⚡𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫 ✨

You close your eyes. Deep breath in through your mouth, and you let out through your nose. A quick glance shows the Deacon is still there, tapping his foot. He’s in a set of less fancy robes than the ones you are currently repairing. “I need it for this weekend’s rituals.”

It’s impossible to not blink at him, pausing in your work. You raise an eyebrow, taking in his impatience. “So, you waited until Friday for this repair?”

He bristles. Arms no longer crossed, he draws his fists down to his sides. A red hue starts to run along his neck, which is rising to his face. “I didn’t realize it was torn until I checked it this morning!”

“No need to shout, Deacon.” What was his name? Thomas? Matthew? You can’t recall so you decide Deacon will work and you can check the ledger later if it still bothers you. “You just lucked out. Usually, Fridays are far too busy for a rush order like this.” 

Pale brown eyes gaze over your face then to your hands holding his precious cassock. It’s black with a blue lining along the inside. Given out to all new priests when the newest Papa had ascended, so you can somewhat understand his embarrassment. It had only been what, three years since the fourth Papa had taken the lead of the church?

He relaxes now, once he seems to realize you’re not going to make fun of or hurt his feelings. Instead, the young deacon just shifts his feet from side to side, eyeing your materials. “I apologize, sister. I should’ve checked it long before this weekend’s ceremonies.”

You offer a smile, a small one before you raise the black cassock. The rip is no longer detectable on it anymore, and the seam where you had stitched it back together is done so well that it’s hardly noticeable even up close. And definitely won’t be noticeable when he’s far away, helping to conduct sermons. 

After a final glance over, and feeling at the threads, you stand to hand it to him. “Just be careful along the edge of it. If it starts to unthread, send it back right away.” It shouldn’t, but you always liked to let them know it was done right away. 

His hands snatch up the garment, eyes glowing while he gazes down at it. Fingers grabbing the material, stretching it in a way where you have to hold back a flinch. Once it meets his approval, he grins looking back up at you. “Thank you, sister!” 

“Anytime.” You respond, hoping the next time it will be a different tailor on repair duties. “Make sure to sign the ledger before you leave!” You call because he’s already rushing out the door. “Sister Harriet will be on you if you don’t!”

It’d be more likely she’d be on you because you couldn’t even recall the deacon’s name if it came down to it. You sent a silent prayer to Lucifer that he would just sign it. 

You turn to the old bronze clock on the stone wall. Another hour still before you could pack it up for the day. And then you’d get to enjoy a glorious seven days off, to relax and read and not worry about any repairs. Maybe when you return you'll ask to take more advanced tailoring jobs as well. Though with Sister Harriet, it would have to depend on her mood of the day. 

For someone who appeared to be such a simple, sweet old lady, you were quite certain she could frighten even Lucifer if she tried. 

You sigh, and turn away from the clock, moving to find something to keep yourself busy. After checking to make sure there were no new repair drop-offs, you settle into organizing your threads. Sorting colors and lengths, before you move onto your fabrics. Extras of most standard clergy colors of black, white, and currently blue to match the current Papa’s color. Handling the lower clergy member repairs made it a bit easier to always find something that matched. Though you did long to play with more colors. 

You imagined being the tailor of a Papa. Colorful, bright, not as bland as you had grown used to with the standard clergy outfits. Not that there weren’t surprises at every turn. You still remember the sister that had stitched her fishnet leggings into her habit. It had been a mess to fix. 

After your clean-up and organizing, you glance back at the clock. Thirty minutes now. All you had to do was-

There’s a knock. Suppressing a groan, you raise your head. “Come in.” 

But there’s nothing. The door doesn’t open. You glance at the door and call again; it still doesn’t open. After another moment, there’s a second knock. 

Mumbling about Harriet under your breath, you straighten out your habit and apron before you open the door. Except you do not meet the eyes of the small elder sister who ran the tailoring department. 

Instead, you stare at a ghoul. Tall and broad, but not carrying any of the symbols that you had seen before. The mask it wears is silver, but not shining. Its tunic is black, a little torn, and has an odd, silver horseshoe along the hem of it. 

It’s one of the older demons you realize, one of the third’s ghouls. You swallow because these ones rarely left the crypts, never ones to even leave their Master’s corpse. Your fingers tighten along the door frame, taking a moment. “Can I help you?” 

“You handle the repairs?” Its voice is slow, deep with a slight echo to it. It sounds like it has not spoken in some time. The ghoul’s expression is unreadable from the mask it wears and its tone doesn’t give anything away. After a moment it adds on, with a touch of uncertainty. “For clothing?” 

It takes a moment before you nod, then repeat the movement quickly before you remember yourself. “Yes. Is it your tunic?” 

The ghoul glances down at itself. It seems to only notice the rips in its clothing after you have pointed them out, as though it had never seen them before. Clawed fingers run over the ends of the fabric before it shakes its head. “No.” It lifts a small sack up, deep brown. “Need these fixed.”

Despite how the repair will probably have you staying late, you’re not one to argue with a ghoul. Especially one that is technically not leashed. “Do you want to come in and wait while I work on this?”

It tilts its head, just slightly to the left. Then it nods, stepping into the space once you open the door wider. Silently it walks across the floor, moving to a spare chair and sitting down. Palms face down against his knees, and he stares at nothing. 

You’re not going to argue for the silence, moving to your workspace to start to check over the items. The first thing you notice is that they’re purple, not blue. Your stomach twists, gaze flicking back to the ghoul, and then back down to the fabric. When you pull out a black shirt, you notice the top of the shirt is torn. The collar had been cut off. 

And it’s stiff somehow. Feeling hard and dry. When you move your fingers back off the collar piece, some of the dust remains on it. Deep copper dust, near black from age. 

Heart hammering, you look at the ghoul. “You should get one of the higher tailors to handle this. I’m not-”

“You do the repairs.” The ghoul’s head tilts again. “Did you lie?” 

“No! I do repair tailoring, but I don’t handle bloodied garments.” You did actually handle those garments too, you had helped with the siblings of sin plenty of times before when accidents occurred, if it wasn’t so bad the garment didn’t need to be thrown away. But this was different. This was at the neck. And it was such a clean cut of both fabrics, that it had your mind whirling. But you did not want to think about the possibility of what it could be, because your stomach twisted at all possible answers. None of them were good. 

The ghoul pauses, before rising. It moves over to the garment, gazing at it. Then it snaps his fingers, and with a loud crash, another ghoul is now in your workroom. 

This one is shorter. Its tunic is also in ruins, though you can see a triangle along the bottom of it. It doesn’t say anything, only moves forward to the piece that the other ghoul points at. A water ghoul, you quickly realize because the collar and shirt are soon cleaned. With a loud crack, it’s gone before you can thank them and the taller ghoul is moving back to its seat. 

With trembling fingers, you pick up the two pieces. And then breathe in and out, closing your eyes for a moment. Taking the time to relax, to pretend there wasn’t a servant of hell sitting across from you, and then you pick up your needle and set to work. 

Pierce. Pull. Pierce. Pull. Loop. 

It takes time, you end up staying late, long enough for the sun to pass by the stained glass window in your small workspace. It filters along the dark cloth but no more stains shine through. You take your time, despite staying later than your slotted shift, not wanting to tell the ghoul he’d have to wait another week for the piece. 

Also because then you’d spend your relaxing week off dreading the return. Or worse, to have Papa on your case. You had never met this Papa, initiated into the church by Cardinal Melek. 

When the sunlight dips further, the ghoul stands to light candles for you. Not a fire ghoul, you realize, watching as it materializes matches but no flame in its clawed hands. 

Still, the new light is a blessing as you finish the stitching on an older tear along the purple garment. The third Papa’s robes you had long since realized. When it lights a candle close to your desk, you glance over at it. “Thank you.”

The ghoul pauses, staring at you with blank, black eyes. It doesn’t nod or move, only moves along after the brief pause. And then sits back into its chair, hands grasping its knees. 

It’s not too long after that, a few more stitches and fixing some of the embroideries that had become a little loose due to old wear and tears. Probably when the third had been touring, you think, standing. You lift the robe, showcasing it to the ghoul before peering your head around it and nearly jumping back. 

It was right in front of you, claws reaching out to the garment. The fingers curl back into its palm. “Sorry.” 

You don’t reply, only lift the garment closer to its hands and the demon takes the amount before reaching once more. Black eyes gaze down at the material, saying nothing while the ghoul feels along it. Eventually, it does the same with the shirt that had been brought to you, and a few other little garments. 

“Good.” The ghoul stands back and carefully slides the clothes into their bag once more. “Papa will be pleased.” 

That has you pausing, eyeing the ghoul for a moment. “The fourth?” 

The ghoul pauses in return, and you’d almost swear it looks amused for a moment. “There is no other living Papa.” 

So you nod, leading him out, and you watch the ghoul go behind sister Harriet’s desk to mark the time spent in her books. You take your time to tidy up, and when you leave, the demon is gone. Your shoulders fall, a deep breath leaving your lips before you lock up and put your keys in the slot by Harriet’s desk. Someone else will be there to take your place while you’re on your scheduled leave. 

Despite the relief, and the excitement of spending the next seven days relaxing, there’s an edge you can’t shake. Like the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet. 

The feeling doesn’t leave you, not with a light dinner, nor trying to distract yourself with some reading. Even when you lie in bed, there is an off feeling about tonight. That something must be happening. It still tires you out enough, that you find your eyelids growing heavy, and soon you’re drifting off into sleep. 

Your vision is coated in black feathers. All around you, they lay, flicking and moving. When you gaze up you can see wings. A lot of wings, all stitched together. 

And a lot of eyes. Dozens of eyes, black pupils, and white irises. In the center lies the largest of eyes, staring down at you. It’s connected to a body, to a neck, and to a hand, but you can’t make out the rest of it. There’s a goblet held between black-clawed fingers, and when the middle eye blinks, a droplet of red comes to fill it. Another falls shortly after, just as thick and splattering the liquid that’s already within against the glass with its force. 

More red tears fall, and you’re left frozen, even when it starts to overfill. You cannot move, watching as a large red droplet comes to smash into the feathers at your feet. There’s the sound of shrieking from the feathers, quivering beneath the thick red liquid. 

The hand tips, and soon the goblet is pouring over you. Dousing you in sticky, red, blood. It covers your body, filling even your mouth and nose, and - you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, you can’t  b r e a t h e-

“Wake up, my child.”

Your jerk awake. Panting, and sweat dripping down your face in the same patterns of the blood. There’s more knocking on your door, and you wipe your face. “Be right there!” 

You don’t bother to dress properly and just pull your clothes into place before you open the door. And then the sight before you has you regret that immediately. 

At your door, stands Papa Emeritus the fourth. In his face paints, wearing a pair of black slacks and a dress shirt with a deep blue vest over top. He offers a small smile, his mismatched gaze warm. “Did I wake you, Sorella?” 

You blink at him, shifting on the spot. “Papa, I don’t-”

“You’re not in trouble!” He raises a hand, and you realize the other is holding a bag. Purple in color, the same shade as the robes you had fixed last night. “I am sorry, Sorella. I thought Omega had told you I would be visiting today. But I can see,” he sighs but still smiles at you though it’s hinting at a little awkwardness. “He has not.”

Omega? Was that the name of the ghoul? “The ghoul didn’t say anything to me, Papa. I’m sorry, I would’ve been more prepared-”

“It’s not a problem, Sorella.” His hand adjusts the bag in his hand. “I had hoped you would join me for breakfast so I could discuss your work. Only praises, I promise, si?” Dumbstruck, you’re left to only nod, and his eyes crinkle now when he smiles. “Good! Alrighty, I’ll let you get dressed, and then we can leave, Okie Dokie?” 

You suddenly understood whenever the sisters would go on about the Papas' certain qualities. The fourth had been here for the past few years and was known to be far less serious. Still a shock to wake up at your door, first thing in the morning. 

Finally, you manage to nod at Papa and he gives a thumbs up, before turning around and you shut the door. It takes only a few minutes to get into your habit, grab your headpiece and brush your teeth. No makeup, just due to the rush of it all, and soon you’re opening the door. 

Papa smiles at you, before holding out his arm. Then wiggles it when you stand there for a moment, and you then move to grasp his elbow. Looping your hand around his arm before he starts to move. 

“I have it set up in the gardens. Is that alright with you, Sorella?” 

“Yes, papa. That sounds nice.” You had never eaten a meal in the gardens before, besides something you packed yourself. That was a rarity, usually too busy or the weather wasn’t nice enough to enjoy a meal out there by yourself or with a friend. And luckily they’re not too far from your room, as Papa leads you through an oddly empty hall. “I suppose everyone is busy this weekend.”

There’s a nod, his arm twitching in your hold. “Yes. Much of the clergy is off to sin on the weekends.” He pauses, and you can see red flushing down his neck. “I may have also asked for the hall and gardens to be empty this morning.”

Despite his assurance that you were not in trouble, the fact that he had cleared out everything had you feeling like you were in a great deal of trouble. But he’s moving faster and there’s no time to ask further about it yet. Soon you’re brought into the gardens, but he’s leading you deeper into them. To a large black iron gate. 

Your brow furrows at the sight of it, and the red roses you can see just beyond. “Isn’t this the first’s private garden?” 

“Primo’s yes.” And the fourth moves his arm, wiggling slightly and you release him. He digs the hand into his pocket and pulls out a key, moving to unlock it. “I’m sure he will not mind us borrowing it.” 

You wonder if his ghost watches over the garden now, you heard rumors that Nihil’s ghost still haunted the upper clergy’s offices. The first, or Primo as the fourth called him, probably would remain here, in this private, soft garden. His husband has been the one to maintain it and that thought feels nice. That both of them are close even if death separates them. 

Primo’s husband is not in the garden today, from what you know he had been getting sicker since the first’s passing, though he never lasted in the infirmary longer than a few days, desperate to get back to the garden. The man was near seventy himself but you hoped he would be well enough. It would be a shame to see the work of love in ruins, for you didn’t know how to plant those seeds. Not yet anyway, nothing had really bloomed in your garden so far. 

The fourth leads you in silence to the center of the garden, shrouded in trees and more rose bushes. There’s a small vegetable garden in a higher garden box, but what draws your gaze is the table at the center of the garden. Long and wide, covered in food. There are dishes of different eggs: scrambled, fried, and sunnyside up. Different kinds of slices of bread with butter and fresh jams to be put on. Fluffy waffles and pancakes take a small corner of it, with many plates for serving and collecting what you’d like. Far too many dishes for yourself and Papa. 

And then you can see it is not just you and Papa. Other ghouls emerge, none wearing the helmets you were familiar with for the fourth. No, all of them wear silver masks and torn tunics, symbols decorating the bottom. Four in total come to the table, greeting Papa far more enthusiastically than the experience you had before. You pause, holding your step, unsure when to move forward. 

Claws slide just over your shoulder, and you turn your head to find the ghoul from the day before, Omega. He’s less stiff now, even offering a smile. “Your headpiece,” he says softly, and strangely you feel no fear now at the sight of him. In the daylight, there is a shine to his black eyes that feels oddly warm. 

“My headpiece?”

“It’s crooked.” His fingers let go, careful with only the tiniest touch grazing you with their leaving presence. “May I?” When you nod, black-clawed fingers gently move to adjust the fabric back into place. “There we go.”

“Thank you.” 

“You never have to thank me, sister. We are here to help you.” Then his fingers move, holding out his hand in front of you. “Let us join the others. I’m sure you are hungry.”

Perhaps it’s the beauty of the garden, the wonderful smelling food, or simply the different atmosphere than the night before that makes it easy to slide your fingers against his own. His skin is warm, the feeling of it similar to warming them by a fire on a chilly night. He leads you easily to the table and puts you in a seat by Papa. Then proceeds to take your plate and fix it for you, even as you protest. 

“Do not mind him, Sorella.” The fourth says, smiling when he moves to sit. “He has not been in service in some time, I think all of them are just a little overly excited.” 

That has you raise an eyebrow, before flicking your gaze to the ghouls. Omega is holding a plate out of a smaller ghoul’s reach, who seems insistent about wanting to help decide what your breakfast will be. Another two are stocking a plate you think is for Papa. “Are the third’s ghouls going into service for some of the higher clergy?” 

“No.” The fourth says, bringing both elbows onto the table, and folding his gloved fingers together. He smiles, the black paint stretching along his skin, but there’s an odd sadness in his eyes. “I did not just bring you out here for a nice breakfast, Sorella. As fun as that would be.”

Omega is soon back to your side, setting down a plate in front of you. “I figured as much.” 

Your stomach goes cold at the sight, not because of the food itself, but because he somehow guessed all of your favorites. You turn back to Papa, and he doesn’t touch his own food when the ghouls set it down in front of him. His mismatched gaze is only on you. 

“Sorella,” he starts slowly, moving to sit back. One leg crosses over the other, and he lets his right hand rest over the knee there, but his fingers tap at it. “Did you have any odd dreams last night?” When you grow silent, eyes widening, he lets his own eyes slide close. “Sia benedetto.”

A ghoul comes to sit at your side, and gingerly taps your plate. It brings you out of your trance, enough to lick your lips and for your fingers to grip the tablecloth lightly. All you can think of is the feeling of being drowned in blood. “Papa, what did that dream mean?” 

“That He has chosen you. I had a feeling he would, you did such fine work with Terzo’s robes. Such care and love into your work,” Papa smiles now at you. His eyes are so bright, full of wonder, while you remain stiff in your seat. “Lucifer has blessed you for this job, Sorella.” 

You stare at him. Your heart pounds against your bones, hard enough you can hear it without searching for a pulse point. “A job, Papa?”

There’s a flash in his eyes and they soften in their light. Leaning forward once more, the fourth places his hands on the table. When his eyes slide over to you they’re filled with a deeper emotion than you expect to have ever seen from the leader of the church. “My name was Copia before I became Papa. In private, you may call me it. I have not heard it in a very long time.”

“Copia,” you correct, staring at him still. “This job? It has to do with the ghouls?” 

“Yes. The ghouls and yourself. For a ritual.” The fourth explains, moving to grab a strawberry between his index finger and thumb. There’s a bit of pressure, and the juice runs over a digit to give it a slight shine against the leather.  “You will not die, and there is only a little blood required for it. That is all.” 

“Copia,” you repeat, finding the will to be sterner even as your heart flutters against your ribs at speaking this way to Papa. “What is this ritual for?”

“To bring the rest of my brothers back to life.” 

Now you understand why Omega has been kind to you, and why he had been wanting to get your food. You suck in a breath and take a moment, which Copia kindly gives you. “I have never done rituals, Papa. I… I was never good with them in my year of lessons.”

“No, you excelled in tailoring and artistry if I recall correctly.” The man looks down out of the corner of his eye, continuing to play with the fruit before dropping it back down to his plate. “I had your file pulled last night after the old one informed me.”

“Then you know I can’t do this.”

Everyone at the table goes quiet. The ghoul beside you, the water one from yesterday you think, lays a clawed hand over your wrist. There is no urgency in it to grab, and instead, it simply begins to rub soothing circles into the back of your hand. It feels worse that it works, helping to calm you.

Now Copia takes his own moment, slowly he lets out a slightly shaking breath. “I wish to tell you a story, Cara,” he pauses, letting the new title sink in but you do not object to it. “It may help to explain why this is so important. Is that alright?”

After a moment, letting the idea of it settle into your head, you nod. It wouldn’t be so bad to at least hear him out. 

He doesn’t smile now. In fact, his face remains oddly blank while he stares forward into the table rather than at you or a ghoul. “I wasn’t like many of the current siblings of sin. Not just with being chosen as Papa, but I was raised here in the ministry. An orphan left at the steps, by someone who had probably mistaken our abbey for a different church. Or perhaps they knew, I was born with the mark of satan upon me, y’know?” He gestures with one hand up to his white eye. “Yet I was born with no gifts. Nothing to show for this blessing.” There’s a pause, brief enough to just let him close his eyes for a moment. “I was very alone growing up.”

Without much thought, you find your hand rising. It moves to land over his own, and his eyes snap to it. They glance at you after a few seconds, they have far too much shine in them. You do the same motion the water ghoul had done for you, and Copia’s shoulders sink down. There’s a sniff, then a second one, before he starts to speak again. 

“When I became Papa, Lucifer communed with me during my ceremony. I never understood the words he told me then.” His voice deepens, and he tries to take on a more amused note while he does an impression of the Old One’s voice, but it only sounds sad at the end. “Your brothers will always be there for you, my child. Even when you think it is too late.” 

“I did not know what he meant, not for a long time. When Nihil died, tests had to be done. Things were discovered.” His eyes close again, and you can see them starting to squeeze shut. “Nihil was my father. The Emeritus line, the Papas who had died for my placement, were my brothers. I lost my family before I could even know about them. The only family I had.”

Your heart sinks for him, dropping into your stomach when he raises a hand to his eyes. Yet you can see the shine on his fingers when it withdraws a moment later, to grip the arms of his chair. His teeth clench together, and he opens his eyes, a mixture of flameful wrath with thick, cool tears. 

“È stata tutta colpa sua! La sua ambizione mi è costata i miei fratelli; la mia famiglia.” The tears start to roll down his face while he snarls before he entirely deflates. Sinking back into his chair, he seems to go in on himself a little bit. His hand slowly slides from your hold, and he looks away.“I am sorry, Sorella. I have never - These thoughts have only ever been in my head. I h-haven’t ever voiced them out loud.”

“Papa - Copia,” you correct, gazing at him. The tears sting at your heart and his obvious pain is understandable. “I understand why you want this done and I would like to help you. I am just not trained in the matter.”

“You could be, before the ritual.” Green and white eyes gaze into his lap, the black pants beginning to spot the longer he stares down at them. Finally, he looks up at you once more, with a look of pure desperation. “I am not here to ask you to do this as your Papa, Cara.” Fat, shining tears roll down his cheeks, exposing the freckled flesh beneath. “I am asking you to do this as a man. As Copia.” 

With the sight of the man before you, crumpled and crying, the anguish that pours off of him; and the knowledge that Lucifer had sought you out, make the choice easy. You rise and soon you find yourself circling an arm around the older man’s shoulders, letting him rest his face against your shoulder. Not minding any smeared paints or tears that will stain the fabric. You knew how to fix it later if it needed to be. 

You’re left wondering when the last time Copia had been hugged at all. You imagine there had to be a few, but probably it was still far too few for the lonely man. That he was so desperate for the connection he was willing to go to these lengths. 

It’s a surprisingly easy choice to make then. “Copia,” you say, rubbing over his back while he sobs a little still. But he lifts his head at your voice, seemingly realizing how vulnerable he had become, but doesn’t slide away completely from your touch. You smile, nervous but certain. “I’ll do it. I’ll try my best but-”

There’s a sob before his arms are around you again. Tightly and he cries far more openly than before. Whispers of ‘Thank you’ and ‘Grazie’ sink into your shoulder, and the man hugs you back tightly. 

The amount of warmth in his hold and his words soothe the icy unease that fills your stomach. 

-

Sia benedetto - Blessed Be La sua ambizione mi è costata i miei fratelli; la mia famiglia. - It was all her fault! Her ambition cost me my brothers; my family. Cara - Dear

-

You were still getting adjusted to Copias new face. Papa. Popia--whatever. Cardinal Copia was fine from your mouth, you knew this. It was a change, but his face made you comfortable nonetheless. He smiled as you made your way into his room, a firm mission to jump on his humongous bed.

You jumped successfully and shut your eyes, feeling the bed sink beside you as Copia sat down. "You feeling alright?" He asked, accent thick. You sneak a glance up at him through your hair before pressing your face back into his covers.

"Mhm," You were lying, this was obvious. Even more obvious to Copia. "fantastic." Your voice was muffled heavily by the mattress, but he understood you.

"If your Papa may?" He held out his arms, waiting for you to look up. When you did, a small smile broke out on your face, and you quickly grabbed him in a death grip.

"Oomf-" He let out a grunt as you squeezed him, but his arms wrapped around you and he pressed his face to your shoulder. "Mind telling me what is wrong?"

You decided to be honest with him. "Life sucks." You said shortly, groaning as you hid your face in his lacy black shirt. "I'm so tired of having to put up such a happy demeanor. I have to have a high pitched voice, be so friendly, I-" You felt tears prick your eyes and suddenly everything was falling from your lips like Cardinal had given you a truth serum. "It's just all so much, and I'm so tired of people treating me like shit all the time when I'm only trying to be nice."

"Oh, shhh, shhh," Cardinal made small, comforting sounds as he began to pet your hair slowly. "I'm sorry, you do not have to do such a thing with me, yes? You do not deserve how they treat you... you can be yourself with me." You nodded, sniffling as you tried to stop crying. "Always."

"Thank you. You're the only thing keeping me together anymore, C." He smiled sadly as he pulled away from your hug. He held you at shorter-than-arms-pength to look you in the eyes.

"I will always be here for you." He said, nodding his head. "You know this." You nodded back, a giggle escaping your throat.

"I know, C. I know." You sighed, wiping your face lazily. It's exhausting, crying so much in so little time. Copia brought a gloved hand to your face, helping you wipe the tears away. He then rested his hands on your cheeks, pulling your face in close to press your foreheads together.

You closed your eyes and took in a deep breath. "Thank you. You always make me feel so much better." Hearing him breathe beside you helped a lot, and his hands helped ground you to the very Earth you were on.

"That is my job, to make you feel good." He said, chipper, as he pulled you back in for a big bear hug. After a long, comfortable moment of embrace, he spoke up again. "I am.. very proud of you."

At those words, your tears seemed to cascade yet again. "Cardinal, what did I do to deserve you?" You sobbed into his chest, feeling slightly bad for getting his shirt all wet. The man simply smiled and pet your hair again, letting the air silence between the two of you.