God-Damn

A short note: While this story is placed in the NonConsent/Reluctance category (and there ARE elements of it, especially near the end, it also refers to the male-side perspective of faith-based reluctance), please note that that tag is mostly to be safe for readers affected by that material. It also contains Religion TW, Blasphemy TW, and a bit of light BDSM; if any of those might affect you, please be forewarned. Thank you, The Gardener.

The priest could not understand what it was that caused his eyes to follow the blonde woman as she made her way across the church lawn. She did not make her way toward the church, as the rest of his large congregation did; she was busy staring up into the branches of the tall alder trees which created a border between the church grounds and the dirt road beyond.

She was not quite graceful, he thought--it was too human a word for her. She moved the way that a stalk of wheat moved, when it was touched by the wind. She moved the same way that the shadows on the ground moved, cast by the dappled, rippling shadows of the alder leaves. She moved like the reflection of a woman seen in shallow, clear water, rather than the woman herself. Suddenly it seemed to the priest that he was not witnessing a woman at all, but rather the silhouette of a figure; she turned in the rays of light that fell through the long branches, and looked for a moment as though the light passed right through her, making her no more than a trick of the light and shadows.

She turned her face upward, and the light that moved through her hair made it look as though she were wearing the golden-white glow of a votive- candle flame around her shoulders. He could not quite make out the expression on her face, from his distance; he thought that she might be smiling. Something about the expression tightened a knot of resentment in his stomach.

"Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of the old man, and fear thy God. For he says: I am the Lord."

He did not even realize that he had been speaking quietly to himself until he saw the startled faces of the partitioners passing by him. He blinked, smiling and nodding, taking hands with those who walked passed him and into the wide doorway. He did not know he felt hate, because he could not see his own expression in the exact moment that his eyes returned to the figure beneath the trees. He did not realize that, for an instant, he was jealous of the way that the light touched the brown curve of the woman's shawl or the white breasts of her blouse beneath it; of the way that the gentle wind moved her light skirt around her legs, or how her bare feet touched the wild spring grass.

"And the elders of the town trembled at his coming," the man's voice was a barely audible whisper, "and said, Comest thou peaceably? And he said Peaceably: I am come to sacrifice unto the Lord: sanctify yourselves, and come with me to the sacrifice."

At that moment, as the final word left his barely parted lips, the woman turned and stared at him. The man felt his lips remain open, but he was no longer breathing. Whatever he might have said next died on his tongue. He saw the curve of two dark, laughing eyes above the gentle curves of the womans' cheeks; he saw the long bridge of her nose, touched on one side by the mottled light from above; he saw the blonde swell of hair that fell around her neck and shoulders, and the slight darkening as it reached her roots. He watched the sway of her step as she made her way across the church lawn toward him--not toward the church, he thought for a moment, but toward him.

Her shoulders were drawn back in a way of such easy, natural confidence that he knew she did not hold herself this way for the eye of anybody else, but because it pleased her body to move so. A few more people passed by him and through the doors of the church, unnoticed, as he watched the woman approach. She kept one hand in the pocket of her skirt, turned down slightly. He could see the shape of her hips, beneath the off-beige fabric; see how the bare contour of her ankle led upward beneath it and hinted at the impression of long, angular legs. She carried her shoes in her other hand, he noticed. The man forced his eyes to remain on the woman's face as she drew close, slipping her hidden hand from her pocket and leaning against the black fence rail at the bottom of the church steps.

Somehow, it was the wrong decision. He could see, now, how the light played against the dark brown of her eyes--eyes that seemed to be laughing at him. That seemed to know where his eyes wished to go, and instead of being embarrassed by this, boasted of it. Her shoulders turned back slightly further, the shape of a leg standing out beneath the creases of her skirt as she leaned against the banister, one foot raised to the bottom step of the church.

"Why do you always look at me that way, Father Istam?"

"What way is that?" He replied--he could not hear the anger in his own voice.

"Like my being here," she indicated the church behind him with her hands, "in this place, hurts you. Like when you look at me, you take my presence as a personal insult."

Because it does. Because it is.

He looked into her eyes, and he could not bring himself to say either of these things. Because you're not afraid, a voice whispered inside of him. Because as he looked into the young woman's dark eyes, he knew that she had never been afraid of anything the way that he was afraid. No good Christian girl had ever had eyes like that--or walked the way that she walked. Nobody who knew the fear of God, as he did, could smile the way that he saw her smiling at him; as though she knew a secret which he had failed to grasp. The way she held herself was so effortless, as though she had never known the weight of shame.

It made him want to see her trembling, he thought. It made him want to see her beg.

"Go humbly before thy God, Miss Sjogren." He replied, instead of answering.

From below him, the young woman's eyes seemed to shine; almost as if they had gathered in the morning light and now held it, trapped, behind the dark circles of her eyes. She laughed, then. A sound of such simple, quivering gaity that it clenched a hand of resentment around his heart. She was not laughing at him, he knew--and yet...

"Your God, Father Istam." Not mine, the small lines at the corner of her mouth seemed to say. I have never believed in Hell.

Her laughter chased him into the church.

Ettea Sjogren sat at the back of the large building, her body appearing to sprawl between the pews even as she sat straight and attentive. Her younger sister, Astred, sat beside her holding her newborn son in her arms and rocking gently. Her older sister, Klara, sat on her other side between Ettea and her parents. At the age of sixteen, Ettea had decided firmly that she was not a Catholic--something which dismayed her parents, but which came as no surprise. For a couple of weeks she had stopped going to church, opting instead to walk through the woods and enjoy a few hours of peace. But she had seen the slightly hurt look in her mother's eyes when she had returned home, during those few weeks. And so, she now sat between her sisters on the pew, choosing to study the young man at the front of the church rather than listen to his words.

He was young, she thought, to be a priest. She had always thought that preachers were men past their middle age--with receding hair and voices like dry reads. This is how the priest before him had been, and the one before that. He was different. The young man--Father, she thought, trying and failing to hide her smile at the title--had appeared in Durrey two months previously, after the retiring of Father Bensome. His brown hair had been shaved on the sides so that it was little more than stubble, and what remained on top was cut close, parting slightly closer to the left side of his head.

He had a good, strong face for a young man. His chin was smooth and round, his ears flat against the sides of his head, and his cheeks squared between them. The collar of his black cassock showed a hint of white as he lifted his chin to the congregation. She could tell that he was speaking, because his mouth was open and the knot of his larynxe--Adam's apple, she knew it was called--pressed out and down as he spoke. He had a voice that was made for the church, she thought. Despite, or perhaps because of, his age, he had a voice that rolled through the pews and against the wooden walls in a way that the previous mens' had not. He was reciting, she could hear--but she was not paying his voice any attention. Instead she watched his hands as they opened on either side of his body, fingers spread. They were good hands, she thought. A little bit soft, but large and demonstrative.

It almost made her feel bad about the way he reacted to her.

Though, she thought, it wasn't entirely her fault. At first, she had done nothing to make the young man dislike her--and since then, it had been nothing more than a few words of gentle teasing. And yet, just the sight of her seemed to make the young man angry. Not just the flitting irritation of somebody who was annoyed by her presence--something deeper; a kind of burning incense behind the man's eyes. Ettea had always been popular in a quiet, agreeable way; the kind of girl who was everybodys' friend while not being the closest to anyone.

Never before had she had a person react to her the way that the young man did. If she was being honest, it fascinated her. She enjoyed watching the way his face darkened when she came into view; how his eyes lingered on her when he thought that she couldn't see it, the way that his constant smile--which he wore for each member of the congregation as he greeted them every Sunday--faltered when she approached the church. It didn't have anything to do with her turning away from God, she thought. It likely didn't help, but it was not the reason. The reason was something that she could not discern, or even catch the slightest hint of.

Around her, heads lowered as the recital of prayer began. She could hear Father Istam's voice, growing slightly louder even as it lowered, resonating against the wooden walls and the painted-glass windows. Beside her, she could hear her sister's soft voices as they bowed their heads, speaking to the floor beneath them. Ettea did not lower her head. She stared forward--straight into the eyes of the young man looking back at her. He did not pause his prayer as their eyes met; hers' faintly amused, his wrathful.

That's what it felt like, she realized suddenly. The young man looked at her with an expression that she had only ever heard about in verse; the kind of wrath that was reserved for the Old Testament.

Ettea had never been ashamed of her sexuality. When she was seventeen, she had stopped looking in the mirror and being surprised by the fact that she had grown into a womans' body; she liked the sturdiness of her hips and the firmness to her neck and shoulders. Her breasts were large, and when paired with the curves of her cheeks gave her body a strong sense of subtle roundness. She slept with her first boy on the Christmas after she had turned seventeen; a boyfriend of a year, whom she had broken up with shortly after but remained friends with. She had slept with only one other boy since, and this fact neither pleased nor embarrassed her. She flirted gently, and enjoyed the way that boys--now young men--became unnerved when she turned her dark eyes on them.

She had sometimes been referred to as teasing, but never promiscuous. And yet, as she stared at the young man's eyes over the bowed heads between them, she could hear the words clearly. Old words, which hadn't been used in centuries--Jezebel, harlot, loose woman. She didn't know whether the words came from his steady, angry eyes, or from inside of herself, but she threw them back against his face anyways. She allowed the smile that touched her pink lips to be deep, suggestive, meaningful. She knew that the effect was perfect, because the young man's voice faltered ever so slightly in the middle of Bethlehem, and two ruddy spots appeared in the middle of his cheeks. It was not a blush, she thought--they were the dark maroon of anger. Strangely, it made his face appear healthier and more alive than she had seen it before.

She wanted to throw back her head and laugh, but the church around her was silent except for the young man's continuing voice and the hushed whispers of the congregation. She settled for turning her head down--almost mockingly--and closing her eyes in the appearance of prayer. Strangely, this caused the young man's voice to falter once more, at the end of the name David.

Thirty minutes later, the service ended. People milled about in the pews of the church, chatting amongst themselves and exchanging a few baked goods. Ettea chatted quietly with Johan, her first boyfriend, and laughed gently as he told her about trying to recover a heifer who had escaped from their farm that Tuesday. It had led him on a merry chase down two roads and very nearly into the community garden before he managed to get a rope around it and lead it back home.

As they spoke, Ettea could feel Istam's eyes on her back; not constantly, but touching her each time there was a break between his own conversations. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her skirt, pulling it forward slightly so that the outline of her legs and bum would be faintly visible through the fabric--if somebody was looking carefully. She felt the young man's eyes disappear from her back, and she laughed--luckily, it fit the conversation that she was having and she didn't need to explain it.

A couple of minutes later, she said her goodbyes and left the church a few steps behind her family. As they began the long walk home, Ettea reached out and placed her hand gently on her mother's arm. The older woman turned to her, her stare inquisitive.

"I'm going to take a short walk in the forest," Ettea said, "I'll meet you guys back at home."

"Okay dear," her mother pressed her lips to Ettea's cheek briefly, brushing a kiss across her skin, "be safe. And Ettea... thank you for coming with us."

"Any time," she gave the rest of her family a small wave and they returned it as she turned away across the church lawn, heading for the dirt road that ran parallel to the property.

She walked slowly, shifting her shawl back over her shoulders and enjoying the way that the warm, slightly muted sunlight fell against her skin. It had been a cold, wet spring until the week previously--the air still carried a slightly hint of dampness, the sunlight still holding on to a trace of grey in the light golden rays. The ground under her feet was soft, until she reached the edge of the dirt road. She waved to Johan and his family as they crossed the road in front of her, receiving friendly waves and nods in return. Following the road, which was really little more than a dirt pathway, she walked passed the church and the handful of houses that separated it from the woods.

As she entered the trees, she felt the slight breeze fade. The only thing to tell her that it still blew was the quiet rustling of the leaves overhead. The trees were a mixture of birch, old oak, aspen and spotted alder. They hadn't been cut in many years, and towered into air overhead, blocking out much of the sky. The light that fell through their leaves carried a shifting, subdued golden-green quality.

Ettea breathed deeply as she walked, letting her eyes wander where they would between the thick trunks. Under her feet, the path thinned further, until it was little more than a line of dirt winding between the round base of the trees. Her bare feet padded on the dirt, feeling the occasional papery thinness of leaves against her soles. She carried her shoes in her hand, dangling from the tips of two curled fingers. The path split many times, almost like a thin, dusty river; she followed the main path for awhile, and then turned right to go further into the woods. After close to an hour, she turned down a pathway that she knew would lead her back toward the church.

She heard him, before she saw him. His feet beat on the dirt as he came toward her, and as she turned the corner around a particularly large oak tree, she could see him moving down the path toward her. He had traded his cassock for a pair of brown pants and a high-necked and long- sleeved burgundy shirt. There was nothing left to say that the man was a priest. He looked more like the handsome son of a librarian than a preacher. When he saw her, his eyes widened ever so slightly, a hint of sunlight touching their sandy brown surfaces. They were separated by the space of about twenty steps.

He turned without a word.

"Wait!" Ettea called, hurrying forward and only slowing when she realized that the young man had, in fact, listened to her. He turned back over his shoulder as she approached, her footsteps slowing as she drew abreast of the young man.

"Tell me something," her voice was curious, "why do you not like me?"

"Who says I don't like you?" The man's voice answered calmly; despite his tone, his eyes burned as they stared at her over the curve of his shoulder. He was a few inches taller than she was, and Ettea found herself having to raise her chin slightly to meet his eyes.

"Your face says it," she responded quickly, "Every time you look at me, I can see it on your face. I want to know--why?"

"Because you're too clean--" the young man's voice stopped suddenly, and even he looked surprised by the words. Ettea stared at him, her mouth opening slightly as she moved her head back. The young man closed his mouth, and Ettea followed suit. After a moment, he continued, "You don't believe in Hell, do you Ettea?"

"No," she shook her head, "I suppose I don't."

"I know. I could tell the moment I set eyes on you. Nobody who believes in Hell can look so... so clean. God's word is not meant to frighten us, but to warn us against damnation. But still we are afraid. All of us, together. We're all afraid... that we're not good enough. Not clean enough. You're the first person I've seen walk into that church that doesn't seem even slightly afraid. It's like..." he trailed off for a moment, "It's like you've never been afraid of anything in your entire life."

Ettea laughed, "I've been afraid plenty."

"Not the way--" the young man's voice cut off, as though the thread of it had been severed with a knife. Not the way I am, she knew he had meant to say. But instead, she heard distinctly--Not the way I want you to be. Strangely, the soft whisper of the unheard statement made her heart beat slightly faster in her chest. At his side, one of the young man's hands flexed as he spread his fingers and then let them go loose once more.

"Maybe I put the question wrong," she spoke slowly, "I didn't actually mean why don't you like me. I meant, why do you hate me?"

His brown eyes met hers, holding them for a moment. Then he blinked, and the moment was gone. He glanced away into the forest, and then looked back at her face.

"You know the answer to that."

"If I knew the answer," she replied, "I wouldn't have to ask. I've been trying to figure it out for two months, and I can't even begin to guess."

"I don't hate you," the young man's voice was faint. It was a sound that she had heard before, from her own mouth--the sound from the inside of a confessional booth, "I don't hate you at all, Ettea. When I look at you, I hate myself."

"Why?" Her voice was soft.

"You're not nearly foolish enough not to know the answer to that," he held her eyes and shook his head faintly.

Ettea felt her heart beating in her chest. Her voice rose into her throat and then stopped. She paused to consider her words, and then spoke them anyways.