The stained glass of the cathedral glittered in the dim moonlight. A gentle rain had begun to fall from the heavens as father Lucien's white lace covered hands moved the candelabra to its proper spot. He had long, blonde, almost white hair that hung down to his waist, often tied up into a ponytail, bright blue eyes, and skin as pale as the pages of the bible he often held. His frame was thinner from years of living on a humble diet of soups and bread, but he had his masculine charms as well. His jaw was pointed and his nose was long and sloped at the end like a flared candle. He had served God for many years at Saint Mary's Home for Lost Souls. The old building creaked and groaned as the storm became harder, the wind began to pick up and the telltale sound of thunder rumbled overhead.
Lucien hated storms. The loud nature of thunder frightened him, not to mention the way that the wind howled and shrieked through the church's wooden roof tiles and shook the foundation as though the cathedral's teeth were chattering. He drew his coat closer around his shoulders and jolted when the sound of a heavy hand clattered against the wooden double doors. Who would come to the chapel at this hour? He opened the heavy door with some effort, only to see a rain-soaked figure with long, black wavy hair stuck to his face, obscuring it from view. He rose his brows, but swallowed his anxiety and said,
"Come in, before the thunder rolls through again."
"Thank you," said the stranger, as he pushed the hair from his face. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, and the fur cloak he wore was currently clinging to his pale skin. He wrung out his sleeves at least, before looking up and meeting Lucien's gaze with his dark eyes. Lucien felt a shudder run down his spine as he excused himself to fetch a few towels for the man. He'd heard talk of a new face in town, but seeing as he rarely left the chapel, he had yet to meet the man. And now here they were, trapped together in the storm. He gave the man some towels and he dried his hair off first, taking off the fur-lined cloak to reveal the black, frilled shirt underneath, along with a vest and slacks.
"Where are my manners? I am Michel Chastain."
"Father Lucien," Lucien answered as the other man held out a hand to shake. He took it, and much to his surprise, the dark-eyed man pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Lucien's face blushed a soft pink at the contact.
"What were you doing out in the storm?" The blond asked as count Chastain moved towards the front, where the fire was burning in the fireplace. He held his hands out, warming them up. It was then and only then that Lucien noticed that he had a scar on the back of his right hand, in the shape of a cross.
"I was returning to villa Chastain when the storm began," He answered, nodding towards his wet cloak, "I was hoping to get a new book, though, perhaps I should have left earlier." He chuckled, and Lucien smiled a little.
"How unfortunate. Well, you are always welcome in this house of God."
"Always, hm? That's very kind of you."
"It would be cruel of me to turn down a person in need," Lucien pointed out, "Especially if you're going to make a habit of being out in the --"
As though it were listening, the sky overhead flashed brightly and Lucien jumped as the noise came not long afterwards. He saw something there in the light, but was sure it was a trick of the atmosphere -- For a brief second, count Chastain had ruby red eyes. He felt a hand on his upper arm as the count asked,
"Are you alright? That was quite the lightning strike."
"I am," He answered softly, "I do not like the thunder."
"At least it will be over soon." Count Chastain nodded, and Lucien wondered if that was true.
"Come. Let us speak of other things." Lucien said, "How long have you been living at the manor?"
"For three weeks. To think that I hadn't met everyone yet -- And to think that I would find a friendly face here, in the chapel, well, isn't that just my luck?"
What did he mean? Lucien's brows rose. "I'm sorry?"
"Oh, nothing," Count Chastain answered, "Merely an inside joke."
Lucien nodded, and then glanced at the kitchens. "Can I get you something warm to drink while your clothes dry?"
"That's quite alright, but thank you. Merely get some for yourself. It will help soothe the nerves."
As Lucien walked towards the kitchens, he wondered to himself: What had he gotten into?
Count Chastain seemed kind enough, but something internally told him to be wary. The count's high cheekbones and long lashes lingered in his mind, even as he moved about to make some tea, setting the kettle on the stove. His cheeks heated up again when he thought about the way Chastain looked at him the first time -- Like he was a large cat and Lucien, the rabbit that had just found its way into his jaws.
But perhaps it was just new person anxiety.
He had always been an anxious man. Even when there was no danger present, he found himself wary. His mother superior had called it his sixth sense.
For all the good this sense did him. As he made the tea, he heard the rain begin to lighten up, and frowned. That meant that count Chastain would be leaving soon. But he had so many questions!
Questions that would be answered in due time, he supposed. For now, he wanted to enjoy his tea, and listen to the quiet patter of rain against the stained glass window. He had a guest, however, so he made his way back out --
Only to find empty pews. He looked for any indication of Michel leaving, and found a note.
'I didn't want to interrupt your tea. I'll come say hello again sometime, and thank you.'
- M.C.
He couldn't help but smile.