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Thomas Lawrence had never been a stranger to the concept of having a soulmate. Far from it, in fact.
He’d never met his own soulmate, whoever they were - there had been a time, in his youth, where he’d always referred to them as a she. He had since become far too old to ignore the possibility that it might be a he - but he’d gained his mark at the age of seventeen and was well on his way to seventy, and had therefore become accustomed to the knowledge.
His mark came in the form of words - perhaps one of the most common ways for it to brand a person - that of the first words meant to be spoken to him from them.
The line of letters - written in a clumsy sort of cursive, as if whomever had written them didn’t care for the careful script and had other things on their mind - was laid in a sharp line of divine ink over his shoulders.
An unfortunate placement, really.
Thomas hadn’t known it was there until his sister had pointed it out, gasping in excited joy for him.
A joy soon to be crushed, when she and her mother learnt of his wish to join seminary rather than follow his father’s footsteps to become a banker.
If he had known beforehand, he would have taken care to hide it, so neither of them would have to know of its, and this mysterious person’s, existence.
A soulmate, quite simply, did not have a place in a priest’s life. And that was it.
Thomas had never, up until his old age, regretted that. He still didn’t, not really. It was only that he now felt as if he might have missed out on something.
But then again, his soulmate had never appeared to him. Not in his youth, not into his middle age, and still they had avoided crossing paths. Perhaps God, in his benevolence, had made sure of it as a kind of mercy.
He had no reason to think of it now, of all the times. The conclave had just started, though the first vote hadn’t been held, a mystery cardinal had just arrived and now, of all the times, his mind was reaching back to this old non-regret of his.
Pensive as the thought always was, Thomas brushed it aside with force, and followed Aldo to meet the newcomer.
A younger man - young he says, but only by comparison to the lot of them, perhaps in his late fifties - with warm brown skin and dark black hair. Quite a lot of it, as well, also in stark comparison to his soon to be fellows. It curled down to his nape, and framed his face in a way that suited him quite well indeed. A handsome face, Thomas noted idly, though it was sleeping. He must have had a long journey.
He was awoken.
A handshake was shared.
Thomas said, “Welcome to the Vatican, Archbishop. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait in here, but we had to make some checks. I do hope you understand. I’m Cardinal Lawrence, Dean of the College.”
This exhausted, strange man, looked momentarily surprised. The hand in his grip spasmed, then let go only a heartbeat too late not to be noticeable. An odd smile broke out on his tired, kind face.
“It is I who must apologise to you, Dean, for making such an unorthodox entrance.” His tone was as curious as his face, quiet but almost reverent, a strange spark in his eyes that conveyed a kind of pleasant shock. And, if Thomas was not mistaken, there was a darker color spreading under his skin, warming his cheeks. “You are most kind to take me in at all.”
The encounter, from there on, was unremarkable. Thomas took little note of it, beyond the added stress of it all, and scarcely thought more of Vincent Benítez, Cardinale in Pectore, until he was safely returned to his room for the coming nights.
He was undressing, and about to take a shower, when he thought again of his mark. But there was something he was missing, and Thomas was quite sure of it. It bothered him immensely, this sense that something was hiding right before his eyes.
Thomas turned to see a glimpse of the script in the mirror, catching on to the last, reversed word of it in his reflection. “-entrance.”
The truth was, due to the placement of the mark and the lack of concern Thomas had felt for it for so long, he often forgot what it said at all. But now, as if doused with cold water, the memory of his sister reading it out loud to him came back with a force.
“Stay still, this is impossible to read even without you moving.” his sister had snapped, whilst a squirming Thomas forced himself to freeze where he sat, shirtless and cold in the bathroom of their house. His shirt had been discarded, laying as miserably as he felt on the floor. He did rather detest being in states of undress, much more so when others could see him.
“Go on with it, then.” Thomas urged, impatient, excited, and feeling a little sick all at the same time. He ‘d been of the opinion that he’d never get a mark. Not everyone did. And the older one became the less likely it was.
“Alright, alright. Ready?”
No.
“Yes.”
“It is I who must apologise to you, Dean, for making such an unorthodox entrance.” His sister had paused, then laughed breathily. “Wow. She sounds boring. What’s this Dean thing about anyway? Will you become a teacher? Is that what you’re hiding from us?”
Thomas froze, meeting his own startled look in the mirror.
His soulmate. He’d never thought- but now? Why of all the times would it happen now?
He remembered the surprise on Vincent Benítez’s face, the warmth spreading out over his cheeks, and became sure of one thing at least;
He knew.