AN: Keep in mind: Title Change Sunday: "From What I've Tasted of Desire" !!!
As promised, multi-chapter update! This chap kind of marks the end of the first act: the hunt has now definitively turned from being just a vetala, into being a final push to stop the Apocalypse. I know. I don't know how this happened, either.
Agga, thanks for the lovely review. Read into Cas as you wish.
Father Reilly had been a priest for forty-two years. It wasn't as many as some in the diocese, but it was enough. He'd served in prisons, served for NASA, served in the army. He'd listened to people recite horrible sins, tears standing out in eyes. He'd listened to five men on death row. He knew that he hadn't seen or heard it all, but he thought that he'd seen or heard enough.
He preferred not to hear confessions anymore, and for the most part he didn't have to. The younger priests still liked it, still got their jollies out of handing out absolution, the same way they still basked in the glory of transubstantiation. He'd been a priest too long. He didn't think that when he said the words, anything happened. The bread still tasted like bread. The sinner still looked like a sinner.
His sister said that he'd lost his calling, and that he'd better find something else soon, before he became a sad-sack shell of a man. But she didn't know, she couldn't understand. He was almost seventy years old. The only things he had were the rituals of an old man. Morning mass, evening mass, funerals in between.
And even if he wasn't certain that he believed in God anymore, there was still something familiar to the rites and rituals. It was like petting a cat. Soothing.
The only downside, really, were those rare weekends when the younger priests took off. One was doing a destination wedding. The other had to attend the funeral of his own mother. Father Reilly blamed neither for the absence, he just regretted that it put him in the position of sitting in the cramped confessional booth, listening to old ladies natter on about how they'd forgotten to tell their dead husbands' that they loved them.
He handed out Hail Mary's and Glory Be's as penance, raised his hands and uttered the words, but he felt no power in it. The ladies must have, though, as they clutched their purses close and clucked their way out the door. He wished he served in a newer parish. He'd heard that the youth didn't believe in absolution. He liked tat idea.
He was almost done for the day when the three strangers entered the church. He had, in fact, closed the door to the confessional, was checking that the tabernacle was still locked. Ten minutes left. Ten minutes. He looked over at the strangers.
Three men, in their early 30s, maybe, and that was strange enough. Women loved Reconciliation, old women in particular. He hadn't seen a young man since he'd left the army, though. A few times on college campus circuits. In prison. Never just walking, freely, into a church. Not without a woman shoving him forward, or a pair of kids who were heading in for the first, maybe second time.
Then again, he thought, as he looked at them again. Maybe they were on leave from a tour of duty. They had the tired, worn look of soldiers. They looked dusty, though the clothing they were was probably clean. Their eyes were haunted. Creases had been carved into their skin, aging them. So. He thought. Soldiers.
"Hey, boys," he said, waving a hand and waving them over. Everyone was a boy to him, now. Men his own age were boys. It was the way it worked.
Two of them waved back, headed over toward him. The third, the shortest, remained standing where he was, staring up at the crucifix looming over the altar. Father Reilly had never liked the crucifix. In a church that supposedly centered upon redemption and resurrection, he didn't see why the main symbol would be one of death. Then again, there's not much that he does understand about the church, these days.
"Hello, Father," says the taller of the men. He is truly gigantic. . .Father Reilly comes up only to the very bottom of his shoulders. But when he smiles down his eyes are warm. You can tell a lot about a person by their eyes. And his are. . .a bit haunted, yes, as though he's seen wars and death, but they aren't dead. There's hope in those eyes, and an innocence that may never be lost. Nice eyes. "We've come for confession."
"Of course you have," Father Reilly says. He glances at the other man, who has refused to meet his eyes. He is shorter. He turns at the priests words, and smiles a brilliant grin, lighting up the dim sacristy.
"Sure thing, Padre," he says, and his eyes are dancing green. But not as nice. Father Reilly thinks. Not nearly as nice.
"All right then."
The priest leads the taller of the two men back into the confessional room. It's small and cramped, and the drape is pushed back. He ushers the man toward the more comfortable of the two chairs, settles himself back down into the other. They'll have to get them reupholstered. Springs are bursting loose, digging in to the small of his back. Then again, maybe not. Isn't suffering a primary tenant of his religion? The priest gestures toward the curtain.
"You can close it, if you'd like," Father Reilly said. "To retain anonymity."
The man laughed, and it was a pure sound. "That seems kind of backwards, if you don't mind," he said. "Since you've already seen my face."
"Okay." Father Reilly pressed his fingers together, making a lattice out of them. Here is the church, here is the steeple. Old nursery rhymes. "How long, my son, since your last confession?"
The man squirmed uncomfortably then, and for the first time refused to meet his eyes.
"Um, never," he said finally. He peeked a glance, sideways, as though searching the old priest's face for something. "We weren't exactly. . .raised in the church."
"Okay," The priest nodded. "Okay. Were you baptized?"
"I don't know."
"Confirmed? Have you received First Eucharist?"
"I'm pretty sure I haven't."
The man's brow furrowed. He leaned in, and his eyes widened. They were as eager to please as those of a golden retriever. He wasn't a man at all, the priest realized. He was a boy. Maybe 25. Maybe younger. War did cruel things to a man.
"Father," he said, his tone earnest. "Can I still receive absolution, even if I'm not Catholic?"
And oh, did Father Reilly have an answer for that. For the church was steeped in its traditions. Proper rites being performed at the proper time. The answer, of course, was no. Baptism was the first rite of initiation. . .without there, there could be no communion, no reconciliation. But as he stared at the man with the nice eyes, Father Reilly decided to ignore that. After all, if this boy wanted a penance handed out and some words said, who was he to deny them? When he couldn't feel the power in them himself, anyway.
"That will be fine, young man," he said. "Tell me, how have you sinned?"
The man thought about it, for a long moment. He leaned back, put both hands to his head, and truly considered. Something moved deep inside Father Reilly's chest, because this, after all, was what the sacrament was about. A deep reflection of wrong-doing. Too many came in with laundry lists, and he wanted nothing more than to kick them in the keisters, to yell "if you knew it was wrong, why sin in the first place?"
"I lost my faith," the boy said finally. "Not in God. . .not exactly. But in everything else. I lost my faith in my family, lost my faith in my brother, even lost my faith in myself."
"And have you found this lost faith?"
"I don't know," the boy said. "I think so. I'm about to find out, anyway."
"Those are mistakes," Father Reilly said after a moment. "Those are missteps and miscalculations, but they are not sins."
The boy nodded, considered again. "I lie," he said finally. "Cheat, steal. Even murder. But I don't think those are sins."
The priest nodded his head. He'd heard stranger. Not a single movement in his face. "Why not?"
"Because. They're always to help someone, to save someone. I'm not doing it for me."
The priest sighed. This, precisely, was why they weren't supposed to just let anyone off the street into a confessional. "I am sorry my child," he said, leaning forward and placing one hand on the boys' forearm, keeping him from speaking any more. "I am sorry, but in this church, it is the deed that forms the sin, and not the thought. The ends do not ever justify the means."
The boy seemed surprised at this. He nodded, but then leaned forward again, no less intense.
"Father," he said. "I know this goes against. . .well, against something. But I really, really need for you to grant me absolution."
Father Reilly stared at this boy, who didn't know what he was asking. Both something so great, and so inconsequential. He sighed. He should say no. It was his duty to say no. But those eyes still held hope in them, and he refused to be the one to wipe them out.
"Are you sorry for your sins?"
"I am not sorry for saving people," the boy said stubbornly. The priest considered for a moment.
"Are you sorry that you had to use means of sin to save people?"
The boy smiled, and though it was not as bright as the other man's, it still lit the room more than any candle. "yes," he said.
Father Reilly nodded. It was enough, to say words that had no meaning.
"Just as Jesus, through his dying on the cross, reconciled the world to Himself, and sent forth the Holy Ghost for the forgiveness of sins; so too does God reconcile you to himself. I absolve you of your sins. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord."
The boy crossed himself, clumsily and with his left hand. It was a sad little sign, but it made the priest smile. The boy stood to leave, but then half-turned, confusion on his face.
"Don't I have to serve a penance?" he asked. The priest sighed. Desert winds and flying shrapnel.
"My child, I sense that you are already serving it. Go in peace."
It took a few minutes for the other man to enter. A few minutes in which Father Reilly found himself strangely exhausted. He lifted a hand in front of his eyes. It trembled. He was truly getting old.
The door creaked open, and the shorter man sauntered in. He almost fell into the seat across from the priest.
"All right, padre, lay it on me," he said, again with the bright smile and the dead eyes.
"Should I assume that you, as your friend, were not raised in the church?" Father Reilly asked. The smile slowly ran away from the man's face, and he shifted in the seat.
"Um. . .no," he said. "But Sam said that you could do this anyway."
The priest sighed, closed his eyes. "All right. Tell me, how have you sinned."
"Um, let's see. I drink, I swear, I say Jesus Christ a lot. . .not when I'm praying, I mean, mostly when I'm pissed off. God damn. Uh. . .never went to church. I lie, I steal, I con people out of their money. I fornicate. . .oh good God, do I fornicate. . .I've tortured people. I caused the freakin' Apocalypse. I failed my father and my brother. What else. . .oh! I break in and trespass. I desecrate graves. I probably have desecrated a church or two. . .definitely broke a virgin Mary statue. Broke a few virgin Mary's, too, if you know what I mean. . ."
The priest held up a hand, wearily. A laundry list again, with no reflection, no thought. Grains of insanity in there, but also, somewhere, he thought, maybe a bit of penitence.
"Sorry, man," the man said sheepishly. "Got a little carried away. A bit outside your pay grade, isn't it?"
"Let me try this another way," Father Reilly said. "Don't tell me how you have sinned. Tell me what you are sorry for."
The man stared at him now, unblinking, and he had to rethink his earlier opinion. Those eyes were not dead. They were filled, with pain and suffering. Close enough to dead. The priest caught his breath.
"Don't say anything," he said. He leaned forward, placed a hand over the man's heart. "Do you feel that?"
"Your hand?"
"Your heart. The way it skips beats, and continues on. You do not need absolution, my son."
"No, Father, I do. I really, really do."
Father Reilly shook his head, stood. "No. You do not. You don't know the ways of our church, so you don't know. . .God has already absolved you. You don't need my words to confirm it."
The man stood up, looking lost in the small sacristy. "Father, I don't think you get what's going on here. It's the freakin' Apocalypse, and my brother and I are trying to stop it. We need this ablution thing!"
"Absolution is the forgiveness of sins," the priest said slowly. He turned around. He couldn't look at the man. It hurt too much – memories of bleeding arms and chapped lips. "Forgiveness through mediation. Absolution can also be earned through perfect contrition. . .a true, honest sorrow for wrongs committed. Pure, unadulterated. Sorrow based on regret, and motivated without any fear of punishment."
"You've been to Hell," the priest said. "You've seen it. You are not asking absolution to avoid it. You don't need me. God sees your regret. He forgives."
The man was shaking. He raised one hand, rubbed it furiously across his face, as though brushing away tears. Father Reilly had a hint of moisture in his own eyes, but refused to brush them away. He hadn't felt this alive in years. He stared at the man, and suddenly, abruptly, a truth washed over him.
"Angels are watching over you," he said. The man shuddered, once, as though the words struck something deep within him, and then marched out of the sacristy.
Father Reilly stayed a moment later, gathered himself together. He waited for it to be exactly five o'clock, exactly time to leave. Only then did he blow out the one remaining, sputtering candle, lock the door, walk out.
The two men had left the church, but their friend remained. He stood, still, staring at the crucifix. Compelled, Father Reilly walked over to stand beside him.
"It was not the greatest sacrifice he could give," the man in the trenchcoat said. "But it was the greatest we could understand."
Father Reilly nodded, looked at the figure of the dying Christ again. He thought he heard the flutter of wings.
"You're wrong," he said lowly. "His sacrifice wasn't death. It was betrayal."
When he turned, the man in the trenchcoat was gone.