Chapter Text
Belfast, 1929
The church was one of the oldest in the area, its ancient beauty unfailing, its size unmatched. The richly ornamented facade, of sandstone so white it looked almost like snow, was shining in the rays of the setting sun. A tall, graceful figure was slowly walking towards the church, seemingly lost in thought. Her long auburn hair, shimmering like brushed copper in the afternoon glow, flowed down her back in loose curls, and from time to time she raised a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with delicate fingers. Her clothes were common at best, but in immaculate condition: a starched, white blouse under a simple dress of dark blue roughspun wool going down to her ankles, and black, laced heeled boots, the leather gone soft and supple from daily wear. And yet, despite the simplicity of her wardrobe, the girl had an aura of elegance surrounding her like light. Her every move seemed deliberate and smooth, as if she was swaying to a music no one but her could hear. She held her head high, her gaze fixated on the church doors, determinedly coming closer with every step.
Soon the church was no longer looming on the horizon but towering over her, high and enormous. The girl took a deep breath, gathered her skirts, and confidently set a foot on the stairs leading up to the church. The sound of her heel on the white sandstone broke the silence like a gunshot. Startled, a cawing crow took flight from the bell tower. Then there was silence again. The girl took another step, ascending the stairs determinedly, until she stood in front of the tall, oaken double doors, her hand resting on the brass door knocker. She took another deep breath, knocked three times, and entered the church without waiting for a reply.
The girl's name was Sansa Stark. She had come to make her confession.
The scent of incense tickled her nose, and Sansa was immediately put at ease. She loved this church. She loved the white marble basin near the entrance, filled with holy water, and she dipped her fingers in it and quickly made the sign of the cross to honor this holy place. She loved the way the sun broke through the stained glass windows and cascaded over the walls and the floor like gemstones. She loved the holy altar, and the small, plain door behind it that led to the sacristy. She loved the crucifix above it. Sansa raised her gaze and looked at the artistic depiction of God's ultimate sacrifice, her Lord Jesus dying in agony to purge her sins. It was for his sake she had come here today.
Sansa had not gone to confession in a long time. The reason for this was the new priest.
Sansa had first met Father Baelish when he had come to visit the orphanage where she had been living since her parents were murdered. Mother Mary Angela, the kind, elderly nun overseeing the institution, had introduced him with a beaming face. “Girls, meet Father Baelish!” A wide smile spread on her lips. “He will be our new priest, and it is thanks to his dedication and devotion that all our home has the continuous support of its benefactors. He is a good man—“
Father Baelish had interrupted her then. “Thank you, Mother Mary Angela, for these kind words.” His voice was perfectly measured, a sentimental melody to his words. He spoke loud enough to be heard by everyone, but still there was something in his voice that made Sansa lean closer, listening harder, as if there was a hidden message in his words she would miss if she was not careful. “It is true, I spoke to many benefactors of our parish, making certain this fine establishment will remain open. But I did not come here today for your praise. I came here to meet you. In God's words, I came here as your shepherd, and now I want to meet my flock. I heard some of you girls are even considering taking the veil once you are of age? A fine choice.”
“These girls are the pride of our house,” Mother Mary Angela had chimed it. “Come, step forward. Let the Father look at your face.”
Sansa had taken a step forward, together with five other girls. She had not grown up wanting to become a nun, but everything had changed after the murder of her parents. She had been left with nothing, her parents' house plundered by corrupt state officials, her former high-class education no longer paid for. She had come to the orphanage as a beggar, and they had taken her in. Since then she had experienced God's grace and guidance in more ways than she could count, and now she was certain she wanted to dedicate her life serving the Lord.
Father Baelish approached the six aspiring nuns with a warm smile and open arms. “May the Lord bless you.” Then he turned to her. “What is your name, child?”
His eyes were grey-green, like two pools of moss. A silver streak ran through his immaculately coiffed hair, of a brown so dark it looked almost black. The hint of a smile flashed over his lips. And there was something else about him, something Sansa could not name. It made her feel so strange inside, warm and cold at the same time, and left her heart beating slightly faster. She could feel herself blushing under his watchful eyes. It was a most unsettling feeling. “My name is Sansa Stark.”
He smiled again, somehow sadly, and took up a strand of her long, auburn hair. “You remind me of a girl I once knew,” he whispered softly. His fingers brushed against her cheek as he let them run through her hair. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away, and left Sansa standing there as if in a haze, trying to steady her breathing and feeling uneasy in her very core.
From that moment on, Father Baelish was a part of Sansa's life, as much as she detested it. She saw him every Sunday at church, listening to his sermon quietly, more often than not baffled and concerned by his modern, open-minded interpretation of the scripture. Why everyone seemed to agree with Father Baelish, and much more, seemed to like him, Sansa could not have said. Even after seven months, her heart still beat faster when she knelt in front of him to receive the Holy Communion, and a shudder crept down her spine when his finger accidentally brushed her lip. It was deeply unnerving and unwelcome.
So Sansa had decided to avoid Father Baelish as much as she possibly could, leaving mass each Sunday before talking to him, and not going to confession for as long as she dared. But now she could not defer it any longer. After seven months, her soul ached for absolution, to be cleansed of her sins. Sansa let her gaze wander through the church one last time, soaking up the presence of the Holy Spirit to lend her guidance during her confession. Then she quietly slid into the confessional and knelt, holding her breath, waiting to hear his voice. “Welcome, my child.”
Sansa shuddered. Seeing Father Baelish once a week was unsettling enough. Kneeling in front of him in the confessional was agitating. She could barely make out his face behind the screen, and she did not know if she should be relieved or perturbed by that. She made the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven months, one week, and two days since my last confession.”
“Miss Stark.” He recognized her voice immediately, his words warm and soft. “Yes. I have been waiting for you for so long.”
A shudder crept down Sansa's spine as soon as he mentioned her name. Granted, she had not made her confession to many different priests in her young life, but she was sure Father Baelish's remarks had not been in accordance with Catechism. She quickly pushed the thought aside.
“Tell me, child,” the priest continued. “What brings you here today?”
She thought the answer was fairly obvious. Or was he tricking her? “I... I have sins to confess.”
“I have sins to confess, Father,” he gently corrected her. “Oh, that much I know, my child. My question is... Why are you coming today, after seven months of silence?”
Because I could not bring myself to talk to you sooner , she wanted to respond, but she swallowed her words. “Doing evil is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord,” she answered instead. “I fear the loss of heaven and the fires of hell. So I refrain from sinning.”
“And now you have slipped.” His voice sounded almost amused.
“I am an imperfect person,” replied Sansa defensively.
The priest chuckled. “Of that, I am not sure.”
Sansa did not know what to respond to that. So she knelt in uncomfortable silence, a silent prayer on her lips. She could not have said how long she had been kneeling there before his voice broke the silence. It could have been hours. “Let me hear your sins, then,” he softly commanded. “Have you committed any mortal sins, my child?”
“No,” Sansa replied firmly, thankful for the change of pace. Finally she was in known territory again, finally she knew what Father Baelish would ask and how she would respond. After the unsettling minutes that lay behind, she was deeply grateful for that.
“No, Father,” he corrected her again, his voice reverberating with the smile that must have been undoubtedly on his lips, hidden behind the screen. He seemed to enjoy taking her confession. “And have you committed any venial sins, child?”
“Yes, F—Father,” Sansa answered, the second word stuck in her throat. She did not know why she could barely bring herself to address Father Baelish with his title. Somehow it seemed wrong. Unholy.
“Tell me of them, my child.” The priest's voice was soft as velvet.
“I bore false witness,” Sansa confessed. “Two times.” There had been no harm in the lies, Sansa knew, but they had stained her soul all the same. Two times Sansa had told Mother Mary Angela she had enjoyed Father Baelish's sermon, although she had not. The guilt of her lie had lain heavy on Sansa's soul.
“Did you do so with the intention of hurting someone?” asked the priest.
“No, Father,” Sansa answered, this time without hesitating. The word left a bilious taste in her mouth. “The lies were kindly meant.”
“Then your sins are venial indeed,” the priest assessed. “Do you have anything else to confess, my child?”
“No, Father,” Sansa answered again.
“Seven months, one week, and two days,” Father Baelish repeated, “and this is all you have to confess?”
Sansa nodded, reassuring herself. “I told you. I refrain from sinning.”
The priest chuckled. “What a shame.”
Once again, Sansa did not know what to respond to that. After all, not sinning was a good thing. It paved her way to heaven. And yet Father Baelish . . . did he think her a liar? If so, he could not be more mistaken. Sansa would never withhold her sins in confession. How else should she grow spiritually? She was just about to justify herself when he spoke again. “For your penance, two Hail Marys will suffice, my child. Would you like to make an act of contrition?”
“Yes, Father.” Sansa put her hands together in prayer. “My God, I regret my sins with all my heart, for they have offended you greatly. See the remorse in my soul, oh Lord, and forgive me my sins. In the name of my savior, Jesus Christ, who died for my sins and the sins of all mankind, oh God, have mercy. Amen.”
“May God give you pardon and peace,” replied Father Baelish. “I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
And as soon as he spoke the words, Sansa felt God's mercy wash over her and cleanse her of her sins, and her soul was pure again, and her heart rejoiced. She was jubilant. “Amen,” she echoed breathlessly, her heart pounding in her chest. Oh, she had almost forgotten how wonderful this felt! She had let her feelings against Father Baelish stand between her and the Lord's grace for too long now. It was time she looked past it. She did not have to become friends with Father Baelish, after all—all that mattered was that he guided her spiritually, and how could he do that if she did not let him?
“God has forgiven your sins. Go in peace, my child.” Father Baelish's voice still had so much warmth to it.
Sansa smiled. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered. “Thanks be to God.”