Another beating wouldn't break him.

The Knight had thought, and the Pope too, that another would finally do the trick.

Another.

Just one more.

Just one more and he would not die a martyr.

They would not let him.

Higgins spent almost all his time with the priest now. The intent was to tempt him to a false confession that bore the promise of relent.

When the knife no longer worked they changed tactics. Where the blade had cut, now, Higgins got the satisfaction of becoming more intimate with the false father. There were times Nigel swore, even when the Knight's knuckles were ragged from striking bone, that he saw a smile over the young man's face with each blow that landed.

Even though there was was nothing left. Even though the pieces were so fractured, so shattered, that they remained infinitely indiscernible. They still tried to break him. To break what was already irrevocably broken.

Pope Pius came for a short period of time each day to cajole a confession. He watched while Higgins threw his best efforts into persuading the former priest. Still, the Knight's tireless tirades were futile.

A fresh frock always greeted him when the day started anew. Clean and pressed, and lacking any evidence of the previous day's attempt at penance. He was forced to wear that and a rosary fashioned with thick metal links, secured too tight around his neck to remove over his head. The Son weighed heavy on his chest in cast iron, leaving evidence of irritation between the now stark protrusion of his clavicles. It was a constant reminder of what he had betrayed and what had betrayed him.

The Knight's fury was always silent. And it raged with smolder behind an efficiently cold gaze. Blows fell on his chest first then escalated until it grew difficult for Nigel to remain conscious.

"We are beginning to tire of this." Pius stopped the Knight's display of prowess with a clap of his hands. "The Cardinals and I grow wary of this charade Father Alder. What purpose do you think you are serving? The world grows old and wretched with filth. The Church needed to intervene. The righteous shall emerge victorious. You suffer needlessly and your death will serve no purpose."

Nigel moved to rise, but his body would not comply. He drowned in the blood slipping down his throat and was smothered by the crush of starvation and exhaustion. Lips split from the Knight's strikes, he forced a final confession.

"All that blood." It sprayed now from his mouth with each laborious word. The ornate frock was often tarnished during these bouts of torture. But each drop that spattered that pristine cloth was born of Nigel's conviction.

"Those who came before you found life sacred. So much that they spoke out against war and capital punishment. They encouraged priests to hold rallies outside of prisons where men were put to death. Even in your own country."

He spat to clear his mouth. Saliva, viscous and red, struck the floor loud enough to resonate against thick stone walls.

"All that blood on your hands. Billions dead. You may claim I shall rot, and that may be true. But you shall rot with me. You shall rot most of all."

Pius sighed and gestured to the Priest.

The beating continued.

He hoped he would meet the penance so desperately sought that night he first hefted the pistol in his grip.

But they would not let him die a martyr.