Flameborn

Shane blinks. “Really? Huh. Must be… hmm.” He flicks his tongue out a couple times, rubs the pads of his fingertips together, and frowns. “Yeah, there’s magic in here. Like, not just in use, but in the air itself. You can feel it, right?”

“The only kind of magic I can feel is when the sword wants me to kill it. Don’t forget I’m just an ordinary human.”

“That’s an awful and untrue thing to say about yourself! You’ve seen wonders and horrors humans never have, you’ve fought false gods and kings and monsters.”

“You think that makes me less human?”

Shane gives him a thoughtful look, then deliberately shrugs. “I think it makes you more something else.”

Drake shifts uncomfortably, looking around for any trace of Father Aaron or one of his junior priests, anyone that could put a stop to this conversation. Shane had never said things like that before his ordeal, before they’d been separated. “I’m just as human as I ever was. I just have a fancy sword and a magic boyfriend.”

It sets off an old worry in him to hear Shane talking like that. He’d wondered a hundred times, before, if Shane would ever get sick of his pet human and find someone better, someone stronger, more powerful. It’s possible that just a human isn’t enough for Shane anymore, not after everything he’s done, everything he’s been.

The Church only has one bell, a mournful, serious brass bell that Drake knows all too well. It rings now, one deep, penetrating note that always sets Drake’s teeth on edge. He looks around just in time to see a junior priest, Father Thomas, he thinks, scurrying for the door before it’s thrown open by Father Aaron.

“Champion!”

Father Aaron is a trim man in his forties, with a shock of thick black hair and a deep- bronze complexion. At least, Drake is fairly certain he’s in his forties, since he looks almost the same as he had ten years ago. He felt younger then, though, even though there are still no wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and he doesn’t move any more slowly. His back is straight, perfectly so, and long-fingered hands lace together in front of the stark black of his robes. “We ring the bell in joyous celebration, that our Champion has returned.” Despite the severity of his demeanor, there’s a warmth in his dark eyes that Drake finds comforting.

“I’ll just bet you do.”

“Shane.”

Father Aaron’s eyes flick over to Shane, and now lines do appear at the corners of his mouth. He wrestles with himself for a moment, obviously trying to decide whether to avoid conflict or seek it out, and then swallows hard around the impulse and just ignores him instead. “Have you been victorious in your battle, my Champion?”

“He’s not your anything—“

“I have, Father. We slew the Inferna before it could claim further lives.”

Father Aaron finally turns fully away from Shane and frowns, eyes searching as he steps forward. He lays a hand on Drake’s head, though he has to reach significantly upwards to do it, and Drake pretends he can’t hear Shane grinding his teeth. “Why so much energy?” Father Aaron wonders aloud. “Why do you hold the sword even now? Surely you aren’t expecting an attack from those you keep safe.”

“I was… injured, Father. This is the only thing that stopped the creature from consuming me whole.”

Dismay spreads over the priest’s features, and the hand on Drake’s hair gets stronger, more possessive. “I have heard,” he says carefully, “that the partner you chose once more in life despite all wishes of the Church—“

“Who is standing right here. Geez, you people wonder why no one wants to join you.“

“—has some skill in healing.” Father Aaron’s voice is cool and humorless. “Is he unwilling to save your life?”

“I, uh, don’t think he can.”

“Ah, so he is merely incompetent rather than cruel. I am relieved to hear that he is at your side in these difficult battles.”

Drake’s expression hardens. “I’m finding precious little of the Church’s blessed forgiveness in you, Father. You and yours want me to be your guardian against the night. That’s fine, but that doesn’t give you any right to govern my choices.”

“No, sadly.” Father Aaron gives him a small, sad smile and withdraws his hand. “I just personally think you have abominable taste.”

“Which I’m pretty sure is none of your concern,” Drake responds evenly. “Can you help me out with the fire slug in my gut, or what?”

Shane nudges his arm, not-so-subtly. “Ask him if we’re getting paid,” he stage-whispers.

“The position of Champion of the Church is a vaunted, highly-respected, volunteer position,” Father Aaron snaps, “and occasionally, some of our flock choose to generously contribute in a monetary sense to the care and upkeep of the Champion’s generous—“

“So we’re not getting paid.”

“You aren’t getting anything,” Father Aaron says firmly. “You are not affiliated with us, and we do not beg for you. Our Champion, however—“

“What’s his is mine, and what’s mine is his.” Shane starts to step forward, challenging with every flash of his eyes and every movement of his shoulders, and Drake flings out a hand to push him back. He falls back easily, which almost makes Drake angrier. Shane knows this is wrong, and he still does it, still pushes those buttons, as if he has no other choice.

“I will make you wait outside again,” he warns, and Shane settles slightly. He isn’t exactly mollified, but Drake is willing to settle for a lack of current intent to harm. “Father, I do hate to ask, but it’s been a rough month for me, financially.”

Father Aaron’s face softens. “Of course, Champion. I’ll pass the basket for you at tomorrow’s service. Stick around after we’re finished.”

Drake isn’t especially fond of Father Aaron’s sermons, but the idea of being able to pay rent on time is an attractive one. “I’ll be grateful, Father. Uh, any idea if there’s anything the Church can do about the thing eating me whole? Besides talk about how my boyfriend should be able to fix me?” Against his better judgment, he does sort of enjoy the way Father Aaron flinches whenever he says “boyfriend.”

The priest’s lips thin. “It’s stopped by the sword, which is good. Will you allow me to pray over you?”

Drake hesitates, then nods. “I hope this is one of those prayers with extra juice.”

“Nothing less for our Champion.”

Drake settles down onto his knees, and Shane abruptly turns and walks away, pacing against one wall in obviously uncomfortable strides. Drake takes a deep breath, finding that peace he usually only sees when he’s practicing martial arts, and closes his eyes.

Father Aaron’s hand on his head isn’t exactly a surprise, but the feeling it brings is. Instead of gentle pressure, there’s a soft crackling of power, tamed lightning in every tiny brush of his fingers against Drake’s hair. “All-Seeing God,” the priest says, bowing his head, “bless your Champion, defender of the flock, he who believes not and fights still. The warrior of your peace has cast his cloak over your undeserving servants. Remove his obstacles, heal his wounds, staunch the flow of his life’s blood. Make him whole and well again that he may sacrifice himself in your name, for your pitiful devoted.”

Drake winces at the language, but keeps his head bowed. The hand on his head trembles, and white-hot power spills into him, purifying and scouring him from the top down. His stomach turns, and even with the sword in his hand, he can feel the frantic thrashing of the little Inferna creature, thudding against his intestines as the holy fire makes its way down. For a second, he thinks he’s imagining the dying screech, but a sharp intake of breath from Father Aaron tells him that it isn’t in his head. Drake keeps his eyes squeezed shut, and after a moment, the power scorches through his legs and feet, leaving him shaken, empty, and alive. “Did it work?”

Father Aaron sighs, and withdraws his hand, leaving a tingling, cooling patch on Drake’s head. “You truly are still a nonbeliever, aren’t you?”

“I’d let you know if that changed.” It’s not so hard to flash a bit of magic and call a man a god. Drake has seen Shane do more miracles than he’s seen from the being behind the Church.

“Have I ever let you down before?”

Drake looks up, meeting his eyes, and says levelly, “Yes.”

That at least causes something of a twinge. “Test it yourself. Let go the sword.”

I hate faith magic, Drake thinks vehemently. Any time the choice is to trust and possibly die or to stay safe and distrustful, he rarely finds himself on the side of the faithful. He lays the sword on the ground, then carefully, slowly removes his hand.

Nothing sears or flops. His stomach doesn’t twist. The usual surge of fatigue hits him, reminding him that his body has human limits even if he can ignore them while he’s holding the sword, and old aches so familiar that he rarely feels them make themselves known. Drake exhales deeply, and nods his head. “Thank you, Father.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank God.”

Drake gives a pro forma nod to the ceiling. He’s never yet been struck down for not believing, despite being a theoretically important Church person. “Anyway, I’ll be back for service tomorrow,” he says, rising to his feet with a grimace as he sheathes the sword on his back.

“Before you go…” Father Aaron reaches out a hand, gently grasping Drake’s sleeve. “Could we speak in private for a moment?”

“No.” Drake raises an eyebrow, and Shane strides over, less repelled by the obvious faith magic. “We’re going.”