Hagen and Jarl wrap their conversation up pretty quickly after that.
The apothecary confirms that he’s been to most of the villages along the path to Jasey and the Devil’s Cavern (Z’ey are part of my shopping route, after all.), meaning that he could have nearly met them numerous times. “Z’at is very strange, z’ough,” the German says with a frown; “Z’e paz’ Manus and I made vas done viz’ magic in mind—it is not z’e most practical vay to get to z’e Cavern if you are travelling viz’out an Axis Mundi.”
“… So… the daemon that kidnapped Jasey… is also using it?”
“You’d have to ask Manus z’at; but it seems likely.”
~
Aforementioned magician is practically inhaling an entire shepherd's pie when Jarl rejoins him and Áesta.
The daemon, not filled by solids or human food, is across the table with Bobby Overalls and a broken radio. They’re chatting about their favorite kinds of music and exchanging band names with smiles.
Between them and Manus is a quiet looking girl with many piles of varying flowers neatly stacked before her and an upright vase in the center of the table awaiting the bouquet slowly being arranged in her lap.
A female voice filters through the open door of the office behind the reception counter—but it’s not Sheryl’s. Instead, she’s waving at the priest with one hand and opening the large tome in front of her with the other.
It seems the Innkeeper’s ready to check Jarl and co. out.
The holy man smiles at this, amused at how at-the-ready she is, before waving back.
~
“We should head back to the loch for the teleport.”
Jarl furrows his brows in confusion as Manus shovels down another heaping spoon of potatoes and meats. He’s fueling up for the transport, the priest knows, but he still can’t help but gape at the normally prim mage.
Shantown’s appearance-obsessed magician doesn’t even put gravy on his mash for fear of it making a mess—normally; for him to be so carelessly tucking into a meal, no matter the cleanliness of it… it’s surreal.
“The village stretches far east in terms of housing, so we’ll have to travel a ways before they won’t see us.” Another shovel of food momentarily quiets the golden eyed man, allowing Sheryl to slide in Jarl’s own meal.
He thanks her quietly.
Once she’s gone and no longer able to hear their crazy talk, Manus resumes, “We should be out of their sight in just a few meters if we head north; ‘though, it’d probably look less odd if we go east first and then go up…” The mage chuckles at himself. “There’s also the fact that we can use the loch to water the Axis Mundi.”
Jarl slowly nods, “Whatever you think is best and easiest on you.”
Manus grins at him, clearly ignoring the fresh shovel of shepherd's pie in between his teeth, and winks—somehow succeeding in looking ridiculously charming.
(Jarl will never know what Jasey sees in him.)
~
“Did ye shave?”
Jarl blinks down at Áesta, sky blue eyes slightly wide with surprise. The little, brown daemon blinks back, black brows furrowed in confused suspicion. Slowly, Jarl nods, “Yes; just now before coming down. Why?”
The priest then watches the strangest thing happen: Áesta pouts; “Ah liked t’e scruffehness.”
“… What?”
~
Manus laughs and coos at them when Áesta turns to complain to him about Jarl shaving his beard.
He’s not entirely sure why, of course; although, he does understand that he’d looked scruffy this morning (hence him deciding to shave). He’s also fairly certain this isn’t that noteworthy, funny, or complaint-worthy—never mind coo-worthy. He figures it’s just another one of those weird things only Áesta and Manus agree to.
Until, of course, Sheryl and Bobby appear to get it, too.
Even the quiet flower girl giggles.
(Jarl can never get a break, huh?)
~
The flower girl’s name, rather fittingly, is Rosa.
Jarl finds this out rather last minute when she shyly presents him with a large vase full of beautiful flowers. They’re not for him, she explains, but for the church: “I know you’re goin’ there so… i-it’s for the altar.”
“Ah…”
Remembering that some of his own parishioners like resting or setting plants and flowers at his own altar back in Shantown, Jarl nods with a smile and accepts the large bouquet.
“Father George will love them.”
Rosa grins happily; “Thank you!”
~
Manus and Áesta do not accompany Jarl to the church.
Shantown’s priest isn’t that surprised. Áesta, as a daemon, wouldn’t feel all that welcome in God’s house—even Jarl’s own church had felt highly unreceptive to him—and Manus, as a magician, might not either—especially when one remembers all the times throughout history the church has openly condemned witches.
And Manus is, for all intents and purposes, a witch.
Specifically, and apparently, a Snow Witch.
(But that’s digressing.)
~
The Church of Redemption still looks as gothically beautiful as the St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague Castle.
Jarl smiles as he pushes through the entrance hall and retraces his steps through the pews and to the altar. Rosa’s flowers smell wonderful as they brush against his check due to how he holds them securely to his side. Their pale pinks, whites, and yellows compliment the stone and ivory colors of the church’s interior softly, creating a pastel-like splendor God would surely enjoy.
Father George certainly does.
The older priest claps gaily when he spots the floral treasure and hurries out of his sacristy to help Jarl with it. Together, they arrange the large vase and its beautiful flowers upon the altar and murmur a quick prayer.
Then, they smile at each other.
“Yar beard is neat,” Father George comments, amusement lacing his tone. He sounds admonishing, too, but it’s all in jest; Jarl can tell from the sparkle in his eye, the glimmer in his silver tooth, and the joy in his smile. “It weren’t even t’at clean fer mass yesterday!”
“My apologies, Father.”
The elder laughs. “Thou art forgiven!” he boasts, hearty voice bellowing into the church and oncoming night. Both priests chuckle and begin returning to the Church of Redemption’s sacristy to the right of the altar. While walking, Bailemore’s priest speaks again, this time only half jokingly: “Assuming thou forgiveth me.”
Jarl simply shakes his head firmly, “There is nothing I need to forgive you for, Father; you’ve done no wrong.”
With that, some before-then unnoticed tension suddenly leaves the two men and allows them both to relax. As they settle together in the little office, calmer than they’d been yesterday, as the oldest of them smiles—grateful and sad. “T’ank ya, friend.”
Jarl smiles, pushing aside his familial worries and simply enjoying the fact that they’ve met, “And thank you, as well.”
Father George chuckles. He pours his newest friend a cuppa and passes him a biscuit before taking a sip, “Ya’re leaving soon, I take it?”
The out-of-town priest nods, “Quite shortly.”
“Ta w’ere yar little brother is?” The older man sighs deeply into his tea, face worn and wary. “Best o’ luck, Fat’er Jarl o’ Shantown; may ya find yar brother soon and in good health, too. God’s speed, my son.”
They share a grim smile.
“Amen.”
~
“I did want to thank you, before I leave, for something else.”
“O?”
“Yes: thank you for trying; thank you for trying so hard; thank you for remembering such minor details; and thank you for sharing—not only what you know but what you have here, too—it was… immensely helpful, Father—you’ve no idea—I would never have known if it weren’t for you—”
“Ya’re welcome ‘ere any time, my dear friend—any time.”
(“Thank you.”)
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