Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter two: the magician
chapter summary: after the harvest dinner, you're kept up all night by a frightening plague and are bedridden for the next couple days. when sunday arrives, never did you think you would look forward to mass as much as you do now that father pike is involved. yet another illness bewilders you during the service and a knight in an alb comes to your rescue - and gives you some very interesting information. does this help you feel less alone or will it make you even more of an apostate?
word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.1k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI! reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, slow burn taboo relationship, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ descriptions of vomiting/vomit, some light body horror, fainting, discussions of health, slow burn is slow burning, WE LEARN HIS FIRST NAME IN THE NEXT CHAPTER TRUST I WILL SPARE YOU PRECIOUS READER FROM READING FATHER PIKE AS EVERY OTHER WORD GOING FORTH
a/n: i'm not really sure if i like this chapter, i think i do?? again i'm not really sure where i'm going with this story, but i'm just trying to go with the flow and have some fun with minimalist editing. i have some ideas for later chapters but i'm not too sure how i'm going to get there yet. marcus seems a little ooc to me in this chapter, but he also only had like 30 minutes of canon screen time so i feel like i'm entitled to some creative liberties đ again, let me know what you liked and what you'd like to see more of in future chapters! :) *moodboard is for aesthetics only, reader has no physical description
     The embroidered rosettes lining the hand towelâs edges start to warp into one dusty pink blur as you swallow back bile again. Youâve been hunched over the toilet all night, switching between dry heaving and being sick so often that you canât tell the difference anymore. Knelt on the cold tile, with the moonlight that comes through the window making a mockery of your candlelight, you feel incredibly alone in Lucyâs house. Sheâs just upstairs in her room, but you donât want to disturb her from sleep at this hour of the night. Youâll continue to wick your own cold sweat away and clean any residue of gut spillage until youâve emptied yourself - a point you thought you had reached hours ago.Â
When you got back to Lucyâs you felt fine, jovial even. The innocent flirtations and budding friendship you shared with Father Pike at the harvest dinner injected a spring into your step, one so strong that Lucy commented on it with a smile. She gave you a quick tour of her inherited cottage, since you only had time to change clothes after arriving from the airport before you were sprinting off to the cathedral.Â
The house is all vintage charm, with quaint rooms and antiquities. Lucyâs room is upstairs, neighboring the room that belonged to her mother before she passed away. Lucy has left it untouched in its entirety because her wounds are still too tender to prod, which you respect with wholeheartedness. You didnât ask questions when she walked past the room as soon as she introduced it. Downstairs contains the living room, which is populated with wicker and wool save for the pink velvet couch. The kitchen is embellished with mint gingham, complementing the vintage and well-kept appliances. Lucy has an en suite, so the downstairs bathroom is all yours, with its clawfoot tub beneath a massive shuttered window that overlooks the backyardâs garden. Your bedroom has the same whimsical view, albeit from a much smaller window. It seemed dark when you first walked in, but the towering beautyberry bushes just outside explained that. The room is largely taken up by the queen bed, outfitted with pine-colored linen, so you suppose that accounts for the extra shadows too. Despite the eerie silence that shrouds the house, you can see yourself living here peacefully for your visit.
The two of you said your goodnights to each other and retreated to your assigned rooms. You hung up your clothes, stocked the bathroom with your toiletries and cuddled up in the sheets for their first time cradling someone ever. The stress and excitement from your evening had drained you of energy, but somehow you couldnât find sleep. Actually, you know exactly why you couldnât sleep: visions of Father Pike danced in your head like goddamn sugarplums. While your visit is contingent on when youâve deemed your stay sufficient - and when youâve been accepted for an apartment in a city thousands of miles away from this village stuck in an orthodox time warp - Father Pike is a major draw to settle your wings.Â
Regardless of the opportunity that cities hold, itâs difficult for you to find people you mesh well with. You donât make it any easier on yourself, opting to sequester yourself to university, work, your solitary bedroom, rather than put yourself out there. But thatâs because when you do, you find arrogance, cruelty, entitlement. Itâs easier on your heart to be alone and you enjoy your own company.Â
Enter: Father Pike. He was kind, kinder than anyone else at the cathedral. You might be biased, with his dreamy eyes deviously manipulatling your impression of him into a favorable one. Maybe he didnât show you any more chivalry than any other person would have, you just spent more time with him so it unfolded naturally. But no - he felt different. You tossed from one side to the other, wracking your brain for answers and scrambling your thoughts once they had composed into investigated little piles to see if an answer was lying in plain sight instead of hidden amongst overthinking. Nevertheless, your mystery remained unsolved of any concrete reasoning.Â
You decided it was his honesty: the way he treated you with understanding delicacy when you revealed your unreligious core; how he laughed at your atrocious jokes that erred on the side of being sacrilegious - a genuine laugh at that; his smirk that took pleasure in the mischief shared between you two when he helped maintain your guise, one that gleamed with⌠dare you say it⌠devilishness.Â
Without your permission, your brain, slightly delirious with exhaustion, began orchestrating a symphony named after him. As you drifted off to sleep, the cozy scent of cinnamon filled your nose, the warmth of his gentle yet confident touch tingled all over your skin. He was like a plate of steaming waffles on a blustery morning, an everlasting hug, a book destined to be your favorite thatâs hidden amongst the most unassuming shelves, just waiting to be picked up and cherished by you. Youâre doomed.Â
A sharp pain in your stomach awakened you and the nonstop churning that followed it had you fleeing to the bathroom. The light was unresponsive when you flipped the switch, and after a few more unsuccessful tries, you barely had time to light a candle before your body unleashed itself. Thankfully you had gotten some light because you were in no shape to aim for the toilet in darkness. You attribute your upset stomach to a multitude of reasons: the nerves from seeing your best friend in-person for the first time in a year; the sudden illness you experienced; the butterflies that Father Pike gave you. You had even begun thinking that maybe there was a part of the meal that triggered you, but thereâs no way youâre still harboring anything you consumed in the last twenty four hours.Â
Like any time youâre sick, you start trying to think of things that calm you down. Maybe if it is in fact your nerves that are acting up, some peace will help put a stop to your blight. You close your eyes and rest your head against the toilet seat, breathing in and out, images coming clearer to your mind with each breath. A field of flowers dancing underneath happy sunlight, the gentle lapping of ocean waves on a clear day, the scent of a puppyâs fur, Father Pikeâs handsâŚÂ
Your efforts have the complete opposite effect of your intention. The veins that web across the top of Father Pikeâs hands, instead of the heady attraction they conjured earlier, make you squirm like eels caught in a trap. With every little detail about him that you try to remember comes a drowning of illness. Is he⌠is he making you sick?Â
You close your eyes as your body hurls forward into the toilet again. Sweat trickles down your temples and invades your eyes, stinging them with salt and forces you to wrench them open. When you look in the toilet, you jump back with a startle. It canât be. You scrub your eyes with the backs of your fingers before slowly grasping the bowl with your two shaky hands and peer inside: your vomit is bright green. The pile of sludge glows inside, too weak to illuminate the bathroom, but enough to constrict your pupils out of both exposure and fear.Â
What the fuck?! Like roadkill, you turn away out of revulsion but canât stop staring back at the offense through your periphery. Could you even flush this thing? It looks like radioactive waste straight out of a bad post-apocalyptic movie. With every second that passes of it just sitting there, you become frightened to a degree where you canât stop trembling. That thing just came from your body. In the dark, now accompanied by neon ambience, your hand searches blindly while your eyes are glued to the monstrosity, like it will get up and walk away. You grab the hand towel to wipe your mouth clean, but you curl into it, muffling your sobs. You wish someone was there to tell you that youâre fine, thereâs nothing wrong with you, just to hold you. Only one person clouds your mindâŚ
More lime green empties into the toilet. You huff in frustration, completely fed up. At this point, youâll disregard the unnatural hue of your vomit as a fluke if you could just stop and be granted the ability to sleep. As silly as it sounds, you determine there is a brown-eyed common denominator in all your illnesses. So, with the dismal energy that remains, you thwart all thoughts of him away. You shut your mindâs doors, shutter the windows, pull the blanket up and over your head and hunker down in your mental fortress. You can feel the arrows of lust being shot at the walls, incessant and ambitious in breaking you down. You donât let them nudge one brick. They soon retreat and your castle falls silent, like there had never been a threat in the first place.Â
To your surprise, it works. Like magic, youâre finally granted some mercy by your body. The cramping dissipates like cotton candy in a puddle, and suddenly, you feel all better. Your muscles are a little sore from seizing and releasing, but other than that, youâre⌠fine. The cold sweat evaporates and the acidic taste in your mouth is neutralized. You grimace at your puke, which has reverted to its horrible organic color. You seriously donât know which is more putrid: this horribleness or the glow stick version.Â
You now feel comfortable - and eager - to flush so you do. You stuff the soiled towel into the laundry bin, making a mental promise to Lucy that youâll do your best to scrub any evidence of this night out of it. Within minutes, youâre flopping down onto your bed, huddling under the covers and finding a sleep too peaceful to follow the horrors you just suffered.Â
â-
Saturday youâre bedridden - against your will. You tell Lucy about your blunder, excluding the radioactivity bit, and she cancels the activities she had lined up for you two to have some fun, forcing you to stay confined to your bed. She serves you tea and keeps you on a diet of bread, apples and chicken soup, rolling her eyes at you when you beg and whine for a piece of her dessert. But, your best friend always knows best.Â
When you settle down for the night, a fear creeps up in you that the events of last night will repeat themselves, or even worse, go to more horrid lengths. But, thankfully, you feel like normal before bed and you stay asleep, thanking the stars and moon in your dreams. You had kept your mind clear of Father Pike, you noted.Â
â-
Sunday morning is here and you get out of bed jittering with excitement. Today youâre going to mass and that means you get to see Father Pike again. You laugh at your own foolishness when you realize this will be only the second time youâre seeing him, tugging your jeans up over your hips and jumping to get the job done faster. But, in a town desolate of amusement, you allow yourself to lean into the infatuation. Thereâs nothing wrong with a little blossoming crush, you tell yourself, untouchable or not.Â
Lucy chuckles when you walk into the kitchen, her cereal spoon hovering in mid-air, âWooow,â she elongates the syllable as you twirl on your heel, showing off your incredibly mundane outfit, âI havenât seen you up and awake this early in⌠how many years ago were we in kindergarten?â
âOh, ha ha,â you grumble playfully, pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and taking the seat across from her. You keep your eyes trained on your breakfast, feeling your best friendâs gaze boring into your lips that twitch with a smile you canât fight no matter how hard you try. The silence of the cottage, save for the awkward clanking of your spoons, rips a giggle from you that you smother with your hand.
âDonât act like I donât know why youâre so chipper,â she accuses conspiratorially. You look up at her, your anxious shoulders deflating with an impatient sigh.Â
âJust tell me what time weâre leaving.â
â-
The cathedral looks much less cozy in the brightening sunlight than it did illuminated by warm-toned street lights and candle sticks the night prior, but itâs no less majestic. There are crows perched on the roof, cawing a morning chorus. The structureâs hulking size seems less threatening by their presence in addition to the pale backdrop of the morning. The inky blackness of the night sky has opened to reveal a powder blue, bouncing off camel coats and cherry scarves that had been twisted into muddy smudges and blood ties at the harvest dinner. Even the cathedralâs inner hull seems more like an endless cavern than a sinister vacuum, with your curiosity being stimulated by all that you could not see before; what lies inside all of the corridors, the hidden passageways, the arched doors? Maybe thatâs something you could ask Father Pike.
All of the newfound loveliness aside, it doesnât erase the feeling that youâre in a place where you donât belong. You didnât quite think through all the ramifications of seeking out your holy crush, but who doesnât forfeit their rationale in the face of infatuation? Youâre always open to learning, especially about cultures that youâre not a part of, but you didnât think mass would be this boring.Â
Lucy briefed you about when to stand, sit, stand again, when to sing and when to be quiet. So no one would suspect a thing, you follow along like a lamb with the same robotic obedience that everyone else does. Youâre surprised to find personal dismay at the lack of life behind the hymns that the other goers recite, nor is there any in Father Thornâs sermon. It saddens you that these people dedicate their lives to this higher cause, boast about how it divinely guides them to choose the right paths in life, only for them to sing with as much enthusiasm as you do. Father Thorn stands painfully erect, addressing the room like a schoolteacher whose monotone and thoughtless eyes make you think that maybe there was some reluctance in his profession of choice. From the piercing glare he gave you yesterday, you know better than to imagine questioning his integrity lest you want your severed head deposited into his goblet.Â
Father Gala flanks the droning priest in a gilded throne that must serve no other purpose than to support the elderly Fatherâs aching bones. He listens on with a permanent soft smile, flickering his eyes amongst the audience with visible cheerfulness. His eyes lit up when he noticed you in the crowd and gave you a friendly nod, which you returned with amicability. Lucy nudged you on the shoulder when he glanced away with a whisper, âLook, youâve made a friend.âÂ
And on Father Thornâs other side stands who youâve been aching to see for a whole of thirty six hours. He had taken very seriously to carry out the beginning demands of mass, saying his prayers and following the proposed movements with an almost militaristic adherence. But since the reading of scriptures began, his shoulders relaxed and his fingers interlocked in front of himself with peace. His brown eyes gaze absentmindedly to the narthex behind you and you so desperately want to get up close and see how the sunlight that streams in through all angles of the building hit his irises. Do they shimmer with threads of gold, or do umber chasms allude an unreachable depth?Â
Your crush seems eons away from where you sit a few rows back from the sanctuary. The sermon fizzles out to a barely noticeable hum as a tornado of names rushes through your head while you assess your preferred priest and try to imagine which would fit him best. While youâre intent on respecting his title and maintaining proper etiquette for someone you literally just met a few days ago (and internally cringing at the speed of which this infatuation has snowballed) you have to at least dream of what you could call him.Â
Is he a David? No, heâs too young for such an old name. But it is biblical and maybe heâs a junior, or the third or fourth. Dave as a nickname is where you draw the line. That just feels all wrong.
Possibly something strong and sturdy, like Joel? Eh, Joel sounds too ornery and old again.Â
Go simpler, you think, Jack. No offense to all the great Jacks of the world, but it would be a shame if this exceptional man was dubbed so plainly.Â
And none of these options sound good with his last name, which you know as fact: David Pike, Joel Pike, Jack Pike. No, no, definitely not.Â
Cutting into your brainstorm, you agree that Father Pike can wear anything and look great. He has his usual black priest garb on, but layered atop is a white robe whose seams are trimmed with a red and gold pattern of tiles. If youâre being completely honest⌠itâs a little heinous. The fabric looks starched beyond belief and the decoration screams of yester-millenia. But, somehow, his virility isnât snatched by the drabness. His shoulders maintain that delectable broadness you noticed at the dinner, along with a poise that is mannered yet youthful. The golden threads shimmer adorably in the sunlight with the fidgets of his wrist as he fiddles with the side of his thumbnail.Â
As if on cue, his eyes land on you just when your cheeks break out in a heat. Your heart jumps to your throat momentarily but is lulled back down to your chest by his soft, tender smile and the identifying gleam in his gaze. Itâs as if youâre his puppet and heâs pulling the strings to shape your lips into a smile to match his own, completely unable to control your body. You think you canât find him cuter but then heâs upturning his hand so his palm faces you and he waves. Again with your bodily autonomy extinct, you wave back with the shy nature of a blushing virgin.Â
Lucy notices your hand first and her eyes are quick to follow your tunnel vision. She takes your wrist and lowers it to your lap, glancing at you with that funny mixture of scorn and encouragement that only a best friend can give. âNot now,â she whispers quickly before returning her attention to Thornâs speech with the shadow of a smirk. Father Pike still looks at you.
Your mind drifts deliriously to a part of mass that Lucy called communion, when the parishioner metaphorically drinks the blood and eats the body of Christ, or drinks wine from the goblet and eats a wafer from the hand of a priest. The seduction engulfs your mind like a virus thinking about sipping from a goblet that Father Pike holds in his strong hands, meeting his gaze while your throat bobs with drink. While taking the wafer into your mouth as he places it on your tongue, maybe heâs slow to withdraw and your lips would catch on his fingerâŚ
Lucy taps your bicep to indicate to you itâs time to stand again. Father Thornâs voice is suddenly much louder, booming in your ears and reverberating in your chest, down to the ground beneath your feet.Â
âGod from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made.â
A fickle tingling lunges through your veins, sending your nervous system into a familiar panic. When have you felt this peculiar feeling before? You feel ill, like you want to curl up on the floor and empty yourself, or passing out would be an easier option. Oh no.Â
âFor us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven,â
Everyone bends at the waist, bowing towards the sanctuary, but you remain standing upright, frozen. Your eyes bulge with wild terror. The blood drains from your face. Father Pike meets your gaze and he furrows his brow in confusion at first, before you watch him be consumed with brazen worry.Â
âAnd by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and became man.âÂ
Father Pike disappears from your sight as your eyes roll into the back of your head.
â-
You come to groggily with a lukewarm cloth being pressed to your temple. A low, firm voice is muffled and distant in your ear despite its closeness, but you absorb its warmth intravenously, âHey, hey, heyâŚâÂ
You can hear his strain to remain calm and steady. He drifts away for a moment, you feel your feet being propped up on a pillow, and his breath is back at your ear, ghosting over your dewy cheek.Â
Under the safeguard of questionable consciousness and the panicked edge in his soul, he lets an endearment slip, âWake up, pretty girl, come onâŚâ he whispers in an increasingly pleading tone. His timbre does the opposite of his intention and keeps you wanting to stay asleep, to writhe and drown in his comfort within the darkness of your mind. In your dreams, you can be his pretty girl.Â
You roll onto your side and grumble, fighting to stay in your head. The unforgiving surface youâre laid out on shoves against your bones but you remain stubborn. The man at your back chuckles under his breath. He pries your arm from your side and overturns it in his hands, cradling it delicately, and you wish to feel those arms and hands encapsulate you, engulf you like a snake and constrict. But then heâs pinching the tender patch of your inner bicep, jolting you awake. You tear your arm back and by the offense on your face, he knows youâre back in reality.Â
Someone had moved you from the spot you had collapsed to this room, empty of anyone besides Father Pike. Itâs quiet and dull, exposed stone comprising both the walls and floor. Youâre sprawled out on a large and long wooden table, atop a sweetly placed blanket that unfortunately doesnât do much to cushion. Wardrobes and other tables dot the rest of the room, illuminated by the small and sparse stained glass windows that line the perimeter.Â
Father Pike assesses your mindful curiosity and deems you sound and coherent. He decides to awaken you further with a little well-intentioned abrasiveness.Â
âAre you going to do this every time I see you?âÂ
âI hope not,â you sit up and Father Pike is quick to put a hand on your back, steadying you. Only now with your eyes open do you realize just how incredibly close he is to you; his lips parted with apprehension are mere inches from yours. You meet his eyes and you were right - they glow in the sunlight, the caramel streaks highlighted and accompanied by obscured taupe that shelters his innermost secrets. You flinch away imperceptibly, afraid of your own arousal.
âAre you-â he has to clear his throat, turning away to spare you before he tries again. His voice was tight with nerves.Â
âDo you feel okay?â Much smoother but thereâs still a hint of constraint. Heâs softened from their teasing.Â
You think for a moment, mentally check in with your body then answer honestly, âYes, Iâm okay.â And you are. Besides a subtle ache on your outer thigh, which you assume broke your fall, you feel completely normal.Â
Father Pike stands from where he knelt and puts the back of his hand to your forehead, checking your temperature. You try your very best not to drench your panties. âDo you feel any pressure in your head? Any nausea? Do you feel dizzy while sitting right now?â Itâs a barrage of questions, but in his comforting tone it doesnât feel anywhere near overwhelming or like an interrogation.
âNo pressure, no nausea. I feel a tiny bit dizzy, but nothing like before. And after all, I did hit my- did I hit my head?âÂ
âNo, your thigh hit the ground first. It looked like you twisted your knee on your way down. Thankfully, because if you hadnât, you wouldâve hit your head first.âÂ
Now that he mentions it, your knee does feel a bit funny. Hopefully itâll just bruise over and wonât cause any lingering issues.Â
Your thoughts are obliterated when Father Pike takes your face in his palms, tilting your chin up so he can look into your eyes. Heâs checking your pupil size, but it sends an unwarranted, delectable chill up your spine nonetheless. There goes your attempts to avoid a mess between your thighs. You gulp foolishly and he looks at your throat bob. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip before sealing his mouth closed. A habit you can picture him doing any time heâs deep in thought, this time itâs dipped in eroticism.Â
âDoes being unknowledgeable about the church really stress you out this much?â Heâs caring, concerned. Condescension, intolerance and disdain are in a different galaxy entirely than his intentions. His eyes bore into yours considerably, assessing you like you did him earlier. Trying to figure you out.Â
You gather your thoughts, taking into account the near-fainting spell you had on Friday and trying with all your might to remember only the vital details of what happened during the night after you got home. Coming up with no definite answer, you shrug, âNo, this felt completely unrelated. It was just my body acting out of order.â You had felt uncomfortable during the sermon, but not fearful. It didnât wrack your nerves to sit there and listen to illusionary words like it had when Father Gala shook your hand for the first time. But even then, your illness had come after the stress. Your sea of anxiety had been drained and what came to be revealed at the bottom was a previously undiscovered chest of volatile poisons. They felt correlated, perhaps, but not connected.Â
Father Pikeâs worry remains in his face like he doesnât believe you. Not because he thinks youâre lying, but almost like⌠thereâs something you donât understand thatâs happening. Suddenly it feels a little awkward between you two, with the cause blurry. You decide itâs best to elaborate so you both can have a few more pieces to aid in finding a solution.Â
The door is a good distance away from Father Pikeâs back and looks as though itâs made of the sturdiest oak to ever grow, but you still donât trust it. If someone were to lean their ear against the other side, in addition to the enshrouding silence, they could clearly hear what is being said. Mass must have ended a while ago, but the cathedral is open to roaming parishioners, tourists and other inquiring minds. You lean towards Father Pike and he comes to stand at the edge of the table. Lowering your voice, not nearly to a whisper but close enough, you confide in him again,
âBut, I wonât lie. I feel as if one wrong move will get me permanently exiled.âÂ
His expression doesnât change. The neutrality of it is a little disconcerting, actually, with the way he just remains standing there with his fingertips perched on the edge of the wood, until he retracts himself to where he had been a few feet away. He doesnât deny nor confirm your feelings, his eyes downcast.Â
He clears his throat again. âAre you anemic? Diabetic? Do you have any reason why youâd have fainting spells?â His tone is steeped in worry, rushed. Like he just wants a clear-cut answer so that neither of you have to keep guessing or digging deeper.
And heâs almost a little⌠aggravated? His words are acute and directed at you, like youâre suddenly the reason to blame. It is your body thatâs being troublesome, but youâd like to know whatâs been going on with it recently just as much as he does. Even if you did, itâs not your responsibility to tell him, nor your fault for its antics. With his sight still turned away, busy adjusting your feet on the pillow, you furrow your brows in disbelief and make your scoff come off as animated, playful, âI didnât know you doubled as a doctor, Father Pike.â
Luckily, that seems to put him at ease. The bothered creases in his forehead smooth away and he looks back up at you with a humble smile, as if to say heâs sorry for getting so suddenly worked up. He rests his hand on your shin, so naturally, but he takes it away the same moment and puts his arms at his sides. You know he wanted to leave it there, the flicker of guilt across his face evident. You rein yourself back, tightening the restraints that have come loose on your attraction; you donât want to break him.Â
His voice reverts to its baseline calmness, âI donât. My brother is a doctor and I would help him review for tests, so that gave me a lot of free training and insight. Just being around him, the physicianâs mindset started to rub off on me. They see things in such a peculiar, analytical way, so different from my own. Logic prevails over everything⌠itâs helped me to decipher who really needs the help and who doesnât.âÂ
Oh. Such a strange thing to hear Father Pike admit that⌠it gets your gears going.
You approach it as gently as you can, while still feeding your curiosity, âHey⌠arenât you guys supposed to believe that Christ can cure anything?âÂ
You donât think you mean to bat your eyelashes at him provocatively but you do. He smirks, shakes his head with a chuckle that more or less comes out as an amused exhale from his nose. He cuts your boldness back down to a humble level, âI thought you didnât know much about the church?âÂ
Oh? His accusatory smugness mirrors yours. Two can play at this game, apparently.Â
âI donât, but I know enough that you guys put all your faith into your, well, faith.âÂ
The waning dizziness you felt earlier has officially rid itself, so you feel itâs safe to sit up on the table. Father Pike takes a seat as well in a chair that heâs pulled from aside one of the wardrobes, positioning it close to you so that heâs not too far should you feel woozy again.Â
âWell, yesâŚâ Heâs thinking, does that godforsaken thing with his tongue on his lip again. Then comes the confession.Â
âSome of the parishioners⌠theyâre painfully alone. The only people they talk to are family who either forget their existence half the time or enable them. Being alone all the time, you need to entertain yourself with something. Theyâve been reading the same scriptures for their entire lives, it plays behind their eyelids whenever they close; itâs in their dreams.â He takes a heavy breath, steadying himself for the brutal honesty heâs about to lay out to you. Heâs not sure heâs ever felt this naked before in his life.Â
âItâs not like the Bible gets an update,â you kid quietly. That gets him. The skin around his eyes crinkles as Father Pike laughs heartily, nodding his head, âExactly.â He echoes you with amusement, âItâs not like the Bible gets an update,â his smile grows fonder. You mourn the joy that leaves his face when itâs replaced with a solemn frown.Â
âAs much as they donât want to admit it, the people of this town are like any other. They yearn for change. They need something new, fresh, to stimulate their minds, or at the very least, a distraction from their loneliness. So, on a very normal day, their knee starts to hurt. And then as the days go on and they do their usual tasks, the knee begins to hurt more. It worsens until they fool themselves into walking with a limp, saying that they canât live their excruciatingly mundane lives anymore. Because they desperately want a change, no matter if itâs a hindrance.Â
âSometimes, pity is king.Â
âThey refuse to go to the doctor without the churchâs approval. They come and see to me, or one of the other Fathers, and we talk through their ailments. I say a blessing or two, and on their way home, suddenly that appointment they were pleading for has lost all urgency. Theyâve been miraculously cured by us, or God. But weâre not doing any radical, magical healing here. Donât get me wrong, there are very real illnesses that affect our parish.â
He pauses to look around the room, as if someone has slipped through the cracks in the rock and hears his rational disagreement as something obscenely blasphemous. His voice is low and wary, but youâre proud to detect a streak of confidence when he talks about his personal beliefs.Â
âThe others here, they shun modern medicine. They believe what you said, that all things can be cured through Christ. But⌠thatâs not entirely right to me. There are people who need more⌠pragmatic cures. Then there are others who all they need is a little motivation from the spirit.â
You never thought youâd be empathizing with a priest over feelings of exclusion, no less somewhere in the heart of a cathedral, surrounded by religious paraphernalia. It doesnât feel like Father Pike is baiting you to say that the church is a farce just so he can blackmail you later. His quick, breathless words speak for themselves; heâs been dying to show someone his heart. But are you really the first outsider to cross his path? There has had to have been someone who wandered into Carmeltree unknowingly or a resident that didnât readily accept the teachings that they began being indoctrinated with since birth. Father Pikeâs motive doesnât seem malicious, but itâs unclear.Â
âWhy are you telling me this?â
He shrugs, clasping his hands together with a smile amused by the simplicity of his answer, âI have one of your secrets, and now you have one of mine.âÂ
Dry chuckles fill the room. âThatâs a pretty big secret,â you joke.
âWhat about it?â
âWell,â worry crosses your face, imagining what the Bible wavers would do if they heard what Father Pike is spilling across you now, âif anyone else heard it, about their priest, well, youâd beâŚâ
âExiled?â
âYes. Mamed, called a fraud or a non-believer.â
âWell thatâs incorrect. Iâm a believer.âÂ
âNot by their standards, you arenât.â
âSee why Iâve confided in you?â
A steady wave of recognition settles in the air. Two people with their morals in line but would be labeled heathens by the rest of the conservative population have established a safehouse in one another to retreat to if need be. Lucy was right - you have made a friend, she just had the wrong Father.Â
The elderly oneâs cane taps ring out in the gaping corridor outside your room, alerting you and your friend that your divulgence must end. The stiffness returns to his back, squaring his shoulders underneath that heavy-looking alb as he stands and scribbles something on a piece of paper.Â
Donât think about the sweat on his skin. Dappling his muscles, collecting in pools until they runneth over and stream down in little rivuletsâŚ
He helps you to your feet with a hand in yours, but itâs shoving the paper into your palm before you have the chance to drool over its warmth. âHereâs the town doctorâs details. If you feel unwell or the fainting persists, please go see him. I donât-â
Thereâs a knock at the door. âFather Pike?â
He makes a comically fearful face at you, clenching his bared teeth and widening his eyes, snapping to put a finger to his lips when he elicits your desired giggles.Â
âOne moment please!âÂ
He ushers you to a door at the back corner of the room, leading to one of the many magnificent courtyards incorporated into the cathedral.Â
You turn back on the step to take one last look at him, âThank you for all your help.â
He takes your hand in his own two, like his Father before him.Â
âYouâre in my prayers.âÂ
You go to leave, but he murmurs urgently, leaning out of the doorframe, âCome back tomorrow. I can help strengthen your act.âÂ
He winks at you.Â
A friend, you remind yourself. Heâs just a friend. The giddiness that bubbles up from your heart to your throat begs to differ.
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