Jarl can’t get Áesta’s smiling face out of his head.
The sparkling green eyes (which might look different behind the human illusion), the crinkles in their corners, the laugh lines Jarl never knew were there before… The way he lights up the room, lends to the homeiness, and makes the whole tower seem warmer and wholesomer than it was before.
More like home than before.
It’s distressing to think about.
~
So he doesn’t.
Instead, Jarl sighs (aggravatedly) and (aggressively) makes his way back to the hotel. He power walks, determined to get his frustrations (and fears) out before he returns to the hotel—to Manus and Tobias.
But it’s hard.
He’s never been the kind of person who runs from his problems: most often because his mind never lets him. It’s always replaying the problem for him—even in the background—so he’s always thinking about it.
Whether it’s a parish problem or a personal one, it doesn’t matter.
He’ll keep thinking about it.
~
This is actually one of the reasons he’s so good at managing anything: his mind never gives up on it.
Problem in the parish? He’ll figure it out. Someone’s sick? He’ll call Hagen. Jasey can’t speak? He’ll learn Sign.
Jasey’s gone MISSING?
He’ll begin searching.
(But this…)
~
Running a gloved hand through his ruffled hair (ignoring that it’s become so stiff and overrun by snowflakes at this point that it’s literally impossible to tame while he’s still outside), the out-of-town priest pauses at the intersection that stands as the crossroads of everything in this town: the tower, the hotel, and the church.
He feels lost.
It’s not that much of a foreign feeling; again: he felt lost when he lost his parents, yet more lost raising Jasey, and still lost when finding himself as Shantown’s priest (which, yes, is as counterintuitive as it sounds).
But it’s still different… because he isn’t home anymore.
~
Being lost at home isn’t as scary as this is.
You always know where to go for answers if you’re home.
But Jarl’s parents aren’t here (not that they have been for a while; but they were the first people he’d go to before); his friends aren’t here (he’s still on the fence—he suddenly realizes—about calling Manus a friend and feels he only leans closer towards it because he understands, now, how much he loves Jasey); and…
Father Liam isn’t here.
(But Father Judas is…)
~
Jarl stares off to the right.
Just a little bit farther down the road.
If he squints, he can already see it: St. Bree’s Catholic Church.
Granted, yes: it’s five o’clock in the morning, sooner than even the earliest mass; but, as Jarl would know, most priests would by up at this hour in order to be ready for their sermon—provided they DO a 6 AM mass.
(It WAS on his posted schedule.)
~
The lights are on.
Jarl can see them as he approaches St. Bree’s. Through the sleet and snow, the light shines like it’s in a mist.
(Probably because it technically is.)
The pale orange light glows like a beacon and a fireplace, casting flamelike halos on everything around it.
This makes the stain glass windows look particularly warm and inviting; and there’s something almost… alive… in the way the glow flickers behind the biblical images, making them look like they’re breathing… and in the way the flames alight in the eyes of the statue of St. Bree standing outside… granting her sight.
~
It’s these eyes that Jarl feels on him as he walks closer to it.
The eyes of one blessed by God with and because of her pure heart.
It makes him wonder what she/He sees: a man (not even a priest) driven by love?
Or something much darker—more sinful—than even the daemon he can’t seem to forget about?
~
Jarl tries not to think of his question’s answer as he ascends the stairs.
Pausing before the statue, he listens to the silence of his surroundings—broken only by the sounds of him: breathing, walking, thinking… praying. His lips move but their only sounds are the way they glide and pop, skin meeting skin and breaking away from each other as they form words but no sound.
His prayer is silent but he knows she hears him.
(He hears him.)
He gazes into her eyes, this time. Watches the flames flicker inside them.
Tries not to think about the burning suns of Áesta’s true orbs.
Tries not to ask why it’s a thought for him at all.
~
The thing that pulls Jarl from his revere is not a word of God, a person, or even the lighting.
No. It’s the weather.
It suddenly changes.
He almost jumps out of his skin as a tiny bit of ice clips St. Bree’s face. It bounces off her cheek, arches down, and then tumbles to the ground where it lands deep inside a narrow crater of its own making in the snow.
It’s not until the next bit hits that he realizes what it actually is: HAIL.
Just his luck…
~
Despite this, Judas’ church is much the same as he remembered it: elevated, elegant, and embracing.
It’s this last part that he’s immensely grateful for as he quickly (and literally) slides his way into the building and slams the doors shut, blocking out the bitter and biting cold before it manages to bury an icy hole in him. Warmth envelops him, instead, much like it did the first time he was here, and he allows himself to relax in it.
Even as the sound of hailing outside picks up.
“Well, someone is early,” a voice quips from behind him, deep and reverberating and laced with amusement. It’s followed by the sound of another door closing: this one much quieter and gentler.
Jarl smiles sheepishly as he turns, noting that it seems to be his turn to surprise the local priest, “Sorry…”
“Jarl! My friend!” Judas smiles happily when he realizes who just entered his church. He waves the man over, walking himself to close the gap between them, and struggles not to laugh when he sees the other’s hair, “Come, come! Let us warm you. Sister River made mutton soup to stave off the weather; have some.”
“You are too kind…”
There had been a denial of the Hebrew man’s generosity waiting to cross Jarl’s lips; but it died on his tongue when the word mutton registered and, like a spell, conjured the memories of his grandmother and their love for the sacred meal. He will NEVER say no to mutton, no matter how much of a glutton that might make him.
And he suspects Judas knows this.
Sister River smiles at him when she sees him join them in the sacristy, ocean blue eyes shining with delight. She serves up an extra bit of the piping hot dish, probably seeing the snow and sleet still in Jarl’s frozen hair, and sets it down for him before fetching him a blanket, too. He tries to protest, not wanting to ruin the item, but he finds her surprisingly insistent for someone whom seemed so SHY the first time they met.
River is a tricky one; then again, most bodies of water are.
Eventually, he allows her to tuck him in, fighting the urge to stick his tongue out childishly at the amused Judas sitting across from him and only managing to morph it into a pout, instead. They both giggle at him.
Fair enough.
The soup is as delicious as the roast had been and warms him satisfyingly from the belly up. He sighs happily as he finishes (perhaps too quickly… no one seems put off by it, though) and sets the ceramic bowl down carefully so as to not damage it—or make undue noise in God’s house.
“Thank you, again.”
Judas waves him off as Sister River, whom surprisingly stayed this time, giggles. “You are our friend, Jarl.” There is a distinctly different warmth to the local priest’s smile and eyes than the church, around them, has.
Jarl can feel it farther thaw him out and only afterwards understands WHY.
“You are always welcome here.”
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