Christof

((So...this is something I started and if y'all like it I'll try to continue it. It's here under NC-17 because I'm not sure exactly where it's going to go, and this will cover my bases. ))



“Brother Christof?” The two young men waited patiently after realizing they had interrupted the benediction of the Blessed Sacrament. The man performing the ceremony remained with his back to them, murmuring soft words in Latin before draining the chalice he held, the golden cup shining in the soft light. He set down the precious gold cup, letting a finger linger along the rim for a moment. Christof had heard them approaching long before they ever arrived in the tiny chapel. Part of him wondered why two young acolytes were wandering the monastery at this time of night. Another part of him was angered at the disruption to his Communion. It was well past sunset, sometime close to midnight, in fact, when most of the brothers were asleep or deep in prayer in their own rooms. He continued to ignore them as he added the tiniest bit of water to the chalice, swirling it around to clean the cup before drinking that as well. He wiped his lips carefully with the linen napkin. Only he, the abbot, and his God needed to know everything about him – and not even the abbot knew everything.

He genuflected, holding his hand before him and sketching the sign of the cross upon himself. There were still some things he had difficulty with, even after so long. Turning to face the rather impatient interrupters of his nightly communion, they never saw the flicker of annoyance that crossed his features, quickly composed again lest the mask slip and his true feelings be revealed. That was something that did not need to happen, not here in this house of God.

“Yes brothers? Is there something I can do for you?” Though they had questioned him in English, he answered by habit in Latin. The ancient tongue rolled smoothly from his lips, his accent and inflection perfect as always, since it was the language he was raised on. He understood English, and French; the Italian and the Germanic languages, and also spoke them quite fluently, but through it all he preferred Latin, something about the form and syntax comforted him. When he used to debate, he had preferred the abstractions of Greek, but that tongue rarely served him these days.

The two looked surprised, and they looked at each other cautiously before the bolder of the two spoke to him in surprisingly good Latin, though it was a bit stilted and his accent was atrocious. Christof allowed himself a small, secret smile, that these two newcomers did not know who it was they dealt with.

“We both understand you, brother, though my companion Brother Matthew does not speak the tongue as well as I. My name is Brother Stephen. We are new to this monastery, and would beg your forgiveness at interrupting your Communion. We could hear your voice, and wanted to know who celebrated this late at night.”

Christof’s nostrils flared slightly, unseen in the dimness and because his face was in shadow. The other two were also shrouded in the dimness, but the dark had never bothered Christof. In fact, he had once called it brother, but now he only called it friend. The one who spoke to him, Brother Stephen, was a fair liar. A pity he had chosen life in secluded stone and prayer. The Mother Church could have used him at the Vatican, dispelling rumors or hiding miracles. But then, perhaps they did, since Christof had never seen these two before at the monastery, and he kept track better than most of those who came and went from these stone walls. He had the scent of worldliness about him, as did the other. And some fear, he could tell. Christof’s eyes narrowed at this. They did not know they had a reason to fear him, and he had no reason to teach them such a lesson. Not yet.

“And we have now met. If you will excuse me, Brothers, I must be going. I have the late night vigil before our Blessed Virgin tonight.” Christof started down the few steps from the altar, seeking to move past them and out of the room, but he was stopped by the one who had not yet spoken.

“Brother Christof?” This now from Brother Matthew. “Will we see you at morning vespers?” And in English, what a toneless, dissonant language, nothing like the flowing peace of Latin. The question gave Christof pause, however. These two could not know – could they? He looked at each one hard, eyes narrowing in concentration. He could see the smugness of their expressions, hear their hearts beat in the stillness. Jesu, all he needed was a pair of zealous Van Helsings.

“Perhaps. We all gather together at Vespers. There are many of us here. Now please, I am late relieving Brother Michael.” Christof escaped from them, and was halfway down the corridor before he slowed down to a more normal walk. He rarely got spooked, but those two had nearly caused him to forget himself, to use the powers he kept locked in his heart. He had once been the Hunter, the Master of the Night. But right now he felt that shiver that always marked the prey. Damned though he was, he refused to be prey. He would have to watch those two carefully, to keep his secret safe.

He relieved the dozing Brother Michael, and placed himself at the feet of the statue of the Blessed Virgin. He gently nudged the old Brother Michael with a suggestion to go
to his chamber and sleep. The old monk slept more and more often, and Christof could scent the smell of death lingering about him. But he said nothing to the abbot, wanting the old man to feel useful in his last days, rather than confined to a bed in the infirmary. Christof began to pray, his voice low, the Latin flowing from his mouth in beautiful chant. His prayers always began simply, an Ave Maria, progressing to the more ancient prayers when the mother of Christ had had her own following, her own worshippers later absorbed into the more general Christian following. His eyes closed as he prayed, to better enhance his other senses. None were about this late, and dawn would not be for some hours yet. There was life all about him, but it was quiescent and unknowing. As he prayed, Christof let part of his mind consider what he perceived as a problem.

The two young acolytes could become more than a problem, they could become a danger to him, to his very existence. He broke the fifth commandment every other night, as was necessary for him to survive, and repented for it, but he had not killed another human being in many years – many years. He knew he had the ability, but he questioned if he still had the will. But he would make that choice only when it became necessary. And right now, it was not. He was not even sure if they suspected…if they knew.


“Did you hear him run down the hall? I’ve never heard anyone run that fast.” Matthew was excited as he examined the chalice, and his voice proved it. Christof had left the chalice upon the altar out of habit, and Matthew scrutinized the inner bowl in the dimness.

“Calm yourself, Brother Matthew. We have only just met him. Tracking the creature we seek has taken generations. We can be patient just a little longer. We do not know yet for certain if Brother Christof is the one.”

Matthew turned incredulously to his companion. “How can you say he is not the one? All the signs are there.”