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Chapter Text

Thomas Lawrence had to face the truth: age was finally catching up with him. Such is the fate of all men on this earth. At least, that was the most logical explanation for his condition, and also the cruelest.

Thankfully, the conclave was over, but his migraine lingered mercilessly. It seemed to Thomas that it had been going on for days and days, and he struggled to remember the bliss of a life without this throbbing pain. The attack in the Sistine Chapel certainly had something to do with it. It was as if the explosion had shaken him to his soul: the pain had curled up deep inside him. More excruciating than ever, it gave him no rest, not even at night, setting all his nerves on fire. The usual medication, strictly administered by Sister Agnes, was not working. Meditation didn’t help neither. Perhaps the stress had pushed him to a point of no return. He tossed and turned in bed, unable to understand the source of his discomfort. His mind wandered.

And yet... Paradoxically, despite the pulsation, Thomas felt more appeased than ever. For what had been gnawing at his soul more viciously was gone. His faith was returning, like a bud emerging at the end of a branch, strengthening under a gentle light that had been absent for so long. Praying was still difficult, but peace was returning, slowly, like a wound healing under a miraculous touch. This fantasized vision sounded almost like blasphemy, but it was true. Vincent had brought his faith back to him, like a personal miracle, the embodied answer to his silent questions. He thought back to that moment in the room of tears. How much it had seemed like absolution. If only he could make his migraine go away in the same way, by touching his forehead.

Suddenly, somewhere between pain and consciousness, Thomas knew for sure: one of the turtles had strayed out of the pond. He sat up abruptly in bed. He tried in vain to dismiss the idea, which had surely been conjured up by his insomnia to keep him awake, or perhaps by a dream he couldn't remember. But nothing worked. His entire mind was focused on the idea of a turtle escaping. He had to find it and bring it back to its home. Check that they were all right. Ensure their safety. Then perhaps he would be able to find the sleep that had eluded him.

Thomas tried to take a deep breath to calm his thoughts. It was ridiculous. Still, perhaps getting some fresh air would clear his mind and calm his frayed nerves. He didn't hesitate any longer: the curfew had now been lifted at Casa Santa Marta, even though security had been stepped up following the recent attacks. Without the Conclave, life at Casa Santa Marta was returning to normal, or almost. The cardinals would remain for the duration of Innocent's enthronement Mass. Only the Italian cardinals had returned to their respective cities for the next few days. He himself had been unable to bring himself to return to his Roman apartment, driven by concern to remain as close as possible to Pope Innocentius. Unless it was to Vincent?

Thomas finally got up, grimacing as his migraine throbbed. He waited for it to stabilize, then put on a cardigan and pants. He slipped outside. No one was there. Silence washed over his nerves, which had been frayed by the events of the last few days. But his focus was on the reptiles that might have escaped.

Vincent loves turtles, after all. He would hate for anything to happen to them, especially in the early days of his pontificate.

Thomas stopped in his tracks. Why was the thought of the now pope creeping into his mind in the middle of the night? He didn't know. Perhaps in the moonlight, his sunny and warm presence stood out naturally by contrast. He followed his instincts, walking along the gardens and a deserted courtyard. There was no sound, and yet he moved forward with a strange certainty. He soon found one of the reptile, leaning against a low wall. Was it with anyone else? No. He guessed as much. It was the only runaway. Thomas picked it up gently, as usual, and held it close. The turle didn't struggle, just shook its head curiously. He felt strangely relieved, as if he had accomplished a sacred mission.

Returning to the pond, Thomas tensed up. A figure was standing there. His grip tightened on the shell before he realized how ridiculous he was being; what could he have done to defend himself? However, he immediately relaxed. It was only Vincent. He too was dressed in more comfortable, loose-fitting, dark clothes: without the moon reflecting off the whiteness of his papal robes, he was now just a shadow like him in the garden. Less ethereal, more accessible; less angelic and more human. The few days since his election had already changed him: the Vincent he had first met near the pond seemed incredibly distant. Vincent must have heard him coming, or even sensed him with his guide perception, because he turned toward him with a smile:

“Good evening, my dear Thomas. I see you didn't come alone.”

Thomas approached the pond with the turtle. Vincent looked at the creature kindly. It seemed impossible for him not to show kindness on his face, even if it took on unique nuances depending on who he was talking to. Thomas never tired of noticing the slightest variation. Vincent reached out and patted the little wrinkled head.

“That's right. I found it further away. It almost managed to escape.”

Bending over and trying not to grimace too much, Thomas put the turtle back in the water. It dove in without hesitation, unaware of the dangers it had avoided. He felt relieved. They were all there, safe within the walls of the Vatican. This reassured a difficult-to-name instinct, perhaps that of being more of a shepherd than a manager. He exhaled in astonishment. Was it the satisfaction that sheepdogs felt when the flock was safe in the sheepfold? He turned back to Vincent, getting up slowly, even though his knees felt like they were creaking. He watched him with unusual intensity. The night made his eyes darker and more unfathomable than ever.

“What are you doing here so late?” Thomas asked, looking away. “Where are the Swiss Guards?”

“They're resting. I'm taking advantage of being alone to come here and recharge my batteries.”

Thomas heard what he wasn't saying: the stress of the first few days, the constant buzz of the giant hive that was the Vatican, the advice, the requests, the feeling of being constantly surrounded and yet alone. Oh, he knew that feeling well. Too well, even.

“I almost envy that turtle for almost managing to escape from here.”

This whisper involuntarily tugged at Thomas's heart. He knew it because he had anticipated it himself: Vincent was trapped here, locked in a gilded cage. He could have refused the burden placed on him by God, but Thomas guessed that Vincent was a man of responsibility. It was his duty, his charge, and the destiny willed by the Lord himself; but that did not prevent the former cardinal from regretting the old life from which he had been so suddenly torn. Thomas guessed how different the Vatican must be from Mexico City, Kabul, and all the other ministries where he had served. How different this life was; and how different they themselves were. An old, pale Englishman, a former professor of theology and secretary of state, whose only battles had been theological, while Vincent... Vincent had had to see unimaginable things, deal with the worst, but also the best of humanity.

“Your Holiness...” Thomas began, uneasily.

“Please, call me Vincent.”

His tone was almost plaintive. Without his papal robes, Vincent was more real than ever. More vulnerable, too. Thomas took a step toward him before freezing.

“Vincent. I know how difficult this can be. I was one of your predecessor's closest confidants. It takes time to adjust to the burden of this role.”

He felt particularly hypocritical saying that. He tried to keep his thoughts neutral so as not to discourage Vincent.

“I accept it, don't worry. I fully accepted it the moment I became pope. The quiet night simply makes me nostalgic. ”

“Then you can count on me. That's what I'm here for.”

But Vincent frowned and shook his head.

“You've done enough, Thomas. The conclave was a difficult ordeal. You deserve to rest. Look at yourself. Going out to save yet another turtle in the middle of the night. You do a lot for me too, behind the scenes.”

Thomas chuckled joylessly. Was he that easy to read? It was quite possible. Or perhaps he was too easy to understand for someone like Vincent: a guide, apparently quite powerful according to Aldo, although he couldn't know that, being just an ordinary human being. But alone in the middle of the night, he must have radiated to Vincent and particularly attracted his empathic powers, like a moth to a lantern, even though he was the one who felt like an insect. The Church recognized Sentinels and Guides as gifts from God incarnate; men of the Church thus blessed always fascinated him. Physically, nothing distinguished them from ordinary humans. He had known sisters with these abilities: they used their powers to alleviate the discomfort of the sick and anticipate problems arising in tormented minds. The Sentinels, on the other hand, often tried to be more discreet, even if they rarely succeeded, and often experienced their gift more as a burden. The few rare cardinal Sentinels were almost aggressive in their fear of being considered weak. Thinking about them tired him.

“I can't hide anything from you.” He conceded with a knowing smile.

Then, Thomas let his gaze wander over the surface of the water. Like those turtles diving beneath the surface, was it time for him to retreat, to no longer be on the surface of things? He jumped before Vincent even reached him. He suddenly looked tense. An unnamed dilemma danced across his usually peaceful face. This worried Thomas.

“However, I have a request, dear Thomas.”

“Anything you want, if it's within my power.”

“I know that once the conclave was over, you wanted to leave Rome to lead a monastic life, far from the Curia. But would you do me the honor of staying a little longer, as dean? I... This path seems less frightening with you by my side.”

Thomas held his breath. It seemed paradoxical to him, given he had just asked him to rest. But he did not hesitate for a moment:

“Of course. I will stay as long as necessary. I will do everything I can to make your pontificate as peaceful as possible.”

His words did not seem to appease Vincent, despite their spontaneous sincerity. Vincent had an almost sad smile. Yet Thomas had accepted without the slightest hesitation. In truth, on reflection, yes, leaving seemed an absurd idea, almost painful. He felt that his mission in Rome was not over.

Suddenly, he was certain that Vincent hesitated to take his hand or elbow to draw closer to him. This hesitation troubled him more than anything else. Perhaps it was his own hesitation, and the temptation to touch Vincent became almost overwhelming. He looked away, suddenly ashamed. What an impure feeling of possessiveness was taking hold of him. Vincent had made that gesture only in the room of tears, devoid of any intimacy, charged only with compassion for a companion in distress. He forced himself to take a step back and dig his fingernails into his palms.

“Nevertheless, I think you will be a wonderful pope. My help will be only modest.”

“You idealize me too much, Thomas. My reign has only just begun. I am counting on you more than anything. You think too little of yourself.”

Thomas did not deserve such praise. Would he be able to help him if he allowed himself to be blinded in this way? How could he not be, in Vincent's presence? He had never felt this way with previous popes. This feeling of certainty, of peace, but also a desire to get closer, as if to grasp a little of his holiness. He thought back to the image of the butterfly close to the flame. His thoughts were becoming confused. Perhaps fatigue was now taking over. Nevertheless, the silence was too soothing and comfortable to abandon. They remained like that, observing the turtles and the moon, a strange gap between them. Thomas found himself thinking that he could stay like this for hours. Had he fallen asleep? Was he dreaming? He was starting to believe it when suddenly, he noticed that Vincent was praying. He had closed his eyes and was whispering softly. Thomas couldn't help but watch him with fascination. It seemed so incredible to him that Vincent could slip so easily into this meditative state. It didn't make him jealous, but it did make him tired of his own difficulties, even though they had subsided. Vincent's voice then rose again in the quiet night : he seemed to have been watching him for a while. Thomas must have let himself go.

“Do you still have difficulties with your prayers?”

Thomas felt as if he had been caught red-handed, like a child. Was Vincent guessing his thoughts thanks to his abilities as a guide, or were they resonating so loudly that he couldn't help but pick up on them? He finally nodded.

“It's getting better. I find it easier during your homilies. I still need guidance.”

Vincent looked saddened and suddenly took his rosary out of his pocket. He handed it to Thomas.

“Take this, then.”

“Vincent...”

“You can give it back to me when things get better.”

Thomas didn't know what to say. He closed his fingers around the beads. Suddenly, Vincent's gaze shifted slightly, as if he had seen something in the garden. Thomas frowned, but saw nothing and no one. Only the wind rustled in the trees. Another turtle? He was certain that they were alone by the pond. His eyes stung as he focused on the bushes, and his migraine began to throb again. Perhaps he should wear his glasses more often.

“Did you see something?”

Vincent slowly shook his head. But even though they weren't doing anything wrong, Thomas suddenly became aware of their proximity and their less formal attire and decided to leave.

“Thanks for...the rosary. We'll see each other tomorrow.”

Vincent stood with his hands clasped behind his back and gave him a simple nod, his gaze still fixed on the bushes. He suddenly seemed tense, and looked more like Innocent than Vincent, as if he were putting his mask back on to restore some distance. Yes, they were no longer two equal cardinals, but two very distinct beings, one of whom was destined to guide them.

Yet, as he returned to his room, Thomas felt calmer. Strangely, his headache was gone. It had probably been blown away by the wind. Fatigue gave way to certainty. Vincent needed him by his side. This flattered a deep instinct in him that contrasted with his previously intolerable role as dean. He would be able to endure the Curia, Rome, its workings, its pettiness, and its intrigues. He had something to follow and protect. Including from himself, perhaps. His hand clenched the rosary in his pocket. The unbearably burning temptation to touch Vincent, as if to verify that he was real, lingered in his mind and almost clung to his fingers.

Seized by a sudden disgust for himself, Thomas hurried to the bathroom. He was too old for this. His body was no stranger to pain in order to regain some form of balance. Asceticism was the path he most often chose, much to Aldo's chagrin, even if it meant depriving himself of food more often than not. Touching was not a sin, but Vincent... Vincent was pure. He turned the tap as far to the left as possible and steam quickly escaped from the sink. He didn't hesitate for a moment. He almost cried out when the water touched his skin, but practice took over. After all, his back often experienced the same pain. The pain in his scalded hands took away the pulsation in his temples. More than numbing his desire, it punished him, and deep down, that mattered just as much.

When Thomas went back to bed, his hands were shaking. A few moments later, his headache, still in the background, faded into a distant throb, and he felt as if the pain had been crushed, leaving him with nothing but rest and a strange peace.

Chapter Text

“I don't know if it's such a good thing, a guide Pope.”

Aldo's thoughtful voice abruptly pulled Thomas out of his thoughts, like chalk on a blackboard. It reminded Thomas of one of his childhood teachers, who liked to cruelly bring dreamy students back to reality. He liked to escape by watching birds emerge from English countryside mist.

You're not a hunting dog, Thomas.

Yet Thomas was used to hurried whispers and hushed conversations with his longtime friend between corridors and alcoves. The explosion must have affected his hearing in some way for him to suffer so much from the unexpected noise. He was increasingly concerned that his hearing had been permanently damaged. Unlike many cardinals of a certain age, he still did not wear a hearing aid. He would prefer not to start today.

Thomas rubbed his temples with a grimace. He had to concentrate hard not to hear the noise of the insects and water fountains in the garden, usually so relaxing. If Aldo unwittingly joined in the ambient noise, it would be the end of him. Thomas had already spent the morning planning the details of Innocent's enthronement Mass with Ray O’Malley. The slightest loud rustling of paper or slamming of drawers had set him off on edge. He had done everything he could not to betray his discomfort. Ray, however, had seemed politely concerned. He had brought him tea twice.

Damn.

“What do you mean ?” Thomas asked cautiously.

Aldo rolled his eyes in such a theatrical and characteristic way that Thomas couldn't help but smile. He stopped under some cypress trees, and Thomas gladly welcomed the shade they provided. Autumns in Rome were as hot as summers in England, and he had never gotten used to it.

“I recognize your diplomacy there,” Aldo sneered, and the sound hurt him. “But you heard me perfectly well.”

A little too well, actually. But Thomas did his best to hide his irritation. Aldo always reacted badly to his pain, with annoyance but also with a concern that easily betrayed his own caring nature as a guide. When they were younger, this sometimes caused them problems at seminary, where they were expected to develop control over their bodies and minds. Aldo couldn't help but be there for Thomas during the most difficult times, such as when his father died in an accident, when he made himself sick trying to absorb his sadness. Reflexively, Thomas hid his reddened hands, in case he lingered too long on the pain on the surface of his thoughts. The persistent burning sensation when he woke up had prevented him from carrying the rosary like a shameful relic. But Aldo was too worried to notice, or too accustomed by now to restricting his perception:

“It has been a long time since we have been blessed with a guide pope. Especially one so powerful. You know as well as I do that gifted popes are always more popular. And a pope with progressive ideas is even more so. I don't know what to expect in these troubled times.”

Thomas let the silence linger. A guide pope was nothing new, far from it : John XXIII was the most recent example. Their popularity with the masses was matched only by the internal tensions it created. But when he thought of Vincent, he couldn't imagine the worst: only a new path opening up for the universal church. The gifted cardinals of the Curia, on the other hand, saw only a powerful rival. Thomas almost envied them, not for their propensity to indulge in pride and jealousy, but for their ability to sense Vincent's aura. It was a more secret but more real side of him.

Sadly ordinary people like Thomas could only perceive a distant echo of it. Years earlier, Aldo had tried to explain to him, during an evening slightly too steeped in well-chosen Italian wine, how the guides perceived each other. It was like an enhanced sense that allowed them to feel the aura of others, whether they were mere humans, guides, or sentinels. Only bonded sentinels and guides perceived each other perfectly, with a precision shared only by soulmates.

Thomas wondered what Vincent's aura was like. He sometimes wondered if he had sensed it in front of the turtle pond. In any case, being around Vincent was surprisingly calming. Thomas didn't know whether to attribute this to his papal or guide aura. Or something else entirely. If he was so powerful, that would explain the confused reactions upon his arrival and Aldo's initial mistrust, even though guides were less territorial than sentinels. More often than not, their possessive reflexes were attached to their own sentinel. But Vincent didn't seem bound to any sentinel and didn't react to any of them, whether sister, cardinal, or Swiss guard. Thomas hadn't dared ask him in the room of tears, nor afterwards, during their conversations or in front of the turtle pond. He hoped he hadn't left someone so important to him in Kabul. It would have been an excruciating heartbreak. It was said that such a separation could be fatal to them, like two halves of a whole torn apart, their edges bleeding endlessly for their loss. And how could he stay here knowing his other half was in danger there? Vincent often looked sad despite his mask of kindness, but he hardly seemed to be suffering.

Nevertheless, it was rare for sentinels or guides priests to be bonded to each other. It was not always well regarded to be attach to one person, to the detriment of the flock, even though Thomas wondered if it would really be possible for a sentinel and a guide destined for each other to stay apart. Was it a sin not to resist, when it was a miracle, a grace from God, to offer these gifts to humanity and predestine two souls for each other? For centuries, theologians had debated these points, even though it was now accepted that bonding with each other could not be considered a sacrilege. And that it was not worth breaking their vows of celibacy because the guide-sentinel relationship transcended that. Only traditionalist theologians and a few congregations still supported this view, arguing that resisting this temptation was a form of sublimation that brought one closer to the suffering of Christ because it was pain of the soul. Some even believed that Christ was the first guide ever.

He knew full well that Aldo would also have liked to be one of this guide popes. Was it an instinct to watch over others or pride? It didn't matter. God had not chosen that destiny for him. He had to be content with it, even if it cost him dearly. Innocent had already strategically offered him the Secretary of State to ease his disappointment. Thomas held back a sigh.

“Yet if you had been elected, one of those guide popes, Aldo.”

Aldo had a nervous tic and crossed his hands behind his back. Thomas knew that his frankness must sting, but they had been friends long enough to allow themselves that. At least, he hoped so.

“True. But that won't ease internal tensions,” Aldo continued with disdain. “Especially given the way the conclave went.”

Thomas tried not to take it as a veiled reproach. Their relationship had been strained before returning to some semblance of normality. Aldo's suggestion to go for a walk in the gardens was an olive branch to smooth over their discord. Aldo knew how to be diplomatic, and Thomas knew how to forgive. Thomas now aspired only to peace, after the war the cardinals had tried to instigate, despite his refusal to see things that way. However, tensions remained: some cardinals were already positioning themselves against the pontiff and his progressive ideas. Tedesco was still hanging around the Papal Palace, claiming to be sorting out certain protocol issues.

“Did his nature as a guide convince you to stay?”

Aldo surprised him with his frankness. He narrowed his eyes enough for Thomas to know that he was trying to he tried to guess his mind. He pretended not to notice.

“Of course not.”

“Then why? You were determined to leave Rome.”

They hadn't had time to discuss the subject. In truth, Thomas never thought he would bring it up. It was too personal. Still hurtful.

“Because the Holy Father asked me to.”

He had almost said Vincent out loud.

“He needs stability,” Thomas continued, remembering Vincent's vulnerable tone. “You said it yourself, the conclave was tough. The Holy Father doesn't know Rome, and worse, he doesn't know the Vatican. He needs guidance. At least for a while. I'll see in the long term if my presence remains indispensable.”

Vincent hid a sharp mind behind a calm exterior. He had certainly had to deal with men far worse than old cardinals, but certainly less in subtle brutality.

“I see. A guide who needs a guide. Amusing.”

Thomas smiled faintly. Aldo remained silent for a moment, observing the tranquility of the gardens. Thomas tried to enjoy it too. He absorbed himself for a moment in the dance of the bees near the rose bushes. The sound of their wings, that subtle buzzing... The very melody of creation. So pure. So fascinating. So... 

“So, you've been able to talk to Innocent recently?”

Thomas jumped again at the sound of his voice. Aldo frowned.

“Unfortunately not,” Thomas replied, pretending to shoo away the bees. He's very busy. We only had time to deal with current affairs.

He naturally kept quiet about their meeting by the turtle pond. It was none of Aldo's business.

“That's true,” Aldo sighed. “I didn't have time to go over all the points that seemed urgent to me with him. His schedule fills up very quickly.”

Thomas refrained from nodding vigorously. He missed Vincent in a strange way, even though he had seen him that very morning. He was surprised that he had so easily replaced the former pope in his affections, even though he was well aware that this affection took a very different form with him. He focused on the pain in his hands to keep himself from dwelling too much on the exact nature of his emotions. Especially with a guide so close to him.

In the distance, bells rang out and Thomas flinched violently. The sound echoed in his skull like a bottomless cavity. Aldo moved closer to him.

“I can see you're not yourself right now. Are you... Are you sick?”

His concern radiated toward him in an almost nauseating wave.

“I've already told you that it's unbearable when you use your powers on me,” Thomas said in a feigned tone of annoyance. “I'm fine, I assure you. Let's hurry before we're late for vespers.”

Aldo looked as if he was about to protest, but he could only follow Thomas as he walked away. They made their way in silence for the mass led by Vincent. At least it was an opportunity to be in his presence. Thomas tried not to quicken his pace. They took their places in the church alongside the other members of the Vatican. The hymns and readings from the Bible followed one after another.

Before Vincent's soft voice rose for his homily, it seemed to Thomas that his gaze met his in particular among the small crowd in the cathedral and that he smiled. Thomas felt his breath catch and tried to focus on his words. He had to chase away such a selfish and childish thought. He closed his eyes. Vincent's Italian was still imperfect, but his progress was already astonishing. Spanish naturally mingled with Latin from time to time. His intonation lulled Thomas in a way that was both personal and sacred. Yes, his faith was returning to this pope, nourished at its roots. He regretted not having brought the rosary. It would have helped him feel grounded. Or perhaps it would have made him feel even closer to Vincent. Fortunately, yes, he had left it in his office at the Apostolic Palace.

He opened his eyes before Aldo even nudged him gently. Time seemed to have stretched out during the prayers. They celebrated Communion and the Mass came to an end. Aldo turned to him:

“I'm relieved to see that your faith has returned. You look carried away by this Mass.”

His mocking tone did not disturb Thomas's appeasement.

“I would say I'm on the right track.”

Aldo smiled sincerely at his words. Vincent lingered to greet some pilgrims and other sisters who had come to salute him. Aldo waited and walked over to him, no doubt seeing an opportunity to discuss certain points before the evening began and to work on them. Thomas followed him with a strange hesitation. Vincent gave a simple nod as they approached. Thomas felt as if there were a gap between them, even though he was within reach of his burned hands. 

“Beautiful homily, Your Holiness,” Aldo greeted him.

“Thank you, your Eminence. I didn't know you both had a meeting. I saw you two arrive together.”

Vincent's tone seemed strange to him. Just like Aldo's, which was overly cautious.

“Oh, we passed each other when we arrived. I just wanted to check something with you…”

The conversation between them remained polite but almost forced. Thomas saw in it the natural mistrust that Aldo couldn't help feeling toward the pope. Their discussion was cut short when a Swiss guard came to take Vincent elsewhere in the palace. Thomas attempted a smile, which Vincent returned more warmly. Aldo waited a few seconds before turning to Thomas:

“I didn't know you were so close.”

Thomas's heart skipped a beat.

“What do you mean?”

“Guide instinct,” Aldo dodged. “Please be careful. Vincent used to take care of people in the field. Maybe subconsciously he focuses on others.”

Thomas felt outraged.

“You mean he focuses on me? Don't be ridiculous.”

But Aldo looked away.

“We guides... We may not realize it. We like to take care of people. We can let ourselves be overwhelmed by compassion.”

Thomas painfully remembered the young man Aldo had been at seminary. His gift had always seemed like a burden to him.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not when it's done consciously. I don't know Innocent. He's a very secretive guide. I don't know how he used his powers. I don't know his training.”

“Are you implying that he could manipulate me? On purpose ?”

Thomas tried to stay calm, but anger was beginning to electrify his nerves. Vincent wasn't like that. He knew it. He knew it deep down in his soul. He didn't even need to convince himself. But Aldo remained silent.

“Come on, I know you,” Thomas whispered feverishly, as the last pilgrims left the cathedral. “I know several cardinal guides. You're not like that.”

“You're naive, Thomas,” Aldo laughed without joy. “Power is power. But Vincent is a good person. I just want you to be safe.”

He seemed to hesitate to pat him on the shoulder, but hesitated and turned away. Thomas didn't follow him, his ears ringing. The peace brought by the homily had vanished, leaving only a loneliness that seemed to dig into his very soul.

Chapter Text

When the cup of tea brought by Raymond O’Malley gently hit the wood of his desk, Thomas couldn't help but tense up. 

Ray's thoughtfulness was always appreciated, especially when the dean was swamped with work. And these last few days, the work was piling up critically as Innocent's inaugural Mass approached. The Irishman knew his exact taste in tea and other beverages, having worked closely with him for so long. Not a single drop spilled onto the documents Thomas had patiently reread, highlighted, and annotated.

But that smell... Oh, that terrible smell.

Thomas held back a violent recoil and dug his nails into his palms. He tried not to breathe in too deeply. His brain screamed at him: he was going to choke. Suffocate. Die. He almost hesitated to open the top drawer of his massive desk, where he hid the rosary Vincent had given him. The idea that it was there, within reach, offered him comfort. And shame.

How old are you to be so attached to material things? It's not even yours.

“Raymond, I think you've let this tea steep too long,” he finally said through gritted teeth. “It smells too strongly of jasmine.”

Raymond raised an eyebrow. There were many things the quiet secretary was prepared to improve upon professionally, but his tea-making skills, which had been admirable until now, were not among them. Thomas immediately felt guilty, but also nauseous.

“No, Your Eminence, I did it as usual. Are you sure it's not another migraine symptom?”

Raymond spoke with great tact. Deep down, Thomas felt touched that Ray had inquired so much. And it was quite possible, yes. After all, he had all the symptoms. But such a long migraine, despite his medication... He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to consider that he was coming down with something much more serious, that the disease was secretly taking over his body. Aldo's concern was painful enough.

“That's possible,” he said diplomatically. “I'll go see the sisters this afternoon.”

“If I may say so, Your Eminence, given the persistence of your discomfort, I think it would be better to see the doctor.”

Thomas held back a sigh. Raymond let his words hang in the air, as if they could better sink in his old mind, and withdrew without a sound. Thomas continued to stare at the cup with unusual disgust. He discreetly brought an embroidered handkerchief to his nose. His reaction seemed extreme, but it smelled so strongly of jasmine... As if it had been macerated in water for weeks. He didn't even dare to imagine what it tasted like. He walked over to the window of his large office and opened it slightly to dispel the sickening scent. Immediately, the discreet urban bustle of the Vatican reached him, as did a welcome breeze.

He sighed. The Roman sun was still shining, and the sisters in the courtyard were delighted by this bright autumn day. He found himself smiling. The effects of Innocent's reign were already being felt. Certainly, battles were brewing in the shadows, but his heart was filled with hope. Oh, hardly for himself. It was too late for that.

God, please let the inaugural Mass go well. The praying words came more easily, yes. They resonated with Vincent's voice. Innocent's voice. Was clinging so tightly to that voice sacrilegious, blasphemous, or the right thing to do? It couldn't be the latter. Not with such a strong sense of rightness. Yet he almost felt guilty, as the mere thought of Vincent filled him with a lightness he had lost so long ago. He had to cherish it as an opportunity. A new beginning. If only these distracting feelings and sensations could disappear... 

His nose suddenly began to itch again. Thomas leaned a little closer to the window. He thought he could smell wisteria, somewhere. He knew there were still some in the courtyard at this time of year. He didn't know if he preferred that to the smell of tea cooling beside his paperwork. The more he concentrated, the more nauseating the sweet scent seemed. Then he caught another, more distant fragrance. My God, what are the sisters preparing for dinner at Casa Santa Marta? It stank all the way over here. His relationship with food had always been difficult. His father called him a picky fledgling. It twisted his insides in a more sour way. His stern voice seemed to travel through time to echo in his ears once more and...

“Dean, what are you still doing here? You know you're expected.”

Ray's surprised voice startled him. Thomas wanted to reply that his appointment wasn't for another fifteen minutes, but the large wooden clock proved him wrong. He had become completely absorbed in his thoughts. This was unlike him. Although his body was gradually deteriorating and no longer had any of its former youthfulness, he could still boast of having retained all his mental sharpness. 

He turned away from the window with a stiff step. He did not want to admit this weakness of mind. Without it, he would be of no use to anyone. Especially not to Vincent.

“Sorry. I wanted to clear my mind first.”

Ray sighed sympathetically. Because, unfortunately, it wasn't Vincent who needed his attention. Thomas rubbed his temples, preparing for the worst. He had done everything he could to delay this appointment, but it was inevitable.

He headed for the small lounge where he held his meetings. Even the softness of the floor couldn't lift his mood.

Unfortunately, Thomas immediately caught the scent of Tedesco's vape through the crack in the door. He grimaced and wrapped his arm around his files like a paper shield. He wrinkled his nose and abruptly opened the door, trying to dispel the smoke. As he stepped forward, he felt as if he were cutting through a foul-smelling mist. It reminded him of the distant London fog, when smog mingled with the breath of the Thames. Only more aggressive.

“Decanno! I almost waited!”

If Tedesco’s smell had a color, it would be red. Not a cardinal red, so common, but darker, almost purple, like Venetian drapes. For one of the rare sentinels of the curia, Tedesco was as loud as he was odorous, all presence and intimidation. Thomas suspected Tedesco of deliberately smoking sickening perfumes to distract his other senses from a possible zone. Today, it was something artificially fruity. How did he manage not to suffocate himself? It was a mystery, or a sign of truly powerful inner strength. Was this his way of proving his power to the other gifted ones? Thomas had never really asked himself the question, preferring to keep the Patriarch of Venice as far from his thoughts as possible, so as not to taint them with bitterness.

“Forgive me, Tedesco, I had some important matters to attend to.”

“Ti perdono, interrupted the cardinal, sitting heavily in his chair, revealing his blood-red socks. I am delighted that you were able to find a moment for me in your now busy schedule.”

He sneered and let a puff of smoke curl into the air, as if he were exhaling his sarcasm as well. Despite the large size of this room, Tedesco seemed to fill the entire space with his mere presence.

“I always find time for cardinals,” Thomas said patiently, sitting down and reluctantly leaving his files behind on a marble pedestal table. After all, I am still dean of the College of Cardinals. ”

“I didn't think you would cling to power like this.”

Thomas tensed. This did not escape Tedesco's sharp gaze behind his glasses.

“Are you offended? You're better than that, come on.”

There was no point in telling him not to use his powers: Tedesco had far fewer scruples than Aldo or Vincent. Perhaps the sentinels were less aware of this. Tedesco could certainly hear his furious heartbeat, his teeth clenching, his jaw tensing. God, give me strength. All the control and diplomacy in the world were worthless against this kind of sentinel, especially one eager to find a flaw in their opponent. However, Thomas felt dizzy for a moment as he thought about the concentration it required to avoid being drawn to every person he came across.

The life of an unbond sentinel must be a difficult one, Thomas thought, even in orders where solitude was like a well-known companion. He had met a few of them at the seminary. It was not uncommon for the most powerful ones to zone out once a week. They would then be taken to rest in a room far from any noise, with neutral white walls, and they would pray for their recovery. Now, even though the gifted remained rare in society, most public buildings were adapted to deal with possible sentinel crises. It was better managed, even if nothing could replace a guide in truth.

“Let's get straight to the point, shall we?”

“Of course. That you return quickly to the Holy Father. Why did you agree to keep this role, anyway?”

“Innocent needed my advice. Naturally, I agreed.”

And perhaps to protect him from sentinels like Tedesco. His protective instinct surprised him. The sentinels couldn't help but protect the guides, flying into a proverbial rage whenever one of their own was in a position of weakness or danger. Nevertheless, Tedesco was the exception that proved the rule. Thomas had never seen him act protectively toward Aldo or any other Vatican guide, regardless of their position or gender. For Tedesco, it was clearly a way to distance himself and assert his independence. This was no longer expected of sentinels in the orders. Most of them in past centuries had joined warrior orders for various crusades and holy wars, where their abilities were much more appreciated and valued. Fortunately, those days were gone, he thought with mild horror. He didn't know what Tedesco would have been worth on the battlefield and didn't pursue the thought for fear of smiling with amusement.

In fact, sentinels, even though they were also considered gifts from God, had lost a lot of influence and prestige. It was true that in civil society, sentinels found a more rewarding use. Police officers, soldiers, security guards. But here, within the Order and the Vatican, they were now often seen more as an extension of the guides and a burden that was not shameful, but one that had to be accepted and preserved. Perhaps that was what Tedesco was trying to make people forget.

“He's a guide. He'll be fine on his own.” Tedesco snorted, waving his hands with exaggerated disdain.

“I have no doubt about his abilities,” Thomas retorted. “But it takes more than that to acclimatize to the Vatican.”

Tedesco looked falsely pensive. He must have thought that he himself would not have needed any acclimatization. The patriarch must have heard Thomas’s heart beating with annoyance. There was no point in hiding anything from a sentinel, after all. Experience must help them interpret it, like a musician detecting musical notes. Did they even enjoy it, or did it constantly exhaust them? Especially those who couldn't let their guide soothe their overstimulation and absorb their pain?

“Once again, why this appointment? I have a lot of work to do with the inaugural Mass.”

Tedesco let out a theatrical sigh and slumped back in his chair. His gaze was meant to be slightly contemptuous, but he finally said:

“Strange things are happening in the Vatican right now.”

“Things are always happening,” Thomas replied.

“More than you think, Tommaso. The guides and sentinels among us have noticed something... strange in the Apostolic Palace. We think it's connected to Innocent's arrival. In any case, it coincides.”

Thomas remained silent. Tedesco's gaze was slightly disdainful toward Thomas, a mere human. Then he understood, and his hands clenched into fists on his knees. Was this a pretext to extract information and destabilize Vincent's position? It's despicable, even coming from him. He adopted a sharp tone:

“What are you implying? I haven't heard anything about this.” 

Aldo hasn't mentioned any of this to me. Nevertheless, his friend had warned him about Vincent and his possibly heightened instincts as a guide. He didn't like the turn this conversation was taking. For his part, Geffredo made a dismissive gesture.

"You must be talking about Cardinal Bellini. Such a repressed guide. He's not interested in these matters, ambitious as he is. He doesn't take the time to consult his peers.”

Thomas then perceived the proverbial territoriality of the sentinels. Oh, even if the Vatican wasn't Venice, Tedesco let his instincts take over. Only a new inspiration from his vapor betrayed his nervousness.

"I have been advising Innocent for a few days now and I haven't noticed anything unusual. The Pope is our guide to all of us. Humans, guides, and sentinels.”

"That's what you think. You are an ordinary human and you are blinded by your devotion. He rejects all my attempts to make spiritual contact with him.”

Thomas was stunned that he admitted it so openly. It could be perceived as totally inappropriate. He felt a cold anger that made Tedesco raise his eyebrows. So much the better. Thomas was growing increasingly tired of having to hide behind political neutrality, which didn't offend anyone but always left him vulnerable to the aggression of others.

“Don't tell me you're going to blame Innocent for resisting your attempts to destabilize him? The Holy Father owes you nothing.”

Thomas felt strangely proud that Vincent was not intimidated by Tedesco in this way, especially on an issue over which he had no influence. But then again, he had already stood up to him calmly and firmly during the Conclave. He had experienced much worse in the field. What was Vincent going through behind his back? Tedesco seemed troubled. He hesitated for a moment over his vape, held back, then spoke in surprisingly measured words:

“I am not trying to harm the Holy Father in any way. I am trying to maintain order within the Curia and the Church. That is all. As dean, you are the ideal person to talk to about this.”

“Your Eminence, I am only human, but I know the basic rules between guides and sentinels. Although our Holy Father has no sentinel, contacting him in such a cavalier manner could be seen as an act of aggression. I am concerned for you. Could it be because you have no guide?”

Tedesco gasped in outrage and jumped to his feet.

“I'm not talking about a connection, but communication. Do you think I'm weak enough not to control myself?”

“Oh, no one would ever think that of you. But think about your position, and his. You wouldn't want a scandal. I'm serious.”

“Ridiculous. I don't need a guide. Having a guide is an unnecessary luxury. I have faith in God to put me back on the right path and in the right frame of mind. God is my only guide.”

However, Thomas could detect a hint of bitterness in his words. Being a Sentinel and a man of the Church were two complex paths to follow, with two feet that did not tread the same obstacles. Thomas could understand how difficult that could be. Sentinels, like Guides, liked to sublimate their suffering. Thomas knew not to envy them. He had already seen the ravages of a zone on the Sentinels. Some never left a zone and inevitably fell into a coma. Fortunately, they had emergency guides in the Vatican to deal with these extreme situations. But if the guide was not powerful enough, or incompatible, then nothing could save the sentinel. However, he understood that this was not worth the ultimate relationship between a guide and their sentinel. It transcended everything and had been politically useful during darker times, even though priests were expected to respect their vows of chastity. Some popes had sentinels or guides, who themselves came from the priesthood. However, this had not happened for a very long time.

“There's no shame in asking for help sometimes.”

Obviously Tedesco confused kindness with weakness. But he looked him up and down with the chilling sharpness of an experienced sentinel and sneered with a laugh that rang in his ears like a cruel bell.

“You're in a good position to say that, Tommaso.”

Thomas felt himself blushing. All his insecurities came flooding back. His sleepless nights, his skipped meals, the punishments he inflicted on himself, the cries he never uttered. He forced himself to regain some composure. Tedesco frowned slightly, then shook his head.

“I'm worried about you. Innocent shouldn't have asked you to remain dean. It's selfish of him.”

It annoyed him that people tried so hard to read him and did so little to help him.

“He'll never give you that position, if that's what you're looking for.”

“I'll gladly leave that to you. I'm much better off in Venice. These are just the warnings of a concerned sentinel, that's all. Do with them what you will, Decanno. Something strange is going on here. Consider yourself advised.”

Thomas felt his blood boil. He let out a snort.

“If you're so worried, Geffredo, go see Aldo about your concerns as a sentry. I'm sure he'll be happy to help you.”

Tedesco nearly choked this time. Before he could reply, Thomas stood up and said, “Nevertheless, I will take your concerns into consideration. I will discuss them with Monsignor O'Malley and the Secretary of State.”

Then he said goodbye and left the room, while Tedesco muttered confusedly in Venetian. Thomas took a few steps down the hallway before freezing. The conversation had exhausted him. He wiped his forehead and then his nose. The familiar scent of the fabric distracted him a little, but not enough. The smell of cigarette smoke lingered in his nose.

He's got some nerve worrying about me and poisoning me with his smoke, he could…

Suddenly, he thought he detected a particular scent in the corridors. It lingered in the air. Unlike other scents, it didn't make him feel nauseous when he inhaled it deeply. It was too complex to be a simple flower or come from the kitchen. Following it drove away the awful smell from his tense meeting, which seemed to be feeding his migraine.

Thomas almost bumped into someone and was stopped just in time by a firm hand. He took a few steps back, confused, as the scent flooded his senses. He met Vincent's warm gaze, who seemed surprised to see him. He was wearing his white cassock, finally perfectly fitted to his size, and a Swiss guard was following close behind, hand outstretched.

“Forgive me, Your Holiness,” stammered Thomas.

“It is I who should apologize. I was lost in thought, Your Eminence.”

Thomas straightened up with dignity.

“Nothing serious?”

“Never. I was on my way to lunch. Were you not? You must be hungry.” 

Thomas suddenly realized that he had not eaten anything all morning. His hesitation did not escape Vincent, who nodded to him.

“I would hate for my dear dean to let himself starve to death by working himself to death.”

He said it with such affection, but also with such naturalness, that Thomas was speechless and followed him. He almost forgot that he had been distracted by that scent, which definitely did not come from the kitchen. Vincent easily guided him into the cafeteria of Casa Santa Marta, where the sisters were bustling about, whispering happily. The pope took the time to greet the members of several congregations present. Thomas saluted them in turn and went to sit down, feeling a little dazed. The smoke and perfume fought for dominance in his nose. Then Vincent seemed to hesitate and sat down beside him: 

“Are you feeling better?”

Thomas was surprised. He didn't remember specifically telling him his condition. Vincent must have heard about his insomnia and worries from the sisters, even though they didn't seem to pay much attention to him. He felt ashamed.

“Much better, Your Holiness. Thank you.”

But Vincent frowned and murmured:

“Thomas. You know you can call me Vincent.”

Thomas didn't dare tell him that he preferred to keep a professional distance in public, especially since Vincent was distant these days. Involuntarily, he remembered Tedesco's words. They echoed cruelly in his mind. There was nothing unusual about Vincent. He radiated the same kindness and usual goodness. Unlike other popes who reserved a distinct corner for themselves in the cafeteria, Vincent had refused any separation from the other members of the Casa Santa Marta and ate at a different table every day. He smiled at the sisters and passed the dishes to each other. A Filipino cardinal gave his blessing to the meal. Then Thomas was brought out of his thoughts by the clink of a plate placed in front of him by Vincent himself. It seems that Vincent has chosen his table today. They were left alone, perhaps assuming that they were discussing important issues.

“It's okay,” Thomas said. “I'll eat later.”

Vincent frowned. Thomas tried not to flush under his scrutiny. He seemed to read him with disconcerting ease. Was that what Tedesco hated so much?

“You need to take care of yourself, Thomas. I know you don't usually eat much, but I'm worried.”

His first reaction was embarrassment. Why did it affect him so deeply? He felt like he had let Vincent down, failed him, and worried him for nothing. Vincent reacted immediately by piling vegetables onto his plate. His expression still seemed troubled.

“I can at least do that, with everything you're doing for me.”

His features revealed nothing, but his eyes pleaded with him. Let me do this for you. Thomas pursed his lips. Aldo's words echoed louder than ever. Vincent used to take care of people in the field. Here, perhaps unconsciously, he focuses on others. On me. Thomas found this thought so ridiculous. And yet... Thomas was so tired. He understood that Vincent's instincts could overwhelm him. It was as if he saw a pitiful, exhausted and old dog by the side of the road. It tightened his heart. It was impossible for him to consciously manipulate him in any way. That thought made him as angry as he was with Tedesco. Surely because his long friend Aldo should have been on his side.

“I understand, Vincent. It's nice to be useful to others. You are, don't doubt it.”

Vincent's smile finally returned. Thomas felt relieved. If it helped calm his instincts as a guide, he was happy to oblige. He smiled as he cut up what the pope was serving him. Just being by his side was enough for him. He forgot about the unpleasant smell, Tesdeco, and his own weakness. And Thomas understood Vincent's feeling better than anyone else. Because as long as he could be useful, that was all that mattered. Until the end.

“I know I'm useful here,” Vincent said. “It just takes a different form. But sometimes I feel less helpful than I did in Kabul. It was more concrete there. Purer, too, in a way. I was helping everyone. It's so strange here... not to hear children laughing.”

Vincent's voice seemed to tighten. Instinct electrified Thomas's nerves. His body acted for him. He put his hand on Vincent's shoulder, felt the soft silk of his cassock, and squeezed it compassionately. He couldn't bear to see him suffer, even if it meant punishing himself tonight for daring to succumb to his instinct to touch him. He didn't dare say anything. Yet Vincent understood.

“Thank you, Tomás.”

Thomas squeezed harder and decided to focus on his meal before saying or doing something foolish. He let go of his shoulder with regret. The silk of his cassock felt particularly soft beneath his fingers, and for a moment he feared he had stained it. His appetite remained poor, but he wanted more than anything to please Vincent. It was the least he could do. However…

“Did cardinal Tedesco ask you for an appointment?”

“Not that I know of. I will ask my secretary. Why?”

“We talked earlier. It was exhausting.”

He preferred not to discuss the exact subject of their conversation. He didn't want to burden Vincent with it and break this moment between them. But Vincent smiled slightly, as if the patriach were more of an interesting topic than a worrying one.

“I can imagine. I hope he didn't disturb you too much. I will ask to see him if he is still in Rome. You might think I despise him, but I feel more pity than sympathy for him.”

“Because he's an unbond sentinel?”

It had slipped out. Vincent looked surprised. Thomas felt bad. He sensed that it was a sensitive, even intimate subject, but Vincent replied anyway:

“No, that has nothing to do with it. Though, it's a very sad thing when guides and sentinels are not bonded, indeed.”

“And yet it's common in the orders. ”

"True. It's a fate we try to fight every day because we can't go looking for our guide or sentinel. We must serve our flock and God. It would be selfish to go searching for them across the world.” 

“But if you met them, would you bond with them?”

It was sincere curiosity and yet his heartbeat raced like never before. It was very rare to be able to talk about it with gifted people. He tried not to wonder why imagining Vincent as soulmates with someone else disturbed him so much. Vincent hesitated and finally whispered: 

“Probably. But I don't know if they would want to.” 

Who wouldn’t ? He hesitated to say it, only to reassure Vincent, but despite his gentleness, there was something definitive in Vincent’s tone. It was his Innocent voice, not Vincent's, as if to protect himself. Thomas decided not to press the subject and focused on his full plate. Still, it had ruined his appetite.