Sunlight filtered through the drapes fluttering like dove wings in the crisp spring breeze. It coated the entire recovery room with the color of a glowing hearth, as the star cross of the Church of Light hanging above Vincent’s head scattered a single light ray like beads of a broken necklace. The light trickled all across the wreaths of flowers lying on his bedside table — layered on top of crudely-cut stationary paper full of clumsy letters that mostly spelled out two words.
Thank you.
The medi-monitor cuff around his left arm breathed — contracting and dilating to the rhythm of his beating heart, as the screen besides his cot recorded the pattern, accompanied by its own tinkling musical arrangement. The muscle right beneath his soulbind whined and twitched. Apparently there’s welts and burns along his skin, right beneath the layer of bandages, but the stinging he can feel behind the veil of painkillers is enough to persuade him that he should take the doctor’s word for it, rather than investigate himself.
There was a sound of brief commotion outside of his recovery room, hushed voices and rapid whispering, before the door swung open. Father Peter wheeled himself inside, fussed about by two Sisters of the Light and trailed by the familiar, sour face of Brother Lucian. Vincent leaned forward, trying to sit.
“Don’t you move, Vinny, my boy!” Father Peter’s voice boomed, as the man himself zipped deftly up to the side of Vincent’s cot. He’s thrown his beard over his shoulder, operating his wheelchair with one massive hand. “How’s the bind feeling?”
Vincent flexed his hand, feeling the skin shift and simmer beneath the bandages.
“As ready to go as ever,” he replied, and held in a wince as Father Peter roared a laugh and patted him right on top of his injured forearm. Something wet and juicy squelched under the contact, sending out tendrils of fire up his arm — but not with the ferocity he expected. At least the meds were working as intended.
Vincent felt his insides slowly unclench.
“Vincent St. Clair.” Lucian nods his head, curt. His blunt-cut bangs bob with the motion.
“Oh, hi, Lucy. Sorry, your cherubic visage confused my delirious mind. Thought you were one of them holy icons hanging out in the hallways.” He grinned and raised his healthy thumb as Lucian’s scowl deepened. “Morphine is one fucking ride, I tell you.”
One of the sisters clucked something that sounded suspiciously like “language!” under her breath, but she didn’t… outright reprimand Vincent, so he figured one guilty shrug of the shoulders was enough to square the swear jar debt.
“What can I do for you, Father?” Vincent asked, before Lucian could think to say anything. He did so very much like preening for the Sisters, especially ones that had frown lines as prominent as these too.
Probably because he was one too, deep at heart. Constables of the no fun police.
“Oh, just a little something I felt you should have — Lucian’s already been informed, so I wanted to make sure you were… both on the same page.” He twisted to fish something out of the black bag hanging on the back on his wheelchair, black beard dragging along his white hospital gown. The fabric stretched — and Father Peter grunted.
His wound. It was just under his ribs, wasn’t it.
“Father, we can come back another—” Lucian stepped forward, not meeting Vincent’s eyes. Father Peter waved him away.
“No, no — this is only fair.” He came back up, his face red not just from the exertion. In his hands he held a nondescript flat black box, wrapped in a matte black fabric that seemed to absorb the light around it. “You boys are both sons to me. I have to be fair with my sons, you understand?”
He handed Vincent the box.
The lid fit tightly, and it took Vincent a few moments to pry it off the top using only one hand. Inside, atop of feather white satin cushions, sat a single lustrous strip of stiff linen — solid white, on first glance, but upon closer examination, Vincent could see the raised silver threads forming the protective spell embedded into the fabric. Vincent flipped it over. J V St. Clair, the underside read, in silver cursive. A single four-pointed star — cross of the Church of Light — punctuated the end.
A proper Roman collar — the symbol of a fully-ordained exorcist of the Church of Light — with his name on it.
“I don’t understand — Father, we still have four months left of the apprenticeship, then the formal trials—”
Father Peter waved him off.
“You two took on a Nomen and his fully-fledged witch — and not only did you both walk out victorious, but you lost no life in the process. Twenty-three families had been saved, that night.” He looked up, and Vincent could have sworn he heard the good Father’s voice break. “That’s what we do boys, here at the Brotherhood of Light. We save people.”
He picked up the collar, gently rubbed the star on the back.
“Welcome to the Brotherhood, Brother Vincent St. Clair.” He thrust the collar out to Vincent. Vincent took it, side-eyed by the Sisters who nevertheless politely clapped. “We’ll do a proper ceremony for you two boys when the rest of your cohort finish their trials. Having too many celebrations would be too… festive, in this time of war, you understand. But I felt it’s right that you two would join us — the first, of your flock.”
He sat back, stroking his beard. Vincent squinted up at Lucian, who was still not meeting his eyes. Yes, yes, his collar did also seem a little bit more fancy, though tucked into his shirt with only a small square remaining, it was hard to tell at first glance.
The jerk got his and tried to keep Vincent from getting the same!
“Thank you, Father. I am… deeply honored.”
Understatement of the year.
He clenched the collar in his hand, felt the crisp edges dig into his palm.
“I swear, I will give my life to this collar — and everything it stands for.”
Father Peter laughed — yet again — and patted Vincent’s thigh.
At least he didn't go for the arm again.
“Let’s not have too much talk about giving up lives — we’ve all got a lot of work left to do. A lot of the world we still gotta save.” He shifted, and for the first time, allowed his face to contort in pain. “And I have another dose of morphine in my near future.” He dropped his hand back to the controls of his wheel chair. “Heal up — new orders will be coming for you both shortly.”
He whipped his wheelchair around, zooming out of the door, Sisters in tow. Lucian hesitated, briefly, then nodded curtly and turned to leave.
The collar still dug into Vincent’s palm.
“Lucy.”
He stopped, one hand on the door handle.
"How did you collapse the roof?"
Lucian stared at the door, silent.
"Explosives," he said, then turned to face Vincent. Vincent kept his face impassive.
"That could have killed everyone inside that room — and you."
"It would have killed the witch first." He looked away — as if he was embarassed. Except Vincent knew that he wasn't, because this sort of fanaticism was exactly the sort of thing one would expect from Lucian.
At least he was consistent. Two years with Lucian had taught him that there was no point in arguing.
Lucian worried his lip, still not meeting Vincent's eyes.
“I’ll be sure to let the Inquisitor know.” He said finally, tipping his head as he walked out. The lock clicked shut behind him.
Vincent sunk back into his pillows, exhaling. Flipped over the collar again, studying the little loops that formed the letters of his name.
Exorcist Vincent St. Clair.
Yes, he could say he’d… dreamed about this. For quite some time.
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