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The walls of the Ministry echo footsteps softly, bouncing off the carved stone and marble floors, ringing in his ears as if they were just as loud as the bell ringing outside. The building is quiet, all the ghouls and clergymen tucked away in their respective rooms, blissfully unaware of the storm building within the walls.
It was late; later than he usually stays awake. Copia has always been a night owl, preferring the quiet, dark cloak of solitude that night brings over the bright, noise-filled expectations of socialization that accompanies the daylight. He’s been like this since he was a child, he could never figure out why. He figures that’s one of the reasons he loves touring so much; late night shows, the electricity from the crowd bringing a renewed sense of energy and excitement to the stage. He misses it.
And the little seething bubble of anger rears its head, settling in his chest like molasses, sticking to his heart and relentlessly lingering. He breathes out, continuing his walk down the halls of the Ministry, eyes travelling across the portraits lining the stone walkway. The eyes of the paintings follow him; his brothers, Primo, Secondo, and Terzo, their eyes staring at him even in the afterlife. He tries not to pay them much mind, past a small nod of recognition that they were, in fact, there. Their portraits, at least. Copia shakes his head and continues on.
It takes a moment for him to process that he has ended up in a different wing of the Ministry entirely. His room. Well, his old room. The looming, deep mahogany doors of the Papas suite draw him in closer. His body obeys, before his mind is able to protest. Copia stares at the engraved detailing on the wood; roman numerals I, II, III, IV, V in a straight line down the left one, “Memento Munus Tuum,” in a straight line down the right. “Remember Your Role,” as Sister Imperator would always say. “The Papacy is not to be taken for granted. It can be taken from you as quickly as it was given. It is a gift. Do not desecrate it.”
Copia runs his fingers down the lettering, sighing softly to himself. “Memento munus tuum…numquam oblitus sum.” He grumbles.
He thinks back on his time as Papa. The long nights, muscles sore from the performance onstage, throat burning by the end. The ringing in his ears that persisted long past the final chord, the final cheer dies out like a candle being snuffed. The late nights with his ghouls, perfecting lyrics and notes and tempos like it was something he was born to do.
He thinks back on the final performance he had, blissfully unaware that it would be the end of his time as Papa Emeritus IV. The way the crowd had roared, rattling his eardrums, he could feel every clap and cheer deep in his soul. He had taken an extra moment onstage to simply observe the fans, basking in their adoration, absorbing the love they were sharing to him. At the time, he was unsure of what drew him to stay a bit longer. But now, hindsight showed him clarity. He remembers Sister Imperator’s body; no, his mother’s body hitting the ground; the way the ghouls and various crew members rushed to her aid, the squeaking of the metal gurney carrying her out. He remembers the ghouls then rushing to him, question after question being thrown his way, their gentle hands guiding him to a nearby chair before he simply broke down in front of them.
Finally, his train of thought arrives at its final destination. The moment he was told what would come next. A promotion, firstly. He would be stripped of the Papacy and step into the role of Frater; his mother’s replacement, per her request. It felt more like a demotion to him, truthfully. Going from leading the Ghost project, thousands upon thousands of fans in the palm of his hand, to…paperwork of all things. Paperwork, leading, instructing, it was foreign to him. Sister Imperator had made it look so easy. To him, it was anything but.
Secondly, his replacement. The Ministry couldn’t leave the band without a frontman. He had originally petitioned to simply do both jobs, Papa and Frater. But in the same document that his mother had drafted, the same one that had given him the demotion to Frater, outlined the future replacement plan for the Papacy. So, on top of his mother dying, and being stripped of his titles, he had to grapple with the fact that his replacement was a twin brother he never knew existed.
If he were anyone else, he might feel a twinge of excitement at the prospect. But he wasn’t anyone else. He was Copia. To others, he was Cardinal. Papa Emeritus IV. Frater Imperator. But right now, in the quiet veil of the moonlight bleeding through the small windows surrounding him, he was Copia.
Except for one small detail he didn’t notice. On the other side of the doors, a small amount of shuffling could be heard. Then, the soft padding of footsteps leading up to them.
“Can I help you?” A voice asks, soft and brassy, from inside the room. The sound startles Copia, drawing him out of his nostalgia filled thoughts. He swallows hard, his heartbeat immediately beginning to race as he tries to come up with something, anything, to get him out of this situation. He should run. He should speak to his brother. He should pretend like no one was even out there to begin with.
Being the clever individual he is, he instead freezes, fingers frozen in place over the last roman numeral on the door; V. “I, uhm-,” He stammers out, hand retracting away quickly, as if the door had begun to burn him. “No, my apologies.”
Before he can manage to sneak away, he watches as the brass handle of the door begins to move, the latch carefully unlocking, and the hinges squeaking quietly. Well, normally it would be quiet; but in the late hours of the night, silence covering the halls, it might as well have been as loud as a gunshot. It sure felt like it, anyways.
From the shrouded darkness of the room steps Perpetua, an inquisitive look in his eyes. The silver mask that dons his face almost engulfed his eyes in shadow; but Copia knows what that look is. He sees it in himself frequently.
Fraternal twins. Not identical, but similar. They have the same eyes, the same nose. Perpetua, however, is taller and lankier. He stands at 5’11, a fair 2 inches taller than Copia, which he definitely doesn’t resent him for even though Copia is technically older. They share the same heterochromia, except Perpetua’s other eye is a warm green, while Copia’s is a bright blue. Copia is shorter, on the slightly bigger side, especially obvious when standing next to Perpetua. Perpetua is more soft spoken, while Copia is a tad more abrasive. Il sole e la luna.
“Mio fratello,” Perpetua says, a hint of confusion hiding in his voice. “What brings you by tonight?”
Copia silently curses himself, a small scowl forming on his lips. “Just…” He begins, desperately trying to come up with some kind of hateful remark. Just making sure you weren’t destroying the room. Just making sure you hadn’t…his mind draws a blank. In the daylight, in the rare moments where the brothers would cross paths, he could easily come up with something. But there was a certain vulnerability that hung between them; maybe it was the moonlight, or the way Perpetua seemed genuine in his question, or the mild case of sleep depravation that Copia’s mind is plagued with. He relents.
“Reminiscing,” Copia continues. “On, uh. My time. As Papa.”
Perpetua’s shoulders seem to relax further. “Oh,” Perpetua breathes. “I was worried something bad had happened.”
Painful silence follows. For brothers bound together by blood, they really can’t hold a conversation outside of business talks.
“Do…um,” Perpetua says, trailing off. “Visne intrare?”
Copia raises an eyebrow at the man in front of him. “No. It is your space now, I wouldn’t want to intrude.” He replies, curt and harsh in his tone. Perpetua doesn’t seem to recognize this, and simply shrugs in response.
“Alright, would you like to talk about it?” He asks.
Once again, Copia is caught off guard. The two stare at each other for a few moments. Silence hangs between them again, Copia’s fingers fidgeting with the crucifix around his neck. Perpetua doesn’t push it further; he simply stands there, waiting for Copia’s response.
“Okay.”
The Ministry gardens, once meticulously taken care of by Primo, had grown overrun with weeds. Manicured bushes and vibrant flowers turned a pitiful shade of brown, petals falling down and coating the cobblestone beneath their feet. He’d spent a fair amount of time at the Ministry before officially joining the Ghost project; Primo was someone who had always given him the time of day. He was on the stricter side, for sure, but there was always kindness behind his words.
He never spent much time with Secondo or Terzo; Secondo was a recluse, often choosing to stay in his area of the Ministry, only coming out when needed for sermons or important meetings. As for Terzo, he was far more focused on maintaining his role as the frontman of Ghost. He didn’t have time, truly. Copia wonders if they would have gotten along at all.
And then there’s Perpetua. At first, he expected the other man to cling to him like a lost puppy. For Copia, his twin was the living embodiment of everything that was stripped of him. The prime example of the fact that, even when you get everything you’ve ever wanted, it can get stripped away from you without a second thought. Perhaps he should blame Sister Imperator instead. He doesn’t like to think about her in that way.
“The gardens used to be properly maintained, I apologize,” Copia says, leading his brother to a closeby bench. “Primo, the first Papa. He used to maintain them. He loved the gardens. He’d spend hours out here, carefully maintaining each bed of roses, each shrub. It hasn’t been the same the past few years.”
Perpetua hums in response, sitting down on the bench. Copia settles next to him, awkwardly crossing his legs so they don’t touch Perpetua’s. If the other man notices it, he doesn’t say anything. Copia is thankful.
“Can I ask you something?” Perpetua asks.
Copia takes a moment to respond, before he simply nods, his eyes trained on the rose bush in front of them.
“What was it like when you first became Papa?”
The question catches him off guard; Perpetua seems good at doing that to him. “Well,” He begins. “It was…hard. I’m unsure if anyone has told you, but when I first came to the Ministry, I was completely unaware that I was part of the bloodline. I didn’t learn until somewhat recently.”
“Really?” Perpetua says. “Huh. I mean, I didn’t know I had a twin until…well, I guess when you learned.”
Copia lets out a breath, nodding. “The Papacy has always been something not to be taken advantage of. I adored it, truly. It was definitely…intimidating at first, but once I got into the groove of it, so to speak, I loved it,” He continues. “The energy, the fans, the power. Holding them in the palm of your hand, completely focused on you. It’s intoxicating, yes?”
Perpetua hums in agreement. “It’s definitely exciting. It’s also…a little overwhelming. The expectations, both from the clergy and from the fans…it’s intimidating.”
“It can be. I suppose it gets easier over time.”
More silence between them. It’s less awkward now; less like there’s nothing for them to converse about, and instead just a comfortable lull in conversation. Copia notices the way Perpetua fidgets with the buttons on his shirt. Though it’s late, neither of them had changed out of their day clothes.
“Does it?”
Copia turns his head, glancing at Perpetua. “Pardon?”
“I mean, does it actually get easier? Right now, it seems like…I’m not sure. Some massive, insurmountable mountain I have to climb. The Ministry wants me to do better than you did. More awards, more shows…it seems like an impossible task, truthfully.”
Copia chuckles. “I mean, in my defense, I did have multiple album cycles. This one is only your first album. And with me as Frater Imperator, hopefully I can…well, bring reasonable change to the way things operate. I did two full albums, a covers EP, multiple singles, and a live album, on top almost non-stop touring for six years. You’ve just barely passed year one. You have time.”
Perpetua’s gaze rises to meet Copia’s, green and white eyes meeting blue and white. A twisted mirror, Copia thinks, showing both his past and future at the same time. He hates how much he has aged compared to his twin; but, the aforementioned six years of non-stop work will age you. Perpetua didn’t have that. He hopes, both selfishly and selflessly, that Perpetua won’t have that.
Selfishly, because he wants to take his rightful place back as Papa. Selflessly, because at this point, he’s burnt out from anything and everything related to the Ghost project. The constant churning out of work, never taking breaks, always writing a new song or orchestrating new chords and backing tracks, touring, writing more…it gets tiresome. He feels old beyond his years, joints aching and burning when he sleeps wrong or moves too quickly. He wouldn’t trade it for the world, but secretly, he hopes to make those changes for his brother. For any future Papa Emeritus.
“Hopefully. I remember Sister Imperator telling me that she expected me to surpass you in every way. Not because you were bad, necessarily, but because every Papa should surpass the previous."
Copia simply hums in response.
Perpetua looks back down at his hands. “If you don’t mind me asking…what happened to the other Papas?”
Ah, the question Copia has been hoping to avoid. He sighs, turning his gaze towards the sky. The moon is full, shining pale blue light through the trees. He tries not to think about the fate of his- well, their brothers. “It happened the same day I became the frontman of Ghost. Back when I was simply Cardinal Copia, not yet Papa IV. Lethal injection for all three. Terzo was decapitated. His head was sewn back on, they were embalmed, and then paraded around for the VIP guests to view when I toured Prequelle.”
He can tell Perpetua is taken aback by this answer. “That’s…morbid.”
Copia snorts. “Yes, indeed. If I can be candid with you, fratello, I believed I would see the same fate as them. Sister and Nihil, they kept telling me that my time was coming to a close,” He continues. “One day, I saw Mr. Psaltarian bringing a new coffin into the morgue. Sister said it was nothing to be concerned about, but I knew better. I saw the pattern; once a Papa became no longer useful, they were disposed of. Paraded around. I was sure I would see the same fate as them. But…alas, we both know that is not what happened, yes?”
Perpetua lets out a stiff laugh. Copia can hear the way his crucifix jingles against his rings. “That’s true. I’d heard rumors of…well, everything that happened, but I never expected it to be so…methodical, I suppose. Like they were just taking the trash out instead of ending real human lives.”
It never felt right to Copia. He carries the guilt of his brother's deaths every day; he may not have been the one holding the syringe, but he was the catalyst. The driving force behind their early graves. They never even got a funeral, they were immediately preserved, paraded around for profit. It makes him feel sick.
“I carry that guilt with me every day. I didn’t kill them, certainly not. But was I the reason? Omnino, fratello. If I had not arrived, they may have lived longer. They may have been given even an ounce of reverence in the afterlife. Instead, their corpses, frozen in time, remain in limbo. Paraded for profit instead of given respect,” Copia laments, his eyes still trained on the moon above them. He watches the way the clouds circle around it, concealing the small amount of light it produces, just to dissipate moments later. “Fortunately, that has ended for you.”
“I appreciate everything you did for me, fratello. It was hard for me at first, but it must have been even harder for you. To watch Sister Imperator die, lose your position in the clergy…to go from shining stage lights and glittery suits to tax write-offs and business formalities.” Perpetua says. Copia can see him out of the corner of his eye, his attention transfixed on the moon as well. They’ve always shared the same moon, haven’t they? Miles apart, it has always been there for them. A guiding light, a searchlight, directing them back to each other. Perhaps it’s a twin thing. Copia doesn’t know.
“It is still hard. I’m quite envious of you,” Copia says, vulnerable for the first time in months. It feels like cracking his ribcage open, pulling his heart from his chest cavity, and handing it to the man next to him, rather than something that should come naturally. Vulnerability with a brother shouldn’t be this painful.
“Though it is unfair to you, I see you as a constant reminder of what I once had. Going from Papa to Frater seems like a good promotion on paper. But like you said…going from having a crowd of thousands in the palm of your hand, to a small group of people terrified to say no to you…it does not feel the same. It sucks, if I may be frank,” He continues on, turning his gaze towards his brother. At some point during their conversation, he had relaxed a fair bit. Their knees awkwardly knock into each other. Neither of them seem to mind the touch; an olive branch, a hand through the darkness, reaching out to simply say “I’m here.”
Copia sighs again, drawing Perpetua’s attention from the moon above them. “At the end of the day, even though you may be my replacement, we have no one else. I’m…” He trails off, looking down at his hands for a brief moment before looking straight ahead. He feels Perpetua’s eyes still on him, scanning his features. Maybe the other man was analyzing him, similarly to what he has done in the past. Comparing, contrasting, predicting the future. “I’m coping. I’m learning. I’m trying to be better. I hope I can be better, if not for the Clergy as a whole, at least for you.”
Perpetua doesn’t respond to this, instead reaching out to grab Copia’s hand in his. He squeezes it three times before letting go again, not wanting to push further than they had already gone. Copia smiles as he looks down at their hands clasped together.
“For now, instead of being Papa and Frater, can we learn to be brothers?” Perpetua asks hesitantly. “You know. Not just Papa and Frater, but as Copia and Perpetua. We have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
Copia nods, meeting Perpetua’s gaze. “I suppose we can always try.”
They stay up late that night, which Copia will most assuredly regret when he wakes up. But truthfully, he doesn’t mind. As Perpetua said, they have a lot of lost time to make up. Nearly 50 years of time, to be exact. So if the consequences of staying up late talking about childhood, music, films, and life is being extra cranky the next day, he will happily face them. If anyone notices an extra pep in his step as he walks into the office, the bags under his eyes hidden with makeup, no one mentions it. If anyone noticed the way he seems to perk up when someone mentions an idea for the next album cycle, they simply move past it.
The moon holds their secrets, their vulnerability. The moon knows the way the two brothers, pulled apart and put back together by fate, had slowly started to heal that night. By the time the early morning light begins leaking into the gardens, the sun is simply late to the party.