“I’m certain he didn’t want it… like THAT.”
“Are you?” Father Mariti twists around, slowly and ominously, as he turns off his tap. The sound of silence rushes after the running water and causes the younger priest’s ears to suddenly ring. “Áesta is a daemon.” The older holy man gestures uncaringly at the approaching creature, seeming uninterested in his new form or falsely human body (which Jarl can assume is new to him as it was technically created by Manus a week ago [unless this is the same body Manus used when HE summoned Áesta and their paths somehow crossed…]). “All they want is for humanity to succumb to sin, depravity and desire, and be the CAUSE of it.”
Jarl can feel his throat dry up, his mouth long since a desert.
“I simply protected myself from it.”
~
Jarl feels sick—unbearably so.
His ears now ring from the hauntingly familiar words of the other holy man—words that he’s heard before, time and again, from the mouths of other priests, nuns, and devotees: words of hate, hostility, and hubris.
Words he once honored and even spoke, himself.
He scowls: never again.
~
“Did you?”
Father Mariti raises an eyebrow. There’s a condescending glint to his eyes that Jarl dearly wishes to punch.
“Or did you really fail to treat another living being with love and respect.”
Áesta’s breath hitches as Bailenac’ringy’s priest twitches, “Did YOU?”
~
Jarl sees red.
Rage boils beneath his skin at the same searing temperatures as his shame as he moves forward with a roar. The inhumanness of his speed causes him to become a blur neither of the rooms other occupants can track until he’s suddenly holding the other priest up against the fridge with a furious growl.
Finally, Áesta’s super strength comes into play for more
than just carrying friends.
“I have apologized and made up for my actions!” Shantown’s holy man seethes, normally bright sky blue eyes darkened into thunderous clouds. His grip on the older man’s habits digs his knuckles into the blonde’s throat; and some horrible part of him—the one that used to delight in putting his little brother’s bullies in their place—enjoys the whimpering breaths escaping the now frightened man in his super strong grasp.
Or, at least, he’d seemed afraid: “Have you? Rather: did you really need to? It’s a DAEMON.”
“It’s a PERSON!!!”
~
“ENOUGH!!!”
Jarl blinks in surprise as vines suddenly surround his body. They seem to be coming from the herb garden hidden inside of the kitchen’s stone window sills—a collection of discrete pottery he somehow overlooked—but he has no idea how they managed to become strong enough to LIFT him. Even as they darken to black—a clear sign that Áesta has corrupted them—it shouldn’t be possible for HERBS to hold him OFF THE GROUND. (It’s like a miracle…) Father Mariti blinks too, equally shocked, it seems, as his own vegetation seem to rebel against him and quickly pull the younger holy man up and away from him—towards Áesta.
“Ah don’ need ye fightin’ ov’r me.”
The object of their quarrel looks an odd combination of pissed, pleased, perturbed, and petulant as he holds Jarl aloft in gentle greenery. His hands are on his hips and any spare vines are aimed like spears at the blonde (indicating that there really is a limit to how much strength he can bestow) while Father Mariti eyes them both warily and rubs his neck with careful hands, as though aware that his throat is turning an angry red.
“Or fer me,” the daemon continues, face a bit flushed, as he looks pointedly at Jarl, “Ah already cursed ‘im.”
“You did what???” the brunette blinks down at the (orange) green eyed devil in a second round of surprise.
“It cursed me,” Bailenac’ringy’s priest grumbles in explanation, voice a bit rough from the near choking.
Áesta nods. “After ‘e fed me, Ah cursed ‘is arse so t’at ‘e would age no mer’, be accused o’ des’cration an’ witchcraf’, an’ t’en be run out o’ hwatev’r village, town, etcet’ra h’ lived in fer all t’e years ta come.”
Jarl stares, speechless.
Across from him, Mariti snarls, teeth bared in unveiled rage and eyes glacial in their fury. “And it WORKED,” he seethes, disgust in his tone. He turns to his young mirror as though expecting support and understanding.
He finds none; and none of them are really sure who’s more surprised about this fact: Jarl, Áesta, or Mariti.
With a wrathful finger, he points at the now preening daemon and howls like an irate dog denied their bone, “This MONSTER made my whole PARISH turn against me! Made them all believe I was some kind of WITCH! Believe that I had ASKED for this—for… immortality or something!!!” Releasing his bruised and raw throat, Mariti begins to gesticulate wildly, emphasising his words and demonstrating his plight, “And it’s been like this in every parish since! Everyone comes to hate and condemn me! I’ll run out of places to live, at this rate!
“And it’s all this VERMIN’s fault.”
“… Is it, really?”
~
Mariti gapes.
It’s quite funny, actually, seeing his pale blue eyes jut out of his bright red face. His flaxen hair is ruffled like the feathers of an owl aggravated and affronted; and his fingers are twitching with the need to flail.
It’s VERY funny.
“You’re the one that summoned Áesta—for a task it seems he DID complete, too. Your task, at that point, was to reward him for his services—something you could have done—”
“HOW COULD I HAVE DONE THAT WITHOUT SINNING‽”
Jarl breathes deeply through his nose. “Find him cute.”
“… What.”
“You lied to your whole parish, manipulated them like the monsters you’re supposed to protect them from, tricked another person whom you literally hired to help you, violated him, insulted him, shamed yourself, indebted yourself, defiled a relic of God, and got yourself cursed to eternity; and, still, you play the victim… I’m not going to lie: I was blinded by fear and prejudice at first, too; I also assumed he wanted me to sin, fall, be disgraced; I even hurt him due to this fear; but then I talked to him, worked with him, and found the truth: All he needs is a little affection.”
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