Chapter Text
It’s of Colin’s opinion, as inexpert as it may be, the church’s order of knights is complete bullshit. They were meant to swing swords just the same as what he’d been doing before. All the reading and posturing that came with it was only to put a nice cover on killing, and not even with more pay. Though he never said so in front of the bishop.
Already he could hear the gentle correction as if Raphaniel had pried in his head again: “Archdeacon now, Colin.” It wasn’t Colin he was angry with, but he was angry. In that first week the firm corrections had come persistently, the man’s gaze slipping into a distant rage. It isn’t Colin he’s looking at when it happens. More frequently now, they seem to look towards something only the archdeacon can see.
Even during the daily readings he does under Raphaniel’s supervision, he can see those sunken eyes dulling, like there is some great private horror creeping in. Until the old man blinks, takes a shaking breath, and pats the back of Colin’s shoulders.
“You must sit straight, Sir Colin,” he would chide, not unkindly, “there’s already so much you have to catch up with, from starting as a sellsword. But you can at least look the part.” Then they were off again, and he would forget while he struggled to pronounce some dead person’s name or another.
Raphaniel would do that sometimes when they saw each other, even as he settled into the knights’ quarters and took to training on their compound. He would correct things, pushing gently, telling Colin to take a comb to his hair or straighten his breastplate. It took a while before he realized he found it discomforting beyond the regular reasons, beyond being unused to going straight. Even in the years spent with Thane nobody cared if your shirt was clean.
With all the fussing, he wasn’t really concerned. Raphaniel had arranged the knighthood for him, had suggested it in the first place, and then asked for nothing more of him. Colin could recognize what that meant. Wherever the archdeacon goes when he stares off, a man with arms isn’t of any use. Whatever it was that distracted him to the point of being surprised at the approach of a man in full armour, deliberately heavying their steps, it didn’t concern Colin. Or at least, the archdeacon didn’t think it did. So the lessons on the Book Of Leaves and the little corrections to be a better knight weren’t because he felt any investment either way. It was just like how he spoke to the bishop of their establishment, with deferential smiles and humble words, all the grandfatherly pretense a mask. Colin knows he isn’t clever enough to see behind it so he doesn’t try awfully hard.
The fourth instance he’d had to rouse the archdeacon from his writing for the daily reading, he didn’t attend the following day. When there was no word about his absence, he stayed polishing his armour and the hour came and went a second time. It was well over a season before he thought of Raphaniel again.
High Frosting’s Eve was on the horizon, and the festivities in Comida were just getting to the streets. Colin had returned on another successful mission freeing prisoners with another title he’d already forgotten, and the decorations seemed pretty only to distract from the blood being spilled across the country. It was an uncharitable thought, but he’d never received presents as a child and was still a little bitter.
The bulb was setting sooner these days, and he arrives in the near dark. A bright window was more visible no matter how small and out of the way in that kind of light, and it takes him a moment to recognize the archdeacon’s window from the outside. It should’ve been a day of rest for the church, after the service that morning.
By the time his leathers and chest plate are safely strewn in his quarters and he’s had a quick meal with some remaining knights, it’s already pitch dark outside. The window is brighter against the night, colourful sugar glass shining. A strip of light near the top where it opens properly above the decorative panes glaring even brighter than the rest. When he makes his way across the silent grounds to knock on the man’s door, there is a muffled yell from inside. It sounds alarmed.
“It’s me,” he calls back, somewhat lamely. There is a pause and he continues, feeling stupid.
“Sir Colin Provolone.”
The response of “come in,” is prompt enough, and he’s greeted by the darkening room. The candles actually sputter with the wind of the door and go out. His own muttered “shit,” is covered by the archdeacon’s own yelp of, “oh, curses,” and they’re left to grope around in the darkness. Eventually, he finds the man’s elbow.
It jerks once in his grasp, a sharp inhale —how Raphaniel could still be startled after all the noise he’s made shuffling over he doesn't know— then the archdeacon is clutching his sleeve like a man drowning. Colin can’t help but cringe, reminded of how Raphaniel had stared at him years ago. Like he would have wanted to see him dissected for secrets.
“Still me,” he says.
“Where do you keep your matches?”
“Ah, yes...”
There’s another silence, too long to be comfortable. In the darkness, the shallow breaths at his arm seem all the louder. The man’s grip is trembling.
“Bishop,” he nudges the shape beside him until there is another jump, fingers readjusting as if remembering they held a living thing.
“Archdeacon, if you please, Colin. They’re on the closet near the bed, and there should be fresh candles as well.” The voice seems to gather itself, and he could almost see the expression of the man he remembered, focusing on the right thing to say. But when he starts to move away, Raphaniel doesn’t let go.
“I’m getting the candles,” he explains, uselessly.
“Yes, of course,” the reply small and hoarse, “just let me...” A series of grunts, panting, and shuffling, and he feels the archdeacon stand next to him, clutching his arm all the while. Colin says nothing as they trod across the room together.
When the room is finally lit again, Raphaniel thanks him and Colin offers a noncommittal hum. Was it just the poor light, or had the archdeacon gotten shorter? It’d been years now since he held him under the pyramid and fumbled for his pockets, it was hard to believe the man needed support just walking.
“Well then, back for your readings, are you?” He’s smiling, cheeks sallow in the candlelight as his eyes crinkle in mirth.
“Been asked the difference between Saint Citrina and Saint Satina only to embarrass yourself? The scripture is very important you know, the knights of the templar will look at you strangely if you don’t know the word of the Bulb.”
On the contrary, Colin’s only noticed more knights indifferent to scripture the longer he spent with the knights. It makes sense, the pay is good and there is room and board. If you had to be more discreet with your whoring and drinking, that was only a mild detriment. Not to say there weren’t any true believers that looked at the rest of them with scorn, but the Bulb forgives all. There’s no way Raphaniel doesn’t know about this. He’s seen him going into confessionals with knights and coming out with varying results, he must know there are ones who are only pretending to look chastised. It’s just more saying things to say things.
“I just got back, maybe tomorrow,” he manages, glancing towards the dark window. The archdeacon must know that it’s too late for anything but going to sleep, but the man still blinks, going absent as if confused if Colin had only missed one session instead of dozens.
“Right. Well off you go then, dear boy. You must rest after so long on the road, thank the Bulb you came back to us in one piece.”
“What about you?”
“Me?”
For lack of anything better to do, Colin bites the inside of the cheek as they stare at each other. When he decides to continue, he half doesn’t expect an answer.
“Yeah, aren’t you going to go to bed? It’s pretty late.” The implied and you look like shit is swiftly ignored.
“Oh, no, no no. I have important work to do, for the Bulb. Some penance wouldn’t hurt, either. No, Colin, I have many things to do still.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Raphaniel continued to smile, eyes too wide. He’s forgotten to let go of Colin’s arm, and his hands still tremble where they grip it, chronically, disturbingly. There’s something about that gaze that makes him think the archdeacon isn’t just talking about paperwork, but it was late. It’s not something Raphaniel would ever tell him about, and he’s tired.
“I’ll just go, then.”
“Goodnight, Sir Provolone.”
He has to extricate his arm in the end, being stared at with that unchanging expression all the while. It isn’t much less unsettling knowing he’s not what the man is thinking about anymore, as he feels that look follow him out the door. He’s certain there was absolutely no movement at all.
That’s the discomfort he assumes clings to him when he’s trying to sleep that night, unable to savour having a personal room now outside of the barracks. A familiar, niggling disquiet. Face first into the wonderfully cool blackcurrant pillow, he eventually manages to sleep. In his sleep, he dreams.
***
“You killed my papa.”
The child is holding a severed, waterlogged head of a banana man, its swollen tongue lolling from its mouth. With his feet planted in place, there’s nothing that can be done when it's brought towards him like a gift. The boy looks at him with a childish frown, as if his only crime was doing something mildly distasteful.
“You can have this back since you paid me and mama.”
There was nothing to be done except take the head from his hands. He breathes, and the child was dragging the bag of coins with his back turned, leaving Colin there unwilling to look at what he just received. Watching the retreating footsteps he can’t think of anything to call out. He doesn’t know if he would have the ability to speak if he tried.
When the coins start to spill from the bag there is no sound, and the boy doesn’t turn around. They shine in the afternoon sun, oily with blood. Colin trails after to pick them up for him, but he isn’t quick enough and there’s no space in his hands when he can’t let go of the head.
As he looks up to call out, the boy is already gone. The trail of coins seems to glow in the now-darkness, the warm midafternoon bulb suddenly long since set. They are reflecting the light from the window, the stained sugar glass of church decorations impractically high. The kind that can only be closed by a stick and hook that servants came around with, and certainly couldn’t be reached by an old man of diminutive stature.
In the distance, the window seems to taunt him with the knowledge that there is a room behind it only lit by candles, its hearth empty of warmth. The familiar niggling, squirming disquiet burrows deeper, like the impression of the archdeacon’s shivering fingers on his arm.
The cold of High Frosting’s Eve in Lacramor when he is seven, then ten, then sixteen, out to fetch his father’s alcohol. Alone and treading through knee-deep frozen yogurt, trying not to smash everything he held. Hands and feet that felt like they were being stabbed, still painful and therefore safe from falling off.
He is staring at the window in complete dread, sure that it was seconds away from going out when he finally wakes. Early bulblight is peeking dimly through the edge of his real window.
Shit, he thinks, rubbing the crust from his eyes. He regards the ceiling in near silence, distant blueberry birds muffled by warm, closed walls and practical wooden shutters.
“Shit.”
There isn’t anyone in his new quarters that morning to hear Colin’s assertion.