darker_london | This little light of mine (Peter) (Reply)

This time, Peter saw the light in the hallway turn on, illuminating the lines around the edges of the door. He had either had his back towards it or he was too busy having panic attacks to notice it before now. This time he lifted his head and he had the forethought to squeeze his eyes against the brightness in the few seconds before the door swung open.

"Father Kemp."

Peter opened one eye the tiniest fraction and he felt like it was being burned right out of his socket. Immediately his eyes started to water and he closed them again. "I rather thought you lot weren't going to call me that anymore?" Peter asked as he tried to shield his eyes with his hand.

"Not all of us think you are necessarily unworthy of the title."

Peter managed to keep his eyes open and he peered at the man through a tiny slit; it was not without pain and a great deal of effort. He was wondering if this man was his precious foodbringer, or a bully sent by Dragonetti to mess with him. He didn't see any food. He didn't smell it either. That was depressing. "Interesting. And why is that? Considering I'm no longer a priest, I don't know why you lot continued to use that title for as long as you did to begin with."

"Some things aren't as easy to undo as they are to do."

Peter stared at the man, who seemed to stare back at him, though it was hard to tell through the hood. Either way, he simply stood there while Peter gaped painfully at him. And then the man stepped one foot to the right, effectively blocking the worst of the light from Peter's eyes. "Better?"

Peter blinked and then he nodded, utterly speechless. "Why...?"

"It's best you don't ask." The man then produced a sandwich from somewhere in his bulky robes, and Peter's stomach did a somersault. He was more composed that he had been last time, however, and though his eyes flicked up to the man's hood in utter interest, he remained seated. Something strange was going on.

Peter licked his lips. "Okay...what do you want me to do then?"

"Soon they're going to come back here, wanting answers."

Peter looked confused. "They?"

"My brethren. Whatever you do, don't give them a thing. Answers, ideas...inklings. Don't give them any of it."

"What are you-?"

The Templar raised one creepy-gloved hand to what was probably his lips to indicate silence. Peter had the urge to make a spooky sound back to him, but he kept that to himself. Now wasn't the time or place. Instead, he nodded, which seemed to be the right course of action. The Templar held out the sandwich.

Peter rose from his wooden bed and he tried to reach the sandwich. His chains weren't long enough however, and even with his arms outstretched he couldn't reach it. "What are you doing?!" he asked, distressed.

"Testing you."

"My legs are longer. I can probably reach a few things you value even if you don't use them," Peter gritted out, still trying to reach the sandwich.

"If I give you the sandwich, will you tell me where the traitor Saul is?"

Peter's mouth dropped open and he looked up at the Templar in horror. His arms fell limp and he was left standing there, feeling utterly hopeless. "Saul?"

"Don't be cute, Father Kemp. Where is Saul?"

Was it all a game? And act to get Peter on-side? All that about them coming later to ask him questions? Not giving them answers? He was being tested? Or was later the test? Peter's lips pressed into a thin line and he shook his head. "I'm not going to tell you where he is, though I will give you a couple colourful examples of where you can shove that sandwic-"

"Father Kemp?"

"What?!"

"A better answer is just to say you don't know." The man tossed Peter the sandwich and even as stunned as Peter was, he caught it perfectly. He unwrapped it and took three quick bites before turning back to the strange man in the room with him.

"This is about Saul?"

"This is about everything."

Peter groaned. "Thank you for making this so much easier! Everything! That should be a cinch."

"Your sarcasm is a meager attempt to handle this situation. I understand that. You still need to know what's coming. You can't tell them a thing. We're at the brink here."

Peter bit his lip and then he nodded. "What's your name?"

The Templar shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

"Are you one of them?" Peter asked, taking another bite.

"Yes." Peter felt his blood run cold as he stared at the hooded person in front of him. And then the man pulled something else out of his robes. "Cigarette?"

"Are you...out of your mind?"

The man actually chuckled and Peter started to think he was dreaming. "Not yet. I would have brought you whiskey, but I think you might need to have your mind clear for this."

At the mention of alcohol, Peter's mouth went dry and his insides seemed to scream for a drink. A cigarette it was. Peter reached out his hand for the replacement drug and instead of handing him one, the man handed him the entire pack and a lighter. "They'll help with the hunger pangs. Just be careful. If you set your one blanket on fire you could burn to death without anyone knowing."

Peter grumbled. He was so cold he was almost willing to do it anyway despite the risk. The heat would be short lived though. Not worth it. "And what if they find these when they come back to ask me about everything?"

"Hide them."

"Find a hiding spot, in the dark, within reach of my chains...that's-"

"Not un-doable. You're Peter Kemp. Use that brain I've heard so much about."

"They're going to smell them."

"Half of them smoke," the man said in a tone that sounded as if he thought Peter were very simple. "And the other half will think it's the first half. You should know well that people find the simplest explanation for things."

"And how do I know you're not setting me up?" Peter asked, finishing off the first half of the sandwich. "You said were were one of them."

The Templar nodded. "I am." And then he reached into his robes a last time and he pulled out something Peter recognised. Something of Peter's, which the Templar had taken from him when he had been tossed in here. It was the ring of one Robert MacGavillary. Peter's friend and fellow priest who had joined the Templar to try to help. To work against them.

"Robert," Peter whispered. It wasn't Robert, however. Robert was dead. While alive he had been seven feet tall. This man was the same height as Peter. The message, however, was still received. "Thank you."

"You might want to find your seat again. I have to turn the lights off." The Templar stowed Peter's necklace in his robes again and Peter nodded.

"How long? How long have you-?"

"Five years."

"Can you tell them where I-?"

"That's not how it works, Peter." The man sounded gruff now. Impatient.

"Can't you at least tell me your na-"

"I have to go." The man turned and made his way out of the room. Quickly Peter returned to his bench, even as the lights faded and then extinguished as the door slammed home. Even as it did so, Peter thought of a thousand other things he could have asked. If Dragonetti and his men were coming back to seek Peter's advice, something had happened. Something had changed. And instead of asking about that, Peter had asked a man's name. He had asked for part of a story that wasn't his to know. Peter was lonely, and he had wanted to make a connection. Now he was unprepared for what was coming, only knowing that it was.

Peter ate his sandwich and then he carefully lit a cigarette, making sure he felt out the proper angle to do so. He revelled in the small amount of light the flame gave off, and as he took the first drag, he sighed deeply.

Peter was lonely, but he wasn't alone. That was worth far more than he could say. So he smoked and considered his options. If the Templar were returning, they would bring their toys with them. That meant torture. It meant pain. It also meant they needed him. He would just have to wait to see what they needed him for.