Chapter Text
The afternoon sun bore down with a dry, blinding light as St. Maryam's soup kitchen bustled with the quiet rhythm of duty. Vincent Benitez stood near the storeroom door with Fr. Sundar, both bent over a clipboard, quietly counting crates of flour and powdered milk. His brow furrowed—not just from the numbers, but from the gnawing worry of dwindling supplies and growing mouths.
Nearby, Sr. Jane moved between tables with quiet precision, checking on crates of vegetables. Her veil flapped gently in the warm wind, and she occasionally glanced out to the line that had begun to form again—more sick, more hungry.
Across the hall, Mina was a blur of movement. Her apron already stained with soup and ash, she dashed from pot to bowl, shouting orders to the younger cooks. “Don’t waste the ladle! Give the kids more broth than rice—they need nutrition, not just full bellies!”
Suddenly, from the far edge of the door, a woman in a long, worn hijab broke through the crowd. Her voice cut through the hall with the force of desperation.
“HELP! HELP US! Mr. Benitez!! Mr. Sundar! Sir, please! My child! They’re taking my child—help us, please!”
Vincent turned sharply at the familiar voice. The woman—Dijah, her name—her eyes were terrified and full of tears. A widow, no older than 50, often found sleeping in the clinic’s hallway with that painful tumor on her cheek. He’d seen her find shelter each night with her little daughter.
Hearing her, Vincent ran outside, where the noise was already growing louder. The unmistakable rhythm of boots on concrete. Shouts of Supreme General Harun’s soldiers. They were marching, barking orders as the crowd split apart like frightened sheep.
In the midst of them, Vincent saw something being dragged. Bodies. He squinted—Not bodies.
No, not prisoners of war. No. Oh no. Christ—no.
Two girls.
And he recognized one instantly. That flash of green, that threadbare cotton dress—it was little Sasha’s. Vincent's stomach dropped.
From the side, he heard a voice of realization—
Dr. Guri.
“Sasha!! NO, NO! MY DAUGHTER!” His voice cracked. “Where are you taking her?!”
Vincent and Sundar were pressed by the crowd, which began to surge toward the soldiers, some in confusion, others in horror. Mina, too—realizing her Sasha was in trouble—had thrown off her apron and was charging forward, her eyes wild. Others tried to restrain her.
“That’s my daughter! NO! No! Please!”
Dr. Guri, frantic and with no care, arms thrown, ready to grab and fight all the soldiers, shouted, “Wait—wait! Sir! Where are you taking my girl?!”
Vincent threw himself in front of the doctor instinctively, grabbing Guri’s arms. “Doctor! Guri, wait—slow down! Guri, Guri. Shh…. I’ll talk to them, alright, doctor?”
“Yo, priest! Handle your men!” one of the soldiers shouted, already jabbing a rifle to press the crowd back.
Vincent turned and raised both hands, steady. His cassock flapped in the hot breeze as he stepped forward. “What is this, sir?!” he asked.
The soldier snapped, “These two girls were caught sneaking into the boys' school library! Under Supreme General’s Law, unauthorized learning means we are taking them to the Eastern Facility—for women.”
Vincent's eyes widened, the meaning sinking in.
Dr. Guri, now held by two volunteers, screamed, “NO! DON’T! You mean the facility for child brides, good sir?!”
The crack of a rifle butt hitting Guri’s temple made everyone scream. The doctor dropped to one knee, dazed.
“No! Stop! Please!” Sundar shouted, throwing himself between the soldiers and his fallen friend.
“These girls will be taken to Commander Abu for proper verdict,” barked a second soldier, gripping Sasha by the arm as she thrashed, sobbing and trying to scratch him.
The girls’ mothers—Mina and Dijah—fell to their knees. “Sirs, please, mercy! No, sir—take us! Let us go with our daughters! Mercy, sir!”
The soldiers shouted back, weapons pointed, “Silence, women!! You are not acceptable in our courts. Get back inside!”
Vincent’s voice trembled but stood firm.
“Sir, please. I’ll come with you. Let me go with these girls. You cannot take their mothers as witnesses? Okay, then take me instead. I can calm them down—make them easier to handle. Please. Look at them—your men might harm them before they even reach Commander Abu.”
The soldier squinted at him, lips tight. The other girl, in hijab, shrieked raw, her body fighting like a trapped animal. Sasha beside her bit a soldier’s hand. “Papa! Mama!” Sasha screamed in tears.
After a tense pause, the soldier finally growled, “Fine. You’re coming with us, priest!”
“No, Pater, no!” voices from the crowd wailed in protest. Sr. Jane was trying to push through the chaos. Mina tried to comfort Dijah, who was sobbing into the dirt.
“Sundar!” Vincent turned, his voice a command. “Take all of them inside. No one is coming after me to the palace. Do you hear me? Sundar! Listen!”
Fr. Sundar’s eyes were wide with fear and shock, his feet already moving toward Vincent, his heart telling him to intervene. But the bishop’s eyes were hard. Sundar’s fists clenched as he decided to obey.
“Yes, Pater.”
And as Vincent stepped into the grip of the soldiers, Sundar turned back, calling out orders to the others to push the flock to the safety of St. Maryam’s Clinic.
The faithful watched, helpless, as their shepherd was taken away.
Vincent and the two girls were crammed into the back of a military truck, the metal walls stifling. Vincent could feel the engine groaning beneath them as he tried to balance himself on the vibrating floor. Across from him, Sasha and Aisha—yes, that was the hijabi girl’s name—curled into each other, sobbing uncontrollably. Their tiny hands clung to the steel seats, their faces blotchy and wet.
Vincent’s heart cracked open. He slowly knelt in front of them, ignoring the discomfort in his joints and the rough jolts of the truck. His arms extended gently—not forcing, just offering.
They didn’t hesitate.
The girls threw themselves into his arms, pressing their faces into his chest, their cries muffled but desperate. He wrapped them in his embrace, sheltering them from the cold eyes and harsh hands of the soldiers.
“Pater…” little Sasha sobbed, “Pater, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to sneak in.”
“Sir… what’s going to happen to us?” Aisha whispered, almost inaudible through her tears.
Vincent swallowed. “Shhh… Listen, dear hearts. Shh, I am here, okay? I’m here. I’ll be here, alright?” His hands cradled the backs of their heads. “Shhh…”
He wanted—desperately—to say we’ll be okay. But the words wouldn’t come. He was terrified that it might be a lie.
Lord… Mercy, please… I don’t know what’s ahead. I don’t know. Help me.
He forced his own breath to slow.
Eventually, the truck slowed. The metal door clanged open, harsh sunlight spilling in. They were ushered through the back corridors of the presidential palace—thorn-lined iron gates, rows of military officers standing like statues. The guest room, Vincent thought. His face stayed composed, but he gripped the girls’ hands tighter—their hands warm, small, shaking. He walked forward slowly, the girls pressed to his sides. Soldiers loomed behind them. They entered the room. The elite furniture—velvet seats, polished marble floors and pillars—stood in stark contrast to the poverty of Kabul’s people.
There stood Commander Abu. Tall and imposing in his dark uniform, eyes sharp and alert. Vincent already knew him—a loyal hound of General Harun, ruthless in carrying out orders. And yet, Vincent prayed, he is still human. Maybe he can be talked to.
As soon as they entered, two soldiers seized the girls, dragging them away from Vincent’s sides.
“No—shhh, courage, dear hearts, I’m here—I’m here, shh—” Vincent’s voice cracked as the girls screamed again, reaching for him.
Abu remained still, hands clasped behind his back. “I already guessed you’d be begging to come, priest. Listen carefully: I cannot bargain with you. The generals will be here soon, and the verdict will be clear. Anyone caught learning outside the assigned curriculum will be placed in the Eastern Facility—for women.”
Vincent’s heart dropped. His mind raced. Lower yourself, Vincent. Breathe. They need you.
He slowly sank to his knees. “Abu, please… They are five years old. They are children. Look at them. Children make mistakes all the time. Would your heart really demand they be separated from their parents?”
Abu’s face was carved from stone. “Again, priest. There are no other options.”
Vincent’s knees crawled a little closer. “There are, Abu. There are. The option is mercy. Please, Abu. They cannot be useful to your land or to your army. Not like this. Let them go. Mercy, Abu…”
Behind him, Sasha and Aisha still cried, shoulders heaving. The guards held them firm.
Abu stepped closer, boots thudding against the floor.
“The law has been broken, priest. Punishment must be made. Laws must be upheld. Leniency here… will lead this country to disobedience to the Supreme General.” He tilted his head, narrowing his gaze.
“So. What will you do?”
Vincent’s stomach turned. He felt like vomiting. This is it. This is your chance.
He looked at the girls—those tear-streaked faces, too young to understand but old enough to feel terror. They have seen enough. “Please. Take them back to their parents. I will stay here. Trade, Abu. I will face the consequences. They are children, Abu. Please, not like this.”
A long silence. Abu stared right into Vincent’s eyes. For a breath—maybe two—Vincent thought it was hopeless. But then… something flickered in the commander’s face. A softness buried deep. He barked an order. “Get those girls out from here. Back to the clinic.”
One of the soldiers jolted. “Sir, you’re releasing criminals. If General Ali finds out—”
“Then he’ll know it was under my command! As I said, let them out. The priest stays.”
Vincent gasped, dropping his head in relief. “Thank you… Thank you, Abu. Thank you.”
“No! Pater! No!” Sasha cried, reaching for him as the soldiers moved to take her arm.
Vincent stood slowly, walked to them, and crouched to their eye level. “Dear heart… Don’t worry about me. Now, I need to be a diplomat. Trust me, dear hearts? You’ll go back to your mothers. Don’t fight the soldiers. Be good, okay? Promise me?”
They sniffled, eyes wet and wide. “We promise…”
He cupped their faces gently and showed them a small smile. “I’ll be back. I promise. Go now. Sasha. Aisha.”
The girls were led away. Then Abu’s voice cut through. “Take the priest to the underground cell. General Ali arrives this evening to decide what to do with him.”
Vincent exhaled and closed his eyes.
It was already dark. The moonlight outside barely reached the narrow, cracked window high above Vincent’s cell wall, casting faint white lines across the cold stone floor. Vincent had been sitting, his back against the wall, wrists chafed from the chains locked in front of him, rosary in his grip. The silence was loud. Time had turned sluggish, but he was sure it had only been a few hours—calculated through the five rounds of the rosary he had finished. His knees ached, and his mouth was dry. They hadn’t given him any water to drink.
Then metal scraped as the cell door was flung open. Rough hands grabbed his arms and pulled him up. A soldier muttered an order, and Vincent was dragged forward, the iron clinking of his chains echoing down the corridor.
As they neared the guest room again, Vincent began to hear raised voices.
“You let those girls go?!” It was General Ali. Vincent’s pulse jumped.
“They are children, General,” Abu’s voice was strained, measured. “They are no use as brides yet!”
A sharp slapping sound cracked the air.
Vincent, still shackled, was now forced to halt outside the room. The soldiers holding him stiffened. One of them knocked lightly. “General, the prisoner is here.”
Ali turned from Abu, who was touching his reddened cheek. Ali’s eyes narrowed. His fury hadn’t cooled—only redirected.
“The priest wishes to trade places, General,” Abu tried to explain, “so we will—”
Ali raised a sharp hand, silencing him. He stepped toward Vincent, who stood still. He had rarely been this close to Ali’s lethal gaze before. The man’s presence was suffocating, as though his everlasting wrath bled from his very bones.
This man knows no negotiation, Vincent knew. Any wrong word could make his fragile pride burst—and make this worse.
So—Vincent fought down the last of his fear, the last of his pride, and dropped down. His aching knees bit into the hard marble. “General Ali… please.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t flinch. “Those girls’ mistakes are mine. It’s my failure and fault. I confess—I failed to uphold the law and ensure those children obey the Supreme General’s orders. I am responsible for the clinic, the soup kitchen, and my Christian faithful.” He bowed his head. “I beg for forgiveness and mercy for my failure.”
A slow, cruel smirk grew on Ali’s lips. “Ah… this is nice, isn’t it, Benitez? To see you on your knees, where you belong.”
The silence that followed was crushing. The guards didn’t dare speak. Ali circled him slowly. Watching. Vincent didn’t move. His heart was pounding, he was scared, and he hated how his fear showed—but he didn’t take his words back.
“Very well, Benitez. I am a merciful man.” He chuckled, dark and delighted. “I’ll reward your courage and ownership. You will take their place. The verdict will be forty lashes—for a lesson.”
Abu stiffened. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. Everyone in the room knew—forty lashes wasn’t for breaking a reading ban. This wasn’t about law. Ali is throwing his personal blow to Benitez, as Ali's always wanted to do, out of disgust towards Benitez's easy growing support among the people...
Vincent’s face tensed. He tried to seal his fear away, but General Ali grabbed his hair with a rough yank, forcing him to look up.
“Publicly,” Ali hissed. “We’ll do it in Al Rahim Square. Only 500 meters from your precious clinic, no?”
Vincent felt a pit open inside him. No… no. Ali wasn’t just punishing him—he wanted his flock to watch. Fr. Sundar and the sisters. Dr. Guri and Mina. The poor and the sick. The children…
“Abu—you will do the lash. Bring all his faithful. Invite the people of Kabul. Let them see what happens when one defies the law.” Ali smirked like he had just received a gift. “Let them watch their hero wail and cry like a lowlife.”
Abu stood still. His jaw clenched. “Yes, sir.”
Then a knock came at the door.
“What is it?” Ali snapped.
“Sir… the other priest. The Indian. He’s outside, alone, unarmed. He requested a visit—to speak to Benitez.”
Sundar. No. No—what are you doing? You idiot, Sundar, why would you risk this…
Ali raised a brow. “Ahh. The Indian. Your assistant, yes, Benitez? How touching, how loyal he is.” A slow, menacing grin as he grabbed Vincent roughly to stand. “Let him in. I would like to tell him myself the good news.”
Two guards opened the door, and Sundar entered slowly, flanked by soldiers. His eyes strained—but when he saw Vincent—still alive, unharmed—relief flooded his face. Still, his expression stayed careful. Ali’s grin made him queasy.
“General,” Sundar bowed his head. “I am here to request to bring my friend home.”
Ali clicked his tongue. “Priest, welcome! No, no, not so fast.” He gestured grandly.
“Your good friend has confessed to his fault. He has taken responsibility. And I have, in my great mercy, granted him a just punishment. He will stay here tonight. You, priest, will see him tomorrow.” A cruel pause. “At Al Rahim Square. At eight o’clock.”
Fr. Sundar’s eyes widened. “Al Rahim? Public whipping? No—no, General, please—”
“Sundar!”
The voice cut across the room. Sundar had never heard his bishop speak like that before—so commanding. It pinned him in place. His eyes met Vincent’s—and he saw it: calm resolve. A quiet shake of the head. Sundar slowly lowered his gaze.
Vincent spoke again, soft but clear. “General Ali, Father Sundar is here to visit me in my cell. May he pray with me before he is escorted safely back to St. Maryam’s clinic?”
Ali smirked, as if humored by the request. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll give you both time.” He turned toward the door.
“Bring the prisoner back to his cell. Assign one man to escort the Indian back home. He will have a good seat at the spectacle tomorrow.”
So then the soldiers dragged them away.
Vincent was thrown back into the cold cell. The clang of the iron door echoed. His shoulder hit the stone wall, and he groaned—not from pain, but from exhaustion. He was thirsty, and he felt his stomach gnaw with hunger. Slowly, still chained, he adjusted himself, back resting against the rough wall. Then—the door opened again.
“You have five minutes, priest.”
Sundar rushed inside before the words had even finished. “Pater—oh my Lord my God, what have you done?!”
He fell to his knees beside him, face etched with desperation. His hands clung to Vincent’s arms, searching for bruises or blood. Vincent, resting on the wall with chains on his wrists, raised his eyes to him gently.
“Sundar, shhh. No. Don’t question me this time, please?” He leaned his forehead against Sundar’s, their brows touching for a second. “Would you rather Sasha and Aisha be sent to marriage? Or worse… subjected to those whips?” His voice trembled only slightly. But the fear wasn’t for himself.
Sundar blinked rapidly, tears finally falling.
“Please—tell me if the girls are safely returned?” Vincent locked eyes with him.
Sundar nodded through the tears. “Yes… they have. They’ve returned safely to their mothers.” His voice cracked. “Pater...”
Vincent gave a tired smile. “I’ll be fine, Sundar. It’s just forty whips. No one’s died before from that.”
“Forty?!” Sundar’s head shook, disbelief turning to fear. “In front of Ali, Pater?! No, no, no... you know how he gets… how he can get carried away—”
“Shhh—Sundar.” Vincent’s voice was firmer now, but not unkind. He grabbed Sundar’s arms, steadying him. “Sundar—hey. Please? Focus. Here, take my cross and ring before they snatch it away and sell them.”
Vincent tried to show a hint of a joking smile.
Sundar’s hands shook as he unfastened the pectoral cross from his mentor’s neck and removed his bishop’s ring. He tried to steady his breath.
“The faithful are panicking, aren’t they?” Vincent’s voice softened. “Son, help me, please? Calm them down. Keep them safe at St. Maryam before they make more trouble with the soldiers. We cannot afford more problems.”
“Pater…”
“Sundar. Tell them I’ll be okay. Tell them… I’ll return to them tomorrow.”
Sundar suddenly clutched Vincent’s hand more tightly—desperately. “I’m not leaving you here. Let me take these lashes with you!”
Vincent shook his head. He lifted a hand and placed it gently over Sundar’s. “No. No—you will leave, and you will help me take care of our flock, or… or I’ll make it an order.”
Sundar’s eyes continued to spill tears. He closed them, trying to stop, and shook his head. Vincent grasped his student’s shoulder.
“Father Sundar! I am the Bishop of this flock,” his voice now carried the steel of his office, “and I will see to them—that they are safe. I don’t care how much suffering it takes from me. Will you help me, son?”
Sundar’s breath was sharp, trembling—but he lowered his head. “Yes, I will, Pater.”
Vincent’s voice dropped now in realization. “Sundar… Remember Sasha, Aisha, and the children.” He gripped Sundar’s collar and brought him closer. “Promise me… you will keep them away from the square. So they will not witness what happens. Promise me… promise me she won’t be in the crowd.”
Vincent’s eyes were urgent—not from dread of pain, but from protection. Not for himself—but for their eyes. For their hearts.
Sundar winced, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of his bishop’s selfless love—the kind that didn’t even flinch for his own body, but feared what the innocent might see.
Vincent didn’t let go of his hands. “Promise me, son.”
Sundar tightened his grip over his bishop’s. “I promise, Pater. I’ll make sure the girls stay away from the square. I’ll keep them safe. I swear to you.”
The door banged. “Time’s up, priests!”
Sundar gripped Vincent’s hand one last time. “Pater—”
But his bishop’s face was serene, lit by that impossible calm only a true Christian could carry into suffering. His chains rattled as he lifted a hand and caressed the side of Sundar’s head, a gentle blessing. He smiled softly.
“Father Sundar… I’ll be okay. Take care of our flock while I’m away, alright?”
But Sundar could see it—Vincent’s arms were trembling. Beneath that calm, something inside him was bracing itself. He’s not unafraid. He’s choosing to do it anyway.
Sundar stood. No. I will stay here as long as I can with my bishop. Let the soldiers drag me out. For I have my duty as his priest.
And as Vincent remained seated, Fr. Sundar bent low and raised his hands, placing them gently on Vincent’s head.
“May the Lord be with you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world...” Sundar’s voice wavered through his prayers and blessing.
But then—the soldiers pulled Sundar roughly to separate them.
Vincent was held down by two other soldiers. “Good sirs—please—he is not dangerous!”
The soldiers ignored him. Sundar was pushed to the outside of the cell, breathing hard. The alley was cold and damp, shadows flickering in torchlight. A creeping worry tightened his chest. “Good sirs, please, at least give him water! And bread!”
One of the guards sneered without turning. “A prisoner doesn’t get food or water before lashing, priest. Or he could throw up. And General Ali is disgusted by that.”
Sundar froze. His hands clenched. He almost fought back. But then—he heard Vincent’s voice from the cell.
“Father Sundar. Go! Go to our flock. I am okay. Son!”
And Fr. Sundar, tears streaking down his face, finally obeyed.
He turned his back from his bishop’s cell—and began to walk.