Chapter Text
Someone in Laterano must have been keeping Ramiel in their warmest prayers.
Every single day at seven in the morning stat, the young man would be woken by the horrific screech of his alarm clock, accompanied by the tingling smell of coffee. In the air it lingered and brought an overbearing urge to shut the outside world out for just a few minutes more. He'd allow himself a glance out the window and take in the void pagus in silence. Though everyone and anyone in Laterano knew that indulgence was part of the written Liberi DNA, there hasn’t been a single day where he would give in to his pillow’s silent beckoning call. Discipline and obedience to the utmost higher power were the bricks that laid the foundation for any Executor’s long lasting regime. Although he would consider himself neither disciplined nor an Executor (yet!), obedience came easiest, so he was already one third of the way there.
The road between his bed and the front door was laid in tar and spiked caltrops. From brushing the unruly feathers out of his face, to stringing up a semi-presentable outfit for the day – followed by a weary gaze tracing his path from the ajar kitchen door. Ramiel never spoke with his mother much in the mornings, and she didn’t pry or command. The silence co-existed in their shared value for each other's unspoken habits – as much as she knew he wasn’t an early bird, he accepted that she wasn’t a night owl either. She wouldn’t drag him into any uncomfortable topics early into the day, and he wouldn’t bother her about reheating dinner late into the dead of night, at his shift’s end. She wouldn’t make him pray over oatmeal either.
His patients would, however. For reasons, he volunteered at Saint Stephen’s Hospital and as luck would have it, was just a stone’s throw away from the communal low-income housing block he called home, so public transport fees weren’t ever an issue. Whole Tribunals would sometimes come together and clash fiercely behind the stained glass towers of Laterano’s summits over the need of bleeding the people dry with tram tickets and bus passes. High-value Sankta gentlemen of the Third Tribunal (The ones with curled moustaches and bleakly gray waistcoats) would wave their monocles around and protest, as the people-appointed youth delegates listed all the positives as to why a nation free of public transport fees was a happy one. In the eyes of the ruling individuals, a happy nation was one that clocked into work with their pockets already considerably lighter and full of useless, punched-through tickets.
Ramiel never bothered to argue for or against. His shoes were all he ever needed to be berated on time.
“How come, and please explain it to me as if I were your peer, do not spare me any choice words – How come a prayer-skipping rascal like you gets to serve in a position like this?”
Upon clocking in, the familiar voice of a disconcerted Miss Niederhauser would kick off his unpaid shift with a gloomy, flaccid bang.
“I don’t know, ma’am.” Ramiel replied politely enough to her ears, mechanically to anyone else. He’d swing an ID tag around his neck in full view of the decrepit Sankta’s milky white eyes. “I’m just a volunteer. Anyone can volunteer.”
“Anyone” who prays in the morning.” She had absolutely no intention of keeping her voice even a tad reigned in, making her disgust known. “Because I have a really hard time believing the chief of staff would be bursting with delight at the news of an agnostic roaming these halls.”
An agnostic. Last week he was an atheist, now he’s been promoted to a fence-sitter. He was glad they were getting somewhere, at least.
“I’m sure the chief of staff is pleased enough with me being here in the first place.” Ramiel hummed to himself, waltzing around the old woman’s bed to thoroughly check the level of colorless life-goo in the many surrounding IV bags. If he hadn’t known she was living off of pure disdain for the world, he’d have mistakenly assumed those endless pipes were actually keeping her alive. “Is that a new bouquet I see? When did this arrive?”
At his question, the woman immediately shifted. Her guarded demeanor, along with her arms crossed across her chest, melted into rapid excitement.
“Ah…” She gestured towards the bundle of faintly green stalks and bright, eye-catching blue heads. Unreasonably enough, they were kept in a glass coffee pot. “Isn’t that hilarious? She brought them in a pot, for brewing. She’s always had a knack for little jabs and pranks.”
“‘She’, huh.”
Ramiel would usually begin his morning prayer the moment Miss Niederhauser relaxed, turned melancholic and vaguely mentioned another person with that fond look on her face. He’d apologize to the Law for being lax on his church visits and beg for another patient to buzz his tag for assistance.
“That’s right, ‘she’.” The woman reached across the bed, troubled by the thick wools coating her arms. She took the pot and placed it comfortably in her lap, stroking its thumbed surface. “She, and a certain he, usually. These two were quite possibly, and if I were to be honest, unquestionably my favorite students in all my years of teaching and headmastering. To think of all that had happened to them since, simply terrible. Can you believe she still makes time to visit me here from time to time?”
“I can. I see the pot.” Ramiel readjusted his tie nervously. His fingers caught onto the polyester strap that held his tag and absentmindedly tapped it a few times, as if to urge it to hurry up and buzz already. “I assume it’s a long story?”
“A very long one. Long, hard and most of all depressing.” Miss Niederhauser scoffed. “Just recollecting all those terrible events from start to finish, how and when they had happened, in my head is making me a little teary-eyed. Ramiel, dear, you wouldn’t have a handkerchief on you?”
“Of course.”
“Bless your little heart.” She sniffled, reaching for the offered fabric. “For you though, I can probably find it in myself to soldier right on through it again. Speaking of soldiers and wars, I hope that’s up to par with your tastes. It’s quite devilishly relevant.”
“...” Ramiel closed his eyes and sighed internally. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“Are you sure? It’s quite drastic.”
“Volunteering at a hospital makes you used to the ugly and the drastic, miss.”
“Oh, bless your heart. But are you sure you have the time?”
Ramiel couldn’t answer her without lying. Whether he’d say yes or no, it was either way wrong depending on how one would look at it. He opted for a meaningless shrug instead.
“What’s that supposed to mean, dearie?” Her brows furrowed, and Ramiel could see all the wrinkle-marks stretched across her forehead. It tugged on his heartstrings just the right way, for the passage of time had always scared him senseless. Change and everything it brought – hand in hand.
“It means I have all the time in the world.” He smiled warmly, sitting on the edge of her deathbed. “So by all means, ma’am – talk my ear off.”
“Oh, dearie.” She said, reaching out to commence her sacred cheek-tugging ritual. “Out of all the rascal volunteers in Saint Stephen’s, only you ever actually sit down and let me rack your brain.”
“What can I say.” Ramiel recoiled instinctively. Her fingers were approaching fast, and his face still bore signs of her previous assaults. “It’s my duty to make time.”
Bzzzz.
“...?” Miss Niederhauser’s hands stopped lifted mid-air, inches away. “What’s that?”
Bzzzz.
Ramiel relaxed as a soothing wave of relief washed over him. That distinct buzzing was coming from his chest, his electric ID card.
“It means, uh.” He began awkwardly, holding up the culprit like one would hold a dead mouse by the tail. “It means I’ve actually got to go. Someone’s requesting my aid, immediately.”
“What?” Miss Niederhauser stirred under the wrinkled sheets as he stood hastily. Her eyes spelled an indignant shock, though she’s seen and heard the buzzer buzz countless times before. “You said you had all the time in the world!”
“I did!” Ramiel threw over a shoulder, already by the door. “But it’s been cut short! I’ll listen some other time!”
“While there won’t be some other time! And I’ll make sure of it! I’ll make sure the chief of staff learns all about your neglecting-athetistic practices you put me through, you rascal!...”
Ramiel softly shut the door on her. Whether she kept shrieking or not, he’d have to open and check. The buzzer let out a few more needy noises, and he decided it was best to leave her in this philosophical conundrum for good. After all, someone else apparently required his aid.
It was a type of buzz that led him upstairs. Weaving between beds and professionally dressed Sankta nurses, Ramiel exchanged his “hi’s” and “hello’s” while his heart skipped a beat with each passed door. There were many springs of misery in the hospital, and he’d oftentimes be forced to endure them on the daily without fail. There were older gentlemen who’d insist on wearing fancy frocks to bed, calling themselves the Midnight Men Society. Whatever it meant or entailed, Ramiel never quite understood their demented explanations. There was a lady and her army of Felines not too far, forever stenched by cat urine and litter. Ramiel had quickly learned that being assigned to "excommunicate" her furry companions from the premises on account of Saint Stephen’s apparent no-pet policy was a practical joke the shift coordinator would play on each newbie nurse and volunteer. He had to learn it the hard way, wincing under the shower as warm soap-water seeped into each of the thousand tiny claw-cuts riddling his body.
There were far too many strange personalities residing in the hospital. The further the buzzing had taken him, the more his heart grew hopeful – yet not too indulgent in case it proved to be a fluke – that the ID card may take him somewhere he’d like to be for once.
And as the constant ringing stilled and screeched to a complete halt, so did the rapid thumping in his chest.
It was a very familiar door he stood in front of. A tiny doormat has been left outside for visitors’ shoes, but he knew it was laid out there specifically for him. Her other visitors would always come and go on the fly, unbothered to watch the carpets.
Ramiel quickly filled the empty spot with his muddy sneakers and stepped inside, like coming home. The door had no press against it, like many of the others he’d oftentimes tend to during his shifts. There were doors that screeched a hellish tune when his shoulder pushed to pry them open, and there were doors that he himself would rather keep closed. The “empathetic” Sankta mind had a pendant for creating the most uncomfortable working environments known to man, at least such was the case for a feather-head. This one, however, pulled him in magnetically.
“Tell me,” A light voice spoke from the window. “Did I time it right? I figured at this point I must have the timing down to a tee.”
It wasn’t old or stuffy, this room. Unlike most, it seemed actually lived-in, whereas every single other tenant decorated theirs with a sort of je ne sais quoi that made the term “LIVING space” almost sound wrong.
“It was spectacular. Maybe a little late, and I had already promised her the world, but still good.” Ramiel carried on inside, passing the wide open space that connected the neighbouring patient’s abode. For as long as he can remember, the adjacent bed’s been lying empty and untouched, thankfully void of any ears that could’ve grown cross at the topics of their usual conversation. He made his way over to the morning glow sunk inside the curtains, and stopped behind the metal bars of a simple wheelchair.
“Good morning, miss.”
“And to you, Rammie.” She replied without flinching. “Mind if I spill a little secret?”
There was a clear smirk in her voice. He couldn’t really see her face, or head, or anything really, as it was all covered by that thick, familiar veil of bubblegum pink hair. Undeniably a bit messy and ruffled, as she’s just got out of bed – or so he had assumed, knowing the schedule she upheld.
“Aren’t you a tad too old for “little secrets”, miss?”
A somewhat offended flash coursed through her halo.
“Rude.” She said, and reached behind her head without breaking eye contact with the window. “Very uncalled for. Please lower yourself into my palm. You need a thorough ruffling.”
“I’m good, miss.” Ramiel instead palmed her open hand in a high five. “You’re very youthful and spry, actually. And I’d love to hear that secret.”
“I didn’t actually time anything.” She said, folding her hands in her lap and thumbing at a tiny, red-headed doll. “The old crone never closes her shutters, so I could hear every single word.”
“Every? Like when she called me an agnostic, and– and threatened to report me for forgetting morning prayers? Twice?”
A hum. “She might be a little harsh, but not deluded. It’s a serious offense to some people.”
“Huh.” He sounded almost disappointed. “So you just sat there and spied on us. Worst of all, you willingly decided to interfere so late.”
“Hey.” Something softer jumped into her voice. “... I don’t want the whole hospital to think I’m hogging the poor and underpaid volunteers all to myself. Plus, you’ve such a way with words with the seniors, it’s almost astounding how pleasant you can sound. Why don’t you ever talk to me like that?”
“You want me to address you like a grandma?”
“Oh. Don’t say–...”
“I mean, you’re already halfway there. I guess it can’t be that hard.”
“...”
The ‘young’ woman straightened in her chair and gripped the rubber wheels tight. Knowing what came next, Ramiel bit his lip and braced himself for impact as she rammed his front with the backrest.
“Smartass.”
She spun herself around to properly face him upright – staring up into his eyes with her candy-floss colored gaze.
“... Hi.”
“Hi.”
They greeted themselves properly, both smiling at the sight. He couldn’t really tell what it was exactly that forced his lips up, but whenever he found himself locked in a staring contest with Miss Lemuen – unlike other people – he never got the urge to blush and look away. Quite the opposite, he wanted to gaze further, deeper.
“How’re you feeling today?” He asked, taking a well-padded seat at the edge of her bed. The mattress didn’t even creak beneath his meek weight. “Legs any better?”
“Better enough. Been way better.” Her voice was omitting, and slipped the topic to dip somewhere more pleasant. “But that’s not all too important when I crushed the contest this Sunday.”
“The contest?” Ramiel internally gasped. He had absolutely no idea what might’ve been happening at Saint Stephen’s last Sunday. That must’ve been what, three? No, four days ago. He spent it wholly studying the Executor Rule handbook and re-reading his repeatedly re-written entry letter to make sure it didn’t sound overly pleading. “The… uh. The contest, right! I always knew you would, Miss.”
Her brows narrowed to a straight line behind her bangs. “I’m filing a complaint. Patient neglect on your account, and it’s non-negotiable. It’s not something to laugh at and forget either. It was my life on the line there, so try to remember, dear.”
“Life on the line” Ramiel thought to himself, and carded through the notebook with memories inside his head like he would back in his academy days, scrutinized by the lecturer and flipping through blotted pages in search of one that contained his homework – also one that’s long been ripped and stolen by some rascal when he wasn’t looking.
“Shooting!” He finally exclaimed, jolting towards her with a hopeful gesture. “That was it, no? Rapid-fire shooting contest.”
“Wheelchair rapid-fire shooting contest.” She corrected, smiling wider and yet a tad more disappointed. “I was just about to reach over for my rifle to give you a hint.”
“How did it go?”
“As I said. Crushed it.” Her eyes closed in glee, reduced to two tilted slits. “... Though, I got banned from ever participating again. Something about unfair advantages.”
“I guess it figures.”
“I guess it does.” A thoughtful hum slipped her. “I guess the constant war-buddy visits give my neighbors a false impression.”
“Do they? You are a natural with a gun.”
“But there’s more to a person than their ability to cram bullets into the chamber as fast as they can.” Lemuen tilted her head, and the warm light covered her face with soft shadows. “Being with people and caring for people, even just co-existing with people you barely know is what actually measures how you’re doing in life. I’m not too keen on being known around here as just “the one who shoots fast.” I’m looking for an escape just as much as you’re looking for a returned letter from the Notarial Hall. We’re just measuring things on different brainwave-lengths here.”
“About that…” Ramiel shifted on her bed with an awkward motion. “I don’t wanna be, like… a pest, or an annoyance, or a broken gramophone, but–”
“Yes.” She cut him off, resigning to the well-treaded topic’s return. “I did send a letter. I did mention your academic ‘excellence.’ I did mention your summer army-camp experience and training. I did mention your snot-eating days in the boy scouts, “
“Could’ve omitted that one.”
“... And I did mention just how desperately and perilously you want to join the Executors’ ranks. So desperately in fact, that it’s all you can ever talk about when you drop by with groceries.”
“Do I, really…?”
“No.” She smiled warmly. “But the Notarial Hall really likes over the top devotion and commitment. Trust.”
“...”
She’d know best, after all. Ramiel trusted her with this matter wholeheartedly, enough so to muffle the crowing voice in the back of his head that berated him constantly for using poor Miss Lemuen to advance his dream career.
“And… When exactly have you sent them the letter?” He asked again, treading very carefully with his words to avoid being caught in his neediness. “Because I haven’t actually, as far as I know, received any sort of reply or response, so…”
“So you’re very eager to leave me high and dry in this hospital room.” She finished for him, with a slight tease to her tone. “But don’t worry, these things take time. As much as you’ve waited already, it won’t hurt to give them a little more breathing room. You don’t wanna suffocate your superior before even starting the job, do you?”
“I don’t…” His voice stilled in his throat. “I don’t intend to leave you anywhere, Miss.”
“Miss. Am I really that old? I’m not. It would be nice to hear my own name from time to time.”
“... Right. I don’t intend to leave you here for good, Lemuen.”
“Mmm.” She hummed in consideration, chewing through the sincerity of his words. To his complete horror, her expression seemed unconvinced. “No, scratch that, just say “En” instead.”
“En.” Ramiel spoke softly, again. “... I don’t intend to leave–”
“- me anywhere for good, I know.” She allowed herself to finish. “And I don’t hold it against you that you dream of something more than an entry level volunteer gig. I know it can’t be easy for you.”
“It’s miserable.” Without intending to, he interrupted her with a hollow voice. “It’s been years since I sent in my first letter. I was honestly expecting a reply within a week or so, but nothing ever came back. I would even – I remember, I spent my first adult summer by beginning each week with a visit to the Notarial Hall, only to be told by the receptionist that all the letters are constantly being processed and archived in the catacombs below. I never really understood what she meant by that, and only later realized that beneath the ground it’s always damp and wet, and no paper would survive there long. So I kept coming back, and I kept asking, and then summer ended and I had to find a job, and I caught onto this opportunity and then years began to pass, and my hands have grown so used to pushing your wheelchair that I don’t even remember what it’s like to write a proper intro letter anymore.”
Momentarily stunned by his own outburst, Ramiel curled on the bed. It wasn’t usually like him to lose himself in the internal wallowing, and Lemuen had no interest being subjected to his inner woes and worries. On account of being something akin to her caretaker, Ramiel said absolutely nothing of the sort, simply leaving it for his own mind to digest. He nodded at her assumption.
“It’s not easy, you’re right.” He said. “But what can I do, really? I can offer some fresh air, if you’d like. And a stroll around the avenue.”
“That would be lovely.” She beamed at the suggestion, and began clambering on her elbows to better fit the wheelchair upright. “Don’t you wish to let me feel independent already?” She asked once she saw him eager to stand and push her around.
“No.” He snorted, gripping the warm handles. The morning sun, as he’d learned throughout the years, was her favorite kind. The midday kind would make her grumpy, whiny and hot, because she never parted with her fuzzy hospital blanket. Any attempt at persuading her to leave it off would result in more whines. The early evening kind would have her lost in a trace, silently staring at the marble horizon line until she unceremoniously decided it was time to head back. Morning strolls were usually happy and cheerful, sound with conversation and her unconcerned smile, which Ramiel really, really enjoyed looking at.
“Fine.” She let go of the wheels, crossing her arms defiantly. It took but a moment for her to realize just how childish the gesture was, and she relaxed into a graceful state of indifference. “... Lead the way then, dear. And mute your ID buzzer before we leave.”
“...”
Ramiel had no intention of letting something as trivial as another patient calling for his aid ruin their walk. He threw the tag over his shoulder and onto her bed just before they left the room, and embarked on the daily loop around her favorite pastry places in town.
And the loop would last an entire autumn, and maybe half of the following winter. The trees had grown bare and naked, leaving mountains of rotting leaves for the Liberi streetworkers to sweep into the gutters, then hand-pick and dispose somewhere. People would watch from the wide and contemporarily closed windows of trams and buses as the leaves were slowly being replaced by dustings of raspy, early snow. Ramiel’s shoes cried for a new pair of insoles, and his feet demanded a new pair altogether, something better fit to withstand the cool and damp trudges. Miss Lemuen’s sun preferences seemed to shift along with the shortened days and rapidly dropping temperatures. She wouldn’t let him take her outside unless he wore just as many layers as she did, sometimes even more. He swore it was just to keep him in a constant state of packed discomfort, but each time he’d state his case while tugging at the multiple collars squeezing his neck, she’d plead innocence and wrap herself deeper in the blanket fuzz.
At home, life was stagnant. He’d only ever come in to sleep or study through the weekends. Either way, it was either way too late or way too early to engage his mother in any meaningful conversation. She was a busy woman after all, wings full with her own share of some kind of physical work. He was sure it must have been physical, or at the very least custodian. One particularly late evening, he found himself contorted in bed and embarrassed deeply at the realization that he actually couldn’t state clearly what sort of job it was that his mother prided herself in. He swore it must’ve been something that had to do with children, but couldn’t lose the feeling that if she truly was such an amazing caretaker, their relationship wouldn’t seem so disjointed. It was disgust that struck him at the thought, unfortunately springing from both sides. Ramiel couldn’t be asked to litany his sins away so deep into the night, and he’d rather pack them up and save for a confessional during the day.
But the following day, unbeknownst to him, Ramiel won’t have visited any places of worship. He wouldn’t have brought Miss Lemuen her favorite pastries, or wouldn’t have taken the time out of their stroll to stop and window-shop for a pair of new and sturdy winter boots, either.
Someone must have been saying good things about Ramiel around the Notarial Hall, because that morning he was awoken not by the sound of his alarm, or the warm scent of coffee wafting across from the living room – but by a harsh and practiced knock on his front door.
Confusion and curiosity fought the clingy arms of sleep, as he dragged himself out of bed and stepped – still in his navy blue pajamas – into the narrow corridor connecting the flat together. His mother had already been waiting there, peeking from behind the agape door to her room.
“Are you awaiting someone?” She asked quietly, only because it was rude to any thin-walled neighbor to speak loudly at this hour.
Ramiel shook his head, strung with a newfound annoyance. Whoever it was, they clearly lacked any and all basic manners. As he prepared a little speech in his head to berate the loud intruder, the knocking repeated a few more times, even louder than before.
“That’s rich.” He grumbled in his head, eyes rolling. “As if they haven’t woken up the entire block already, they’re now double checking. Great.”
As irritation settled, he unlocked the door and opened it slightly without bothering to check the peephole beforehand. He figured, due to the usual lack of lighting on the staircase, he wouldn’t have seen much anyway.
“What?” He verbally made the irritation known. “What’s so important that it cannot wait ‘til morning?”
There was no answer. Instead, Ramiel felt the door pushing back with an urgency it hasn’t ever demonstrated before.
“...?”
His back hit a wall and immediately two men entered. He couldn’t recognize their hair, halos or faces, but the clothes they donned drew his eyes in without fail. Rich, silky robes beneath well-tailored coats and slim, high-cut pants, adorned with many unnecessary buckles and pouches. For the untrained eye it might’ve seemed over the top and bizarre, but Ramiel’s brain needed only a split second to associate their clothes with his highly respected and beloved Executors. He wanted to ask and possibly argue the late night intrusion, but the men didn’t stay quiet to be questioned for long.
“Ramiel Graf?” The taller of the two turned to pierce him with a sharp gaze. Awaiting a further string of questioning, Ramiel remained silent for a few seconds too long – enough time to make him realize they weren’t asking for anything else but himself.
“Yeah? I mean– Yes?” He corrected quick. “That’s me, what’s- uh, what’s going on?”
“Rammie, what’d you do…?” His mother yelped quietly from the doorway, only to be shushed by a dismissing flick of his feathered hand. The Executors seemed to have picked up on her worry, and the leading officer regarded her softly.
“There’s no need to fret, ma’am. It’s a private matter of the Notarial Hall, nothing to do with the safety of the public.”
It seemed that by simply saying these words the two officers have dug a sizable foothold into the higher steps of a hierarchical ladder that contemporarily ruled the small flat. Ramiel felt himself drawn to acknowledge that authority, even though he had never seen these two before.
“So he’s not under arrest?” She asked tentatively, like stepping on a thin ice tile. The officers were inclined to exchange a questioning look between themselves.
“No, ma’am. Should he be?”
“No.” Ramiel rasped out, just now noticing how dry his throat had become. “I shouldn’t be. Just go to sleep, mom.”
“Are you sure…?”
“Yes.” He hissed quietly. “Please?”
“...” She didn’t seem all too convinced. Her brows furrowed behind the thick coat of feathers hanging over her low forehead, but ultimately they held no power over her fingers that hesitantly closed the door and left the three to their own inhibitions.
“...” Ramiel stayed quiet, and waited for muffled footsteps to seep from behind the keyhole. He knew she’d probably loiter with her ear pressed against the wood for at least a minute or so. Hearing nothing, he took a deep sigh and spoke. “... What’s this about, then?”
“As I said. Private matters.” The taller Executor hummed idly, and it wasn’t clear whether he was amused, distraught or disconcerted by the whole spectacle, as his face conveyed very little emotion. “We shall discuss them further on the way.”
“What way?” Ramiel stilled, and his feathers all began standing upright one after another. “Where?”
“The Notarial Hall. Duh.” The other officer spoke, punctuated with a heavy sigh as he dove into a rectangular bag that hung low by his hip. He produced a thin envelope from inside, gleaming at the center with an unmistakably crimson red seal. “Maybe this’ll make more sense. Skim over it as you dress.”
“...?” Ramiel took the paper carefully, with slight hesitation – as if the paper would crumble and come apart under his brash, boisterous touch. It was only then that it had occurred to him, and sent his cheeks flushing deeply – he was receiving these two esteemed guests in nothing but his navy pajamas.
“R-Right, thank you.” He mumbled, and turned on a heel to retreat deeper into his room. “But, um. Just before I do that, would you gentlemen mind telling me the general scope of things?”
The Executors glanced at one another before returning his gaze with slight weary.
“For someone who’s sent us so many letters over the years, I’d have assumed he’d be a little less guarded by now. Especially since I’ve just handed him an initiation notice.” The shorter one mumbled to his colleague, then regarded Ramiel with a semi-professional tone. “But to bestow you the ‘general scope’, Graf, the Notarial Hall needs a junior – stat. We’re already knee-deep in outsiders slipping in every which way, and with preparations for the Summit well underway, there’s no manpower to spare for his whims.”
The word “initiation” made Ramiel’s heart stop entirely. He was convinced he must’ve been hearing things, or at least seeing double, as the two Executors had just turned into four and a half.
“M-Meaning?” He whimpered, holding onto the envelope like a dear lifeline.
“Meaning.” The taller officer cleared his throat. “... You should excuse the unofficiality of this meeting, but nonetheless your resume and letter of recommendation have been received and reviewed positively by the Fifth Tribunal’s Notarial Hall. Your uniform and armament shall be given to you at any earliest convenience – along with the training task you are currently being assigned to. You will take the Holy Oath on the way. Once you’re dressed.”
“...”
Ramiel couldn’t swallow those words. It felt utterly surreal and unduly inappropriate to bear such outlandish news in the safe confinements of his own home. The streets, or a strange and new place would befit him better, because such spaces had a pendant for boggling and surprising him with their bizarre demeanor on the daily. But here, in the doorway to his own room? His shoulder slumped against the wood in complete disbelief.
“That means…” He began, but was quickly cut off by the shorter officer’s annoyed click of the tongue.
“It means welcome to the Executor’s force! You’ve made it, junior, congrats. Now get dressed and come on, time’s of the essence here! Let’s go, let’s go, move it!”
Ramiel sprung up straight and rapidly saluted his superiors. He didn’t need to be told twice.