“No.”
Jarl grits his teeth before exhaling deeply into his palm. His hand blocks the condensing air from his vision as he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, desperately trying to massage away his building headache; but he’s well aware of the cold by now: his nose, fingers, and cheeks are all stinging from it, after all. “Áesta…”
The daemon across from him simply scowls, nauseatingly sharp, pine-needle teeth flashing dangerously: apparently, Manus’ illusions slip while he sleeps (something Jarl haphazardly takes note of for the future).
They’ve been arguing since the end of their communications with Hagen: Jarl insisting on going to the church marked on the Bailenac’ringy brochure and Áesta vehemently refusing to even look at the holy structure and pointing out that the same brochure has a bar marked on it (“T’e one Ah was exited fer in t’e first place!”) that’ll most certainly have similar if not the exact same accommodations for them and their icy mage. Speaking of the magician: his still form remains between them, all but ignored by the stubborn daemon, and probably catching a serious cold. Jarl fears he won’t last much longer—he certainly wasn’t dressed for this bed of snow, after all—and, in his [worry] panic, fails to understand the validity of Áesta’s refusal.
He is a daemon.
And that is a church.
~
“Ah said no,” the creature repeats, (orange) green eyes narrowing angrily.
His gaze is as sharp as its bared teeth and almost as biting. Almost.
“Ah ain’t sleepin’ in t’at bhastaird’s place.”
The holy man’s lips twitch with irritation as some bizarre combination of insult and betrayal (Of all things…?) roils around in his stomach. He remembers how he’s recently humbled himself, apologized to literal drunks, and even made the effort to see things from Áesta’s point of view several times in the past few days—most notably in Cunning’s Bar but also in Sunder Inn—and yet when he asks the same of it…! The deceitful—! “Bailenac’ringy’s priest is NOT—!” Jarl bites his inner cheek so he doesn’t curse. He then closes his eyes and focuses on the pain, breathing deeply, in the hopes that it’ll ground him and help him through his frustration. “And anyway, you don’t have to sleep there—Manus does!”
Somehow, Áesta looks just as frustrated.
“An’ so do ye!”
~
They argue like this for almost an hour under the rising of the morning star.
Manus does not stir from his exhausted slumber, agitating the anxious priest greatly. The daemon, meanwhile, seems not to notice—or, perhaps more aptly, is too preoccupied noticing something else.
A truth the holy man is too blind to see.
“Fine! Go get drunk! I’ll take care of our friend ALONE!”
~
Manus is freezing in Jarl’s arms.
Stiff as a board, he’s frighteningly fragile, too. When he had asked Áesta (The wretch!) for super strength, he’d only been thinking of using it to save Jasey—to go to the ends of the earth for him and bring him home.
He’d never thought he’d be using it, instead, to carry his normally bombastic friend to sanctuary.
He’d never even thought he’d one day so certainly call the annoying witch of his youth friend.
~
The trip to The Native Church is, thankfully, a short one.
The abandoned inn they were intending to stay at was actually just down the road and across from it. Ironically (or horrifically; Jarl isn’t quite sure), the park was farther from the inn than the church.
If only they hadn’t dillydallied…
(If only Áesta hadn’t—!)
~
The church itself is about the same size as Jarl’s back in Shantown, if not a little smaller.
It boasts a single story of tall, plain, white walls (most likely made of limestone) behind a combination of wrought iron and concrete gates; a lone brown door, small and off to the side appearing exceptionally modest against the prominent stained glass window in the center with a gothic arch and intersecting tracery that sits just beneath a slightly smaller statue of the Virgin Mary in Blue and an even smaller cross above her. The green hedges are well kept despite the time of year and the lawn to the right of the church shows green beneath the building layer of snow; the gazebo and catwalk leading to it, however, show brown and black.
It’s this surrounding churchyard that makes Jarl think the Native’s might actually be bigger.
In area, at least.
~
Stepping into the medium sized church is like coming home, for Jarl.
The glossy floors greet him with the sparkles of the stain glass window and crystalline chandeliers above him, warming him and his heart just as much as the obvious heating system hidden somewhere in the church. Scents of flowers, mainly white roses from the upcoming morning mass (his mind drifts momentarily to Shantown who’ll also be having morning mass soon—hopefully Sophie and Hagen are okay) envelope him and reassure him of his decision: Áesta was wrong and should have sucked it up, as it were, for Manus’ sake.
“Whaou! Is he of ice???”
The sudden sound of a French accented voice startles Jarl almost to the point of him dropping Manus. Thankfully, he doesn’t; but it was close and leaves him gripping the mage tighter with adrenaline in his veins and scanning the church formerly silent church for the speaker.
He ends up finding the local priest.
(And then there were two…)
On the other side of the pews, by the altar, is a middle-aged man with medium length blonde hair, freckles, and baby blue eyes. The fairness of his countenance juxtaposes the pitch black of his priestly garments similarly to how Jarl’s pale skin and light eyes stand out against his own holy habits. The sunspots across the other priest’s cheeks move gently as he smiles and his eyes crinkle just a little alongside them. Much like Father George of Bailemore, this man exudes a kind and understanding aura that Jarl takes to immediately.
“He was out in the cold for too long, Father.”
“O, well, that just won’t do! Come, my child, bring him here.”
~
Father Gianni Mariti is surprisingly good at English for someone so clearly French.
Jarl notices this as he listens to the other priest instruct the nuns and summon a healer for the downed mage. He occasionally slips in a French word or two, sure, but it’s technically better than Hagen’s or even Áesta’s.
Áesta…
Shantown’s holy man frowns as he helps the nuns and Father Gianni pack hot water bottles into the blanket Manus is finally warming under. They’re in the guest bedroom of the local priest’s vicarage—about as far from The Native Church as Jarl’s own wooden cabin is from Shantown’s church—and trying to make sure the witch doesn’t develop hyperthermia—which means Jarl should really be focusing on his friend.
Not the deceitful daemon that…
That what? Did he really betray him? How? When did Jarl begin to actually…?
“Quite the adventure seekers, are you two?”
Jarl blinks and stares owlishly at the other priest before ducking his head and blushing. In a way, he supposes, they are: what else would you call a cross-country journey with magic and daemons and… on second thought. “I wish it were so simple, Father…”
“O? How so?”
(We’re trying to save my little brother from a daemon and the world from a prophecy with another daemon and a witch and the superpowers I got for the second daemon.) “My younger brother’s been kidnapped.”
“C’est fou, ça!”
“Yea…” Jarl stares down at Manus, noting his pallid face but thankfully not flushed cheeks. He isn’t sick, but he definitely got close. Too close. Jarl needs to take better care of him—for Jasey’s sake. “He’s helping me.”
Father Gianni smiles, “Then he is a good friend.”
“He is.” Shantown’s holy man smiles briefly, warmly, before frowning again, “Better than Áesta, anyway.” Then again, since when were they friends? (Since Áesta admitted he knew Jarl pissed off the trees.)
(Or maybe when Jarl realized Áesta could actually be hurt by this fire daemon they’re chasing.)
(Or perhaps even when it was shown to Jarl that Áesta’s actually trying to make feeding easy.)
(Or, dare he acknowledge it, when Áesta agreed to take on more than two deals just for him.)
The younger man is so absorbed in pinpointing exactly when his feelings for Áesta began to change that he almost misses the local priest’s hitched breath and surprised reiteration.
“Á-Áesta…?”
(So, THIS is who he meant when he said bhastaird…!)
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