Wind at Dawn (Noble Things)- February 1918
Title: Wind at Dawn (Noble Things)
Artist name: tringic
Pairing: Pinto
Genre: angst, h/c, romance, AU
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~47,000
Warnings/Spoilers: Highlight to reveal. War. Death- dead bodies, shooting, etc. Blood. Religion. French. Latin. Suicide-minor character. infant death- minor character. homophobia. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Really, truly, I mean it, ANGST AND MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.
Summary: In the chaos of the Great War, Zach is a medic in a camp hospital in Soissons, France. When he meets an American soldier named Chris with a gunshot wound, both their lives change.
Disclaimer: in case the fact that it's set a hundred years ago didn't tip you off, THIS IS FICTION. ENTIRELY MADE UP. NOT BASED IN REALITY AT ALL. and yeah, i'm not getting paid either.
A/N:
Part 1: to my amazing artist, tringic , OMG THANK YOU. to my fantastic betas, 1lostone and rainbowstrlght, THANK YOU SO MUCH. for all the cheerleading, correcting, suggesting, dissecting. THANK YOU. also to emmessann, who stepped in at the last minute to hold me accountable for all my loose ends, THANK YOU. to medea_fic , for being all around awesome and listening to me whine. and last but not least, to garden_hoe21 and 13empress for nobly keeping me on task when i wanted to do was read fic and pretend i'd never signed up.
Part 2: this is a historical AU. most of my historical knowledge is either much earlier or much later, so I tried to research as much as possible, but, in case you didn't know, WWI is kind of a huge topic! i'm sure that there are historical inaccuracies, so if you see them, feel free to point them out. but please know i did try to stick as close as i could to authenticity.
likewise the french. i have studied french, but not in many years, so i'm quite sure that there are errors, whether of vocab or syntax or usage. please feel free to point them out.
Part 3: the fanmix was made by rainbowstrlght , and is amazing! hooray! additionally, if you're interested, while i was writing i listened to a lot of Arvo Part (esp his Te Deum) and also to Eric Whitaker. Tallis, Britten, and Tavener were also along for the ride.
Part 4: HAPPY BIRTHDAY amerasu1013 ! here bb, i tied a ribbon on it and everything! happy reading!
Link to art: http://tringic.livejournal.com/19447.html
Link to mix: http://rainbowstrlght.livejournal.com/199245.html
February 1918
3rd feb, 1918
snow. more snow. and yet again, more snow.
cold has set in for good; we break the ice on the water bucket every morning for fleur. they say it’s the coldest winter in a generation. i’d believe it.
mathilde has abandoned my legs for C’s, the ungrateful wretch, so i shiver alone each night.
treated a civilian yesterday; unusual. some kids were skating on l’Aisne, which was fun, but one of the boys was showing off for a pretty girl on the bank, and fell. not so fun. got off with just a fractured arm, though; not so bad. think it was mostly his dignity that was sprained.
hope la petite fille was worth it!
7th feb, 1918
soup today is especially pathetic. guess we’re really hitting the bottom of the barrel. trying not to worry about it too much; nothing i can do either way.
last i checked, the things i planted last fall have not been dug up, by critters four-legged or two.
latest news is of boats being sunk in the sea by the krauts, universal menace of land, air, and now, apparently, water. who knew?
Zach sets his pen down as he hears the tell-tale tramp of boots up the stairs to the sacristy door. The gait is slightly uneven, the sound of one step heavier than the other.
Chris. Zach can feel the smile before it’s even fully started.
Chris’ toes are healing, but he has acquired a lightly rolling stride as his body attempts to balance with digits it can’t fully sense.
“Like a sailor,” Zach had said.
“No.” Chris grinned. “Like a pirate!”
The door bangs open, the sound echoing in the small room as a blast of icy air blows in, ruffling the edges of his page.
Zach shivers but straightens with anticipation; the sight of Chris with his cold-pinked cheeks and rumpled hair is infectious in its glee. Chris is whistling under his breath as he slams the door, striding with his hitched amble across the floor to grab at Zach where he sits cross-legged on his cot.
Somehow Zach hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t remembered this from before; how Chris craves touch, how he slaps, pushes, grabs, leans against everything and everyone as he moves through the world. Small wonder Mathilde adores him.
He gives in gracefully; Chris’ grip on his hands is cold, but firm, as he hauls Zach to his feet, his blue eyes dancing in the evening sun.
Zach’s legs have fallen asleep, and he stumbles as the blood prickles through his muscles, falling forward against Chris, who catches him tight against his chest; time tilts for just a second as Zach registers the flood of sensation in his limbs, and then Chris is laughing against him, his thin chest rising and falling between them as he chuckles.
Zach blinks, and Chris shifts his grip abruptly, wrapping an arm around Zach’s waist until his palm rests in the indentation of Zach’s spine, capturing Zach’s hand in his. He’s warm, and Zach resists the urge to worm his way closer to the unexpected heat.
“Heard a new tune down in town today.” Chris is still smiling. “Didn’t catch the whole name; something about a guy named Casey and a blonde girlie. Want to hear?”
Zach nods mutely, still preoccupied with his tingling toes, and then suddenly he is spinning, Chris’ voice in his ear as he waltzes them delightedly and haphazardly around the room, dust motes dancing in their wake.
“Buhm ba-da Bum ba-da Bum ba-da Dum, ba-da Dum…Dum… Dum…”
Zach clutches instinctively at Chris’ hand, his feet moving automatically in startled response, his fingers grasping Chris’ shirt front for balance as the small room spins past. He doesn’t have time to think, only to react, to move. He can hear the thud of their feet on the wooden floor in the familiar pattern. One two three, One two three.
A stole from the rack in the middle of the room catches around their upheld hands, pulling free and rattling the whole contraption, trailing along behind them like some sort of mad flag, an irreverent maypole ribbon, and Chris begins to waltz them faster, laughing as he sings louder and louder.
“BUM da-da BUM da-da BUHM da-da DA…”
Zach can’t help it; he starts to laugh too, throwing his head back and trusting to Chris to guide them as they spin faster and faster, Chris still managing somehow to hold a tune in between guffaws until they trip over the foot of the vestment rack and fall into a helpless tangle on the floor, laughing and laughing and laughing. Zach isn’t even sure what was quite so funny, but he can’t remember the last time he laughed like this, and he can’t seem to stop.
His legs are tangled with Chris’, and his elbow hurts where he banged it, a dull throb that has no effect on his fit of the giggles. He can feel tears in his eyes, and gasps for breath. Chris has thrown an arm over his face and is snickering quietly, his fist pounding lightly at the floor.
Zach takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, focusing on slowing his racing pulse, grounding himself into the floor. He hears Chris sit up, feels the brush of a thumb against the corner of his eye. It wipes a drop of moisture, and pauses as Zach holds his breath.
“Hey. You okay?”
Zach breathes out.
“I didn’t really mean to drop us like that…” There’s still a hint of suppressed laughter in Chris’ voice, and Zach feels a smile play around the corners of his mouth. He opens his eyes, startled to find Chris’ face so close, the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Yeah.” Zach breathes in again, smiles back. “Yeah,” he thinks for a breath, pushing away the worry, the tension, the gut-deep burn of Chris’ body next to his. “…I’m fine.”
15th feb, 1918
up late again. françois had to go home last week on account of a death in the family. sad. means we’re short handed, now, too. still.
my condolences, françois.
C has come and gone for the evening. he rises before dawn with the rest of us, but has recently acquired employment as a grave digger dans la ville. it is back-breaking work, and he goes to bed early.
i have cautioned him repeatedly to on no account touch the bodies himself- many of these dead are from the flu.
he laughs.
21st feb, 1918
cold, cold, cold.
may I survive this, and move to a tropical island.
amen.
C could come too.
23rd feb, 1918
he came in tonight at dusk, like usual, dirt from the cemetery stuck to his boots, and stood in front of me, ash-grey with mud and smiling.
i am on call for the ward this night, so he washed and returned to sit in front of me, shoving his back against my knees until i gave in and began to rub his shoulders.
that man is more insistent than his damn cat, i swear to heaven.
i rubbed until his head was heavy on my knee, thumb pressing, fingers pushing.
he is beautiful, and i am damned.
Zach’s knees hit the wood of the prie-dieu with a thump, his elbows pressing into the wooden armrest as harshly as his fists pressed into his forehead, his bones beginning to ache with the cold that seeps up from the flagstones beneath him.
The snow that had trickled down the back of his collar had been cold, shockingly cold, and he had shivered convulsively as he slowly turned to face the snowball’s maker.
Chris’ blue eyes had danced in his cold-reddened face, his mouth open in jubilant laughter, but something must have shown in Zach’s face, because his eyes widened suddenly, and he shut his mouth with a snap. “Shit!”
He began to laugh again as he ran, lurching lightly as he sprinted across the church yard, ungainly but incredibly fast.
Zach felt the puff of snow explode beneath him as he pushed off in pursuit.
The soft click of the confessional door signals the arrival of Père Louis, but Zach pushes his head further into the hardness of his knuckles, squeezing his eyes shut. He listens as Père Louis settles himself, shifting on the bench cushion and creaking a knee before he slides open the lattice cover between them.
Zach rubs his nose into his sleeve, drawing in a deep breath. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been…” He thinks. “God, I don’t know. A long time since my last confession.”
He can hear Père Louis chuckle and shift on the bench.
“What are your sins, mon fils?” His tone is indulgent, patient, and Zach winces. He blinks once, the faint light illuminating his white fingers in front of him, then closes his eyes again.
“In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti…” Zach clutches spastically, forces his throat to open.
It had taken longer than he had thought, but Zach had caught him, catching him as he rounded a corner and slid, flinging himself forward to tackle Chris into a snowbank, rolling them over and over as Chris laughed helplessly, ending up pinning Chris to the ground as he scooped a handful of snow and dropped it directly into that wide-open, laughing mouth.
Chris had spluttered and squirmed, but his eyes, his dawn-colored eyes gave everything away, and Zach knew, knew, in that moment, that he was done for.
“Father…” He swallows, breathes. “… I love him.” He shudders. “God knows I have tried not to, God knows I have fought it with everything I have, and yet…” The words are pouring out of him, current through a wire, leaves on a flood. “…and yet I have not, I have not fought it enough, or even… even sometimes at all.” He can hear the hitch in his voice, feel the dampness slide down his cheek, and scrubs furiously at his face. “I am drawn to him, Father, like a moth to a flame, a spark to a match, a compass needle to north, like every other goddamn, sorry Father, cliché that has ever been written. And I know, I know, that it’s wrong, and I’ve tried hard, Father, so goddamn, sorry, hard, and I just… I just…”
“Breathe, mon fils.” The voice is gentle, but firm, and Zach bows his head and inhales.
“Father, I…”
“Se taire, petit.”
Zach rubs his fists into his eyes, waiting for the inevitable disgust, the coming condemnation.
“Mon fils, what shall I tell you of love?” Père Louis sighs and resettles himself. “Yes, the church condemns what you say. The Holy Father, yes, he would condemn it.” Zach can see the flicker of light that indicates the father’s dismissive hand gesture. “But…” he pauses, and Zach raises his head.
“But this is war.” His voice is tired, resigned. “God created men to love one another, to be drawn together for strength and companionship in times of need.” He shrugs. “So it is. Jacob had Esau. David had Jonathan. Jesus had his beloved disciple. Mon fils, what you feel is simply a misunderstanding. It is the gift of love, a gift which is from God. It is just…” He sounds tired again, and Zach hangs his head. “It is just that you feel it too strongly.”
Zach blinks furiously, deeply grateful for the confessional screen.
“He is a good man, Chris. As you are. Zach, ecoutez-moi, God loves you. Never doubt this. God made you, and he loves you, no matter how great your sin. What you feel for Chris… it will pass. In time, when this war is over, we will all heal from these atrocities. But, mon fils, if you have acted rashly, if you allow yourself to be too swept up, then, then you will regret it.” Père Louis sighs again, tapping his fingers on the screen. "I give you no penance, mon fils. You have not yet sinned. To love, even to love too much, is no sin."
Zach can feel his eyes itching, but forces his gaze to follow the gesture as the priest passes his hand in blessing.
“May the Lord bless you and keep you, in nomine Parti, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti, Amen.”
Zach crosses himself instinctively, his hand slowing as the clatter of the confessional door echoes in the high-ceilinged corner, his mind as clear and blank as the snowdrifts below the window, and his heart twisting within.
1) la petite fille- the young lady
2) dans la ville- in the town
3) mon fils- my son
4) In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti- in the name of the father, and the son, and the holy spirit.
5) Se taire, petit- be quiet, little one.
next
Artist name: tringic
Pairing: Pinto
Genre: angst, h/c, romance, AU
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~47,000
Warnings/Spoilers: Highlight to reveal. War. Death- dead bodies, shooting, etc. Blood. Religion. French. Latin. Suicide-minor character. infant death- minor character. homophobia. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Really, truly, I mean it, ANGST AND MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.
Summary: In the chaos of the Great War, Zach is a medic in a camp hospital in Soissons, France. When he meets an American soldier named Chris with a gunshot wound, both their lives change.
Disclaimer: in case the fact that it's set a hundred years ago didn't tip you off, THIS IS FICTION. ENTIRELY MADE UP. NOT BASED IN REALITY AT ALL. and yeah, i'm not getting paid either.
A/N:
Part 1: to my amazing artist, tringic , OMG THANK YOU. to my fantastic betas, 1lostone and rainbowstrlght, THANK YOU SO MUCH. for all the cheerleading, correcting, suggesting, dissecting. THANK YOU. also to emmessann, who stepped in at the last minute to hold me accountable for all my loose ends, THANK YOU. to medea_fic , for being all around awesome and listening to me whine. and last but not least, to garden_hoe21 and 13empress for nobly keeping me on task when i wanted to do was read fic and pretend i'd never signed up.
Part 2: this is a historical AU. most of my historical knowledge is either much earlier or much later, so I tried to research as much as possible, but, in case you didn't know, WWI is kind of a huge topic! i'm sure that there are historical inaccuracies, so if you see them, feel free to point them out. but please know i did try to stick as close as i could to authenticity.
likewise the french. i have studied french, but not in many years, so i'm quite sure that there are errors, whether of vocab or syntax or usage. please feel free to point them out.
Part 3: the fanmix was made by rainbowstrlght , and is amazing! hooray! additionally, if you're interested, while i was writing i listened to a lot of Arvo Part (esp his Te Deum) and also to Eric Whitaker. Tallis, Britten, and Tavener were also along for the ride.
Part 4: HAPPY BIRTHDAY amerasu1013 ! here bb, i tied a ribbon on it and everything! happy reading!
Link to art: http://tringic.livejournal.com/19447.html
Link to mix: http://rainbowstrlght.livejournal.com/199245.html
February 1918
3rd feb, 1918
snow. more snow. and yet again, more snow.
cold has set in for good; we break the ice on the water bucket every morning for fleur. they say it’s the coldest winter in a generation. i’d believe it.
mathilde has abandoned my legs for C’s, the ungrateful wretch, so i shiver alone each night.
treated a civilian yesterday; unusual. some kids were skating on l’Aisne, which was fun, but one of the boys was showing off for a pretty girl on the bank, and fell. not so fun. got off with just a fractured arm, though; not so bad. think it was mostly his dignity that was sprained.
hope la petite fille was worth it!
7th feb, 1918
soup today is especially pathetic. guess we’re really hitting the bottom of the barrel. trying not to worry about it too much; nothing i can do either way.
last i checked, the things i planted last fall have not been dug up, by critters four-legged or two.
latest news is of boats being sunk in the sea by the krauts, universal menace of land, air, and now, apparently, water. who knew?
Zach sets his pen down as he hears the tell-tale tramp of boots up the stairs to the sacristy door. The gait is slightly uneven, the sound of one step heavier than the other.
Chris. Zach can feel the smile before it’s even fully started.
Chris’ toes are healing, but he has acquired a lightly rolling stride as his body attempts to balance with digits it can’t fully sense.
“Like a sailor,” Zach had said.
“No.” Chris grinned. “Like a pirate!”
The door bangs open, the sound echoing in the small room as a blast of icy air blows in, ruffling the edges of his page.
Zach shivers but straightens with anticipation; the sight of Chris with his cold-pinked cheeks and rumpled hair is infectious in its glee. Chris is whistling under his breath as he slams the door, striding with his hitched amble across the floor to grab at Zach where he sits cross-legged on his cot.
Somehow Zach hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t remembered this from before; how Chris craves touch, how he slaps, pushes, grabs, leans against everything and everyone as he moves through the world. Small wonder Mathilde adores him.
He gives in gracefully; Chris’ grip on his hands is cold, but firm, as he hauls Zach to his feet, his blue eyes dancing in the evening sun.
Zach’s legs have fallen asleep, and he stumbles as the blood prickles through his muscles, falling forward against Chris, who catches him tight against his chest; time tilts for just a second as Zach registers the flood of sensation in his limbs, and then Chris is laughing against him, his thin chest rising and falling between them as he chuckles.
Zach blinks, and Chris shifts his grip abruptly, wrapping an arm around Zach’s waist until his palm rests in the indentation of Zach’s spine, capturing Zach’s hand in his. He’s warm, and Zach resists the urge to worm his way closer to the unexpected heat.
“Heard a new tune down in town today.” Chris is still smiling. “Didn’t catch the whole name; something about a guy named Casey and a blonde girlie. Want to hear?”
Zach nods mutely, still preoccupied with his tingling toes, and then suddenly he is spinning, Chris’ voice in his ear as he waltzes them delightedly and haphazardly around the room, dust motes dancing in their wake.
“Buhm ba-da Bum ba-da Bum ba-da Dum, ba-da Dum…Dum… Dum…”
Zach clutches instinctively at Chris’ hand, his feet moving automatically in startled response, his fingers grasping Chris’ shirt front for balance as the small room spins past. He doesn’t have time to think, only to react, to move. He can hear the thud of their feet on the wooden floor in the familiar pattern. One two three, One two three.
A stole from the rack in the middle of the room catches around their upheld hands, pulling free and rattling the whole contraption, trailing along behind them like some sort of mad flag, an irreverent maypole ribbon, and Chris begins to waltz them faster, laughing as he sings louder and louder.
“BUM da-da BUM da-da BUHM da-da DA…”
Zach can’t help it; he starts to laugh too, throwing his head back and trusting to Chris to guide them as they spin faster and faster, Chris still managing somehow to hold a tune in between guffaws until they trip over the foot of the vestment rack and fall into a helpless tangle on the floor, laughing and laughing and laughing. Zach isn’t even sure what was quite so funny, but he can’t remember the last time he laughed like this, and he can’t seem to stop.
His legs are tangled with Chris’, and his elbow hurts where he banged it, a dull throb that has no effect on his fit of the giggles. He can feel tears in his eyes, and gasps for breath. Chris has thrown an arm over his face and is snickering quietly, his fist pounding lightly at the floor.
Zach takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, focusing on slowing his racing pulse, grounding himself into the floor. He hears Chris sit up, feels the brush of a thumb against the corner of his eye. It wipes a drop of moisture, and pauses as Zach holds his breath.
“Hey. You okay?”
Zach breathes out.
“I didn’t really mean to drop us like that…” There’s still a hint of suppressed laughter in Chris’ voice, and Zach feels a smile play around the corners of his mouth. He opens his eyes, startled to find Chris’ face so close, the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Yeah.” Zach breathes in again, smiles back. “Yeah,” he thinks for a breath, pushing away the worry, the tension, the gut-deep burn of Chris’ body next to his. “…I’m fine.”
15th feb, 1918
up late again. françois had to go home last week on account of a death in the family. sad. means we’re short handed, now, too. still.
my condolences, françois.
C has come and gone for the evening. he rises before dawn with the rest of us, but has recently acquired employment as a grave digger dans la ville. it is back-breaking work, and he goes to bed early.
i have cautioned him repeatedly to on no account touch the bodies himself- many of these dead are from the flu.
he laughs.
21st feb, 1918
cold, cold, cold.
may I survive this, and move to a tropical island.
amen.
C could come too.
23rd feb, 1918
he came in tonight at dusk, like usual, dirt from the cemetery stuck to his boots, and stood in front of me, ash-grey with mud and smiling.
i am on call for the ward this night, so he washed and returned to sit in front of me, shoving his back against my knees until i gave in and began to rub his shoulders.
that man is more insistent than his damn cat, i swear to heaven.
i rubbed until his head was heavy on my knee, thumb pressing, fingers pushing.
he is beautiful, and i am damned.
Zach’s knees hit the wood of the prie-dieu with a thump, his elbows pressing into the wooden armrest as harshly as his fists pressed into his forehead, his bones beginning to ache with the cold that seeps up from the flagstones beneath him.
The snow that had trickled down the back of his collar had been cold, shockingly cold, and he had shivered convulsively as he slowly turned to face the snowball’s maker.
Chris’ blue eyes had danced in his cold-reddened face, his mouth open in jubilant laughter, but something must have shown in Zach’s face, because his eyes widened suddenly, and he shut his mouth with a snap. “Shit!”
He began to laugh again as he ran, lurching lightly as he sprinted across the church yard, ungainly but incredibly fast.
Zach felt the puff of snow explode beneath him as he pushed off in pursuit.
The soft click of the confessional door signals the arrival of Père Louis, but Zach pushes his head further into the hardness of his knuckles, squeezing his eyes shut. He listens as Père Louis settles himself, shifting on the bench cushion and creaking a knee before he slides open the lattice cover between them.
Zach rubs his nose into his sleeve, drawing in a deep breath. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been…” He thinks. “God, I don’t know. A long time since my last confession.”
He can hear Père Louis chuckle and shift on the bench.
“What are your sins, mon fils?” His tone is indulgent, patient, and Zach winces. He blinks once, the faint light illuminating his white fingers in front of him, then closes his eyes again.
“In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti…” Zach clutches spastically, forces his throat to open.
It had taken longer than he had thought, but Zach had caught him, catching him as he rounded a corner and slid, flinging himself forward to tackle Chris into a snowbank, rolling them over and over as Chris laughed helplessly, ending up pinning Chris to the ground as he scooped a handful of snow and dropped it directly into that wide-open, laughing mouth.
Chris had spluttered and squirmed, but his eyes, his dawn-colored eyes gave everything away, and Zach knew, knew, in that moment, that he was done for.
“Father…” He swallows, breathes. “… I love him.” He shudders. “God knows I have tried not to, God knows I have fought it with everything I have, and yet…” The words are pouring out of him, current through a wire, leaves on a flood. “…and yet I have not, I have not fought it enough, or even… even sometimes at all.” He can hear the hitch in his voice, feel the dampness slide down his cheek, and scrubs furiously at his face. “I am drawn to him, Father, like a moth to a flame, a spark to a match, a compass needle to north, like every other goddamn, sorry Father, cliché that has ever been written. And I know, I know, that it’s wrong, and I’ve tried hard, Father, so goddamn, sorry, hard, and I just… I just…”
“Breathe, mon fils.” The voice is gentle, but firm, and Zach bows his head and inhales.
“Father, I…”
“Se taire, petit.”
Zach rubs his fists into his eyes, waiting for the inevitable disgust, the coming condemnation.
“Mon fils, what shall I tell you of love?” Père Louis sighs and resettles himself. “Yes, the church condemns what you say. The Holy Father, yes, he would condemn it.” Zach can see the flicker of light that indicates the father’s dismissive hand gesture. “But…” he pauses, and Zach raises his head.
“But this is war.” His voice is tired, resigned. “God created men to love one another, to be drawn together for strength and companionship in times of need.” He shrugs. “So it is. Jacob had Esau. David had Jonathan. Jesus had his beloved disciple. Mon fils, what you feel is simply a misunderstanding. It is the gift of love, a gift which is from God. It is just…” He sounds tired again, and Zach hangs his head. “It is just that you feel it too strongly.”
Zach blinks furiously, deeply grateful for the confessional screen.
“He is a good man, Chris. As you are. Zach, ecoutez-moi, God loves you. Never doubt this. God made you, and he loves you, no matter how great your sin. What you feel for Chris… it will pass. In time, when this war is over, we will all heal from these atrocities. But, mon fils, if you have acted rashly, if you allow yourself to be too swept up, then, then you will regret it.” Père Louis sighs again, tapping his fingers on the screen. "I give you no penance, mon fils. You have not yet sinned. To love, even to love too much, is no sin."
Zach can feel his eyes itching, but forces his gaze to follow the gesture as the priest passes his hand in blessing.
“May the Lord bless you and keep you, in nomine Parti, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti, Amen.”
Zach crosses himself instinctively, his hand slowing as the clatter of the confessional door echoes in the high-ceilinged corner, his mind as clear and blank as the snowdrifts below the window, and his heart twisting within.
1) la petite fille- the young lady
2) dans la ville- in the town
3) mon fils- my son
4) In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti- in the name of the father, and the son, and the holy spirit.
5) Se taire, petit- be quiet, little one.
next