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Norman’s knees had begun to protest the unforgiving wood beneath them some time ago, but the pain was familiar, welcome. Several feet away--that might as well be miles, for any distance was too far for Norman--the bishop worked at his desk quietly, the occasional scratch of a pen or flick of a page interspersed with the gentle crackling of the fire. His head was obediently bowed to stare at the floor, barely blinking, but he still watched the man out of the corner of his eye because Norman was wicked and vile and couldn’t help himself. The demon that lurked in the back of his mind mocked him but relished the view as well. He leaned more on his left leg, the bite of the cilice wrapped around it cutting in deeper to ground himself, the prayer to atone for his trespass running through his mind almost a reflex.
Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori.
The creature hissed at the holy words, retreating in bad humor, but it didn’t stop Norman’s eyes from seeking out the other man once more. The bishop had shed the more formal garments of his office, cassock traded for clerical shirt, the white tab at his throat the only contrast in the veritable wall of black cloth the man appeared--his figure imposing even when seated--and Norman felt blessed to be the only one privy the sight of him so relaxed. Octavius could command a room from a pulpit with ease, baritone carrying through a crowd without even raising his voice like a conductor leading an orchestra, holding his flock’s attention rapt to every word and gesture. Curiously, he’d been a scientist before taking his vows, unusual for those of his calling. Regardless, he’d risen quickly in the ranks of the Church, was one of the youngest bishops in recent memory, and, in all likelihood, he’d also make cardinal well before the customary time.
The cleric had been the only one to show him any sort of kindness since he could remember, reaching out a hand to Norman without the fear that it would be bitten even before the incident which bound him-- them-- to the bishop forever. From the beginning, Norman was drawn to that force of a man, burly and tall, only a few years older than himself but with the presence and authority of one much more seasoned. He’d only been Father Octavius then, a lowly priest working in a facility for the criminally insane and Norman one of its hopeless cases; long ago deemed a lost cause, he’d been in and out of every hospital and prison since the age of thirteen. Norman’s slight frame and subdued demeanor lulled many into judging him an easy mark, at least until a sufficient amount of blood had been shed to gain him a reputation in each new place he was sent. Thus he spent most of his days in solitary confinement (but was never alone , the Goblin made sure of that). It didn’t matter that Norman never started the fights when the demon inside him finished them, every time. The rare times he was left to mix with the general populace, other inmates shunned him, for the most part, which was safer for all involved.
On that particular occasion, Norman had been taken to the prison infirmary after he’d tried to kill himself yet again--by hanging this time, his bedsheets fashioned into a noose he’d managed to hook around an unused pipe in the high ceiling. He might’ve succeeded if the demon hadn’t pulled a shiv Norman didn’t even remember possessing, much less concealing in one of his socks, and cut them both down; as ever, the Goblin wasn’t about to let him go that easily.
Instead of receiving medical care, however, he’d been bound to the infirmary bed in four point restraints and a muzzle, his notoriety evidently preceding him. Meals came and went untouched for days on end as Norman was made to wallow in his own filth until the priest had found him. Outraged, Octavius confronted the staff, but they still refused to care for him, as if his madness was somehow contagious, and so the priest took it upon himself to do so. The kind man had fed him, cleaned him, freed his soul from the bondage of misery in which it had been trapped for so long. He was the first to attempt to communicate with the Goblin as well, approaching both halves of Norman with soft words and gentle touches. Under Octavius’s care, Norman blossomed, the beast inside of him tamed by the priest’s empathy and grace. The hours he was allowed to spend in the other man’s presence were precious. He’d even been permitted to perform menial tasks, if only under the direct supervision of the priest. It was the best time of his pitiful, tortured existence, so of course it wouldn’t last.
On the day that changed everything between them, a riot had broken out in the prison. The violence was slow to reach their isolated corner of the facility, but when it did, it was brutal and swift. A small group of the instigators, godless men all, targeted the priest as a hostage, hellbent on beating the gentle giant into submission, ignoring his pleas for peace and mercy. Norman had been occupied cleaning one of the storage rooms in the back; it was pure luck that he was even able to hear the muffled sounds of the scuffle through the solid door, but when he did, he charged out and set upon the fell men like a banshee. He got to the beleaguered pastor just in time, pulling the first of the attackers off with a roar, snapping his neck in almost the same motion. He and the Goblin were united for once in rage as they dispatched the other three men with vicious blows. They broke several fingers in both hands beating the last assailant’s face to an unrecognizable pulp.
Horrified, they turned back to the priest, breathing in tortured gasps on the floor a few feet away. Neither would ever forget the way the man had looked up at them in awe, face bloodied and bruised but with love in his eyes. Norman had brought a shaking hand to the man’s cheek, and Octavius had uttered a word that had never before been applied to the monster that held him.
Angelus.
The priest’s focus had remained on Norman even after he’d been pushed aside by the medics, the eye contact between them only broken when they’d taken Octavius away on a stretcher. Norman thought the memory would have to sustain him for the rest of his days, and had never expected to see the other man again after the attack, but he’d been wrong. The priest had returned only a few days later, bruises still marring his handsome, strong features but the smile he beheld Norman with was pure.
He secured Norman’s parole when he was transferred out of the facility. Norman didn’t know what legal strings the man had pulled to do so; perhaps the prison system was merely happy to wash its hands of him. Either way, Norman was overjoyed at the opportunity to join his benefactor permanently, and would follow him to the very gates of Hell, if he but asked.
Before Octavius, faith had meant nothing to Norman; the nightly prayers his religious mother forced him to say mere empty words in a vacuum, entreaties to a god Norman had no reason to believe existed. She’d even tried getting him exorcized once, to no avail. But the day he’d taken his vows as a member of Octiavius’s order was the happiest moment of his sorry life. Octavius had shown him purpose, taught him that his monstrosity was a gift, unnatural though it may be--God had made him to be a scourge upon His enemies, a sword to be wielded in His name. Furthermore, he no longer needed to control himself--he had Bishop Octavius for that.
The man had another name, of course, one he dared let past his lips only alone in his locked room, a forbidden orison.
Otto.
He shivered at the appellation, so fitting yet insufficient to describe the enormity of what the man was. Even the Goblin was eager to be of use , for him and him alone. Norman and the demon both would do anything for him—would (and did) kill for the barest moment of his attention, stab out their own eye for the chance to gaze upon him with the other, cut off every limb for the touch of his hand on their cheek--this man of god who looked upon the devil and called him an angel.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the large man sat back, pushing himself away from the desk with a sigh.
“All right, come here my child,” Octavius beckoned with the hand bearing the ring of amethyst and gold of his station.
Norman crawled toward him with relief, ashamed of his own eagerness but unable to temper it, kneeling before the other man, wanting to kiss the leather of the bishop’s shoes, but wouldn’t dare without permission. He could feel Octavius’s gaze pass over him like a caress, those deep, dark eyes that saw him in a way no one—not even his own mother—ever had, which looked upon the great black pit inside Norman with love and not the despair all before him did.
Octavius opened the bottom drawer of his desk, withdrew an object, and placed it next to Norman on the heavily lacquered surface with a soft clunk . He knew what it was without even looking, had memorized the weight of it in his hands, the righteous cruelty of its knots and the patterns they left on his flesh; it took every ounce of self control Norman had to not snatch it up and mete out the punishment he so rightly deserved.
“Look at me,” the bishop commanded, deep voice soft but unyielding.
Norman obeyed, raising his head up to look the other man in the eye for the first time. Ordinarily, the opportunity to be this close to him--to breathe the same air, study the subtle lines of his face, bask in the knowledge that he was the sole focus of his attention--would be a joy most sublime. Those eyes now beheld him with disappointment, however, thick black brows furrowed in disapproval, and it was so painful Norman could barely breathe.
“Norman, do you know what you have done?” he asked gravely.
The Goblin’s voice supplied the answer in his mind with glee. Filthy, unclean, evil--
He swallowed, the words of contrition he’d not yet been given leave to say burning in his throat.
The bishop nodded. “You may speak.”
“I have sinned, I--” Norman’s voice broke, shaking with guilt and self-disgust. “I am so sorry, Father.”
He longed for the sweet agony of absolution, and Octavius knew the most difficult part for Norman was to resist punishing himself. Thus, he waited, drawing out the moment before ordering, “Prepare yourself.”
Norman stood, removing his habit and underclothes and folding them in a neat pile he placed on the floor before kneeling before the priest once more. Blood would stain the dark fabric further when he put them back on, but for now there was nothing between the cold air of the office and his abused skin. His pale flesh was covered in wounds, from silvery marks to fresh, open lacerations--battle scars from a war of infinite fronts, many casualties courtesy of the enemy within. Norman didn’t particularly like looking at himself in the mirror, but felt no shame in disrobing in front of the bishop. There was never any censure or disgust in that heated gaze. Octavius appraised him for several minutes longer, and despite the chill Norman felt his stare warm his skin like the rays of the sun.
“You may begin,” the man said at last. Norman retrieved the discipline from Octavius’s desk, gripping it tightly, then whipped it across his chest to strike his back with all the strength his arm possessed.
“Lava me, Dómine,” the invocation escaped Norman through gritted teeth in between blows, “ab iniquitáte mea, et a peccáto meo munda me.” One lash became five, then ten. Each blow was cleansing fire, burning down to his very bones. The man of God watched him with eyes likewise blazing, hardly even blinking at all.
When he reached twenty, the bishop spoke once more, “Enough.”
It was harsher chastisement than usual, though deserved. Octavius took Norman’s face into those massive hands, drawing him closer; the more forceful and violent his repentance, the more gentle the older man’s touch became. “In nómine Patris,” he murmured, kissing first his forehead, “et Fílii,” then one cheek, “et Spíritus Sancti,” then the other, lips lingering more each time before pulling back. There was unadulterated love in the dark eyes that met Norman’s. “You are forgiven, my son.”
Norman whimpered, shuffling forward between the large man’s legs to be enveloped by the sheltering heat. Octavius was so warm, always, whereas Norman was forever cold no matter how many layers he wore.
He placed his thumb gently on Norman’s lower lip, and the smaller man opened his mouth in eager obeisance, his stomach clenching. The bishop’s other hand went to his trousers, unfastening them to release his cock, long but moreso thick , even only partly aroused as he was. Octavius fisted himself, then guided his length to Norman’s waiting lips.
“Accípite et manducáte ex hoc omnes: hoc est enim corpus meum, quod pro vobis tradétur,” he gasped, honeyed voice rough with passion.
He felt more than heard Octavius’s soft grunt as Norman took him into his mouth, as much as he could bear. The taste of him was divine, his length heavy on his tongue, so heavy, the only thing anchoring Norman to this plane of existence. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the bishop’s broad thigh. Everything else--the barbed cilice digging into his leg, the metaphorical and literal blood on his hands, the raw cuts on his back, the years and years of wandering lost in Hell before finding his savior, even his own neglected arousal--fell away to nothing as he breathed in the rich, earthy scent of the other man with thick fingers combing through his unkempt hair. It was the only time the Goblin was ever wholly silent, and the closest to God that Norman would ever be.
Misereátur nostri omnípotens Deus et, dimíssis peccátis nostris, perdúcat nos ad vitam ætérnam.