Archive of Our Own ^beta

Autumn loomed over Chimney Rock, the wind carrying the faintest bite in its errant gusts. A town populous with natural foliage, the leaves scattered across most every path, sidewalks and streets alike. Oranges, yellows, browns... The occasional red, but such striking colors were rare amidst the more faded hues. A stalwart battalion of evergreens lined the forested outskirts of town as well, what would become the last bastion of plant life in the bitter winter to come. Yet even they cowered in the chill of this November morning, the looming sense of dread encapsulating all who knew this town. Today was Sunday. Sundays, of course, meant church service... and for the crowd at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, it meant one more poor soul at the hot end of Monsignor Wicks’s branding iron. A homily crafted in malice, a cold-eyed monologue begging some poor soul to prove him right.

His subject of the day arrived with company, but entered the church alone. Amidst her myriad other duties, Martha took note of those beyond the Monsignor’s tight-knit inner circle; how they arrived, what company they carried, any signs of unholiness that could be sharpened to blades. Artillery to fire from the pulpit. And though it took some closer inspection, this foreign car being parked on the outskirts of the lot, she took note of some peculiar detail. The woman herself appeared plain—in her mid-fifties at a first guess, with caramel brown hair, a rather muted manner of dress, and a cross necklace. Nothing of her own appearance would give Wicks any fuel... No, that came from her last act leaving the vehicle. Leaning across to the driver’s seat, she caressed the other woman’s cheek, planting a kiss upon her lips. This other woman, a Korean lady, appeared about thirty years younger... And her refusal to enter church with her partner, whatever their relationship, said enough.

The typical crowd poured in, sorted into the pews that had borne their sorry hides week after week. Vera, Nat, Lee, Simone, Cyrus... The full ensemble, occupying just enough space to claim dominion over the front rows. A few unwise stragglers were peppered in as well, though much of Chimney Rock knew the crowds had thinned. Whoever still remained did so of convenience, an apathetic acceptance that, well, Wicks never singled them out. Whether they could hear the tolling of that distant bell, none could be sure. But the pattern would continue.

Little in the air seemed to differentiate this from the standard Sunday mass. Martha selected her typical accompaniment on the grand organ, pre-sermon chatter took on no dramatic topics, and the atmosphere appeared dull by all other means. Even the awaiting Father Jud, an outcast by any other standards, blended into the scenery, barely registering in the Monsignor’s mind. And thus, the arrival of this newest guest, slotted between other townsfolk, brought about not even a single uncertain glance.

In time, silence fell over Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude. Martha withdrew from the grand instrument, and Monsignor Jefferson Wicks, the horseman of war, strode down the aisle. His altar, his grand throne over those who revered him... It called his name, as it did many times before. He did not dare move his head, nor his gaze, fixated all the while on the faded marking on the opposite wall. The silhouette of a cross that once was. The mark of the harlot whore.

Much of his service, for what it was worth, appeared docile on its surface. A simple deliverance of the gospel, the message of Jesus Christ as relayed through his mortal mouth. But through pointed word choice, careful discernment of biblical texts... His herd of sharks could smell the blood in the water. Vitriol boiling in his heart, his stomach, his lungs. Poor Jud knew this all too well, preparing in advance to mourn for whatever lost soul turned from the church on this day. For once the homily began, it only had one ending.

“The Lord wishes one thing for us. Yes, one thing, one that He imparts in droves if we are to follow in his guidance. Love. His love for us, it infects, it spreads, we spread His love unto others. It is our honor, our sacred duty, to bestow Christ’s love upon the world.”

Father Jud almost wanted to smile at the words. Some number of weeks prior, he’d have dared himself to do so, had he not known the bitterness yet to come.

“But the endless wealth He bestows, richness of soul and purpose found in His love. It is squandered. Each day, His word falls on ungrateful ears. Those who are not worthy of receiving. You’ve known them. All of you. Those who call themselves family, friends, lovers. Yet they do not give, they do not love the Father as He loves them. Your greatest endeavor, your journey of faith, they disregard—toss it wayward with no hesitation. They do not follow you through His love. They merely exist to leech, to suck you dry of His blessing.”

Each word dripping with more and more venom, the Monsignor surveyed his crowd, noting the usual exchange of glances. If not far before, this silence amidst the rhetoric typically left its target to squirm in their pew. Yet this strange woman, she who had been expected to scamper off in fear, tail between her legs... Her posture had not faltered. No, for when Jefferson Wicks bore the full disdain of his gaze upon her, she offered a response so rarely seen in these newcomers. She dared to meet his eyes, unblinking. Brows furrowed, but nothing more.

“Let this place be a shelter. A shield of His holiness, a blinding light that permeates every crack, every crevasse of this church. Those who would dissipate His gift, His love... They dare not enter this place, for they harbor no shame. No regret, no fear, no love! They do not love you as He does! They would never, for to reject the Lord in His love is to reject love in entirety! Each kiss, each supposedly gentle touch, its tenderness a facade, the snake slithering across your skin and preparing to pierce your heart! They have made their choice, rejected His word, fallen backwards into the arms of Satan. If they are foolishly granted mercy, offered your undeserved grace, your love... They would hold on tight and drag you with them.”

The two continued to stare, silently urging the other to back down, to flinch, to cede a single inch of ground. Monsignor Wicks never lost these contests, and expected the sound of footfalls to echo over the rafters. But nothing came. He’d locked eyes with a statue, tensing his muscles as his inner voice screamed for her to move. Vacate his church, drag her sin elsewhere, never return. His will hardened in stone, concentrated toward a stranger with infallible hatred and spite. Dark eyes met darker ones, a silent tug-of-war across the span of the church.

But the Monsignor blinked first.

A gentle wave of his left hand below the altar signalled Father Jud to continue the service. He’d concede just this once, but would not grant any further victories. He retreated to his cubby, to the flask. Much to his chagrin, the rest of Sunday Mass lost the typical bite, the venom drained of his fangs, wasted on a stone wall. And not only did this harlot surely draw some sort of wicked satisfaction, pride in “besting” him... but Jud would feel revitalized from this display as well. He’d need to revisit his material for the next confession, win back the progress he’d lost with breaking that boy.

As the service reached its natural conclusion, the clouds began to part around Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, streaks of golden light refracting through the stained glass as the parishioners rose. Most days, after mass, the clique would linger on the grounds, hoping to catch up further with Monsignor Wicks, share any desired anecdotes. Very little of the group remained this Sunday, leaving Wicks to his own devices after a sermon that failed in its footing. Only Doctor Sharp remained on grounds, but kept mostly to his own devices, speaking occasionally with Martha or Samson under what little cover the trees still provided.

Father Jud stood alone as usual. The bitter taste of Wicks’s sermon often lingered on his tongue, vile words ringing ad nauseam in his ears. Yet today, it carried a strange aftertaste. Not quite a sweetness, per se... A metallic tang, a pinch of salt, and an ultimate richness that turned the corners of his mouth upward. Perhaps this little town held a little more grit than he’d anticipated; they just needed more folks like that woman.

“So, is that a standard mass with Monsignor Wicks, or what?”

Jud flinched at the sudden voice from behind him, jumping aside and granting the woman a bit of space. She’d planted her palm on the tree, seemingly relying on it for extra balance. With the discomfort these particular pews tended to leave behind, he understood wholly. His lack of understanding, naturally, came from everything else about this woman... Good thing he had plenty of time to ask questions. “Well, the Monsignor is... certainly a very passionate speaker, if that’s what you–”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” the woman grumbled, furrowing her brows once more and leaning an inch forward towards the pastor. “It’s written all over your face. Has been all service. You know it as well as I do, the man is—forgive my language, Father—a cunt. Preys on the weak, yet he’ll prattle on for hours that he’s the victim, the world batters and beats him. A hammer who chides you for hours, no, no, I’m the nail here. And the moment you look away, he swings again. I’m just curious if he’s the reason the pews are so empty, or if I was just an easy target.”

Jud fell silent, hoping to whittle down the truth to something more palatable. Not for Wicks’s sake, nor for the woman’s; he simply knew that falling victim to anger, to this easy temptation of slander and ridicule, was what landed him in Chimney Rock to begin with. “Monsignor Wicks has taken a rather... firm stance, yes, as to who he believes should worship in his church. It’s not a stance I agree with, but I’m... really in no position to challenge that, you understand.”

“Oh, of course, Father. You seem you’ve got a good head on those shoulders of yours.” The lady’s free hand reached up, taking her cross necklace and gently passing it from finger to finger. An idle fidget, yet it drew her faith front and center all the same. “Well, Wicks is lucky. See, I’m only passing through; we’ll be halfway ‘cross the state before next Sunday, my wife and I. Wouldn’t make a difference at all if I ran off or weathered the storm. But, you know. Can’t let a man like that go through life with an unbroken stride. Gotta throw him a curveball.”

And what a curveball it was. Jud could even see it from here, the Monsignor leaned against the stone door frame with his head angled toward the ground. This wouldn’t be a permanent blow. Next Sunday, seeing the woman to have disappeared, he would rejuvenate, find a new target. But in the meanwhile, maybe he could go one confession without hearing about masturbation. “Passing through or not, thank you for attending. And I, I hope this doesn’t overstep any boundaries, but your wife, is she not...?”

“Oh, come now, don't be shy. Just because the Monsignor's an ass doesn't put the topic off limits. She’s just, er... a little on edge around churches. Something that happened when she was younger. I’m sure if she received an invitation, she... Well, she’d probably still decline, but that’d be the way to start. Just maybe not here. One hint of a foul word and she’d be at Wicks’s throat,” the woman teased, smiling ear to ear at the mere thought of it. The two were birds of a feather, it seemed. “Florence, by the way. Pleased to meet you, Father. Say, the Monsignor... How free is his afternoon?”

That question did not inspire confidence in Jud. Florence already made a habit of treading dangerous waters just by meeting Wicks’s gaze before, and if her jovial banter was to be believed, she had a penchant for stirring further trouble. To allow her such close quarters time with Wicks, after already wounding the man’s ego... Some spiteful side of him did wish to see it, but he hated feeling that urge. Hoping his fears were for naught, he probed further. “Erh... Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I’d just like to give my confession, that’s all.”