Who: Melisande Desmarais and a random priest When: 1718, two months before this. Where: Huesca, Spain Status: Drabble, complete
The glass did not display any of its usual beauty in the darkness, and it was difficult to make out the outlines of metal framework and even more difficult to see the different colors that, when viewed in unison, made up an image that was breathtaking in the sunlight. Now though the face of Saint Adolphus, and it had taken several minutes for her to see the image, was somber and drawn – not like the optimistic and warm persona that it usually displayed. There were tears rolling down the man’s cheeks, and she felt suddenly sad and very cold. Melisande gathered her coat more tightly around her, the hood nearly covering her eyes in a failed attempt to protect herself from the rain. But there was no point to that – she could not fall ill now. Not now or ever again.
“The angels are crying.”
The voice was soft but startling after such a long silence, and Lise spun around quickly with wide eyes. His own eyes were kind, and his smile gentle, but she was discomforted by his presence and felt guilty without reason for being there. Like a child caught stealing sweets. Her mouth opened once, not sure what to say, before managing feebly, “Pardon me?”
“Rain.” He answered calmly, moving closer to her and touching one crossed arm. “When it rains the angels are crying. Raindrops are their tears.” He was sorry to have frightened her, and had meant no harm. “You have been out here a long time; would you like to come in?”
She blinked at him in surprise before shaking her head very slightly. Parrish had been trying for a month to get her to attend mass with him, but each time she refused. She sold her soul, she abandoned it. She was no better than the devil – one of his creatures. “I do not think I belong here, sir.”
“Everyone belongs here.” He answered firmly before placing one wizened hand on her soaked shoulder and ushering her inside, the grand doors opening to a place of warmth and faith and safety.
Melisande ran her fingers over the ancient wood, and inhaled the musky scent of incense deeply. The chills had ceased, as had her fear of trepidation, and she regretted not coming sooner. In the hard-backed seat with the wood beneath her feet and the candlelight flickering over her features, despite her thoughts, Lise felt like she belonged. She smiled.
“Ah, you made them happy.” He said seriously before sliding in to the pew and sitting down next to her.
Melisande only blinked at him in confusion. “Made who happy, Father?”
He grinned at her and pointed upwards, “The angels. They stopped crying when you smiled.”