There’s something almost perfect about the way mutton melts on Jarl’s tongue.
He isn’t quite sure how to describe it—buttery or chocolatey—but he loves when it happens. The roast, yesterday, had been particularly good; but it hadn’t melted quite the way as this soup.
It just breaks apart—not in the crumbly way (it’s not dry) but the perfect melty one.
Jarl happily sighs.
~
“Mademoiselle Grape?”
Jarl flushes. He ducks his head in shame as he realises that, yet again, he failed to ask someone their NAME.
He’s so… CRASS.
“I—Th-the owner—runner? Of the… tourist place…” Jarl winces and sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, remembering the name but stumbling over it anyway. To his left, the Head Nun pauses and blinks at him, either confused by his wording or just unsure to what he’s referring—thankfully, she shrugs it off quickly.
“Ah, yes...” Judas hums as Sister River offers their new friend a warm loaf of bread to go with his soup, “Apologies: I should have, perhaps, warned you about Madame Madeleine’s… peculiarities.”
Jarl chokes on his mouthful of bread, eyes wide and face pale, as the Head Nun huffs at her holy man. “Peculiarities??? She’s unique—and French—there’s nothing… peculiar about her!” Jarl swallows hurriedly, wincing at the fluffy scrapes down his throat, before nodding in agreement with her.
That was NOT what he meant when he commented on her… eccentricness.
“She just… wanted to bring some of her home with her. There’s nothing…” The nun flushes inexplicably and Jarl genuinely raises an eyebrow at her, not understanding why these statements require a blush of all things. “WRONG with that!”
Judas watches her, amused, “I never said there was; YOU were the one to complain about her French wines.”
Sister River splutters, hands flailing in vague gestures that are either meant to defend herself or deflect Judas. That single, stubborn curl that sticks out from under her headpiece and tells the world that she’s a brunette bobs in front of her as she slams her now focused hands on the small table between all of them.
Jarl just blinks at the ferocity of her—and her new facial color.
“Irish wines are grand!!!” The Hebrew priest raises a brow at her, something knowing twinkling in his eyes, and the young woman hastily forges onward—but towards what, Jarl does not know (but Judas does). “A-and should be celebrated! Jus’ like t’e fantastic wines t’e French make—!” Her mouth gapes for a moment—realizing, perhaps, that she overly praised them again—before she blindly carries on: “An’ our grapes, too!!!”
“Indeed.”
As Judas nods, face stretched into a smile that might actually be a smirk, Jarl notes that River has an accent when she’s emotional: ordinarily, she sounds almost British when speaking (probably from an English school); but now her ths are slurred and she’s dropping letters she normally wouldn’t be missing. She sounds Irish. Or, at least, a bit more Irish than before. But he doesn’t understand WHY she’s so emotional in the first place.
What’s this conversation REALLY about???
Jarl can’t figure it out.
~
Luckily, as Sister River struggles in silence with her emotions, Judas takes pity on Jarl.
“When Madame Madeleine first came here, years ago, she was… a bit of a storm. She came to us with a cart, piled high with wines, and we thought she was just a travelling salesperson—we get plenty of those: tourism and all that; very normal. But, she wasn’t: in the back, she had pots and seeds and crates—all of grapes.
“She planned to move IN.
“Now, I was a new priest, at the time, and uncertain how to proceed. I could hardly understand her, then, because almost every other word was French with her—and I didn’t understand it as well as I do now. But River, here, grew up in Dublin where they have more cultured schools that teach more languages.”
“I learned French…” the Head Nun supplies almost sulkily.
Jarl doesn’t ask WHY; he just accepts her pout. Judas, of course, smiles knowingly at it, again, “Indeed. Thus, she could translate for me. And she did. They became quite close that way, didn’t you, Sister River?”
Aforementioned Head Nun only sinks farther into her soup.
Judas chuckles as he bites into his bread. “Anyway: there have been times people passing through… questioned Madame Madeleine being here—especially since she practically refuses to conform to Ireland.
“I always have to remind people: we never wanted to be forced into conformity;
“So, why should she?”
~
Their meal quiets considerably after that.
Jarl isn’t sure if it’s because Sister River is too embarrassed by what her priest revealed or they’re just busy eating under the gravity of Judas’ closing words, but they dip their bread and drink their dregs in silence. Even their sips are inaudible—although that could just be good manners speaking for them.
Regardless, by the time they’re finished eating, River has already hastened to begin cleaning dishes and preparing the altar and diadem for Judas’ morning mass (shockingly only a few minutes from now).
That leaves Jarl and Judas on their own for a short while.
~
“… That was… a strange reaction to your question…”
Judas hums noncommittally as he kisses the small center cross of his stole before donning it upon his nape. The deep green of the fabric—whatever kind of silk mix he picked—contrasts sharply with his black tunic, much in the same way it does with Jarl whenever he dons his own stole for Ordinary Time. For Judas, however, it also highlights the green in the hazel of his eyes, bringing it to the forefront of his gaze so that, when he finally turns and faces Jarl’s question, there’s an additional weight to his stare.
One born of age, wisdom, and experience.
“Indeed.” Judas stares at Jarl for a bit longer, searching for something the younger man does not know—cannot define even if he wanted to—but, if he had to guess… He’d say it was the thing he really came for.
The answer or advice he’s really seeking.
What does he do about Áesta?
“You know of daemons?”
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