“Can… Can Hagen and I… be alone…?”
Manus holds his breath for a moment, eyes wary and wider than normal (at the request or the sobbing, neither of them are quite sure). Eventually, he comes to nod after glancing concernedly at his doctor half.
Áesta simply frowns and/but agrees almost approvingly—he actually seems proud.
Not that it matters; Jarl doesn’t need that (Right?).
~
“Es tut mir Leid.”
Jarl sighs and, again, retreats into his hands. The rough calluses on his palms and fingertips don’t shock him as they graze almost harshly against his forehead, cheeks, and eyelids. They’re familiar—almost comforting.
“I know.”
And he does. He knows how sorry Hagen is: he can see it in his eyes filled with tears, hear it in his voice choking on apologies, and feel it in his German which he only reverts to when stressed. He knows.
But knowing doesn’t always help.
Jarl sniffs, loud and lewd, before wiping his eyes on the mounds of his hands. His lashes are probably sticky now, with tears, but he doesn’t care. He has more important matters, “Why… why were you late?”
“Vat?”
The priest pushes his hair back, disliking that some of it had fallen into his face. “When I was at the church, Father George said you arrived here later than you normally do. He said… you got delayed… by a fight…”
“…” Hagen suddenly laughs, “You are… too kind, Faz’er.”
Jarl offers a half-smile, “You are my friend, Hagen. Always.”
The apothecary returns it hesitantly, “Even vhen I fail you?”
The holy man simply waves that away, “You couldn’t have known.”
~
“It vas just some… trottel disliking mein appearance.”
“Just some idiotic jerks that delayed you?” Jarl raises a skeptical brow; he knows Hagen well and is more than aware that not much can really stay him: for anyone to actually pull that off… They can’t be mere morons.
“…” Hagen chuckles, “Du hast recht.”
It’s the German’s turn to run his hand through his hair, upsetting pale strands as much as he, himself, is. Although he tries to pretend that he’s not, Jarl has spoken to too many people attempting to hide their hurts to be fooled by a man who generally only defaults to his mother tongue when stressed or wounded.
Funnily enough, Manus is the exact same way (Just with Spanish.).
“You know o-our country vas neutral during z’e var,” Hagen begins, stumbling a little over that word—our. Hagen has never been ashamed of his German heritage—but he’s never been the most proud of it, either. Growing up, he learned German to speak to his grandmother and nothing else—not even his own parents. Whether he was in school, the church, or hanging out with Jarl as children: German wasn’t commonly used; he always preferred English and exploring the curiosity known as Irish—the native tongue of his homeland.
Because Ireland IS his home.
And yet still: sometimes he doubts. And this is why Jarl knows what happened wasn’t just idiotic jerks.
It was the question of whether or not he’s truly accepted—truly loved.
“But z’e SS Irish Oak vas still shot in z’e Atlantic?” Hagen continues. Jarl nods. “Ich met some of z’e survivors.”
O…
Shit.
~
“What happened…?”
Hagen swallows thickly and Jarl really wishes he could hold his hand right now (even if that’s not typical during confessions—this isn’t actually one, after all, they’re just being friends). “Z’ey vere drunk, Ich z’ink, and accused me of being z’e vone to do it… T’ey started a fight and Ich… I did not know if I should fight back?”
“Wha—of course you do!”
“Do Ich?” Hagen stares at Jarl with soulful, unusually lost eyes: all his normal keenness and knowledge gone. “Do I fight people z’at z’ink I am just a varmonger and perpetuate z’at horrid idea? Z’at horrid image? Of me? Mein family? Z’e people z’ey z’ink I represent? Or do I not fight—let z’em beat me—and hope to shed light? To change z’eir mind?
“I am not you, faz’er—I do not inspire people every day—but Ich can stop z’ings from becoming vorse.
“I hope Ich can do z’at much.”
~
“You can—you always can.
“Fighting back is not an act of violence, Hagen. It is an act of bravery. You need not hurt others to fight back. You can stand up for yourself without hurting anyone else. Never be afraid of doing that.
“And you say you aren’t like me—that you don’t inspire others—but you do.
“Think about all the people in the parish that go to you suffering and thinking there’s no hope for it to end. Think of all the times you’ve given people remedies, cures, solutions to all their ailments—that’s hope, Hagen, and inspiration to live happy, fulfilling lives that most of our parishioners wouldn’t have without you.
“And think now of all the people going to you for comfort!
“They are shaken right now—their sense of normalcy is gone—but they find stability in you; they find hope; never doubt how wonderful you are, Hagen: you are irreplaceable and dearly loved—by all of us.”
(… Z’ank you…”)
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