Azoth cautions him with a paternal look: staring up through his masculine brows, hands astride his hips. “You know what they’ll do.” No one at The Ministry was invulnerable, no one untouchable, not even their pontiff; his fratelli maggiori had been subject to the most damning disciplinary action of all: deposition. But there were only so many scions of the Emeritus bloodline, and only so many times they could be supplanted without dissolving a centuries long dynasty. Perhaps that was her plan. He bides his time, dismantling his son’s papal robes layer by layer: his chasuble, his silk stole, his cincture, his alb, and his amice; treating each layer with due reverence, an inverted Latin invocation spoken over each garment as they’re folded away. Stripped down to only his civvies, this is Aurelio at his most raw, disarmed of all the pomp and pageantry, this is who he desires to speak to, not the pontiff.
«Mal comune, mezzo guadio,» the Italian adage limps from his lips rather than leaps from his tongue, his tone is pensive and his smile pinched. “She and her colleagues are still beholden to your father,” Azoth says in lieu of reassurance — but that’s half the problem. Spineless as he is smitten with the wicked woman, he’s only become more ineffectual in his old age. “Displeased…” Azoth echoes, he had sensed as much at their last summoning, and he wonders is perhaps his consternation has bled across their bond — he reflects on the early days of their transcendental relationship, when the boys temper tantrums used to eat up his patience, and when his work weariness used to send them to sleep. “She’s wasting her energy. You won a Grammy, Aurelio. You’re the most successful Papa to date,” if you were measuring by modern accolades. “Certainly the most successful of your family to front the band.”
Rallying a breath, Azoth is poised to speak again, then thinks better of it. He needs to be the parent, the professional, to rise above petty grievances ( not that the execution of the boy’s biological mother was a petty grievance per se ), not project them onto his son. Resentment was poison, and he refused to continue the cycle by subjecting him to the same negative feelings; between Ben, Vittorio and Armando, there was enough bitterness in the family. “No. Someone has to be the adult in this family,” under his breath, he scolds himself. “I don’t mean to ply you with platitudes. Do you want to talk about it?” Setting the stack of clothes down in his lap and seating himself once more, Azoth offers his ears to the lad, both of them twitching playfully. “I am all ears.”
Carefully, the pontiff absorbs the words of the voice he’d always known to ring true, weighing them all the same. Yes, he supposes they’d cast him away into shame with his elders. Terzo lifts his arms, cooperating with his surrogate father as he takes away that which both lifts him above the rest and casts him into doubt, nearly laughing at the thought. The thought of the papacy being torn from his grasp causes his stomach to turn, a vertigo in the dark...but it also promises freedom.
“Yes, he’s always been a beacon of hope.” Aurelio prefers not to speak his father’s name, dismissing his involvement with a wave of his hand and a flicker of contempt behind tired eyes. “—And does he think it’s enough? Benjamin.” He clarifies, turning away from the ghoul as soon as his ritualistic murmurs fade into the stale air, his back facing the room. The third fiddles with his ring, the last piece of regalia clinging to his body, running his fingers over the golden ridges. “The last time we spoke, he seemed to have the idea that I — how do I say?” With severity, the pope turns to face Azoth once more, spinning on his heel. “ —Have made the band too soft, that I have taken the rock out of the roll...
qualcosa di fottutamente stupido come questo...” Aurelio trails off, shaking his head mildly.
Often, he wonders what it will take to make the beast before him let it all out. He senses his turmoil, feels it, of course. Something tells him he doesn’t want to live to see that day.
“There was a time I could call you Father.” He poses this as a question, rocking on his shoes. “When Vitto and Armando confided in you....she’s taking it from us, Azoth. She’s squeezing the life out of this congregation and I would rather die than see it all crumble.” Matter of fact and level headed, the third stares the creature down, waiting for some sort of argument, a scolding....something to soothe or dissuade.
dededos
kianamaiart
izzy806
blakekathryn
