Re: The Priest's Hole: Jules & Ford
Jules knew all about other churches and other ways. He'd been lucky, and he knew that too, protected for most of his life despite being something that was, in the eyes of God Fearing Men, wrong. But he'd found sanctuary, his own Notre Dame on craggy rocks and lichen green. Him, Quasimodo, and pretty eyes instead of a hump. It was the outside world that broke bones and shattered dreams. Beneath wimples and hassocks, there had been safety, and Sunday sermons were always kind, and liturgical singing came on Fridays, and it was always beautiful.
The boy chuckled. Sound, and Jules had begun to wonder if he had any. It happened, silence, and mummers spoke in pantomime for a reason. But there was sound from the boy's throat. A chuckle that was sturdy as the shoulders and sloppy brown hair slouched out before him in stupor. He wondered if there was more there - words to accompany the rest - but he didn't press yet. Patience was a thing learned by church bells, and there was silence in stone walls and sacristy. Unhurried, and Jules was the picture of it, sitting there and watching the boy.
Fish swimming. Jules tipped his head in a fountain of white-blond, and he tried for context. "Pysg?" Fish. But that wasn't right, and a smile lit pale features a moment later. "Ah, yes. Wales. We're part of the United Kingdom, but we like to think we're our own place. No H, ychydig un."