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ollieofthebeholder · 4 days ago

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And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 19: It had been mine, and it was lost

“You’re sure you’re not coming?”

Gerry rolled his eyes. “I love you, and I’ll do just about anything for you, you know that. But I hate flying. You’re lucky you got me down here. I am not setting foot on another plane for at least a year. If you want to go back together, come take the train with me.”

Tim laughed, but there was something regretful in his eyes as he shook his head. “I have work in the morning. I can’t leave the Archives unguarded that long.”

“They’re not—fine.” Gerry sighed.

He got what Tim meant. It seemed like nothing in the last two months had gone the way they had hoped it would. Tim had eventually resorted to buying an external floppy disk drive and a few emulators to be able to dissect the one he’d pilfered from the Institute, but to his disappointment—and Gerry’s, it had to be admitted—if there were any secrets on it, they couldn’t suss them out. Gertrude still hadn’t come back or reached out, and as much as they kept telling one another and themselves that she’d been away longer before, that she’d be in touch if she really needed anything in the Archives, and that her cryptic comment about needing them close enough that she could protect them in a pinch had been specific to the Extinguished Sun and not the Unknowing, the longer she was gone the harder it was to believe she was fine. Wherever she had disappeared to, something had happened, and the only thing keeping them from dropping everything and trying to track her down and help her was the simple fact that Tim couldn’t be away from the Institute for very long without permission.

Tim’s worries about leaving the Archives unguarded were as much to do with his current colleagues as it was with external attacks. He’d fretted—ranted really—to Gerry more than a few times about Sasha’s need to wring out every last discoverable detail of anything she researched meaning there was nothing she wouldn’t do to find them, Jon’s contempt for the statements those who gave them meaning that he would go to any lengths to prove them false, and Martin’s desire to prove he was worthy of his job meaning that the one person Tim could otherwise count on to leave well enough alone kept pushing himself further and further in a desperate attempt to satisfy Jon’s demands. And despite Tim’s best efforts, they kept finding the real ones, few and far between though they may have been. The sheer amount of research necessary for most of them meant he’d been able to slow the roll, so to speak, but it was bad enough. He’d described it as watching Jacob Marley sit in a corner contentedly knitting what he thought was a sock and somehow not realizing it was another length of chain.

Gerry had told him he was spending too much time with Martin, but he understood the underlying sentiment. The longer Gertrude was gone, the bigger the risk that the Archives crew would bind themselves too thoroughly for her to have a choice in keeping them or not, and there was always a chance one of them was a spy for Elias…or worse, one of the other Fears. Tim was right, she’d have a stroke if anything else managed to root itself in her Archives while she was gone. Gerry didn’t think she’d hold either of them responsible, but it was still a valid worry.

“Besides,” Tim added with a sudden return of his impish grin, “His Lordship should be ready to come home by now.”

Gerry snorted. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

The man next to them, a tall and upright but weathered man with brown eyes set in the face Tim would otherwise have when he got old, stepped up and grasped Tim by the shoulders. He spoke several sentences in the thick, honey-toned Italian that Gerry, who’d been forced to spend most of the weekend having what little conversation he could with the old man in Latin, could only catch a word or two in here and there; he was pretty sure he heard the word mama, and from the look that darted through Tim’s eyes, it wasn’t hard to guess what that was about. Tim replied in the same dialect, giving it the inflection of intimacy and respect you could really only get in a Romance language, and stepped in to hug his grandfather. The old man hugged him back before turning to look at Gerry.

“Thank you again for letting us visit, Signor DiAngelo,” Gerry said with a slight bow.

Before Tim could translate, the old man shook his finger at Gerry and tsked. In thickly accented English, he said, “I tell you, call me Nonno.” He gave Gerry a hug, too, which he had definitely not been expecting. “God bless you, my sons.”

Gerry swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat and managed one of the six Italian words he knew well. “Grazie.”

Signor DiAngelo—Nonno—smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, then turned and made his way out of the airport lobby. Tim watched him go, then turned back to Gerry. “He likes you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Gerry said, and he was only partly joking.

“You make me happy.” Tim leaned in for a quick kiss. “And you agreed to come to services with us, which is more than my father ever did when he was courting Mama. When does your train leave?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Shockingly, not what I asked.”

Gerry sighed. “Tomorrow. From Rome, by way of Naples, by way of Pompei, with one I. Which is where I’m going tonight. I’m seeing you off and then heading to catch a ferry.”

Tim sighed, too. “So you won’t be home until Tuesday.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll live, you’re just at least seventy percent of my impulse control.” Tim took Gerry’s face in his hands and kissed him, the same way he had in the palazzo on their last trip to Italy. “Be safe.”

“You, too.” Gerry hugged him tight. Sudden misgiving made him not want to let go.

As if he understood, Tim whispered in his ear, “I’ll be fine, Ger. If I have to I’ll bring Rowlf to work with me and Jon can deal with that.” Pulling back, he added, “You’ll be fine too. The last eruption was in 1944, it’s not due for another nine years or so.”

“How do you—” Gerry stopped. “Wait, no, never mind, you’re Italian.”

“And Catholic. Danny’s patron saint was Saint Dominic, and there’s a painting at the Shrine of the Virgin of the Rosary of Pompei showing Mary and the Christ Child presenting rosaries to Dominic and Saint Caterina da Siena, who’s Mama’s patron saint. I had to find so much research before he would agree to go.”

Gerry pulled back and studied his partner. “Can’t believe I never asked this before, but who’s your patron saint?”

“Anthony of Padua. Patron saint of miracles, travelers, and lost things. Actually, hang on, here.” Tim reached for his neck and lifted off the silver chain his grandfather had given him just the day before, then slipped it over Gerry’s head. He patted the silver oval now flat against his sternum. “To keep you safe until you get home.”

Gerry placed his hand over Tim’s, trapping it against his chest. He didn’t have Tim’s level of faith in God—or any at all—but somehow, having faith in the medallion was easier. “Thanks, Tim.”

Tim smiled, then cocked his ear at the sound of an announcement. “That’s pre-boarding for my flight. I have to go…look, call me when you get to wherever you’re staying tonight, okay? And I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Okay.” Gerry squeezed Tim’s hand. “Let me know if she turns up.”

“Obviously I’m going to let you know if she turns up.” Tim gave Gerry one last quick kiss, then reluctantly let go of him and dashed towards the security line.

It had been a weekend they both could ill afford and desperately needed. They were both conscious of the ticking clock that presaged the Unknowing, just not of how long it had to run out, and they needed to find as much information as they could. On the other hand, Tim’s grandfather was the only remaining member of his family still talking to him—and, from what Tim had said, vice-versa—and had lost his best friend in the time between Tim and Gerry’s first visit and this one. The previous day had been a fairly major Catholic feast day, which was also a regional holiday, and since it was a Saturday Tim had promised on his last visit to come back for it. Gerry hadn’t necessarily planned on coming at first, but Tim’s grandfather had been expecting him, and since Rowlf had a routine but desperately necessary procedure scheduled for that Friday anyway, he’d agreed. And he didn’t regret it, he didn’t. He’d have greatly preferred if Tim could have taken a couple days off so they could take the train down and back together, but he’d white-knuckled his way through the flight, and it had been worth it for the broad grin and tight hug the old man had given them both when they deplaned.

He was not, however, flying back, regardless of how long it was going to take him. So once Tim was out of sight, Gerry turned and headed for the route he’d mapped out earlier to catch the ferry off the island.

The trip to Pompei—a ferry followed by a bus followed by a narrow-gauge train—was uneventful, and Gerry busied himself with the book of puzzles he’d brought along and the tape of heavy metal music Tim had unearthed in an Oxfam shop while looking for a computer. Once he disembarked at the small station in the town where he was going to spend the night, he busied himself with his latest problem. Namely, that he still didn’t speak Italian. Most towns in Europe had one or two people who spoke English, but some of the smaller towns, it was iffy.

Lucky for him, Pompei was a tourist town, and he discovered—after a confused attempt to communicate with a local about lodgings that got him directed to the local church by someone who clearly thought he was a Dominican postulate—that there were plenty of people here who spoke English well enough to communicate with him. He managed to find a bed and breakfast that had rooms available, dropped off his things, and went looking for something to eat. The one problem with living with Tim—and it was admittedly not a bad problem to have—was that he’d got used to things like regular meals and soap that wasn’t just whatever was on sale and someone being there when he woke up in the mornings. The man who’d once gone three days on a handful of crackers and a pint now got extremely hungry if he went more than seven hours without something in his stomach.

He pretended annoyance, but he knew he looked—and felt—better than he ever remembered feeling.

Another joy he’d learned from traveling with Tim was in eating where the locals ate, rather than where catered to tourists. Gerry wandered the streets a bit until he located exactly the kind of place he enjoyed—small, intimate, dim without being dingy, and emitting a truly appetizing smell. He slipped in, found a seat, discovered that the person behind the counter spoke about as much English as he did Italian but, for some reason, spoke extremely good German, and managed to order a meal.

The woman, who said her name was Elizabeth, leaned on the counter to chat with him. She turned out to be from more or less the same part of Germany Gerry’s mother had always claimed their ancestors came from, and while Gerry freely admitted to being English—if only so he didn’t have to bluff his way through memories of growing up in the Black Forest or explain why he apparently spoke with a Hessian accent—she spoke to him like a long-lost sibling or cousin. She was full of suggestions for what he could do and seemed almost disappointed to learn he was only passing through on his way home and would be gone in the morning.

“So where were you visiting, that you are going home this way?” she asked, propping herself on her elbows. “And all by yourself?”

“No, not by myself. My boyfriend had to leave early for work,” Gerry explained without thinking, then almost bit his tongue in half. Luckily, Elizabeth didn’t bat an eyelash, and he went on. “We were visiting his grandfather for the—” He gestured vaguely. His German was good, even fluent, but it had somehow never extended to religious vocabulary, go figure. He struggled for a moment, and then ventured, “The Virgin party?”

Elizabeth giggled. “Mariae Himmelfahrt. You are not Catholic, are you?”

“No, but his family is, so I went. His grandfather lives in Messina.”

“Ah, yes, it is an important holiday for them.” Elizabeth studied him curiously. “So what is it that you do, when you are not being Catholic to please your boyfriend?”

Gerry was pretty sure he had used the word boyfriend to describe Tim more in the last five minutes than he had in their entire time knowing one another, but there wasn’t really a word in German that worked well enough for casual conversation. “I buy and sell rare books.”

Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “Ah, like Jurgen Leitner?”

Gerry froze.

Of all the things he could have expected to hear her say, that was the absolute last one. The question of how she even knew who Jurgen Leitner was met the question of why that was her first association with “rare book dealer” and turned into a catastrophic system failure that resulted in the next words out of his mouth being, “No, actually, I think he’s a dumbass bastard.”

Elizabeth tilted her head at him in confusion. After a moment’s pause, she said slowly, “I do not know those words and I cannot tell from your tone if that was surprised or angry.”

Enough of Gerry’s brain came back online at that point that he realized he had, while retaining the fact that she didn’t speak English, somehow managed to switch languages entirely and he’d made his comment in Sanskrit. Making a conscious effort to get hold of himself and return to the tongue they both knew, he said, “A little bit of both, I suppose. How do you know Jurgen Leitner?”

“Oh, I have never met him myself,” Elizabeth said. Gerry wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. “But Monseigneur Tommaso Caputo, at the Shrine—he spoke about him not long ago. I think he has a book from him.”

Gerry managed to change the subject, but part of his attention was still on the revelation. If this Monseigneur Caputo had a Leitner…well, it was Gerry’s bounden duty to get it off of him before it caused more harm than it undoubtedly already had. Particularly in the hands of a priest…who knew what it could convince him of? He’d heard all about Father Edwin Burroughs.

He finished off dinner with a delicious dessert that he barely tasted, then made his way onto the street. For a moment, he stood, torn with indecision. He could—probably should—head back to the bed and breakfast, call Tim to make sure he’d made it home all right, and get a bit of rest, then…what? Break into a Catholic shrine and steal a book? God, what if it was a Bible or some other religious text? He’d never make it out of town in time. No, there was really only one option.

Touching the medal Tim had put around his neck lightly, he made his way to the shrine.

A fair few people were coming out of the front door as he arrived. It hadn’t occurred to him there might be an evening service as well, but apparently there had been. Gerry waited respectfully until the last one had walked out, then headed up the path. A tall older man with gold-framed glasses and a beatific smile stood, wearing the same white robes as the priest at the local church back in Messina. He caught Gerry’s eye and raised an eyebrow, just for a moment, before bowing and addressing him in Italian.

Gerry bowed back and spoke in Latin, which he was fairly certain would be the only tongue they had in common. “Greetings, Monseigneur, may I have a word with you?”

“Certainly, my son. Come in.” The man’s smile softened. He ushered Gerry into the shrine.

It was, admittedly, beautiful. Gerry couldn’t appreciate the religious significance but he could appreciate the architectural aesthetics, and the painting at one end of the room that Tim had mentioned was lovely. The monseigneur led Gerry to a pew and sat down beside him. “Now. How may I be of assistance?”

Gerry hesitated, then decided, the hell with it. He might as well go for it. “Elizabeth at the Hungry Spoon told me you had mentioned Jurgen Leitner.”

That fast, the smile melted off the man’s face. “You know him?”

“I know of him. I deal in rare books, and…” Gerry gestured vaguely. “My name is Gerard Delano. My mother owned a rare book shop in London, and I took it over when she…left me.”

The man studied Gerry for a moment, then—to his surprise—switched to a heavily accented but perfectly understandable English. “I am Monseigneur Tommaso Caputo. Let us not use God’s tongue to discuss this man.”

“Yeah, I think the devil’s tongue is the better choice,” Gerry said, getting a surprised laugh from the old man. “I take it you don’t like Jurgen Leitner and his books any more than I do.”

“No. They are things of evil, relics of unholiness, that take men from God’s light and plunge them into darkness, or bind them to the Lord of the Flies, or condemn them to flame.” Monseigneur Caputo’s words belied a certain familiarity with the Fourteen that Gerry found interesting, and he knew Tim would as well. “I know not the man’s fate, but if God is so good, it will be the pain he deserves.”

“I agree, Monseigneur,” Gerry said fervently. “And I’m grateful to hear it. I worried when Elizabeth mentioned him that you had found one of his books and that it might…do you harm yourself.”

“Alas, no, or I would have removed the foul thing from existence,” Monseigneur Caputo said regretfully. He studied Gerry again, then gestured at his medal. “You do not look to be Catholic yourself, my son, but do you know whose medal you wear?”

Gerry almost said it was his partner’s before he realized what he meant. “Saint Anthony.”

“Who helps find things that are lost. Perhaps, then, you can be of use.” Monseigneur Caputo rose. “Wait here.”

Despite the temptation to follow, Gerry stayed where he was, hand over the medal. He could almost fool himself that it still held a bit of the warmth from Tim’s hand, but that was undoubtedly the heat of the sun. It had been an almost unpleasantly warm day and he was grateful for the cool, dark interior of the shrine.

Whatever this was, it was almost certainly the best lead they’d had in a while. Gerry was glad he’d come.

Monseigneur Caputo came back to the main part of the shrine carrying a very large leather-bound volume gingerly, as if he feared it might explode. Gerry clutched the medal for just a moment before relaxing and straightening. The Book of the Unnamed Dead had been almost that large, and if this was something like that…no, he’d specifically referenced lost things, so more likely the Spiral. God, he hoped it wasn’t the Stranger.

“A regular parishioner here found this in a box he fished from the sea,” Monseigneur Caputo explained. “He was hoping it would be valuable, but he reads no English, and so brought it to me. I assured him it was of no value, and it is—no monetary value, anyway.” He sat down next to Gerry again, then held the book out to him. “You tell me what value it has to one such as you.”

Gerry took it slowly, unease filling him again. It could be a trap. It was probably a trap. Reading these things was the quickest way to get bound to them. Maybe if he just took a quick peek at the cover page, though, it would be okay. He opened it carefully.

And stared.

An hour later, safely back in the bed and breakfast and having confirmed with the innkeepers that international calls were permitted, he dialed the number that was now as familiar to him as his own name. It rang once, twice, three times…

“You have reached the Literacy Self-Help Hotline. At the tone, please leave your name, your number, and the correct spelling of acetylsalicylic.”

Gerry grinned. Never more than three rings. “Hey, Tim.”

“Gerry, hey.” The relief in Tim’s voice was almost tangible. “Are you okay? I was expecting your call hours ago.”

“Yeah, I just…went out for food.” Gerry glanced at the book in his lap. “And then I got a lead…you made it home all right?”

“Safe and sound. Picked up the dog an hour ago. He’s currently passed out on his back with all four legs in the air and his tail covering the bits he hasn’t got anymore.”

Gerry laughed. “Still modest, even post-surgery.”

“Thank God one of us is. So what was the lead?”

“Well…” Gerry brushed the cover of the book again. “While I was chatting with the woman working the restaurant, she mentioned that the priest at the shrine had said something the other day about Jurgen Leitner.”

“It’s called a pre—wait, what about Leitner?” Tim asked, a little sharply.

“She didn’t say, so I went to talk to him. Monseigneur Tommaso Caputo, and thankfully he speaks English, because I don’t speak Italian and we were starting to hit the limits of my Latin. Anyway, he apparently knows about Leitner, and considers him an agent of Satan. One of his parishioners found a book in a box and brought it to him, and he gave it to me.”

Tim inhaled sharply, and when he spoke, he sounded like he was barely holding back the panic. “What is it? Which Fear? Do I need to come down there? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Tim. I’m okay. I promise. This isn’t a Leitner. Or at least it’s not a book of power.” Gerry opened the book’s cover again. “It’s his catalog.”

There was a silence, one so long Gerry wondered if the call had been disconnected. Before he could check, though, Tim said, “Are you fucking serious?”

“No, I’m fucking you,” Gerry shot back. It earned a surprised laugh out of Tim. “But yeah, genuinely. Looks like the whole thing. I’m going to have to go through and cross off the ones I know have been destroyed.”

“I’ll help you. There are some I know the Institute’s got hold of and destroyed. Jon seems to be under the impression we got them all, but…”

“Tim, there are at least nine thousand books in this thing. No way did you get them all. Especially since I know I got a few myself.”

“Yeah, it seemed too good to be true.” Tim sighed down the phone line. “We can look at it when you get home—Tuesday, right?”

“Yeah, around lunchtime. I can—no, never mind.” Gerry had been on the verge of offering to meet Tim at the Institute, but unless Gertrude was back—and Tim would have led off with that if she was—they couldn’t risk it. “Uh, I think I might spend the trip home working out how to phrase an ad in the Times to subtly convey to our missing contact and no one else that we’ve got this. Might entice her out of hiding.”

“We can only hope. Call me before you check out in the morning, okay? I’ll probably be at work, but I want to know when you’re leaving.”

“I will. ‘Night, Tim.”

“Night, Ger. Don’t stay up too late reading. Love you.” Tim hung up before Gerry could respond.

Slowly, Gerry hung up the phone, then wrapped his hand around the St. Anthony’s medallion again. Funny how such a short phone call could hurt so much, or how much further away home felt after one. Still, it would just be another day or so, not even thirty-six hours. He could make it that long.

It wasn’t like he had that much choice in the matter. Nothing short of an impending apocalypse would get him on another plane any time soon.

#ollie writes fanfic #and if thou wilt forget #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #tim stoker #gerard keay #anxiety #incl. separation anxiety #discussion of religion (esp. Catholicism)#innuendo

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