Author: Angelica Albina
Fandom: The Da Vinci Code
Summary: An alternate ending to The Da Vinci Code. Silas is rescued and survives his injuries, and finally realizes the true nature of his love for Bishop Aringarosa.
Warnings: Explicit m/m sex, references to corporal mortification, religious imagery, AU. And there’s an OFC who isn’t part of the pairing!
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t own anything here, no profit, suing is futile!
A/N: This fic was written as a gift fic for cassiejo for the silas_adore Holiday Exchange. The fic is based more on the book than on the movie, but may contain spoilers for both. Those with strong religious beliefs may wish to skip this fic – it isn’t my intention to offend anyone. And in all fanfics written by me, Silas will have blue eyes, as in the movie, rather than red ones as in the book – real people with albinism do not tend to have red eyes.
His last memory was of the mists, of Kensington Gardens and his flesh dissolving, becoming ghostly. As he had felt his body slipping from life, Silas had prayed for his mentor, and for the merciful judgement of the Lord.
As Silas awoke, he was convinced that his prayers had been answered, and he was in Heaven. There was bright light in the place his eyes opened upon, and the sound of gentle voices, hushed murmurs with a slight melodic tone. Shades of white, gold and a mild hint of blue seemed to radiate from everything he saw, and there was a faint scent of flowers, roses perhaps, from somewhere nearby. There was no pain, and whenever he felt the slightest twinge of discomfort, a calming feeling would descend from above, a languorous haze that made his senses drift and swirl, and he would hear the words, “Sleep, angel.” And obedient, he slept, and grew stronger.
All his dreams were beautiful and peaceful. He was a tiny child again, stirring from a deep slumber in a bed of fluffed pillows and thick quilts, and his mother stood over him, smiling down like a saint in a painted icon, stroking his forehead or offering a cup full of something warm and soothing. She would bend to kiss him, and he would gaze adoringly upon her as he sipped, feeling safe and loved. There was no sign of Papa with his drunkenness and rage – there was only Maman and her perfect love.
As his mind began to return, Silas could distinguish the sounds, sights and smells more clearly. The angelic beings from his half-life were nurses in crisp white uniforms, and beneath the aroma of roses – blooms standing in a vase on the nightstand, a gift from he knew not who or where – there was a hint of bleach, chemicals and other instruments of hygiene.
He could discern the boundaries of his world now – the walls of aqua blue, the fluorescent lighting and the sounds of rubber-soled feet on linoleum. The woman who reminded him of his mother, whose lined hands lay comforting on his brow and whose voice rose above the hum and hush of the hospital with a crisp, firm but kindly tone was Dr. Kasabian. She always had a smile for him, even when he was drugged and feverish and forgetful, calling her Maman. Her hair and eyes were dark and shining, just like his mother’s. Each day he began to recall a little more of what had happened before he had woken up in this place, but there was no sign of the police who must surely be looking for him by now. There was only the doctor, her eyes full of concern, and her lilting voice telling him to rest and heal.
No other patients shared his room, and the doctor seemed not to mind taking a little extra time to attend to him. He told her what fragments he could remember of his previous existence – leaving out the pursuit by the law, for now at least, ever vigilant lest he need to escape. She, in turn, told him something of her own life, of her son, Vartan, who was an albino like Silas himself. Perhaps that accounted for Dr. Kasabian’s maternal watchfulness, her more than professional need for him to survive and be strong.
Silas did not know who could possibly have found him and brought him to this place, this clinic or hospital, but he was grateful and prayed every time consciousness brought him around, thankful to be alive. He felt his body gaining in strength, and his dreams grew less nebulous and more intense. Silas no longer dreamed of his mother and his childhood home. His sleeping state took him back to the rectory in Oviedo, Spain, where he had found his earthly salvation, or to the penthouse dwelling in New York where his mentor, Bishop Manuel Aringarosa, had made his home in later years. Always now, he dreamed of the Bishop, and his visions were far from innocent. On awakening, he was often tormented by shame and guilt, and longed for a Discipline or cilice to punish himself for his sins. Yet he had none, and the life of mortification he had led within Opus Dei seemed a world away by now.
They are only dreams, he reasoned with himself. Perhaps God is trying to send me a message through these images, sinful though they appear…
Silas could see himself clearly, as if he was viewing his own body from outside. He stood before a window, naked, his pale flesh and snow-white hair illuminated by a shimmering moon. It was as if he was lit by the brilliance of a halo, like Archangel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary to announce the impending birth of the Christ Child. A rosy glow shone from the depths of his pale blue eyes, and the shadow he cast upon the wall seemed to be that of a celestial winged being.
Aringarosa lay on a bed before him, clad only in a thin white nightshirt, his gaze transfixed by Silas’s beauty. “My angel, my Godsend,” the Bishop whispered as Silas sat by his side upon the bed, bending to kiss Aringarosa’s forehead and face, and then his lips. He kissed his beloved mentor hard, unable to stop himself from moaning softly as the Bishop’s lips parted to let his tongue slip between. His rough hands tore aside the robe’s insubstantial fabric, and caressed the warmth of the Bishop’s brown skin. Aringarosa raised himself toward Silas’s touch, breathing shallowly and swiftly as those exploring fingers found his erection and moved over it, reverential and sensual at the same time. They looked upon one another in mutual worship, these men of God, lost in each other, completely enraptured.
“Manuel!” Silas cried out, addressing the man he adored as a lover for the first time, his desire overwhelming him, knowing by instinct that he would have to take control and reveal the secrets of carnal love to the man who had been his teacher. He sought and found a tube of salve by the bedside, left there to soothe the severity of wounds inflicted by the Discipline, and slicked his fingers and entrance with the cooling gel. Astride his beloved, Silas thrust his body down upon the Bishop’s shaft, enveloping that hard length within him, taking and being taken. His hands reached for Aringarosa’s, their fingers entwining as he leaned down to press his lips to the Bishop’s once again, hearing the soft whisper of his own name as the two men’s mouths were joined and they merged as one…
With each wakening, the repentance seemed to lessen. Silas did not know if the dreams were the will of God, but he knew for certain that he must leave this place as soon as he was strong enough and let Aringarosa know that he still lived. Dr. Kasabian was a good woman and a kind person, to be sure, but she was not his mother. Silas’s place was at the Bishop’s side.