[ it's like the start of a bad joke: so a hitman walks into a church.
it's a small church on the edge of town, in one of the slum districts where things like hitmen walking into churches are less likely to draw attention. well-attended, too, because the people out here need religion more than the ones in high places do, and also because tseng blends in better when there are more bodies around him as camouflage. he sits in the pews toward the back and listens to the mass, and when it's done he waits for most of the parishioners to filter out the front doors again before he makes his way to the confessional.
it's empty, fortunately, although tseng can hear the soft sound of breathing from the other side of the screen. for a moment it's almost enough to freeze him in his tracks, but the guilt wins out after a moment, and he settles onto the bench and draws the door closed behind him. ]
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, [ he says, his voice lower than it needs to be, just loud enough to be audible. ] It has been—fifteen years since my last confession.
[ a long time without setting foot in a church. tseng was raised religious, back when he was being raised at all, but in the wake of all that had happened he had turned his back on the church and never looked back. well, at least not until now. he isn't sure what brought him here today, other than the accumulated weight of all his sins crushing his lungs like pounds of concrete.
he looks down at his hands. one of them is wrapped in a bandage, evidence of a fight he'd ended the night before. perhaps this too is a sin: to walk into the house of god still bearing the physical scars of transgression. ]
[It's late, not that "late" is something so plain in the slum districts. That's carried more in the heavy blanket of quiet that's fallen over the church as the parishioners file out of the pews; here and there, one steps into the confessional first before heading out.
All things considered, it's a very normal day for Olivine. Sitting behind the screen, giving guidance and listening to the faithful—no matter what they say. He recognises most of the voices, after all; takes in their words dutifully, whether they're earnest or not. And now, he supposes most of them are gone and that he'll simply be sitting here a while, recollecting his thoughts.
The sound of a new voice is almost a shock to his system, waking up some part of him that had practically been buried in the familiar exchanges. There's the slight shuffle of fabric as the priest adjusts in his seat before the sound of a warm, soft voice in turn.]
God's heart soars at your return. Be at peace, my child, and speak your sins.
[truthfully, he isn't sure if he's qualified to hear the sins of others. It's what he does, what he was trained to do—but by now, he's long embraced this church's... eccentricities. One night even argue that he never truly fought against them, when he'd been initiated into the fold. Behind the warmth of God, just below the surface of the church, he knows the real altars are being prepared.
But... that doesn't matter right now. He still values his work as a priest, and so he listens raptly to Tseng as he recounts his transgressions.]
[ all at once, it feels like a mistake to have come here. the voice that comes from the other side of the screen is soft, sweet—while tseng can't see its owner, he can easily imagine someone gentle, to whom it would be unkind to confess the kinds of sins that tseng has committed.
and yet—the conundrum. he doesn't know if he'll be able to forgive himself for what he's about to tell this priest, but he also doesn't know how he'll be able to survive if he doesn't let go of some of what he carries. ]
I think my sins are too great to number, [ tseng admits. he braces both elbows on his knees and hangs his head so far forward it nearly rests against the wooden shelf across from him. ] The people I've killed, Father... the things I've done. It scares me to ask for God's forgiveness because I don't think I deserve it.
[ one hand comes up to press against his forehead. ]
[The confession is—certainly not one he hears regularly, but the feeling beneath it? That's much more familiar than not, reminiscent of the true believers who bear their whole souls for God. Not for the first time, he wishes he could reach beyond the screen to offer comfort.
After all, he knows precisely what it is to feel like your sins are unforgivable.]
... your burden is heavy, but your remorse is clear. [His hands clasp together as he speaks, eyes falling closed.] Those who think themselves unworthy are most often those who God is already reaching to; He requires only your earnest request for forgiveness. The right of absolution is sacrosanct.
[a pause, then, followed by a softer question. A man's question, rather than a priest's.]
Is there really no escape from your circumstances?
Remorse, yes... [ tseng laughs, low and hollow. ] And yet I have every intention of sinning again.
[ the right of absolution may be sacrosanct, but tseng still knows he shouldn't have come here at all. he has no right to ask for forgiveness when tomorrow he'll be back on the streets doing exactly what it is he's asking forgiveness for. his hands are filthy with blood, his guilt so heavy he can't hold it in both hands. it tastes like ash on his tongue.
to be asked so direct a question is—surprising. at all the confessions tseng has ever attended (although to be fair, there have been few), the ritual was almost scripted: tseng says this, the priest says that, and he leaves the church feeling marginally lighter, if only for a moment. but this priest's voice sounds young, and his question sounds genuine, which is enough to startle tseng into answering honestly: ]
Only in several body bags, I think. [ either his own, or those of the men who own him. ] The Family owns me. It's not a life you walk away from.
[the Family. that certainly explains some things. Olivine has never met any of them personally, but he's fully aware that they have dealings here. In some ways, he understands the weight of that hopelessness, too. Living a life that isn't truly your own is...]
... forgive me for asking more than I should. [There's no fear to it, and the thread off compassion remains even now. Priests themselves sit in a particularly unusual spot, knowing as much as they do and keeping it close no matter the circumstance. Usually, they're even far beyond the possibility of torture, for the vulnerability they hold.] God has placed you on a difficult path, and in finding your way along it, it is known that you've earned your absolution.
I... am sure that's not particularly comforting, but sometimes all we can do is hope for a space to talk through our troubles as we struggle along our path. I hope that confession provides you with at least that comfort, in the coming days.
[ perhaps to the priest, tseng is only one of dozens of supplicants he'll encounter today. perhaps he's this kind to all of them, and tseng isn't special at all. but even if just for the moment, he can allow himself to believe that he asks after tseng's circumstances because he cares, because there's something about tseng that piques his interest beyond the mere formality of confession.
even thinking it to himself feels a bit pathetic, though, and tseng huffs a quiet sound not unlike a scoff. ]
I have far too many troubles to bore you with, Father. [ but there is a small thread of amusement in his tone; the words are true, but he also means them a little... well, "playfully" isn't exactly the right word, but something close, maybe. ] You'd tire of me, and then where would I go for confession?
[ even so, though... tseng misses this. for all that he no longer feels like a beloved child of god, he misses the community, the ritual, the sense of peace that accompanies him when he's in church. so after a second, he adds, slowly, ]
But... I may be back. As long as it won't bring any danger to you.
[there's something heartbreaking in those words, even with the line of nonchalance to them. something familiar, even, that he almost wishes he could see the man on the other side of the confessional.]
You should never have to worry that you may be turned away for confession, whether I or another Father takes them. [a soft hum.] We, like God, should not be so shallow.
[it's certain to him, then, that this man doesn't know what goes on behind closed doors—there's no indication of it at all in his tone. more than anything else, it makes him feel a certain, more solid connection in turn.]
You needn't worry for my safety... this place is for your sincere penance, and your words go no further than these walls.
If it pleases you, I am often here for some time after mass. [he nearly says something else, but stops himself. perhaps another time, he'll relinquish the code to call for him, but it feels inappropriate at this juncture.]
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no subject
it's a small church on the edge of town, in one of the slum districts where things like hitmen walking into churches are less likely to draw attention. well-attended, too, because the people out here need religion more than the ones in high places do, and also because tseng blends in better when there are more bodies around him as camouflage. he sits in the pews toward the back and listens to the mass, and when it's done he waits for most of the parishioners to filter out the front doors again before he makes his way to the confessional.
it's empty, fortunately, although tseng can hear the soft sound of breathing from the other side of the screen. for a moment it's almost enough to freeze him in his tracks, but the guilt wins out after a moment, and he settles onto the bench and draws the door closed behind him. ]
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, [ he says, his voice lower than it needs to be, just loud enough to be audible. ] It has been—fifteen years since my last confession.
[ a long time without setting foot in a church. tseng was raised religious, back when he was being raised at all, but in the wake of all that had happened he had turned his back on the church and never looked back. well, at least not until now. he isn't sure what brought him here today, other than the accumulated weight of all his sins crushing his lungs like pounds of concrete.
he looks down at his hands. one of them is wrapped in a bandage, evidence of a fight he'd ended the night before. perhaps this too is a sin: to walk into the house of god still bearing the physical scars of transgression. ]
no subject
All things considered, it's a very normal day for Olivine. Sitting behind the screen, giving guidance and listening to the faithful—no matter what they say. He recognises most of the voices, after all; takes in their words dutifully, whether they're earnest or not. And now, he supposes most of them are gone and that he'll simply be sitting here a while, recollecting his thoughts.
The sound of a new voice is almost a shock to his system, waking up some part of him that had practically been buried in the familiar exchanges. There's the slight shuffle of fabric as the priest adjusts in his seat before the sound of a warm, soft voice in turn.]
God's heart soars at your return. Be at peace, my child, and speak your sins.
[truthfully, he isn't sure if he's qualified to hear the sins of others. It's what he does, what he was trained to do—but by now, he's long embraced this church's... eccentricities. One night even argue that he never truly fought against them, when he'd been initiated into the fold. Behind the warmth of God, just below the surface of the church, he knows the real altars are being prepared.
But... that doesn't matter right now. He still values his work as a priest, and so he listens raptly to Tseng as he recounts his transgressions.]
no subject
and yet—the conundrum. he doesn't know if he'll be able to forgive himself for what he's about to tell this priest, but he also doesn't know how he'll be able to survive if he doesn't let go of some of what he carries. ]
I think my sins are too great to number, [ tseng admits. he braces both elbows on his knees and hangs his head so far forward it nearly rests against the wooden shelf across from him. ] The people I've killed, Father... the things I've done. It scares me to ask for God's forgiveness because I don't think I deserve it.
[ one hand comes up to press against his forehead. ]
But I have no choice. My life is not my own.
no subject
After all, he knows precisely what it is to feel like your sins are unforgivable.]
... your burden is heavy, but your remorse is clear. [His hands clasp together as he speaks, eyes falling closed.] Those who think themselves unworthy are most often those who God is already reaching to; He requires only your earnest request for forgiveness. The right of absolution is sacrosanct.
[a pause, then, followed by a softer question. A man's question, rather than a priest's.]
Is there really no escape from your circumstances?
no subject
[ the right of absolution may be sacrosanct, but tseng still knows he shouldn't have come here at all. he has no right to ask for forgiveness when tomorrow he'll be back on the streets doing exactly what it is he's asking forgiveness for. his hands are filthy with blood, his guilt so heavy he can't hold it in both hands. it tastes like ash on his tongue.
to be asked so direct a question is—surprising. at all the confessions tseng has ever attended (although to be fair, there have been few), the ritual was almost scripted: tseng says this, the priest says that, and he leaves the church feeling marginally lighter, if only for a moment. but this priest's voice sounds young, and his question sounds genuine, which is enough to startle tseng into answering honestly: ]
Only in several body bags, I think. [ either his own, or those of the men who own him. ] The Family owns me. It's not a life you walk away from.
no subject
... forgive me for asking more than I should. [There's no fear to it, and the thread off compassion remains even now. Priests themselves sit in a particularly unusual spot, knowing as much as they do and keeping it close no matter the circumstance. Usually, they're even far beyond the possibility of torture, for the vulnerability they hold.] God has placed you on a difficult path, and in finding your way along it, it is known that you've earned your absolution.
I... am sure that's not particularly comforting, but sometimes all we can do is hope for a space to talk through our troubles as we struggle along our path. I hope that confession provides you with at least that comfort, in the coming days.
no subject
[ perhaps to the priest, tseng is only one of dozens of supplicants he'll encounter today. perhaps he's this kind to all of them, and tseng isn't special at all. but even if just for the moment, he can allow himself to believe that he asks after tseng's circumstances because he cares, because there's something about tseng that piques his interest beyond the mere formality of confession.
even thinking it to himself feels a bit pathetic, though, and tseng huffs a quiet sound not unlike a scoff. ]
I have far too many troubles to bore you with, Father. [ but there is a small thread of amusement in his tone; the words are true, but he also means them a little... well, "playfully" isn't exactly the right word, but something close, maybe. ] You'd tire of me, and then where would I go for confession?
[ even so, though... tseng misses this. for all that he no longer feels like a beloved child of god, he misses the community, the ritual, the sense of peace that accompanies him when he's in church. so after a second, he adds, slowly, ]
But... I may be back. As long as it won't bring any danger to you.
no subject
You should never have to worry that you may be turned away for confession, whether I or another Father takes them. [a soft hum.] We, like God, should not be so shallow.
[it's certain to him, then, that this man doesn't know what goes on behind closed doors—there's no indication of it at all in his tone. more than anything else, it makes him feel a certain, more solid connection in turn.]
You needn't worry for my safety... this place is for your sincere penance, and your words go no further than these walls.
If it pleases you, I am often here for some time after mass. [he nearly says something else, but stops himself. perhaps another time, he'll relinquish the code to call for him, but it feels inappropriate at this juncture.]