The oil paintings of men being torn apart had been startling, but the art beyond the grand oak doors had been much worse.

At first, it seemed to be a laity courtroom. Only odd in that it’d been buried beneath a cathedral.

The gallery was innocuous enough. It was slightly strange in the way that it slopped sharply downwards, resembling the showroom of a movie theater. It was just as large, too, with rows of balcony seats mounted high above the pews.

Ira knew how this room looked at full capacity. He’d stood on trial here. Eleven years old and trembling beneath eyes full of disgust as he recounted the events of a nightmare. And it had helped the cause in no way. It seemed that Ira served only one purpose; to remind everyone of things best left forgotten. Ira batted away the iron-strong bolt of terror ripping at his insides and strolled down the aisle, hoping that it looked easy.

The bottom basin of the chamber was cut clear across with a wooden half-wall risen out of the cold marble floor. Not a wall, Ira recognized, but a seating gallery. It was nearly identical to the Judge’s Bench that Ira would expect in a laity court, but it snaked into a massive half-moon with seven chairs posted along the height of the bench. The cedar stood out as strange in such a grand place. The wood was pale in color, clashing terribly against the grandeur of the swirled stone floors. Ira suspected it had pained the architect greatly to put it in the center of his design--but what choice did he have in the matter? Cedar, like the pine they used in their weaponry, was a powerful symbol. It served to remind all who served of their vows--most important of all being incorruptibility. Which Ira had not succeeded in. Hence him standing here now in this body.

Still, it seemed the architect had tried to salvage his work somehow. The side panels of the Bench had been etched into striking sculptures of the seven Saints, each one standing victoriously over their charged Prince. Ira had memorized each Saint and each Prince. They’d been his nursery rhymes, but now he could only bring himself to face one.

The center of the half-moon had been given to the patron Saint of the Sect. Saint Francis held his Ossein long sword high over his head, frozen mere seconds before the killing blow could be landed on the Greater Demon crushed beneath his heels. The Prince had only one large bat-like wing protruding from his curved back. The other had been severed and laid under his knees as he pleaded for mercy. His head was topped in curled horns, his fingers tipped in inch-long claws. Ira looked at the mirage in cold detachment. He knew well who it served to mock and somehow still had the room in him to feel wronged over it. Ira thought before he could stop himself, that Beelzebub was more handsome in the flesh. The thought turned sour in his gut. He turned his eyes away.

Positioned over Saint Francis’ head was the corresponding center chair of the board. And it was hard not to see the Cardinal there. He was sat in the seat designed for him, adorned in flashy red robes. Alike to the cedar, in that it was hideous and also served as a reminder to the service.Look at how much blood I would spill for the cause.Ira leveled a quick glare at Father Pine, who had called this a casual affair earlier that morning. Ira’s embarrassment only grew as he took in the Cardinal’s neatly tied ferraiolo. This was decidedly not a casual affair. Father Pine just shrugged.

“Your Eminence,” Father Pine greeted, swooping himself into an elegant bow.

The Cardinal raised an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend to care about fanfare, Jethro Pine.”

For the last century, the Progeny had been divided. There were those who held true to the mission, and those who thought the laity retelling of events served them better. It was in this divide that tradition sprouted from. Elegant soutanes, proud titles--and the biggest tradition there was: dissent. “Very well, Absalom Edom.”

The Cardinal smirked at Father Pine’s attempt at rebellion. He stood from his chair and looked over the edge scornfully. His eyes, full of contempt, had found Ira. Ira’s eyes, in turn, found the hilt of his sword, peeking over the top of the Bench. “Ira Rule.” He gathered the words on his tongue like poison and spit it across the room until it stung all of Ira’s flesh.

“Your Eminence,” Ira bowed. He was a boy inclined to take the path of less resistance.

“So you mean to take pilgrimage?” The Cardinal questioned.

“I do.” Ira nodded.

“Why?” The Cardinal asked.

Ira had been prepared for many questions, and this was not one of them. “W-what?” He sputtered. His cheeks turned as crimson as the Cardinal’s cassock.

“Why do you want to take pilgrimage--now. For eighteen years the Progeny has sheltered you. Protected you. You should have made to pay your debts at the turning of adulthood. Like all the Deacons we raise.”

“Wait--I-”

“To receive your request now is a mockery to all the Deacons who serve. Do you think them beneath you?” The Cardinal’s voice cut sharper than polished Ossein.

“Of course not!” Ira snapped.

“Then why?” The Cardinal boomed.

“Because I have to!” Ira shouted. His words echoed across the courtroom, and he was suddenly still. He was breathing heavier than he’d realized. His anger had bloomed faster in his chest than flowers beneath april rain. He blinked. The Cardinal smirked. “It’s my fault.” The words came from him now as a whisper.

“It is.” The Cardinal nodded. “You have destroyed more than you could even begin to comprehend.”

“Ab-!”

“Quiet, Jethro!” The Cardinal slammed his fist on the cedar railing. “You have defended him for far too long. If you had raised him as you should have, he would not stand before me now asking for pilgrimage.”

“He is still young.” Father Pine cut in, his fists curled by his side. Ira winced, lowering his shame-filled gaze to the floor. Young--no. He wasn’t. Not in mind, nor soul. He was older than the court they stood in. The Cardinal was right. He had waited much too long.

“Is he ready?” The Cardinal scoffed. “Or have you wasted all your time.”

“I assure you, Ira is a highly skilled Deacon.” Father Pine looked at him with adoration that Ira knew he did not deserve.

His cheeks were flushed with shame and torch-hot anger. He wished that Father Pine would stop sinking them deeper into the hole they’d dug in front of the Cardinal--and then he was ashamed even further by his own displeasure. He had to hold himself to the idea that Father Pine was only saying what he thought was best, even if it seemed like he was calling Ira a child.

“We’d hope so. Considering the years of experience he holds over the rest.” The Cardinal said, digging once again at Ira’s shortcomings. “Well, excluding one.”

Maybe the mutter would have passed by Ira unnoticed, but there had been something strange in the sharp edges of the Cardinal’s voice. It offered Ira a slight respite from being the worst one in the room, and so his mind began to roll it over. All his life, he’d suspected himself of being the only one to shirk his responsibilities.

“Absalom,” Father Pine said. His voice held a warning. “Ira only means to take his pilgrimage. You can not give him responsibilities beyond his means. He’s--he is just a kid.”

Ira wanted to level Father Pine with a scalding look. What was it? Was he too old or too young? It seemed that he would always be wrong. For not the first time in his life, Ira understood what it was to be cut in half.

“What do you accuse me of, Jethro?” The Cardinal glowered.

“I just mean to remind the Cardinal the purpose of Ira coming here today.” Father Pine spoke carefully. “His pilgrimage, it is just a means to prove his servitute.”

The Cardinal laughed, throwing his head back like a baying wolf. “You’re saying that I should go easy on him?”

“I just seek that you know you can ask anything of him--once he has passed his test.” Father Pine was nearly begging. His voice was heavy with desperation, and it twisted Ira up inside to hear it.

It was the nature of pilgrimage that Ira would be on his own, and for this reason, he could understand why Father Pine was so concerned. If Ira could just make it past this, then the full resources of the Progeny would be opened to him. If he just made it past this--by himself. Whatever this may be. Ira could sense Father Pine’s fear in the air, and it did not extend into himself. Ira was not afraid. Well, not of whatever the Cardinal would assign him. He was scared of plenty else.

“So this is the reason you have denied your Deacon his right to pilgrimage all these years?” The Cardinal scowled, and Father Pine withered beneath it. “Do not worry, Jethro. I know well what to expect from the Soul.”

“Your Eminence,” Ira bowed his head. He did not want the Cardinal to strike him with a disapproving glare and shake him from his courage before he could say his part. “I will pilgrimage, in whatever way necessary to prove myself to the Sect of Saint Francis--and to the Progeny.”

“You will,” the Cardinal agreed, “but I unfortunately have to agree with your mentor. These are rather unique circumstances--maybe the rules should be changed. Deacons have dedicated years to their trial. You have given those years to evading yours. Tonight, you will complete your pilgrimage. It will be the fastest anyone ever has.” His voice dripped with malice and contempt. And there was something else. Just beneath the surface; regret.

Ira snapped his head upright to face the full gaze of the Cardinal. The color drained from his cheeks. “Y-your Eminence--I want to pilgrimage. I want the full opportunity to prove myself.” Ira could have begged. No, he was. He knew he was. The tremble of his voice betrayed him.

All his life, he had been faced with disdain each waking moment and tortured by visions every night. He’d been only eight when the legacies began to say things about him, things that children should not have understood. After that, Father Pine had Ira removed from learning with the other children. Then his testimony had ceased, and he’d fallen even further from the Progeny. Ira had no claim to the angel’s promise and no way to earn it.

“You will, and it will be a task worthy of the Soul,” the Cardinal said. Ira let the words wash over him as rain to a desert, “but you will not do it alone.”

“You mean Ira should share his task?” Father Pine balked, the relief he should have enjoyed was buried beneath a mound of confusion.

“I do not mean to share.” The Cardinal said, Father Pine froze.

“You can’t.” He whispered.

“The boy is already on his way.” The Cardinal pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. “When he arrives, Ira will follow the promise made by the angels.” Ira’s skin prickled as sweat began to roll down his spine. Fear so thick it turned his stomach to cement coiled tight around his insides until he was nauseous--and he was unsure of why.

“Absalom, you can’t mean-”

“Jethro, you enjoy too much telling me what I can or can not mean.” The Cardinal slumped back down into his council seat and squeezed his eyes shut. “Do you think I enjoy sending children to fight these battles, Jethro?”

When his scorn-filled eyes reappeared, they were heavy with mourning. “If blood was all we needed, I would gladly pay the price until I had none left to give--but it would still not be enough. Sometimes, great cause requires greater sacrifice. That is the way of things, Jethro. Remind yourself of your vows.”

Ira was burdened with questions. He worked all his strength into his tongue and had nearly begun to voice his many concerns. Sacrifice? He didn’t like that word. Before Ira could even begin to stutter forth his fears, he was brought to a halt by a room-shaking boom. The grand oak doors of the courtroom were thrown inwards so forcefully they slammed against the walls, creating an echo that shook Ira to his bones. He spun on his heels, tensed for anything, and still not prepared.

The old man shambled into the room with a serious scowl across his face. The darkening bruise beneath his eye only added to his brooding atmosphere. He was dressed in simple black clothing, edged in scarlet. Ira would have suspected him of being a Bishop like Father Pine, but it was in the way he held himself that radiated power and authority. This man was an Archbishop. Something afforded to very few.

“I apologize for our lateness, Your Eminence.” He did not offer an excuse or explanation.

Ira raised an eyebrow in quiet appreciation. The man began down the aisle, looking perfectly unashamed. The boy shuffling along awkwardly behind him did not share in his mentor’s confidence. He tugged nervously at the edge of his left sleeve until he glanced up into Ira’s curious gaze. He froze, as still as a deer in headlights, and slowly moved his arms behind his back. Ira turned his teeth into the soft skin of his inner lip to conceal his amused smile.

It was strange to see someone here who seemed just as nervous as he was. The boy was similar in age to Ira, maybe a little younger if his soft boyish cheeks were any indication. Vexing as it was, he was clearly taller. Taller than most in the room, in fact, and yet he walked as curled inward as a poked worm. His oak-toned skin was hauntingly pale, as if all his blood had sunken into his boots. Ira could see that he was trembling too, just barely visible in the lines of his broad shoulders. The boy must have noticed it, too. He squeezed his flash-bright eyes shut--just for a single second--and when they opened again he was still and contained.

He straightened his back, keeping his head carefully bowed. His hair was too short to tumble into his face. Cropt close to his skull, and yet still springing up into wildly untamable curls. His hair was as dark a brown as coffee. His eyes, which he had not let Ira catch a glimpse of again, seemed to be the only source of light beneath all of New York. They shimmered, reflecting all the archaic torches in the room.

Beneath the scornful watch of the Cardinal, it would have been entirely inappropriate to say the boy was beautiful--so Ira simply held such thoughts to himself and turned his eyes away so they could not betray him

“Ailbe,” the Cardinal pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly from his lips in a way that hinted at a long and tumultuous past between the two. Though, Ira couldn’t wrap his head around whatever their relationship may be.

The Cardinal scowled down at the elder man in the same way a father might at his pesky child. Ira thought he would begin to scold him, but it did not come. The Cardinal’s voice had changed since Ailbe and his Deacon entered. He was putting on an act for their benefit, Ira realized. He knew that Father Pine had caught it too by the sudden tensing of his shoulders. Ira looked for his eyes, and Father Pine turned his head away. “You as well represent a Deacon late to bloom.”

It may have been more literal in the case of this second boy, with his rounded jaw and frizzy curls. Ira thought of his own peril in arriving to the courtroom and wondered how much of his messy appearance could be attributed to his descent. When the Cardinal fit him with a cold stare, he shifted uncomfortably beneath it--until his mentor fit him with an ever colder glare, and he was once again completely frozen.

“I have had peculiar challenges in raising my Deacon.” Ailbe admitted. “I have never thought it quite fair to set him up for failure--which a pilgrimage would have been.”

Ira would have been wounded to hear such doubts come from Father Pine, but this boy did not flinch. He stared down at his shoes as if the polished leather contained the magic words to see him safely out of this situation.

“Then I must ask you as well. Why now?” The Cardinal asked. Ira’s heart pounded so quickly behind his ribs that he thought they might break.

“I believe this to be a rare opportunity.” The man, Ailbe, fit Ira with an eerie pair of pale blue eyes. “One in which my Deacon could play his disadvantages to strengths.”

The Cardinal blew a humorless laugh from his nose. “You mean his unique condition? How do you think that will help us at all? Ailbe, it’s true that I need your Deacon. He’s one of a kind, truly. Still, I think you’re misunderstanding what exactly I need him for.” The Cardinal was speaking slowly, as if carefully mulling over each word.

Ira had the sense that everyone in the room was dancing around something, intentionally keeping the Deacons out in the dark. Ira half-heartedly thought that it might have been one of those times when he was supposed to reach the conclusion on his own. That didn’t comfort him, so he turned ice-blue eyes to Father Pine’s worried face but found no reassurance there either.

“I would like to prove something to the Progeny.” Ailbe said.

The Cardinal held his palm out, encouraging him to go on. Ailbe looked at his Deacon, and for the first time, the edges of his hard exterior softened.

“He’s worth more alive.” The boy’s head snapped upright, meeting his mentor’s eyes with surprise. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak, but he did not. Ira swallowed hard. It had not been a kind thing to hear--so why did the boy look so touched. Like he’d just received his first ever compliment. Ira worried what direction things had begun to head towards, and he worried even more for the part he would play in it.

“Ailbe,” The Cardinal ran a flat hand over his face, tiredness edging into his perfect form. The Cardinal turned his attention to the Deacon. “Do you know what’s expected of you?”

He nodded once.

“I do.” He said clearly--looking for the first time since he’d entered the courtroom--sure of himself.

The Cardinal shut his eyes and leaned forward on his elbows, placing his face in his hands. The Cardinal shook his head and turned his gaze back to the boy. “Then I am truly sorry, but you know it’s just not your purpose to be useful.”

“I . . .understand.” The boy said.

“Well, I do not.” Ailbe barked gruffly. “We hang two young lives on one impossible hope. Based on what? A forgotten promise? Why do we fight each day, Absalom? I thought it was to protect the future of humanity. Well, look, Absalom, the future stands before you now! And we are the only ones standing in the way. These two boys have never been allowed to grow into their potential, always waiting for the moment they’re called to the culling.”

“Ailbe, it’s not a promise.” The Cardinal cut. “It’s much more-”

“Blah, blah,” Ailbe waved his hand dismissively in front of his face, chasing away the Cardinal’s words as if they were pesky flies. “Fate, then?”

The Cardinal looked suddenly pale, but he slowly nodded. “Yes.”

“Then it will happen,” Ailbe agreed, “but only when it is time.”

“The fate of our world hangs in the balance, Ailbe.” The Cardinal said plainly.

“Absalom,” Father Pine said gently. “I agree with Ailbe. Trying to force destiny--it could fail. If you truly believe in what the angels promised, then let it play out to fruition.”

“You two are standing in the way of something you do not fully understand.” The Cardinal warned. “I’m afraid we don’t have much time, certainly not enough to do nothing but wait.”

“I have never planned to just wait, Absalom.” Ailbe chuckled. “I told you, I came to seek pilgrimage for my Deacon.”

“You think your Deacon is suited for the threat ahead? You seem very brazen for a man in the dark.” The Cardinal said, raising an auspicious brow. “If I told you the fate of our world was being decided by forces much stronger than us. You would place it all on your Deacon?”

“You mean to place it all on my Deacon, I just hope to give him a chance to stay alive while he does it.” Ailbe countered. He rested a palm on the boy’s shoulder. “Melchior is braver than any Deacon I ever raised. He has more in his heart than you know, Cardinal. I believe in him, and I do not say it lightly.”

The Cardinal watched Ailbe, and then the boy, with a hesitant expression. He shook his head and blew a short breath from his nose. “May the angels guide us,” he cursed.

He was a man who had been defeated, and he had not seemed the type. Ira wondered what had happened in his head that they could not see. He wondered how high the stakes must have been to make the man fold. Ira had a sick feeling bubbling in his chest.

“Ira Rule, you seek pilgrimage. I grant your request.” The Cardinal spoke firmly, and the air in the court grew suddenly colder. Ira was frozen to it, unprepared to be suddenly fixed under all of his attention again. And then suddenly it was the least of his problems. “Find the breach in the Trammel between our worlds. This is your task. Do you accept it?”

Ira was stunned, but he swallowed hard and nodded his head. He had stood here before, voice quivering beneath the intense gaze of a man who did not much like him. It had prepared him well to have his heart squeezed and pretend that it did not ache. “I accept.”

He could not bring himself to look at Father Pine, so he turned sky-blue eyes to polished oxford shoes and waited with baited breath.

The Cardinal turned to the other boy, his voice held in revere. “Melchior Brisbane, I offer you only one chance to try and change your fate. Assist Ira Rule in his quest. Help him find the riff between our worlds. This is your task. Do you accept it?”

The boy did not speak. He looked at his mentor with something like disbelief and the fragile beginnings of hope, silly how he had only found it in certain doom. His mentor nodded, and in that something passed between them that Ira would never begin to understand. When the boy--Melchior turned his head towards the Cardinal, he did so with no hesitation. He lifted his chin in defiance. “I accept.”

“Then I make my ruling.” The Cardinal declared. “You will find the gates of Hell in three months--if you have failed by the night of the full moon, we do things by the way sent to us from the angels.” The Cardinal brought his palms together in a resounding boom that shook both boys to the core. “Ira Rule will fulfill the Forgotten Prophecy. He will spill the cursed blood, he will sacrifice Melchior Brisbane.”

The weight of the decision settled over Ira’s throat until he couldn’t breathe. Unwillingly, his eyes sought out the boy he’d just been ordered to kill. He’d just been handed a death sentence at the end of the world, so why did he look so at peace? As if any of this made even a single lick of sense.

What Prophecy? What curse? His mind flinched towards the nearest conclusion--that this boy had been damned by the angels, too. It sickened him to realize how much comfort came from that thought.

“I suppose we should do our best to humor tradition. Deacons, you may take a moment to say your goodbyes.” The Cardinal dismissed.

Ira had half expected Father Pine to guide him back to the surface, telling him all the way that it would be okay and that this was nothing but another nasty nightmare. So something shattered inside of Ira’s rib cage when Father Pine did not move.

He glanced at the Cardinal and then at Ira. “Kid,” he murmured. Father Pine extended his arms, and Ira went willingly into them.

“Remember what I told you. Follow your heart.” The depths of Ira’s confusion ran so deep he couldn’t even begin to untangle it into words. So he didn’t try. He knew what the answer would be anyway, something about self-discovery and trusting his instincts. And he could do neither with his head and heart as twisted up as they were.

Father Pine slowly pushed Ira to an arm’s length and touched his cheek. “I have something to give to you–a couple of things, actually.” Father Pine reached into the high collar of his silk black shirt. He pulled free a small iron chain. A skeleton key dangled from the necklace. Father Pine pulled it over his head and passed it into Ira’s open palm. “This is yours now. It’s tradition to pass on your key. You’re meant to use it to return here and announce the completion of your pilgrimage before the Cardinal.”

Ira glanced over Father Pine’s shoulder, where a boy like him was pressed into a tight hug from a man who looked as cuddly as a cactus. He hadn’t seemed the sentimental type, but he placed the necklace over his Deacon’s head and stopped to stroke his curls. “All my life, you warned me of this day. Did you know what he would ask me? You knew that I was destined for this. Murder.” Father Pine said nothing, and it said everything. “How could you?”

“Ira, please.” Father Pine begged. He grabbed Ira’s cheeks and turned his eyes into his own. “You’re special, and I know it isn’t easy-”

“He’s special, too, isn’t he?” Ira pushed, “but his special almost had him under my knife.”

Father Pine’s eyebrows creased, darkening his eyes. “Ira, he is nothing like you. He’s-” Father Pine stopped himself and shook his head. “Please, kid. We won’t see each other again--for a while. Let’s not use this time fighting.”

The anger had entangled itself so tightly around Ira’s chest. He didn’t know if it would ever ease. He grit his teeth and bowed his head. “Okay,” he breathed, and it had been a harder thing to say than accepting an impossible task from the Cardinal had been to do. His hands shook by his sides, tightening over the metal key until the edges dug into his skin.

Father Pine sighed and pulled a small bundle from the inside pocket of his scarlet trimmed jacket. It was wrapped in brown cloth and tied with twine. “You will need this.” Father Pine held it out towards Ira’s chest until the boy accepted it with trembling fingers. “There’s another thing, but I’ll have it sent to your apartment.”

“My apartment?” Ira croaked.

“Yes,” Father Pine smiled sadly, “this marks the beginning of your pilgrimage, kiddo.”

It was all Ira had wanted, and now that he had it, he couldn’t wrap his head around the mess he was sinking into.

5 | Ira Meets His Other Other Half

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