Chapter Text
As days and weeks after his election to the papacy turned into months, Patrick McKenna, now Pope Michael I, found himself dreaming of the past nearly every night. He relived the Illuminati attacks over and over, sometimes in exact detail, other times in hideous variations of what had happened.
It was the morning of the fifth of June, 2009. Patrick walked into the private residential rooms of the papal apartments after the Holy Father failed to turn up at the breakfast briefing. Archbishop Simeon, Prefect of the Papal Household, trailed after in concern.
In the bedroom, still in the bed, they found the Holy Father - Patrick’s father - unresponsive, lips blue, with a weak, thready pulse. Patrick and Simeon lifted him frantically to the floor, and Patrick started CPR as Simeon leapt for the phone to call for medical help. With the rush of emergency medics and Swiss Guards into the room came several of the Italian cardinals, plus a few from abroad who’d been visiting for a conference, with an ever-increasing flood of panicked clergy and household staff.
Archbishop Simeon urged the cardinals, priests, and other staff back out of the room so the medics had room to work, but Patrick stood paralyzed, his mind full of white light and noise, his entire body tingling, his insides twisting, and his heart fluttering in some blur of shock, confusion, and desperation.
This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t…Father was only seventy-two…his health was well-managed; this couldn’t be happening…not now, not now…he’d only been Pope for six years - Heavenly Father, no, NO!
Cardinal Pedro Guidera of Spain and Cardinal Lucio Pugini of Italy lingered on either side of Patrick until Archbishop Simeon returned to coax him out more gently. In the hallway, a small knot of people formed around Patrick, made up of those cardinals and staff who knew Patrick’s relationship with His Holiness beyond the formal position of Camerlengo. Patrick couldn’t speak. He simply stood there and trembled, listening to the urgent chatter of the medics trying to stabilize his father. The Holy Father. His Father.
Silence gradually fell among the medics in the bedroom, and all around Patrick, those keeping watch began quietly weeping, knowing what it meant that no effort to transfer His Holiness to hospital was taking place. Someone began to sob in the bedroom. One of the doctors or nurses was crying. Soon more were crying.
Patrick’s insides turned to lead. Those around him crossed themselves and began to murmur prayers. But Patrick couldn’t move. He certainly couldn’t speak. He was very cold.
When a doctor with red eyes and a tear-stained face came quietly out of the room and spoke, Patrick couldn’t quite make out the words past the noise in his ears. But he knew what the words were.
“I am so sorry, Signori. I beg you to forgive us. We...we could not revive His Holiness.”
Papà?
A few weak little breaths, some cross between a sob and a gasp, escaped Patrick as hands squeezed his shoulders. Papà had warned him, before appointing him Camerlengo, of the hardest duties of that office. “The final part of this position will be very difficult, because by Vatican law, you will be the one to confirm my death, my Patrick. And then you must remove the Ring of the Fisherman from my body and destroy it before the eyes of the cardinals, and take possession of my last will and testament until the College of Cardinals is fully assembled. The power of my office will be in your hands until the cardinals conclude their conclave and elect my successor, during a time when you may wish to be alone.” Those thoughts had dulled Patrick’s initial enthusiasm for accepting the posting, but in the end, he had still agreed.
Now, only six years later, those duties were upon him. “How?” demanded Commandant Richter, speaking for all of them in a voice rough with grief.
“All three physicians are agreed,” said the lead doctor, beckoning the other two to join him from the bedroom. “His Holiness has died of a stroke. We observed multiple classic symptoms, and the Holy Father’s regular physicians have noted certain risk factors since before his election.” The second and third physicians nodded.
Heavy silence descended again broken only by soft sounds of weeping and soft voices in prayer. Patrick still couldn't speak or move.
After some interminable time, Cardinal Pugini said quietly, “Camerlengo,” and Patrick couldn’t hold back a flinch. But he forced himself to turn his head. The cardinal’s eyes were gentle and brimmed with tears. “Are you ready?”
No, of course not. But Patrick knew he had to do it. He had to do as his father had explained, as his position as Camerlengo required and the law of the Church demanded. He had to return to that room, observe the body that had once been the Vicar of Christ, the Holy Father, his Father, and proclaim his death. And then…
Patrick took a deep, trembling breath and forced himself to walk. The three doctors, the cardinals, Archbishop Simeon, and Commandant Richter followed.
Quietly-weeping nurses and technicians, some in the habits of nuns and priests, were clearing away the medical equipment on the floor. They had moved the Holy Father back onto his bed, crossing his arms upon his chest. Patrick tried not to shake as the physicians quietly explained their findings, and laid his own fingers on the Holy Father’s wrist. There was no pulse. From his nose and lips, there was no breath.
Papà was gone.
Heat began to rise and replace the coldness in Patrick’s body, in his chest, up his throat, to his eyes, the urge to break into tears and sobs. It wasn’t even necessarily against protocol, for officials to lament the death of a pope, but Patrick wanted to fulfill these duties with dignity. So he forced air into his lungs, and his voice only cracked a little as he turned to the watchers and announced, “His Holiness, Pope Pius XVI, has died at 09:55 on the Fifth of June, in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Nine.”
Now the sound of stifled sobs and hitching breath was everywhere in the room. Not even Richter fully contained his grief. “The ring now,” Cardinal Guidera prompted gently.
Patrick turned back to the bed and allowed himself to close his hand around his father’s, just for a moment, before sliding the ring from his finger. He had to swallow several times and look at nothing before he was under control again -
A burst of loud, contemptuous laughter broke through the quiet sounds of grief, and Patrick recoiled. None of the cardinals or other officials even looked up; it was as if they couldn’t see or hear it, and some lucid part of Patrick knew this wasn’t how it had happened, but there stood Archbishop Simeon, an empty syringe in his hand, laughing. Laughing.
“With man’s solution, we stilled his heart! With his own needle did we pierce his unholy veil!” He looked directly at Patrick and pointed at the bed; Patrick turned. His father's beloved face was not peaceful as Patrick remembered it seeming thanks to the tender care of the physicians and nurses. It was decaying as it had been found fourteen days later, the mouth and tongue swollen and black, revealing the true reason for his loss. Archbishop Simeon raised the empty syringe like a trophy and crowed, “And you knew NOTHING!”
Patrick cried out, “NO!” as he woke. He had to hastily send the alarmed guards away who’d rushed in at hearing him. When they’d gone, he knelt and tried to pray, but mostly wept.
It was the night of the twentieth of June, 2009, the fifteenth day since the Pope's death, the first day of conclave, and the summer solstice, which was a multi-century anniversary for the generally-accepted date of La Purga.
Three preferiti were dead, a fourth nearly so, and there were barely five minutes remaining to take a massive bomb from St. Peter's tomb to a distance where it could not destroy the Vatican and everyone gathered there.
Patrick tore through the narrow passages of the necropolis back up into the Basilica, his chest throbbing from his burn and his side throbbing from the stab wound, the antimatter canister throbbing in his hands. The Swiss Guards and Vatican Police formed a human barrier around him, seeing his aim as he went down the Basilica's outer steps and making a path for him through the crowd.
He broke through the crowd…but there was no helicopter there. The last light was blinking on the canister’s battery, St. Peter’s Square was full of people shouting in confusion, the cardinals were clustered on the stairs from the Sistine Chapel, and there was no helicopter, no helicopter, no way to remove the bomb, no time remaining.
The red light blinked out, the small, glowing mass in the canister smashed it and expanded, and the world around Patrick filled with fire, blood, and screams, but somehow he was untouched, doomed to observe helplessly as thousands of bodies and his Church were consumed by fire as bright as the sun at midnight…
He lurched awake, bathed in sweat, but fortunately without shouting this time and drawing his guards to him. But he still dragged himself from his bed to kneel, to pray, and to cry.
Dreams like those were easy to speak of to the Papal Confessor, and Patrick knew what drove them: grief and guilt. Grief for his father, the Catholic Church's Holy Father, for all the work he'd planned and been unable to finish, for all who loved him and thought, like Patrick, that they had years or even decades of his love and leadership still to come. Grief for the martyred preferiti, especially Cardinal Guidera who'd been delighted at their first meeting by Patrick's quick grasp of Spanish, helped him learn Latin, and been so comforting in those first minutes and hours after the Holy Father's death. Grief for the brave Swiss Guards and Vatican Police who’d lost their lives to the assassin, trying so desperately to save their sacred charges. Guilt and shame at his own failure to protect his father and the Church, his failure to understand the enormity of the plot or the vital details until it was almost too late.
As well as to his confessor, Patrick often spoke of those dreams to Cardinal Strauss, knowing his Camerlengo shared those emotions.
Within days of being appointed Camerlengo, Cardinal Strauss had asked to confess directly to Patrick for the sins he perceived in failing to recognize Archbishop Simeon’s intentions and actions. Before being Prefect of the Papal Household, Simeon had been Cardinal Strauss's longtime aide and so Cardinal Strauss had thought, a true friend and protégé. Patrick forgave Strauss without hesitation, as a Pope and as the first victim’s only family, but they both knew Cardinal Strauss would never manage to entirely forgive himself, even though everyone who had spent any time in Dimitri Simeon's company had searched their memories and found no clues, no warnings, and no explanations.
After several weeks of debate, the young Pope Michael and the College of Cardinals ended up compromising on how to address the many questions about the attack, a midpoint between the then-Camerlengo McKenna’s call for complete openness and the cardinals’ traditional, insular position of silence.
So the Church publicly acknowledged that a calculated terrorist attack had occurred, martyring three preferiti, Father Silvano Bentivoglio of CERN, and the late Pope himself, culminating with the attempted antimatter bombing. But they never named the Illuminati.
“To name them is to give them power and attention,” Cardinal Strauss insisted. "To make them real where they have been little more than a myth."
Others, like Cardinal Yoruba and some younger bishops and archbishops from the US and Western Europe, pointed out, “Right now, they are a footnote in history giving amusement to academia. If we acknowledge they were able to carry this out, an attack on such a scale, then the discontent, the embittered, and other enemies of the Church will flock to them, just as young, unhappy people have given themselves over to other terrorist organizations in recent years. Better to leave the attackers as a nameless conspiracy, implying many different possible motives and actors, then risk them consolidating power with new followers and attention.”
Patrick had let them persuade him, and the name Illuminati remained confined to Internet forums on conspiracy theories and academic circles on mythology.
"We shall have to approach Professor Langdon," Lieutenant Chartrand remarked during a security meeting before the official announcement closing the investigation was made just before the start of Advent 2009. "We must ask him to write his paper on the Galileo document with a care for how much credence it might give to those theorists who have considered the Illuminati as the culprits."
Patrick and Cardinal Baggia exchanged a dismayed look; to give Langdon the document had been an impulsive act for them both, driven by gratitude and admiration. But Professor Langdon's work wasn't always of service to the Church, and Patrick and Baggia had forgotten that at the time. After a few moments' silent contemplation, Patrick said to Chartrand and Commandant Richter, "As discreetly as possible, I would like Lieutenant Chartrand and perhaps Inspector Vincenzi to maintain a dialogue with Professor Langdon. Sound him out after this final report is made public as to whether he anticipates his second book to potentially contradict it. The Illuminati took note of his presence here during the attack, and it's entirely possible 'independent investigators' might do so as well."
Preparing for Easter in 2010, Patrick found the nightmares about those fifteen days beginning to ease. He could awaken from them and pray without breaking down in helpless tears. He could miss his father without feeling overwhelmed with the agony of it. Sometimes, he found himself able to remember his father and smile without an accompanying rush of grief. A few of the cardinals who’d known his father best had begun to dare to speak of him to Patrick in reminiscence rather than just sorrow, and Patrick was glad of that. The late Pope Pius, Francisco Martinelli of Argentina, would never have wanted his memory to bring endless pain to anyone.
“He loved you with all his heart,” Cardinal Mateo Avila from Argentina said after Patrick officially declined to fast-track the beatification process in accordance with his father’s will. “I knew the late Holy Father from his early priesthood. The Church and the faith were central to his world, but you, from the day he brought you home, you were the light of his life. He had the utmost faith in you.”
Though his eyes were damp, Patrick found it easy to smile. “May God guide me in living up to it.”
"I've no doubt of that, Holy Father...Francisco's Patrick. No doubts at all." The firm embrace Cardinal Avila gave Patrick felt almost like an embrace from his father.
While the nightmares did grow again as the month of June 2010 approached along with the anniversary of the attacks, Patrick felt he would be able to manage the memories and emotions…until, that May with only a few weeks until the anniversary of his father’s death, the dreams changed again.
It was 23:30, the night of June 5, 2009. The formal public announcement of the Pope's death had been made, and despite the late hour, hundreds still stood in St. Peter’s Square in a candlelight vigil for Pope Pius’s soul. Patrick left the lights in the Pope’s study off while he stood at the window, just able to see faces of those nearest the building, their lips joining a soft chorus of prayer and weeping and singing. It was comforting amid the dueling numbness and devastation that fought to control him on this endless day.
He was exhausted, but too anxious to sleep. He had possession of his father’s last will and was responsible for it until the College of Cardinals assembled for the funeral in five days. There were funeral arrangements to make with Archbishop Simeon, and they had already worked this evening until exhaustion had them both barely coherent. Patrick had awakened today at his usual 0400 to exercise, met with Simeon to go over the Holy Father’s schedule and prepare for the breakfast briefing. They’d both worked longer days than this, but it felt as though a lifetime had passed in those nineteen hours.
Halfway lucid in the dream, he mused that on the day of his father's death, he’d felt more kinship towards Archbishop Simeon than ever before, despite their long tendency to butt heads. But Simeon had seemed so gentle, so understanding, and had broken down weeping privately with Patrick more than once as they worked. How was it possible that Patrick had been so completely deceived, but even now, a year later, reliving that day in waking and dreaming memory, Patrick could see no signs in the Archbishop that would suggest such unimaginable treachery and callous disregard for human lives.
St. Peter’s Square was suddenly empty, and Patrick shivered, expecting to see Simeon crowing along with the shadowy figure of his assassin and the bodies of the dead at their feet as so often occurred when these memories went awry in his sleep.
He did hear laughter again, but…it wasn’t Dimitri Simeon’s voice. It was something…both more and less human, even more mocking and cruel. And it frightened Patrick more than anything in these nightmares had before.
There were no more faithful bearing candles in the Square, but there was the light of flames in some strange formation, forming a line straight down the middle, and dancing around the flames were dark forms as if the shadows themselves had come to life in some twisted, perverse imitation of God’s creations on this Earth.
A few began to draw closer across the Square, and Patrick stood paralyzed with terror. He couldn’t see their eyes, but he could sense that they saw him, and they were gleeful, triumphant about it.
“Found you!” hissed one voice, then more voices. “Found you at last!”
“Can’t stop it this time!” more hissed. “Couldn’t stop it together, can’t stop it alone! It’s stronger now, much stronger!”
“Too strong for you! Too strong for Him! We tasted the blood and found you!” They shrieked and screeched with laughter, and Patrick saw a shape beneath the window of the Pope’s office, one that shouldn’t appear like this for another fifteen days. His own body, hanging suspended from a rope, arms extended and tied to a bar, and blood spilling down the white wall onto the ground. More demons danced beneath it, laughing and tasting it. “Found you! Found you! Can’t hide anymore!”
“Caught you asleep! It’s coming now, coming soon, we’ll bring it, and we’ll have you before you ever wake!”
To Be Continued...