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Chapter Text

October 8th, 1981 ∙ Sweden

The night before his departure, Copia found himself perched on the cracked leather seat of his room’s solitary window. The breaks in the fabric were rough against his skin, but his appreciation for the view overrode any need to complain. Chin in hand, he watched the moon begin its gentle climb, casting long, spindly shadows across the lawn under its beam. Dim lights shone in odd intervals from the buildings that dotted the concourse below, mirroring the overhead glow of faint constellations. He could hear the muted honks of local birds as they arced their way through the purple sky in migratory patterns, and on the periphery, street lamps buzzed to life on cue. From his spot on high, he could see damn near everything: the entirety of his church, the edge of the city, and, most importantly, the winding road that stretched out beyond them

While there weren’t many compliments he could pay his abbey, the clerical labyrinth never failed to become utterly serene at dusk. He laced his arms around his knees for warmth, then squeezed his legs to his chest as he stared into the distance, quietly drinking in a world that would soon exist only in memory. His eyes flicked from the dull glow of stained glass up to twinkling heavens, then back to the fading hues of low-lying clouds.

It's beautiful like this, he thought. But only like this.

And he was right, oddly enough. Certain things are only attractive from a distance. While his church was definitely no exception, he knew he was still going to miss it. This sentiment, of course, hardly conveyed what he was actually feeling, but to be fair: describing, with any amount of accuracy, the nostalgia that forms in the wake of departure from the familiar to the unknown isn’t something that comes easily to most thirteen-year-olds. Could you feel homesick for a place that never felt like home? He wasn’t sure. The life he knew offered him so little, and yet, in almost every aspect of it, he’d managed to find something of just enough value to convince himself to stay alive.

An evening breeze drifted through the half-open sill, tickling his nose as it chased the day’s warmth toward the horizon. Winter was almost here, and it was getting colder by the minute. Copia turned up his collar and retreated further into the splintery wood of the backrest, clenching his jaw against the waves of goosebumps blossoming over his body. The southernmost dormitory’s unused corner office had been his home for the last seven years, but at no point had it felt like anything more than a ramshackle motel for an unwelcome guest. The door creaked, the mattress sagged, and the floorboards wiggled in place like a series of rotten teeth. Everything from the blankets on his bed to the towels in his bathroom were less comfortable than burlap, and the radiator required several firm kicks in order to limply rumble to life. Copia rarely cared to try and heat his makeshift room, so he reached instead for the quilt that decorated his disheveled nook and draped it over his shoulders.

Just as he began to feel comfortable again, a glare—bright and intrusive—flickered onto the glass from the light shining beneath his door. He let out a frustrated sigh, then gripped the rail and yanked it upwards. An open window would have been better than an obstructed window, but as per usual, the lower pane barely moved. The stupid thing had been broken since the day he moved in. It was another disappointing discovery, but also one he’d chosen to tolerate, as he was terrified of jeopardizing his access to the features of his room by whining about their performance. He was also exhausted of the dorm’s other occupants—whenever they happened to bump into him—commenting on how preoccupied he seemed with the world beyond their shared living space, but that was another story entirely.

Thankfully, none of that mattered now. Or at any rate, it wouldn't soon, and since he had nothing better to do than reminisce the evening away, he shrugged off his blanket and began to work the jamb apart from the sash with his fingers. Copia’s nails—scraggly and bit to the quick—were at the constant mercy of his nerves. Between school and choir, round-the-clock secret keeping, and the general existential horror of being a person, they never had much chance to grow. Still, he managed to strip away a considerable amount of gunk on his own. The pane looked better once the mold and excess sealant was removed, but it still locked up when asked to slide further. Copia frowned. He leaned over to access the cabinet space under his seat and rummaged around until his hand brushed with a small toolbox. After recovering a putty knife and a compact hammer, he set to work freeing the pane from its jambs. It was a slow process. Not difficult, per say, but slow, and his mind, as it so often did during such idle tasks, began to wander.

His subconscious mulled over the tangential grime in his own life, starting with the list of infractions he’d accumulated the previous week. Tying his hair up, then cutting it short. Repeatedly wearing the “incorrect” uniform. Spending more time with the rats that lived in his ceiling than the children who attended his school. Copia, it seemed, was never not in trouble. Despite this, he still wanted to be good. He longed to seamlessly blend into the society around him while upholding their expectations with ease. His numerous failings hadn’t stopped him from working toward this ideal, and if he was secure in anything, it was his ability to succeed academically. He boasted perfect grades, perfect attendance, and mastery of flute and piano. Neither poetry nor prose were difficult for him, and he could do both in Swedish, English, and Italian. Perhaps he’d never model perfect behavior, but if he could fireproof his worth with accolades and accomplishments that pushed the conventional boundaries of success, his fall from grace might be less agonizing.

This sort of thinking is nothing if not infamous for its ability to breed self-hatred, and the longer he entertained this concept, the harder it became for him to simply exist. Years of walking this same, emotionally exhaustive trail had worn a rut in Copia’s soul, leaving him trapped by walls of filth. He often felt stuck, but—unlike his window—there was no easy fix. Nobody was out there with a pair of boy-sized pliers, ready and willing to pluck him from his hell. He’d contemplated all of this numerous times before, but something about the unrelenting glare and the way the air grew thinner the longer he worked caused his anxiety to suddenly feel all-encompassing.

His limbs tingled with a familiar numbness as he swallowed waves of nausea crashing against the back of his throat. The room felt devoid of oxygen. Searching for relief, he lowered himself between the sill and the pane until pricks of cold air stung his sweat-soaked face. The coolness of the evening felt refreshing against his skin, but no matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn’t convince his lungs to expel their static. His thoughts became hazy, folding over themselves as the glass fogged from his ragged breathing. Something had to give. Knuckles white and brow furrowed, he began to drive the hammer against the knife with a series of succinct blows. The pale light, the grime, the condensation—all swirling together, warping his reflection until the world was a fun house mirror from which there was no escape. Layers between himself and the rest of existence. Layers too thick to simply wipe away. He drew back his arm as far as he could and slammed the hammer into the knife with all the strength he had left, simultaneously forcing the truth he had been running from out of his gut and into the open.

“Nobody is coming to save me!” He screamed.

The final blow was all it took. With a deafening crack, the casing shattered. The lower pane detached from its jambs, falling onto the person who’d freed it in a shower of splinters. The stifling atmosphere remained suffocating, but accidentally vocalizing the direness of his reality had caused something inside Copia to click. He steadied himself and gripped both sashes, then pulled the broken window out of its frame. With a soft pop, the rusted pivot slipped free, dropping, along with his resolve, onto the fabric beneath his shoes. He sniffled, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand before reaching down to examine the dislodged piece of metal. As he held it up to the moonlight, he smiled to himself. Such a funny roadblock of a thing. He gave his eyes a few cleansing blinks, then pocketed his prize.

The wind ruffled his wavy, chestnut hair as it filtered through the now vacant sill. He took breath after breath of cold night air, feeling his pulse gradually return to normal. It smelled so good outside. The silence was empty, but comfortable, punctuated only by the gentle creaking of bare branches knocking against each other in the breeze. The stars—no longer obscured—seemed practically ablaze: each individual glint like one of many undiscovered possibilities that awaited Copia just beyond his familiar horizon. His eyes swept the scene one final time, then slid shut. As far as last days go, this one was alright. He might have broken a window, but perhaps he was finally on the way to freeing his soul. A soft sigh passed his lips as he cleared the sadness from his throat, finding his voice once more.

“It’s no big deal,” he whispered. “I'll just have to save myself.”

Chapter Text

April 3rd, 1981 ∙ Sweden

In the beginning it was loud. Unbearably loud, to be honest. And the noise was inexplicably constant. Both the clamor of the church and the buzz of its inhabitants seemed to grow in volume with each passing day, attempting to devour the other in an endless fight for dominance. Bells chimed. People milled about. Orders were both shouted and followed. To Copia, the ceaseless drone was—at best—the lowest possible form of background noise. At worst, it was a head-clogging nightmare of overstimulation.

The majority of his life had been lived in the St. Olof Forsämling Abbey on the northern outskirts of Linköping, but familiarity, it seemed, wasn’t the key to mitigating its general unpleasantness. His home was a tireless hive, steadfast in the pursuit of serving its queen. Copia was part of the swarm too, but more often than not, he felt like an entomologist with his nose pressed to the glass instead of an actual member of the colony. He marveled at the amount of comfort everyone around him took in their predestined roles—something he could neither empathize with, nor fully comprehend. The fabric of his soul seemed to be cut from a cloth so vastly other, no matter what he tried, he couldn't assimilate. Quiet solitude eventually became standard, and as time wore on, Copia accepted it as his life’s unchangeable trajectory.

When he wasn’t needed, he sought refuge in the various nooks and crannies such concourses provided. The spiders and rats made room for him without question—almost as if they had a vague awareness of their shared commonality. As a token of his appreciation, Copia would bring his friends handfuls of crumbs saved from earlier meals, and read to them from his collection of library books. He took great care to leave the numerous cobwebs he encountered undisturbed, and in return, the denizens of the floorboards and rafters accepted him as one of their own. With so many forgotten buildings skirting the border of the abbey, he had a seemingly limitless supply of hiding spots at his disposal. The stage of the church’s oldest and most decrepit chapel soon became his favorite, and it’s here, amongst the rotting furniture and fractured stained glass, that our story officially begins.

Niccolo Copia, a shell-shocked boy of almost thirteen, had decided to spend the afternoon on the bench of his chapel’s grand piano. He’d been tasked with leading worship for a small Bible Study class the following Sunday, which meant rehearsal time was crucial. His pencil twirled between his fingers as he paused to make notes in the margins of the ledger. A key change here, a pick up note there. This entire composition could be so much better— he just needed a minute to work his magic. Copia had a knack for music, it must be said. He liked listening to it, he liked performing it, and, as it so happened, he also liked writing it. The latter, unfortunately, wasn’t something he had many opportunities to partake in, so whenever the moment arose, he couldn’t help but dive in head-first.

With his sanctuary’s dependable silence firmly in place, the minutes turned to hours without his notice. Perhaps then, it should go without saying that when the doors to the chapel parted, allowing a small, honey-haired figure to slip quietly between them, Copia was none the wiser. Funny things, double doors. They never seem to close as softly as they open, and when the heavy mahogany shut with an abrupt, echoing clonk, Copia went sailing directly toward the ceiling. He smashed against the yellowed ivory on his way back down, producing a string of discordant notes as his fists hit the keys. In the brief moment that the entrance had been open, a burst of wind swept in from outside, sending years of dust into the air. A cough sounded from somewhere to his right, followed by the unmistakable sound of feet padding across a threadbare floor.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Copia froze. He felt himself involuntarily shrinking into the fallboard where he landed, hoping, fruitlessly, that if he just didn’t move, he’d remain undetected. He knew shouldn’t have rearranged the score. Hell, he shouldn’t even be sitting in this chapel to begin with. He could tell himself that coloring outside the lines wouldn’t be a problem as long as he was subtle, but that didn’t neutralize the overall risk. The ethical dilemma itself was thoroughly banal, and getting caught was likewise routine. However, even though monotonous, the scolding, punishment, and isolation that followed never seemed any less painful. After all, if his time at St. Olof had taught him anything, it was that being accustomed to something doesn’t exactly make it better. 

He drew a shallow breath and stilled himself for what might come, then squinted past the motes of dust to contend with his consequences. To his surprise, he glanced down to discover one of his classmates had begun tentatively approaching the stage. A small stack of hymnals was clutched to his chest, and a satchel—one that reminded Copia of something a mailman might carry—dug noticeably into the flesh of his too-small shoulder. As he appraised his visitor, he sighed with relief. It was usually teachers who busted him for his constant infractions, but a child? Someone his own age? Maybe he’d manage to scrape by with a bit of light bullying.

The boy cocked his head at the scene before him, then raised himself up on his toes to get a better look.

“Whatcha workin on?” He asked.

The air had begun to clear, making visible the tangle of large, loose curls that crowned his head. He wore glasses, Copia noticed—large, circular frames that did a pleasant job of accenting the overall shape of his rather sun-kissed face. The uneven, open-mouthed smile that scrunched his cheeks into dimples displayed a missing front tooth, and a bottom lip that had been the subject of stress. Copia swallowed the ball of nerves that had lodged itself in his throat, fumbling for his voice.

“I’m.. um.. just practicing, actually,” he lied. He was used to lying. A benign fib here and there for the sake of his own safety barely dinged his conscience anymore. Although, for some bizarre reason, fibbing to this charming stranger felt, at best, unnecessary. 

“Cool!” The boy replied. “I’m here on an errand.”

Copia felt his shoulders begin to loosen. “An errand?”

“Yeppers! I’m supposed to put these hymn books in the storage space in this chapel,” he explained, flashing Copia another toothy grin. “They’re kinda heavy, but I can handle it! I’m pretty strong.”

“You’re.. bringing brand-new hymnals to an old, empty building?”

“Those were the instructions! They aren’t any good, apparently. Father Felix said so. He doesn’t much care for the ‘new stuff’—whatever that means—so we won’t be needing these. I guess he thought storing them in here would be easier than keeping them in his office? Something about ‘out of sight, out of mind’. I'm not really sure. He doesn’t make a lot of sense sometimes.”

He then paused to bring Copia’s attention to his oversized satchel, giving it a playful pat. “I also need to deliver a ton of paperwork all over the abbey, and after that, I gotta run into town.”

“Into town?”

“Yeah!”

“Alone?”

“Yeah!”

Copia tilted his head at the premise. “Why?”

“I just told you!” The boy replied, throwing his hands into the air. “Errands!”

His energy was nothing short of delightful, but there was a tinge of added stress on his face at the mention of a day trip into the Linköping suburbs.

“Do you..” Copia started, trying to parse the array of emotions on display, “not want to go?”

“Yes, and no. It’s.. complicated,” the boy sighed, chewing loosely on his bottom lip. “It was really fun at first! Getting to explore the old buildings and the town in exchange for doing a handful of favors was awesome! But Father Felix has been adding more and more stuff to my to-do list lately, and getting it all done is starting to feel impossible. I can’t exactly tell him no, y’know? It’s my job. If I mess up, I might lose it. Along with.. the trust I’ve built.”

At this, Copia nodded. It was a feeling he knew all too well.

“Well..” he mused, weighing his options. “What if I helped?”

“Wait, really?”

He smiled and politely dipped his head in his guest’s direction.

“You’re the best!” The boy exclaimed, his relief loud and palpable. “I can’t believe I never thought to check this place sooner—I could have cut my workload in half weeks ago! Okay, it’s a deal! You got yourself a deal! Get your stuff and follow me!”

Copia obediently closed the hymnal, concealing it safely inside the piano bench before hopping from the front of the stage to join his classmate. They exited the chapel, then made their way down the old, gravel steps to the older, more gravelly path that led from the abbey’s less-frequented buildings to the edge of the church yard. St. Olof was a hermit crab of a place. Built hastily on the bones of a sixteenth-century monastery in hopes of becoming the first church in the area to reach official abbey status, the parish was actively renovating its labyrinth. None of the previous occupants were around to vouch for its historical significance, which meant the outer ruins would someday join the rest of the bulldozed rubble under the guise of ‘restoration’. However, something about the description of Father Felix as being wholly uninterested in anything new gave Copia hope that there was still time before this happened, and he found himself subconsciously revisiting the idea that perhaps his church stayed out of step with the world beyond its gates on purpose.

“Cool uniform, by the way! I meant to say that earlier.”

The comment broke the silence between them, snapping Copia from his thoughts with a jolt of fear.

“I know it’s against the rules for girls to wear boy’s clothes, but I like your style! Wearing the same thing every single day is so boring, isn’t it? They might as well bury us in these stupid things.” 

Copia blinked. He’d caught sight of his reflection in the chapter house windows as they’d clipped past, and if asked to describe the person looking back at him, ‘cool’ wouldn’t have been a consideration. His too-big blazer and baggy, faded pants were awkward and ill-fitted compared to his companion’s perfectly tailored clothes. The alternative was worse by far, but both options still felt embarrassing. He reached up and attempted to smooth back his hair, hoping, for some barely-conscious reason, to live up to the compliment he’d been paid. 

In the time it took for them to reach their undisclosed destination, the boy talked, and Copia listened. He learned that his new friend was utterly obsessed with jazz and American hockey, and wanted to play both someday. He was told the short version of how, when your parents both die in a car crash, you end up in a parish village, adopted by a family obsessed with the concept of eternal damnation, and forced to go to Catholic School in an isolated abbey in various states of decay. He empathized—possibly for the first time—with feelings of uncertainty and abandonment, eventually interrupting to concede that existing in a bubble for an indeterminate amount of time with absolutely nothing to your name was, all things considered, probably less than ideal. The longer they walked, the more at ease Copia began to feel tossing around the conversational ball, and as their path gave way to the sparse outskirt grass, yellowed equally by neglect and the straggling touches of winter, he felt somewhat sad to see their journey come to an end.

As they arrived at a small shed nestled between two pine trees, the boy held up his index finger, indicating for Copia to hang back and wait. He slipped behind the bramble that smattered the building’s side, then re-emerged with a large, wheeled contraption covered in tarp. Once he was sure he had Copia’s attention, he tugged the cloth to the ground to reveal a bicycle with a basket affixed to its back wheel. 

“This,” he announced proudly, “is The Chariot!”

“Oh—” Copia marveled. It’d been ages since he’d even seen a bike, let alone obtained the offer to ride one. His eyes bounced from the dirt-covered spokes to the tassels fluttering from its handles. It seemed relatively weather-worn, but not in a bad way. Far from new, yet still cared for and valued—possibly by someone who found freedom in a set of wheels almost as much as he did. He found himself briefly reminiscing about his days in nursery school, smiling as he remembered speeding across the playground on the seat of a magnificent yellow tricycle. Three of the world's stickiest, creakiest wheels set to a peeling, puke-colored frame with a beat-to-shit basket tied cheaply to the front—and yet he could give it no shortness of praise. He’d been utterly obsessed from his first spin around the basketball court to his final days of preschool, and he was only mildly embarrassed of how much he still missed the damn thing.

“Can you ride?”

He took a big breath. “I think so, yeah.”

“Great!” The boy replied. He kicked the canvas to the side, then wheeled The Chariot in a small circle so it was facing the gate, parallel to Copia. 

“Okay, here’s the deal—you have until the end of the afternoon. That’s it. Father Felix will be watching, so don’t be late. Besides that, it’s pretty easy. You know the big road in front of the church? The one the construction workers use? You’ll start there. Ride south until you hit the second roundabout, then head west. That should take you across Stångån. Once you're off the bridge, go south again. It’ll be on the left, opposite from the park. It’s a big green building. You can’t miss it. Just leave The Chariot in the alleyway between the tiny cafe and the general store while you’re there.”

Copia nodded, cautiously gripping the handlebars as he eased himself onto the faux leather seat. It creaked under his weight, and the rubber handles felt soft to the touch from spending the afternoon beneath a sheet of heavy-duty fabric, but all-in-all, the bike seemed to fit him rather well. Once he was confident both feet could safely reach the pedals, he pushed off the loose gravel and launched The Chariot into motion.

It was slow rotations and apprehensive wobbles at first, but once his muscle memory brushed aside its cobwebs, Copia was happily sailing down the path with his new friend trotting closely by his side. The breeze filled his lungs and tousled his hair as he picked up speed. He felt the unbuttoned panels of his baggy uniform blazer blow open beneath him like a pair of comically ineffective sails, likening The Chariot to an above-ground boat upon a gravel sea. Eyes wide and pulse elevated, he leaned forward—fully integrating himself into his marvelous, new-found machine.

“Once you get there,” his friend panted, “wait at the mouth of the alley. Make sure you’re in view of the store’s corner window. He’ll come out and meet you there.” 

“Who?” Copia asked. But it was too late. He might have started off slowly, but the incline of the hill had begun to work its gravitational magic. The gap between the boys widened noticeably, making it harder for Copia to first hear—then see—The Chariot’s rightful owner. Mustering all the courage currently at his disposal, he craned his neck and glanced over his shoulder, stealing one final look at the churchyard. His eyes were brimming with tears from the wind whipping against his face, but he was able to make out a blurry form—hands cupped to his mouth, smile as wide as ever—calling at the top of his voice in his direction.

“Don’t worry about it! Just tell him Lars sent you!”

Chapter Text

April 3rd, 1981 ∙ Sweden

The day Primo met Copia was as ordinary as any other. Another stressful week had come and gone at the Emeritus Church of Satan, and after spending it patching the holes—both metaphorical and otherwise—created by his father’s absence, the eldest of his broken family slipped off for some time apart from his clerical duties. Alpha had offered to drop him near Borensberg Station, and after leaving his right-hand ghoul with a small wad of cash and a rendez-vous point, Primo hopped aboard the bus to Linköping and commenced his journey south.

The day was young, and the atmosphere was fresh with the onset of spring. Birds had begun to return to the landscape, filling the surrounding forest with the soft sounds of their songs. The sun seemed to be sticking around a bit longer as well, but despite the abundance of blue shining from behind the low, wooly clouds, his outing still required a few extra layers. Not fussed enough to close the overhead window, Primo tugged his favorite Burberry scarf to his ears and popped his dress coat’s collar against the breeze. The seat beside him remained empty, so he allowed himself to sprawl, folding his legs beneath him as he leaned against the glass. He noticed pale nubs of life forming on the branches and bramble that lined the road, and his reflection smiled in sync with his observations. This was his favorite time of year.

Being alone, however, was a bit of a double-edged sword. With his vicinity unusually calm, it was easy to sink into the abyss of his mental frustrations, and truth be told, he’d been finding it more difficult than usual to not be bitter about his life. The strain of keeping both his faith and place of worship afloat had been weighing on him since he was a teenager, and it had only increased in recent months. A standard day consisted of writing sermons with one hand, while putting out fires with the other. He’d pacify his brothers with lies about how okay everything was, then awkwardly bug Sister Imperator for help when he felt himself being stretched too thin. On the rare occasion he was able to sneak down to the library to work on personal projects, something would always interrupt him. The ghouls would bicker amongst themselves, or the siblings would start drama that required authoritative intervention. Nothing was easy, to say the least. Primo, however, didn’t exactly mind this tension—far from it, actually. His dedication to both Lucifer and His teachings was his primary reason for getting out of bed in the morning, and he couldn’t help but believe that one day, even through the everything of it all, he would somehow be rewarded for his struggles.

As his journey progressed, the farm roads melded into cobblestone driveways, which then gave way to pavement, leaving Primo to eventually find himself in the bustling center of Linköping Central Station. He waited until the bus had fully emptied to gather himself, nod to the driver, then make his way outside. As he ambled across the bay, it occurred to him that he wasn’t entirely certain what had brought him to his destination. He was due to check the Mortuary that evening—as was customary every first and third Friday of the month—but until then, he had no pressing obligations. In a shocking turn of events, the unofficial head of The Emeritus Church of Satan had a bit of time to kill.

He began to walk through the nearby square, letting the sights and sounds of lives other than his own engulf him, and felt the therapy of his outing truly set it. He was suddenly amongst dozens of people—all mingling, talking, and shouting—none of which required his guidance to exist. The crowd parted effortlessly around him as he strolled from storefront to storefront, moving past shops full of artists and their work, to myriads of produce stands stocked with colorful offerings. A flower stall sat on the street’s eastern corner, and Primo felt himself almost involuntarily turn to stop and sample the foliage on display. He cupped a large, crimson bloom loosely in his palm, admiring the flecks of white that dotted its many petals, then softly inhaled its aroma.

“These are quite remarkable,” he smiled, purposefully catching the eye of the presumed shopkeeper watering something nearby.

The man straightened at the sound of Primo’s voice, rising up from behind a row of pansies. He was short, and adorably chubby, but with the solid upper body of someone deeply invested in agriculture. His arms were coated in wet soil, and the knee-length apron he sported was likewise stained with dirt. The compliment seemed to have curled his lips into a shy smile, so Primo returned his expression and continued.

“Carnations certainly are lovely, but it takes a lot of skill to cultivate something so foreign in this climate. Do you have some sort of greenhouse for these?”

The florist, now standing adjacent on the other side of the bed, shook his head in reply. 

“Oh, I wish,” he huffed out a laugh. “I grew those on my kitchen table, actually. It’s pretty cool in that part of my flat, but the windows let in the perfect amount of sunlight. They turn out great every year.”

“Very clever,” Primo nodded in acknowledgement. He set the carnation back in its place, subtly running his fingers along its feathery leaves before retracting his hand. “It reminds me of the year I tried to grow bluebonnets on the sill of my office window. Tricky little bastards—they never so much as sprouted.”

This piece of information caused the florist to don an enthusiastic grin. “Oh! You garden too!” 

“I, well—” Primo began. Unintentionally, his mind drifted toward home, where he’d duck into the church’s greenhouse concourse to offload after a long day of holding the congregation together with tape. He’d been interested in plants of the poisonous and carnivorous variety for as long as he could remember, but as he’d aged, he’d developed a soft spot not only for more traditional fauna, but the handsome men who happened to grow such things as well. He absently brushed a lock of wind-swept, professorial hair from his face and cleared his throat, pulling his mind back to the present. “Sort of, I suppose. When I have time.”

“It’s a thankless profession,” the florist replied. “And it’s quite a time sink as well. But that’s why we love it, right? We’re good at taking care of things that can’t take care of themselves.” 

He snipped the stem of the flower Primo had been admiring from its patch and offered it forward with a flirtatious grin. “I’m sure your blooms will be magnificent this year, but until they come in, here’s a little something to keep you company.”

Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and Primo felt a torrent of butterflies rip through his abdomen as traces of soft, wet dirt smeared across his knuckles. He couldn’t stop himself from giggling as he made a show of fastening the carnation securely behind his ear before turning to make his exit.

“Ah, thank you! Thank you very much! I think I’ll wear it home, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I would be honored,” the florist replied with a wink.

Primo gave a flustered nod in the man’s direction, then bowed his head politely and began his venture back down the road. As he reintegrated himself into the crowd, he reached up to twirl the base of the stem back and forth between his fingers, feeling another poorly-concealed smile pull his lower lip into a pout. His face was thoroughly stained from years of marking it with harsh grease paint, but it wasn’t enough to stop the random passersby from noticing how red his cheeks had turned.

Feeling a bit overstimulated from both his previous encounter and the collective energy around him, he began to look for a quiet spot to rest. He knew of a little cafe just up the way that opened toward a nearby park, and once he picked its storefront from the maze of buildings ahead of him, he made a beeline in its direction. After pausing to order an espresso and a snack, he walked over to one of the area’s many benches and eased into its embrace. He sighed, feeling the strain of his travels catching up with him. The heat of the beverage seeped through the cup and warmed his chilly fingers. He sipped slowly, surveying his surroundings as he sat.

Ducks skirted the edges of the crowd in pursuit of discarded crumbs, a pair of women walked hand-in-hand down the dirt path toward the lake, and a mousy-haired child wedged awkwardly between a lamppost and their bike struggled with the basket affixed to its rear wheel. Primo did a double take. Upon further inspection, both parties appeared to be worse for wear. The cargo dwarfed the contraption beneath it in a manner so comical it caused him to reevaluate his understanding of physics, and the person laboring over it looked anxious and sweaty.He could hear them swearing from across the grass as they tied and re-tied a small mound of cords, tripping over their feet and catching themself on the handlebars as they went.

“Need any help?” Primo asked, offering a casual wave in their direction. The sound of his voice caught them off guard. They nearly leapt in surprise before ducking behind the front wheel for safety.

“Oh! My apologies! I thought you could see me—I didn’t mean to scare you,” he clarified with a reassuring smile. “I’m not trying to intrude, you just seemed a bit.. lost, perhaps? Do you need any directions?”

At the word ‘lost’, a pair of russet eyes, worried and deep, peeked out from behind the spokes and locked with his mismatched gaze. He could feel the intensity of their stare as they took him in, nervously tugging at their ear while slowly pulling themself upright. The messy auburn waves that framed their freckled face bounced against their cheeks in a manner that suggested they’d cut their hair themself, and their uniform—that of a Catholic schoolboy—had definitely seen better days.

Primo didn’t exactly think highly of himself, it must be said. Even as the Antipope-In-Training that he was, he contained more doubt than confidence that he’d live up to the expectations predestined for him. He wasn’t fantastic with people—finding their experiences to be somewhat alien from his own—and his head was often too lost in the clouds to be as emotionally available as he should. However, the stab of empathy that trailed in the wake of looking into those big, brown eyes was so undeniable he could feel it shoot from the base of his spine to the top of his neck. Someone needed him.

“There’s nobody sitting here, you know,” he patted the empty space beside him. “Why don’t you take a break? That always helps me when I feel overwhelmed.”

A beat of silence followed. The child gave their ear another pull, then offered a small nod in his direction. They carefully detached themself from their bike and approached the bench with caution, surveying the scene thoroughly before finally taking a seat.

“I love this bakery,” Primo began. He allowed his gaze to drift upward, appraising the cottony clouds passing overhead instead of drowning his guest with further eye contact. “They do the best dammsugare I have ever tasted, these folks. Sweet, crunchy, and with just enough liqueur to make my home life a bit easier to digest.” He paused, chuckling softly to himself. “Of course, that means I probably shouldn’t be sharing them with someone less than half my age.” 

With that, he stood and turned back to the storefront. “Don’t move,” he instructed. “I will be right back.”

After an exchange of words and a jingle of coins, he returned with a small, neatly-packaged treat. He gently retook his seat, then offered the parcel forward. 

“Go on,” he reassured them. “It’s alright, I promise.”

With a timid nod, they carefully peeled back the paper to expose a small foil pot of freshly-baked mazarin. Frightened as they were, they couldn't hide the joy that sparked in their eyes as they pulled their gift from its wrapping. They broke off a chunk pastry and brought it to their face with both hands, giving it a tentative sniff before sampling. Primo watched, amused. Their mannerisms were more rat-like than those of a human child, and the look that washed over their face as they took their first bite was a visible mix of ecstasy and pure relief. With the atmosphere slightly calmer, Primo took the opportunity to further inquire about his company.

“Would you mind telling me your name?” He asked.

The child turned from the delicacy before them and held Primo’s stare. The initial fear had somewhat dissipated from their face, which was now dusted with tart crumbs and bits of glaze. They swallowed, then wiped their hands on their pants.

“I’m Copia.”

Primo extended a gloved hand forward for his guest to shake, moving his cup of espresso beside him so he could better reach.

“You too, Professor,” they replied. “And..” they paused, looking down at the pastry resting in their lap. “And thank you.”

It occurred to Primo then, that someone of Copia’s particular background had probably never heard the term ‘emeritus’ outside of a classroom setting before, and he found the implications oddly freeing. He’d certainly taught a lot of Sunday School classes—albeit, those of the satanic variety—and spoke in several academic settings about the finer points of his religion, but he had never been a professor before. From the corner of his eye, he watched his guest carefully break apart the rest of the mazarin and slowly ingest its pieces. The brown wrapping paper seemed so big in their small, shaky hands. He smiled to himself and relaxed into the stiff embrace of the bench’s soggy wood. Perhaps he could be Professor Emeritus. At least for a little while.

“Oh, any time,” he smiled. “Any time.” 

He then paused, swiftly weighing his options. Contrary to popular belief, there was a method to this shepherding business of his. Finding those in need wasn’t all that difficult, but the process of making them feel safe enough to consider a life beyond their current circumstances could be a bit of a rodeo. Here’s what he knew: Copia, while not yet old enough to qualify as a teenager, had for some reason been sent out entirely on their own, and presumably from an establishment obsessed with the concept of control. That was definitely interesting enough as it were, but even more intriguing was how someone so visibly scared of the world around them had taken on such a task despite their palpable fear. This kid was special. Primo could feel it. Out of their depth, and possibly their mind, but somehow still afloat. 

“I try to pop into town every two weeks,” he began. “For my sanity, more than anything else, but also for my job. If you ever need anything—a place to take a break, or someone to speak to—I can be here. Same bench. Same cafe. We can even do the same time, as well. Every first and third Friday of the month. If not, I understand, but I would hate for you to leave without an offer.” 

Copia merely nodded, sucking the last traces of icing from their fingers before wadding the paper into a tight ball. They stood, then made their way back to the lamppost to retrieve their bike. He was used to this scenario by now, but Primo still felt himself deflate a little as he watched them leave. Sometimes they’d inquire further, and sometimes they wouldn’t. It was the risk he ran, and he knew it well. Accepting rejection, however, never got any easier, no matter how many times it had previously happened.

“I’m going to be here every week, actually,” Copia replied. 

Primo immediately perked back up, cocking his head in their direction. They hadn't turned around—fiddling again with the lump of cargo that had previously overpowered them—but the absence of direct conversational spotlight seemed to have made it possible for them to open up about their situation.

“This is stuff for my church,” they explained, pointing to the basket. “For some reason, they have to order it special, and it also has to be kept secret. I’m not allowed to ask what it is, and I can only be gone for a few hours at a time, but.. it would be nice to see you again.”

They straddled the seat, awkwardly kicking the stand off the ground as their legs fumbled for the pedals. From over their shoulder, and still without breaking eye contact with the path in front of them, Primo could hear them mumble, “If you’re here, I will be too.”

With that, they shoved off and headed down the road. Primo followed them with his eyes until they were nothing more than a blurry spec on the horizon. He smiled to himself, inhaling the scents of freshly kicked-up dirt and damp cobblestone. Despite the initial aimlessness of his journey, somehow he’d managed to end up exactly where he was supposed to be.