Post by Liessel on Mar 7, 2024 13:26:38 GMT -5
It was damn near close to evening by the time the last parishioner had excused themselves from the confessional. Stepping out of the tiny, dark room the old woman clutched her shawl tightly about her shoulders, dipped as much as she could at her knees while facing the alter and made the sign of the cross before turning to excuse herself from the church.
What went on in those little rooms was between those seek absolution, the priest within, and God who overheard all.
Liessel sat patiently, waiting in the silence of the church as it emptied of those waiting for their turn to be forgiven. She was not there, today, to take part in such rituals. She had stepped into that little box only once since having come to London. She believed that small room was not where peace and forgiveness could be found, though the intimacy of such a small space could allow for private words to be spoken between oneself and their priest. That was still not her reason for coming.
She sat and she watched, waiting in her silent repose until the last of the handful left. She waited for just a few moments longer, her own prayers to gods distant and quiet fading into nothing the moment the second door of the confessional opened.
There was no sign of the cross made by Liessel, but she did lift her right hand up to brush her fingers across the mark there on her forehead while looking Father McKellen’s way.
He stopped, midturn, finding her there watching him while that curious motion was made. She’d taken her hat off -- had he ever seen her without a hat on before? He knew, for certain, that he’d never seen the mark she touched her fingertips to.
“Miss Wickham!” His smile was easy to rise, and after a moment of sparing a look around the church to see who was left to be tended to, Father Joseph Michael Andrew McKellen was turning to meet the hug that she had brought his way.
“Hello, Father,” Liessel answered in warm greeting, giving him a quick and friendly kiss to his cheek, “Do you have some free time today? I have something I need to talk to you about.”
There Father McKellen frowned slightly. When she had first come to him, she had looked so lost. There were moments still where the young woman struck him as wandering without a direction to go in. “I can make some time for you, my dear,” He answered, his thick Irish accent flooding through his response.
With a small motion of his hand he ushered Liessel through the church, up the dias where the alter sat and on through to the back where he lifted his green vestments over his head to reveal the white collared uniform of his calling.
Liessel waited, off to the side, as he hung the sateen garment with its intricate golden stitch work on a hanger and then slipped it into a closet filled with other vestments of various colors that were used through out the year.
In that space behind the alter was where masses were prepared for. It was there that the eucharist was blessed before being stored and readied for disbursement at mass. It was there, too, that the wine -- the blood of Christ -- was also blessed and preserved for the ritual.
She had come to learn these things over the course of her months visiting the church. The customs seemed strange, but who was she to judge? She had her own strange customs to observe.
At this time of day there were no alter boys tending to their massly chores. They usually came earlier in the day, on the weekends, when they weren’t in school. During the summer, it was during the early afternoons when they could see to their tasks and religious lessons while taking shelter in the cool church from the heat outside. This gave Liessel plenty of space to breathe out a soft sigh when McKellen led her further on into the church and through to the rectory.
It was a small living space adjacent to the church, connected by a doorway that was closed off by an oak colored door. It was through this doorway that Father McKellen led the young lady. Once through it they were stepping into the kitchen of the rectory, a small but suitable room. It was big enough to host at least four people comfortably around the table in the center of the room.
“Please,” She heard McKellen say as she took in the new space, “Have a seat Miss Wickham. I’ll put some tea on.”
As Joseph McKellen turned on the tap to fill his kettle, Liessel pulled a chair out and lowered herself down. Her hat she had carried with her, and now placed on the table beside her.
She was suddenly very quiet, and very still as she watched him put his pot on the stove. Liessel had told herself that this was going to be the day. The danger had passed, and today was going to be the day that she told him her name. But now that she was sitting there, Liessel didn’t know if she could go through with it.
He knew her as Isabell Wickham. Wasn’t that enough?
Before she knew it, the priest was pulling out a chair and settling down at the table across from her.
There was still time for her to make up some other excuse, to come up with a story about something else that was bothering her. Guardians knew there were many things on her mind just then!
Her hand was suddenly captured by his. When had he leaned forward to pick it up from the table?
“Miss Wickham, are you alright?” He was sitting there studying her, leaning forward to see her better.
She roused herself and gave a gentle nod, “Yes, forgive me, Father. I am only quite distracted. What I wish to talk to you about isn’t an easy topic.”
“Well,” He answered, “You are in the best place for wrestling with hard topics. I promise you, there is no judgement here and whatever you have to say will not leave this room. It shall remain between me, you, and the lord above.”
That did not fill her with the greatest of confidences, but it did help her make her choice. She wasn’t going to back away from it the way she wanted to. Today would be the day.
Liessel drew in a breath and opened her mouth to let it out slowly. Afterward she said, “There have been some developments in the events that brought me here. I no longer need to hide who I am from you -- and before you get angry,” She was quick to add, licking her lips and trying to conquer her nerves, “Know that I lied only to ensure your safety. If you had known who I was, and the people who had been after me had found you --”
McKellen’s face darkened as he tried to follow that. Isabell had spoken so quickly, that he had to slow down what he was hearing mentally in order to grasp what she was telling him, “After you? Isabell -- Miss Wickham -- who is after you?”
He had half a mind to rise and call The Yard right then and there, but he held that off in favor of letting the young woman explain first.
She took another breath, feeling the unease of it fill her from head to toe. That was another matter “No one,” Liessel answered quickly,” Not anymore. But it had been men from my homeland that had been looking for me. They had meant to do me great harm, and so I’ve been in hiding.” She tried to slow her words, and tried to remember to breathe between them, but they just kept coming as quick as driving rain, “I could not tell you about it for the fear that you would be caught up in the mess. I know I have deceived you, Father, but it was not by choice --”
The priest rose, pushing his chair back to find his feet. A brief second was spared in which he turned the heat off on the stove before coming up beside Liessel and dropping down into a crouch next to her. He was there by the time her apology stuck in her throat, strangling out the rest of what she had hoped to say.
“There now, Miss Wickham,” He soothed, “It’s alright. It us just here, remember? There is no judgement.”
He gave her a few moments to catch her breath, and to find some stability within herself. He watched her pull a thin kerchief from the small, thin purse she carried, and let her have the space she needed to dry her eyes before continuing, “You’re alright, Miss. I’m right here, and I’m listening. What was this deception?”
“My -- my name,” Liessel answered after several more moments of pulling herself together, “It -- it isn’t Wickham. It’s Liessel. Liessel Erphale.” She took a deeper breath, and glanced at him before shutting her eyes and letting her next words fall like a wall that had been hit by a wrecking ball, “And I am not of this world.”
What went on in those little rooms was between those seek absolution, the priest within, and God who overheard all.
Liessel sat patiently, waiting in the silence of the church as it emptied of those waiting for their turn to be forgiven. She was not there, today, to take part in such rituals. She had stepped into that little box only once since having come to London. She believed that small room was not where peace and forgiveness could be found, though the intimacy of such a small space could allow for private words to be spoken between oneself and their priest. That was still not her reason for coming.
She sat and she watched, waiting in her silent repose until the last of the handful left. She waited for just a few moments longer, her own prayers to gods distant and quiet fading into nothing the moment the second door of the confessional opened.
There was no sign of the cross made by Liessel, but she did lift her right hand up to brush her fingers across the mark there on her forehead while looking Father McKellen’s way.
He stopped, midturn, finding her there watching him while that curious motion was made. She’d taken her hat off -- had he ever seen her without a hat on before? He knew, for certain, that he’d never seen the mark she touched her fingertips to.
“Miss Wickham!” His smile was easy to rise, and after a moment of sparing a look around the church to see who was left to be tended to, Father Joseph Michael Andrew McKellen was turning to meet the hug that she had brought his way.
“Hello, Father,” Liessel answered in warm greeting, giving him a quick and friendly kiss to his cheek, “Do you have some free time today? I have something I need to talk to you about.”
There Father McKellen frowned slightly. When she had first come to him, she had looked so lost. There were moments still where the young woman struck him as wandering without a direction to go in. “I can make some time for you, my dear,” He answered, his thick Irish accent flooding through his response.
With a small motion of his hand he ushered Liessel through the church, up the dias where the alter sat and on through to the back where he lifted his green vestments over his head to reveal the white collared uniform of his calling.
Liessel waited, off to the side, as he hung the sateen garment with its intricate golden stitch work on a hanger and then slipped it into a closet filled with other vestments of various colors that were used through out the year.
In that space behind the alter was where masses were prepared for. It was there that the eucharist was blessed before being stored and readied for disbursement at mass. It was there, too, that the wine -- the blood of Christ -- was also blessed and preserved for the ritual.
She had come to learn these things over the course of her months visiting the church. The customs seemed strange, but who was she to judge? She had her own strange customs to observe.
At this time of day there were no alter boys tending to their massly chores. They usually came earlier in the day, on the weekends, when they weren’t in school. During the summer, it was during the early afternoons when they could see to their tasks and religious lessons while taking shelter in the cool church from the heat outside. This gave Liessel plenty of space to breathe out a soft sigh when McKellen led her further on into the church and through to the rectory.
It was a small living space adjacent to the church, connected by a doorway that was closed off by an oak colored door. It was through this doorway that Father McKellen led the young lady. Once through it they were stepping into the kitchen of the rectory, a small but suitable room. It was big enough to host at least four people comfortably around the table in the center of the room.
“Please,” She heard McKellen say as she took in the new space, “Have a seat Miss Wickham. I’ll put some tea on.”
As Joseph McKellen turned on the tap to fill his kettle, Liessel pulled a chair out and lowered herself down. Her hat she had carried with her, and now placed on the table beside her.
She was suddenly very quiet, and very still as she watched him put his pot on the stove. Liessel had told herself that this was going to be the day. The danger had passed, and today was going to be the day that she told him her name. But now that she was sitting there, Liessel didn’t know if she could go through with it.
He knew her as Isabell Wickham. Wasn’t that enough?
Before she knew it, the priest was pulling out a chair and settling down at the table across from her.
There was still time for her to make up some other excuse, to come up with a story about something else that was bothering her. Guardians knew there were many things on her mind just then!
Her hand was suddenly captured by his. When had he leaned forward to pick it up from the table?
“Miss Wickham, are you alright?” He was sitting there studying her, leaning forward to see her better.
She roused herself and gave a gentle nod, “Yes, forgive me, Father. I am only quite distracted. What I wish to talk to you about isn’t an easy topic.”
“Well,” He answered, “You are in the best place for wrestling with hard topics. I promise you, there is no judgement here and whatever you have to say will not leave this room. It shall remain between me, you, and the lord above.”
That did not fill her with the greatest of confidences, but it did help her make her choice. She wasn’t going to back away from it the way she wanted to. Today would be the day.
Liessel drew in a breath and opened her mouth to let it out slowly. Afterward she said, “There have been some developments in the events that brought me here. I no longer need to hide who I am from you -- and before you get angry,” She was quick to add, licking her lips and trying to conquer her nerves, “Know that I lied only to ensure your safety. If you had known who I was, and the people who had been after me had found you --”
McKellen’s face darkened as he tried to follow that. Isabell had spoken so quickly, that he had to slow down what he was hearing mentally in order to grasp what she was telling him, “After you? Isabell -- Miss Wickham -- who is after you?”
He had half a mind to rise and call The Yard right then and there, but he held that off in favor of letting the young woman explain first.
She took another breath, feeling the unease of it fill her from head to toe. That was another matter “No one,” Liessel answered quickly,” Not anymore. But it had been men from my homeland that had been looking for me. They had meant to do me great harm, and so I’ve been in hiding.” She tried to slow her words, and tried to remember to breathe between them, but they just kept coming as quick as driving rain, “I could not tell you about it for the fear that you would be caught up in the mess. I know I have deceived you, Father, but it was not by choice --”
The priest rose, pushing his chair back to find his feet. A brief second was spared in which he turned the heat off on the stove before coming up beside Liessel and dropping down into a crouch next to her. He was there by the time her apology stuck in her throat, strangling out the rest of what she had hoped to say.
“There now, Miss Wickham,” He soothed, “It’s alright. It us just here, remember? There is no judgement.”
He gave her a few moments to catch her breath, and to find some stability within herself. He watched her pull a thin kerchief from the small, thin purse she carried, and let her have the space she needed to dry her eyes before continuing, “You’re alright, Miss. I’m right here, and I’m listening. What was this deception?”
“My -- my name,” Liessel answered after several more moments of pulling herself together, “It -- it isn’t Wickham. It’s Liessel. Liessel Erphale.” She took a deeper breath, and glanced at him before shutting her eyes and letting her next words fall like a wall that had been hit by a wrecking ball, “And I am not of this world.”