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High-class demon exorcisms were Father Azrael Traugott's specialty. He w...
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Vatican City, Rome
Apostolic Palace
Gregorian chanting.
A low tenor humming of male angelic voices covered the Holy Room as Father Azrael stepped inside.
The smell of incense immediately greeted his nostrils; an odor he has never been accustomed to since he was ordained three years ago when he was twenty-six years old.
A wrinkle formed above his nose. Disgusted — that's what his mind strained to confess.
Yes. He was the only priest that despised the lingering smell. This was exactly why he never headed a mass in St. Peter's Basilica nor any church for that matter.
Donned on his black nonliturgical robe and a pectoral cross made of platinum around his neck, he continued his way towards an aged man sitting in a recliner chair near the fireplace.
The room they were in was dimly lit with yellow lights. An unlit iron-wrought candle chandelier hang in the center where a set of Victorian furniture was placed right below. The carpet was a deep burgundy with intricate designs of the papal insignia. In the dextral side of the room, one can see an old oaken desk with a stack of books, an antique lamp, a spread of blank parchments and a bulky brown envelope. It showed that the Pope had just decided a momentary breather from his papal paperworks.
"Your Grace," Father Azrael spoke in a deep, languid voice. He knelt down in front of the Holy Pope, Pope Benedict the First, and leaned forward to kiss his holy ring.
Pope Benedict made a sign of the cross above his head in return. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. May God's grace be with you always."
The latter just dipped his head once in reponse.
The Pope gestured for him to sit in a nearby chair to which Father Azrael did, feeling relaxed despite the scent surrounding the room. His back was bent forward, his elbows pressed on his knees, and his hands clasped together like a normal priest would do.
