His eyes are focused and blood-shot red, his body now half dead from the pang of the pain pounding in his head. The midnight light shines down on the shallow cheeks of the stark-faced man as he paces about. His body is exhausted but his mind, tireless.
And with each crack of thunder and flash of lightning strike outside his Citadel room window, Father MacArthur flinches from the small ripples of pain that course through his body. These persistent migraines, these awful, sleepless nights have gone on for nearly a year, and nearly a year has gone by since then. On nights like this he almost wonders if…..
Knock knock knock.
The sound slices through his thought as if on cue, the universe's way of keeping him from thoughts that a holy mind such as his shouldn't go.
Knock knock knock.
Again, the sound of brass against the Citadel doors echoes through the halls.
"Who could that be at this unholy hour?" MacArthur mumbles to himself.
It's a rainy night and nearly two hours past midnight, the hunting hour of the dreaded Ahuizolhum. No one in their right mind would brave this storm now.
Knock knock knock.
Still the knocking continues in its determined manner, as if knowing that its sound had not fallen on deaf ears. Begrudgingly, Father MacArthur turns out of his room and makes his way down the hallway, the glow of his Glitteruhn guiding his path. Walking down the halls at night like this, the Father can't help but notice the contrast of the painted walls in this lightning.
The Citadel of the Cathedral City Structure is a place of rest and refuge. During the daylight hours, its painted walls were adorned with murals that brought feelings of warmth and comfort for all those who walk its corridors. But now, in this dim light, with shadows lengthened and painted faces distorted, the scenes change, creating an atmosphere invoking waves of melancholy and despair.
MacArthur almost smiles to himself for noticing this. This view inside the church walls almost seemed more….
Knock knock knock.
Yet again, the sound comes crashing through his thoughts as he shuffles up to the door.
"Who comes seeking enlightenment this morning?" Father MacArthur calls out from his side of the door.
No answer comes at first. Then, a small whimper answers him, and after a moment, a soft cry, barely distinguishable against the roar of thunder outside. Shocked, MacArthur heaves the heavy doors open to find no one on the other side. The cry once again catches his attention as he looks down to see a swaddling cloth at his feet, and a solitary white parchment pinned to the garb.
Worried, MacArthur immediately sweeps the baby into his arms and looks about for a trace of the package's currier, but no one seemed to be there. The child cries out again from the uncomfort of the raindrops splashing against its pale face. Father MacArthur carries the baby inside. Pulling the curious note from the cloth, he unfolds it, and reads the short quote inside:
"His name is Damien. He is all I have. Please. Take him and take care."
"Damien.", Father MacArthur mumbles the name in a soft whisper to the unsettled infant boy in his arms.
He seemed barely old enough to have been weaned off his mother's breast.
Folding the note, MacArthur tucks the parchment into the folds of his robes as he makes his way back to his quarters to nurse his new foundling. The child continues to cry through the whole ordeal but in a soft way, as if to be considerate of the Citadel's other sleeping residence but, still loud enough to keep the Father aware of his newfound companion.
MacArthur remained unbothered by the whimpers of the child. He had become used to this sort of thing, the unexpected visitors coming in and out during random hours of the night, the moonlighting sinners coming to confess their hearts' secrets in the quiet confines of the night's dark embrace.
It amused him at times to watch the secrecy of people. Even with honor-bound confidentiality between the Priest and the repentant, many still would come to confess their crimes at night: Empire Officials, Celebrities, Media Figures, even the wives of some distinguished Politicians. All coming and going in the utmost secrecy, as if to maintain the obsessive facade of perfection, a way of extending the gap between viewers and the viewed.
This side of the job is what appealed most to MacArthur, not the aiding of 'wayward souls', or the 'enlightenment of the world's dark roads'. It was the pulling of the veil from reality's scarred face, the opportunity to watch self-made Gods fall and flail behind closed doors, that appealed to him most. This ... this was his secret pleasure, and one he could gladly keep quiet about if it meant he could continue to watch them fall just like everyone else. Just like him…..
A small sneeze brings the Father's thoughts back to reality. He looks down with just enough time to catch the disgruntled face of baby Damien as he recovers from his sudden upheaval. MacArthur smiles at the adorable expression and wipes the mucus off the poor child's face as they pass through the entryway into his room. A small shiver from the baby brings MacArthur's attention back to the room as he remembers the open window from earlier. Quickly he lays the baby down to close the window, only to have the baby burst out crying upon making contact with the mattress.
Shocked by the sudden outcry, MacArthur scrambles to the window, tripping over his chair and documents strewn on the floor. Closing it, he swiftly returns to the child, daunted by the task before him. He turns back around to his desk to grab some warm milk he had tried earlier to soothe his nerves.
After fashioning a small pan with a lip, using his control of the Hayze to heat his fingertips, MacArthur pours a small bit of milk for the baby and attempts to serve it to the wailing child. Despite his efforts, the child refused to be satisfied, his crying only increasing in volume with every attempt to afford him any available comfort. Finally, a solution comes to MacArthur as he looks to lower half of the ailing child. Disheartedly, he moves his hand to unravel to the lower half of the swaddling garb to inspect for signs that his presumptions were true.
Much to his relief, the infant is completely clean, even freshly so, as if knowing about his fear of having to clean the baby of his toxic refuse. But still, the clean state of the child does little to help relieve the priest of his dilemma. Exhausted, he resolves to simply take the baby back into his arms, attempting to ride out the storm until the child simply exhausted himself into rest.
The abrupt halting of baby Damien's crying surprises Father MacArthur as he returns to cradling the baby.
"Really? You little snot.", Father MacArthur says to the troublesome infant as he chuckles to himself at the simplicity of his solution.
A hushed gasp escapes the Father's lips as the baby's eyes open in response and look back up at him with a sort of fiendish gleam that was definitely not to be expected of a child so young. But those deep, emerald-green eyes seem to soothe MacArthur as he cradles the baby to his chest. Baby Damien grabs hold of MacArthur's robes, trying to bring himself closer and closer to the Priest's chest.
MacArthur can't help but to smile at the baby in his arms.
Finally, the signs of weariness come forth from the baby in the form of a small toothless yawn and the rubbing of little eyes with little hands. And as the feeling of exhaustion also hits him, Father MacArthur sits in his chair, cradling the boy in his arms.
For the first time in nearly a year, the migraines fade away as peace replaces the pain.
For the first time in nearly a year, this child has brought MacArthur rest, this child with his same name.
For the first time, Father Damien McArthur can close his eyes and sleep soundly through the night with the child nestled in his arms.