#c1+

Critical Role (2015-) campaign 1, episode 35//campaign 2, episode 72 bonus:

~

Will stepped out of the cold, unforgiving daylight and into the church, where the familiar hush settled over him like a blessing. Inside, the dimness was gentle rather than oppressive, the sanctuary lit only by wavering votive candles and the fractured glow of stained glass. A handful of parishioners knelt in silent devotion, waiting their turn for late morning confession before completing their assigned prayers, each seeking, in their own way, to leave a little lighter than they had arrived.

He drew a slow breath. The incense carried notes of pine, tea tree, and myrrh, a scent so deeply rooted in memory that it quieted something inside him almost instantly. Above the altar, stained glass depicted Christ's long walk to Calvary, jewel-bright reds, blues, and golds catching the muted winter sun and scattering it across the stone floor like hidden treasure.

No place in the world held him quite like a church. It never had.

His father had uprooted them countless times during Will's childhood, each new town erasing whatever fragile sense of home he had begun to build. Yet every town had possessed a church. No matter where he found himself, he could always step through heavy wooden doors into the same familiar silence, breathe the same incense, kneel beneath the same cross. The liturgy never changed. God, at least, remained where He had always been.

For a moment, Will allowed himself to believe Christ was truly present here, waiting within the tabernacle upon the altar. The crucifix watched over the sanctuary with patient, sorrowful eyes, enduring agony out of perfect love for a world that scarcely deserved it.

Will tried to draw strength from that gaze. He needed it. His resolve had worn thin long ago, frayed by restless questions that never found satisfying answers. He wanted meaning that could be touched instead of merely believed. He wanted to feel worthy of love. More than anything, he wanted to love freely, without fear, without whatever broken thing inside him forever twisting affection into guilt.

Perhaps these daily visits accomplished nothing.

Perhaps he came only to soothe himself with ritual. But he had nowhere else to go.

Even if he was unworthy, Christ had shared His table with sinners. Will clung to that thought as he walked toward the confessional, grateful for the familiar rhythm of a place that never demanded explanations.

The velvet curtain whispered closed behind him.

He knelt, letting the darkness settle around him. Through the carved lattice he could make out only fragments of the priest beyond it. A pair of dark eyes, perhaps imagined. The outline of sharp cheekbones. A suggestion of pale skin.

Father O'Brien had kind green eyes and a face softened by age. Before doubt could gather itself, Will bowed his head.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words came unsteadily.

"It has been two days since my last confession, and these are my sins."

"Proceed, my child."

The unfamiliar voice struck him like cold water, Will's head snapped up. That wasn't Father O'Brien. His longtime confessor's voice had always sounded like the thin, weathered pages of an old Bible, worn smooth by decades of faithful hands. This voice was altogether different. Rich. Deep. Cultivated. It carried an accent Will couldn't place, every syllable rolling with effortless confidence.

He leaned toward the lattice despite himself. For an instant he caught another glimpse. Dark eyes. Strong features. The flash of white teeth as the stranger spoke.

"Who the hell are you?" Will blurted. The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Wonderful, fucking wonderful. He had just sworn at a priest. During confession. One more sin added neatly to the pile. Instead of rebuke, a quiet laugh drifted through the screen. Low, warm, almost amused.

"I'm sorry if I startled you, my child."

There wasn't a trace of offense in the man's voice.

"Father O'Brien has been reassigned. The parish of St. John and Paul recently lost its pastor, and the bishop believed Father O'Brien's experience would serve them well. I have been asked to take his place here. My name is Father..."

"No."

The answer escaped Will before he consciously chose it. He shook his head once, stumbled backward, yanked the curtain aside, and fled. The icy air hit him like a slap as he hurried across the church steps toward his car.

Only after he had started the engine did he stop to ask himself what, exactly, had frightened him so badly.

Was it simply the loss of Father O'Brien, the one steady presence he'd come to rely on whenever the weight of his unspoken sins became unbearable? Or had it been something else? That voice. Smooth as dark velvet. Those fleeting impressions through the lattice. Eyes that seemed to belong to the shadows themselves.

Will pressed his forehead against the steering wheel and squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps he was finally losing his mind. The possibility no longer frightened him as much as it should have. He drove home still unable to explain his own reaction.

He told Molly nothing. She knew he attended church. She even admired his devotion. What she didn't know was how often he sought confession, sometimes every few days, driven by a need to scour himself clean before returning to the life they'd built together.

How suspicious that would seem. How pathetic. As though he carried some secret corruption that demanded constant washing. The cruelest part was that it never worked.

No matter how often he confessed, some part of him remained convinced he would never truly be clean. So he settled for ordinary conversation instead, answering Molly's questions with careful smiles. She noticed the sadness behind them, as she always did, and her concern settled over him with heartbreaking gentleness.