"I find it consolatory," Rens continued his pathetic spiel, turning to the alchemist. "That amongst my council is a priest of the Church Sanctorum - and a previous Praefectus at that. A resident clergy of such high standing is only proper, I'd say."
High standing, my ass.
"Wherever did you get the idea that we have a resident priest in the castle?" I posed. "Or, perhaps the question ought to be, wherever did you get the idea that we are in need of a resident priest in the castle? Your golden god, who has no name other than the original sobriquet 'Father God', does not venture this far north, and if he dared to try, he would be consumed by the snow tigers and the polar bears far quicker than he would be enslaved by the vicious ice gods that reign over us Krovs. Poetic, actually, since so many of your southern vicars suffered the same sort of deaths."
"I am here as an alchemist, alone," Vitale interjected, knowing full well that if I was to continue on to my heart's content, I would gleefully highlight Rostya's many conquests - most of whom he ate slowly, while they could still breathe and experience agony. "As stated in my contract of employment, signed by the late King Bozhidar and renewed by King Nikolai. As mentioned, there is very little need for a member of clergy this far north. Neither for the Krovic magnates nor the common people."
"Ah." The Casterian meant for it to be a mocking exhale, but it was predictable and ineffectual, since most southerners who knew not the wicked tendencies of the north considered their god to be infallible. How wrong he was. "Yes, it is so easy to lose sight of the fact that Rodakrov is still a nation of heathens. When I am king, I will have to reconsider how things are done here - how to bring light to these poor, misguided people who are still mired in their blasphemous winter ways."
He turned to me with a smirk.
"Still, you keep the priest with no real need for an alchemist. Perhaps Bozhidar saw some iota of truth in his teachings. Perhaps even you, Nikolai, possess an inner compass that points you towards the truth of Pater Deus."
"Is that the conclusion you have decided upon?" I asked, rubbing one of Rostya's ears as he repositioned his chin on my knee.
"It makes sense - Bozhidar keeping him around, cloistered and locked away, for potential future use. He resurrected his son from the Cattle Plague, after all. But you? What is it then? He breathes a new life into you and suddenly that infamous Kazbirati cruelty is dissolved?" His sneer turned vicious as the barb fell out of his imprudent lips. Even so, the hesitant gaze that flitted towards the precious creature beneath my palm did not go unnoticed. "Then if not for spiritual advise, nor for his alchemical distinction, what possible use is he to you?"
Damn good question, I pondered to myself as I allowed the Casterian to tire himself out. Clearly, he enjoyed hearing his own, grating voice.
"Surely, you would not take on some Casterian priest as an advisor. Or, even more unthinkable, a friend, though I'm sure you're a lonely child." He sneered. "Perhaps, then, his services are useful in more... delicate ways, then?"
My hand stilled on Rostya's forehead, admittedly - to myself alone - taken aback by the statement.
"Is the accusation of sodomy really all that you can muster, commander?" I chuckled, the attempt so inadequate that no amount of irritability could be rallied. "Of all the little niche implications that are readily available to you - even in this room that we currently reside, alone - you choose sodomy. How telling, of you."
Another bubble of laughter rang out - a booming sound amongst the chamber's quietude.
"But if you must know, I wouldn't be able to get past that repulsive golden hair of his even if I tried."
The corner of the pest's lip curled in ill-hidden disgust.
"You return in jest, Nikolai, but such perverse acts are punishable by death."
I eyed him for a moment. Was that his feeble attempt at entrapping me in some sort of immoral scandal? Surely, it had nothing to do with his grandfather's plans, since the old wretch knew right well that, out of all the unprincipled and iniquitous acts that I have performed in the short span of my life, sodomy was the very least of anybody's worries.
The dumb fuck was going off script. I grinned wickedly.
"Perhaps in Casteria," I agreed in such a way that there was nothing Vitale could do now but duck his head and wait out the storm. "Just a gaggle of old men, hobbling about in their togas and sandals, so infatuated with ruling every aspect of their people's lives that they even meddle in the bedrooms. But surely, Rens," I cooed at him, eyes glinting viciously. "As a Casterian who spends many-a day in the encampments, surrounded by nothing but grown soldiers and their attendant boys, you cannot tell me it hasn't even been a flitting consideration in a moment of weakness."
His face contorted in vexation, which only fed into my badgering all the more.
"And look here, even if you did decide to have a taste of the... eh, how would a Casterian vicar describe it?"
I looked over to Vitale expectantly, knowing damn well that if I knew the passage regarding sodomites and their eternal punishment, so did he.
"Fruit of Debauchery," he answered obediently, reaching for his cider as if it contained the proper fermentation it would take to rid him of the memory.
"Yes, that's it." I nodded and turned back to the Casterian pest. "Even if you indulged in the Fruit of Debauchery, it would come with no detriment to you, or so history would have us believe, since royalty is spared such fate."
"Hush yourself, before you say something you will regret, Nikolai."
I watched as his brow furrowed, pupils drawn to me like flies to honey. Their intensity was formidable, but nothing when compared to that of my father's - mad or lucid.
"My dearest brother Angelus took Sanctorum cloth on his own accord."
"Yes," I laughed. "Lured in by the soft and pampered flesh of all of the vicars there, I'm sure."
"Dare to utter such insolence-"
"I couldn't imagine the absolute lack of forethought grandfather Aquiladessi was stricken with when making the decision to banish the poor invert to a house of obedient and soft-spoken male inhabitants. It must be the case, then, that Angelus couldn't bear the blame alone for the indiscretions of-"
"You shut your despicable mouth, you Vuklandic bastard!" The pest growled and slammed his fist heavily onto the table, making the hand on Rostya twitch in alarm. Instinctively, the tiger shifted and stood, his mannerisms slow and lacking any sense of urgency, because there was none - he sensed around us no danger, no threat - but in our partnership, I was the defenseless one. I was the weak one, and tigers were brilliant creatures, especially when forced out of their natural solitude. He could smell on me the jump of adrenaline, the unease that forced my muscle to jump, and this was his way of informing me both of those were unfounded reactions.
He dragged his front paws, one after the other, to put himself between me and the table - and, in his own way, the pest - before dropping his hind end down and tilting his head back to yawn, showing off his deadly set of teeth.
I would've been annoyed with myself - rather, I was annoyed with myself - that a simple bark from that bastard made me react in such a pitiful way, but the feeling was washed down quickly upon seeing just how intimidated by a simple yawn he was.
"We're not here," he continued, his words donning a significantly softer tone. I could only imagine how he'd be sitting in his own shit soiled pants had it been Akim - the ornery old thing - rather than Rostya who had put him in his place. "To converse about Angelus."
"Is that so?" The deceptive calm of my voice bolstered the true thing building back up in my stomach. "It was you, first, who brought up sodomy, so I suppose I was thrown. Well, that is neither here nor there, now, isn't it?"
As I appraised his expressed, struggling to maintain even a semblance of unperturbed, I had to resist the swelling instinctual urge that I had denied myself when he first appeared before me. It would be fitting to send his sun-dyed face into the table top - crack his nose, chip some teeth, listen to the song of his pitiful moans of pain - and on top of that, the blood would reassure Rostya that I had not reverted back into a mewling cub who couldn't defend himself.
But, as always, the fucking priest - even in my internal monologues - had a way stealing the simple pleasures from me. Could what he had to say truly have been more important than feeding into my desire to draw blood, I wondered?