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The Tomb of Satan’s Favoured loomed large in the darkness. All around Copia, the wind whipped, the rain lashed against his face, the thunder crashed in his ears. The mouth of that unsacred place gaped like the mouth of Hell itself, but ten times less welcoming. And yet, it was the only place that welcomed him now.
He’d made a habit of this, sneaking in the night to visit this quiet corner of the abbey’s grounds. Unhallowed, certainly, rigorously formal and always acknowledged by those who passed by as the resting place of all the papas who had joined their Father in Hell, but it was dreary, and repelled those who populated the abbey.
Copia had spent most of his time in the ministry fearing the place. There was something... inevitable about it. Something hopeless, something pulling him close in the most terrible way. He didn’t understand, at first. He, a simple priest, was never allowed in, obviously. Even as a cardinal, only the papas themselves, their lovers left behind, and the others of the papal bloodline were allowed in. It was a solemn place, only for mourning, nothing else. Little in this whole church was as somber as this forsaken spot.
Then when he ascended, despite his lack of familial ties, he was allowed in. He said prayers over each body, spanning back hundreds of generations before the Emeritus name was adopted. Nihil’s father, his father’s father, and on and on, all in various stages of rot. The catacombs underneath felt impossibly vast, too expansive to fit under the abbey’s grounds, but somehow Copia always found his way back. He felt like a trespasser then, intruding in a space made sacred by centuries of grief.
And yet, there was a cold comfort in it. This was his home, for better or for worse. Once he accepted that bejewelled mitre, he accepted a future in this awful place. His body would be the first not of the bloodline to lie with his forefathers, and that was an honor worth marking. He was special, just as Sister had always told him when he was a child. He didn’t know why that meant so much to him, but it did. So he took his duties to the fallen seriously. He visited often. He told their cold bodies what he had done to advance their beloved church. And he made his peace with his future resting place.
Then the truth came out. Special? He wasn’t special at all. He didn’t earn a thing, not by his own merit. Imperator, his mother, had fucked the man in charge, and used her child to farm her own power. He had only ever been a pawn, only ever sent to this dismal tomb to distract him while she took care of the real business of the church.
And now, it was his turn. He would pull the strings while another man, someone who really did earn it, took all the bows. Another person would receive the love once lavished on him by adoring crowds, and what was Copia’s reward? A hollow shelf carved into this sepulchre. He knew all about it, it was his duty to assign the earth ghouls to carving out the space in the cold marble of the tomb.
No, Copia thought. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
He’d had been a pawn his whole life. Lied to, manipulated, used for others’ power. But not anymore. He had left a note. Hopefully someone would find it, a ghoul or sister or brother who remembered him fondly enough to care for his rats. He stepped into the tomb, total darkness enshrouding him. In his hand, he held the only key in existence, the only way to pass the enchanted iron door. He locked that door behind him. He took a knife, an appropriately ornate one he’d had commissioned, not that anyone would notice.
Copia took a deep breath.
And Satan’s final favoured was laid to rest in the silent tomb.