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Even surrounded by devotees in the heart of the church, Hadrian often finds his service to be a lonely one. He suspects that the new prelate likes this about him. Lucius is keen and warmhearted, his eyes bright and clear. He carries a faith Hadrian instinctively understands and the weight of experience he immediately admires. For the first time since taking his vows, Hadrian considers seeking spiritual counsel from a source outside of his direct prayers. Samothes is distant and busy; Lucius stands directly in front of him.
Tonight Hadrian recites his evening prayers in the church. He leaves tomorrow to treat sickness in a small town whose leaders have written, in hurried hand, to Velas. Hadrian steels himself for the personal toll that the healing will take, understanding that Samothes’ almighty will often seeks to teach him empathy, to walk in the shoes of those who clamor for his aid. Hadrian prays for his own humility. To seize the opportunities in which he might lay down his sword and build the faith instead. To act as a servant of the Lord and of the people. He knows what the coming weeks will bring. Hadrian will rest his hand on fevered brows and murmur holy words and crash into a bleak slumber when the working days are done.
The door opens. Hadrian’s head snaps up, then bobs back into its bowed position as embarrassment floods him for being so easily distracted. A low, comforting chuckle warms the room. “It’s only me,” says the prelate softly. “I saw the light on.”
Hadrian finishes his prayer, then turns. “Lucius,” he greets, nodding. “I apologize for my disrespect, I was…” He gestures, aimless. The grandeur of the stained glass, muted though it may be after dark, communicates the rest of the thought on Hadrian’s behalf.
“I understand,” he says, taking a seat in the pews and implying that Hadrian should do the same. He does. “Does the coming journey weigh on your mind, Hadrian?”
“Of course it does,” Hadrian says. He looks down to realize he is squeezing his hands together in his lap. “I… I have faith that I— that we, as a people blessed and guided by our Lord, Samothes, will prevail over the sickness and darkness that infects these lands, but as servants, we do not— I do not carry the might of Samothes’ steady hands, or his all-knowing nature. If I were to get lost along the way and delay my arrival, or misjudge the patients who needed the most urgent care…” He can feel the prick of his own fingernails against his palm and makes an effort to loosen his grip. Rosana will worry when she sees.
Lucius reaches across the distance to Hadrian’s hands apart, clasping one in both of his own. “Let the Lord bear these worries,” he urges. “You have already prayed for safety and guidance. I have known you only a short time, but your intentions have always been righteous and true. You perform your duties well.” For a moment, Hadrian swears he sees Lucius’s lip twist, though it must be a trick of the light. His hands are grounding and warm. “Samothes favors you. Do not forget it.”
Prelate Lucius is a welcome presence in the Velasian church. Pierced by his reassuring words, Hadrian remembers why: he knows what to say just by sitting beside a churchgoer, coaxing their worries out of them with a question or a kind word. Beside the prelate, Hadrian’s reassurances feel clunky and uneven, attempts at guidance by an armored imposter. Tonight, meeting Lucius’s clear eyes, Hadrian could be any churchgoer, soothing his loneliness, asking for guidance.
“I worry,” Hadrian finds himself saying, “that Samothes— that I would lose my way with my hesitation. That I… may not be swift enough for Him. My judgement— it pales in comparison to His light.”
Lucius squeezes his hand. Hadrian is mired by shame and desire: to confess and be rewarded; to be stoic and righteous; to share his lonely service with the only person who could possibly understand the expectations Hadrian carries daily. He extends the insecurity out of a tenuous hope that Lucius will say, “Yes, of course. I, too, have felt a separation from the layman when I put on my vestments. We are brothers of a sort under His care, as His fingers.”
Instead, Lucius says, “You are a sword, Hadrian. Let His will flow through you, that you might allow it to replace your own.”
Hadrian regains the use of his captured hand and nods, unsettled. Of course his faith is absolute. Of course Samothes is divine. Of course he should take his loneliness as a necessary sacrifice in completing his holy quest. When Hadrian looked at himself in the mirror that morning, he tried to scrub away the haunted look in his eyes, the overwhelming concern for the souls of Velas, for the sick children he would soon meet, for the tenuous rebuilding of the exhausted world. He wonders what Lucius sees when he meets Hadrian’s tired gaze. Despite Lucius’s seniority, he always arrives to his own sermons organized and alert. Maybe he shoulders the burden better. Perhaps he is more suited to this work.
Once on the road, Hadrian’s worries are replaced by his immediate needs. He puts his head down to navigate the terrain, to assuage the panicking heads of households, to organize the healthy as volunteers and separate the endangered and sick into individual quarantined areas. The unsteadiness melts and the burden grows as Hadrian gets to work with his deputized townspeople, putting out metaphorical fires and stoking literal hearths. At times, Hadrian cannot eradicate the sickness from the material world, so he takes it onto himself and sweats it out in the night, praying for Samothes to protect them all. “You need not worry,” he announced through chapped lips after the first time the healing was incomplete, his skin clammy, his pallor gray, “I have been granted immunity from contagion by the king of these lands, the Lord Samothes. I am no danger to you.” The townspeople are afraid and amazed in equal measure. They are Hadrian’s constituents — at first hesitant, then willing and able to assist, joyfully, wherever they can. He leaves two weeks later, sent home with fresh baked bread and the fruits of their harvest and pickled vegetables, stacked heavy in Hadrian’s pack. It is a testament to their faith in him that they believe he can carry all of their gifts back to Velas: he must be supernaturally strong, if he is so blessed by the Lord.
Lucius smiles when Hadrian recounts his journey. Please, Hadrian thinks, scanning his face for anything more, tell me, when Samothes cannot, that I have brought good into this world. If anyone can know for certain, it must be you.
In Lucius’s third year serving the church in Velas, Hadrian begins to notice that the prelate resents him. His gaze lingers when Hadrian prays, and their conversations grow shorter. Lucius seems most interested in Hadrian when he is at a crossroads and Lucius is able to lord reminders of his status over Hadrian’s head. Hadrian wants little more than to keep the peace with his closest colleague and immediate superior. Above all else, they are on the same side, and they serve the same people. But, if they ever were, Hadrian and Lucius are no longer friends.
“His opinions don’t reflect poorly on you, Hadrian,” Rosana says. “He is as human as any one of us, and we each have our struggles. The prelate, may Samothes guide him, will find his way through this difficult patch of his faith. Neither of you are at fault for what must be processed on his own.”
Hadrian is prone to sleepless nights, bouts of guilt, and the insatiable desire to save everyone. Rosana rises when he slips out of bed and follows him to their stoop, her only delay to put on a pot of tea. She stops it before it whistles so as not to wake Benjamin, now seven years old, resting peacefully in the next room. Rosana wraps herself in a blanket and sits beside him now, furrowing the wrinkles from his brow and kissing his shoulder.
“You’re touched,” she says softly, against Hadrian’s dark, soft skin. “The Lord, in His wisdom, has blessed you. You bring His divinity to our world. If the prelate is envious—”
“He isn’t,” Hadrian interrupts, stubborn. He closes his eyes. “He wouldn’t.”
“Hadrian.”
“He– he is learned, and loved, and he understands the people,” he insists. “He has no reason to hold a grudge. Samothes’ favors are vast and indirect for all of us and Lucius, I would say, has many clear signs of the Lord’s light upon him in particular. I must have displeased him.”
“Hadrian,” Rosana says again. He turns to face her, and she puts a hand to his cheek. It was so easy to fall in love with his world-weary naïveté when they met, and so too does she love him for it now: his infallible faith, his unbroken promise. “Consider it.”
If Lucius is at a spiritual crossroads, it is Hadrian’s responsibility to be patient and understanding, as Lucius is for him. Reluctant service is service — perhaps in its most selfless manifestation. Hadrian is an adventurer called to frequent travels, so if Lucius wants not to see him, then they need not cross paths. They make an adequate team in planning holidays and services, and, at times, sit to discuss a troubled parishioner, and how they can help. Hadrian stops bringing up his own solitude, and Lucius stops asking.
They close the doors after evening service and prepare for the Holy Days upcoming. Hadrian has already starched the white vestments, paid the butcher for the meat, and passed around the paper for volunteers to write their names to help cook the food. Hadrian sighs as he slides the heavy lock into place.
“Something the matter, Hadrian?”
Prelate Lucius has grown a decade older over the last three years. When he was new, Hadrian misunderstood his tenacity as ease in his position; now, with grey streaking his hair and beard where it wasn’t before, Hadrian sees that he is immune to neither stress nor temptation. The people of Velas demand a great deal, and Lucius does not share Hadrian’s privilege of spreading the good word across the continent. Alone, his face is drawn and his expression absent as he manages a string of mental calculations for the fast-approaching events. He is not so distracted as to ignore Hadrian’s sigh, though.
“No,” he says, after a pause. “I was just thinking.”
“About?” Lucius asks. His tone is perfectly neutral.
“Logistics,” says Hadrian, weary. “The Holy Days.” He crosses the room to meet Lucius and, without thinking, reaches out to straighten his collar. Lucius grasps Hadrian by the wrist, lowers their joined hands, and does not let go.
“Yes,” Lucius agrees. “Your assistance in these matters is greatly appreciated.”
“Assistance,” Hadrian repeats, wounded. “I consider myself stationed here in Velas as much as you, Lucius. These people are– are dear to me, and have been for many years.”
Lucius smiles, and it still looks warm. His grip on Hadrian’s wrist is tighter, now, and Hadrian would need to apply real force to shake him off. “You have a greater purpose than this city,” says Lucius. In his mouth it sounds like an insult. “Without your presence, I do my best to endure.”
“I– you should have told me,” Hadrian says, floundering. Was it he who kept the distance? Has he ignored Lucius’s need for companionship all this time? “I– I meant you no harm, or stress, or– or strife in your path to serve our Lord. Please, accept my apologies for my absence, to yourself and– and the people of Velas, of course.” Even after all this time, he craves Lucius’s good standing. He can’t help it. The church was always his beacon, and the prelates of his youth kept the lighthouse steady, no matter the turmoil into which his life was thrown.
Lucius is so close that Hadrian can smell remnants of dinner on his hot breath. “You are a sword, Hadrian,” Lucius murmurs, pressing his lips to the corner of Hadrian’s mouth before he can fully comprehend what is happening. “Made to be swung.” Lucius turns Hadrian’s cheek methodically and repeats the motion on the other side. Hadrian stands very still. “A decorative weapon,” he says, dropping Hadrian’s hand, “serves no master.”
In the empty, cavernous church, his words carry the barest hint of an echo.
In a last ditch effort to treat Lucius as a fellow man of the cloth, Hadrian tells him about the dreams. After so many years of comforting the golden boy, Lucius can’t hide his smile. Hadrian refuses to mistrust him in earnest, even as his smiles grow colder, even when his divine senses tell him blatantly that his intentions are malicious.
The day of High Sun has gone terribly. Hadrian has done his best not to resent the tragedy for occurring, for demanding his service be taken from the church to a wider, more nebulous definition of the people. He has looked forward to the holiday for weeks even despite the growing tension, the brisk conversations, and Lucius’s now unmistakable disdain. Before he met the rest of his friends in the field, he prayed. Rosana assured him fruitlessly that he could choose to stay home, knowing already Hadrian’s decision. Hadrian wonders, when his divine senses indict Lucius, if he’s simply a bit tired.
“He’s evil,” says Fero, who cannot possibly understand. “Stop being nice to him, Hadrian, he’s evil— and you told us he was evil! You’re usually all about getting rid of evil shit! It’s like your whole thing!”
The blizzard rages around them. Thorondir, who doesn’t know the names of his own gods, offers to accompany Hadrian to the church. The cold nips at his fingers and he slips his hands into his pockets, remembering when the chill didn’t bother him. Another gift from Samothes. Something else at which Lucius would have turned up his nose. The idea of confronting him about whether he gave the order to kill anyone is nauseating. Of course he didn’t. He took an oath to Samothes. To the people of Velas. To the people of Hieron. The same oath Hadrian took.
“You good, man?” Thorondir asks, glancing over. He doesn’t mind the temperature.
“Yeah,” Hadrian says, short. “Just cold. And, you know, coming to terms with getting fired.”
Thorondir gives him a weird look. “Who says you’re getting fired?”
Hadrian returns the expression. “You can’t just accuse a prelate of premeditating a murder,” he says. “That’s very serious.”
“But what if he did premeditate the murder?” asks Thorondir, who, like the rest of the group, seems to have already made up his mind. Hadrian scowls. He is following this line of questioning for his friends, for the dead man, for the god who asked him to.
“He didn’t,” says Hadrian, tucking his chin into his vestments. He is shrouded in the choking white of his holiday garments and the thick flurry of snow around them.
“He could’ve.”
“That’s why I’m going with you,” Hadrian says, characteristically grouchy. “To ask.”
While Hadrian trudges forward, Thorondir takes an extra breath to watch him. Hadrian believes in the church more than Thorondir has ever believed in anything. He remembers packing his things when he discovered the truth of what the elders were doing to their own people, stealing away in the night with only the food and clothes he could carry. Would Hadrian do the same if he learned Lucius was guilty? Or, in this allegory, is Hadrian closer to the elders than the townspeople?
“Hey, Hadrian,” says Thorondir.
“Mm.” His brow is knitted, though Thorondir can’t tell if it’s from concern or the cold.
“If it is Lucius— if,” he emphasizes, before he can lose him, “what happens to the church here?”
Hadrian shrugs. “I pray for guidance on what to do next.” When the people break their oath, Samothes is his failsafe. It must be nice, Thorondir thinks, to always have company. To know a god has your back. That must be why Hadrian acts with such swift sureness. Thorondir falls into step, boots crunching over fresh fallen snow, feeling thousands of miles away from the man at his shoulder.
Only hours later, two more men are dead. Blood stains Hadrian’s righteous hands and the ashes that once were Lucius mingle with the snowflakes blowing in the wind. He doesn’t have time to shout or gasp or say goodbye.
Lucius didn’t like him. Lucius was, objectively, in the eyes of the eternal Lord, evil. Still, a cold shock runs through Hadrian as he watches the prelate die. In turn, he feels Thorondir watching him, gaging his reaction; Hella, at his other side, doesn’t respond at all. She has always been a better stoic than he is. A mixture of confusion and guilt churns in his stomach as the Golden Lance finish a sermon that Hadrian doesn’t hear. Free to enjoy his holiday, he returns, as he always does, to the church. He is not followed.
The parishioners still huddled inside call out to him when he arrives: “Hadrian, what did they do? Why did they do it? Is the prelate truly gone?”
When an important person dies, Hadrian has always felt that the whole world should know at once. It is an injustice that every individual must be told, that their heart should be pierced one universe at a time, that they gain the responsibility of telling the next person who asks. But after Lucius’s public execution in front of his people, Hadrian changes his mind. Better to let the grief trickle into nooks and crannies, passed down from parent to child to friend to neighbor. He answers as truthfully he can without letting the church collapse into disarray. “Yes,” he says. “The prelate is dead. He committed evil deeds. He was not fit to provide any of you with spiritual counsel, and for that, I am sorry— for leaving you in his care.”
Hadrian shakes hands. He heals frostbitten fingers. He holds a baby or two so their shaken mothers can rearrange their bags and prepare bottles. He thinks of his own son and Benjamin’s excitement to spend the holiday together. He thinks of Rosana’s resigned expression when the Lance arrived to deputize him that morning. Hadrian reassures families who are not his own, comforts children he has never met, listens to the concerns of parents he may never see again. They all know Hadrian, the Sword of Samothes. At least, they have heard stories.