The Path of the Bloody Spade: Part 2
#2 of Spade
Ok... I reserve the right to delete this chapter without notice. I'm not convinced I like it, but it's what I've got. A little longer than Part 1, so I hope that makes you happy, although it is still a little short. Anyways, without further ado, here's part 2.
The pair, Father and Brother, walked together from the abbot's quarters to the cellar of the abbey. The door to the steps was locked with a simple key that a number of monks carried. Once in the cellar, though, they headed to another door, reinforced with iron and a complicated lock. The abbot was the only person in the abbey with the key to the door, and he carried it on his person at all times. Rarely were items placed in or removed from this room, yet the key turned smoothly in the lock, and the door opened with nary a sound. The abbot lit the oil lamp by the door, and the room came alive with light and flickering shadows.
Brother André waited by the door as the Abbot entered the room. After taking a moment to prepare himself, he walked through the door, heading towards the eastern wall. He knew something of the treasures held here, but his gaze never strayed from his purpose. He came to the place where he had laid the tools of his trade all those years ago and stopped, staring at them. Part of him felt he had almost forgotten what they looked like while part of him felt that he had put them down only yesterday. He felt the abbot come up behind him as he relived the moment he put them down here.
"Must you go? Especially with these? They will bring you no peace. I told you so when you came here."
"I know, Father Abbot. Unfortunately, I shall have neither peace nor life should I leave them here. Peace is no longer a luxury I can afford."
"What is it that drives you to leave these walls? Can you not stay? Have you not been happy?"
André turned to face the holy man. "These past years have brought me a contentment I've yet to find anywhere else. Gladly, I would trade one hundred years outside these walls for one day in this abbey. Yet I cannot stay. To do so would bring disaster on myself, which is bad enough, and disaster on the abbey, which is far worse."
"Why? These walls are sacred and strong. What could spell catastrophe?"
"It is enough to say that once I leave, the abbey will be safe, and you with it."
"You fear for me?"
André smiled. "I fear you, Father Abbot."
"And well you should," the abbot smiled. His expression turned sombre an instant later. "Once more, I plead with you. Stay. You have done wonders in this abbey, both for the community and for yourself. If you leave, you may come undone."
"It is a risk I must take. It is time for me to leave, Father Abbot. I must atone for my sins of long ago or face judgement for them. Only God above can tell which it will be."
The abbot bowed his head. "So be it."
The monk turned back to the wall and what it held. With slow, trembling hands, he performed an action he had not done in the presence of another since he had joined the monastery. He pushed back the cowl and exposed his face and head to the light.
The Abbot looked on the monk before him and shook his head. He silently crossed himself and whispered, "Perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent."
Despite his low voice, André heard the words and whispered them to himself: "And lead all souls to heaven, especially those in need of thy mercy." The reason for his exceptional hearing was apparent the moment one laid eyes on him. He had the head of a wolf.
He had black fur on his ears and the back of his head, but his muzzle was white, which continued down his chin to where it disappeared in his cowl. His jade green eyes glistened slightly as he exposed his features to the light. "Do you ever wonder if God truly cares, Justin?"
The abbot was shocked to silence for a moment, both by the question and the informal address--using a name that he no longer wished to remember, no less. He understood the reason for both, however, so he merely replied, "At one time, I did. Now, however, I no longer wonder."
"Why, then?"
"Brother André--"
The werewolf punched the wall, causing a small cloud of dust to appear. "Was I not faithful? Did I not do my duty to God and King? What is it that justified this?" he yelled, gesturing to his face.
"Was Jesus' death justified?" the abbot reprimanded gently.
"He rose three days later. How long have I lived with this curse?"
"Brother André--"
"AND THAT ISN'T MY NAME!" the monk bellowed, punctuating the last word with a blow hard enough to crumble a brick in the wall.
The abbot took a step back, but even as he gave himself room from the enraged werewolf, his own eyes flashed angrily. Voice quietened with deadly ire, the abbot said, "Do not take that tone with me, lupisine. I am the Lord Abbot of Renishire Abbey, and I will be spoken to that way."
The monk turned, eyes glowing in the firelight. "You were not always the Lord Abbot, Father Justin. Do not put on airs with me."
"You ungrateful cur!" the abbot raised his voice for the first time. "You dare to insult me in my own abbey?"
"Justin--"
"That is not my name, lupisine."
"You are the same as ever, Father Abbot," the werewolf said with contempt. "That is more your name than Joseph, and denying it changes nothing."
The two stared each other, both fuming. Never in the history of the abbey had any two of the faith come so close to fighting each other. After a long, tense moment, the two sighed and unclenched their fists.
"Forgive me," the monk spoke first. "It is difficult for me, especially now when I must take these up once again. The past is coming back to haunt me."
"You are forgiven, my son. I, too, must ask your forgiveness. I allowed my pride to rule me and did not consider the stress you are under."
"My forgiveness is already given, Father Abbot. I told you that on the day I came to Renishire Abbey."
The abbot chuckled softly. "We nearly came to blows that day, too."
"So we did," the monk smiled. "I'd almost forgotten."
The lupisine turned back to the wall and traced his fingers along what it held. "I pray that I may come back to exchange harsh words with you a third time."
"May God grant it so. I will miss you," the abbot paused, "Raoul."
"And I you, Father Joseph. I fear that without me here, you may come to believe you are God on Earth."
"My son, I would never dream myself God. The pope, maybe, but never God."
Raoul chuckled. Then, his lupine face once again turned solemn. It was time.
TADA! Comment, please; it's what I live for.