Part I
I wonder, sometimes, what people see when they look at me. In the daylight, by the suns' brightness, I am an enigma- a priest with an arsenal of mercy at his back, gritty servant of god with a crumpled cig between smirking lips. But there are hours when my masks, like those of all men, are dropped. When I am without preconception or deception, unguarded, when I stand for the world to see. It's a pity, in truth, that none have come to know me as I am now- tired and alone, yes, but utterly myself.
What would they think, seeing me as I am now? A man, no more, the guises of daylight banished, the vestments of holiness shed? A man, shirtless, in the dark; between my teeth the ever present cigarette. As subject to anything as anyone.
Subject to feelings, judgments, grudges, visceral and base impulses. Lusts and desires. If they saw what I see before me- but, no. Such things are too private, and therefore too holy to share. And I am, no matter what, a man of God.
Desires and lusts? Perhaps needs would be a better term. She needed someone. So did I, for that matter, though I am loath to admit it. Both of us have seen too much of death and destruction; and suddenly... Though she's hardly my type- God, I'm not really supposed to have a type, am I?- yet for all her simplicity she's a good woman. She smiles in her sleep. A rare thing these days, but when her guards are down, she's peace and contentment beneath. For a time, we shared her tranquility and my thoughts were given rest; now, I'm left with them once more.
I haven't broken any vows, though it almost feels like it. Though the Lord (and therefore His agents) look down on such things, there isn't a formal oath to take. Once there was, but on a world like this, the population needs every chance for survival and continuity it can get. We can't afford to let children go unborn out of religious zeal. Still, though, there is a stigma to a priest's life. Perhaps it was, in truth, a sinful thing to do, though it doesn't feel it to me. I haven't been a promiscuous man, so perhaps, just this once, He'll let it slide. It wasn't the first time, but the first in a long time, so I feel as if the virtue of time has wished away any sins of the past. There was nothing base in this. For, though I cannot truly know it, my heart tells me this is the last time.
I am a man of God. I say it often, perhaps a reminder to myself and others. No matter what it seems, no matter why I am what I am. No matter my motivations. I have devoted myself, and though I've doubted, I do believe that the Lord shows me the way. I know what I do, though it may seem wrong, is in the end the only path, the right one to follow. Or, at least, I have known this in the past, though my heart aches. That, too, is hidden away behind a mask- strength, courage, indifference, holiness. But the things I have done have all been done for the right reasons, or so my intuition tells me. But they cannot be undone, so it is worthless to argue the point. Lord, give me strength; I go to my grave too soon, and I have so much to do...
If I told the others what I know- that soon, too soon, I will go to ashes and dust- they'd laugh it off, say I was being morbid, or superstitious. Paranoid. Anything. But I know- as clearly as though I'd been given a vision, though He did not see fit to bless me so. I know.
And what of the so-called humanoid typhoon? He is the most... well, I guess the only word is good. Righteous. Moral. For a famous outlaw, he's a better man than I, or any of my fellow priests. But he pays the price- I am one of the few that has seen beneath the physical manifestations of his masks. Where my wounds are on my heart, his are all too real- twisted and scarred flesh lie beneath his coat. Wire and sutures nearly hold him together- Heaven above, what of the carefully crafted metal that serves as his sinister limb! All injuries from his vow- rather than kill, he's slowly being killed
I can't help but think I've been good, in that respect. Though he hates me for it, he has needed someone to save him from the world. And, though I've done things both of us have despised, I've managed it a few times over. Call me mad- plenty have- but mankind needs a savior. I'd honestly been expecting someone a little more peaceful and divine, but... well, we all make do with what we've been granted. Vash can do what needs to be done- assuming he doesn't get himself killed, first.
Oh, take care of yourself.
If anyone could understand me, understand how I feel when I'm alone and unheard, I think it might be he. As secretive as I am- nay, more, for he is no mere man, as I am. Vash the Stampede is... more. Beyond us. Different. I only hope it will be enough. But he doesn't need my concerns, doesn't need to see more than what he has. For no matter who I am, what I've done, he must- must know I am truly a friend. And far too soon, I'll be of no more use to him than the night wind.
Oh, God. Oh, Vash. Take care of the girls. Meryl, who loves you more than either of you realize. And Millie, sweet, simple girl, whose need matched my own. And if she conceives of this night, make this world a place our child can live in.
Amen.