Illusions shattered

1st of May.

It was after mass that Tristan’s world shifted irremediably. He had not expected Frances to show up during the office, yet he had spotted her face in the third rank of the faithful. She wasn’t looking at him when his eyes lingered, so he kept going, celebrating Joseph the worker’s day.

He had missed her, much more than he wanted to admit, and wasn’t looking forward to the long months of summer where she would leave before her third and final year. Then … she would be gone for good. Little did he know that what he feared was about to happen much sooner; he wasn't ready.

Her presence, her conversation, her questions had become a usual occurrence. Whenever he read a text, or wrote a sermon, she was never far from his mind. What would she say about this? What questions would it raise? Would she agree, disagree, or ignore this element altogether? What about this choice of carol, about the harmony?

Frances brightened each and every one of his thoughts, and he stole glances to her little bench every single day, eagerly awaiting for her return. So when mass was concluded and people trailed out, Father Tristan found himself impatient to find her. Yet, this was 1st of May, and many families lingered, wanting to converse with him. A tradition he used to enjoy greatly. Father Tristan always wanted to know what happened in his parish, how people fared and who had come and gone, who had married and had children.

Babies were baptised in this church, grew into lads and lasses, communiated here, married and were buried under his direction. The great circle of life, viewed from a very unique point of view. For he was but an outsider in those lives, the oil that helped people’s gear run smoothly. Today, though … he was torn between sharing news and retreating into his beloved church.

If only he had known…

At last, no one seemed to call for his attention anymore and he covered the distance to Marie’s bench in less time than it took to sneeze. Frances sat, unmoving, her face pale. Dread seized his heart. Had anything happened to her? To her family? Was she sick? Had she fought again with her ex-boyfriend? Got back with him?

When, at last, she registered his presence and turned her head to face him… Tristan gasped. Pain infused her eyes so plainly ! Agony. The priest lost his countenance, sitting by her side with a sharp breath, his hand lifting to unconsciously trace her cheekbone. His fingers tingled in warning.

This was wrong, so very wrong, but any second now, he felt she would be torn from his side. His heart lurched, the sense of foreboding even stronger.

— “Frances…”, he whispered.

— “I … I came to say goodbye,” she murmured, her hand coming to rest upon his.

The coldness of her skin worried him and he kicked himself to sever the contact between them. Mouth agape, hand falling into his lap, Tristan panicked.

— “Why? Are you leaving, are you sick?”

The priest was so far gone then, the man resurfacing with all its imperfections, its passion and anger swirling like demons.

— “No. But I can’t … come anymore.”

Tristan swallowed thickly, wondering what might have happened for her to repudiate their friendship. It hurt her so badly, her face so dejected that he felt like weeping.

— “Tell me why, Frances. There will be no judgement from me.”

She shook her head vehemently, like a small child that refused to cry. What did she keep from him? What was so horrible, so despicable that she wouldn’t dare telling him?

— “Do you not trust me?” he pleaded.

Her eyes lifted to find his, shock written plainly at the implication of his words.

— “I do,” she said, eyebrows heavy with grief. “It is I who broke your trust.”

His own brow furrowed; he didn’t get it. Yet he wasn’t ready to relent just now. Perhaps he would be able to help. Perhaps she could be reasoned with; he would not let her go without a fight.

— “How so?”

— “I can’t… I can’t Tristan.”

The priest jumped to his feet, poise and calm forgotten and he swore.

— “Damn it woman! If I am to be deprived of your presence, I deserve to know why.”

Him, a priest, in his church, SWORE! This was how far gone the idea to loose her sent him. Into the abyss, way beyond recognition, way beyond redemption. He was panting now, and a quick look around told him no one was here to witness his demise. His teeth clenched, his fists tightening by his side.

— “I deserve it, don’t I?” he repeated, his voice broken.

Frances bit her lip, her eyes downcast. Several droplets caught the light if the candles as they fell from her face, landing upon the soft cloth of her skirt. One, two, a dozen tears. A stream of sadness that never ended until she buried her face in her hands and started sobbing. His heart just couldn’t take it, and he fell on his knees before her. Waiting to see if the enchantress would leave him with a gaping wound, never to be repaired, or at least grace him with an explanation. He couldn’t touch her; he didn’t want to.

— “Please”

He stayed there, kneeling on the hard stone floor, awaiting for Damocles’ sword to fall upon his neck. And when at last, her sobs subsided, she reached for his hand; he allowed it. Her tiny fingers laced though his, still cold, but strong. Then, at last, she lifted her puffy eyes, plunging her gaze into his with such intensity that he lost his breath.

— “You deserve it, Tristan. You deserve the world. I love you.”

— “So do I,” he responded easily, hoping to appease her fears.

Somewhere deep within, his mind hoped she was just having a fit of hysteria. Making a mountain out of a rock. But the more he stared in her pain laced eyes, the more hope dwindled.

— “No. You don’t understand,” she rasped.

— “Then tell me,” he commanded, fingers tightening around hers.

The young woman swallowed thickly; her whole body was shaking now.

— “I have fallen in love with you. Somewhere along the way, my heart has decided that…”

Tristan gaped, the hard truth stunning him into oblivion. She was IN LOVE with him. A priest. A man who could never touch her, but longed to. A man who had devoted himself to God, leaving behind the earthly desires and need for a family, for his family was the church, and his love the Almighty. A man that, now, kept her fingers in a strong grip because he knew that it was the very last time he could afford to touch them. A man whose heart broke, his last hope being that God would mend it anew. Frances sniffled, then retrieved a tissue out of her pocket, breaking their last contact altogether.

Tristan stood, his legs wobbly, as she dabbed her nose and addressed him once more.

— “I am angry at the church for denying you the right to love, and be loved. The right to get a family of your own.”

Her words broke the dam; it hurt so badly to hear it plainly. To know that his choice, fifteen years ago, was made without even knowing what he had left behind. Her. The possibly to be a husband to a woman like her, to see her face in the morning, to fall asleep by her side. To support her every step of the way, and see their children be born out of her womb, their eyes and features a mingle of them both. Condemned, forever, to get news of the faithful on Sunday morning, to see their children grow up, and consider them his because he would never have his own. In response to the pain, his temper rose.

— “This is not a matter of denying, but of fulfilment in the path of God. Of commitment.”

— “What about… Protestants?” she chanced, standing up to be level with him.

But she would never be as tall as he was. As imposing. And when he growled, she shrank even further into her lithe body.

— “Don’t”

The order was clear and simple. Catholics and Protestants had fought over this for five centuries. It wasn’t the best moment to fuel this fire. And despite her grief, Frances caught his meaning well, lifting her hands in surrender.

— “I’m sorry. You see. I broke our friendship.”

— “What do you want, Frances?” he asked.

She seemed to mull over his words for a few seconds before answering truthfully.

— “I want you … to be happy. I respect your calling, this is why I must leave you in peace.”

Frozen, Tristan watched her. He memorised the fine features he so cherished, the beauty of her almond shaped eyes, the fire of her hair before she would become but a memory. She let him, probably doing the same as her red-rimmed eyes never left him.

Until, at last, the time was up. They both felt it, the silent noise of a bond being severed.

— “Goodbye,” she murmured.

Tristan’s heart lurched so painfully that he reached for her, pulling her into him. His strong arms wound around her, his hand burying in her silky hair, the other crushing her waist against his tall frame. He couldn’t breathe anymore, and neither could she. Still, she held tight, huddling against him. And for a moment, all was right in the world, their intertwined bodies heaving in the shared grief, their hearts beating in unison. Just the way their voices mingled whenever they sang “Adeste Fidelis” before the altar.

Tristan’s eyes lingered on the huge piece of marble, wondering how it would feel to face it on his wedding day rather than be the one to officiate. For a blessed moment, tension fled his body, the light of love replacing it in his heart. Only to be crushed cruelly. No. He couldn’t let go of his calling.

The moment his arms gave some slack, Frances leapt out and fled, tears running down her cheeks.

Shocked, Tristan watched his empty hands.

Gone … she was gone.

Bereft, Tristan watched the walls of his own church. Had it always been so empty? The stone cold, despite the sun shining outside. The oxygen gone with her. Warmth crushed. A sudden wave of panic hit him, and the priest' chest tightened. His long legs covered the distance before he could even decide to follow. He burst out of the church, coming out in bright sunlight that assaulted his eyes. He found her easily, walking away, the long trail of her hair burning in the sunlight.

Tristan ran, oblivious of the looks he was receiving. A priest, running, really ?

Catching up with her, he grabbed her arm to turn her around. She looked horrible in plain light, tear tracks staining her lovely skin, her eyes swollen, skin blotchy; she’d been crying for a long time. Probably during most of the mass.

— “Give me time to process this”, he asked, his breath short.

The young woman frowned.

— “What could it change, Tristan?”

— “Please. I need time. You have taken some before taking this decision, grant me the same. Come back in a month from now.”

The young woman shook her head vehemently. She knew it couldn’t work, that their friendship was dead. And he knew she was being more reasonable than he, but for the first time in fifteen years, his feelings were out of control. Or rather, they were controlling him fully. He had never felt such despair, such a storm that threatened to pull him to his knees. Such pain. He needed a way out lest he lost himself.

— “Tristan … you know it won’t…”

— “Only once, if only to say goodbye. Please”

This was as close as he would come to begging. He saw how his pleas broke her heart all over again as she nodded, and left him behind. He watched her go, his little angel, her steps faltering. But she kept on going, and he didn’t listen to his instinct to run back to her. It took a while before she was out of sight. And despite the sun and bird chirping, Tristan wondered if he would ever see the light again.