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
[ 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.]