CHAPTER SEVEN

Fidelity

Fydelis lounged in the back of the church, licking honey and oats from his fingers as he dipped them into the cauldron, gathering the remnants of breakfast. He tried to feign boredom and was doing a pretty good job based on the occasional frown shot over someone's shoulder when he made a point to yawn too loudly. Yet inside, his chest expanded as he listened to the rise and fall of Father Gareth's sermon. It was not the words he said, but the sounds they made— the power of his conviction, the power of this man in every way. It stirred him, and made him ache. Gareth had delivered speeches on the battlefield that resonated with the same charisma, just as he'd once delivered prayers to the Creator. To Fydelis. He stopped eating as nausea burned up his chest. The Sunderer must be loving every moment of this.

Fydelis glanced over at the old man with whom Gareth had been speaking, and the man gave him a solemn nod. That man was aware of something, which meant that it wouldn't be long before others began to wonder about Fydelis's sudden appearance, the wounded mercenary, and the events that occurred in the church square.

It mattered not to him what they thought, but it would matter to Gareth. Even if no one mentioned anything at first, the longer he and Gareth stayed, the more apparent it would become. Gareth would not age, and his body would become honed by each new task the Sunderer set upon him. Ironic that the tasks were not terribly misaligned with Gareth's original Crusader's doctrine: hunt the heretics, bring those steeped in darkness to the light, by any means necessary; even death. Except the people he hunted this time would not go to the light. They had already become black and their souls festered within. The Sunderer had been promised those souls, and it would be Gareth who would collect them from their keepers, who were unwilling to give them up.

Fydelis wondered how long it would be before such a task broke Gareth. The longer it took, the more torturous it would become for both of them. Fydelis could not die until Gareth's task was done, and that would take as long as Malaketh thought it should. He made it clear that he enjoyed having Fydelis around. The fallen angel was his favorite toy.

Perhaps Gareth would do as had so many others who had traded in their souls: he would decide that sin was free and commit every one of them. Fydelis gazed about at the women in the room. How many would the once chaste Father Gareth take to his bed before it was time for them to depart? Would there be others? Children as well? Any of it would make it easier for Fydelis to despise him, because seeing him again, and being so close to him, made still loving him hurt too much.

"I've been wondering something, demon."

Fydelis hadn't realized he'd been so lost in thought until Gareth was suddenly settling down beside him. "What?"

Gareth's arms were folded, and he leaned against the table, his gaze drifting over his flock. "Why does your name sound like fidelity?"

Ah. He wondered when the subject might come up. Fydelis forced a leering grin. "It's an irony. I am the aspect of Regret. What greater regret than pledging your life to a lie?"

"I see," Gareth said. Fydelis wanted to shake him and tell him that he didn't. He couldn't possibly have the knowledge to understand just how bitter the irony was. Instead, he pressed his teeth into his tongue and tried not to respond to the pain searing him from the inside.

"Two months, you say?" Gareth changed the subject, glancing at Fydelis's hands, which were making fists on his thighs. Fydelis hadn't realized that he was so tense until that moment. He nodded brusquely, suddenly too aware of Gareth's presence.

"Then we'll have to start building soon. Paetrik will help." Gareth tipped his head towards the young mercenary who had joined the others, accepting a bowl of food from Mary with shy gratitude. "So will you."

Fydelis snorted. "Why should I? I owe these people nothing. I owe you nothing."

Gareth stood up. "Because I am not leaving until I know these people have something. And I don't care if the Sunderer himself comes to tell me otherwise."

Fydelis watched him go, curling his lip.

"Oh, can you bring the pot back and wash it, love?" Millicent called to Fydelis from the open kitchen door. She was holding a stack of bowls, though if she hadn't been, Fydelis would have told her to come get the pot herself… and maybe a few other, not-quite-so nice things.

Muttering under his breath, he grabbed up the large, empty cauldron and carried it back to the kitchen, offering a snarl in Paetrik's direction when he saw him speaking with Father Gareth. It made Fydelis feel a little better to see the man wince.

Washing the pot turned into washing several other things as well, something Fydelis had to do to keep from being overwhelmed by the influx of helpers in the kitchen. He'd never spent any time in the company of humans before now, and Fydelis found it was not something he was very good at. The chattering, the heat, and occasional jostling all had him ready to lash out or flee from the building. He focused on the task of washing, finding a way to lose himself in the rhythmic scrubbing, and by the time the dishes were cleaned and the room nearly emptied, Fydelis's muscles ached and he'd chewed his lower lip raw.

"Surprised that I found you here. I'd thought you might have gone back to your master," Gareth said as he stood in the open doorway.

"Go back? I'm stuck here, for the most part, until you finish your tasks."

"I see." Gareth glanced around at the kitchen.

"Enjoy your little chat with the man who tried to kill you?" Fydelis sneered, walking towards the door and expecting that Gareth would move. He did not; he remained with his large frame blocking the only exit.

"If I didn't know better, I'd suggest that you sounded jealous."

"Good that you know better, then. Move. You're in my way."

Gareth raised an eyebrow, something that made Fydelis inwardly cringe, but after a few drawn-out moments, he finally stepped aside enough for Fydelis to pass. "I'm going to be tutoring him on the foundation of the priesthood. You may want to sit in," Gareth called to his back.

Fydelis snorted and continued to walk. He had no destination in mind, just somewhere that wasn't so close to Gareth. He was jealous, or perhaps possessive was the proper word. Regardless of what name it carried, it was something that had haunted him nearly since the very first time he'd seen this man. Tutoring Paetrik on the priesthood? Did Gareth seriously believe that someone could repent so readily just because his or her life had been spared? Fydelis frowned. Of course that's what Gareth believed. His faith was blinding, despite all that had been done to shake it. Still, it was not so easy for Fydelis to argue against Gareth's faith, because he had once been a part of it. He stormed out into the courtyard and stopped dead in his tracks.

Lilacs. Faded on their branches, but once all the same shade of almost-blue. In the center, a statue; battered, but still intact enough to recognize that it had been the same one kept on the altar at the Shrine of Fidelity.

The Crusaders each picked a guardian that would be worshiped and called on for protection in battle and times of need. Shrines were built in various places so that the Crusaders might have a place to visit and pray. Fidelity's shrine had been outside of Verasei, on a hill overlooking the city. It had been destroyed when the city had been attacked; not long after, Gareth had turned his back on the Knights of the Faith. Apparently, he must have gone back to the shrine and retrieved what was left from the rubble.

Fydelis hadn't realized that he'd moved so close to the statue until he felt the rough stone of a broken wing under his fingers. He looked into the face that had borne his likeness; the pale marble was darkened by soot from the fires that had raged up the hillside and destroyed his shrine. One of the two swords crossed over the statue's chest, bound by a ribbon carved from the stone, was broken off at the blade. The trace of a smile on the statue's lips now appeared more like a sardonic smirk.

He smiled into his own face, sharing the bitter joke. So Gareth still had a place in his heart for him… or what he once had been. Fydelis could just imagine the vicious delight that the Sunderer was taking from this. Like a folly of misunderstanding. A comedic tragedy of errors and false assumptions.

This stupid human body he'd been fashioned was always full of these emotions that became aches. Fydelis clutched his hand to his chest as the hurt blossomed inside.