Work Text:
That morning, before the call comes, you wake up early. It is autonomous—no alarms, no noise, just your body throwing back the curtains.
That morning, you kneel beside your bed and attempt to pray. It goes as it always does; the familiar words like shouting into the ether. You pray for answers, you pray for forgiveness, you pray for the health of the Holy Father. And nothing comes.
You are not entirely sure how you ended up in this position—in the early days of this bleak, gray fog, you were sure anyone whose faith was not true would have been weeded out by now. But here you are—to borrow a metaphor, it is as though the Lady of the Lake has risen from the glassy surface of the water, Excalibur clutched in her hand. This is, despite your every faith in the bureaucracy of the Church, your problem now. And you will discharge your duty; you have no other option.
There is another way,the back of your mind hisses. You slam the lid on that thought; it is cowardly, unworthy of your office.
From somewhere behind you, the phone rings. The Pope is dead; the Holy See is vacant.
There is work to be done.