fksquee | Embodiment of Faith (3/3)

Title: Embodiment of Faith

Author:

Scarlett Burns
Fandom: Forever Knight

Rating:

PG-13
Part: 3/3

Disclaimer:

Don't own it.

Summary: Father Rochefort makes a startling discovery that threatens his idea of faith. It isn't every day that your past comes back to haunt you, unless you happen to be Nick Knight.

Author's Note: Please do let me know what you think! :)

“I never felt right about it, but as a priest I was bound to silence. I… never did make peace with that decision, and it’s haunted me ever since. I truly understand where you were coming from now.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Nick set down his wineglass. “Do you?” he asked, standing up.

His entire demeanor changed as he walked towards Pierre. This man, who’d seen nothing of the crusades, the inquisitions, Joan of Arc, and countless other holy horrors, had no hope of ever seeing things the way he saw them… and Pierre should pray to his God that he’s that lucky.

Nick said nothing at first. He was quite adept at being menacing; he had, after all, had hundreds of years of practice. Silent and imposing, he unnerved Pierre as he circled him. After a full three-sixty around the priest he came to stand in front of him. All the amusement and warmth that he’d exhibited earlier had vanished. In its place was a cold, calculating look that made Pierre’s heart jump out of its rhythm.

“You have no idea who you’re talking to, Father. You know nothing about me, or the things I’ve done or seen. How could you possibly say that you understand how I feel about the Church, or Faith?” Nick asked, his voice ice cold.

Father Rochefort looked away, taking a deep swallow of wine. It was damn good wine; exceptional really. No doubt it was exceptional too; exceptionally old, just like its owner. He bit his lower lip in thought. It had been a stupid thing to say, in hindsight, and he lowered his head, muttering a quiet apology.

Nick backed off, heading back into the kitchen and pouring himself another glass of ‘wine’.

Pierre watched him, and then noticed a brass sun hanging on the wall above a cupboard as Nick passed by it. It got him to looking at the rest of the décor in the home, and he realized how eclectic it all was. There was everything from modern furniture, to what looked like – and probably were – priceless antiques. But there seemed to be a running theme throughout, tucked away here and hung there, and that was the sun.

The suns were in many styles, from many cultures all over the world, but there they were, spread throughout every room visible from where he stood. He couldn’t help but wonder why, but dare not ask for the moment. He seemed to be walking a thin line as it was.

Nick returned with his wineglass full, and carrying the bottle of wine for Pierre. “Like another?” he inquired, his anger gone as quickly as it had come.

Pierre held out his glass, now nearly empty, and nodded. Nick topped it off, filling it nearly to the brim, and then set the bottle down on the coffee table. Nick took a deep swallow out of his own glass before saying anything more.

“I know what its like to be haunted by decisions made in the past,” Nick said pensively, looking into the dregs of his glass.

Silence drifted between them, and Pierre saw that Nick had a far-away look in his eyes again. Allowing Nick his short trip down memory lane, Pierre turned back to the landscape. It really was quite beautiful.

Sensing that they desperately needed a change of subject, Pierre asked, “Where is this?” gesturing to the painting. He had the impression it was not a fictional place, but one Nick had seen at some point in his life.

Nick blinked a couple of times, having been completely zoned out, before turning to Pierre and answering. “It’s the Brabant countryside. It’s a view from our land that I remember as a child.”

Nick moved closer to the painting and gestured toward it. “I must have been six years old, nearing my seventh birthday. Once I turned seven, I began my training as a knight and served under Lord de Lebarre as a page, then a squire. I did not see my home again until I was knighted.”

“That must have been hard.”

Nick shrugged. “That was how it was. It was not a bad life. It was an honor to serve your Lord… if you had a noble one.”

“Did you?”

“When I was young and naïve, I believed him to be so.” Nick took another sip from his glass and gestured toward the canvas. “I’m afraid this is my ideal, not an accurate depiction. I was looking through young, naïve, curious eyes when I saw this, and now I’m trying to recreate the scene with… well, let’s just say, not so young or naïve eyes. It’s tainted by too many years passing, but at least once a century, I always try…”

“You’ve painted this before?”

“Seven times.” He leaned in close and ran a hand across a portion of the painting where light filtered through the treetops. “I can never get the sunlight right. Not anymore.”

“What did you offer Joan of Arc?” Pierre asked curiously, changing the subject again. “I’m writing a book you know.”

Taken aback by the sudden change of topic, Nick looked at Pierre nonplussed for a moment before bursting into laughter.

Once Nick regained some of his composure, he added for Father Rochefort’s benefit, “You could hardly put what I have to say down in a book and be taken seriously.”

Pierre chuckled too. “It’s not for publication.”

“Then why write it?” Nick asked, moving over to the blinds and opening them wide. The sun had set, and he felt like he couldn’t bear to be shut in any longer.

“I thought that perhaps it would help me better understand faith.”

“The problem with faith, Father,” Nick said, opening the second set of blinds, letting the soft moonlight filter into the living room, “Is that facts and history will never help you understand it.”

No longer wanting to skirt around the subject, Pierre asked, “When did you lose yours?”

Nick became melancholy in a matter of seconds, moving back to the couch and taking a seat. He didn’t answer until he took a good, long swallow from his glass. “I have faith, Father,” he said seriously, trying his best to convince Pierre that it was the truth. Perhaps he was trying to convince himself.

“But your letter…”

“Not one of the finer moments in my life, I admit. But I never said, even in those letters, that I didn’t have faith in God; I’ll concede that at the time it wasn’t strong, but it was there all the same. It was the Church and papacy that I thought the great lie; I still believe that at that time it was so.”

Remembering his previous question, he asked it again. “What did you offer her?”

“Joan? I’m sure you’ve guessed it by now: immortality. I’d lived long enough to know the cost of the path she’d chosen, but in the end I came to realize that so did she. Courage had amazing faith, but she had more than that; she had deep insight for the future, and what actions would beget what consequences.”

“Selfless,” Pierre added.

“Yes.” Nick held up a finger as if just remembering something, set down his glass, then went over to a corner of the room and picked up a small box that sat on a shelf. Bringing it over, he sat down on the couch and opened it. A slightly pained look crossed his features before he set down the open box and slid it across the table to where Pierre sat.

Taking the box, Pierre saw that what nestled inside it was an impossibly old looking cross, made from wood and tightly bound together by strips of leather. Pierre moved to take it from the box, but then it occurred to him that it might be quite fragile. “May I?” he inquired.

Nick made a sweeping gesture with his free hand, as if to say ‘be my guest’ and took another sip of wine.

He took it into his hands, handling it with extreme care. “How old is it?” he asked.

“Over five-hundred years. It was Joan’s,” Nick answered, no longer looking at him or the cross.

“My Lord,” he whispered, turning it in his hand. “This is remarkable. How did you get it?”

“She gave it to me. You see, she thought that courage would give me faith because it takes a courageous man – or woman – to trust in God without question.”

“Did you believe it?” he asked, still staring at the cross in awe.

“Not at the time,” Nick said, regarding Pierre curiously. “I do now.”

“So, that makes me a coward?” Pierre asked after a moment of reflection. He set the cross gently back in its box.

“Maybe.” Nick finished his wine, set the glass on the coffee table, and clasped his hands together. “Or maybe you just need to hear that it’s happened to someone else and not destroyed their faith. Or maybe you need to separate your faith in yourself and your faith in God. Or maybe you thought that I had the answer.”

“I think you just gave it to me.”

“If you have faith in me, perhaps I did,” Nick said, standing and walking back over to his painting. “I have faith that one day I’ll be able to get the sunlight right in my painting,” he continued, “Even if it takes another eight hundred years.”

“Do you have faith that one day you will be in the kingdom of heaven?” Pierre asked.

Nick looked down at his hands, and did not turn to face Pierre. He thought of what a guide had once told him at the door to judgment. He remembered his mother’s belief that he was a chivalrous and holy knight of the Temple on that last visit to home, and Joan of Arc’s words of wisdom, and the day he entered knighthood, and when he was sworn into the Knights Templar… countless memories and events bombarded his mind and they ranged from his most virtuous to his most monstrous. How could such a life be judged? He still didn’t know.

After what seemed like forever, he finally answered Pierre. “I have faith that God will do the right thing, and I’ve long since endeavored to do the same. The rest I leave in his hands.” He turned to Pierre at last and let him see the man behind the mask for the first time. “I don’t pretend to know what He may think of me… I don’t even know what I think of me.”

“So you do understand,” Pierre said, realizing that Nick was a man much like himself, living under impossible circumstances.

“I might presume to know what you’re going through.” Nick smiled a little, but it was tainted with a sweet irony. “Who’s doing the confessing here, Father?”

Pierre finished off his glass of wine, beginning to feel its soothing effects. “Maybe both of us. Thank you, Nick.”

Nick looked at him slightly bewildered. “For what?”

“For listening. For telling me the truth. For understanding. I think I just needed to talk to someone who understood.”

Father Rochefort smiled genuinely, said his goodbyes, and left as quickly as he’d come.

Nick stood in the living room beside his painting while Father Rochefort saw himself out. He heard the door close after a moment, and he was alone again.

“Thank you for allowing me to act the knight one more time,” Nick said to himself out loud. He went over to his piano, and sitting on the bench he began pecking at the keys idly. “I guess there really is a first time for everything,” he said with a small chuckle, thinking that he might be the first vampire who’d ever confessed to a priest. But then, what had he truly confessed? That he was immortal, yes… but he’d neglected to tell the Priest the most important and damning fact of them all.

Another day, perhaps.

His eyes passed over the small box on the coffee table, and he smiled as an idea struck him, and his idle pecking easily transformed into a passionate melody.

Maybe I will, at that.

-----------------------------------------

Father Rochefort walked into his office, having just finished delivering his sermon.

He spotted it immediately, and stopped dead in his tracks.

On his desk was Nick’s antique wooden box, with an envelope propped up against it addressed to him.

He let out the breath he’d been holding, and then forced himself to move, picking up the envelope with an unsteady hand.

No, it couldn’t be… could it?

He opened the envelope first, and took out a piece of paper. It was a letter addressed to him, with old fashioned writing that belonged to a man from the sixteenth century.

Pierre,

Remember, the faith you’ve lost is always there to regain.

A woman wise beyond her years once told me that, and gave this to me as a reminder of her words. I think now, after so many years, it’s my turn.

Sincerely,

Nicholas de Brabant

His hand shook a little as he finished the short note, and he set it down so he didn’t crumple it beyond repair. Taking a deep breath to steady his hand, he flipped open the box and nearly collapsed.

There it was. St. Joan of Arc’s cross.

A priceless relic.

Yet Nick had just given it to him, nary a stipulation or care or word of warning for disclosing where he might have gotten such an artifact.

Nick, someone he knew only in passing, had faith that he would look after it well.

Father Rochefort knew that he would do just that.

The End