Cefalù used to be a big tourist centre in Italy. A tiny town with a picturesque scenery and one very old and very beautiful cathedral. Now the population of Sicily all have flocked to Palermo and Cefalù is mostly a ghost town.
Mostly. The cathedral still opens its doors every Sunday for those who come to the town to worship from the nearby areas. A lot of them are fishermen who never leave the ocean for a long period of time. But some are also local. A thinning crowd, one that is slowly disappearing. Father Lombardi starts to push open the doors several hours before the mass and finishes barely in time. He's an old, frail man with a bad back and barely any hair, and the little he has is snow white. He knows father Luca by his voice.
Luca has been in Cefalù for a couple of weeks, just about enough that his face is starting to look normal and not bruised purple and green for the whole left side of it. One of his fingers is in a cast and he limps his left leg but otherwise he's starting to be okay. He follows father Lombardi as they lead mass, quietly taking in the incense scented air and the trembling voice of the old priest in the echoing halls of the old, old church. After the mass he sits at the front for several hours, just staring at the picture of Jesus high above the altar.
The church is going to stay open for the day, once the sun sets, they'll close the doors and the stone walls will stay impenetrable until the next Sunday.
Nearly a century had passed since Davy Jones had last been in Cefalu, having last haunted the city when the memories of magic were still fresh in the air from when a notorious English wizard had taken residence there. Davy was there out of a sake of nostalgia - even a faerie king could feel the bitterness of the state of things in the world, and the world was currently in a sorry state.
Calling upon God had never been something he was inclined to doing, but there was a certain sense of comfort visiting the old church. He much preferred convents, if only because he had somewhat fonder memories of sisters from his childhood. Davy slipped quietly into the building, without much more bluster than a cool salt breeze following in his wake through the front doors; his boots padded against the stone floor without a sound.
He didn't hesitate once he saw the figure seated at the front. He settled down into a pew across the aisle and lounged back, arms spread across the back of the bench. His eyes rose to the apse, where the light pooled as part of the church's design.
"The lord provides inspiration for great many works of beauty," Luca replied in a heavily accented English, still sort of monotonously, as if he was repeating something that had been said to him often, something he wasn't sure he understood or would pass as his own opinion.
The truth was that the Lord was inspiring quite a lot of things recently that Luca couldn't wrap his mind around. It had been hard but possible to brush aside the massacre at Rome, but ever since leaving Rome he had seen enough of "Lord's work" to make him sick.
His fingers were tightly crossed on his lap, still wearing the frilly surplice and hand decorated stole on top of his cassock. But the smile he decided to put on while turning to look at the stranger was genuine, crinkling the skin around his eyes. "Did you came for the mass?" The man was probably one of the sailors that occasionally took advantage of the safe harbour in Cefalù. He had the look - or was it the scent?
The accent on the English caught Davy's attention. While he'd never been
much fond of priests, he could at least appreciate that this man was trying
to be accommodating. He took a small breath and let himself settle into the
faerie all-tongue; it let people hear whatever they'd best understand, and
he assumed this man would hear Italian.
"I haven't willingly been to a mass since I was less than half the size I
am now." Davy could have added the sort of taunting smirk one might expect
with that confession, but no, as he looked to the priest, his smile was
gentle.
"But I do appreciate the stillness in the absence of ceremony, I suppose."
Davy turned his gaze back up to the apse. "Have you been here long?"
The shift to Italian made Luca's shoulders relax and his smile to widen a little bit. He could speak English, but Italian was much easier and much more comfortable for him. "Mass is not for everyone," he said simply with a mild nod. Some priests saw it their duty to bring as many behinds on the benches as possible but Luca had never cared about numbers or how a person would worship or if they even would at all.
God's love would still reach them.
Or that's what he had thought before. Now he wasn't so sure.
"It's very peaceful," he said while they sat there, appraising Jesus' face painted above the altar, his voice echoing in the church.
"No, just a few weeks. I'm Father Luca Gabrielli. Father Lombardi needed someone to help him."
"Oh, has Lombardi not been well? Then again, he was a sickly child." Davy
said it casually, with the expected touch of concern would expect with
those words, but there was the fact of his apparent age. He looked over his
shoulder and gave Luca a questioning look and shrugged a touch.
"Pleasure to meet you, Father Luca Gabrielli. I'm Davy." He stuck to the
shortened form of his name, even if it sounded off in Italian - he had
always been stubborn about that, even in his mortal days.
"Well, you look like you're settling in, at least." And then he gave the
priest another look-over, the state of his body and all. "Unless that is
all recent."
"He's old," Luca said with a curious frown. Weird way to talk about an old man when Davy was obviously younger than Father Lombardi. Perhaps he had heard some stories from the villagers. That must be it.
"It's a pleasure for me too, Davy," he continued with a brighter smile, one that brought in strict contrast that he had several bruises on his face. "The road here was rough to say the least. But I'm happy to be here. Someone needs to keep the church doors open."
The corners of Davy's mouth quirked at the incredulity he heard in Luca's voice; if he were eager to be seen as fully insane, he'd have remarked, I know: I age really well, though truly he didn't age at all. He did rather like the priest, though, and the conversation they were having.
"Mm," he hummed with a slight nod, "I remember when the roads were a touch safer than they are now. Some time it is when the seas are safer. In theory." The faerie pushed up to his feet at that point, feeling a little too restless now that he'd seen the bruises on the priest's face.
"Does the church have a garden, Father Gabrielli? A wanderer's life calls for improvisation, so I am sure I can find something in there that will help that sorry face of yours."
Just a simple priest, Luca had no idea he was in a presence of an immortal. It would have shocked him to understand that such creatures existed. It would have shocked him to understand that his own church would condemn this man as a heretic.
But as it were, he was - perhaps gratefully so - ignorant, and thus gave a solemn nod at the observations about the roads. It really was some time.
"It is a circus out there," he admitted. "I was attacked three times on my way here from Vatican. There used to be a time when you could travel simply by the virtue of your religion. Not now.
"Yes, there is a garden. Perhaps a little poorly handled garden. I try but the summer has been so hot." He pulled himself to stand up, then headed towards the back door of the church. "It is this way. However, I do apologise the condition of my face. It must be disturbing."
"Oh, I am sure I could work a little magic with whatever you have at your
disposal, Father. No need to apologize." Davy followed along at a steady
pace, keeping behind the priest and observing the way he carried himself.
Davy couldn't quite tell what to make of the priest just yet, but there was
perhaps something of interest about him.
"But my oh my, you were attacked three times?" Davy caught up just
enough to look around at Luca's face as he kept the pace up. He laughed, in
sympathy at least.
"You poor man." Davy's steps quickened and he turned again so that he was
walking backwards, facing the priest as he did so. His steps held none of
the hesitation a normal person might have had walking in such a manner.
"You were meant for the priesthood, weren't you?"
Smiling, perhaps a little indulgently, at the way it was described. Magic surely wasn't real even if these days were quite deeply disturbed.
The playful manner in which the other man carried himself made Luca's eyes light up, watching him curiously as they traveled towards the garden. He paused momentarily at the altar to shed the top layers of his uniform before they continued, now merely in a black cassock.
"I guess I look like I'm easy to rob," he said as he reached past Davy for the door that would lead to the garden at the back.
He paused, hand hesitating on the cool metal of the handle. He wasn't sure what Davy meant with his observation, but he answered truthfully, dark eyes serious and open. "I have always known I was supposed to serve God, yes."
Davy had entertained enough and raised enough children to recognize that
light in the man's eyes, so it was a sign for him to continue and keep a
smile on his face. Priests had never been Davy's favorite sort of person in
a general sense, but he'd favored one or two in particular here and there.
He settled with his back against the door once Luca paused, his smile
settling away.
"So you would say you're touched for it. How mysterious." Davy widened his
eyes as if he found the very idea amusing, and once the priest had opened
the door behind him, he continued along his merry way, grin returning. "And
for being robbed, it seems!"
Davy turned around and began to pace through the garden, seeking nothing in
particular and simply letting the plants speak to him. Apparently, not many
faeries came along this way, so they were somewhat excited; he stirred up a
breeze to give them something refreshing as a gift. The garden began to
fill with a slightly stronger and sweeter scent. As he wandered along, he
would sweep down and brush his fingers along some of the shrubs and they
would almost seem to brighten and deepen their colors in the process.
"I don't know how you could say this garden is so poor. I'd steal it myself
if I could keep it on my ship."
Luca gave a small smile at the thought of being touched by God. You could describe it like that, he mused as he followed the fairy into the garden with a slower stride, measuring his steps as he studied the man.
"I would like to think those two do not go hand in hand," he said mildly, dark eyes crinkling with amusement but his mouth barely smiling. It wouldn't be the first time he'd be mocked for his devotion.
The garden did seem a little brighter with this stranger in it, as if the plants liked the man. What a romantic notion that was in this day and age. Luca picked up the watering hose and turned it on, letting the water flow as they walked through the rows of plans.
"It is my skills that are poor," he corrected with a small chuckle. "I try, but sometimes it feels like nothing is enough."
"Oh, but sometimes you can be touched by the back of God's hand as much as
the front, though those are usually the demon-touched rather than the
unlucky." Davy was still wandering around the garden, stooping toward
certain plants here and there, offering silent words and letting his
fingers pass along their foliage. He plucked up a little bit here and
there: some parsley, St. John's Wort, and a little garlic.
"And if you fail, I think these darlings appreciate the effort nonetheless.
It's why they'll so gladly help you." Davy turned about with his little
haul of herbs cupped in his hands. He looked around and spotted a flat rock
off to one side of the garden. Settling on over by it, he set his herbs
down and took another rock to begin mashing everything up into a paste. All
the while, he was muttering under his breath in a rhythmic way.
"What the wicked fears will come upon him, But the desire of the righteous will be granted," Luca muttered but his voice was definitely faint enough that he wouldn't be overheard. The desire of the righteous was definitely not heard and even less granted in these times.
The blasphemous thought made a cold shudder run through the priest as he continued to walk through the garden with the hose, letting the man do his thing with the herbs.
He had a curious, cutesy way of addressing the plants. It made Luca smile.
"They do help me, plenty." They helped him in food and spices. They helped him with some remedies and household work.
The verse was a familiar one. A long time ago, in another life, Davy had
been raised and taught by holy sisters and instilled in him a love of the
word. Funny how they had also perhaps led him into being what he now was,
inadvertently. Davy paused his work upon the ointment and looked, though
past Luca.
"As a whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more: but the righteous is
an everlasting foundation." Davy favored those words in Italian,
rather than using the English of King James's version. Some days he still
felt sorry he had not slaughtered the man. He looked back down to the
ointment and gave it a quick little stir with his finger before pushing up
to his feet.
"Looks like this is ready." He scooped up some of the green paste and
walked over toward Luca. "Close your eyes, Father. I'll be gentle."
"As vinegar to the teeth, and as smoke to the eyes, so is the sluggard to them that send him," Luca continued quietly, something troubled in his eyes as he went to turn off the hose.
He felt like his eyes should be full of smoke and teeth floating in vinegar. He knew better than to question.
His brows arched quietly at the request to close his eyes as the other man came to him with the green paste. But with a small sigh, he did as he was told and closed his eyes.
"Hm. Slow messengers are always a frustration, aren't they?" Davy mused in response to the verse and began to hum an old song as he brought his fingers against Luca's cheek. He worked very gently at spreading it over the priest's face. As he hummed, the paste began to glow softly with his magic and the magic of the plants that he had called upon as he requested their assistance - hence, the closed eyes, though Luca might have felt a spreading coolness as the paste made the bruises fade.
"I suppose one should get to the point, then." Davy sighed as he finished coating Luca's face - there was still a bit of a glow as the paste sank into Luca's skin. "You can open your eyes now, father."
It felt cool against his skin and Luca sighed, not out of frustration but with relief. It was strange standing in the garden, in lazy afternoon sun, with a stranger who spread herbal remedies on his skin. He couldn't help but smile and chuckle to himself because it was such an unlikely scenario.
"I suppose that is a statement that anyone should get behind," he said and blinked his eyes open, looking at Davy curiously. But then his eyes crossed, mildly alarmed with the glow upon his cheekbones.
"Is this some kind of chemical reaction?" he asked and reached up but didn't touch the paste even if he kind of wanted to.
The look on Luca's face was priceless, and Davy was not above laughing at
such a display, though he was gentle enough to not fall over cackling like
a jackal. He wiped a stray tear away from his eye.
"I suppose one might call it that. I would just say it's the plants' love
for you as their caretaker. Or a bit of magic." Davy shrugged at the last
bit. "Though, I am not sure if you'd believe in it or not."
The priests eyes were wide as he stared at Davy, laughing as he was. The alarm bled away from his features and a hint of a smile crept over his lips. Luca was nothing if not responsive, he was liable to find amusement in Davy's amusement even if it was to his own detriment.
"A poetic way of describing herbal remedies," he commented with a widening smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I'm a true renaissance man, father. Sailor, poet, fighter, lover." The faerie laughed as he took a step back and offered the priest a flourishing bow. It was the sort of manner he'd always made fun of, even when he'd been just a man and friend to a king. Those were silly airs that belonged in tales, not the real world.
"Let that sit on your face for a few more minutes and then you can rinse off."
"I can see that, and a performer as well, it seems."
His silly antics managed to rob another laughter out of the priest, this one quite involuntary and mildly surprised by his own mirth. Luca reached up as if to rub his face with his hands and then paused when he realised that he still had the goo on his skin.
"Can I repay your kindness by offering you something to drink, sailor?" he asked as he let his hands fall useless against his sides.
Davy perked up at the offer of a drink, or he seemingly did, at least. Who
and what he was were not inclined to deny the opportunity for something a
little strong. He wondered what goodies a priest in this neck of the world
might have to offer.
"Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, Father. Please." Davy moved to
Luca's side and slipped his arm about the man's side as if they were the
oldest of friends. "Lead the way."
Luca had nothing against the familiarity. He revelled in it. A little starved for affection but mostly just easy and open to human connection, he laughed and lead Davy towards the back towards the living quarters separated from the church.
"Do you often visit Cefalu?" he asked as he opened a door and lead the man inside into the cool and sparse house, towards his own rooms at the back, furnished with old, antique, simple but dignified by age. In the middle there was a kitchen and he paused to claim a few glasses from the high cupboards, then whispered to Davy: "We should stay quiet, it's time for an afternoon nap," he nodded towards the door leading to the old priest's bedroom.
"Not very often, no. It's been ages since I was last called here." The
words came off-handed, easy, so they could be taken just as a figure of
speech of the priest so preferred. Davy trailed after the priest like some
half-drunk sneaking with his lover to their home, trying to maintain
contact whilst not alerting anyone else. He grinned as he considered the
door behind which he assumed someone lay sleeping. The elder priest, as
there always was with one so young as this one.
"You respect your elders. No wonder you're so kind to this old man," Davy
teased with a wolfish grin. He looked like a man in that vague space of his
twenties and thirties; he was far older. "There are few people left like
you."
He moved to claim the glasses from Luca's hands and settled on over to the
table with them so that the priest could get the drink for them.
"Were called?" Yes, that was what Luca found curious about what Davy had said. Not the figure of speech that he passed on without even thinking. "What were you called to?"
He rummaged around in the kitchen until he found a bottle of rum in the cabinet and brought it to the table, pouring them both a stiff drink. He wasn't sure what Davy meant with this old man but he assumed he must have known father Lombardi. Because Davy couldn't be older than maybe 30 years of age.
He took a seat and picked up his own glass. He didn't really like rum but father Lombardi was particular about it. "I try to make his life comfortable. He's getting to a point where it's hard for him to do anything alone." It was sad, but life was often sad.
"Adventure." His brows lifted at the sight of what he knew to be rum after centuries at sea. Not something he imagined was very en vogue in Italy, especially toward the south. He imagined it must have belonged to the old man.
"To good young men, then." He held his glass up in a little toast to Luca and then took a sip of his rum. Davy almost coughed - it was stronger than he expected for an old priest. The faerie would have laughed if not for the fact that he was holding to not waking the man up.
"My, with a drink like this, I can imagine he doesn't let you get away with much."
"Oh, I see." Luca gave a small chuckle, his eyes twinkling pleasantly as if they had shared a secret. Both the talk about adventure and sneaking to Father Lombardi's rum stash had made him feel a little playful.
"To good young men, like us," he said and lifted his glass, clinking it against Davy's before downing his own in one go. It was strong, but he was used to it. It still made him cough and press the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment.
"He's a gentle soul." His voice sounded a little bit throaty, and he laughed quietly, both at his own watering eyes and the comment about the old priest's soul, which was weathered and tough like old leather.
Davy's eyes crinkled at the corner at the way Luca downed his liquor and the reaction he gave. This priest was a curious mixture of softness and rough edges. Davy took another sip of his rum, now knowing what to expect.
"Oh, I wouldn't call myself 'good.' 'Incorrigible' might be more appropriate." He took the rest of his rum in one swig.
"All I've seen is kindness and good spirits," Luca insisted with a steady gaze from brown eyes. Of course he knew he was being wilfully blind perhaps. But he didn't care. He wanted to believe in people and this was part of it.
He looked down to their glasses in the next moment, though, wondering if he should pour them another drink. Spiderlegged shadows of his lashes cast on his cheeks, still covered in green goo. He rubbed the back of his hand that had been caught in the stick stuff as well.
Then he sprung suddenly to his feet and approached the sink, turning on the tap as he bowed over the sink to wash his face.
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Mostly. The cathedral still opens its doors every Sunday for those who come to the town to worship from the nearby areas. A lot of them are fishermen who never leave the ocean for a long period of time. But some are also local. A thinning crowd, one that is slowly disappearing. Father Lombardi starts to push open the doors several hours before the mass and finishes barely in time. He's an old, frail man with a bad back and barely any hair, and the little he has is snow white. He knows father Luca by his voice.
Luca has been in Cefalù for a couple of weeks, just about enough that his face is starting to look normal and not bruised purple and green for the whole left side of it. One of his fingers is in a cast and he limps his left leg but otherwise he's starting to be okay. He follows father Lombardi as they lead mass, quietly taking in the incense scented air and the trembling voice of the old priest in the echoing halls of the old, old church. After the mass he sits at the front for several hours, just staring at the picture of Jesus high above the altar.
The church is going to stay open for the day, once the sun sets, they'll close the doors and the stone walls will stay impenetrable until the next Sunday.
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Calling upon God had never been something he was inclined to doing, but there was a certain sense of comfort visiting the old church. He much preferred convents, if only because he had somewhat fonder memories of sisters from his childhood. Davy slipped quietly into the building, without much more bluster than a cool salt breeze following in his wake through the front doors; his boots padded against the stone floor without a sound.
He didn't hesitate once he saw the figure seated at the front. He settled down into a pew across the aisle and lounged back, arms spread across the back of the bench. His eyes rose to the apse, where the light pooled as part of the church's design.
"The architecture is always admirable, at least."
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The truth was that the Lord was inspiring quite a lot of things recently that Luca couldn't wrap his mind around. It had been hard but possible to brush aside the massacre at Rome, but ever since leaving Rome he had seen enough of "Lord's work" to make him sick.
His fingers were tightly crossed on his lap, still wearing the frilly surplice and hand decorated stole on top of his cassock. But the smile he decided to put on while turning to look at the stranger was genuine, crinkling the skin around his eyes. "Did you came for the mass?" The man was probably one of the sailors that occasionally took advantage of the safe harbour in Cefalù. He had the look - or was it the scent?
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The accent on the English caught Davy's attention. While he'd never been much fond of priests, he could at least appreciate that this man was trying to be accommodating. He took a small breath and let himself settle into the faerie all-tongue; it let people hear whatever they'd best understand, and he assumed this man would hear Italian.
"I haven't willingly been to a mass since I was less than half the size I am now." Davy could have added the sort of taunting smirk one might expect with that confession, but no, as he looked to the priest, his smile was gentle.
"But I do appreciate the stillness in the absence of ceremony, I suppose." Davy turned his gaze back up to the apse. "Have you been here long?"
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God's love would still reach them.
Or that's what he had thought before. Now he wasn't so sure.
"It's very peaceful," he said while they sat there, appraising Jesus' face painted above the altar, his voice echoing in the church.
"No, just a few weeks. I'm Father Luca Gabrielli. Father Lombardi needed someone to help him."
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"Oh, has Lombardi not been well? Then again, he was a sickly child." Davy said it casually, with the expected touch of concern would expect with those words, but there was the fact of his apparent age. He looked over his shoulder and gave Luca a questioning look and shrugged a touch.
"Pleasure to meet you, Father Luca Gabrielli. I'm Davy." He stuck to the shortened form of his name, even if it sounded off in Italian - he had always been stubborn about that, even in his mortal days.
"Well, you look like you're settling in, at least." And then he gave the priest another look-over, the state of his body and all. "Unless that is all recent."
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"It's a pleasure for me too, Davy," he continued with a brighter smile, one that brought in strict contrast that he had several bruises on his face. "The road here was rough to say the least. But I'm happy to be here. Someone needs to keep the church doors open."
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"Mm," he hummed with a slight nod, "I remember when the roads were a touch safer than they are now. Some time it is when the seas are safer. In theory." The faerie pushed up to his feet at that point, feeling a little too restless now that he'd seen the bruises on the priest's face.
"Does the church have a garden, Father Gabrielli? A wanderer's life calls for improvisation, so I am sure I can find something in there that will help that sorry face of yours."
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But as it were, he was - perhaps gratefully so - ignorant, and thus gave a solemn nod at the observations about the roads. It really was some time.
"It is a circus out there," he admitted. "I was attacked three times on my way here from Vatican. There used to be a time when you could travel simply by the virtue of your religion. Not now.
"Yes, there is a garden. Perhaps a little poorly handled garden. I try but the summer has been so hot." He pulled himself to stand up, then headed towards the back door of the church. "It is this way. However, I do apologise the condition of my face. It must be disturbing."
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"Oh, I am sure I could work a little magic with whatever you have at your disposal, Father. No need to apologize." Davy followed along at a steady pace, keeping behind the priest and observing the way he carried himself. Davy couldn't quite tell what to make of the priest just yet, but there was perhaps something of interest about him.
"But my oh my, you were attacked three times?" Davy caught up just enough to look around at Luca's face as he kept the pace up. He laughed, in sympathy at least.
"You poor man." Davy's steps quickened and he turned again so that he was walking backwards, facing the priest as he did so. His steps held none of the hesitation a normal person might have had walking in such a manner. "You were meant for the priesthood, weren't you?"
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The playful manner in which the other man carried himself made Luca's eyes light up, watching him curiously as they traveled towards the garden. He paused momentarily at the altar to shed the top layers of his uniform before they continued, now merely in a black cassock.
"I guess I look like I'm easy to rob," he said as he reached past Davy for the door that would lead to the garden at the back.
He paused, hand hesitating on the cool metal of the handle. He wasn't sure what Davy meant with his observation, but he answered truthfully, dark eyes serious and open. "I have always known I was supposed to serve God, yes."
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Davy had entertained enough and raised enough children to recognize that light in the man's eyes, so it was a sign for him to continue and keep a smile on his face. Priests had never been Davy's favorite sort of person in a general sense, but he'd favored one or two in particular here and there. He settled with his back against the door once Luca paused, his smile settling away.
"So you would say you're touched for it. How mysterious." Davy widened his eyes as if he found the very idea amusing, and once the priest had opened the door behind him, he continued along his merry way, grin returning. "And for being robbed, it seems!"
Davy turned around and began to pace through the garden, seeking nothing in particular and simply letting the plants speak to him. Apparently, not many faeries came along this way, so they were somewhat excited; he stirred up a breeze to give them something refreshing as a gift. The garden began to fill with a slightly stronger and sweeter scent. As he wandered along, he would sweep down and brush his fingers along some of the shrubs and they would almost seem to brighten and deepen their colors in the process.
"I don't know how you could say this garden is so poor. I'd steal it myself if I could keep it on my ship."
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"I would like to think those two do not go hand in hand," he said mildly, dark eyes crinkling with amusement but his mouth barely smiling. It wouldn't be the first time he'd be mocked for his devotion.
The garden did seem a little brighter with this stranger in it, as if the plants liked the man. What a romantic notion that was in this day and age. Luca picked up the watering hose and turned it on, letting the water flow as they walked through the rows of plans.
"It is my skills that are poor," he corrected with a small chuckle. "I try, but sometimes it feels like nothing is enough."
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"Oh, but sometimes you can be touched by the back of God's hand as much as the front, though those are usually the demon-touched rather than the unlucky." Davy was still wandering around the garden, stooping toward certain plants here and there, offering silent words and letting his fingers pass along their foliage. He plucked up a little bit here and there: some parsley, St. John's Wort, and a little garlic.
"And if you fail, I think these darlings appreciate the effort nonetheless. It's why they'll so gladly help you." Davy turned about with his little haul of herbs cupped in his hands. He looked around and spotted a flat rock off to one side of the garden. Settling on over by it, he set his herbs down and took another rock to begin mashing everything up into a paste. All the while, he was muttering under his breath in a rhythmic way.
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The blasphemous thought made a cold shudder run through the priest as he continued to walk through the garden with the hose, letting the man do his thing with the herbs.
He had a curious, cutesy way of addressing the plants. It made Luca smile.
"They do help me, plenty." They helped him in food and spices. They helped him with some remedies and household work.
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The verse was a familiar one. A long time ago, in another life, Davy had been raised and taught by holy sisters and instilled in him a love of the word. Funny how they had also perhaps led him into being what he now was, inadvertently. Davy paused his work upon the ointment and looked, though past Luca.
"As a whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more: but the righteous is an everlasting foundation." Davy favored those words in Italian, rather than using the English of King James's version. Some days he still felt sorry he had not slaughtered the man. He looked back down to the ointment and gave it a quick little stir with his finger before pushing up to his feet.
"Looks like this is ready." He scooped up some of the green paste and walked over toward Luca. "Close your eyes, Father. I'll be gentle."
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He felt like his eyes should be full of smoke and teeth floating in vinegar. He knew better than to question.
His brows arched quietly at the request to close his eyes as the other man came to him with the green paste. But with a small sigh, he did as he was told and closed his eyes.
"I than you for your efforts," he said softly.
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"I suppose one should get to the point, then." Davy sighed as he finished coating Luca's face - there was still a bit of a glow as the paste sank into Luca's skin. "You can open your eyes now, father."
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"I suppose that is a statement that anyone should get behind," he said and blinked his eyes open, looking at Davy curiously. But then his eyes crossed, mildly alarmed with the glow upon his cheekbones.
"Is this some kind of chemical reaction?" he asked and reached up but didn't touch the paste even if he kind of wanted to.
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The look on Luca's face was priceless, and Davy was not above laughing at such a display, though he was gentle enough to not fall over cackling like a jackal. He wiped a stray tear away from his eye.
"I suppose one might call it that. I would just say it's the plants' love for you as their caretaker. Or a bit of magic." Davy shrugged at the last bit. "Though, I am not sure if you'd believe in it or not."
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"A poetic way of describing herbal remedies," he commented with a widening smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
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"Let that sit on your face for a few more minutes and then you can rinse off."
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His silly antics managed to rob another laughter out of the priest, this one quite involuntary and mildly surprised by his own mirth. Luca reached up as if to rub his face with his hands and then paused when he realised that he still had the goo on his skin.
"Can I repay your kindness by offering you something to drink, sailor?" he asked as he let his hands fall useless against his sides.
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Davy perked up at the offer of a drink, or he seemingly did, at least. Who and what he was were not inclined to deny the opportunity for something a little strong. He wondered what goodies a priest in this neck of the world might have to offer.
"Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, Father. Please." Davy moved to Luca's side and slipped his arm about the man's side as if they were the oldest of friends. "Lead the way."
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"Do you often visit Cefalu?" he asked as he opened a door and lead the man inside into the cool and sparse house, towards his own rooms at the back, furnished with old, antique, simple but dignified by age. In the middle there was a kitchen and he paused to claim a few glasses from the high cupboards, then whispered to Davy: "We should stay quiet, it's time for an afternoon nap," he nodded towards the door leading to the old priest's bedroom.
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"Not very often, no. It's been ages since I was last called here." The words came off-handed, easy, so they could be taken just as a figure of speech of the priest so preferred. Davy trailed after the priest like some half-drunk sneaking with his lover to their home, trying to maintain contact whilst not alerting anyone else. He grinned as he considered the door behind which he assumed someone lay sleeping. The elder priest, as there always was with one so young as this one.
"You respect your elders. No wonder you're so kind to this old man," Davy teased with a wolfish grin. He looked like a man in that vague space of his twenties and thirties; he was far older. "There are few people left like you."
He moved to claim the glasses from Luca's hands and settled on over to the table with them so that the priest could get the drink for them.
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He rummaged around in the kitchen until he found a bottle of rum in the cabinet and brought it to the table, pouring them both a stiff drink. He wasn't sure what Davy meant with this old man but he assumed he must have known father Lombardi. Because Davy couldn't be older than maybe 30 years of age.
He took a seat and picked up his own glass. He didn't really like rum but father Lombardi was particular about it. "I try to make his life comfortable. He's getting to a point where it's hard for him to do anything alone." It was sad, but life was often sad.
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"To good young men, then." He held his glass up in a little toast to Luca and then took a sip of his rum. Davy almost coughed - it was stronger than he expected for an old priest. The faerie would have laughed if not for the fact that he was holding to not waking the man up.
"My, with a drink like this, I can imagine he doesn't let you get away with much."
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"To good young men, like us," he said and lifted his glass, clinking it against Davy's before downing his own in one go. It was strong, but he was used to it. It still made him cough and press the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment.
"He's a gentle soul." His voice sounded a little bit throaty, and he laughed quietly, both at his own watering eyes and the comment about the old priest's soul, which was weathered and tough like old leather.
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"Oh, I wouldn't call myself 'good.' 'Incorrigible' might be more appropriate." He took the rest of his rum in one swig.
"Shameless, too."
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He looked down to their glasses in the next moment, though, wondering if he should pour them another drink. Spiderlegged shadows of his lashes cast on his cheeks, still covered in green goo. He rubbed the back of his hand that had been caught in the stick stuff as well.
Then he sprung suddenly to his feet and approached the sink, turning on the tap as he bowed over the sink to wash his face.