Work Text:
It’s late one afternoon when Agnes finds Tremblay in a sun-soaked courtyard. He’s stalked by snarling stone animals. Dwarfed by boldly and intricately carved wide pillars. Capsized in a sea of well-worn tiles bordered with tenacious weeds.
He sits on a low wall, drooping, staring miserably at the ground, limbs floppy. Obliterated. Hollowed out. A living ghost. A clump of wet cardboard dumped on the kerb that’s been deliberately overlooked by the garbage collectors.
It’s hard to tell if he’s chosen this popular courtyard to rot in because he nurses hope that someone will acknowledge him, or if he ran out of steam and collapsed wherever his large shuffling feet took him.
He’s so irritating, it’s taken intense prayer for Agnes not to say something to him she’ll regret. Because she doesn’t regret what she said about him to everyone that day in the dining hall, not one single word. Her sleep has been perfect. Her conscience remains in perfect harmony with her heart and head.
But enough is enough. He’s been moping around for days, drowning in self-pity. If being forced to eat alone is the worst part of his day, then he’s blessed indeed.
Agnes approaches him swiftly and silently. She hasn’t gone out looking for him, she’s got higher priorities. But here’s an opportunity to tick another item off her never-ending list.
Saturated in self-pity, Tremblay doesn’t immediately register her presence. He lifts his head slowly, a great weight upon his shoulders. He blinks at her, dragging himself back to the present. The cracks in the left lens of his glasses have widened.
“Sister,” Tremblay rasps, his rich voice mauled.
“Cardinal Tremblay,” Agnes says, unimpressed. There’s nothing physically wrong with his voice. He has a powerful one that powerful people listened to, and he chose to waste such magnificent influence. Agnes allows a familiar burn of envy pass through her. She recognises it, accepts it, lets it go.
Tremblay winces at being addressed by his title. After publicly forgiving him, the new Holy Father refused to demote him. But his responsibilities have either been diluted or stripped away. He occupies what he now sees as an empty role. He’s been turned into a warning to others. A majestic bird of prey tethered to a post, its wings broken and eyes scratched out. Agnes’ irritation with him surges.
She sits next to him, leaving a space between them. Comfortable heat from the wall bleeds into her. She indulges in it, placing her palms directly on the rough bricks, soaking up a gift that’s overlooked. She gives a brief prayer of thanks not only for receiving the gift, but for being able to identify it. She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small leather case. She puts it on the wall next to them.
“These are for you,” she tells Tremblay.
In slow motion, as if moving underwater, as if pushing against an invisible force that wants him to remain stationary, Tremblay picks up the case. He looks at it as if he’s never seen such a thing before. He opens it. A burst of colour floods his pallid face.
“I don’t deserve these,” he tells Agnes, his voice now slightly louder, slightly stronger.
Agnes scowls at him. “Your desires are irrelevant. You need them.”
From the case, Tremblay carefully takes out a new pair of glasses. They’re identical to the pair he currently wears. Except this new pair has unbroken lenses. He holds them up, catching the fading light in bright flashes.
“How did you know which lenses I need?”
“Your medical records.”
Tremblay looks at her sharply. Agnes looks back blankly.
Tremblay sighs, deflating. “You know all about me. You always did.”
Agnes enjoys the infusion of pride that spreads through her. She’s an integral part of a parallel information system that runs through the Church; a body within a body with more insight than anyone suspects. Well almost anyone: the late Holy Father knew of her formidable influence. He respected and feared it accordingly, and received elevated respect in return.
Agnes’ pride dilutes. Then submerges. She misses the late Pope a great deal. But there will be time for prayer and reflection later.
Tremblay places the glasses back into the case. Puts the case back on the wall. Leaves the case open. “I cannot accept such a gift.”
A burst of laughter from two Cardinals walking towards them interrupts the uncharitable thing Agnes was about to say. The Cardinals spot Tremblay. They lean their heads together and whisper. Their laughter is quieter and crueller. Their eyes flick from him to each other, as if passing a mangled car crash they can’t help but stare at. As they get closer their angle changes, and they see Agnes appear beside Tremblay’s hulking frame. She stares pitilessly at them. The Cardinals’ eyes widen and their mouths clamp shut.
“That is enough,” Agnes orders them. They scurry away, heads bowed.
“Enough for now, or enough for good?” Tremblay asks, hopeful and pathetic.
Agnes turns her dark look to him. Tremblay flinches.
“You are in a fissure of your own making,” Agnes tells him. “Open your eyes, look up, climb out. Get back to work. Return to being useful.” Her eyes flick to the glasses case and back up to him.
Tremblay fiddles with his pectoral cross. He looks down. Mumbles something. Scuffs a toe along the ground.
Agnes grinds her teeth together. She’s got so much to do and never enough time to do it. She can’t sit here all day and carefully extract Tremblay from himself. She takes a deep breath, centering herself.
"Tell me Joseph,” she asks softly, “how many children did you rape?"
Tremblay bolts upright to his feet as if he’s been electrocuted. His eyes are wide, mouth open, muscles tense, a picture of pure horror.
"What- how could you- to even think-" he splutters, chest heaving.
That's better, Agnes thinks, satisfied. Now he's giving me his full attention. Now he’s back.
Tremblay makes erratic hand gestures, his long arms uncoordinated, tall powerful body unmoored and flailing, unable to join forces with his voice to prove his innocence. Agnes looks up at him, mildly amused. She holds up a hand and Tremblay immediately freezes and falls silent, a flapping film reel put out of its misery. She tilts her head, gesturing for him to sit back down.
Tremblay does. Agnes folds her hands into her lap.
“Obviously you did not commit such a hideous crime. The crimes you did commit are forgivable.”
Hope blossoms in Tremblay’s eyes like black ink injected into water.
“Although arranging for Sister Shanumi to serve at the Conclave just to be used as a tool to discredit a rival was not a crime, it was disgusting.”
“I didn’t know about her connection with Cardinal Adeyemi, I swear!” Tremblay says hotly, emphasizing the point with sharp hand gestures, eyes wide, face intent, alive and animated. “I swear I didn’t. I only arranged for her to come to Rome because the late Holy Father asked me to. I would refuse him nothing. I loved him.”
Agnes looks at him, calculating. “…hmmm….”
Tremblay can’t hold eye contact with her for long. He looks down at the ground again. His spine remains straight. He swallows. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “My plan to…encourage some of my brother Cardinals to vote for me was a…shameful tactic to use.”
“Your illegal bribery scheme was an embarrassing failure,” Agnes says bluntly.
“It succeeded in the first round,” Tremblay bristles. Agnes raised her eyebrows, and Tremblay lowers his head again. “But, obviously, it was a long-term failure.”
“Obviously.”
Tremblay sighs. “…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. Any of it. I’m so sorry.”
“Do not apologise,” Agnes says. “I don’t care.”
“What?”
“The weak men who accepted your donations are also at fault,” Agnes says patiently. She’s only going to spell this out to him once. “If they were stronger, your storm would not have made landfall. It would have burned itself out above the dark ocean.”
She looks intently at him. “I am concerned with what you do now.”
Agnes won’t tell Tremblay she admires him for continuing with the Conclave. He could have faked an illness to get out of voting. But he forced himself to perform his duty. She suspects there was also an element of self-sabotage to his actions, a desire to punish himself. But he didn’t hide away. He still doesn’t. He clings on, a record spinning with its guiding needle out of place. If he gets back to work and proves that he is sorry, she might allow a few words of encouragement to slip out.
Agnes touches his arm lightly, a fleeting visit from a bird of paradise. She puts her hands in her pockets, stands, and casually walks away.
Tremblay stares after her for a long time. Shadows lengthen around him. The air cools. It’s fragrant in ways he hasn’t noticed before.
Tremblay takes off his glasses. Holds them lightly. Drops them to the ground, where they land with a soft clatter. Gently puts his heel over the cracked left lens. Pushes down on it slowly, inexorably. The glass crunches underneath his pressure. He does the same to the right lens.
He bends down and picks up the debris, the bent frames and every piece of glass. He cleans up a mess that he’s made.
He slides his new glasses on, slightly suspicious that it’s somehow a trap. He blinks, his vision adjusting. The world appears sharper. Cleaner. Undeniably brighter.
The sun sets fully behind him, staining the sky red and gold. He drinks it in.
Tremblay pulls himself to his feet, rising.