Chapter Text
the late holy father
There is something special about Cardinal Vincent Benítez.
The Holy Father has known this from the first encounter he had with him, and he knew it still at the last. The person that had risen from missionary upwards at a meteoric pace— the monsignor, the archbishop, the prodigy, the vessel, the one— seemed, to the Holy Father, to be the best that the faith had to offer, a shining example of all that is right with the Church and where it is moving forward to.
Watching that same person kneel at his feet, dark head bowed and lithe hands clasped, and begin to rapidly beg forgiveness in a cacophonous mix of Spanish, Latin, and Italian, he had felt overcome.
Now, as he did the first time they met, he attributes this feeling to the Holy Spirit moving through him, guiding his hand.
It was as if Benítez had been made perfectly in the Holy Father’s image of what a man of God ought to be. His humility, his strength of will, his dedication to service, his asceticism, his empathy— he is just as the Holy Father would see all his cardinals strive to be. The humble, resilient soul that begged forgiveness and absolution from the Holy Father is the last person he could think of that would need it.
As far as the future of the Church goes, Benítez has always been exemplary. Open and progressive while being experienced with hardship— authentic and good-humored while having a firm hand as needed— shy and quiet while speaking his mind without hesitation. He is a gift to the Church, a boon; had the Holy Father understood the depth of this sooner, he would have made him a cardinal sooner, as well.
And yet, Benítez had still worked his rosary until the Holy Father feared the string would fray and break and scatter the beads all over the floor.
“I am a liar,” he had whispered, months ago now. The scars from a recent bombing gleamed silver on his skin; he had seemed waxen, ashen, drawn. His surgery to remove his appendix had been not long past. “I have sinned my entire life. I have broken my vows, I—”
“Be calm,” the Holy Father had stopped him, when Benítez’s breaths had come fast and panicked. “What makes you say this, my child?”
Benítez had paused only a moment before telling him everything.
The Holy Father had not changed his mind about him.
If anything, this had only cemented his place in his mind. Cardinal Benítez is truly one of the greatest holy representatives on Earth of what the Holy Father believes is God’s design for His most loyal servants. God shaped him so as to be an envoy for all humanity, fragments symbolic of all people; the Holy Father could find no sin in being so crafted by the hands of the Lord, only blessing.
There had been tears in Benítez’s eyes when he had told him this, and when the Holy Father had asked him to pray with him, and when Benítez had returned to him days later and informed him that he had changed his mind.
“I am as God made me,” he had said. “I would not doubt His vision.”
“Nor would I,” the Holy Father had agreed, warm and delighted, and that had been that. Resignation withdrawn, Benítez remaining, and the Church’s future secured.
Making Benítez a cardinal in pectore had made sense for many reasons, but the chief among them was simply that the Holy Father wanted to keep him safe. He had to make him a cardinal, had to elevate him, had to; it was apparent to him that he could not let him slip by, that this was where God meant for Benítez to be. His status as a cardinal— the divinity of his body— the perils of his mission— the purity of his soul— it was all too delicate, too dangerous, to put at risk.
And, even then, the Holy Father had known his time was limited. If he isn’t dead by this time next month, he would be remarkably surprised. A cardinal like Benítez is a crucial inclusion for the sort of Church that he will leave behind— his legacy, really. When the next supreme pontiff is chosen, it reassures the Holy Father to think that Benítez will be involved in the decision; the Lord has never seemed to speak more clearly than through his voice.
The Holy Father finishes reading the letter in his hands, all orderly scribbles of dragging handwriting. Cardinal Benítez thinks faster than he can write; if he didn’t know the offer would be rejected, he would suggest sending him a laptop computer, or an assistant.
Then again, if Benítez were to accept one of those things, he would not be the person the Holy Father knows and trusts and loves him to be.
His letters from Benítez arrive with biweekly consistency. Even coming from the hidden places he tucks away in, as they are, he remains steadfast in sending them and updating the Holy Father personally on his mission. The missives are typically lined with important information essential to his operations, as well as smaller, more interesting details— a new food he’s tried, a child he’s met, a song he’s learned.
When the Holy Father reads these, he can almost see the places Benítez describes, smell them, hear them. It is as if he is there, and he relishes these moments more than he knows how to verbalize, now that he cannot travel so much as he once did.
His eyes are closed, trying to imagine the taste of the salt-marinated spiced lamb Benítez has described so thoroughly for him, when he receives the familiar knock.
“Ah,” he exhales, returning to his own rooms. The low lamp light illuminates the papers scattered across his desk, the stacks of books teetering on the floor, his and Aldo’s half-finished chess game still laid out on the table from the night before. Coming back to himself, raising his voice, the Holy Father calls, “Come in, Dean.”
The door pushes in softly, Cardinal Thomas Lawrence as hushed as he ever is, as if afraid to shatter something around him by making a sound. The contrast of him has always fascinated the Holy Father; that someone so hunched in on themselves, so self-flagellating, so doubtful, should also be so wise, so honest, so diplomatic— the Holy Father is not sure he will ever be able to untangle the puzzle that is Thomas Lawrence.
Nor, he believes, does he need to. He understands what he must about Lawrence: that he has an integrity to him that even Benítez cannot rival; that he has a firm hand and a steady compass and an innate sense of duty; that he, of every cardinal under the Holy Father, knows what it truly means to serve God.
For all the knots that twist Lawrence up inside— for all that he appears unwilling or unable to verbalize in confession with the Holy Father— the Church has never known a more loyal and dedicated servant than him. Maybe even because he doubts, the Holy Father thinks, he is stronger than the rest of them; God loves the sinners, the doubters, the ones who are willing to question Him and how others interpret His word and will on Earth.
“You sought an appointment with me,” the Holy Father says to Lawrence, and notes that he has not lifted his head once since arriving. His eyes remain fixed on the floor, his shoulders curled in, his neck bent, his head bowed; the Holy Father can see the veins straining against his skin. Their throbbing makes his head ache.
“I did,” Lawrence confirms downward.
It strikes the Holy Father how like his months-previous meeting with Benítez this is: one of his favorites— though he is not meant to have them, he is, after all, only human— bowed before him, the crown of his skull on display, prepared to beg forgiveness for a sin the Holy Father is as yet unaware of, and will likely disagree with their judgment of.
“Does something trouble you?” the Holy Father asks. Lawrence hesitates. “Would you like me to take your confession?”
After a long beat of pause, Lawrence nods.
“Yes,” he says, quiet. “Please, Holiness.”
“Lawrence, please,” the Holy Father admonishes him, and Lawrence’s shoulders pull, his hands tight behind his back. When he releases, it is only so he can make the sign of the cross and fall to his knees; his fingers come back together in front of him, pressed tight to his stomach, head bowed even further until his spine curves in and his forehead nearly meets his knees. The position must hurt terribly— but then, the Holy Father supposes, this is likely why Lawrence has chosen it.
The Holy Father remembers Benítez knelt before him, begging his forgiveness; he hears echoes of his voice when Lawrence whispers, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession, and I confess, I cannot stop my mind.”
“Nor would the Lord see your mind stopped,” the Holy Father tells him. “What thoughts have you been holding within?”
Lawrence falls silent again, collecting his words in his mouth before he speaks them. The Holy Father waits, patient, and considers— not for the first time— the balance that he could strike if Benítez were willing to join them here in Rome. Together, he and Lawrence would complete the vision the Holy Father has for the future of this Church; they would be formidable allies, would complement each other’s strengths and counterbalance one another’s weaknesses.
It is a shame, the Holy Father thinks, that he will not see them come together. He thinks it is part of why God placed him on the Throne of Saint Peter: so that he could see the unification of his Church through the unification of these men.
Like when he first knew Benítez, he feels the Holy Spirit move through him, direct him, guide his hand. He may not understand why, but he does not need to; he can feel it, and knows it to be true, and this is better than an explanation. It is a clear example of God’s divine will, and it would be akin to sacrilege for the Holy Father to ignore it.
“I do not know that I can remain here,” Lawrence admits, nearly inaudible in his grieved confession. “I do not know that this is where I belong. I doubt my place, Father. I am not… I— I am uncertain whether…”
His voice breaks slightly, a tremble to it that the Holy Father feels as a tightening knot in his own throat.
In this moment, Lawrence needs guidance. He needs to be directed back onto his path; he has only just begun to stray.
But the Holy Father is, after all, only human, and his blood runs cold at Lawrence’s confession. There are only so many months— weeks— days, he fears, left to him in this life. Lawrence will be instrumental in the conclave that will select the next bishop of Rome; in fact, it could not be done without him. For all his doubts, he cannot let them get so severe now; he cannot resign his position, cannot step down, cannot leave Rome, cannot.
“Stop this,” the Holy Father says, firmer than he means to be.
If there is to be a new Pope chosen, Lawrence must be involved in choosing them. The Holy Father thinks of the documents he has accumulated, the suspicions he has confirmed, the work that still needs to be done.
“Your Holiness—”
“You doubt yourself?” the Holy Father asks. “Or you doubt God?”
“Never,” Lawrence exhales. His incredulity is enough to drive his head up. “I would never doubt God, Holy Father. I trust in Him absolutely.”
“Then why do you doubt His path for you?” the Holy Father asks, and Lawrence’s expression grows further troubled. The Holy Father would regret this more, if he did not know it to be necessary. To hurt Lawrence feels nearly a sin— but to allow him to leave would be a sin far greater.
“I am not fit,” Lawrence tells him, as if this is some dark secret and not a warped untruth. “I would see the Church dismantled before I would see it grow, and this would be the failure of my life. I cannot allow myself to ruin all I love this way.”
The Holy Father surveys Lawrence in a mild state of shock. Though pride is a sin, he cannot help but take it in his Church, in many of his cardinals, in his Dean. The letter from Benítez lays still beneath his hands; he glances down at it, as if it has come from another life to send him a message, and has a realization.
When this conclave is soon to happen— and it is quite soon to happen, he knows this— Lawrence and Benítez are his greatest hope for seeing his legacy through. They would not, however, be able to succeed without the other. In so many ways, Lawrence is the black-and-white while Benítez is the grey— and yet, in so many others, Lawrence is the grey, and Benítez the black-and-white. They will need each other in the times to come.
They both must remain as cardinals. They must. If they are not here, the Holy Father cannot pass in peace, and the Lord God is soon to reclaim him; he cannot leave until he is certain that both Benítez and Lawrence will stay.
“Your work is not yet done,” the Holy Father insists. “Pray with me, Cardinal Lawrence. I think we could find an answer together that does not necessitate your removal from Rome.”
Lawrence’s conflicted expression grows all the more distressed. “But, Holy Father— I am a liar. I am a sinner, and worse, I have been my whole life. I have broken my vows, I have failed—”
“Stop this,” the Holy Father stops him, hearing the echoes of Benítez’s pleas underneath Lawrence’s. Extending his hands, he repeats, “Pray with me.”
Looking up at him with that mournful face, Lawrence does not move. For a long moment, the Holy Father is certain that he will never move, that he will forever remain on his knees, that he will die there begging for absolution that is not needed and cannot come.
After a long moment, though, he reaches forward and places his hands in the Holy Father’s. He is so young, still; Lawrence’s hands are not quite so lined as his own. There is so much time left to him, and so much life to live, and so much service to give the Church. He cannot step down now; he cannot doubt himself so now. The cardinals need him; Benítez needs him; the Holy Father needs him; the Church needs him; God needs him.
“I am so sorry,” Lawrence whispers. “Paenitet me.” His hands grip the Holy Father’s. “Io non sono degno.”
“You question God’s will,” the Holy Father states.
Lawrence appears stricken.
“Never,” he breathes. “Never.”
The Holy Father tightens his grip on Lawrence’s hands, watches him bow once more over his lap. The top of his head is so unlike Benítez’s, and yet, the Holy Father can see the same glowing halo, the thorny crown, the blood rush.
If the Church is to move forward in any meaningful way, Lawrence must be there, and Benítez must be there, and the Holy Father must not be there. All he can do is trust that, together, they will find their way, will see the light, will feel the Holy Spirit move them as he does.
“You are as God made you,” the Holy Father tells Lawrence, and God and Benítez both speak with him.
Beneath his hands, bowed and bent and yet still unbroken, Lawrence chokes on a sob.
“Tell me,” the Holy Father instructs him, “Psalm 55:22.”
Lawrence’s shoulders shake, shuddering beneath the Holy Father’s touch.
“Tell me, Thomas.”
After a wet inhale, Lawrence murmurs, “‘Cast… Cast your cares unto the Lord, and He will sustain you.”’ His fingers tighten in the Holy Father’s. “‘He will never let the righteous fall.’” His forehead touches the backs of the Holy Father’s hands. “But I have already fallen, Your Holiness.”
“Then stand up, Lawrence,” the Holy Father orders him. “And move forward on the path He has laid for you.”
Lawrence, fragmented, sucks in fast breaths and struggles to pull himself together. Not for a moment does the Holy Father doubt that he is the one to lead the Church to their next life.
Or, one of two.
The Holy Father tightens his grip and does not permit Lawrence to further stray. He will beg forgiveness for his selfishness and sin later; for now, he must act in service of God, must keep this garden lush, must ensure the mother and father of all humanity are not lost before their visions can be realized.
“I cannot,” Lawrence whispers.
“You can,” the Holy Father informs him. “You will.” His knuckles are white around Lawrence’s, holding him steady. “You must.”