Forget Me Not

I've Got No-one But Myself To Blame

Arvid nodded, happy to have helped rescue the man from probable hypothermia but, in truth, now mainly keen just to go home.

It took only a few moments to slide the still unconscious man from the back seat into the waiting wheelchair with a strap pulled across his chest and under his arms, necessary to hold him upright. After the battered, bruised and bloodied man had been taken inside, the couple were more than ready to say their goodbyes and return to the comfort of their own home, now thankfully not too far away.

*

Allowing the man's left eyelid to close, Sister Hope Augusta nodded to herself, an unspoken question answered within her own mind. She looked down with an air of silent contempt at the still unconscious man, now sleeping in a quiet, private and windowless room that adjoined the infirmary. Joining her after a conversation with the infirmary doctor, Bishop Samson offered a puzzled frown, appearing uncertain why the elder nun seemed so agitated.

"I can't believe our good fortune," her mouth lengthened into a broad smile.

"Good fortune?" Samson asked. "How?"

"Our mission?" She turned a puzzled expression towards the bishop, before extending a hand to indicate their new patient. "To destroy the Satanic Church?" She prompted.

On receiving no response other than the mirrored reflection of her own puzzled expression, she continued:

"You do know who this is, don't you?" She asked carefully.

"I don't actually."

The Bishop replied, mildly irritated by the lack of explanation but equally embarrassed by the need for it, assuming from her expression that he shouldn't need one.

"A cardinal, I assume?" He prompted hoping for an answer.

The Sister took a moment to gather her thoughts. How the Bishop wasn't aware of the identity of the man lying before them, she simply couldn't fathom. Yes, she had taken the time to confirm it, but she had recognised him immediately. They had both been given the same information when assigned to the church. Perhaps she was just that bit better with faces? If the man had been awake, perhaps his unholy eye would have been enough for Samson to recognise him?

"Well," she began, "my interest was piqued when told he was a cardinal. We weren't expecting anyone, so he could only have been going to the abbey. But he ends up here injured instead. Do you see?"

She appeared almost bursting with excitement, not moving her eyes from Copia for a moment.

"Ah! Yes," Samson began to nod, making the connection. "We can use..."

He paused abruptly with a question on his lips.

"But, wait... you recognise him, though? Is he one of theirs or not?"

"That's where it gets interesting. A high-ranking satanic cleric would have served our purpose well enough, but this!" She threw out an arm, indicating towards Copia with a dramatic flourish. "Can you believe God has brought us this abomination?"

Bishop Samson closed his eyes and withheld a sigh growing increasingly confused as she seemed to actively avoid explaining.

"And, he is?" He prompted.

The nun finally turned her eyes away from Copia and looked directly at Samson. She seemed almost gleeful; whoever he was, Samson could see she was at once repulsed by the man himself but delighted that he was there.

"This is why we were sent here." she extended her arms before clasping her hands together in giddy excitement, "You really don't recognise him? Picture him with paint," she instructed as she gestured, circling her own face before pointing back at Copia. "This is Emeritus himself! The public face of that vile satanic and infernal group that acts for their ministry. This," she again waved an expansive hand over Copia, "is the one who has the absolute gall to refer to himself as Papa! A false Pope!"