Delivery for the Damned: Luce (Male Version) (Patreon)

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“Why are you here, Lucien?” Idesbald, Right Reverend Abbot of Waulsort Abbey, spoke in slow French for the sake of the boy standing before him.

Lucien lowered his head, clear blue eyes pinned on the Abbot’s slippers as if the elaborate beading could somehow enlighten him as to the right words. “God guided me to this monastery, Father Abbot,” he said softly. “I only obeyed his will.”

Idesbald suppressed a small sigh. Nervous as a fieldmouse, this child, and a liar to boot. “Look at me, Brother Lucien.”

Lucien’s head shot up, his expression brightening with the Abbot’s usage of ‘Brother.’ “Have you decided to let me stay, then?” he asked. “Pepe—that is, Brother Pierre—said that I was bright. He’s been teaching me to read music.” Lucien smiled dreamily. “I never knew that music could be written down. Notation is a lot easier to read than Latin.”

And there, Idesbald determined, was the crux of the issue. The boy wasn’t meant to be a monk, at least not yet. From the moment that Idesbald had first discovered the urchin two years ago, curled asleep beneath the chapel organ, he’d known that Lucien was meant to glorify God’s majesty through music.

Well, perhaps Idesbald hadn’t known immediately. Despite a lifetime spent serving The Church, first as a priest and then as abbot, Idesbald had somehow managed to retain his natural humility; he was no saint to whom the Lord would ever speak directly (nor would he pretend otherwise, unlike those twats in Rome). Idesbald allowed Lucien to stay at the monastery out of empathy—it was only a year later, when he’d heard the child singing while cleaning the kitchens, that Idesbald realized that he’d foolishly overlooked God’s very obvious sign regarding Lucien’s divine calling. San Pancrazio’s Cardinal had taken his sweet time responding to Idesbald letter, but Carafa’s reply had finally arrived yesterday.

Lucien’s fate was preordained, provided the boy didn’t prove stubborn.

“How old are you?” Idesbald asked.

“I believe that I’m twelve, Father Abbot.”

“You’re yet a child and already so certain that here is where you belong?”

Lucien’s throat tightened at the question. Was he about to be ejected from the Abbey? Leaving Waulsort meant leaving Brother Pierre’s lessons. He’d miss those even more than regular meals and his thin straw pallet in the kitchen. “Here is the only place that I have, Father Abbot.”
 “Don’t be so certain.” Idesbald held out an unsealed envelope, which Lucien took with shaking hands.

The boy’s face scrunched in confusion.

“Can you read it?” Idesbald asked.

“The writer wants me to come to Rome?” Lucien sounded uncertain. “Why?”

“To train as a chorister,” Idesbald explained. “You’ll be singing, Lucien. Not only the works of others, but those works that God inspires within you. Like the hymn which you sing while working in the kitchen.”

Although Idesbald had intended to be reassuring, Lucien’s face paled in terror. “Father Abbot,” he whispered in a strangled voice, “are they going to chop off my—”

“No!” Idesbald interjected. “Your voice has already changed.”

Lucien’s shoulders slumped with visible relief, but his frown lingered. “Can’t I just continue to learn from Pepe?”

“Brother Pierre is a scholar, not a musician,” Idesbald replied. “God has gifted you a wonderful talent, Lucien. It is your duty not to squander it.”

“I don’t want to squander anything,” Lucien agreed, “but leaving here is—”

“Your fate,” Idesbald finished sternly. “You were sent to me for a reason, Lucien. If it is God’s will, then one day you will return.” His voice softened. “I recognize that this must be frightening. You’ll be an outsider, and many in Rome will be reluctant to accept you. My recommendation only ushers you through the door; God must guide you through the rest.”

Something behind Lucien’s eyes shifted, the shadows of anxiety lightening to determination. “I’ll learn music?”

“You will learn music,” Idesbald confirmed, “and create songs which reflect His Glory.”

“Then I’ll go.”

* * * *

2018

“Why are you here, Lucien?” Idesbald, former Right Reverend Abbot of Waulsort Abbey, took a long, final draw of his cigar before snuffing it out on a nearby ashtray. Without taking his eyes off Luce, he stood from the chaise where he’d been reclining and walked over to the bar. The nightclub (which Idesbald had named, in a private joke, Inquisition) had closed twenty minutes ago at four am, and the staff had all gone home. Idesbald, however, had the key to unlock the wine shelf, where he kept a bottle of 1981 Karuizawa whiskey hidden (the perks of being club owner).

Luce shrugged as he accepted the glass of whiskey from Idesbald. He sat down in the seat that Idesbald had recently vacated, leaving Idesbald to remain standing. Idesbald didn’t mind—at least this way, he could pretend that he was still taller than the ungrateful brat.

“Why do I do anything?” Luce asked, his Southern drawl making the statement sound even more sarcastic.

“Because you’re bored,” Idesbald surmised, “or unhappy.” He took a sip of his own whiskey, savoring its slow burn down his throat. No matter how long he lived, good alcohol would always be preferrable to . . . other beverages.

“Maybe I’m both,” Luce said glibly. “Or maybe I missed you, Dad.”

Idesbald didn't react to the nickname. Luce had been bitterly calling him variations of “Father” for centuries now, and it always sounded like an insult.

“Or you heard about my plans,” Idesbald said.

“Or I heard about your plans,” Luce echoed. He slammed his glass down on the table and glared at Idesbald. “What the fuck were you thinking, inviting me to something like this?”

Idesbald closed his eyes. “I’m tired,” he said. “It’s time.”

“Bullshit. Law says that you still have another forty years before your Sunrise.”

“I don’t want another forty years,” Idesbald snapped.

He opened his eyes to find Luce staring at him with a complicated expression. There was anger, of course, Idesbald deserved that. But Luce also looked lost, and so very, painfully, young . . . even though Luce had been almost thirty at the time of his Death. Perhaps it was the pink hair that made Luce appear so youthful, or perhaps it was because Luce had recently fed.

Idesbald hoped the reason wasn't the latter. He was rather fond of his staff.

He took another swallow of whiskey. “Two weeks ago, I buried my youngest grandchild,” he said. “She was eighty-two.”

“My condolences,” Luce said stiffly. “Losing people never gets easier, but that’s no reason to give up everything else.”

“You’re wrong,” Idesbald said. “It was easier, this time. That’s the goddamn problem. I used to dress up as Santa for that kid every Christmas, yet I felt only numbness at her death.” He polished off his whiskey and began immediately refilling the glass. “It’s my time, Luce. Earlier than I expected, but it’s time.”

Luce didn’t answer, a conflicted series of emotions progressing over his features: pity, anger, condemnation, sorrow, and finally acceptance.

“That answers why I’m here, then,” Luce said.