Unholy Visitor
In the cathedral, Rhiannon felt like the small girl she had been in her grandmother's formal living room, just trying not to stain anything. The sweatshirt bulge around her arm kept blood off the pews and the kneelers, but she worried anyway, that somehow Atia's filth had clung to her, that she had brought it into a sacred space.
She hadn't wanted to go home, though. There wasn't solace there, or any confirmation that she was doing the right thing by engaging Atia. In the heat of the fight, she'd felt so justified in her impulsive decisions, nearly righteous with the rightness of it, but afterwards she doubted. When her arm was shredded, and she was staring into eyes blacker than tar, there should've been caution. But she threw herself into things headlong, time and again, justifying it as a great sacrifice. Necessary somehow.
The church still smelled of 5 o' clock mass. She breathed it in deep. Was Michael with her, as she prayed for him to be? The field commander of God's army. Someone who had faced battles worse than this, probably without signing on with the devil to do it. Maybe he had some wisdom for her. A tip about how to stave off apocalypse without writing off his soul.
"This is the work I was meant to do," she repeated in earnest, pressing the sound of those syllables into her folded hands, wanting to believe it again. Maybe she was this shy of being a bad guy because it made her capable of things like this. She ducked her head in exhaustion.
"In a manner of speaking..."
That familiar voice, with its crystal clarity, its partial telepathic intonation, was most surely a mockery, a desecration of this place. Just by being heard in there, it seemed to challenge heaven's very right to exist, much less show willingness to dirty Saintly soldiers.
And if God moved in mysterious ways, then by offering such a saviour in Rhiannon Lee's time of need, was this not a sign of cosmic insanity?
There she stood. The lady in black. Elfleda, every bit the picture of some regal, unholy goddess, letting not an inch of recently exiled status affect her. Either she was stubborn or was simply incapable of looking the part of some poor, put-upon thing, wishing for pity and sorrow. But, of course, she had spoken before of not wishing for anything of the sort. Elfleda was not seeking redemption. She was very much pursuing a course of revenge.
That was hell's way.
She did not shy away from here, like some lowly example of the fanged undead. There were sacred places she was barred from entering, it was true, but a place of what amounted to tradition and orthodoxy, no, this was not sealed to her. She had seen religions come and go, dozens, if not hundreds of them, all over this world and so very many more. Mere glimpses into the realms beyond, they afforded. Mortal minds struggling to comprehend and interpret through stories and recorded texts.
But she did so enjoy mocking them... A disdainful 'smile' given to the large crucifix at the front; Elfleda even crossing herself and muttering a phrase in Latin, although perhaps more in curse than praise, such was the manner in which she cast the concluding words out, eyes narrowed.
Unless Rhiannon's ears were playing tricks on her, it seemed as if the very walls offered a distant groan in reacting protest.
"I gather," she spoke, voice now realigned to a purely verbal form, for politeness' sake, "you had an encounter with my replacement..."
At that moment, Rhiannon would've been hard-pressed to decide which Emissary she disliked most. Atia in all her wrath, or Elfleda, who glided in on the coattails of the other's fury, managing to affect an air of self-importance despite being cast out and needing a human to put her back on the throne. What incredible, delusional ego it must take to do that. Then again, perhaps it was just a stage performance, Elfleda playing her arrogant role with mastery. Either way, it always seemed to Rhiannon that the black-haired Corruptress was nothing more than a powerful being who knew how to wield psychology as a weapon.
Without looking, the Slayer said, "Don't you walk in here playing passive-aggressive heretic. I don't know Latin, but I know you, and this is His house. If you want my ears, you'll put a lid on that."
Giving the accustomed sign of the cross, Rhiannon left her pew and met her accomplice in the aisle.
"Yes," she said, referring back to the matter. "I did have an 'encounter'." The bunched material made it awkward to do so, but she folded her arms and looked at Elfleda.
There was something like a growling purr of self-contentment, when the request was made. Elfleda still looking at the cross for a moment, before transferring gaze back to the girl again. She might no longer have a familial pack to consort with, but gave the impression of being as dangerous as a hungry panther in nursery. Elfleda was not completely defanged. Just cut off from the majority of her resources and lacking guidance.
"I have something of a... Dislike for priests," she explained, phrasing her thoughts on the matter in a somewhat more diplomatic way than was privately thought.
True enough, but not the reason she had come here for. As Elfleda slightly turned Rhiannon's way, a little of her dress brushed against nearby upholstery. The blessed nature of it seeming to react against the Corruptress' presence and hiss a little, smoke rising.
"I do miss our little confrontations," she complimented, that time giving a more genuine smile, now out of nostalgia, as she reached out a hand to caress once against the Slayer's cheek. "Did she think to tempt or indulge in one of her sessions devoted to violence? I've a feeling it's the latter... Atia's motivations are rather, dare I say it, single-minded."
"Like a bully on a playground," Rhiannon said, shoulders lifting in an easy shrug. It was much more nonchalant than she felt. To her credit, she didn't shrink from the deceptively gentle hand, despite having mental images of breaking each of those fingers at terrible angles. Rhiannon hadn't forgotten all the ills dealt to them by Elfleda, most recently the Defiler, which had cost a Searchlight girl her life, not to mention Rhiannon her relationship with Whistler.
No, she wasn't enraptured by Leviathan's ex-Bride,.. Just disturbingly familiar with her; old enemies could be as reaffirming as friends.
"And she's not a fan of yours," Rhiannon went on. "She's got kind-of a... Jan Brady thing going on." Rhiannon leaned her weight on one hip, mentally reviewing options. "You know if I could, I'd try to sabotage this thing so you both rotted in exile. I mean, you both want the same thing... to suck my world and all the people in it into a hell dimension." The brunette waved her hand around. "The only difference is, you've got the worse track record for sucess. It's pretty much your campaign slogan. 'Vote for me, it'll be a slow death.' "
Looking overhead at the beams that crossed the ceiling, Rhiannon exhaled. "But that's a pipe dream. So I'm in. Now how do we do this?"
Both Brides wanted the same thing, indeed...
"Someone always will," Elfleda reasoned over the previous comment. "There are those who would replace her, in turn... This is not a war you can ever hope to win through attrition, Rhiannon Lee. What I can offer is significantly less incidental victims, for both sides concerned. She won't just open the gates of hell, she'll split it in half and watch the shards splinter poison across the very heavens, themselves."
Because at least hell was collected, occupying its own little niche. Perhaps even serving some sort of purpose. Having it torn apart and infecting everything, whilst achieving nothing, would be a hideous turn of events. To where could one run, if all around them was contaminated?
"Dear Atia can resent me as much as she likes... My being exiled has never stopped her before. Now, however, you've been witness to her weakness. You see, Rhiannon," the Corruptress smiled again, moving hand over Bible to hover closely above, "even hell has rules... I wish to make her break them. Her rule in my place, commanding that which was gifted to me, has not been pleasing to those now under her, instead. A gathering turmoil I have been striding to exploit."
Rhiannon adopted a more casual stance against the end of a pew, crossing her ankles. "I don't see why it matters what underlings she pisses off, if Leviathan is the only one whose opinion counts... the only power you answer to. Forgive me for making assumptions, but I didn't think you were running a PR campaign." She hadn't meant to volley so much conversational fodder Elfleda's way. But she had curiosity about the inner workings of their world. At one point, she had excused that morbid curiosity by saying it might help her exploit her enemies later. Sometimes it did help. But really, Rhiannon just wanted to know, for the sake of knowing.
She eyed the Bible, wondering if it too would steam in the Bride's presence. "I want to know which rule is the dealbreaker."
A smile flickered over those black lips. Something to do with the mention of deals. She knew someone who could give quite a lengthy discussion on the boundaries of those. Someone she had not met since...
"To put one's own ego and needs, thereof, before those of Leviathan. Before hell, itself. She functions, as did I, in what your language might term as a diplomatic role, my dear... To become more than a servant of the shadows is in direct violation of her placement. To take that which is not given... That which is reserved in its schemes, without permission, is to become a liability."
A pause was made and Elfleda slipped hand into the Slayer's. "You would be one such temptation, my dear, precious Rhiannon," she spoke, only to lean in and quietly whisper, "Her eyes and ears shall not speak of what is given in confidence..."
Covering the gesture with the sort of kiss to cheek characteristic of the former Corruptress' doings, a folded note of what seemed to be paper had been transferred between palms. Evidently, it was not to be opened yet. Hidden, instead, until later, when Rhiannon could read words formed not in ink, but literally somehow burnt into its surface, with all the refined detail of an artist's tattoo. The girl no doubt remembered Elfleda's own invisible helpers and this was a known method to evade them.
What could not be listened in on, what was not made known in conversation or gestured in body language for all to see, could not be conveyed, in turn, to Atia.
In that note, albeit framed in Elfleda's turn of phrase, would be imparted the outline of various plans. Each with their risks and chances of success. Elfleda was almost certainly giving the girl a weapon to use against her, in turn, some future day, but in all wars, there must be sacrifice. A concept with which Elfleda was more than intimately familiar.
"As for my... 'PR campaign', you call it?" She continued, not with sarcasm, but because the term was understood only loosely. "I should think we could do with all the allies we can find."
Taking the note into hand, Rhiannon studied its outer appearance before tucking it away, where it seemed to burn a hole in her pocket. Those plans would have to be read later, in privacy, though it was frustrating to Rhiannon that she couldn't read them now. She would almost certainly have questions. But Elfleda was right. Invisible servants had eyes and ears, and would report schemes to their new mistress.
So the deadliest sin in Leviathan's realm was to act selfishly, rather than on behalf of It, and within Its parameters? Rhiannon thought that was ironic, considering it bore a striking resemblance to the principles put forth by the Old Testament's version of God. Having a selfish nature -- indulging oneself -- was a Christian sin, and as such, she would've thought it would be lauded in Leviathan's realm. Apparently ego overruled.
"I won't ask about these yet," Rhiannon agreed, though a time for clarification was bound to come. "But what do you mean, I'm a temptation... To kill me?"
"If she cannot procure you by other means, then yes... If only as a slight against me. I never lied when I spoke of your potential, Rhiannon. She, however, remembers only our conversations, not the words. She wants to have you, because I never could. Not fully. You are the trophy she wishes for her wall, as my own head is, shall we say, somewhat unavailable." Although having finished her elaboration, something odd seemed to occur with the paler brunette. She seemed distracted by something, frowning and looking off to one side. Even Rhiannon could feel it. Might not see it, hear it or smell it, but there was... Something. A quality which could only be described as somehow thinning... A lessening of Elfleda's usual dark presence and for quite what reason remained invisible to the Slayer.
Nevertheless, there it was. Something catching Elfleda's attention. Perhaps its location was just coincidence, but it was somewhere not too far away from the cross. Whatever it was, Elfleda seemed oddly puzzled by it. Even, dare one say it, disturbed. Enough to take a step back, unsteady, although not quite stumbling.
If Rhiannon were to follow Elfleda's gaze, however, she would make out, for the briefest of moments, the ghostly outline of male and female. The man older than the woman, both standing in robed attire. Old clothing. Not at all modern. It lasted for but a second and then, as Elfleda reacted with a sharp exhale and disparaging mutter of, "Sorcery," the phantoms disappeared. The vision had left Elfleda a little shaken and now she looked about her surroundings with a most suspicious gaze.
"I feel not safe here," was all she said of the experience. "Are your questions answered?"
It had been noticed by Rhiannon, like catching glimpse of something from the corner of her eye, and having it disappear when she looked. Seeing nothing by the altar, she shivered. If she had guessed, Rhiannon might've figured any apparition was a holy one, to ellicit such a response from Elfleda. Perhaps an angel, like Nathan had been, warning her off the premises.
"You don't feel safe..?" Asked with a probing disbelief, but not unkindly. "Okay." Rhiannon pressed her lips together and wet them. "Go. I'll figure the rest out on my own." For she wanted to figure it out. Even the part the Slayer should've ignored, her 'potential', a carrot that the Bride dangled before her from time to time, like Rhiannon was some kind of Pandora.
Rubbing her arms, Rhiannon moved to the basin of holy water and dipped her fingers inside. Touching her hand sequentially to forehead, chest, and shoulders, she made her way towards the exit.