Chapter Text
The monastery smelled of beeswax and sea-salt air, its old stones breathing coolness after the day's heat. Lantern-light flickered over icons of saints as Fra Paul moved slowly down the chapel aisle, shutting windows and snuffing candles. His hands were thick and work-worn, yet careful when he touched the altar, bowing with reverence towards the sacred site. Beneath the altar though, was a secret. The reason why Fra Paul's mission was so isolating. There lay his lifelong quest; a cedar box, small enough to carry, carved with different symbols and Greek words. Inside slept the Butterfly Miraculous. The order had deemed it far to dangerous to store alongside the other miraculouses. Ladybug, Black Cat, Turtle, Bee, and Fox. All sealed away in another monastery, but for the sheer versatility of the butterfly miraculous, as well as legends of destruction and chaos associated with one of its previous wielders, the guardians chose to isolate it. A monastery was built not too far away from Cefalu, and Fra Paul was tasked with guarding it. Alone. That is, until he was joined by a young boy, Ignatius, rescued from certain doom in the dark Sicilian underworld.
Outside, the night hummed with crickets and surf. Fra Paul was setting the last shutters in place when Ignatius wandered into the chapel, barefoot, hair still damp from the evening wash. He carried himself with that loose, half-grown gait of a boy who hadn't yet decided whether to be man or child.
"You're still at it?" Ignatius said, his voice echoing faintly under the arches. "It's past midnight. Normal people sleep, you know."
Fra Paul smiled as he lowered the lantern. "You are going judge me, ragazzo mio? You spend your evenings reading at candlelight, and instead of gossiping, you and your friends talk about infections and diseases. You should know, that not all normal, is normal "
Ignatius grinned and shrugged. "It's getting late, and you seemed really restless earlier.." He slid into a pew, stretching his long legs along the bench. "You should let me do the closing up. You're too old for all this walking back and forth."
"Too old?" Fra Paul feigned a gasp, setting a hand on his chest. "I can still climb up the hill to the monastery faster than you, boy."
Ignatius raised his eyebrow. "Only because you cheat and make me carry the bags of food myself."
Fra Paul chuckled and sat beside him. The dim light caught the boy's sharp cheekbones, the restless flick of his eyes. Sixteen, Fra Paul thought. Still half-wild, but good. Always good.
"You've grown taller again," he said quietly. "One day soon, I'll look up at you when I speak."
"Then you'll finally see what I see." Ignatius tipped his chin toward the crucifix above the altar. He took a breath, as if wanting to get something off his chest "How do you not get bored, Father Paul. It's the same thing every day. Pray and work, pray and work, don't you get numb to it?"
Fra Paul studied him for a moment. The boy's words, bold but thoughtful, never ceased to surprise him. "Ora et Labora. It is our motto as Benedictines. The small things, Ignatius, the bread we bake, the lamps we light, the work we do. Those are where love takes root. Beauty is sprinkled everywhere in creation. You don't need a grand adventure to admire the beauty in simplicity. Do you understand?"
Ignatius kicked at the pew rail, thoughtful. "I mean, I guess? Still, sometimes I want to see more than this hill and these same walls."
The monk reached out, rough hand settling over the boy's shoulder. "And you will. You are meant for more than cloisters and olive trees. God has much beauty prepared for you. I can feel it Ignatius. But remember, wherever you go, you carry this place with you. You carry me."
The words struck deeper than Ignatius let show. He swallowed, then muttered, "You sound like you're saying goodbye."
Fra Paul chuckled softly, squeezing his shoulder. "No, no. Only a reminder. A father's duty."
Ignatius looked at him, then really looked, and smiled faintly, the kind of smile he wore only when he forgot to guard himself. "Then... grazie, Papà. I'm gonna go get some rest, i have to get up early for the first day of school tomorrow"
Fra Paul's chest warmed. It wasn't often Ignatius called him that, but when he did, it was worth more than an abundance of the freshest bread and the sweetest wine.
The sound came first as a vibration through the floor: a low rumble, foreign to the monastery's stillness. Fra Paul straightened, listening. Then came the grind of tires on gravel, the metallic slam of a car door. Voices followed, sharp with laughter, wrong in this sacred place. The voice he never thought he'd hear again.
Fra Paul set down the lantern with a deliberate calm, though his stomach clenched. He crossed to the altar, fingers brushing the wood as if for strength. His face drained of it's colour, into a ghostly pallor. it always lay in the back of his mind, but he never thought this day would come. He saw it in visions, troubling visions that have been plaguing him recently. Fra Paul had laboured relentlessly and prayed a different fate. The corruption that one threatened Ignatius as a baby had found its way there too.
"Ignatius," he said, voice low but firm.
The boy was still slouched in the pew. He looked up noting the weight in Fra Paul's tone. "What is it?"
"Come here." Fra Paul's hand reached beneath the altar, finding the hidden compartment. With a quiet scrape, the cedar chest slid into view, its grain darkened with age, its brass hinges faintly gleaming.
Ignatius frowned. "What's that?"
A shout rang out in the courtyard. The front gates clanged against their hinges.
Fra Paul pressed the chest into Ignatius's arms before the boy could protest. It was heavy, heavier than it looked, and Ignatius was taken back by its weight.
"Take it," Fra Paul commanded, eyes locked on his. "Take it and run. Through the olive groves then run into the city. Do not look back."
Ignatius gaped at him. "Run? Are you crazy? What's happening?"
"They're coming," Fra Paul said simply. Another bang rattled the outer doors. "Men consumed by greed and hatred. Their malice makes them cruel, unworthy. They can never be allowed to obtain what is in this box. They cannot have it. You must protect it!"
Ignatius shook his head, panic flashing. "No no, I'm not leaving you. I can fight"
Fra Paul gripped the boy's shoulders, urgent but steady. "Listen to me. You are my son. My gift from God. I saved you once from fire, and now you must save yourself. Take this. Guard it. Live. I will hold them off"
The boy's breath came quick and shallow. "But"
"No more words." Fra Paul's voice cracked, urgent but not afraid. "Go!"
For a heartbeat, Ignatius hesitated. Then the pounding at the doors grew louder, wood splintering. Fear broke him loose. He hugged Fra Paul, clutched the chest tight, eyes stinging, and turned toward the side door. Fra Paul caught his hand as he passed. For the briefest moment, the old monk smiled. "You are stronger than you know, figlio mio. May God Bless You."
Fra Paul stood before the altar, lantern blazing, as the monastery shook from the thundering of the men breaking in. The chapel doors finally gave way with a crash that shook the walls. Splinters flew as men surged in, masks pulled up over their faces, guns glinting in the lanternlight. Smoke and the reek of petrol clung to them, the smell of street violence invading holy air. Their leader stepped forward, a broad man with a scar running across his cheek, his gold tooth catching the light when he grinned. He spat on the stone floor.
"Well, well. We meet again Padre."
Behind him, his men tore through the pews, overturning benches, snatching up candlesticks, ripping down icons and stuffing them into sacks. Statues of saints shattered against the flagstones, faces splitting like broken shells. Fra Paul stood rooted before the altar, his hands folded as if still in prayer. His face was pale but steady, his eyes lit with a fire the bandits didn't understand.
"There is nothing here for you," he said, his voice deep, steady. " I know for whom you've come!" The priest made a silent prayer for courage. "No riches, no treasure. The most precious things this house has kept have already escaped."
The scarred man barked. "I want my son back!"
Fra Paul didn't flinch. "The same one you left choking in clouds of smoke, at the mercy of the flames consuming your villa all those years ago? I took an oath with my Lord to protect him. If God is willing, you will never lay eyes on him again."
The bandit struck him with the pistol butt, snapping his head sideways. Fra Paul stumbled but caught himself on the altar. Blood ran from his lip, but he lifted his head slowly, breathing hard, eyes fixed not on his attacker but on the crucifix above. Another man upended a wooden box under a side altar, scattering bones and rosaries. "Empty!" he shouted. "Where's the gold, old man?"
Fra Paul turned back to them, straightening despite the ache in his bones. His voice was hoarse but calm. "There is nothing here for you to pillage. This is a humble monastery not a palace."
The scarred leader growled, pressing the pistol harder against his chest. "Last chance, padre. Where is he?"
Fra Paul smiled faintly through split lips. "Safe."
And in the smoke-filled night beyond, Ignatius ran, carrying the truth of those words pressed tight against his ribs. The cedar chest clutched so hard against his ribs that the brass corners dug into his skin. His breath dry in his throat. He didn't know where he was going; only away, away from the shouting voices, the gunfire, the smell of fire burning. The olive groves opened before him, black branches clawing at the sky. He stumbled through them, leaves brushing his face, the dry earth cracking beneath his feet. Behind him the monastery bell tolled, not from any monk's hand, but from the violent men in its tower. Then flames rose, curling orange and black against the stars.
"Fra Paul..." His voice cracked, breaking into the night. "Please be alive. Please."
He pressed the box closer. It was warm now—too warm. The wood seemed to thrum against his chest, as if something inside was knocking to get out. He almost dropped it, but fear glued it to him. He took a glimpse at the smoke, like burnt incense offered to God.
Then came the light. At first a glimmer between the seams of the chest. Then a fissure of brightness, brighter than fire, spilling over his hands. He gasped, stumbling, but the glow only grew, runes that seemed to be made of light materialised out of the cedar box. Into the sky above the grove. Silver symbols flared and spun, ancient shapes that burned against the night. Ignatius recognised them. Greek letters, like those on the icons in the monastery.
Ignatius cried out, shielding his eyes. "What is happening?!"
The air shuddered. The runes poured down onto him, wrapping him in bands of blazing light. His skin burned and tingled, his breath blazing. And then, power, it felt like a rush of icy cold water. It tore through him, wild and unstoppable, fuelled by his fear, his grief, his desperate need to protect, to fight off the confusion. His eyes shone white-violet, his muscles surged with strength not his own. His hair whipped about his face though no wind blew. The ground beneath his feet cracked, a circle of scorched earth spreading out from where he stood.
Ignatius buckled, and fell to his knees, chest heaving. He tried to let go of the box, but his hands would not obey; the energy bound him to it. He wasn't Ignatius anymore, not fully. He was something mightier. A champion pulled from the Miraculous' warding enchantment, born of his intense emotions, a final safeguard prepared by the order of the Guardians. Groaning with the surging might of the ancient power, Ignatius lifted his head toward the burning monastery. And then he stood. A black silhouette writhing with fire. Ignatius began to fly off his feet, and approached the monastery perched at the top of the hill. Slowed at the gate, chest heaving, but the force moving him didn't stop; his body moved like a puppet on invisible strings.
"Fra Paul- " His voice broke, swallowed by the roar in his ears. His hands flexed, glowing cracks of violet running down his arms like molten veins, as raw might burst from his eyeballs, and the energy released broke a hole in the wall for him to enter the sacred space.
A gunshot split the dark. Sparks spat off the stones where the bullet hit. One of the raiders saw him and shouted. Before Ignatius could even think of fear, his body reacted. His arm slashed through the air not touching the man who was out of reach, yet the man's rifle crumbled into dust mid-shot, the metal rotting away in seconds. The raider's scream tore the night as he staggered back, as the weapon disintegrated in his hands.
Ignatius stumbled, horrified. 'What did I just-'
Another man lunged. Ignatius snapped into motion and flew towards him, seizing the attacker by the throat. Fingers that should have been weak and boyish now crushed bone and windpipe with monstrous strength. The raider's face turned purple. Ignatius's mind screamed stop, stop, but his hand only squeezed tighter until the man fell limp. The enchantment drove him deeper into the flames. The small yard outside the chapel howled with fire, marble shattering in showers of sparks. Men shouted inside, panicked now. One raised his pistol, firing point-blank. The bullet never reached. Ignatius' hand lashed out and the air itself seemed to tear, shredding the shot to cinders. Then his arm swept again, and the man was flung towards the chapel like a rag doll, bones snapping on impact with the wall.
Ignatius's chest heaved. His tears cleaned off the soot on his face, but he couldn't stop moving. Couldn't stop killing. The power had no room for mercy; it only protected by annihilating. Doing otherwise would risk the contents of the box falling into the wrong hands. Endangering thousands upon thousands.
Three men tried to run. The enchantment wouldn't allow it. His body chased after them, too fast, too strong. A sweep of his hand corroded their guns, their knives, even the wedding band one wore around his finger. Another gesture slammed one raider against a pillar hard enough to crack stone. The others fell under blows he didn't remember giving, their cries drowned the thundering of the fire.
'This isn't me. This isn't me!' Ignatius's thoughts rattled in the cage of his mind. He was watching himself from behind glass, his body a weapon, possessed by the enchantment of the box, which was now holding onto his chest on its own, freeing up use of both his hands.
When silence finally fell, the monastery was a tomb of flames and broken bodies. The air stank of petrol and blood, of scorched cloth and burning wood.
Ignatius staggered into the chapel proper, the power that possessed him still dragging forward. The floor was littered with men who had been alive minutes ago, now broken in ways he couldn't look at too long. His glowing steps hissed against the cracked tiles of the chapel floor.
And then he saw Fra Paul. The old monk lay slumped near the altar, skin blackened, robes in tatters. One arm stretched outward towards the cross, as though sending a final prayer. His face was burned beyond recognition, but Ignatius knew. He knew.
"Papà" Ignatius's voice tore from his throat. His knees gave out, the box clattering beside him. For the first time the enchantment faltered, its violet glow flickering. He tried to reach for Fra Paul, but the magic did not allow him to stretch his arm and feel what remained of his father. "No. Please. Please, get up. Please." He begged, as if asking the same power that slaughtered the invaders, to revive Fra Paul instead. but there was nothing. No breath, no heartbeat, only the roar of fire overhead.
The enchantment's runes sputtered, their light vanishing into the dark of the night. The threat was eliminated, and the energy was running out. The strength left his limbs all at once, leaving only exhaustion and pain. Ignatius screamed. He grabbed the box, clutching it to his chest, the monk's final request, and stumbled toward the door. The last thing he saw as he fled was the altar crumbling into flames, the crucifix was the only thing left standing amidst the chaos and the blaze.