Author's Note: I suppose this chapter is what you might call a game-changer. Not only is it in a different point of view, it also happens to show a side of Priest that poor Rowan doesn't really know about it. Not yet, anyway. ;)

As always, I would like thank all my amazing readers and reviewers, J-Lily, saichick, FireChildSlythern5, TrinideanFan, Lonely Bleeding Liar, yamiik, Mss Heart of Swords01, Dr E Mode, Lady Krystalyn, and Constance. In addition, I would also like to thank everyone who has added this story to their favorites/author alerts list. You guys rock! Thanks a million! I do hope you enjoy this installment.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Priest.

Part 19 Rebecca

He knew, in the most horrible, definitive way, that he should not be there. The night was deep and dark around him, a guilty veil that filled him with all the regret of a willful sinner. Priest pressed his back against the wall of the house, the unfinished wood snagging at his coat. He counted his breaths and then his heartbeats. He flexed each finger, the knuckles cracking, and wondered how it had come to this.

Priest was a stranger. He was an intruder. He was the hooded threat that came and went and was feared for the reckoning he brought. And he shouldn't be there, because it was not his place, not his home. Not anymore, at least. Not anymore.

The world had fallen still around Outpost 10, only the massive windmills chopping the air with their slender, straight blades. Eager light pulsed against the dust-streaked windows of the tiny hovel. Inside, the sound of cutlery, knives scraping against tin plates, water sloshing in a clay jug, reminded Priest that he himself had not eaten for a few days. A part of his mind, the hidden alcove he reserved for fantasy, wondered what would happen if he knocked on the front door and asked to be admitted for dinner.

And dearest God, why did he doubt their welcome?

Priest clenched his eyes shut, ignoring the beads of nervous sweat on his brow that reminded him of tears. He knew already that he was in trouble. Irrevocable, unforgiving trouble. Priestess would be looking for him, of course. He was aware of her tenacity, which ran the course from frank to outright obsessive. She would not be pleased when she returned to their quarters in Augustine and found him missing. And Priest himself was devout enough to feel guilty for forcing needless worry on her. He knew once he had been deployed to Augustine, his old home, that he would commit this trespass. Brazenly, he had taken advantage of Priestess's absence when she left him in town to conduct her own reconnaissance of the surrounding landscape. Augustine, after all, was only a few short miles away from Outpost 10…only a few short miles away from Shannon and Lucy.

Temptation. Ah temptation!

Priest had been unable to resist, to weather the draw of so many years of separation when he was so close to the home that should have been his. And would it be a great sin, he reasoned, if he only looked? If he only watched and hoped and perhaps dreamed. If he peered behind the glass of their unwashed windows and saw all the sacrifices he had made manifested in the humble family that was no longer his own.

Yes. Yes, it would be a sin and Priest sinned. Fervently. Readily. Joyfully. He took his motorcycle and left Augustine and rode straight out to Outpost 10, with only the early twilight to hide him and much latent passion burning in his breast.

And he was there now, standing in the shadow of the ramshackle home, his restraint nearly exhausted until he was certain that he could not trust himself to remain passive. Priest rested his head against the wall behind him. He felt the throb of life within the home, heard the muffled echo of each voice, of Shannon talking, little Lucy laughing and Owen, the rightful father, loving them both.

This is my penance, Priest thought, aware of the exquisite torment of the moment. The partition between him and his family never seemed so impermanent, so weak.

With difficulty, he steadied his mind with prayer, said a silent Our Father as he listened to Shannon clear the dishes from the table. There were only so many lines he could cross, so many sins he could commit before the wretched price would have to be paid. But Priest still wasn't satisfied. The aching agony of it all was enough to convince him of his insanity. Raising his arm, he gripped the edge of the wall, his fingers folding around the corner of the house as he pulled himself closer to the window. Just one look. Just one look and it would be enough. It would be enough.

Would it ever be enough?

He stuck his head as close to the glass pane as he dared, dropping into a crouching position beneath the sill in order to conceal the rest of his body. What he saw tore his soul in two, destroyed the lingering fantasy of his life, vanquished the hope that someday, yes someday, he might be able to return to this…to them.

His brother Owen, aged from a timid young boy into a determined man, was still sitting at the dinner table. He had Lucy, who was now about nine, perched on his knee and they were playing a game dominos together. Shannon was nearby. She moved around the kitchen with her usual esteemed grace, the edges of her white skirt flaring out around her ankles, hinting at the dusty boots she wore underneath. Piling the plates in the sink, she returned to the table…but not before she stopped to kiss Owen on the cheek.

Priest fell back, sinking to his knees. Sickness rose up in his throat and in desperation, he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

Could it be over? God, it was over.

He sat on the edge of their porch for a long time, taunted by the delighted laughter from the house, torn and broken and bleeding from the wounds he carried inside. Time, time, where had it gone? Had he been cast into a void? Had he fallen away from the world into a reality that only mimicked life?

Angrily, he fingered his rosary, listening to the click of the steel beads. He listened and he listened, but he didn't hear, otherwise he would have known that she was coming. It was already too late, of course, when she parked her motorcycle by his and slipped up to the porch where he was hiding. Priest didn't even become aware of her presence until he felt her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and away.

If she had been a vampire, he would have long been dead.

Priest jerked his head around, guilt filling his eyes and pulling at his mouth until his frown was hard. He could feel her disappointment already. It suffused the air around them, thick and invasive like smoke, scorching the back of his throat and his eyes. There was a definite heat over his cheekbones, the flush gradually extending down his neck. He found he could not meet Priestess's gaze. Instead, he looked away from her face, focusing his eyes instead on her red plait, which hung down her back like a coil of thick rope.

Her gloved fingers tapped his shoulder once, insinuating impatience. "We are leaving now," she whispered. "Get on your motorcycle."

He couldn't argue with her. Stealthily, he followed her back over to their bikes, settling himself in the long seat. It was winter and he could feel the cold metal through his pants against his thighs. His flesh tingled as he switched on the engine.

Without a word, he followed Priestess as she guided her vehicle away from Outpost 10 back towards Augustine. The moon was only a crescent and when he looked over his shoulder, once, only once, towards the tiny house, he realized that there was nothing left to him. No soul. No heart. No eager, yearning spirit.

Light pulsed from Outpost 10, a lonely beacon in their dark world. As he rode, Priest thought of their laughter and their love and how it was not his, how it would never, ever be his.

And had it been worth it, he wondered, to glimpse the one thing he was denied? Was the pain really a blessing in disguise? Was the single moment truly worth a lifetime?

Shannon. Lucy. Shannon…Lucy…

What if it wasn't? Priest feared, watching the blinking blue tail light on the back of Priestess's bike disappear into the gloom. What if it hadn't been worth it at all?

Before Priest could even park his motorcycle, Priestess was heading up the stairs to their lodgings, her thick-soled boots making a thunderous noise on the wooden steps. They were both being quartered in the spare rooms above the doctor's house for the duration of their assignment in Augustine. The accommodations they were granted were certainly not spacious, and often stank of disinfectant. Priest found that he had trouble snatching a few hours sleep in his narrow bed with the scratchy sheets, and most times, he would lay awake, listening to Priestess say her rosary through the thin walls. It wasn't the first time he had been lodged with her, having spent a year in her company as an apprentice. Although it seemed now, in some strange sort of way, that they were truly alone together. He didn't know why, though. He didn't really know.

Priest followed her, albeit reluctantly. He made it up to her room just in time to have the door closed in his face. Her anger was not a suitable deterrent, however, and he was goaded on by his own individual worry, which manifested itself in the small terrors that clung to his mind. Pressing his forearm to the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside, refusing to offer her any fumbling excuse or greeting.

Priestess was pacing, her frantic energy repressed in the cramped space. She moved between the wide dresser and the bed and then made her way over to the small desk in the corner. Her path was vaguely triangular.

The frayed curtains had been pulled back from the windows and Priest could see the main street of Augustine. The first shift of the night watch was already patrolling the town. Downstairs, the doctor was playing one of his records on the turntable. Something with violins. And a piano.

Priest looked at her and was nearly overwhelmed by her obvious rage. He decided to throw caution to the wind…and beg for mercy.

"I am sorry," he said, coming to stand by the desk. Resting near at hand was a crude map of Augustine she had most likely sketched during her reconnaissance trip that afternoon. It lay on top of her black, leather-bound Bible. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

"You thought you would be back before I returned?" she asked, her voice strained, not the confident military bark he had become accustomed to. "You thought that you could fool me?"

Priest's shoulders sagged. He touched the map with his fingers, leaving a faint imprint of grime on one corner of the parchment. "Yes," he admitted. "But before you condemn me, I want you to understand my intentions."

She flicked her hand at him, an expression of outright dismissal more than annoyance. "Restraint," Priestess said. "Where is your restraint, Priest?"

"I did nothing," he said, suddenly wild. He wondered if the doctor could possibly hear him over his music, the churning, discordant cries of the harried violins. "I did not even speak to them. I only wanted…I needed to see that they were safe."

"It is not your concern, either way." Priestess turned. She put her back to the window and squared her hips. The light in the room was dull, the shadows the color of sepia. "They are nothing to you," she said and he was almost certain that he saw something of unfettered glee in her countenance. His pain, it seemed, pleased her.

"Do not say that!" Priest countered before he could stop himself. His voice boomed, darkened by the secret fury he had long nursed.

But Priestess only looked at him. She only raised an eyebrow. "You forget yourself," she said, her own tone measured. "Entirely."

"Oh God." His words were touched with weakness. Priest threw himself down in the chair by the desk, true fear beating a cadence inside him.

The small mirror above the dresser showed his reflection, gave him a glimpse of the ash-colored cross tattooed onto his forehead. Priest ran one finger over the middle of the mark, his blunt nail digging into the flesh. Did this mean nothing also? Had he been willing to cast away the long, hard years of training and prayer and deprivation? Had he been ready to scorn God for a single look into something that was no more than a mirage? Had he damned himself because he missed the woman who had once been his wife and the child who had once been his daughter?

What had he done? What had he done?

Breathing hard, his narrow shoulders hunched, Priest glanced up at Priestess. He could not tell, but he thought she looked sympathetic.

"Are you going to report me to the Monsignors?" he asked.

He was surprised when he saw her own eyes widen, the round whites showing against the blue irises, alarm leaping to life in her expression, which was cold, which was always cold. Priestess raised her hand and rubbed her jagged nostril.

Vaguely, Priest wondered how she had received the scar that made her ugly. The story behind it, he was certain, must be an interesting one.

"God help me," Priestess said. "Who do you think I am?"

Her reaction stunned him and Priest could only sit there numbly, awash in his fetid state of guilt and recrimination and loneliness. Terrible, terrible loneliness. Downstairs, a solemn violin sounded, giving air to his grief. He listened as the record played and heard his own sadness reflected in that mournful cry, that lost lament. Darkness gathered against the solitary window. The shadows framed Priestess's lean body. She looked small.

She had difficulty holding his gaze now, he noted. Her eyes fell from his and dropped to the floor, where dirt had rubbed into the wood grain of the boards. She scraped her right boot heel over the toe of her left, stumbling, slightly off-balance.

"Don't you understand," Priestess said, "that all these years I have tried to protect you. Every one of you. Rowan, Seth, Marcus, the twins…you, Priest. God may have claimed you for His own, but I always thought that you were mine…for a while, at least. I cared for you. I trained you. I gave you what I could of my life so that yours might be better. I nurtured you. I prayed and fasted and fought with you. You belong to me, Priest. All of you. And I wouldn't…I wouldn't hand you over to them, even if they tried to force me. There is no sin here, only human error. And the responsibility is mine. Priest, you must know, please, you must know that you are safe with is this way. It will always be this way. I swear to it. I promise."

Priestess paused. She stopped and leaned back, sagging against the window, the hem of her black coat brushing the floor. Exhaustion had drained the color from her face and she was pale. White. She trembled.

Priest put his hand to his brow, his adrenalin fading, leaving him limp. He stretched his legs out before him and sucked a breath into his lungs. Why had he doubted her? He had known better. He had always known better.

"Thank you," he said, although the sentiment seemed a paltry repayment of her grace.

Priestess shook her head. "I don't want to be thanked," she said. "I just want you to understand."

"I do," he said, his words colored by a surge of affection for his old mentor. She was a good woman, after all. He wondered if she knew it.

Slowly, Priestess straightened, her movements weary. She crossed the room and sank onto the edge of her small bed. A few strands of hair poked out of her braid. The dim light made her skin look sallow.

Priest watched her quietly, out of the corner of his eye. He was thinking of strange things, of memories that were reflected now in this fractured reality. It had always been different between them, he mused. Different with him and her. The others, Rowan and Seth, Marcus and the twins, had been young when the Church found them, still in need of mothers. And Priestess, their unlikely surrogate, had not been able to fulfill their maternal yearnings. It was one of the reasons, Priest knew, that Rowan thought of her as cruel.

He grimaced a little when he remembered Rowan's righteous anger at Priestess, how she had raged and ranted against the woman when she learned that she was to be separated from her friend. Priest knew that Rowan's hate came from instinct, from all the things she had been denied and all the things she had sought out in Priestess, only to find the woman lacking.

He, on the other hand, had found something different, something that Rowan, who was still young, could not possibly understand.

Priest had not looked for a mother in Priestess. He had not looked for childish comfort or safety or nurturing. Only friendship. Only…companionship.

It was strange, he realized, to think of his old mentor as his friend, but she was, in a way. A true friend. A teacher. A constant, faithful comrade.

And it had always been that way….

Priest recalled the first woeful years he had spent away from Shannon and Lucy, how he had searched for someone to explain his loneliness to him and had found Priestess. She was not much older than him and it was easier for her to regard him as her equal. And it was with compassion, not cruelty, that she guided him through the pangs of despair, letting him speak with her, letting him vent his sorrows, letting him sometimes weep.

There had been occasions in the past when he'd sit in the chapel with her and she would teach him new prays to distract his thoughts from all that he had left behind in Augustine. There were times, during the night, when Priest couldn't sleep, that he would visit Priestess in her cell, which wasn't allowed, although she never punished him.

Her patience was extraordinary, and he felt she understood how great his sacrifice had been. She had tried her best to teach him not to miss his family, had told him to find solace in God and in their own little family, Rowan and Marcus and Seth and herself. Priest had relied on her, had learned more from her than any of the other novices, because she was a good woman.

And a good friend.

Priest knew that he had disappointed her by his actions that afternoon. He knew that she must feel betrayed and maybe even hurt. He wanted her to understand that he had not forgotten her lessons, but had learned them well, had kept them close to his heart over the years and always would. Always.

Sitting in the chair, his arm thrown carelessly over the desk, he wondered what he could say to dissolve the tension between them. But there had always been tension, hadn't there? Moments of question, of doubt. Moments when either one of them seemed posed to cross the very definite line between innocence and sin. Moments that were so very like the time she had cornered him in the corridor outside the women's dormitories and placed her hand on his chest. Priest had almost felt that he would kiss her then…if only because she reminded him of Shannon.

It's the hair, he told himself, searching for an excuse. They have the same color hair.

And sometimes, when he looked at Priestess quickly, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw his wife. It was more fleeting than an illusion. More deceptive than a dream, but the hope was there. It remained. It remained.

Priest felt the joints in his fingers stiffen. He wondered who he was misleading, really. Himself, or maybe even Priestess. It didn't matter in the end, he supposed, because nothing between them, not even their friendship, had been one-sided.

"You were right," he said, lifting his hand off the desk to rub his calloused palms together, "about feeling lonely."

Priestess kept her eyes on a groove in the wooden floor a few paces away from her bed. Priest thought she was going to ask him to leave, which would have been the prudent thing, but she didn't.

"I was fifteen when they ordained me," she said, "but I was already alone before that."

Silence. The doctor had switched off his record and the house was quiet. For an instant, Priest felt that he would suffocate in the stillness. The night was fragile and, at any minute, it would shatter.

"You warned me," he replied, his heart pulsing in the base of his throat. "You told me that it would be this way. I was naïve."

"Novices always are."

She shifted, the mattress creaking. Priest saw her tugging at the rumpled sheets, smoothing out the wrinkles in the bedspread with her rough hand. "Fifteen is young," she said, "and I did not understand. Do you see what I mean?"

"No," he lied. The muscles in the backs of his thighs had begun to tighten, and he stood to relieve the tenseness in his body, the knots that coiled underneath his flesh. He paced, following Priestess's earlier path between the dresser and the desk. The backs of his knees were sore.

Priestess folded her hands into fists and dug her knuckles into the mattress. "I was only a child," she muttered, her teeth pulling over her lower lip. "I did not know what I was swearing. I did not…I did not know what it meant…true obedience…and celibacy. Sometimes, I feel as though I was tricked."

Priest began to sweat. The room was stuffy and he thought about cracking a window. And yet, there was something about privacy that was satisfying. Idly, he crossed over towards the casement and pulled the curtains closed, shutting out the night and Augustine and Shannon and Lucy and the world, which always seemed to be waiting for him, preying on him.

"If I didn't know what I was saying, I cannot be held accountable," Priestess said. "The words were on my lips, but I did not keep them in my mind and heart. I knew nothing of the consequences. I knew nothing of the terrible, long years. Such long, long years. And yes, Priest, I was naïve. Novices always are. But I've decided now. I've thought things over and I have decided for myself. It is not a vow if you do not know what you are swearing to. I do not feel as though I promised God nothing anything day, because I was child…I was very young." She stopped and although his back was to her, Priest knew that she was looking at him.

"What about you, Priest?" she asked. "What did you swear?"

And oh, her voice was suddenly tentative. Shy. Her plain questions were masked by a thousand wishes, hiding the very real desire that had been trapped inside her, repressed by doctrine and misguided faith.

He hesitated, sensing peril. Was this a test? And if so, was it being put to him by God…or by her?

Priest moved towards the bed, halting only when his shadow fell over her. His shirt was damp and there were wet patches underneath his arms and on his lower back. He thought, perhaps, that it would be best if he left her then. There was an accord between them still. A balance. And any false step, he felt, would disrupt it. Without knowing it, he had moved into a land that was dangerous, had turned away from the straight and narrow onto a path that was crooked.

It would be difficult to ignore the rush of sensation that filled his body, but he was confident in his ability to withstand all that was treacherous. Her question still nagged at him, though. It was persistent. It reminded him of his own uncertainties, of the dark places he had dared not venture to before.

What had he sworn? What had he vowed?

Priest was surprised when she answered for him.

"I was with you that day, when you were ordained," Priestess said, her words running together in a soft whisper. "I gave you the mark myself, do you remember? And I think, I think when I looked in your eyes, I saw disbelief. I saw doubt. You have known…you have experienced love and you knew then that you could not swear against it. Am I right, Priest? Tell me that I am right."

But he couldn't commit to that. The offense would be too egregious. Instead, he turned his head to the side and glanced at the foot of her bed. "Maybe," he replied. It wasn't a complete answer, and it certainly wasn't the truth. Priest knew it and she, he felt, yes she knew it too.

He heard Priestess sigh to herself. Was she relieved? Or maybe frightened…

"I do not think it would be a sin," she said and he could tell that she had weighed each word, had measured them against her conscience. "I do not think it would be a sin, because neither of us swore to it."

"Your rationalization is dangerous," he told her, although he was frightened to discover that her logic did intrigue him. "You shouldn't…we shouldn't even speak of such things."

"Oh," Priestess muttered. She ducked her head quickly, although he still caught a glimpse of the hot flush that suffused her countenance. She was embarrassed and he was embarrassed and they were both shamed, sitting there in that tiny room above the sawbone's surgery that stank of disinfectant.

Priest swallowed. His collar was uncomfortably tight and he was reminded of the time when he was a child and he came down with a bout of pneumonia so bad that his lungs were almost filled to the brim with fluid. The weight on his chest now was just the same, that intense pressure, that squeezing. He took a breath and coughed. This was the part when he left her room. This was the part when he'd be smart and walk out. But he didn't. God, why couldn't he?

She doesn't want to ask me this, Priest thought as he watched her perched on the edge of her bed, her hands fisted in the sheets. She doesn't want to ask me this, but she needs to.

Need. Need. It was alive in him too. It was the quiet insinuation of frailty. It was the admission of weakness and guilt. What did she want from him?

Priest swallowed against the tightness in his throat. Felt his collar around his neck. He imagined her fingers, undoing the buttons. One by one. She would be nervous and so would he. But they could have that moment. He could relinquish his hold on his already fragile morality and sink into the welcoming comfort of desire, that cunning beast that lurked within, feasting on his baser instincts. Denial was impermanent. It existed in the shadow of his true nature. Priest closed his eyes for a minute and let his thoughts turned inward.

What if he admitted to himself that he wanted her? What if he dared to ask this of Priestess?

And where was Heaven now that he was falling?

It had been years, he told himself. It had been years and years since he had first looked at her and entertained the thought. At the time, the notion had been uncomfortably treacherous. A dark dream. An unworthy nightmare. But now, now…

What now?

Priestess stirred on the bed and he observed her movements, her long limbs gathered close to her body like a dead spider. But she had Shannon's eyes and that sad, scarred face and she could be beautiful to him, in a way. In a strange sort of way.

"Do you think I am wicked?" she asked. It was the first he had ever seen her look to someone besides God for approval. And it was him, she was relying on him.

He could give it to her. They could both be fulfilled.

This is the part, his instincts implored, this is the part when you leave the room. Leave. For God's sake, LEAVE.

"No," Priest said. "I do not think you are wicked."

And yet, it was a sin, what she was suggesting, that he was certain of. But what, Priest reasoned, would he have done if Shannon had found him crouching in the dark outside her house? What would he have done if she had asked him inside? What would he have done if he had been alone with her, his wife.

The night closed around him. His jaw clamped shut and his heartbeat dropped into a low, frantic murmur, Priest realized, with a sickening jolt, that it would be better to sin with Priestess than with Shannon. He could not defile his wife with his lust, but her, her…

Why was he doing this? Why the temptation, the insidious thoughts, the fantastical promises spawned by his weak body and failing mind? He could have this moment, he could have it, but why would he ever want it?

Priest's neck turned stiffly. He saw Priestess on the bed. The sheets an off-colored white. Golden-toned shadows. Her hair, the loose ends coming out of her braid. White skin and that scarred nose. She had blue eyes. Blue, blue eyes.

His legs gave out suddenly and he sat on the bed next to her. Downstairs, the doctor had switched his records and a voice was singing softly, the tone bereft, gripped his hands over his knees, aware of Priestess, who was breathing heavily. Their shoulders were pressed together.

Was this really about lust? he wondered. Or was this only about loneliness? Deep, unforgiving loneliness, the kind that would destroy a man. Destroy him.

They were alone now, he told himself, seizing the blessing of rationalization, which seemed so much more definite than faith. They were completely alone. Away from the others. Marcus. Seth. Rowan…

And it would only be a few minutes. Just a few minutes of grappling in dark. Her flesh, his flesh. Sweat and kisses. Shannon's hair. A few breathless seconds of her, of him, together.

Priest felt that he couldn't breathe. It was the pneumonia. It was the clammy rattle of the grave in his lungs. But he drew on the heat in his chest, let it warm him until he finally managed to talk. "All right," he said, his hand fumbling over the sheets to grasp at Priestess's fingers. "All right."

He took her hard. He was not gentle. The memory of their first encounter, which was hurried and fretful, would haunt Priest long afterwards.

It was awful to see Priestess cling to the last vestiges of stoicism, to hold onto all the lessons she had been taught by the Church long before Priest himself would learn them. She did not cry out when he entered her. She did not give any indication that she was in pain, except for a nearly imperceptible creasing of her brow. She kept her mouth in a firm line as she lay beneath him and her flesh, which had once seemed so tantalizing with its subtle curves, was unyielding.

It occurred to Priest, as he labored above her, that she was more of a girl trapped in a woman's ungainly body and her naivety, that wild uncertainty he had never witnessed in her before, saddened him. Her esteem was gone. Her power and authority, which had cowed even him, vanished when he took it from her. When he pressed his chest against hers, feeling her short, shallow gasps, the little gulps of air she took, she lost her enigma. The mystery was unraveled, all that was aloof and distant about her rendered human. Priestess became real. She fell from her dizzying heights into the dust besides him and there she lay, his to wreck, his to ruin, his to conquer.

But even then, Priest could not be cruel to her. There was something wretchedly unfair about her life, even worse than the sacrifice he himself had been forced to endure. And he cursed himself anew when he realized what he was doing to her, destroying her fantasy, her final dream, the hope that love could actually be gentle.

He was damned in that moment. They both were.

But that didn't stop him. He knew he would not stop.

Priest bent down to kiss her breasts. Priestess flinched. He moaned against her neck. She turned her head away towards the wall. She only tried once to touch her lips to him, as her torso arched against his. In the motion of rising, her mouth brushed across his collarbone and she whimpered a little.

Priest wanted to tell her not to cry, but he stayed silent.

The sheets and musty bedspread tangled around his legs and his nakedness made him feel ugly. It was unbearable, all of it. It was almost unbearable until the last moment, when he buried his face in her hair, his wife's hair, and felt the world finally slip away from him.

"Shannon," he whispered.

It was finished quickly. Priest lifted himself off her as gently as he could, noticing how eager she was to roll away from him. With jerky movements, she tried to cover herself. But the sheets had been kicked to the bottom of the bed and she could only lay on her side, wincing, her legs tucked up against her chest.

The bed was narrow, but Priest managed to squeeze in next to her. He laid on his back and stared at the ceiling for a full minute.

God. Oh God.

Her muffled voice roused him. Priestess had her head pressed to the pillow and when she spoke, she looked at the wall, with its thin, hairline cracks running through the plaster like veins.

"My name," she said, "is Rebecca."

There had been something of virginal ferocity about her. The warrior maiden unsullied by the seed of a man. But that was gone now and her ferocity was replaced with an aching sadness, one of loss and reluctant acceptance.

He dropped his hand onto his chest, feeling as though he would be sick. Her back was still to him and he studied the graceful curve of her spine, her flesh pulled neatly over the bone. She had an old scar above her buttocks and one on her neck as well.

Why had he done this to her?

Priest shut his eyes. He battled his guilt, which throbbed against him. He fought his shame, which he knew could be no worse than hers. And in a strange sort of way, he knew Shannon would not want this for him. She would have wanted him to be gentle. She would have asked him to be kind. She would have expected him to be…loving.

Loving.

And he would be. He would atone. God, dear God, he would atone.

Carefully, Priest gathered the sheets at the foot of the bed and laid them over Rebecca. He pulled her to him and let her rest her head on his chest, savoring the sensation of her arms as they snaked around his stomach.

This was all she really wanted, he realized, as he felt her tears drip down over his ribcage. To be held. She only wanted to be held.

"Rebecca," he said, touching the crown of her head. "Rebecca."

Author's Note: Poor Rowan. She really shouldn't have made such an idol out of Priest. He isn't exactly idol material, unfortunately. Just human, like the rest of us. ;)

Thanks so much for reading! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations and wasn't too shocking. The next installment is in the works and should be posted in ten days. Until then, take care and be well!