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There was an indistinct blur pacing across the sitting room. They strode with the speed and austerity of a large glacier, complete with the selfsame air of icy, impenetrable purity.
Glaciers, however, could not proselytise, and no matter how much he wilfully turned up the static in his head - the hissing screech that had infected his every conscious thought for the past two days - Johannes couldn’t entirely drown out the priest’s doleful droning.
"It is an unspeakable tragedy, of course," said the man, small and heavyset with rheumy little eyes, "and I understand these are trying times, but know that this is merely…"
Johannes stood some feet away, staring blankly towards the mantle as vitriol seeped into his blood as steadily as the priest’s steam of practised supplication. Horst was posted dutifully at his side, quiet and unobtrusive save for the occasional sideways glance that nearly burned Johannes’ skin with the force of its concern.
"There is a passage that I find to be particularly calming for the times when I am faced with loss. Indeed, it has given me hope during…"
This isn’t about my comfort, thought Johannes. A man of the cloth had never ventured to reach out to him before; even they knew when a person was beyond their help. Besides which, he wasn’t virtuous. He was utterly unconcerned with piety. In fact, he took pains to avoid matters of theology whenever possible. There was no reason for a priest to be here; not for Johannes, in any case.
"I trust," said the man, gesturing expansively, "that you are familiar with the old adage concerning the matter of…"
Johannes felt his lips curling into a sneer. Of course this wasn’t about his comfort. This had never been about his comfort. It was doubtful the priest cared a whit about him; he doubted the priest even cared about her.
It was pity, in its purest and most damnable form. People never concerned themselves about the Cabal’s youngest son, temperamental and moody and frightfully morbid - possibly touched - as he was. No one had thought to bat an eye at his ostracism, his exclusion, his perpetual miasma of “leave this child be, or you might catch whatever makes him so… him.”
The attention the village had lavished in their direction was for his family, and his family alone. “It’s absolutely terrible what happened,” they would whisper, though sometimes they wouldn’t even bother with the courtesy of lowering their voice, for what did they care if he heard? “Things must be so difficult. I can’t imagine what it’s been like, what with Johannes being… you know.” Sometimes he would meet their eyes, drawing on a strength borne of pure spite, and they would recoil as if a leper had kissed their hand. “I hope Horst is holding up well. It must be awful for him, seeing his brother in such a state.”
His hands were beginning to ache with the strain of his clenched fingers, and his gritted teeth were best described as “savagely animalistic”. Horst had placed a hand on his shoulder; Johannes wasn’t certain if the faint squeeze was supposed to be conciliatory or constraining.
"It is imperative that we band together in the face of adversity." The priest’s shoes were making an irritating little squeak on the floor with each measured turn. "Take solace in the fact that we are as one, and our combined strength shall prevail no matter how…"
The static in his head - for if he allowed it to dissipate, other, more damaging thoughts would slide in to claim its place - had increased to a shrill whine. Yet the man’s incessant yammering still rang in his ears.
"You must persevere, my boy," - Horst wisely held on tighter - "for the sake of those who love you. Your family wouldn’t want to see you consumed by this mania of yours." The priest turned to face Johannes, folding his hands neatly against his stomach. "Nor, do I suspect, would—"
“Don’t." It was scarcely a word so much as a guttural snarl. "Don’t you dare speak her name.”
The man had taken a step back, scuffing his shoes on the hardwood. Horst, to his credit, had stood firm.
"This is precisely what I mean." The priest’s drooping eyebrows hung low on his face, with a petulant moue to match. "Continuing to dwell on the past - on what cannot be changed, no matter how much you might pray - will only beget more suffering. You must let go, Johannes, no matter how much you miss—”
"I said, do not speak her name." Horst was pulling lightly on his arm, hissing admonitions under his breath. Johannes wasn’t listening. "Do you understand?"
The man’s response was to look increasingly plaintive, edging further towards the precipice of self-parody. “I fear it is you who must understand.” He shook his head with an air of frustrating calm. “Driving yourself to madness will not bring her back. And indeed, is that really so terrible? She may have left us far too soon, but you must take heart; rest assured, she’s in a better place now.”
“You,” spat Johannes; it was all he could manage before the screaming began.
The priest had backed into the mantle, shielding himself with his hands; a stream of vile invectives threatened to rupture his ears and made his insides curdle; Horst was shouting, desperate and unheard over the din.
Johannes could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, there was only static, static and ichor and the taste of blood in his mouth; his arms wouldn’t move but they needed to move his fingers were clenching his muscles twitched that man’s neck was still intact and it made his bile rise; he didn’t deserve it, couldn’t appreciate the life he’d been given, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, he needed to understand he needed to learn he needed to bleed until there was nothing left but Johannes’ arms were still locked if he wasn’t so weak wasn’t so powerless if he hadn’t been too late the static roared in his ears and
"Johannes, for god’s sake, stop!”
Horst had locked his arms around Johannes’ thin shoulders, shaking with the exertion despite his face having gone deathly white.
He was perhaps the only reason the priest’s skull was still attached to his spine.
"I’m sorry," said Horst, diplomatic even as he struggled, even as his little brother fought and swore and trembled in his arms. "I—We appreciate you taking the time to come here" - Johannes’ voice had softened to a series of hoarse mutterings, which helped, though his fists still itched for a target, which did not - "it’s just a bit of a bad time right now. Perhaps if you came back later?"
"Later?" the man stammered. "Of course, of course." He seemed to be gradually regaining his higher faculties since the apparent danger to his life had evaporated. "Later," he said, with the obvious implication that there would be no such thing. "I can see I’m not—I’ll let you handle things. Indeed, yes, that would be wise. Good day, Horst."
He kept a cautious watch on Johannes the entire way to the door, though he took careful pains to avoid any eye contact. Images of mad dogs had flown unbidden into his head, and would remain for some time thereafter.
Only after the priest had left, when the room had sunk back into a terrible calm, did Horst turn to face his brother.
"What the hell’s the matter with you?" he barked.
Johannes had grown entirely reticent in the space of a few minutes. He stood with head bowed and arms folded tightly together. “I know you’re upset—all right, I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling right now.” Horst dragged a hand across the back of his neck, brushing away the sheen of cold sweat. “But you can’t just… It’s not healthy.”
Johannes wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t even look. He stood, and he muttered.
"Please, Johannes. I know you’re generally disinclined to believe me, but I’m serious when I say I’m worried sick about you." He half-expected a sarcastic retort, and experienced a hollow pang when one wasn’t forthcoming. "That man was a pompous arsehole, yes, but he was right in saying you can’t go on like this. I can’t satellite you forever in case you decide to fly off the rails every time someone mentions her.
"If you carry on like this, you’re going to hurt someone," Horst said. Or you’re going to hurt yourself, Horst did not say; a lump formed in his throat all the same.
Johannes only shook his head, and continued to whisper under his breath.
"Promise me this will stop. Promise me you’ll take steps to curb your destructive behaviour. It’s okay to grieve, Johannes, but not at the cost of your own health." He reached out a hand; this time the hold on Johannes’ shoulder was entirely tender. "I know you hate to hear me spewing sentiment, so that should be incentive enough, eh?" His attempt at a wry smile was far too wobbly to be of any use, but at least Johannes was too preoccupied to notice. "Do we have a deal?"
Horst strained his ears and listened, hoping to hear, if not confirmation, then at least a colourful stream of expletives describing precisely where he could shove his sentiment, and that was when he finally caught the words tumbling from his brother’s lips.
It was a name, and only a name.
Over and over and over.
A feeling not unlike a barbed lance penetrated Horst’s heart, and his face showed as much.
It was a good thing, then, that his brother was entirely oblivious.
"Johannes," said Horst, suddenly tired and cold and entirely leaden. "I’m sorry."
Then, because it seemed hardly enough, he added, “I am so, so sorry.”
Johannes did not hear.
He only whispered a name.
Again, and again, and again.