Disclaimer: I do not own Xenosaga.
Sacrament of Penance
Prologue
The confessional was a setting of sweltering heat this particular summer night; so much so that its resident priest had difficulty manning his post. Sins were never a simple matter to digest; however, linked with this temperature, the priest could not bear the thought of enduring another session. Even the bottled water beside him could not relieve his corporal state of the consuming fire.
Hellfire.
Imagine the holy man's relief when his next visitor ushered in a cold breeze, enough to quench the flame. Perhaps even send a chill through his heart.
He could not help but shudder. "Good evening, my son."
"Good evening, Father," came the curt reply. The lattice could only reveal the bare outline of a face and the small whisper of a deep tone. The sinner of the hour was a male.
"Please confess your sins, my son."
A pause, and then, "I must confess I am hardly a religious man."
This scarcely surprised him. A non-worshiper, compelled by the whims of age or the revelation of his mortality, was nothing unusual in terms of a confessor. Creed dictated these pagans, too, were welcome to the relief of saints. "God loves all men equally, my son. Even those who may have gone astray."
"God?" Silence filled the other side, greedily eating the time passing between the two men. "He favors selectively, covets with discrimination. I am afraid, dear father, He does not love equally."
Surprise once again eluded the priest, who could only shake his head in pity. Here was the sort who had lost his innocence and optimism. Pity. Pity. "Why do you believe this?" he asked, unable to contain an incredulous tone.
"…For I have met Him."
Third time is the charm, they say, and the resident of the confessional visibly jerked. This was rare. This was dangerous. The holy man had heard of these blasphemies behind the comfort of holographic images and texts but never from flesh and blood. He was equipped to handle these matters, of course, but was he prepared?
The sinner must have caught the doubt and fear for he said, "Please do not brand me with insanity before I have had my moment to explain myself. The story I hold will change your perception of God, I swear. Once you hear it…once you face my experience and force it into your mind, you, too, will sing its song and bear the knowledge."
A slow, turning sensation gripped the lower abdomen of the priest. It was a warning, he knew, to cut the ties and send this man, this sinner, back on his aberrant path. Away from the confessional, away from the church, away from the One whose sanctity should not be marred by such unholy diction.
But the mind of the pious is a curious thing. In the presence of sin, they are apt to knead into the filth to free the one within. To descend in order to ascend. So this priest pressed forward, his knees deep in dark water, and searched for the man trapped beneath the murk.
"Tell me," he said, "that He may adequately judge."
The man on the other side of the lattice smiled—or more appropriately, carved his lips to curve. "He already has," was his reply.