Odette de Beaufort (la_duchesse) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2010-06-16 19:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-07-17 |
God Help the Outcasts
Who: Lucian and Odette
Where: Greek Orthodox Church
What: Oh, Lycans being Lycans and werewolves being werewolves.
Odette had taken to wandering about the city after she closed the store - which to this very day still did not have regular business hours. Not that anyone other than an occasional old crone or two dropped in to purchase anything anyway. She walked quietly through the streets, enjoying the silence and the amusement brought about by last night's entertainment. The little wolf had been amusing, but as she still lived, Odette didn't feel quite as accomplished. After about half an hour of walking, Odette paused in front of the rather imposing "holy" structure. She looked up at the cross in front of the church and she felt an almost imperceptible pull to enter. She had stopped believing in God or any sort of divine being after her own so-called fall from grace. And, even if a God did exist, Odette owned him nothing. He had taken from her everything and given her back an irrevocable rejection from heaven.
Nevertheless...Odette walked up to the doors. It was late and the interior seemed quiet. Slipping into the church, she found herself in a layout she wasn't very familiar with. She was French Catholic (or had been) and she could immediately tell this was not quite the same thing. Walking down the middle aisle, it almost felt cliched. She laughed when she saw all the pictures of the saints she had been raised to pretend to remember. For reasons unbeknownst to her, she began to sing an old Latin hymn she had been forced to learn for propriety's sake: "Dies irae, dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla...."
She continued to sing as she knocked over the statue of some saint. "...confutatis maledictis flammis acribus addictis~"
Meanwhile, Lucian was in Eden.
Literally, if one considered the courtyard garden that embraced the altar from the outside as paradise. No, his paradise. The lush garden was entirely his addition, his pet project. When he had inherited the church however many years ago, this very space had been nothing more than a bunch of neglected plastic chairs on a brown lawn. Old Father Sotir would never recognize it now--oh, bless his dead, stubborn soul.
So the priest made it a habit to spend as much time during the precious summer season here to be knee-deep in greenery, because it was as close as he got to those postcards of idyllic, faraway paradises as he would ever get.
Crouched on his knees, Lucian was currently trying to coax a batch of wilted tulips back to life--the recent heat had been particularly murderous on them, with the whole lot of them looking bleached of color and life, like sick little children. And, well, they might as well have been bedridden, given the way he was crooning quietly to them as he poured water over the starched soil. It was at that moment, though, that the distant hum of a voice lifted the trance.
He paused, wiping his hand on the front of his cassock as he pensively stared at the dark, looming stained-glass windows on the west side of the courtyard--then to the back doors to the church that he'd left propped open to let out the sticky heat that had accumulated inside during the day. Who was still in there? The evening matins had ended almost an hour ago; the deacons and bishop were long gone. Or, well, he had thought so. His mouth twisted into a frown.
Christ. If Daniel was moving the icons around on him again--
Grunting, Lucian staggered to his feet. He maneuvered effortlessly through the dim twilight, climbing the stairs to the open sacristy, which opened into the dark altar room. Passing the stand--the dishes and candles had all been carefully arranged for the next day's service--the priest touched the great doors of the iconostasis just as the tinkle of breaking porcelain erupted from behind them.
He silently nudged open the door a sliver to see the figure of a woman walking away from the iconostasis--and have his nostrils immediately assaulted by something rotten. Amongst the lingering smell of rich amber incense and musty air, there was something dead in here. Very dead. And not the fresh, perfumed, carefully preserved chemical smell which followed every funeral procession that came through these hallowed halls, but something else. Stale, dust, decay. Old death.
And that? was weird.
Something about that smell made his hackles shiver, but as he stared a bit blankly at the back of the woman's head for a brief second, logic timidly shuffled in. Okay, yeah. No need to panic. Given the humidity today, anyone would smell a little off--to him, anyway. Following this sort of damp and humid weather, he himself always smelled suspiciously like wet dog.
Right.
Resisting the urge to cover his nose, Lucian dropped his gaze to the statue of St. Dismas lying pitifully at his feet, his little china head exploded into equally tiny pieces. His eyebrows furrowed into a knot. All the questions running through his mind--like, most importantly, who exactly was this woman?--were shooed away. Christ! he scowled silently, biting back the irritation boiling up on his tongue. Fifth time this fucking year, swear to God. And the fifth fucking time I'll probably get stuck gluing it back together--
"Egh," was all he managed, out loud.
Odette had moved away from the front of the room and was now looking at the paintings on the wall when she smelled him too. She had dug her nails into the pew seats and scratched what she could. Her head tilted as the smell of, well, wet dog assaulted her nostrils. She scowled and turned around. The town was just overflowing with them, wasn't it? First the little girl the night before and now...this. Whatever this was. She scanned the room quickly and her eyes found him. A priest.
"Well, that is a surprise," she whispered to herself, fully aware that the monstrosity could probably hear her. What, with their hearing and all. A priest that smelled of dog. A priest that smelled of filth. A priest that...well, did not deserve to be a priest, in Odette's opinion. Taking a rather predatory stance, she began walking along a wide enough circumference around the priest so she could get a better look.
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and gave him the benefit of a full smile, fangs and all. "Good evening, father," the word dripped with sarcasm. "I 'ope I 'ave not disturbed anything," she said, letting her French accent color her words as she continued to walk...no, stalk...around him.
Lucian had just crouched down to retrieve the headless icon and had begun to pluck the miniscule bits of the saint's head when his attention turned to the scrabbling of nails against wood. Hey. Hey. For a brief moment, a hint of a snarl tugged at his lips. As much as he disliked them, those pews--like everything else in this church--were very much his. Hell, she might has well just taken a marker and scribbled her name all over them. It was probably a mere, miniscule mark to the untrained eye, but well. He knew it was there. And that fact alone would bother him to no end.
Hand on one knee, the priest cautiously rose, unwavering stare from beneath those heavy eyebrows following her as she circled him like a fox 'round a chicken coop. Try as he might to ignore the inherent negative bias toward her ilk, there was no mistaking that hungry prowl. Bit of a stupid plan though, he mused, announcing the dinner plans to who was scheduled to be on the menu. Yeah, no. No, something wasn't quite right here...
Instinct blundered back in, punting logic across the room. Lucian squinted slightly at the lady--no, vampire. Definitely. Funny, there was something unmistakably familiar about her, yet he wasn't sure what. The smell of death was far too overwhelming, masking any subtleties her scent might have. Nose wrinkled in distaste and bubbling anger, he returned the flash of fangs with a grin of his own--one made up of all teeth, and no humor.
"Ech," he uttered what sounded somewhere between uncomfortable laughter and irritably clearing his throat, "in fact, you have. Explain to me this." The priest waved the headless tabletop icon at the woman as he continued in a level tone, words thick with accent, "Do you types normally run around and deface holy grounds? No?" So he hadn't really seen her break it, but statues didn't go around knocking themselves over, now did they?
Setting the icon back on its stand, Lucian folded his arms with a subtle squaring of his shoulders, feet planted into the tile beneath them--unmistakably aggressive. His arms quite obviously framed the silvery pendant resting against his chest, rising and falling with his slow, steady breath. "No, no. Didn't really think it your style," the priest added, a bit absently.
Odette was wondering if the other one couldn't speak when all he did was make throaty noises. But when he finally did, she smiled again and shrugged. "Doesn't the saying go...thou shall not make for yourselves an idol, father? What zat figure represented was idolatry," she made tsk-ing noises with her tongue as she continued to walk around him. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her right ear, she looked away from Lucian for the briefest moment and looked at the headless statue. "I zink eet is an eemprovement," her accent getting a little thicker.
Odette smiled again as she stopped directly in front of him and started walking towards him instead of around him. "Oh, father. Forgive me for I 'ave sinned. It 'as been trois cent ans since my last confession...but before I confess all my sins to you..." she raised a hand and gestured towards his face, his fangs and then pointed at him from head to foot. "Explain to me this. I imagine zere is no place for a monster een God's 'oly place."
Ooh, that struck a nerve.
The priest's expression suddenly went stony, cold. Despite her getting all up in his space, he remained exactly where he was, completely immovable. Even without a layer of fur, he seemed fluffed, all drawn up to his full height. Which was terribly unimpressive compared to her; he maybe had an inch or two on her. Nostrils flared... and then immediately wrinkled up again. Good Lord, that smell was awful. He struggled not to break out into a fit of coughing.
Glaring at her through narrowed (and slightly watery) eyes, Lucian forced up another humorless smile. "No," he began slowly, deliberately, biting back the fury clawing at the tip of his tongue. "No, I will not. I owe you," he said it was particular rancor, jabbing an accusing finger at the vampire, "no explanations. It is you who has insulted me and sullied my church with your foulness. And now you demand explanations! Just who the hell do you think you are?" That question was, at least, somewhat rhetorical. Who she was, he did not know (nor did he really care), but what she was, well... he had a pretty good idea now. She'd kind of given that one away.
Aforementioned idea unsettled him, somewhere inside. Lucian hadn't seen any of her kind since, well, since he'd last visited the motherland. That was, traditionally, their stomping grounds. But if she was here? Well... they weren't known for traveling alone.
With all that teeth showing, his smile was maybe better described as a snarl. If her hand got any closer to him, Lucian seemed poised to bite it clean off. "Get out."
Despite the almost imperceptible twitch to leave as he asked her to, Odette managed to stand her ground. It wasn't his home and she told him so. "Ah, but mon cher, we are just starting to 'ave our fun...and ze rules do not work like zat~ We are in ze Savior's home and not yours...je suis tres desolee~," she said in mock despair, pressing one pale hand against her chest dramatically.
She paused about four feet away from him - not quite reaching distance, but close enough to be causing discomfort in any werewolf or Lycan. Dipping into a formal curtsy, she mocked the little priest and preened as she introduced herself. "Where are my manners? Je suis Odette de Montmorency de Beaufort, duchesse de Beaufort. Enchantee, mon cher. Et vous? Comment s'appellez-vous?" she teased lightly, batting her eyelashes at the priest. "Ah, and pardonnez, I am also a Lycan...ze proper kind."
She gave him the full benefit of a fanged smile.
That angry smile-snarl of his didn't waver. Behind it, one could practically see how much Lucian was fighting his tongue. "Yes, yes, foarte drăguţ," he replied, tersely, through clenched teeth. And then his irritation suddenly hit a critical level of--oh, whatever.
Something seemed to snap in his expression; his snarl loosened dramatically. All right, fine. If she wanted to play games? So would he. Let it be known, though, that he did not take kindly to losing.
Abruptly, the priest turned on the edge of his heeled boots. He began climbing the stairs to the iconostasis, effortlessly flinging the gates open with a good shove. Pushing up the sleeves of his cassock to his elbows, Lucian approached the altar in the center of it all as he spoke, "The proper one? Do you really believe that, eh... whatever you are called." He figured there was an introduction somewhere in there, but hey--he didn't know French.
An amused smile slipped across his lips. "What you should know," he said slowly, "is that you are very mistaken." From beneath the altar, Lucian withdrew a small basket, covered by cloth. As he would reveal, under the aforementioned cloth was a bulbous loaf of bread. "Eh, see? Freshly baked this afternoon. My deacons make it for the eucharist tomorrow. They do a good job. Tell me," he murmured--it was almost a growl, given the combination of his deep voice and guttural accent--eyes flicking up to the vampress as he pried a chunk of crust off the loaf, "what does this taste like to you? Dust? Decay? Death? I'm curious. Do you even remember what bread tastes like anymore?" Without waiting for an answer, he popped the bit of bread into his mouth. "Strange, 'cause we are, eh, brethren, as you say it--but this tastes just fine to me." Chew, chew. "Ah. S'perfect." Just to rub it in.
"So I might be a monster," the priest added, still chewing thoughtfully as he leaned his elbows against the table, "but at least I'm not a mutt. One who smells like hundred-year-old mold, I might add." Oh yeah. He went there. There was something unpredictable, something dangerous about that look in his eyes. "I mean, I still have a pulse! Like any real wolf. I'm not the one running on broken parts and borrowed time. How's that for proper, eh?" A brief pause. "My, oh my. Now what's this?"
Eyebrows lifted in mock surprise, Lucian touched a hand to his chest. "I think," he said thoughtfully, "wow. I think I may actually feel sorry for you. Oh, yes. I can just feel the pity in here. I mean this." It was his turn to flash a fanged grin in her direction, eyes squinting in mirth. "From the very bottom of my bleedin' heart."
There was something people said about people that could dish it out but couldn't take it. Odette was, in all ways, exactly like that. The teasing smile fell from her face to be replaced by something dark and hideous. While her face didn't really change, it lost a significant amount of its charming beauty and revealed something a lot more feral underneath her skin. By no means was she even remotely pissed off enough to shift into her hybrid form but she was angry enough to tear out a throat or two - preferably were and preferably Eastern Orthodox. Her fingers clenched angrily as she half growled in response to his slights at her.
"I would never consider myself even remotely related to you," she growled at him, exaggerated French accent slipping away and replaced by the non-accent she had acquired over the centuries. "You are beneath us, little halflings...dogs and insults to our wolves. My time is far from borrowed, little priestling. I have the eternity waiting for me while you grow old and die. Don't for one second even think that God - if He even exists - allows the likes of you into his Kingdom. Abomination," she spat every word out with venom as she took the distance between them at a half-run.
"I don't want your fucking pity, dog," she raged as she lunged at him, fingers poised to grab his throat and dig her nails into the skin until he joined his nonexistent Maker. "I don't need bread when I can drain you dry." We'll see who is laughing then.
In a vague notion, Lucian could sense the fight coming on. There was that flexing of fingers. The snarl. He had to imagine that he would've heard her heartrate quicken, had she still had one. But by the time he could even begin to react, the priest realized he'd inadvertently backed himself into a corner--stuck between the thick slab of marble that served as the altar and a wall, flanked with aged, wooden cabinets and a sideboard.
Between then and the contact with some very sharp fingernails, there was a moment where Lucian briefly reflected on what a stupid mistake that had been. Man, he just had to be standing on the one side of the sanctuary that had a cabinet, didn't he?
"Shit."
So, crashing into the side of the great oak cupboards he did, which in turn belched candlesticks and books and various churchly ephemera out of its doors. The sharp wooden corners of the sideboard jabbed into his back, shooting all sorts of tingling, numbing pain up and down his spine. Metal dishes pinged and clattered across the tabletop and tile. Something glass shattered at his feet.
Even with what felt like little daggers being sunk into the flesh of his neck--Christ, did she sharpen them or something!?--Lucian simply refused to give up the fight, squirming beneath her grip. He glared darkly at the vampire hovering over him--through eyelids squinted up in pain, but still. He had sanctuary to uphold and defend, goddamnit. His teeth were bared; he hissed and spat and snarled. Or tried to, anyway. It was hard to sound scary and threatening when he could barely get a breath in edgewise.
One hand latched itself around one of her wrists, clawing and fecklessly, desperately trying to free his neck. The other had a much better plan, though. Scrabbling blindly behind him for a moment, his fingers sought out the first heavy object they could find--which happened to be a bottle of communion wine hanging out of one cupboard. That'd work. No time to be picky. Things were starting to get a bit fuzzy around the edges of his vision.
Gripping it by the neck and gathering his strength, Lucian brought the bottle up, around, and then slamming down in one fast, fluid motion, trajectory aimed squarely at the side of her face. He always aimed for the face. Practically instinct. It'd worked a hundred times before.
Despite all the torturing and maiming she'd done over the centuries, Odette still remained more of a brawler than someone with actual technique. Sure, she'd invented interesting methods of torture - silver nets still being her favorite - but actual hand-to-hand combat was still more flailing and scratching than anything else. She hissed and snapped at Lucian, baring her fangs. Digging her nails even further into his throat, she laughed maniacally. "Where's your God now, dog?" she teased.
She could feel herself hurting somewhere but that was only secondary to the pulsating flesh underneath her fingers. Somewhere deep inside of her, there was slight concern for the expensive dress she was wearing but on the back of getting rid of a pestilence, she'd survive. Using her free hand to tilt his head back a little bit, she opened her mouth to bleed him dry. "Enjoy your fucking bread in--" She saw it coming. Really, she did.
The blow hit her harder than anticipated, what with the preternatural strength of a werewolf behind it. The glass shattered against her face, drenching her in blood-colored wine. She released his neck as she reeled from the smack, and her fingers instinctively ran up to her face, which was sticky with tepid liquid and warm blood. She screamed at him angrily. The wound would heal, as any fool with even the most meager knowledge of vampires knew but it was the indignation at being hit that upset her more than any actual lasting effect. "Merde," she muttered as she fought to refocus.
Legs still prickling with nerve-pinched pain, Lucian slid to the floor when released, coughing and sputtering for his breath. His lungs were pissed at him, echoing with the ache he felt in his back in retaliation. Oh, sweet, wonderful air! He was sorry, he truly was; he promised he would never abandon breathing again. One hand instinctively clasped over the side of his neck--she'd dug in far enough to draw blood, which was rolling down his neck and staining the ivory lining of his collar with angry little shapes of red.
But now that there was actual oxygen running back to his brain, he was able to think and therefore, realize that he was absolutely livid. Enough that the tiny rational part of his mind was beginning to freak out, utterly overwhelmed by the flood of emotion that came in with the oxygen tide. The priest found his thoughts dominated by things like how much he was suddenly craving--needing a shift. Afterall, he had inherent weapons on that side of the fence that he didn't get to use with this weak human thing hanging on. And, buried under his buckling, addled sense of morality, Lord knew how much he wanted to use those tools to see this creature destroyed for such disrespect to his sanctuary. Violently, even. Painfully.
Somewhere--wherever it was cowering inside of his skull--his humanity shuddered in loathing fear of itself.
Well... so much for thinking. That got him utterly nowhere. Lucian seemed to snap into focus again when the vampire's bitter screeching grated across his ears. His next move was not so carefully planned as it was purely fury-fueled impulse: as he roared back at her--apparently Lucianese for shut up--the priest clumsily launched himself forward, throwing his weight at her legs, sighted to take her down in one fell swoop.
One moment she was wiping the blood out of her eyes and the next moment she was practically in mid-air. Odette screeched again in the split second between the realization that she was being tackled to the ground and the moment the back of her head met the cold, hard floor. The wind went out of her at the impact and despite the lack of need to breathe on her end, she was stunned. Her entire body spasmed and convulsed from the impact before she rose as far off the ground as she could and reached down, grabbing at the priest's hair. Dirty and crude, she realized, but she was far from being in a capacity to be methodical and devious.
The desire to shift and end the werewolf right here and right now was overwhelming. Odette had never been one for the quick kill, preferring slow and meaningful methods of torture. Nevertheless, this particular werewolf was getting on her last nerve. On the other hand, however, she was still in one of her favorite dresses and she was loathe to destroy it any further than it already had been. Odette tried to raise her leg, pushing against Lucian's weight, moving to throw him off. He was heavy, though, and was pinning her quite well.
The priest really, really hadn't thought this through, but it was somehow working. With a certain, jerky restraint to his movements, Lucian jabbed the flat of one palm at the area where her collarbones met, hoping that his bulk alone would be enough to keep her pinned down. It wasn't nearly a hard enough blow to even bruise anything--she had him fighting against the pull on his thick mess of hair and the push of her knee against his ribs.
Said effort rewarded him with shortened breath and every nerve on his scalp screaming at him to stop dear god stop it, but come on, he was actually getting somewhere with this. King of the motherfucking hill, right here. So long as she didn't kick anything important, it didn't seem likely he'd give up his spot over her--to him, domination meant winning.
And why he ever doubted his intuition, he didn't know.
In a brief (and rare) moment of foresight, his free hand grappled against her push and pull to grip her by the forehead, where his fingers would dig carelessly into that fresh wound of hers. It'd keep her down and from making any snaps at his neck again, the priest figured. Lucian focused his smoldering glare on the vampire, glassy eyes boring into hers as he brought himself face-to-face, the tip of his nose perhaps an inch away from hers. A feral, guttural growl echoed out from the back of his throat--no longer issuing just a warning, but now a threat.
"You--will leave," the priest hissed through gritted teeth, breathless. Beneath his fierce mask, there was a battle for self-control raging on: him versus the wolf. "Now." And he was clearly losing.
Odette thrashed as well she could but despite her natural strength, Lucian had the upper hand. She had already pulled out a significant amount of hair from his head and she did not know how long it took a werewolf to recover hair but she hoped it stayed there for a long time. Releasing his hair, she reared back and slapped him across the face, nails digging into the soft skin of his cheek. She hoped she tore his face off, but with nails instead of claws, she wouldn't count on it.
The white-hot pain came out of nowhere as dirty fingers dug into the deep gash on her forehead. She didn't even have time to think or scream. All there was was the pain in her forehead blinding her. In what seemed like an eternity, her voice finally erupted from her throat as she screamed the scream to end all screams. The sound that escaped her lips was half-human and half-animal: a growl, a howl and a scream in one exclamation of pain.
Her hand immediately reached up to remove whatever was trying to touch her brain. The rest of her focused her energy into trying to throw the priest off of her. She would never agree to his terms. If she was going to leave, it was because she decided to and not because a dog ordered her to. But, first, she had to get aforementioned dog off of her before she could even pretend to make a dignified exit.
There was a hiss and then a pause, where the sudden slap to the face twisted Lucian's head to one side, enough to briefly flash the fresh welts she had just scraped across his face that would soon bleed and sting--yep, yep. There it was. A venomous ache seared across his cheek and forehead.
That? That was it. He was done. The priest had enough of this. If it meant breaking this mutt in two, then so be it--he wanted her out of his fucking face, fucking now. Lucian whipped his head forward again with a bellowing roar and a fierce display of teeth--only fair warning. His teeth were this close to biting her nose off and only stopped short because his equally short neck couldn't reach. Yet. Give him a second and he would be in perfect range.
Idiot, the human half of him thought, bitterly. Was she trying to force his hand?
Busy grappling furiously for that very chance, the sudden force that was focused on moving him away and not closer rather took him by surprise. Lucian had been entirely reliant on his relative size compared to her to keep her down; he didn't exactly have a grip on her, so the great shove sent him aside and tumbling backward across the sanctuary, straight into that nearby slab of marble he used as an altar. His altar. The priest had been the one who picked it out, and it was a decision he instantly regretted. Lord, he knew he should've gotten the wooden one. But nooo, he had to go all traditional.
His body made a rather complicated noise that sounded like a large, structured sack of flour being thrown ribs-first against a wall, followed by the sound of his skull smacking against stone. And with the subsequent painful howl went the wind in his lungs--and maybe some of the fight. The fury contorting his face seemed to shrink as he slumped forward, lungs caught in a hysterical spasm for air. Again. Tiring, this was.
Still, that blow didn't mean he had thrown down his guard entirely. It simply startled some of the humanity back into him. A hint of control stepped back in to remind him he was only fighting for self-preservation here. (But she started it! his conscience screamed back, goaded on by the salty, acrid scent of blood on his hands. So here, I'll end it.) But he was better than that. Better than this ...thing that picked a fight with him. He knew this. Somewhere. Okay? Okay. Think. Breathe. ...well, try to, anyway.
Through an one-eyed squint, Lucian kept his eye trained on the fallen vampire as he scrabbled for his breath he'd dropped. If she moved even an inch in his direction, he seemed poised to make a move of his own--although he wasn't entirely sure what kind of move that would be right now.
Odette rolled away and got to her feet quickly. She wasn't going to win this one, she just felt it. He was heavier and larger and she had nothing on her side that would help her win. And her clothes were ruined, at that. She wiped the blood from the side of her face and sneered at the fallen werewolf. "I never should have bothered to begin with," she snarled. "Now, look, you've ruined my very expensive coat," she told him, the humanity returning to her voice. She smoothed her hair back, which earned a wince from her as the sticky tendrils moved away from her fresh wound.
She smiled at him widely, the charming one she had used when she was alive - and even after she had died - and curtsied politely. "I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, dog, but I cannot. I hope we never have to meet again...or they will be in less favorable circumstances." She had no intention of ever visiting the church again - and if she did, she was bringing some silver. There would be no games next time. She blew the priest a kiss before walking down the aisle towards the warm summer night. She'd need to feed before she went to bed if she wanted to heal properly in the morning. Surely there would be some unwitting fool in the park tonight.
"Christ!" Lucian swore, bitterly. "Jus' fuck off already." The fallen priest glowered at the retreating vampire from his spot on the floor. Reducing his voice to cursing under his breath, he spat onto the tile--his saliva was tinted red. Tasted acrid. He winced. Ngh, had he bitten his tongue? God damn it.
He brought his arm to his burning, prickling face, rubbing the nominal amount of blood onto his sleeve. It would all heal, sure--not as fast as that piece of work he'd done to her face, he knew--but it would still sting until then, and in more ways than one. Anyway, he didn't understand why she still bothered with the thinly-veiled courtesy--wasn't like she was fooling him anymore. And he sure as hell wasn't going to pay her back with the same respects.
When he was certain the thing was gone--and furthermore, not coming back--Lucian hauled himself to his feet. It took quite a dramatic effort. Sure, he was unassumingly strong, but not necessarily tough. He was far too old to get thrown around like this and had never been terribly limber in the first place, anyway. The priest spent a good few moments leaning heavily against the altar while the sharp pain coursing up and down his back subsided to something more bearable, fingers woven into his hair and palms pressed against his sore scalp. His face buried against his wrists. Finding his breath. Finding his focus. ... well, okay, maybe not so much the last one, since he wasted most of his precious air on a slew of swearing that would've made even the saltiest of sailors pale.
Though, in the midsts of all his fuming, something... something was bothering him. Waving, flagging him down from the back of his mind. As he carefully (carefully) kneeled down to pick up fragments of glass and snapped candlesticks from the floor of the sanctuary, Lucian vaguely wished he'd run into that Lycaon outside of his robes. In any other setting, he figured his near future would've felt far less ...threatened. Trusting his most heavily-guarded secret with other weres was one thing--it was sort of inevitable, anyway--but trusting his natural enemy with it was another thing all together. ... he wondered briefly if he should be worried about that.
Egh. What had he done to deserve this, anyway?
In a fit of self-pity, Lucian decided he desperately needed a drink or maybe five. Yeah. Clean up the mess here, clean up his mess at a bar. Good idea. The best idea. Always the best idea.