#benderposting

You overheard many offering their congratulations but noticed that none stuck around long for further conversation. The man who was to become Papa seemed relieved to be left alone. Those who tried to hold his attention by flirting fared a little better, and there was a glimpse of charm and old classic movie charisma, but those vying for his attention soon realised he seemed to be going through the motions with no real intent. He would bid them goodnight with a kiss to the hand and gesture for you to bring him another drink.

He had barely looked at you that night. You hadn't taken it personally given how many people he had fended off and the fact he was clearly grappling with something. But if he had, you may have been more prepared for your second meeting.

Out of curiosity more than anything, you had accepted an invitation to his official introduction as Papa despite being unable to shake the feeling you had received it by mistake. Surrounded by only the most devout, you think back to the man drowning his sorrows and hope that he can live up to their expectations, wondering if anyone could.

The door to the abbey crashes open and he glides along the aisle, robes billowing behind him as the congregation hushes. He strides towards the pulpit with purpose, or maybe in fear that he may turn back. When he turns to face his audience, it gasps back at the sight of him. Shrugging off the hunch in his shoulders, he stands tall, imposing, over his captive congregation and begins to recite his oath.

He speaks with grace and with enough confidence to fill the shoes he has been given, but something doesn't quite connect. There's an odd affectation that follows through to his thanks to the Upper Clergy but you cannot truly decipher it until it disappears. His cadence falters and the odd word seems to tangle in his tongue, and not because of his accent or any difficulty reading the words on the page. A stylistic choice perhaps, which no-one in the room seems to mind. In fact, you start to wonder if it is purposeful; the hypnotic rhythm cut by the occasional dissonant syllable only makes those in attendance lean in.

As his official address comes to a conclusion, his energy shifts. No longer reading the words he had been given, he looks into the crowd, his eyes shining in the light filtering through stained glass. He reaffirms his oath and his commitment to his position and, more importantly, to every person who has faith in him. As he scans the crowd, he earnestly promises himself to all and vows to earn his place. The odd, distracting delivery is gone. A passion and sincerity takes over and, when his eyes meet yours in the midst of it, you suddenly feel what everyone else had felt since he had entered the room.

His offer of Unholy Communion commands you to stand and join the forming line without taking your eyes off him. He graciously accepts each person who approaches, administering the rites with poise and impressive ease, warmth still managing to seep through his paints attempting to calm each recipient, most of whom were overwhelmed by the honour of being among the first.

You reach the front of the line before you're really prepared. He towers over you and it's difficult to see anything other than the robes and the painted skull and the formidable figure he makes. However, you're too drawn into his piercing gaze as he faces you to feel intimidated by the theatre of it all. You catch yourself before you become completely slack-jawed but, as he kneels down to offer you the ceremonial goblet, your knees go weak.

Your vision blurs as your eyes go wide, your periphery pulsating in time with your heartbeat as the room disintegrates behind you. Your throat goes dry and your chest tightens as raw magnetism burns through you. You had never been too devoted in your faith, but something about his gaze scrubs away at the scepticism that had always held you back. Now you feel yourself running towards it willingly, ready to give anything that was asked of you and surrender to the abyss. And all it had taken was a look.

The preoccupied man nursing his drink is a world away now, replaced by a leader. Confident and comfortable with the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, aware of and ready to strive for the standard expected of him. A standard he would easily meet if his presence affected anyone half as much as it was affecting you now.

Your tunnel vision makes you dizzy and you sway unsteadily before him, but you somehow remain upright. As long as he keeps looking deep into your eyes, you can persist. Neither of you dare to blink, even as he tips the wine into your mouth. You barely taste it, all of your other senses dulled by his penetrating, inescapable stare.

"Nema," he whispers, shattering the enthralling trance. The rest of the room and everyone in it bleeds back through and unfortunately reality is restored.

Your silence seems to amuse him, his stoic expression cracking for a moment. When you don't make any effort to move away, he takes your hand and brushes his lips over your knuckles before leaning in to your ear.

"It is a pleasure," he exhales, "to serve you a drink for once."

He winks and, before you can react, beckons the next recipient forward. You stumble backwards and hurry back to the pews, bemused and slightly unsettled. He remembered you, which is as surprising as it is sweet. After today, you're certain you will always remember him but will never look at him the same again.

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