Chapter Text
Stolas stepped onto the platform to grey skies and rain. He waited until he heard the piercing whistle of the train leaving behind him, smog filling the air as it began the slow journey to the next stop, and realised he was standing in a puddle. His arms were locked by his sides as he held his heavy suitcases in place, unable to sit them down on the wet ground as he tried to figure out his next move. The station was small, and the sodden wooden structure serving as the ticket office looked as though it had been long abandoned.
Eventually, after following a treacherous dirt road, Stolas managed to track down a cab to take him to the address scrawled on the damp paper in his breast pocket. He wasn’t proud of it, but shifting his scarf just a little so that people could see his collar did tend to encourage greater altruism in these circumstances. He could justify it to himself; if he was helping people do good deeds through his ministry, then surely he was simply helping to fulfill his role.
The cab driver was a quiet, surly man who had only grunted in response when Stolas tried to strike up a conversation. After Stolas’s last attempt went completely ignored, the man kept his eyes on the road while Stolas watched the pastoral landscape roll past him through the dusty window. The romantic in him wanted to call the scenery idyllic, but the muted colours of the identical fields merged into one dreary smudge through the glass. Occasionally they would pass a farmhouse, or a dilapidated barn, but he was yet to see a single other person on any of the roads. He settled back into his chair, stifling a yawn as he focused his gaze on the road ahead. After some time, Stolas noticed the driver was staring into the rear-view mirror, trying to catch his eye.
“You the new priest?” He asked when Stolas finally looked up. His voice was low and gravelly, as if it were rusting from disuse.
“I am,” Stolas replied, smiling as he did so.
The man grunted noncommittally and focused his gaze ahead once more. Stolas wanted to say something else, but he found that the words just weren’t coming to him.
“‘s a nice town. Quiet like,” the man spoke again, and Stolas nodded. “Might be strange for you at first, after life in the city.”
It would be. It was supposed to be. A change, the bishop had called it, but he knew what it really meant. He was being put out to pasture.
He had known since his time in the seminary that he wouldn’t become a ’typical‘ priest. Stolas questioned everything; the Bible, the Catechism, the ancient texts and the Shroud of Turin and Lourdes. His questions didn’t come from a place of doubt; this was just how he had always tried to make sense of the world around him. If something existed, and he couldn’t prove it, how else would he come to know it if not by asking questions? Wasn’t the pursuit of knowledge about the religion he would be dedicating his life to holy work in itself?
After years of meeting closed doors, denied requests and sour glances, he stopped asking altogether. He decided to discover for himself, spending hours cooped up in the library, pouring over books that expelled small puffs of dust each time he turned a page. For a long time, his only friends existed there, in the words of Jesus. There were no letters from home, and so the letters to the Corinthians served as his bedtime reading. He learned that his passion when it came to sharing this knowledge came across as pompous and patronising, which only pushed his nose further into his books until he looked up one day to find he was ordained.
Once Stolas was finally assigned a parish to work with, he quickly realised he would not be thanked for using any of the knowledge he had cultivated. Being placed in the city, he had expected a younger congregation, but the churchgoers were older and much more traditional then he had anticipated. He was allowed to sit in on the previous priest's last Mass, and the solemn handshakes the parish met the aging priest with would have better suited a goodbye for someone on their deathbed.
Stolas, in his typical, fairytale thinking, had made grand plans to expand the minds of these laypeople. But once he stood at the pulpit and looked out at the sea of grey, lined faces, he felt all of that drive leave him like he had been exorcised. Instead, he simply read from the Bible in front of him, head down, despite knowing most of the words by heart. He just couldn’t bear to look at the sea of apathy in front of him.
Every week dragged by in an agonising limbo. He could not connect with the parish, and they certainly held him in no regard. It was hardly a surprise when the bishop laid a hand on his shoulder and asked to have a quick word, but it didn’t take any of the hurt out of it.
They thought he would handle a smaller parish better. Less people to disappoint, he supposed. As the cab reached the summit of the hill leading down into the town, Stolas looked upon the minute gaggle of buildings, the tiny chapel and the forest surrounding it.
“I think it will be quite lovely,” Stolas said, realising it had been so long since the driver spoke that it seemed more like he was talking to himself. The car rumbled down the hill, approaching the outskirts of the forest and soon being engulfed by it.
The surrounding trees were tall and lush, and Stolas already felt more at peace here than he had done travelling through the fields. When he angled his head to look at the sky through the window, he could only catch glimpses through the leaves. It made the wan sunlight after the rain even prettier, like little pools of gold. Stolas rested his head against the cool glass of the window and breathed deeply.
The sunlight felt blinding when they eventually exited the copse, so much so that he squinted his eyes and almost missed the house that lay right on the edge of the forest. He opened his eyes in earnest just in time to see a man exit the woods, an axe slung over his shoulder and his eyes cast downwards at his muddy boots. Stolas instinctively turned in his seat to watch through the back window as the man wiped the hair from his face with one hand. Just before the car turned a corner and the man and his house dipped from view, he looked up sharply at the car, and his deep brown eyes met Stolas’s wide greys.
Then he was gone, and the road stretched out impossibly far between them, and suddenly the cab had reached the town.
The driver parked as close to the church as he could, as Stolas had requested. He wanted to get his bearings before he settled in for the evening. As he exited the car, he felt the silence pushing in on his eardrums before he noticed anything else. He was almost grateful when the driver started up his engine again, the sound seeming to echo around the deserted town square. He dug around in his pocket for the crumpled note he had stuffed in there before alighting from the train.
“Thank you very much for collecting me,” Stolas said, smiling as he handed the paper through the driver’s window. “Please, keep the change,” he added hastily as the man reached into his glove compartment to count out some coins. The driver tipped his head, looking directly at Stolas for the first time since he had flagged down the car.
“Good luck,” the man said, gruffly but not unkindly. “And always stick to the paths. You’re taking your life into your hands going off-track round these parts.”
Stolas laughed. “Well, it’s a good job I’m not much for hiking then.”
The man didn’t laugh, just fixed Stolas with a curious stare before lifting one corner of his mouth in a smile that seemed to creak with the effort. Then he put his hands back on the wheel and revved the engine, the car kicking up dust as it trundled off in the direction they had just come from.
There was something surreal about standing there, suitcase in hand, in an empty town square. He could see signs of life; milk bottles left in doorways, fresh fruit outside of the grocers, but no other people.
It was as if everyone had left in a hurry, locking themselves in their houses and closing the curtains. Stolas could hear birds singing, somewhere off in the distance, but their song didn’t seem to pierce the air here. As he walked towards the church the sound of his footsteps banded around the cobbled streets, and the screech of the door as he pulled it open echoed shrilly through the fresh air.
The church was small, much smaller than his previous parish. The wooden pews were old and worn, and the mingled smell of extinguished candles and damp was almost comforting after the unfamiliarity of everything else around him. Stolas’s restless soul had always felt soothed by entering a church. He could slough off the loneliness that had followed him since he could walk and feel closer to the divine. The one constant he had known in this life was that all of his fears, his worries, his little confusions, felt smaller once he offered them up in prayer.
And so he sat his suitcases down beside the pew closest to the sanctuary and slid into it, falling into genuflection on the cold stone floor. The familiar scrape against his knees was like a comforting hand on his shoulder. From where Stolas knelt, he had a clear line of vision to the altar, and the large crucifix which hung in the centre of the wall behind it. The feeling of His eyes on him was soothing, and he closed his own and bowed his head. He wasn’t sure quite what to pray for. Strength, that he could cope with starting fresh in somewhere so isolated. Courage, and trust in his abilities. For his new congregation to be receptive and open hearted, and for him to be the same for them in turn.
There was no fanfare for his arrival here, no welcoming committee or bread basket. He had been handed a key and told to let himself into the rectory, and so after he had crossed himself and gotten to his feet he headed through the door at the side of the altar. He had to stoop his shoulders in the narrow corridor as the ceilings hung so low, and the rickety staircase squealed in protest with every footstep. When he reached the top, Stolas held his breath as he pushed open the heavy, dusty door in front of him. The wood was stiff, and the door opened slowly to a tiny dark room. There was a dilapidated bed, a desk by the window with a melted candle, and a cross stitch hanging above the bed.
1 Corinthians 15:33
Evil associations corrupt good manners
Stolas recited this excerpt in his mind as he unpacked his cases, folding his vestments into the shallow chest of drawers against the far wall. He had learned that when he found himself overwhelmed, repeating a Bible passage in his mind could be calming, and so by the time he had finished his fifth mental reread, his suitcase was fully unpacked. There was a small vase on the table by the window, with space enough for one flower, and Stolas vowed to find one tomorrow to bring some colour to the space.
The sun was beginning to set, the sky turning all the muted colours of a bruise as it began to sink. Stolas’s stomach growled as he settled on the bed, but shamefully he was afraid to venture out into the town to find supplies. He had a stipend in his top drawer, and a ledger to keep note of his spendings in order to request more money when it was needed, but the day had drained him. He only just had the energy to slip downstairs to lock the church doors, the cold of the building following him back up, and he drew the thin curtains on the remains of the day.
Tomorrow, then. He would start tomorrow.
2 Corinthians 5:17 - Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.
Tomorrow found him pacing the rectory, smoothing down his robes in a constant frantic movement. Every part of him was in motion, his hands shaking and his feet driving him in circles around the small bedroom that was suddenly his home. Nerves weren’t something Stolas found often plagued him, at least not outside of his initial masses. After the first few Sundays, he had found them replaced by a flat feeling of apathy. But that lack of passion was what had brought him here. Stolas had to find a way to stay engaged without putting too much of himself into the Masses. To close off that part of him that made everything so personal; to cut himself out of it. Thinking about this made him feel too small for his body, like a lost little child again, swamped in his robes.
The bell in the tower suddenly struck twelve, the ringing echoing so loudly that it pushed all other thoughts from Stolas’s mind. He hadn’t even thought to check if there was someone to man the tower. The fugue state he had been lost in since his arrival had meant his eye was decidedly off of the ball, but it also numbed him enough that he found he almost did not care . Quicky making his way down the narrow staircase, Stolas adjusted the cuffs of his robes for the final time before stooping himself to step into the church.
The building looked different with a congregation inside of it, small as they were. It seemed cosy, rather than restrictively small like it had done when Stolas had first walked inside. It was also a little unnerving, to look out and see so many faces he didn’t know. And not just that he hadn’t met them yet; these were people whose lives had differed so vastly from his own. Hard working people, cheeks ruddy from the elements, hands calloused from tilling the land. How could he ever presume to preach to them about life, when his experience of it was so far from theirs? What words could he speak that would resonate with them when so little of their truth would exist in his?
Stolas reached the pulpit and looked down at the open book before him.
He closed it over.
“Hello,” he began, forcing the tremor out of his voice. “I am Father Stolas. The Bishop has undoubtedly told you of my appointment, but it is very nice to finally meet you all in the flesh.” His hands only shook a little as he held onto the wood of the pulpit. “As you can imagine, your beautiful town is a little different to my previous parish. I am looking forward to getting to know you all, and learning about life here, so that I can connect with you in the same way the Lord connected with all of us gathered here today. What we have in common is hearing his call to love, to pray, and to share his gospel with the world. Please join me in our first Lord’s prayer as a new congregation.”
The people in the pews bowed their heads, the prayer recited to their feet in a practiced drone. Stolas kept his eyes forward, scanning each row to try and familiarise himself with his new parish. Through his nerves he made sure to keep observing, his eyes scanning the faces of the people stepping forward for Communion, watching as they sang along to the Hymns Stolas had chosen for the day. Their devotion was clear by the strength with which they held onto their hymn books, despite knowing the words by heart. Keeping their praises of God clutched in their hands, close to their chests, under one arm as they sang.
The hour passed by in a blur, and before he knew it he was standing at the door, shaking hands with each parishioner as they stepped out into the wan sunlight. Some of them smiled, some simply tipped their hats, but they did all take his hand.
He felt a little wrung out after the Mass concluded. The town was so small that they only had one service on a Sunday, and the shopfronts closed up for the day to ensure they could all attend. It was peaceful, to watch the villagers mill back to their homes in the sun, doors closing all around the square. Stolas turned back inside the church, collecting any stray hymnals from the pews and straightening the altar cloth. He had altar boys before, gap-toothed children of the clergy, but that was because he was providing multiple Masses a day. Now he had Mass on Sunday morning and confession on a Tuesday afternoon. He had been encouraged to add any services he felt the town would benefit from, but it was too soon to tell how he should approach that.
There was something lonely about the silence that followed Stolas upstairs to his garret room. What had felt peaceful outside felt oppressive in such a small space, and he quickly divested his robes in favour of a light jacket. He felt unsettled, in a way he hoped would be shrunk down by some fresh air. When his eyes landed again on the slim, empty flower vase, he decided a sunny day was as good as any to search for some life to bring inside of his room.
Before leaving the room he picked up his small, leather bound notebook and slid it into his inside coat pocket. If he was going to be lonely, at least his words could keep him company.
It was still a little unnerving, stepping out into the square to find he was alone. The sun was shining, and the shops were still closed, but Stolas would have expected to see people outside. But there was nothing, save for the soft sow of the breeze as he looked out over the courtyard. It should be soothing, the quiet of it all, but it didn’t feel like peace. It felt like a held breath, pressing in around him as he peered into the dark of the seemingly bottomless well in the centre of the flagstones. There was a butcher, and a general store next door to that, and as he looked in through the dusty windows it felt as though someone was standing right behind him. But he could tell, from the warped reflection in the glass, that he was alone.
That feeling persisted as he followed the cobbled path out of town, causing Stolas’s eyes to flick nervously across the long grass surrounding the road. There was a peculiar static feeling crawling up his back, as though there was an invisible hand pushing him on, on, until he was making his way up the winding hill he had crested only the day before. He kept walking, ignoring the sweat that was now beading on his brow and causing his silver hair to stick to his forehead. It hadn’t been a taxing walk, but the uneasy feeling was pulling his breath out of him in ragged bursts. He felt the clench around his heart ease a little as he reached the top of the hill, but soon that feeling arose again, the creeping sense that someone was behind him, and he whipped around to find nothing. Just the town, behind him, even smaller now. He still couldn’t see any sign of movement. It looked abandoned, as if one day every resident had gotten up and walked off into the wilderness, leaving it behind. Stolas found that for some reason, he couldn’t bear to look.
He turned his eyes instead to the forest below him, on the other side of the hill. It would be quicker to travel downwards, and the sun was still high in the sky. Stolas had always thought better in the outdoors. He frequently wandered the gardens in the seminary as he prayed, as he felt closer to God in the sun than he did at the pulpit. For every step he took away from the town, every crunch of his shoes on the rocky stones below, he felt as if he could breathe again little by little. He almost skipped the remaining distance to the forest, feeling as though he could borrow oxygen from the trees once he reached it.
The first step Stolas took onto the long grass felt like coming home.
As he walked into the woods he took in the scent of the bark, the moss underfoot on the trail, the damp smell that meant they were close to water. The sun above them spilled through the gaps in the leafy canopy, and Stolas admired the golden pools it left to rest on top of the foliage. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and, after fishing around for the small pen he always kept there, made notes about the fungi and other flora he spotted. There were a lot of plants here he hadn’t seen in the city, even some he hadn’t seen before in real life, and he felt giddy over these small wonders. He found a perfect sprig of aconite, plucking it gently and tucking it into his jacket pocket to fill the vase back in his room.
He was vaguely aware, somewhere in his mind, of the passage of time. But it didn’t seem as important out here underneath the leaves. For a town he was so new to, Stolas already felt a little suffocated. Something about the silence here felt different to the silence that surrounded him back in the village, and he relished it. Every time he felt he should go home, each time he turned back to look behind him, he felt a sensation he couldn’t describe. As if some unseen force was pressing into his back he kept pushing forward, watching as the sun above him dipped behind the tree line and made the sky blush. The forest grew darker, but somehow the light from the sunset was warm enough to keep the cold at bay. Stolas breathed in the scent of the air, the aroma that followed a warm day mixed with the pine tang of the forest. He watched as moths began to dance around him, his fingers reaching out as if to touch them but missing every time. His feet moved, unbidden, leading him into the heart of the copse.
The sun couldn’t break through the canopy here, and the difference was marked. Somehow, without the light, every step Stolas took sounded as though it echoed further than it had before. Each time he put a foot forward he seemed to stand on a twig, and the end result was a cacophony of little crunches that became quite unnerving. Stolas squinted as he tried to look ahead, realising as he did so that there was no path ahead of him. He would have no choice but to double back on himself or to go off of the track, and with night approaching he knew there was really no option but to return.
The necessity of the decision did not do anything for the pit in his stomach that increased with every step he took. Somehow, despite it feeling like no time at all, the light had now dwindled completely on the path Stolas had only just strayed from. He could barely see his pale hand in front of his face, and he stumbled a little on roots that felt bigger and more gnarled under his unsure footing. That feeling was back, that sick trickling fear concentrated on the back of his neck. Someone must be behind him, or beside him somewhere in the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything besides the occasional ash white bark of a damaged tree. He was sure he was taking the same path as before, but there wasn’t a single flash of familiarity as he stumbled through the brush.
Stolas was trying not to panic but his body seemed to be pushing him to that state without his mind's permission. He could feel his palms growing sweaty, and the air felt cold against his skin where it had grown damp. These crises of the soul, as the priest in the seminary had called them, happened less frequently now and Stolas was wholly unequipped. The more shallow his breath became, the more the forest swam around him until all the trees began to blur.
He had ways to cope. But Stolas had none of the things with him now that would ground him, and the feeling that something was here with him, that he wasn’t alone , was mounting with every second. Every step he took he could feel, rather than hear, that a step was being taken alongside his somewhere in the darkness. He sped up, and it kept pace. Stolas could feel his heartbeat in his throat as he broke into a run.
So he prayed.
Under his breath, out loud, he prayed as he tore through the darkness.
“ Holy Mary, Mother of God, ”
He thought he saw a light ahead, only for it to disappear the moment he blinked.
“Pray for us sinners,”
Out of the corner of his eye something moved past him, the underbrush cracking with the weight of it.
“Now, and at the hour of our death-”
The air was pulled from his lungs completely as he heard the footfall behind him, the beast was circling him, he could hear it all around him, he could feel its warm breath on his neck-
But nothing came. There was silence; the creature was not moving, and Stolas didn’t dare to breathe.
“What the fuck are you doing out here?”
A voice, a human voice, was almost more of a jolt to Stolas than an animal cry would have been. His entire body felt as if it had frozen solid, and his muscles fought him every step of the way as he turned himself around, flinching preemptively. But as he opened his eyes tentatively, Stolas felt a strange swoop in his stomach that must have been relief at seeing a face he recognised.
“Oh!” He exclaimed, the word coming out in a whoosh as he let go of the breath he had been holding. “I am- I am very sorry. I think I may have gotten lost.”
The other man was shorter; most men were short compared to Stolas, but there was a compact power to him that Stolas could sense from the way that he held himself. His eyes were wild, deep brown and alive and raking over Stolas’s face with an expression of complete confusion. There was a deep scar running across one side of his face, a textured stretch of shiny skin that made it look as though the sun was permanently setting on him. Stolas had never seen anyone who looked quite like him. He wished, for the second time that day, that he had been blessed with the ability to sketch accurately.
“I’ll say. The path is back thataways,” the man said, jerking his head to the left, his voice a slightly nasal drawl that was just on the verge of irritation.
“Oh,” Stolas said, “Well, yes, I have gotten myself quite turned around. I will just…” He trailed off, lifting one hand in an aborted gesture that he had intended to mean that he would leave, but the other man shook his head, the dark shock of his hair falling further into his eyes.
“I’m not letting you walk back on your own. What do you plan to do if you bump into a bear, pray for it?”
Stolas bristled a little at that. “And I suppose you have a better defence against them?”
The man raised one eyebrow and lifted his shirt to show the Colt strapped into a holster around his hip.
“Ah. I suppose in this instance that may be more effective.”
“No shit,” the man snorted, and began to walk away, his practiced steps making easy work of the path Stolas had been unable to find. As he hurried to catch up he looked around him, finding it suddenly much easier to see. He could have sworn he had come this way, even recognising the tree stump ahead because of the fungal growth, but perhaps in his distress he had simply missed the trail under his feet.
They were walking in silence, and Stolas wanted to break it, but he wasn’t quite sure what to say. He was frankly a little embarrassed at having to be saved in the woods like some kind of damsel in distress. There would be no way to put to words the sheer, visceral terror he had felt as he was running, especially now when the woods looked so completely normal. He would likely be carted away. And so he kept his mouth shut as he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and not further disgracing himself by falling on his face.
“Haven’t seen you round here before,” the man said, after so long a silence Stolas hadn’t expected him to speak at all. As it was, Stolas stumbled a little, the statement throwing his attention off of the careful steps he had been taking.
“No, I imagine not. I have not been here long enough to make proper acquaintance with the rest of the town beyond the first service. I’m Father Stolas.”
There was another silence, one which Stolas had grown accustomed to when he shared his profession with others. The collar had a way of either grinding a conversation to a halt, or ramping it up through a Biblical lens. His rescuer seemed to favour the former.
“Blitz,” the stranger said eventually, moving stealthily through the underbrush that was proving much more of an obstacle for Stolas. “Well that explains why I didn’t recognise you.”
“You are not a church-going man?” Stolas asked, unable to keep the curiosity at bay. It wasn’t often he met someone who was a firm non-believer. It was a little fascinating to him.
Blitz laughed, a harsh grating sound that carried on the wind like the cry of a bird. “Nope. Never really been my thing,” he replied bluntly, in a way that told Stolas the door was closed on that conversation.
“Have you lived in the town long?” Stolas asked instead, taking the first opportunity he had found to enquire about his new home. He was yet to properly speak with any other villager, and what little research his books provided had not given him any insight into the town aside from its pastoral history.
“Long enough,” Blitz replied, holding back a particularly large branch so that Stolas could step delicately around it. Stolas felt a sudden chill, and wrapped his coat a little closer around him as he shuddered.
“You are not much of a conversationalist, are you?” Stolas asked, before he could stop himself. This made Blitz laugh again, although this time the laugh was a little less abrasive.
“I can be persuaded, with the right topic,” he said, looking back to flash a grin at Stolas. The way the light caught on the quick exposure of his teeth made them seem huge for a moment, like a Cheshire Cat grin in the darkness. Stolas dearly wished they would find themselves out of the woods soon. He was tired, and cold, and thoroughly sick of his mind playing tricks on him. He suddenly felt he did not have any topics worth bringing up for conversation and so he fell silent, following his saviour along the path he had been completely unable to locate.
He did not need to pray any longer, but his hand did grasp the rosary he kept in his pocket, just for something to hold on to.
Blitz took a turn up ahead and when Stolas followed, he found himself outside of the forest, looking down the hill towards the town. It was dark out, but something about it felt less suffocating now that the trees no longer loomed overhead. He felt strangely light up here, above all of the houses that looked like little ant homes from so far away. As though he could take one step and float all the way down, carried on the breeze.
“You’re not still lost, are you?”
Stolas looked to his right to see Blitz staring up at him, frowning in the way one would when trying to solve a puzzle.
“I’ll manage,” Stolas replied, feeling his mouth quirk upwards in a small smile before he was able to stop it. “Cartography was never a strong point, but it typically is quite hard to get lost when you live in a building with a bell attached.”
Blitz snorted, a noise which could have been rooted in either derision or amusement, before stretching upwards in a way that made his back crack loudly. His shirt came untucked as he did so, exposing a sliver of his stomach to the moonlight. Stolas could see that the scars on Blitz’s face were matched by others over his body, spread out in taut blotches across his midriff. Blitz tucked his shirt back in in a hurry, a door closing somewhere behind his eyes, and Stolas wished he had averted his gaze to preserve the moment from before.
“Thank you, Blitz. I was… well, it is rather embarrassing to admit to now, but I was quite lost and more than a little afraid in there. I am very grateful that you found me.”
Blitz looked a little uncomfortable, scuffing his foot a little and staring down at the marks it made on the ground. “‘S’fine. Couldn’t have you getting mauled by bears or some shit. They’d have all come running once the first bit of blood spilled.”
“Mmm,” Stolas hummed, feeling a little queasy. “Well, it is very much appreciated.”
“No problem, Father,” Blitz replied, and something about the way he said the word was bitter. Stolas felt it in his chest, a discomfort at hearing the title coming out the way it had done. He could see it in Blitz’s face too, his mouth tightened up around the word.
“You- you don’t have to call me that. You can just call me Stolas.” He wasn’t quite sure why he said it. Everyone had always called him Father. Using only his name had always felt too intimate for the congregation he had never managed to reach in his old parish, and it was rare for his conversation with anyone else in the priesthood to extend past their current reading or the weather. He wasn’t sure why had offered this, and he prepared to take it back, feeling unaccountably shy.
“Stolas,” Blitz said, dragging his name out just a little. It was strange, to hear it held in the mouth of someone so unfamiliar. But then Blitz smiled, slow and genuine, and as Stolas watched the moonlight glint off of his pointed teeth, he was quite glad to make the sacrifice.
“It was very nice to meet you,” Stolas said primly, the moment a little stilted after the rush of the evening. “Despite the circumstances.”
“What, you don’t normally meet up with strange men in the woods?” Blitz was grinning again, his face a little softer than it had appeared before.
“I wouldn’t say I make a habit of it,” Stolas replied, feeling his mouth twitch upwards in a smile.
“Shame,” Blitz said, his eyes lingering on Stolas’s face in a way he couldn’t quite place. “Well, see you around.”
And with that, as quickly as he had materialised, Blitz dipped back into the thicket and was lost from Stolas’s sight.
The walk down the hill to the town felt impossibly slow. Every step that Stolas took seemed to require all of his energy, as if there was a force in front of him trying to buffet him back towards the woods. The road before him seemed to stretch out endlessly, and the night was pitch black around him by the time he had fully descended. Once his feet were on level ground Stolas looked back up in the direction he had come from, only able to see the tallest trees skimming the summit of the hill.
Stolas let himself into the church, closing the heavy door quietly behind him, before pausing to kneel and cross himself in front of the altar. Even in this state of exhaustion, his body moved instinctively. With his eyes closed, and his head down, he could smell the clinging scent of the woods on his clothing. His knees ached from his run through the trees, and now that he was back in the church he felt humbled and foolish. If he had just stayed calm, if he had walked a little slower, no doubt he would have found the path again. He likely missed it in his panic, and as a result he had made a complete spectacle of himself.
The blushing embarrassment of the memory already stung, reminding Stolas of all the times as a child when he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth.
After his prayers were finished he stayed in place for a moment, his head bowed in silence as he breathed out the evening. He had learned by now how to tamp down his panic; he focused on the feeling of the cold stone under his knees, the sound of the clock in the rectory hall that was drowned out during Mass, the feel of his heart thrumming in his chest. Once he trusted himself to stand, Stolas rose to his feet, exhaustion suddenly crashing over him like a wave. He walked in a daze up to his bedroom, shrugging his clothes off onto the floor and only just remembering to place the aconite in the vase by the window.
As he collapsed onto the bed, Stolas had just enough energy left to wonder why Blitz had been out in the woods before sleep claimed him.
Proverbs 22:3 - A prudent man foreseeth the evil, and hideth himself: but the simple pass on, and are punished.
It only took a few days for Stolas to slough off the memory of the woods. As a child his imagination was prone to running wild, constantly having his knuckles rapped for daydreaming when he should have been focusing on his studies. And as the week unfurled, he was able to convince himself that the same thing had happened that evening. He had gotten lost, and in the dark his mind had played tricks on him. The feeling that had pushed him into the woods had simply been a manifestation of his fear of failure in the parish, and the cold morning light that filtered through his window each morning soon burnt the fear from his memory.
Tuesday’s Confession was a subdued affair, two of the villagers filing in at opposite ends of the hour to admit to some banal lapses in judgement. Stolas often found reconciliation to be a difficult topic to navigate. He understood the need for penance. But something about absolving someone of the ‘sin of gluttony’ for allowing themselves an extra slice of bread when they were hungry sat heavily in his soul, and he always prayed a little harder after he left the booth.
The air was warm as Stolas slipped from the church just as the sun had reached its apex. The dry food in the small rectory pantry had depleted significantly, and so he made his way to the small grocers whose crates of fresh fruit would likely draw flies in the summer. He was still immediately recognisable in his lay clothes, the one person in the town who hadn’t been worn into its fabric since birth, and everyone he passed inclined their heads politely in his direction. He smiled, although he wanted to sigh. Stolas couldn’t quite remember the last time someone had greeted him with a hello that didn’t have an undertone of deference. Even when he paid for his shopping, the short woman behind the till smiled at him beatifically in a way that made him feel a little unseated.
After the soft sunshine of the outdoors, the rectory room felt stuffier than usual. Stolas sat at his desk with the window open, willing himself to continue with the passage he was translating, even as he found he was distracted by the silence outside. It wasn’t until he noticed that he could not even hear birds singing that it became unbearable, the complete emptiness of the air around him pressing on his eardrums as loud as if it was roaring. He grabbed the book he was working from and after haphazardly stuffing some folded paper and a pen into his back pocket he left the rectory again, the sound of his feet against the church flagstones impossibly loud in the empty building.
Once outside, he kept walking, as close to a run as he could get without drawing attention to himself. Stolas kept his head down, watching the steady pace of his feet against the dry ground. He suddenly felt a little light-headed as he struggled to draw breath, every nerve in his body telling him he needed to flee but without advising of any safe direction. The world around him began to blur as he climbed the hill, gasping for air and weaving a little with the effort to stay upright. If he could just get away, if he could get over the crest, maybe the band around his chest would loosen for a moment.
Stolas had embarrassed himself enough by entering the woods before, and he had no desire to do so again. If he were to turn left at the top of the hill, he could scale a further peak and continue his translation out in the air, where he could breathe. The further he walked, the further he felt from the panic that had been so all-encompassing inside of the rectory. Once he had strayed from the path and could feel his feet on the soft grass, the tension left his body and slithered into the soil. He climbed the summit of the second hill easily, finding a wide flat space where he could comfortably sit and look down on the view below.
Everything looked as though it were in miniature up here, shrunk down to the size of a child’s toy village. He could make out the spire of the church, the cruciform on top casting a long shadow even from this distance. Breathing was much easier here, when everything felt so small and so far away.
Beyond playfully flipping a few of his pages, the wind calmed down to a gentle breeze as Stolas got to work, leaning one arm against the parchment to hold it in place as he fell into the rhythm. Latin had been a great passion for him in the seminary, and being in nature reading the Lord’s words in the ancient language brought a solace to his soul that he had sorely needed. Stolas had searched for peace his entire life, but he had never truly known it until the first time he received a Mass in Latin. He had stood in that cathedral, hearing the voices speaking in harmony, and had offered himself up to God completely. For the first time in his memory, he hadn’t been alone.
And he wasn’t alone now. In this moment, his concentration so honed in on the Word, he could feel God all around him. In the grass beneath him as he crossed his legs over, in the sun that was beginning to slip from the sky, in the flies buzzing lazily through the warm air. Stolas could find God in everything, now that he knew what to look for. He prayed as he worked, the action as familiar to him as breathing.
As a child, Stolas had kept up an internal monologue, albeit at that time with an imaginary friend. He knew now that they were imaginary, but of course in the moment, they were as real to him as anybody made of flesh and blood. Children were very good at praying. The concept of faith in the unseen was much simpler to them than it was to adults.
As Stolas completed the page he was on, he looked up as he spotted some movement below him. He watched as a small figure trailed from the woods to the hut by the copse of trees, the door slamming shut behind them, although the sound only reached Stolas as a whisper. After a few moments had passed the door swung open again and the man left, headed back towards the same area of the woods he had exited from. Just as Stolas was struck with the ridiculous notion that he should shout down to the man in greeting, Blitz turned his head towards the hill as if he had done. Blitz raised one hand in greeting, his expression unreadable from the distance, and Stolas raised his back, his fingers trembling slightly. Blitz continued on his way, soon being swallowed up by the thicket. The sun was inching down the sky, turning the light from pale yellow to a warm gold that bathed the tops of the trees. There was a chill starting to form in the air, though it was not yet cold enough to be unpleasant. Stolas stared at the trees, lost in a reverie, until he could no longer ignore the cramp in his legs and forced his aching muscles to make his way back home, taking the fresh air with him in his lungs.
That night, he had a terrible dream.
Stolas had not had a bonafide nightmare in a long time. He vividly remembered one night as a child, waking and running to his father for comfort, gulping back sobs and a story about the ghost in his closet. He was sent back to bed with a smarting cheek, and an understanding that a boogeyman in his closet was much less of a threat than the one who lived down the hall. As an adult, his nightmares had always taken mundane forms, such as forgetting about a reading at church or showing up to Mass in an ugly outfit. It had been a long time since he had woken up sweating and terrified, in the pitch black of the night, clutching at his chest with his hair plastered to his forehead. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something had its eyes on him.
The dream had started with eyes.
He was in the woods again, and this time it was even darker. Stolas could not see anything in front of him, outside of a pair of glowing eyes that were staying locked on him no matter how quickly he moved. He was running as fast as his legs would carry him, weaving from left to right and crashing into obstacles he couldn’t see, but the eyes would not leave him. The yellow glow emanating from them was a cruel mockery of the daylight. And Stolas was growing tired. His legs were aching, and his chest burned as he gulped down the cold air. Just as he felt like his body was ready to give way, he saw a break in the trees. He used the last of his strength to push forward in an all out sprint, rushing forwards until suddenly-
He was back in the woods. He was back at the entrance to the woods, but when he tried to turn back the invisible force was pushing him in, further and further. And the eyes were back. They floated eerily in the dark, level with his own eyes, swaying softly as if they were being buffeted by the wind. They weren’t human, but they did not look like any animal Stolas had ever seen. Instead of being circular they were elliptical, and they were tilted a little on their sides while the red irises swivelled wildly to keep him in their sights. This time, as Stolas reached the gap in the trees, the eyes were right in front of him. The glow from them grew, brighter and brighter, the yellow surrounding him and burning his skin. Stolas fell to his knees and threw his arms over his head to block it out, but the light crept in through his eyelids, burning his retinas until he was screaming with it.
The screaming was what had woken him. The air felt impossibly still now, and violently dark after the scorching yellow that had followed him through his sleep. Shakily he rose from his bed, lighting the candle on his desk to chase away the last of the shadows. He used the small sink in the corner to splash some water on his face, letting it air dry and relishing in the tight feeling it left on his skin. It was not real. The dream was not real. Soon it would feel silly to him, the way that his time lost in the woods did in the light of the morning after.
But he kept the candle lit, just in case.
James 4:7 - Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you
The room still smelled faintly of the extinguished candle when he awoke in the morning, body aching and eyes bloodshot. There was a draught coming from somewhere, although God knows where because Stolas had turned the place upside down and couldn’t find a single gap that could be letting the air in. But the evidence was there every morning in that blackened, curled candle wick. He shuddered as his bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, pulling on his vestments as quickly as he could to avoid the chill. Slicing off a hunk of bread and applying a thin layer of jam, Stolas found he missed the comforts of his former life in small ways he would never have expected. He had made short work of his supplies, but the fog that clouded his brain meant that he couldn’t hold the thought in his mind long enough to purchase more.
Time seemed to move differently here. When he had lived in the city, the passing of each day felt much more pronounced, his routine so regimented because of the sheer amount that needed to be done each day. But out here, among strangers in the hillside, there was no urgency in anything Stolas did. He read his books, he ate his bread, he fell asleep. And so the day passed him by impossibly slowly. He felt as though he had spent an eternity in the hard-backed chair by his desk, ducking out of the direct sunlight as he squinted at the pages. When he finally did check the clock, the constant ticking lulling him like a metronome, he groaned and lay his head atop the desk. Bringing his arms up to rest on the wood he created a fortress around him, blocking out the light. When he was a young boy, overwhelmed by the weight his father had placed on his shoulders, he would hide in his room and shield himself like his. As though if he kept out all of the sunlight, the world would shift, and suddenly it would be nighttime and the day would almost be over.
When Stolas came to, a number of hours later, his neck ached. The sun was gone from the sky and the chill was back in the room, surrounding him in that unseen creeping way. His head felt impossibly heavy as he lifted it, wobbling on top of his neck as he blinked back into consciousness. The strain of his tired eyes in the dark room made his view of the outside hazy, and Stolas rubbed them with the heels of his palms until he saw stars. Blinking back into the world, the darkness of the night stretched out before him. He could see the treetops silhouetted against the navy blue of the sky, the branches swaying slightly in the breeze. As his eyes scanned the tree line, he stopped dead.
The eyes were back.
In the trees, almost hidden by the foliage, but they were there.
Stolas blinked again, hard, forcing his eyes to stay closed until he had regulated his breathing. But when he opened them again there they still were, hovering in the air and staring back at him, two orbs of ruby red in the dark. As he stared back, they almost seemed to dance, swaying alongside the tree branches and growing in size as he watched. There was a flickering quality to them, something mesmerising, like watching a flame dance over coals. They moved just like fire.
Fire.
Stolas blinked again and watched as the orbs grew, spreading outwards over the branches surrounding them. He could see the smoke beginning to smudge the tree line as it grew. The circles were now blazing pinwheels, spinning and spitting in the dark. Stolas stood up so quickly he knocked over the chair he had been sitting on, the sound of it clattering to the floor echoing through the bare room. He looked around him in a panic, realising he was thoroughly unequipped to handle one errant flame, let alone a forest blaze. But Stolas could tell from the dark, empty windows of the houses below that he was the only one awake. And the thought that-
Blitz.
The thought ripped through him ferociously, burning him up where he stood. Blitz. His cabin was so isolated, and with the fire behind the wooden structure the chances of him seeing it were slim. Stolas had made up his mind before he could even process the decision, grabbing a scarf and his heaviest jacket and dashing frantically down the stairs and out of the church. There was a rusty bucket sitting by the stairs leading into the building, and he picked it up as he ran, heading towards the well in the centre of the town square. With shaking hands he tugged on the rope, hearing the full bucket colliding with the stone of the well on its ascent. Stolas lost some water as he emptied it into his own bucket, but it was as well equipped as he could hope to be as he stumbled from the well onto the gravel path. It was hard to navigate in the dark, but the glow from the fire ahead felt blinding, and before long he had reached Blitz’s cabin, pitch-black and blank in front of the flames. They were far enough away for now that Blitz could leave safely if he was home, but Stolas still felt his heartbeat in his throat as he raised his fast and knocked on the heavy door.
There was no answer.
Stolas knocked again, resisting the temptation to rap until his knuckles were bloody. He sat the pail down on the ground, trying not to notice that there was an orange tinge to the water in a reflection of the sky.
“Blitz?” He called, the breath leaving his body in a sharp burst. He heard his own voice echo for a moment, before being swallowed by the trees. Stolas looked around him frantically, realising the lateness of the hour meant his vision was almost completely obscured. “Blitz?” He repeated, hearing the edge to his cry as it came back to him. The air here was completely still, more silent than Stolas felt it should be considering he could see the flames behind the cabin beginning to flicker higher. He really, really did not want to head back into the trees. But the thought of Blitz being in there somewhere, potentially unaware of the danger facing his home, made Stolas’s stomach twist almost painfully.
He took a deep breath before he entered the woods, trying to ignore the fact that the atmosphere was different as soon as he crossed that boundary. The silence was the most noticeable part. There wasn’t a single sound within the trees; no wind, no birds, only the crunch of the leaves beneath his feet. He felt as though he was intruding, being the only noise around. As if the forest itself was trying to force him out with its silence.
“Blitz? Are you out here?” Stolas called again, his voice wavering a little as the reality of the situation sunk in. What an idiot he was. He should have raised the alarm in the village, he should have knocked on some doors, he shouldn’t have come here alone with one pail of water. He couldn’t hear anything , and he couldn’t see in the pitch black either. The sky was still tinged a russet shade of orange, but walking through the trees didn’t seem to be bringing him any closer to the fire, no matter how long he stumbled for. He called out again, a few times, but nothing came back to him but the faint echo of his own voice, strained and anxious in the darkness. Stolas was beginning to panic, and although he felt sure this time that he had not strayed from the path enough to be truly lost, he remembered the sick sinking feeling from his last time out here too clearly to be fully confident.
“Bli-” His cry was suddenly cut off by a warm, calloused hand being clapped around his mouth.
“Do you have a fucking death wish or something?” Stolas tried to squeak out a response, but as he opened his mouth again he felt a body press in behind him and an arm wrap around his front, holding him in place. “Jesus, don’t- just be quiet. Don’t scream.” The voice hissing in his ear sounded like the wind that should be rushing through the trees.
Stolas wanted to scream, but when the hand was lifted from his mouth and he whipped around he was presented with Blitz’s face, barely an inch from his own, with a finger raised to his lips. His dark eyes were furious, burning like coals with a flat and shining anger. There was still something inside of Stolas that shut down when he was faced with that kind of look, and even if he had wanted to speak, he wasn’t sure he could form the words. Blitz looked around them frantically, catching his bottom lip between his sharp teeth, before he took Stolas by the upper arm and began to tug him in the direction of his cabin. He wasn’t holding Stolas roughly, but his arm still burned with the contact.
“Blitz, there’s a fire,” Stolas whispered when the air came back into his lungs. “I could see it from my window, it looked very close to your house, and I-”
“There’s not-” Blitz began, stopping himself before the sentence was complete and shaking his head. “Let’s just get you out of here.”
The sound had come back to the forest now, and Stolas was overwhelmed. The wind in the trees, their feet on the ground, his ragged breath as Blitz almost marched him through the darkness. When he lifted his head, he couldn’t see anything but the night sky above him, all dark and full of stars. He felt a sick, embarrassed feeling in his stomach that made his palms sweat. Was he dreaming? Did he imagine this entire thing? The ground beneath his feet was real, but the glimpse he had of the fire from his bedroom felt so far removed from reality now that he worried it hadn’t been real at all. When they did make it through the break in the woods that revealed Blitz’s cabin, and Stolas raised his eyes to the sky and saw the orange had been drained from it, he felt as though he would fall to his knees.
“I- I don’t understand. It was- the flames were almost taller than the trees. And you weren’t home, and I didn’t know if you were…” Stolas trailed off, his head swimming and his mouth drying out as he spoke. The air should taste like smoke, and not the fresh forest tang that it did have.
There was a metallic clang as Blitz’s boot connected with the pail Stolas had left outside of the cabin.
“What the- a bucket? Did you bring this?” Blitz’s tone was incredulous, but Stolas would take that over the irritation it had been laced with before.
“Yes,” Stolas replied, his voice sounding faint and a little tinny to his own ears. “I thought it might help. With the fire.”
His words hung in the air for a moment as Blitz looked from Stolas to the pail as if he wasn’t quite sure what else to say. Eventually he sighed heavily and scrubbed one scarred hand through his thick dark hair. Stolas watched as it fell back into place, the long strands curling over his broad shoulders.
“Get in,” Blitz said, his voice clipped and flat. Stolas felt himself beginning to panic again, something in his stomach pulling at him to run home.
“I- I really should-”
“Stolas, it’s the middle of the night, and you look like you’re about to pass out. Just come inside until I know you’re not gonna die if I let you walk home. Please.” Blitz opened the door as he spoke, waving his hand to usher Stolas inside. After a moment Stolas’s legs complied and he entered, still in a daze.
The cabin was small, with hardly any furniture in the main room. There was a faded couch, with some springs protruding from the dingy fabric, and some patchy curtains covering the window. A small table in front of the couch was covered in cigarette butts, glass bottles and what looked like wood shavings. There was a scent Stolas couldn’t quite pinpoint, a mix of pine, smoke, and something heavier. He wondered where Blitz slept until he noticed a flat pillow folded over the arm of the couch.
Stolas realised in that moment that he had not stepped foot in someone else’s home in years.
“Do you want a drink?” Blitz asked, standing awkwardly by the closed door as though he wasn’t used to someone in his space. “Beer? Can you have beer?”
Stolas rubbed his hands together nervously. “I am fine, thank you.”
Blitz shrugged, grabbing a bottle from the opposite corner of the room, which seemed to serve as a makeshift kitchen area. The cabin was well-insulated, but it still wasn’t warm, and Stolas wondered how anyone lived here in these winter months. Blitz stalked around the small space like a cat, eventually settling himself on the wide windowsill, half in darkness as he leaned his back against the glass.
“Why did you really come out here?” Blitz asked, his eyes shining in the low light.
Stolas frowned, puzzled by the question, his brain moving slowly as if he really had been asleep. “I thought I saw a fire, and I was concerned. It looked to be very close to your cabin.”
“But you don’t know me,” Blitz replied, his tone flat and hard to parse.
“Do I need to know you in order to hope you are not killed in a fiery blaze?” Stolas retorted, too confused by the night's events to be more pragmatic.
Blitz huffed out a short laugh. “So it’s a religious thing? The black sheep is still part of the flock, or whatever?”
“No,” Stolas replied quickly, bristling a little at the implication, “Me trying to help you had nothing to do with my being a priest, and everything to do with being who I am.”
“Hmm,” Blitz hummed, “So it’s a guilt thing. Like you’d have felt bad for the weird guy in the woods if he was burnt to a cinder?” When Stolas looked up, the darkness in the cabin silhouetted Blitz against the window. His face was in complete darkness, the only highlights the gleam of his teeth as he spoke, and the whites of his eyes.
“Is it truly so hard to believe someone would simply want you to live ?” Stolas asked, his voice rising a little as he felt his frustration simmering. He was too exhausted to keep his emotions at bay, the passive tone he reserved for all of his interactions slipping away in his irritation.
There was a long silence before Blitz spoke again. “Well, I’m still here. There’s no fire. So you can head home.” There was a dream-like quality to Blitz’s voice as it grew quieter, only increased by the fact that Stolas could hardly see him in the dark of the room. He felt as though he was carrying a conversation with someone who was not quite there. Someone with one foot in reality, and one foot in the world currently on fire somewhere in Stolas’s mind.
Stolas was exhausted, and confused, and he felt more than a little sick. He wasn’t sure what had gone so wrong this evening. He hadn’t expected to be applauded, but the hostility Blitz was responding with had unsettled him greatly. He brushed some imaginary dust off of his robes before moving to open the door. “I am sorry to have intruded on you this way. It won’t happen again. But I am glad that you are safe, and I do not regret making sure that you were.”
Stolas had just reached the door when he heard the sound of boots hitting the floor behind him.
“Look, I’m- it’s fine. You aren’t- you’re not intruding. I just don’t let a lot of people in here. But thank you. For coming out to check on me.” Blitz was shuffling from foot to foot, his wide eyes cast down at the floor.
“You’re welcome,” Stolas replied quietly, inclining his head as he did so. He opened the door and shivered involuntarily against the sudden chill. “Goodnight, Blitz.” His head still bowed, Stolas stepped out into the night, without noticing that the door didn’t close behind him for a little longer than it should have taken.
“So, how far away is your house? Or do you actually sleep in the church?” Stolas whipped his head around to find Blitz walking down the path towards him, rubbing his hands in the cold.
“What are you doing?” Stolas asked quietly, his words coming out as clouds of smoke in the cold air.
“Walking you home, obviously. Not risking you getting lost again.”
“I think I can find my way down a hill successfully,” Stolas replied, a little chagrined, but as soon as the words left his mouth he stumbled as his foot sank into a soft patch of mud.
“I can see that,” Blitz replied, and Stolas could hear the smirk in his voice even if he could hardly see it in the low light. When Stolas righted himself he stuck his chin up a little as he walked, trying to claw back at least some of his dignity. They walked in silence, Stolas feeling wrongfooted and uncomfortable as they started the slow descent towards the village.
“So. What made you join the priesthood?” Blitz asked after a time.
Stolas took a moment to consider before he answered. “I was called,” he replied simply, unsure how much of an answer Blitz may be looking for.
“Mmm. So it wasn’t like, a family thing?” Blitz asked, and Stolas frowned a little, trying to decide what he was truly being asked.
“No. In fact, what little family I have left were very unhappy with my decision. I had always been told that my future was mapped out for me. That I was to marry, and have an heir, and continue my lineage as my father had. I felt so desperately trapped that I fell to my knees and prayed for an escape from the life ahead of me. And then He showed me the way.” Blitz was silent, although he did steal a few glances up at Stolas in the darkness. “My father may have an inflated sense of self importance, but even he knew he was not equipped for a fight against God.”
Blitz fell silent again for a moment, and Stolas felt something within him retreat, that familiar fear of opening up too much, and too quickly.
“I can understand that. Didn’t think too much of my old man either,” he replied after a time, and the door Stolas had just slammed shut inside him was kicked back open. He felt the breeze as their eyes connected, Blitz shooting him his wolfish grin as they walked.
Stolas pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself against the cold, suppressing a shiver.
“You didn’t bring the right clothes for the climate out here, huh?” Blitz said, his tone lightly teasing.
“I did, in fact. Unfortunately in my hurry out here to potentially save your life I did not choose the most appropriate outerwear.” Stolas replied, a smile on his own face.
Blitz laughed a little, a soft huff. “You really did come running all the way out here because you thought I was in some kind of trouble?”
“I really did. And it does worry me that you feel so undeserving of this basic kindness.”
“You’d be surprised how little kindness there is to go around.” Blitz muttered, something in the air feeling a little heavier all of a sudden.
“Well, I’d hope that isn’t true,” Stolas said as they reached the bottom of the hill. Looking at the blank, empty houses of the village, it was a lot easier to believe than he would like to admit.
As they reached the church, Blitz looked up at the cross on top of the building. The way he dragged his gaze made it seem as though it pained him. “This isn’t some kind of recruitment drive is it? You still gonna feel that way when I’m not front and centre at your next sermon?”
“Absolutely. As I said, I did this as myself, and not as a representative of the church. If I never saw you again I would still do the same thing, although I do hope that will not be the case.” And Lord, why did you drop my tongue at that moment, Stolas thought to himself. What a foolish sentiment to relay to a man he hardly knew!
But Blitz laughed again, a fuller one this time, his eyes crinkling a little with it. “It’s a small town. Can’t avoid me forever.”
Stolas laughed too, releasing the nervous breath he had been holding. “Well, thank you for ensuring I arrived home. And I am glad you were not in any danger.”
“Hey, there’s nothing out there stupid enough to take me on,” Blitz shot back, and in the inky-blue of the night his eyes seemed to darken. But it passed, like a cloud over the moon, and they were back to the deep brown they had been the first time Stolas had met his gaze. “Night, Stolas.”
“Goodnight, Blitz.” Blitz grinned and dipped his head down low in a mock bow, before turning and heading back onto the path. Stolas let out a surprised laugh as he leaned back against the wooden door frame, watching until he could no longer see Blitz, and a little longer after that.
In the morning, when he opened the door and tripped over the returned pail of water, he laughed again, the sound high and clear like a bell in the empty square.
