open.

[apologist]

WHO: Brother Jehan Mercier d'Annecy & You
WHAT: Chantry Brother doing Chantry Brother stuff
WHEN: Early Firstfall
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Will update.

I. Chapel

If the Inquisition's Kirkwall outpost were home to a Mother, even a Sister or two, then Jehan would leave the center tower's chapel—the large one, more ornate than the two in the mage and templars' residential towers, made for gathering rather than solitary quiet contemplation—to their direction.

But they don't have a Mother or a Sister at the moment, so when Jehan occupies the Chapel at his random hours, he acts as if he owns the place. Tidying, rearranging, smiling in greeting at anyone who comes through the door or asking if anyone who looks a bit lost needs assistance. The Chant isn't sung; he could give sermons, but he isn't that sort of Brother, and for full services Inquisition members will have to make the trek to the city's new Chantry and receive them from the clergy. But Jeannot does hum the Chant while he works, and he's authorized to take confessions.

He's also fairly seasoned in handling those who hear confession and think time to make a Chantry Brother blush, but you're welcome to give it a shot.

II. Elsewhere

Maintaining the chapel isn't his job, really. His job with the Inquisition is diplomacy—which on most days means sorting through letters to separate those that need to be escalated from those that only need a thank you or to be fed into a fire. His job with the Chantry and the University, the job he'll return to someday if the world doesn't end, is research. At present he's in the early stages of a proposal regarding a connection between the Empty Ones and the Order of Fiery Promise, in the midst of reading three different books on theology, and scouring a younger student's research on various Rivaini heresies and apostasies to provide comments before it's complete.

Which is to say: when he's not in the chapel, he's often in the dining hall or one of the offices, bent over a table, reading or writing, and overall not being a particularly interesting person. But it's one of the few times he can be found without Freddie or Val or both, because they are horrendously distracting.

He hums the Chant while he does this work, too, but in an idle way that often slides off into one Orlesian drinking song or another instead.

III. Wildcard!

Comments

i.

[elegiaque]

Of late, Gwenaëlle has been more often in the Gallows.

It's anyone's guess as to whether or not Jehan has actually noticed that - she hasn't gone out of her way to see him, doesn't typically go out of her way to be anywhere near the chapel (barely bothers attending services at the new Chantry), isn't involved in any work that would naturally cross their paths. So while it isn't so strange that she's in the vicinity at all, it certainly must be purposeful, her presence in the chapel, and presumably the purpose is Jehan because she's never seemed terribly interested in her spiritual wellness:

“Confession is privileged, isn't it? Between one and one's confessor.”

Well, there's a first time for everything.

[apologist]

Jehan hasn't noticed any increased frequency in Gwenaëlle's visits to the Gallows. His nosiness is incidental and lacking in object permanence, and when she isn't misbehaving in front of him he's fairly content to not wonder how she might be misbehaving elsewhere. That way lies madness.

So his first thought, when she suddenly appears and says the word confession, is that she's done something so monstrous that she must have come all this way to get it off her chest. The thought lasts long enough for his eyebrows to go up quite a ways.

The second is that that's ridiculous, and she's here to fuck with him. His eyebrows lower, his eyes narrow, but he's smiling, and he stops sorting through candles to separate the new from the used.

"Of course," he says. "Not many would be willing to do it otherwise."

[elegiaque]

Good instincts.

Still;

“You're qualified for the position, aren't you? I'd like to make a confession.” There's a brief pause, and then, cheerfully, “There's a first time for everything, Jeannot.”

They're going to be a double-act before long if she keeps preempting punchlines.

[apologist]

"No," Jehan says, "there is not. But I will accept a first time for this."

If only because he may be in trouble with someone otherwise. He's quite sure he's allowed to send someone elsewhere, but she's the worst seems like a poor reason to provide to whomever he foists her onto—in the event she is serious, which he still doesn't believe.

He gestures to the side gallery—there are no confessionals in Thedas, but the upside of that is that she gets to see his face as well as he can see hers—and takes his cane from where he'd leaned it against a pew to head that way.

"You may need to use small words for me," he says, which is not true at all. He knows the words.

i

[aestivation]

It’s a long walk into the city.

Casimir doesn’t make it often — it takes time to arrange a chaperone, puts aside the entire purpose of routine — most days, the shrine in the mage tower serves. There’s no song, and that’s no trouble when one doesn’t sing. There are no words, and no one to bother hearing them for. Usually, it’s enough: The statues, the candles; the pattern to fit both.

Usually. Not today.

"Brother," He regards Jehan from blank attention. "May we speak?"

[apologist]

Jehan takes his time inhaling the air that's necessary to answer. He'd like the answer to be it's a bad time, but he has a broom in his hands and no excuse. Regardless, the guilt he'd feel later, trying to fall asleep, would outweigh any momentary relief from dodging talking to a Tranquil.

"Of course," he says on the exhale. He extends his arm to put the broom against the wall, but in the meantime meets Casimir's placidly empty gaze and quickly changes his mind. He can keep sweeping. It will give him something to avert his eyes to, and surely the man won't mind. "Monsieur Lyov, isn't it?"

[aestivation]

"Thank you. Casimir, if you'd prefer."

It's automatic. He settles in place, hands folded unmoving. It occurs to look if there's another broom about, but the thought doesn't stick.

"I'd a theological question." Raised again by old pages, the last among them. "The spirits of the lost wander the Fade, out into Void. The righteous pass through, into the Maker."

Jehan may be able to guess where this is going.

"What of those who cannot?"

[apologist]

"You are worried for your soul, Monsieur?"

It's primarily a stalling tactic—looking at Casimir feels a bit like looking at a shoe and knowing a spider has been crushed beneath it, knowing the spider needed to be crushed, but nonetheless not wanting to see the smear, the signs of violence—but the faint air of surprise is genuine. Of course the Tranquil have some sense of self-preservation, and it makes sense for that to extend to the preservation of being after death, but—

—but he'd never considered it, before.

I

[wheretheferngrows]

There's a small-looking elf girl sitting in one of the pews, the next time Jehan looks up from tidying whatever it is that has most recently occupied his attention, and judging by the looks of her, she's spent a great deal of time recently either in tears, or fending them off.

Fern is leaning against the back of the pew in front of her with her face resting on her folded arms; every so often, she sniffs in a way that is indicative of crying. She doesn't look Jehan's way a great deal at first, but after a time, she peeks out at him and looks like she's trying to decide what's worse: approaching him with her thoughts, or choosing to keep them to herself instead.

[apologist]

When she looks at him, Jehan isn't immediately looking back at her. He's looking at the book in his hand, squinting at the worn spine to try to make out the volume number without having to stoop to checking inside it. But he's looked several times in the past few minutes, stealing quick glances and wondering if he ought to say something; people come here to worship or pray or grieve all the time, whether he's here or not, and just because his presence hasn't chased her off doesn't mean she'd like to be bothered, and he's not really very experienced with this sort of thing. Before coming to Kirkwall, where there is no Mother Giselle, he hadn't spent a single day of his life personally overseeing a Chantry or a chapel.

But when he glances again and catcher her looking at him, he doesn't look away. He gives her a close-lipped smile, one meant to be encouraging but respectfully dim in light of her tears, and inclines his head to one side in obvious curiosity and invitation.

[wheretheferngrows]

It's an encouraging sort of look, Fern decides. Surely if he didn't want to be bothered, he'd have carried on with looking at his book and ignored her. (Shems are good at that when it comes to elves, even sad and crying ones.) She takes a fortifying breath before getting up and, rather deer-like, crossing the chapel towards him. "Can I ask you something?" she blurts out.

[apologist]

"Of course," Jehan says, as if he could say anything else to those giant eyes. He pities elves already (in a patronizing sort of way, if only they hadn't turned so far from the Maker, what a shame, etc.) without any of them having wet eyelashes and eyes that seem ready to devour his soul, so this is—

Well. She can definitely ask him something.

i.

[faithlikeaseed]

Myr's something of a chapel fixture himself, lately--his own proclivities and piety had sent him often enough to confession in Hasmal Circle that it'd become a part of his routine. Wasn't so easy to do once the Circle fell and the Sisters had withdrawn to a city turned hostile, but with an authorized confessor in the Gallows he's fallen back into the habit.

It's never comfortable but it is comforting--a much-needed opportunity to turf out the blackness in his head and shed the burdens he can't afford to carry around. (And now that he's not tumbling into bed with anyone and everyone in contravention of Circle rules, it's a damned sight easier to do, without the need to hedge and frame his sins in ways that won't end in punishment and transfer.)

So: Here he is once again to darken the chapel doorstep, looking hungover for want of sleep. It's been a bad couple of months. "Morning, Brother. Have a moment?"

[apologist]

"Several," Jehan answers over his shoulder from the room's lone bookcase, giving Myr a longer surveying look than he would if the elf could see him do it. Not many people in the Gallows frequent this place, altogether; it seems that the outposts' focuses are particularly attractive to oddballs and skeptics. And heathens. The few who do show up on a regular basis, Jehan is learning well enough to know when they don't look good. "I also have tea."

[faithlikeaseed]

"I'll take it." The gratitude's unfeigned and undisguised; he takes the opportunity of the invitation to come all the way inside, staff ticking against the stone of the floor as he makes his careful way to a pew. "And your ear after that, if you'd hear my confession."

He considers a moment taking a seat and visibly decides against it, instead leaning hipshot on his staff. Not the time to risk dozing off in the peace and familiar quiet--as he's done too often lately.

[apologist]

“Of course, Monsieur.”

It is not his favorite thing, taking confession. Sometimes confessors admit horrible things; sometimes they admit sins so trivial that Jehan can only think how much worse his own are. Either way he frequently loses a few minutes of sleep. But it’s a duty, one he agreed to, and there’s no audible reluctance.

He makes his own ticking noise as he gets the tea, the cane he uses when he doesn’t need to move quickly or over great distances tapping against the ground more out of habit than anything—it’s not supporting any of his weight at the moment, but there to catch him if he needs it to. When he comes back to Myr he waits for a hand to press the cup into.

“It is very strong,” he warns as he moves away again, back to close the door (but not to lock it; the sound of it opening will be warning enough for both of them to stop talking if necessary), “so be careful, if you plan to sleep soon.”

I

[justice_is_blond]

This is the first time he's darkened this door. Anders has been basically everywhere else in the Gallows for some reason or another, but the chapels he's avoided. The Maker hasn't meant anything to him since he was 14 and he has no faith in the Chantry as a place of helping or compassion for anyone who doesn't expressly suit their needs.

But being married to a man who believes has lead to some conversations that have left him with questions so his feet have lead him here. It's not like there's any place for him in the chapels in the city proper. Seeing Jehan gives him yet another pause - not because of the man in particular, but because now being here and running into someone to ask questions of means he has to actually do it or stand there looking like an idiot.

Which he's currently doing, standing there looking like an idiot in Warden robes, arms crossed, barely over the threshold and looking uncomfortable.

"Are you particularly busy?" It's a possible out for Jehan if he doesn't want to deal with Anders right now, and a way to convince himself that he tried and it just didn't work out if he's turned down.

[apologist]

If Anders were a faster walker, he might have found Jehan lying on a pew, book held above his head to read, like a bored child. At his actual speed, however—one that is presumably more reluctant than rushed—Jehan hears footsteps and has time to sit up straight and close the book on his lap and look a bit more respectful of the space.

Not that he is ever truly disrespectful of the space. He just believes that the Maker won't mind if he lies on the pews, and he's likewise aware that seeing him do so might inspire people with less good intentions to think they can behave similarly. Appearances do matter. Examples.

Attempting to put on an appearance of respect also means he doesn't say, please deposit all bombs outside the door. But he thinks it, and that's the source of his slight, crooked smile, more than any particular pleasure at seeing Anders looking uncomfortable in the doorway. Perhaps he has blown up something else.

"Only as busy as I make myself," he says.

[justice_is_blond]

So there's no easy out. He wasn't expecting it, but there'd been at least a little hope.

He comes over and takes a seat on the pew, noting that more of it seems warm than would be accounted for by Jehan sitting, and for a brief second there's a flicker of amusement on his face. Then it's gone and his expression is very solemn again.

"I'd a discussion with someone the other day. On the topic of maleficar. It is my belief that when someone has gone that far there is no future for them. They believe that if one has enough regret and repentance, the Maker will relent. I was hoping you might offer clarity on that."

ii

[bouclier]

Evie doesn't find it necessary to maintain an office of her own when she has her own quarters off-campus. This of course means that when she has things to do, sometimes she occupies whatever space her cousin has taken up in.

She doesn't really have the patience for work today, however. Which has resulted in her making little paper birds and horses out of the parchment she was supposed to be using to respond to distant Orlesian nobles looking to have their heads patted for sending along a few pennies. Once she's bored with that, she turns to bothering her cousin.

"Did you just turn the Chant into Il est des nôtres? I do believe the Divine is rolling in her grave."

[apologist]

The answer to her question is yes. Jehan stops humming abruptly, as if caught with his hand in a jar, and mentally rewinds a few bars to see if he can make any argument at all for it having been the Chant proper—a different part, perhaps, skipping instead of—

No. Yes. He's turned the Chant into Il est des nôtres.

The other thing she said, though. He raises his head for that, looking not terribly offended but nonetheless more stern than entertained. "Too soon, Evie."

[bouclier]

She doesn't look entirely embarrassed or apologetic, rolling her eyes and waving a hand.

"I'm sorry. From what I've heard of the late Divine, she would have enjoyed your alterations." That probably isn't much better, but she's making an attempt.

ii

[arlathvhen]

It would probably be more appropriate for Beleth to ask Jehan her questions when he's in the Chantry. But Beleth doesn't want to go there, she doesn't want to be seen there, and she'd rather not waste his time there that he could spend on those who would rather need it. And so, it's while he's seated at his office and reading some book that looks like it would be a kindness to interrupt from, that she does exactly that.

Politely, of course. She stands at the doorway, hands clasped together. "Brother Jehan?" And once he's alerted, she goes ahead and steps inside, because she figures she's got that much privilege available, though she goes no further than standing in the general proximity of the table.

"Would it be alright if I took a seat? I'd like to speak with you, if I may." She pauses, and tilts her head, eyes glancing off to the side. Here is the awkward part, and Beleth takes a moment to steel herself for it. "I had questions I wanted to ask you. About--um. Andraste. If you're willing."

She's sure that wherever her mother is, she just felt a chill go down her spine.

[apologist]

Having recently dealt with an elf crying piteously about the destination of Dalish souls, Jehan can’t help looking somewhat wary. Please don’t let this be about Sina. Please don’t start crying. But friendliness overlays the wariness, then overtakes it entirely, and he puts the book aside face-down to hold his place.

“Of course, Scoutmaster,” he says. The deference feels odd to him, like slightly ill-cut clothes, but not in a way that anyone else can see.

[arlathvhen]

Once permission is given, Beleth takes the seat across from Jehan. A polite smile is given, as she neatly interlaces her fingers and rests them on the table. There’s enough settling in that it could be taken as nervous fidgeting, maybe this is going to dissolve into tears, maybe that is just Jehan’s life now, having to deal with crying elf ladies.

“Thank you, Jehan. I appreciate your willingness to speak with me.” She’s definitely stalling. But, after a few more awkwardly silent moments of thought, she finally decides how she wants to word this.

“Does the Chantry believe that souls who have died can, on occasion, stay in this realm, instead of passing on? That is to say—” Whelp, here it goes. “—Reincarnation.”