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    Summary

    “The lord be with you,” the priest says.

    “And also with you,” the congregation, Napoleon included, murmurs back. Illya’s neck prickles, the fine hairs under his collar standing up. He’s not disturbed by the unity, he’s inexplicably moved by it. The way one is moved by a chorus in perfect harmony, a ballet company’s sharp collective choreography, a squadron of soldiers’ neat march. There is something mind-numbingly pleasing about observing a many-headed crowd moving and speaking as one unit. Perhaps that is why this is called a mass.

    --

    Or, Illya digs into Napoleon's Catholicism, in an effort to prod him where he's vulnerable. In God, he finds his own vulnerability, instead.

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