Chapter Text
Potocki's shoulders rose and fell rhythmically with his deep breaths. He had been sitting like this for several hours, motionless on the bed. His fingers were tightly intertwined, almost as if they were the only thing holding his sanity together amidst the torment that was currently invading him, while his black, anguished eyes tried to blend into the darkness of the room's corners, looking for the answer to the question he had asked himself just after his son was sentenced to burn at the stake lay hidden in the woodgrain.
"When did things end up like this?"
He didn't understand. For many hours he had tried to make sense of what was happening. Something simply didn't feel real, as everything was just a dream and all he had to do was wait for dawn to go and wake Rafal and talk, just as he had promised him the night before.
“If only I had done it…” he lamented to himself, letting out a ragged breath, “if only I had waited…”
But lamenting was pointless. As much as he wished things were different, the reality was that he betrayed Rafal. He had wanted to ensure everyone’s safety, but he failed. His son was now damned, and once the sun rose over the horizon, his torture would officially begin. The mere thought made him choke out a whimper. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about anything. He simply wanted to sleep and lose himself in the void of unconsciousness, but, however exhausted he was, he was unable to even lie down in bed. Potocki could only sit slumped on the mattress and stare into space, unable to move. Counting that night and the previous one, he had gone two days without sleep. His eyelids felt as heavy as if two blocks of lead hung from them, but he still found it impossible to fall asleep, especially after having just made the worst mistake of his life.
“I didn’t know,” he lamented inwardly, “I never wanted this to happen, I never thought Rafal would—”
Unable to even finish that thought, Potocki began to tremble, and his interlaced fingers tightened so much that his nails left marks on the backs of his hands. He could repeat that to himself as many times as he wanted. He could swear that he had done it with the best intentions, but it still didn’t matter what he had or hadn’t wanted. At the end of the day, even knowing the torture and the terrible fate that awaited his soul, Rafal refused to recant, and in doing so, he had cursed Potocki’s mind, etching into it the words that declared to the world his belief in heliocentrism.
A lump formed in his throat. Ever since he got home, Rafal's statement had been repeating itself in his head, resonating with the same intensity as the first time those words reached his ears and at no time did they allow him any rest, although, in Potocki's eyes, he didn't really deserve it.
“That would be an insult,” he thought, “Rafal… my son… dawn is approaching, and when morning comes, the inquisitors—”
His stomach churned, forcing him to hunch over even more, hoping he could hide from the world and disappear. But this didn't happen. Instead, almost as if his mind were forbidding him to seek any kind of solace, his nose was overwhelmed by a nauseating, metallic smell, one he thought years ago he would never smell again. It wasn't real, and Potocki knew it perfectly well, but faced with the memories awakened by that phantom smell, he couldn't help but cover his mouth.
“It's happening again, it's happening again,” he repeated to himself, his voice broken, muffled by his palms.
He remembered it well. Although he had prayed repeatedly that those memories would be banished from his mind, the echoes of his colleagues' and students’ screams still lingered in his ears—so numerous that several were crammed into the same cell, all trembling with fear and terror at the scent of blood spilled due to the folly of believers blinded by their faith.
"Although… we weren't so different either, were we?" Potocki wondered, a deep sorrow sinking into his heart. "We were all blinded. We all refused to repent, just like… Just like Rafal."
Potocki clenched his jaw, and the hands covering his mouth rose to his head, gripping the hair tightly across his forehead. The lump in his throat tightened to a suffocating point, but Potocki was unable to swallow to loosen it.
“Forgive me,” he pleaded inwardly, feeling the sting of tears welling in his eyes, “My students, my son, please forgive me…”
And so those pleas were repeated, again and again, and Potocki sank deeper and deeper into the pit of despair and affliction with each pitiful sob caught in his throat until, suddenly, loud knocks on his door forced him to open his eyes. It was then that Potocki realized that, unlike when he had buried his head in his hands, the corners of the room were no longer shrouded in darkness, but rather the light of a morning before the sun had fully arrived dimly illuminated the space. Dawn was breaking.
“When did this—?” he wondered, but before he could finish the sentence, a firm voice brought his thoughts back to what truly mattered.
“Mr. Potocki, it's the Inquisition. Open the door immediately.”
Potocki got out of bed and, perplexed, stared toward the source of the voice.
“Inquisitors,” he thought, “what are they doing at this hour? What could they possibly want from me? It’s barely dawn—”
Potocki’s heart began to pound so hard it nearly fainted. Before he knew it, he had bolted from his room and was running as fast as he could to his front door. As expected, the moment he opened it, the figures of two men were revealed. They seemed surprised by the obvious agitation and panting of the man they had been ordered to visit.
“Good morning, Mr. Potocki,” said one of the inquisitors, serious and with lines of age and experience carved in his face.
Potocki’s eyes widened in surprise, and one might even say something akin to hope. Two men. Reasonable people. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would be able to reason with them.
“I am Inquisitor Kazimierz, and this is Inquisitor Piotr,” the older inquisitor stated.
Kazimierz’s lips were about to part again to announce the reason for the sudden visit, but, to the surprise of both him and Piotr, Potocki fell to his knees.
“Please, I beg you!” he cried, clasping his hands in supplication, “Have mercy on Rafal!”
“What are you—?” Kazimierz exclaimed, dumbfounded, but Potocki did not stop, unable to hear him.
“My son is just a child,” he insisted, “he’s only twelve years old, he has no idea what he’s doing, please! If anyone should be punished, it’s me! Take me to the bishop, let me receive the sentence they imposed, but please, don’t… don’t…”
It was at that moment that Potocki barely noticed. Neither Kazimierz nor Piotr were looking at him, or rather, they were incapable of meeting his gaze, and both their lips were sealed, as if they feared the consequences their words might bring, not for themselves, but for him.
“W-what… what’s wrong?” Potocki stammered, his voice low, barely a confused and agitated whisper, “Why are you silent?”
Kazimierz snorted with what seemed to be anguish.
“Get up, now,” he ordered, taking Potocki’s arm and pulling him to his feet.
Curiously enough, his movements were neither abrupt nor authoritarian, but they did reveal a great effort to remain calm.
Once on his feet, an unnerving silence heightened the tension in the air. Potocki could only stare in confusion at the two men, his unease only growing as he struggled to understand the reason for their stares. Kazimierz wore a serious expression, but his eyes were reluctant to meet his gaze, and the same was for Piotr, whose gaze was not only averted but also betrayed a clear dichotomy.
"What is going on?" Potocki finally asked, unable to bear the tension any longer. "Why aren't you... why aren't you saying anything? Has the—"
Suddenly, Potocki's stomach churned, and his eyes widened in growing dread. An thought struck him. Dawn was breaking. Even with the sun's rays still hidden on the horizon, it was clear that a new day had begun, and with it, he recalled the sentence.
“Don’t tell me the torture…” Potocki stammered, his eyes trembling and distressed, but before he could finish, and to the surprise of both him and Inquisitor Kazimierz, the dilemma that seemed to have been haunting Piotr had been resolved, and he finally spoke.
“There is no torture to be performed,” he stated with forced firmness, revealed by his inability to lift his gaze from the floor.
Potocki’s heart sank instantly.
“What did you say…?” he asked slowly, as if that would somehow make change words the young man had uttered.
“As you heard,” Kazimierz confirmed, “The reason we are here is to inform you that Rafal’s body has finished burning.”
At that moment, Potocki suddenly paled, and all his blood drained to the floor. For a brief moment, he thought he was going to faint, and if he was honest, that would be for the best, since that way he wouldn't have to deal with the weight those words placed on his chest. He couldn't believe it. It didn't feel real. It couldn't be real.
"What are you talking about...?" He finally stammered in a pathetic attempt to defy the honesty in those words.
At the question, both inquisitors glanced at each other discreetly, but clearly enough to answer better than any response could. In Piotr’s eyes, there was doubt that seemed to require the other's approval to proceed, and finally, he mustered enough courage to speak.
"We're not sure how it happened..." he said, trying to keep his gaze on Potocki's, "but Inquisitor Nowak informed that Rafal had escaped torture. That he… had committed suicide."
The world stopped.
Potocki could still see Piotr's lips moving. He was probably telling him something important, but the moment that revelation reached his ears, they began to ring, and the word "suicide" echoed in every corner of his being, paralyzing his body and clouding his comprehension.
"When will I escape this nightmare?"
"Mr. Potocki?" Kazimierz asked, looking confused. "Is everything alright?"
The man didn't answer, however. His gaze was lost in nothingness. Not knowing what else to do, Kazimierz simply sighed in resignation.
"With that clarified, you can't share this with anyone, understood?" he instructed. "Not a word about the suicide. We will meet again for an inspection I'm a few days."
Assuming that Potocki wouldn't respond, both Kazimierz and Piotr turned away, ready to go back the way they had come.
“May god be with—”
“Wait.”
Both inquisitors stopped dead in their tracks and immediately turned toward Potocki.
“Why… why did you tell me…?” Potocki asked, his voice trembling. His black, lost eyes seemed to search for the answer in the gazes of the two men. “The Church wouldn't want even me to know, so why?”
“Consider it a token of consideration,” Kazimierz replied after a moment of reflection, “you did the right thing by handing over your son, although we know it must have been difficult.”
“Oh…”
At that moment, Potocki couldn’t help but feel that he had been through something like that before, and his mind quickly confirmed it, leading him back to that morning when Nowak had visited him and, like the two men before him, had hinted at something similar.
“Hubert was your student, wasn’t he?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat, holding the cup of water he had been offered at his request. “Even if he was a heretic, it must have been hard for you.”
“Y-you’re mistaken,” Potocki blurted out, his gaze fixed on the papers he was signing. “A heretic is a heretic. Besides, he was just one student among many. I have no particular feelings toward him.”
He was quite certain of this. t that moment, it was the most appropriate response. For a long time, he had believed he had convinced himself of it, but faced with the inquisitors’ insinuation and knowing that this was what he had to say, he finally realized the gaping wound in his heart.
“Well then, we’ll take our leave,” Kazimierz said, oblivious to the heartbreaking revelation Potocki had just experienced. “Take care. We’ll see you later.”
Potocki didn’t reply. He did nothing. His black eyes gazed only toward the horizon, not at the men receding into the distance, but at the rays of light emerging from behind the rooftops, dispelling the last vestiges of darkness that night had brought, announcing to the world the dawn of a new day. And little by little, the world responded.
People began to emerge from their homes, vendors set up their stalls, the city bustled as if nothing had happened. As if Potocki hadn't just killed his son.