Chapter Text
Vincent Benítez is sitting in the Sistine Chapel.
The Dean of the College of Cardinals, Thomas Lawrence, is standing in front of him, surrounded by their fellow cardinals. He’s slightly leaning down. His blue eyes are the brightest they’ve been the whole three days of the Conclave. He looks relieved. Handsome.
Vincent Benítez is sitting in the Sistine Chapel; and the Dean of the College of Cardinals is asking him, “Do you accept?”
Just a few hours ago, a car bomb had blasted one of the high windows apart, letting the light in. His ears are still ringing. There’s still that feeling of fear in his chest — the one that succeeds bombings. He’s not sure the last few minutes have truly sunk in yet. He looks up slightly, at the faces surrounding him.
“Do you accept the papacy, Cardinal Benítez?” repeats Lawrence, voice just the slightest bit concerned. The others around him are also starting to look apprehensive.
Vincent breathes, then says, “Non accepto.”
The room breaks into chaos. Loud whispering, some shouts from the back — Cardinal Tedesco, no doubt — and gasps from all directions. Vincent pulls his eyes down to the table in front of him; refuses to look at Thomas. For all that he feels awful for rejecting, he can’t concentrate on any of his surroundings fully. His mind is somewhere else. With the flock he left behind in Kabul. The flock he won’t be able to go back to if he accepts the Papacy.
Lord forgive me, but this duty will have to go to someone else. I can’t stay. There are people waiting on me.
God will forgive him. Forgive his fellow cardinals too, for the mistake they’ve made of electing him. Mistakes are, after all, human nature. As the Dean had said, they needed a Pope who was fallible. Cardinal Lawrence would make a good Pope, so would, he supposed from what he’d heard, Cardinal Bellini.
Vincent, however, already has a duty. One that he can’t fulfill from the great walls of the Vatican. No. He’s better off getting his hands dirty.
Eventually, the whispers quiet down. People settle down. The smoke is set off to signal that the voting for today has been completed. He remains distant to it all. Sitting there, feeling the gentle guilt and grief settle in his chest, not looking up from the desk. He knows he’s let down some people. His one dear friend, mainly.
A hand settles on his shoulder. He looks up begrudgingly, blinking away the tears of something he has yet to figure out. It’s the Cardinal that sits next to him in the voting. One Costa Pillard, a kind old gentleman that made sure to smile and talk to Vincent whenever they met. The man smiles, “We need to leave, my dear. You don’t want them to leave us behind, do you?”
Vincent jerks to look around. The Chapel was nearly empty, save for them and two African Cardinals standing by the door, seemingly waiting. He gets up clumsily, steadied by Costa’s hand. The man takes his arm and gently leads him out. The other two Cardinals smile at him as they reach the door. No one speaks of what happened some half hour ago.
Did they vote for me too? he wonders. There’s still people standing around outside, no doubt talking about his refusal. He can’t bring himself to care, really. Tomorrow, he’ll vote for Thomas again like he’s done this entire time and hope it’s the last day of voting.
He looks up exactly once, and sees Cardinal Lawrence’s back, tense and weary. He doesn’t look up again.
He sits in the back of the bus, Costa next to him. They don’t talk.
· · ─────── ♰ ─────── · ·
Once reaching Santa Maria, Vincent doesn’t stick around to talk to others like he normally would, even the kind old Pillard who seems more than a little worried about his silence. Instead, he goes straight to his room on the top floor. He takes longer routes to it, different stairs, just to not see anyone. Feels eyes on him, nonetheless. There’s not many people on the floor he lives on. Just him and a few others, who don’t come until late. It used to leave him feeling adrift, but now he’s grateful for the isolation.
He takes off his upper layers — his rented cassock and mozetta, even the biretta. Lays them down on the small chair, making sure that no wrinkles take their place in the clothes. Now, only in his white undershirt (an old T-shirt, really) and pants, he sits on the bed.
I did the right thing, he assures himself, I have a duty not befitting the walls of the Papacy. He looks up. You know that, don’t you, my Lord? You understand this was a mistake. A moment of silence, and then a sound — very light and barely audible — of a bird cooing makes its way into the room. A sign. An answer. He sighs. He made a right decision. He’s sure of it now.
Vincent gets off the bed and kneels next to it. Prays for forgiveness, for guidance and for his friend Cardinal Lawrence, who’s sure to get the Papacy now. He feels bad for him, but knows there’s no better man to take the reigns of the Universal Church.
He doesn’t go to dinner, instead calling it an early night. Lord knows tomorrow’s going to be even more exhausting than all the other days of Conclave added together.
Here’s how it goes: there’s an earthquake, or perhaps another bomb has gone off. A much bigger one, since the whole building seems to shake and start falling apart. He’s half asleep when it happens, but years of experience in war-stricken places have fine tuned his senses and instincts. He’s awake in an instant.
There’s not exactly a place to hide in his room. No table to take cover under. He does the next best thing — run out of his room. Or tries to, at least; since another explosion happens (definitely a bomb) somewhere exceedingly close to his room — probably a bomb thrown at the roof — and the ceiling above him cracks. A piece of it falls right in front of the door.
And, somehow, Vincent just knows.
He’s not getting out of here, not this time. No amount of good instincts and spryness is going to help him. This is his end. His time to return to the Kingdom of God. He’s okay with it, really. He’s been awaiting it for years. Even before his diagnosis put a big dark mark in his faith for a while, he was awaiting it. And it has come.
So, he sits down on the floor, clutches his rosary to his chest. More pieces of the ceiling are falling now. Sends out a quiet prayer for his siblings, whom he hasn’t seen outside of video calls in years, and an apology for the same. He hopes they understand. Another prayer for all the other cardinals and the nuns. He wants them to survive. Especially that good Sister Agnes, and Thomas, of course.
Thomas, my friend, I’m sorry. Vincent had assumed he’d be around to help his senior with his faith and be an anchor for him. Apparently not.
Finally, a prayer for himself. Nothing more than a simple thing for forgiveness from the Parent of All Beings.
The sound of helicopters is louder than ever. His ears are ringing. Another shake and explosion. Perhaps the ceiling breaks fully, or maybe the floor does, but he gets the strange feeling of falling down.
Then.
A glimpse of his mother, frail and loving. One of his siblings, laughing and teasing. A fight between him and his older brother. Playing in the streets. Antonio. The choir in the local church. A young girl holding his hand to her lips, thanking him over and over. Holding a newly born, one he helped deliver. His sister crying into his chest. A chorus of voices singing an old Arabic folk song. The turtles in Santa Maria. Thomas’ relieved eyes just hours before. The picture of Our Lady in his childhood home.
Then, a voice, loud and desperate: “VINCENT!”
Just like that, Vincent Benítez takes his last breath.
· · ─────── ♰ ─────── · ·
Someone is shaking him awake.
He wakes with a start.