatedly, again and again, until the face below him was entirely unrecognizable, entirely erased—nothing but a mound of blood and disfigurement.