Christos arched a brow. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Raphael smiled, waving off the concern. “You have a bad habit of sneaking up on people.”
“Not quite,” the prince grinned. “Some of us are just more oblivious to the world.”
“Oh, come now,” Raphael chucked with a rueful grin. “You can’t blame an old man for being a bit scattered.”
“Old man!” Christos exclaimed. “You’re barely four thousand!”
“Compared to a young thing like you, we’re all just dirt walking around.” Raphael closed his book and stood, coming around the desk to greet him with an embrace. “What brings you into my domain?”
“Only visiting,” Christos said lightly. Raphael fixed him with a shrewd look.
“Is that all?” he mused. “You aren’t here to look at the vault?”
It was Christos’ turn to start. “How?—”
Raphael chuckled. “We’ve had an increased interest in that old vault this week. You’re the fourth person to come asking about it. One of the visitors was your own Mary Magdalene. It wasn’t a hard conclusion to reach.”
“You’re quite clever.” Christos smiled. “I don’t suppose you know what everyone’s so interested in?”
“Oh, that’s not my business,” Raphael demurred. “There are so many artifacts in the vault, who could speculate?”
Christos hummed noncommittally, shuffling some papers on the desk absently. “Well, I’ll be heading that way then, if I might have the key?”
“Of course, Christos.” The librarian produced the ornate iron key from beneath his robes, extending the chain to the younger man. “You hardly need to ask so formally.”
“Politeness supersedes politics,” Christos quoted his mother fondly, accepting the key and striding off toward the rear of the library. He skimmed his fingertips lightly along the shelves as he walked, his other hand caressing the swirls and ridges of the old metal key. The tactile sensations were a pleasant momentary diversion, and Christos made a note to find time to visit his workshop later. It was always better to be working when he was restless; some of his best pieces were made trying to soothe his anxieties.
His steps went from muffled to echoing as he stepped from the newer, carpeted area of the library and into the older portion. The shelves here were worn and warped with age, the stone floor cold beneath his feet. Christos amended his mental note to use his workshop time to build some new shelving for this section.
As he wound through the ancient stacks, the bound tomes gave way to scrolls, then to loose stacks of papers tied with twine. A dusty smell permeated the air and made his nose twitch. He lifted his hand to rub the itch and cringed slightly at the thick dust caked on his fingertips.
Wiping the dust off on his linen pants, Christos elected to keep his hands firmly in his pockets until he reached the large, gilded vault set into the library’s rear wall. He eyed it critically for a moment, assessing the gaudy embossing and ostentatious gleam of the doors, then slipped the key into its slot and twisted. The inside was much plainer, and Christos wondered if it shouldn’t be the other way around, to deter prying eyes, not entice them. Then again, his father loved showing off.
He shut the door, glancing around the entrance foyer, at the more delicate and especially rare manuscripts housed on shelvesthat were literally hewn from the rock wall of the cavern. It was cooler here, and Christos shivered at the chill.
Two branching hallways swept off to either side of an alcove that housed a lone statue. Christos winced and couldn’t repress a second shudder at the sight of himself, suspended on a cross by iron nails. His scarred palms itched as he shifted from one foot to the other. His hair was longer then, his form sallow and more emaciated. But that was his delicately carved face tightened by pain, and the crimson paint representedhisblood leaking down gashed ribs. There was a very good reason this relief was stashed away in here: it made him sick to look at it.
Wrenching himself away, he turned and headed down the leftward hall, putting the memories and the phantom pains behind him. He was here to appease his subconscious, not to torment it.
Priceless images hung in the hallway, painted sceneries and carved masks and delicate woodcuttings. Some of these had been done by Christos himself and relegated here for safekeeping. He paused at an emotional rendering of Mags and his mother, painted sitting side by side, hands folded together as they laughed at some shared joke. His father’s work.
The man certainly had a sensitive side; it was a shame so few people could claim to have seen it. He wanted to pray that Mags hadn’t done what he suspected, but that would be rather counterintuitive. At that point he might as well march into his father’s throne room and announce it.
A noise behind him made him jump, and for a moment he panicked, wondering if he had somehow done exactly that. But when he turned it wasn’t his father approaching. Christos relaxed at the sight of Michael’s eternally steady expression. Clearly, he wasn't about to be dragged away for judgement.
“Michael,” he greeted warmly, but the tightening of the warrior’s jaw made his smile falter. Maybe this wasn’t such acasual visit. It would be a bit too coincidental if it were, he supposed, but he could still try at nonchalance. “What brings you down into the vault?”
“I have a feeling you are well aware.” Michael said with resignation, arching a brow in question and thoroughly derailing the flimsy façade.
Christos sighed. “You would be correct.”
“You don’t think she would…?”
“There’s only one way to be sure, isn’t there?” He gestured to the archway he had been about to pass through. “Care to join?”
They continued deeper into the vault and eventually reached another sealed door. This one would not be opened by a simple key, and Christos swore when he saw there was already a sigil smeared in blood above the handle. Michael’s expression darkened, and he yanked a small knife from a sheath on his hip.
