The cathedral is built in the early gothic architectural style, with a tower and spires looming over the street below. Inside, the space is filled with rich, polished wood, ornate tapestries, and stained glass. It is dark without natural lighting, and tonight, it is only illuminated by the flickering candles lining the entryway and the aisle.
While the church's designated members finish making their preparations for the ceremony, I find solitude in the small chapel attached to the choir on the eastern side of the cathedral. I have grown so accustomed to being alone with my thoughts that this last week has completely taken me out of my element.
I am in need of silence, and I locate it in the shadows of the confessional reserved for more private occasions. Finding sanctuary on the wooden bench inside, I shut the door and close my eyes. The space smells of wood polish and incense, a scent that often pervaded my childhood memories. It would be fair to say I was raised within the confines of Catholic institutions, with only my summers spent at home. At least until I reached an age when it was appropriate for my father to begin molding me into the man he wanted me to be. He was not pleased to discover that my real talent was in mathematics. It seemed like such a waste to him. Though the upper-echelon members of IVI all agreed it would be a useful skill that could be well-honed, I have never been able to forget the hollow disappointment in my father’s eyes.
From the beginning, his expectations for me were heavy. I did not act as children should. There was no mischievous innocence to be found in his firstborn son. I was always serious, always studious. I respected his wishes and followed them to his exacting standards. By all accounts, even my own mother’s, it should have pleased him. But he found fault in the strange emptiness within my eyes, even as he demanded the very same. I had heard him observe more than once how cold I was, and it was the only thing that seemed to bring even a hint of agreement to his hard features. If ever I did feel a flicker of emotion, a glimpse of my own humanity, I would swiftly dispose of it and forget the event had ever occurred.
In the end, even after all my study and efforts to prove my worth, they did nothing to sway my father’s opinion of me. Perhaps that was why it was so easy for me to succumb to Eli Moreno’s poisonous praise. While my father never ceased to be disappointed in me, Eli never stopped being in awe of the way my brain worked. He told me more than once he’d never seen anything else like it. We pored over numbers together for days, weeks, months. It was the commonality that forged a bond stronger than steel. And somewhere during that time, I allowed the icy exterior around me to thaw, so he could see parts of me I’d never allowed to exist anywhere else. There were moments I smiled with him. Even moments I laughed. Those events felt so foreign at the time, yet they came naturally with him.
I began to see him as a father figure, and that mistake cost me more than words can say. How foolish I felt when the seed of his betrayal planted itself in my mind. When I woke in the hospital, disfigured and deformed, I was the only surviving member of my family to walk away from that explosion. Eli had asked me to go in his place with my father and brother who were obligated to accompany me. How easily he swayed me with such a simple request.
I had heard countless times from The Society and my own father that trust was a fickle beast. We had an oath to protect and look after our brothers in the organization, but that didn’t mean there weren’t defectors or traitors among us. When it did happen, the consequences were often devastating, and the price was always high. I was taught to question the motives of others, and on every other occasion, I had. But Eli had blinded me with his false admiration. His approval was a balm to the weakness inside me, and I fell for it.
I failed my father, my brother, and everyone else who died that night. The opportunity to prove my worth to him is gone, but I can do one last thing. I can dole out the sentence for the man who sent him to the grave.
Eli may never wake again. But whether it is in life or death, he will know the suffering he has caused. He will feel the wrath of vengeance when his daughter pledges herself to me this evening, and for every day she remains in my clutches.