Wolfwood:

Sermon Four: A Lament For Judas

By

C M Forde









She was hanging up laundry, the wispy yards of cloth catching the wind and dancing upon its influence like the beat of angel's wings. Did he love her? Did it matter? The priest watched her from the shadows of the overhang, remembering her touch and the sensations that she left on his skin. But that was gone now, and he didn't regret it. He had used her as much as he himself had been used, only he had gone through that willingly, he had always had a choice in his actions. "She misses you." Vash the Stampede was standing behind him, whenever he came into town it seemed like the man in the deep red coat would be there to try and drag him back into the life he didn't deserve. Wolfwood said nothing as he watched her chestnut tresses catch the light and threaten to take up their own steps in the dance that the clothesline had begun. He turned to his once friend, and seemed about to speak, but the other man already understood. Some sins, can not be confessed.



The cross was bound now in canvas, a strange twin to Vanessa, who's bandages tightened around her body to keep her from falling victim to the child's final vengeance against his mother's killer. The wound had not been bad, and Wolfwood had been able to treat it well enough on his own, her life was not in danger. "Why do you love me?" While Vanessa was wrapped to give proof to her sins, the cross was covered to hide its own from the world. Reflective steel and stainless finish were kept tightly bound and driven from sight so that none would recognize the atrocities it had committed.

Wolfwood's cigarette burned low, "What do you mean?"

Vanessa looked up at him as they walked through the desert, alone and separate, their only companions the darkness that seemed to swallow the stars. "C'mon Nick, I know it's true. You would never hurt a kid, not for anything, but when you saw me hurt, you chose me over him. You love me, I want to know why."

The priest frowned, had that been what he had done? Had he chosen her over the child? Or had he merely seen himself in those young eyes and tainted features? Had he witnessed himself in the ages to come, seen the man the boy would become, and hated him for it? "He had it coming." Some things he couldn't explain, not even to himself. Was it love or hate that had driven him to commit that act? Was his driving force not life, but death? The answers lurked just beneath the surface of what he couldn't comprehend, and the questions dug into his soul, gnawing at him like vicious predators of the night. "You would've done the same for me."

"Of course I would have Nick, I love you."

The priest faltered in his step and the cross weighed down upon his back like a thousand souls aching for forgiveness. "No." He turned to her, shocked, ashamed, angry and afraid all at once. "No you don't." His heart plummeted through his body and came to a rest, small and cold upon his future grave, unmarked, and untended. "Don't you ever say that Vanessa, you don't know what you're talking about."

The woman laughed and leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, "I do love you Nick, that's unquestionable. And now I know that you love me too, and everything will be alright for us." Her body was warm against his, but her words sent glacier chills through his being. He broke away from her, pushed her off of him and stood away from her, aghast and trembling.

"No! Shut up! You can't love me, no!" But she didn't run from him, she didn't look fearful or pleading. She just saw him for who he was. The woman took a step forward and Wolfwood felt like running, running as far from her as he could, wether to save her from damnation or himself from redemption he couldn't be sure. But he didn't move, and she came to him in the all encompassing emptiness of the night and held him in her arms. For the first time in his life the priest knew love. From a woman he had killed for, from a woman who would kill for him. That night two devils lay in the sand, playing at being angels, spreading their wings and pretending that their feathers had not all rotted away.