#my good friend and buddy seifer <3 kiskiskis for u seifer

[sasster]

The Soldier and the Priest

You know how Ailzea is going through some things right now? WELL, he still has people that depend on him. Didn’t ya know?

Right so! Happy belated birthday to both Wren AND Seifer. <3 Those are some good guys right there.

[Doc]

--

Trolls of all sorts tend to find their way to the House of Restoration, this has been a reality since the death of that ruthless Reverend. A great deal looking to find a new home and community, some simply dropping in to say that they did, and the ones that come in search of an ear or shoulder for their strife.

There is no shortage of trolls that find their way to these church doors.

Ailzea is never bothered by their sudden appearances, armed with conversations that are just as profound for him as they are for them, and they are typically easy to find; Standing awkwardly among the members of his community with demons that weigh their heads and shoulders down.

Tonight a troll that he has never seen before stands at the entrance of the church, anxious fingers dancing and gripping rhythmically along the hem of a fleet sanctioned uniform. His fins twitch along to what Ailzea assumes is the beating of an erratic heart. Even the inexperienced in such matters could tell that he regretted even making the trip, the fear of retaliation clear as day in his eyes.

This stranger does not seem like trouble.

“I assume this is only a short visit?”

Though the priest, known for his soft spoken nature, approaches calmly, the soldier winces as though he’d been struck. Eyes better suited for a caged animal dart around wildly, and he takes a step that looks like he is much more likely to use it to jump out of his skin. He was poised to dart right back out those doors. The reaction seems more like he’d been burned, not like the typical response to a conversation starter.

The silent panic overtakes him as he swings his gaze around the room, the gears in his mind turning to cook up an excuse for having ended up here.

“My child. Whatever it entails, I will keep your visit between us.”

There is a beat of silence before the newcomer says anything.

“That,” he swallows. “I would greatly appreciate that, sir.”

“You may call me Ailzea.” the priest, offering a hand, says softly. “If you must honor me, Father Roatus will suffice.”

Once again, the violet blood is silent, for a much shorter stretch this time, before he swallows and accepts the offered hand.

“Thank you, Father. My name is Seifer.”

“Seifer,” he echoes. “What a lovely name.”

Hand in hand, the newcomer almost seems to melt into the embrace as the compliment reaches his ear and causes his drooping fins to perk for just a second. This is a man that has not known kindness in far too many sweeps.

“How may I ease your burdens, Seifer?”

“I don’t know why I am here. I think that I should not have come.”

As the priest leads the soldier to a vacant pew, he takes note of the way his fins fold to sit flat against his face, potentially in a bid to make himself appear smaller or in response to some form of expected abuse. Ailzea has been doing this long enough to know that no amount of words can convey to this poor soul that such abuse will not come, never at these hands, he merely squeezes Seifer’s as they take their seats.

“Well, you are here. Perhaps we can find a conversation to have.”

Seifer takes his hand back and folds both neatly into his lap, choosing to train his gaze on his feet instead of meeting Ailzea’s.

“Or we can sit in silence.”

His fins unfold and twitch a few times as he considers this, until finally he nods in the affirmative.

“Silence it is.”

The silence settles around the pair seamlessly, Seifer’s tail worries itself around his idle hands and his fins come to droop in a veil of sadness around his face. He looks like he must feel pathetic.

True to his word, Ailzea says nothing and instead focuses on the stained glass of the windows high above them. He appreciates the way the moons, now high in the cloudless sky, bathe them in their multicolor light.

It is a good night to unburden a new friend.

More time passes and the church empties of the few patrons that were milling about at the soldier’s arrival. If Ailzea had to guess, some form of community activity drew them away from the pewed room that protected the violet from the outside world. Perhaps these walls could do more to protect him.

Finally his tail uncurls from around his hands and he begins to card listlessly through his hair, then he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

The declaration does not take Ailzea by surprise,it is obvious on his face that he is sorry.

Sorry, pathetic thing.

He wonders who has been taking advantage of him. What can he do for him?

Ailzea says nothing, whatever he has to say may steal the courage away from the poor thing.

“I don’t know how to talk about this,” his fingers torment a lock as he searches for the words. “But they say you’re the one to talk to.”

The priest only nods.

“What if I don’t do it right?” 

He lifts his head up to fix his eyes on the purple blood, and his shoulders shake with his uncertainty. 

“There is no proper way to do any of this. The best you can do is free the worry from your heart. Speak to me, my child.”

Seifer takes a shaky breath, one that forces his shoulders to shake even more. He looks like a leaf about to blow away in a breeze. He balls a hand into a fist around his poor worn out hair.

“I can’t die and it’s a curse that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

His breath hitches and the words fight their way fumbling out of his mouth, protesting the small cage of his chest that they’d been buried in all this time. 

The priest understands immediately what he means to say, no stranger to the odd visitor that struggles with such an affliction.

“Rarely is the one that has such a power the one that benefits from it, I am sorry to hear of this.”

At this response Seifer untangles his hands from his hair and once again coils an anxious tail around the pair, running his finger along its length. Frustration begins to etch its way onto his features, furrowing his brow in a way that only makes him look more exhausted. Tears start to form at the corners of his eyes.

Briefly, something in his eye gives insight to a quick internal struggle. Ailzea has seen this look many times before; Should he say more or stop where he is at? He says nothing to urge him in either direction, he only waits.

Seifer flounders in the silence for a bit, grasping for the words to say around the tail he continues to terrorize. It’s a marvel that he hasn’t worried the fins and skin right off of the poor thing.

“Is someone taking advantage of your curse?” Ailzea asks softly and a miserably sound dies in the soldier’s throat, strangled. 

That is all of the confirmation that he needs. He is no stranger to the cruelty that the fleet is capable of, the terror some of the trolls that now walk his halls used to have to deal with.

He remembers the cyborg he has become acquainted with that helps trolls out of such situations, only a phone call away.

“What sort of support are you looking for, my child?”

Once again, uncertainty etches itself into the poor worn out soldier’s features, it truly makes him look even more sad and pathetic.

Hopeless. He looks downright hopeless and the priest has had quite enough of the hopeless cases plaguing his life right now.

“I just wanted someone to listen.” Seifer squawks, all but pleading with the purple blood to not do anything with the information he has been provided.

“Yes, but,” the Restorer speaks slowly, searching within for the correct words that will not set this new charge of his into a paranoia spiral. Something about him says that some part of him feels he deserves this torture. That won’t stand. “I believe that I know someone that may be able to help me get you out of this situation. Do you suppose you can trust me a little longer?”

Seifer swallows, very quickly a speck of hope shines behind his eyes before he manages to kill the thought.

Why would he be so quick to entertain such an idea, anyway? Then again, his fluttering fins betray that defeatist demeanor.

“Come, please, let us speak somewhere more private.”

The soldier takes a deep breath, nods his head, and stands when the priest stands.