“Do what?”
Jarl jolts and whirls around, staring in surprise at the local priest suddenly standing in his own doorway. Father Gianni blinks back, his confused expression clashing horribly with his obvious concern. One hand clutches a file case filled with paperwork; the other holds a baggy full of empty dishes.
He must have come to clean and refill them—perhaps even cook.
(Of course: it’s lunchtime.)
Jarl relaxes slightly, huffing to himself as he stands up from his crouching, and sniffs as he shakes his head and returns to cleaning Dory and Sheryl’s container in the other priest’s sink. He does his best to ignore the shaking of his hands, the adrenaline still pumping in his veins from his panic attack, the tears in his eyes, and the soapy water still running down his hair, face, neck, and back. “… Test me, so.”
Father Gianni’s confusion is palpable, “I have tested you?”
“You have certainly lied to me.” The dish in Jarl’s hands is already clean but he scrubs at it anyway, anxious.
“I… fait quoi?”
“T’ey’re not t’e nicest contract hold’rs.”
“I spoke to Áesta.” Jarl can feel the other priest stiffen just as easily as he can see it in the corner of his eye. Good. Let him be afraid. Let him sweat and worry and stain and wear his holy habits.
Let him be SCARED.
Áesta was.
~
“He confirmed that he was summoned by priests before and one of them was you.”
Ok, technically Áesta never outright confirmed the latter part but Father Gianni did so it’s fine. It’s not a lie. Not really, anyway.
“When I summoned him, he expected the worst from me because I am a priest;” again, not entirely true as Áesta hadn’t known about his priesthood at first, but still; “he was afraid of me and that is because of you—because of what you DID.
“So, please explain to me—truthfully this time—what it is you did to make a literal daemon FEAR you.”
~
“… I have already done this.”
Father Gianni strides forward and sets his things down on the kitchen island. He doesn’t look at Jarl—stubborn or shamed, Shantown’s priest can’t tell—as he empties the baggy and stacks up his own containers.
Jarl grabs a cloth and begins drying Dory’s and Sheryl’s, leaving the sink now free.
“No… you simply told me that your accommodation wasn’t to his liking.” The brunette priest watches as the blonde one carries his dirty dishes to the now empty sink and turns on the faucet. “Things such as lust and desire take on many forms—not all of which are carnal. But you never explained how you showed him that.”
Father Gianni is silent for a very long time.
Then: “I desired him on my own terms.”
~
Jarl breathes heavily and slowly through his nose.
He has delt many a time with parishioners back in Shantown whom either do not truly wish to be truthful or have an extremely hard time doing so out of shame or fear. Many of them resort to this tactic of vagueness: of answering but not answering; of twisting their words to sound better than the reality they hide.
He’s never heard it from another priest, though.
Channelling all his patience—the tolerance he’s been building for more than just his seven years as a priest—Jarl turns to stare Father Gianni in the eyes; the other holy man, however, only gives him his back; “Fine; but what does that MEAN?”
~
“It means ‘e focáladh me wit’ his crucifix.”
Jarl’s blood runs cold as Áesta voice floats over them from the other side of the vicarage. His Irish lilt hovers in the air like a vision of Death itself, scythe held high and poised for a slice. The content of his words, however, are what hold the most rank; and, suddenly, Jarl realizes what else the crucifix symbolizes.
He understands, now, what else it means to the daemon he brandished it against.
(Never again.)
“You wanted a meal of carnal pleasure, n'avez-vous pas?” Father Gianni does not turn around as he speaks. He continues to clean his dishes and set them on the drying wrack beside him, the one Jarl used that morning but forwent a few moments ago due to the steadily building tension.
He wishes he had retrieved the dish from aforementioned usage.
“I’m certain he didn’t want it… like THAT.” Jarl swallows as Father Gianni stops, feeling much like a child acting out in the face of such an older priest. Father Liam had never been like this, though: no matter what, he was always kind and gently calm.
No on had ever feared him.
Like Jarl now fears Mariti.
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