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After the fifth day of unrelentless votes, the air in the Sistine Chapel cannot get any more tense. Two rounds a day, every dawn and afternoon. The nervousness rising in between the cracks that are slowly forming on the stoic façades of 120 Cardinals.
The doors has been locked since that morning, like the day before, and the ones before that; the only source of light are normally the windows situated high near the ceiling, but, now, in the evening, the room is slowly being submerged in dense dimness, charged with the expectations of the men. All dressed in red, all equally impatient to hear the verdict.
The votes are being counted right in front of Daniel's eyes. One by one, picked from the box by old, calculative hands, and pierced on the wooden abacus sitting on the desk everyone has been staring at for the past fifteen minutes.
Names called out one after the other: "Molloy. De Romanus. Molloy. Molloy." A slow litany, and yet not one set of eyes in the room dares to gaze away.
His name is repeated so many times it starts to sound extraneous. Wrong.
He is not fit to be the next Pope, he had known this from the start. It didn't help how he was favorited by the Italian bishops, even before the election started. With each time his name is spelt out in the stale air of the Chapel, a new weight adds on his shoulder. A burden he's far too weak to handle. Especially now, at 73 years old.
Nevertheless, how his colleague has said, the wishes of the clergy could not be denied. If they want him to be the next Pope, he will try to abide to their desires to the best of his capabilities. If not for God, as a last favor to his dead friend.
"De Romanus. De Romanus."
That monotone song comes to a stop in that precise moment, and Daniel, awakened from his meditative state, moves his eyes from the abacus to the teller.
"Habemus Papam," the man simply says.
The Cardinals around him start clapping. Daniel, because he is the way he is, has lost count of the votes.
"Who?" he asks Cardinal de Pointe du Lac as he follows the actions of the others and he, too, stands up.
Louis barely glances his way, and instead nods towards the youngest person in the room, his face contorted in a half-smile that can't quite be deciphered.
Armand is still sat on the bench he was assigned. His red and white robes wrapped around his lean body in a way that makes his seem ever younger, a boy wearing his father's clothes. Not even 30 years old, his face is the epitome of genuine surprise and innocent naivety. His big, dark eyes are open wide, and shies away from the clapping, at first, makes himself look small under the hundreds of stares directed his way.
Only after the first wave of shock passes through him, he finally stands up.
There's a darker tint to his cheeks as he whispers words of gratitude to those near his seat, shakes the hands that reach towards him. Then, in a matter of seconds, the Cardinals are clearing the way and pushing him to the centre of the room and to the exit, the vestibule.
He looks his way, once, before he is dragged away. Now that he is closer, Daniel can't tell anymore whether that on his face is astonishment or concern.
He follows the smaller figure with his eyes until he disappears behind the strong mahogany door that leads to the Crying Room. People are still clapping all around him, but Daniel can't forget the emotions showing on Armand's face.
He doesn't realize he's trying to get to the other side of his bench until he almost steps on 'du Lac's foot. He ignores the Cardinal's frown and the way he is reluctant to make space for him, and instead walks in big strides after the others and towards that door that has just locked the new Pope in, and everyone else out in the Chapel.
"Cardinal Molloy, excited to see the new Pope in all his splendor?" A voice asks from behind him. De Lioncourt, pleasant as always.
"I believe we all are," he replies, reluctantly gazing away from the door. "He won rightfully."
Lestat scoffs. Daniel momentarily wonders how it must feel, to buy votes and still lose miserably. That, though, is a sinful and arrogant thought he rushes to get out of his mind. The Cardinal didn't win, and that was God's will. No reason to judge him when he has already been.
The blond man is about to speak again when the door behind them opens, and a man—middle-aged, wearing a white cassock—walks out, hands twitching with stress where they are lolling by his sides.
"Cardinal Molloy, the Pope wishes to speak with you," he informs him in a grave tone and a beckoning gesture, so that Daniel understands he is not being granted a choice. Not that he would have said "no", anyway. It feels nice to know he is still needed, even after the election.
He briefly dismisses himself from Lestat and walks in after the friar, through a narrow corridor that leads to another closed door.
"Is something wrong?" he asks, and receives no response. The man moves his open hand, palm up, in the direction of the door. It's clear he won't get an explanation from him, so, he pushes down on the handle and walks into the Crying Room. It's a small space, poorly decorated, with only a wooden closet and a hanger to indicate its purpose.
The only real touch of personality is the curtains draped over the window that's on the left side of the room. So thin light shines through them even when they're closed down in the middle, and black in colour. The grief of a king, mourning the man he once was.
Armand is sitting on the only bench of the room, still dressed in his Cardinal clothes, with his hands firmly in his lap. His whole body was unmoving, uncannily still despite for the eyes, the dead body of a man, conscious enough to respond only to light.
And he is staring up at a nun with those cloudy eyes, like she is not there, talking to him. The old woman is holding the Papal robes: white and pristine, and still covered in a plastic film as to not get even a speckle of dust on them. She turns to Daniel when he walks in, and, with a sigh he can't quite interpret, places the vest on the small table next to Armand before walking out unceremoniously, leaving them alone.
The lock clicks in place, and Daniel can finally focus on Armand.
If he looked small before, now he's minuscule. His usual stoic expression, devoid of emotion, is interrupted by the tightness of his jaw. The lines on his forehead are accentuated from the frown he is wearing, and he is intently scrutinizing the floor between his feet, his pupils fixed on one particular tile, as to ignore everything else.
Daniel steps closer, barely a meter between their bodies. "I suppose congratulations are in order," he says, hopeful it would snap the man out of his trance. Armand doesn't look up.
"You wanted to speak with me?" he tries again.
This time, he gets a response. It's barely even there, a silent hum of affirmation coming from Armand's throat.
"Sit, please," he replies, placing his hand on the free spot next to him. Daniel breathes out his relief and complies easily, taking his place next to him.
"There is something I wish to ask you," Armand continues. He swallows. The next breath he takes in is shaky, and Daniel doesn't push him. He patiently waits for him to finish the thought, and keeps his eyes on him the whole time to show his interest. His profile, from this angle, is soft, almost juvenile. So different from all the other men out there. The arch of his nose is delicate, and perfectly fits in between his eyebrow bone and his lips. Daniel never was the painter type, but he figures Armand would be an amazing muse to depict.
Armand's hands are trembling when he grabs the white vest and holds it in his lap. He is staring at it, yet his eyes seem distant as he nibbles on his lower lip, lost in thought. When he speaks again, his voice is steadier, almost detached.
"I believe you should be the one to wear it," he blurts out. He settles the clothes on Daniel's lap with a fast motion, as if he thought Daniel would object, as if they were painful to hold in his own hands. Not worthy, Lestat had said.
He finally looks up at the Cardinal, afterwards. Pleading doe eyes reflecting Daniel's own, confused ones. The latter is quiet for the longest time following the words, to the point where Armand averts his gaze again and starts bouncing his leg, unable to keep still.
"What?" Daniel asks, bewildered.
"You heard me," Armand murmurs back. He is blushing with shame, all confidence from before gone. There is uncertainty in his voice, now, but hope, too; trust that the Cardinal would not let him down.
Daniel proves him wrong.
"You know I cannot do it."
"I will resign." Armand almost cuts him off, with how fast he talks back. "You are the second most voted, it is only right."
Daniel abruptly gets up from the bench, leaves the vest on it as he starts pacing around the small room. Armand cannot resign, that is not possible. There is no reason he should be resigning. He won over two thirds of the Cardinals, he is well-spoken, well educated, and his opinions, for how controversial they may have been at the start of the Conclave, are now widely accepted by more than half of the clergymen that are still waiting in the Sistine Chapel for him. Not to mention how revolutionary they could be for the Church.
His gray curls are smothered as he runs his fingers through them, facing one of the white walls that's enclosing them. His back is turned away from the newly elected Pope, but that doesn't mean he can't feel his nervousness without even having to look at him.
"You deserve this role more than anyone else who has entered the Chapel this last week. Why do you want to waste this opportunity? These men trust you, your policies. Why–"
"Because I don't know the first thing about bringing them to life," Armand replies with an edge of sharpness.
"That is what the Cardinals are for," Daniel says as he turns around. "You got more than 80 votes, and you still believe you're undeserving?"
"I am young, Cardinal Molloy. I come from nothing. All I am is a name I reject and a couple of pretty words. I know nothing of the Vatican, nor do I have any experience in leading. I am not the shepherd the Church needs."
"And I am?" Daniel can't help but laugh out. It's ridiculous to think so. He walks up to the man, waits for him to gaze up at him. Plenty of times he has sinned, has been mislead. He is just as unworthy as Armand has painted himself to be, if not more.
But Armand seems to think otherwise. "Yes," he answers, and for the first time that evening, a word seems to slide out of his lips effortlessly, so natural that Daniel has a hard time not believing him.
The power of speech leaves him for a second. He so desperately wants the younger to understand, to realize how much trust the Cardinals are putting in him, yet he fears that might be the problem. He himself has thought of being Pope as a burden, as only a worry to carry on his shoulders day and night until his eventual—and much needed—demise. Nevertheless, leading a flock was never his primary vocation, and Armand does so without flinching once. His way of speaking beckons people to listen, his actions make people want to repeat them in his fashion.
He is a natural-born leader, whether he believes it or he thinks he is not worthy of the title. And, for how stupid that might be, Daniel needs him to trust the Cardinals' and their opinions for once.
He says: "There is no one I'd follow but you."
Armand looks like he is taken aback, almost amused, like what Daniel just said is bordering on ridiculous. And Daniel, in the buzz of his current desperation, interprets that as a good enough sign to double down.
He only hesitates briefly before lowering himself on the ground. It is painful on his joints, and the floor is harsh to his skin when he has finally knelt in front of Armand. He must have looked silly, slowly getting down like that, holding the bench for support, but on the other's face he doesn't see glee, only concern and the first hints of curiosity. If he finds it weird, he doesn't say.
"I can't accept the title," Daniel commences. His hands are on his thighs, fiddling with the fabric of his vest and stretching it as he searches for good words. Better words. For once he actually tries to think, before speaking.
"These past days, I have been sinning of doubt." He grimaces, shamefully staring at the ground. "I kept asking myself: how can God allow for men to be fighting like this? for them to be at each other's throats like animals, completely disregarding the rules of our Lord and Savior? What good, almighty God would ever let this happen?"
He bites his lip, shakes his head. It all sounds so silly, now that it is being pronounced out loud.
When he dares to look at Armand, he sees his eyes are even bigger than usual. Or, his pupils are. Dilated, black swallowing the amber color. Mouth agape as he observes him quietly, though Daniel can't tell whether it is out of shock, respect, or something else entirely.
"When you spoke for the first time, in front of them, I understood. You were above anyone else in the room." A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "You still are."
"You inherited the best traits of the Lord, molded them so that I could believe again. I knew, that moment, that He had chosen you, before any of us did."
Daniel inhales deeply. He has never admitted to anyone how deep his doubt runs, at times. It makes him dirty, the only sin he genuinely condemns, for it is the only one that leads away from God. And Armand knows this, he can see how soiled Daniel's soul is, how his thoughts have led him astray, away from the right path.
His hands are on Armand's knees when his talking comes to an end. He doesn't know when he put them there, and he bashfully goes to retreat them. Not worthy, Lestat sings in his head. Before he can, Armand's slender fingers are on them, keeping him in place.
"I never knew," he murmurs, a tiny pout obstructing his features.
"Oh, I never knew," he repeats. To Daniel's horror, he brings his hands—his dirty, soiled hands—to his mouth, and presses his soft lips to the knuckles, eyes closed for the longest time. When he opens them again, the Cardinal's breath catches in his throat.
Armand is crying. Armand is crying and he reverently kisses his knuckles and looks down at him like he has just gifted him the world.
"Doubt is natural," he speaks against his skin. "You overcame. The Lord is pleased with you, do not fret." He brushes his palm against Daniel's cheek, comforting. Daniel can't possibly believe him.
"Armand." His voice cracks, and that's what makes the other let go of him and stand, face away from him. Daniel can't have that happen, his heart is pounding again.
"Arman–"
"Hush, now," he cuts him off in that patronising tone he so effortlessly uses, assertive and gentle all the same. He is a Saint, in that moment, and if Daniel could not see it before, he does now.
Back turned away, a fist curled in the red robes still clinging to his body like second skin. Humility that most had mistaken as fear, or even arrogance, but in reality it is only uncertainty, the kind that comes along with the young age, and the responsibilities, and a new title that sounds too big for everyone.
The boy is nothing but pure. Innocence at its finest. Wanton to do the right thing, just not confident in his abilities. The perfect lamb.
"I cannot comprehend your trust in me, Cardinal Molloy." He looks at Daniel from over his shoulder, and marvels in seeing him on his knees, still.
"That does not render my trust unfounded," he replies.
Armand hums.
"You are young, yes. That gives you time to reform what's rotten. A new kingdom, a new law. What the Church has needed since the fall of Christ." He is pushing it, he knows, making it sound like the man standing in front of him is the Messiah himself. Just as Holy, if not more.
"Do not indulge in heresy. It won't help me more than it'll help you."
Still denying, still doubtful. Naïve boy.
Daniel wants to make that doubt vanish like Armand did his. Fast and sweet, no aftertaste on his tongue, only the bitter memory remaining alive and pulsing for him to revive when he deems fit.
He reaches for the man's hand with both of his, holding it in a warm grip as he peeks up from under his eyelashes.
"Not heresy. Not if it's true," he says.
Armand flinches like he has gotten hurt and shakes his head. There's something in his irises, a flame never seen before.
"Get up," he orders, and Daniel follows, slowly and rather painfully, helped by the younger. "Don't worship God through me. I will merely be his vessel."
Daniel finally relaxes at that. He doesn't say that he has stopped worshipping God the moment he first saw him.
"And what should we call His vessel?" he asks instead, softer.
Armand looks deep into his eyes, then down at the white vests waiting for him. He seems to be thinking, but Daniek knows better than that. Every man that stepped foot into the Conclave has thought of this question once, whether it was for arrogance or fun.
When the Pope looks back at him, there's the slightest of smiles on his lips.
༺♱༻
The sounds from the crowd in the Vatican square has been reduced to barely more than a buzz in Daniel's ears when he finally sees Armand standing before the door of the balcony in his Papal clothes, while a Cardinal announces his recent election to the people below.
"You will do great," he encourages him, though it is clear the younger has overcome the anxiety he had felt before, right after the Conclave.
Daniel had helped him get dressed, not without some mild conplain from Armand. No to the red Mozzetta, he decided to wear his usual white Cardinal cassock. So Daniel pinned the stole on it, instead, and slipped the cord Pallium over his head to top it off.
It didn't seem real, just minutes ago. Now, with Armand standing next to him, holding the golden Papal staff, ready to walk out on the balcony, Daniel feels more stressed than the Pope himself.
"It is with great joy I announce you, habemus papam," the Cardinal speaks.
Armand's free hand lays on his shoulder, reassuring. As fast as it comes, though, it is gone, and the man is being directed towards the balcony.
With his back turned to him, Dabiel can only imagine the emotion on the other man's face. Yet, he sees the way his shoulders relax as his newfound flock welcomes him, perceives the way he smiles down at the people, come from everywhere in the world to see him. Witness him. A Savior.
"The most eminent and most reverend of men, Lord Amedeus. Cardinal De Romanus of the Holy Roman Church."
"Pope Felix the VI."