The chalice rested by itself upon the central altar. Everything else had already been taken up and put into the sacristy, including the more elaborate vestments he was made to wear during service. Those who attended daily mass were more than Malachi had first expected, yet still not as many as he'd hoped. Not as many as he planned, once he settled fully into the seaside community that was his current home. It was an excellent start, though, and his efforts thus far had been well enough received by those in attendance.

Still only late morning, a bright light cast through the windows and illuminated the well-kept sanctuary. The church had mostly emptied out after service, with only an elderly couple remaining behind in one of the back pews, eyes closed in silent prayer. Malachi shut the sacristy door as gently as he could, and his steps were just as quiet as he returned to the altar. With a sideways glance towards the couple, he swiped the chalice and downed the last drop of wine.

Malachi cleared the altar properly then, lips tinted red with the blood of Christ.

The old couple took their leave some minutes after that. He stepped down to offer them farewells, followed to the door, and held it open for them both to pass through. Only then did a sigh escape him. Malachi stood tall in the open doorway, eyes fixed upon the backs of their heads as they left.

After they had renounced their antique gods, the Basque people became staunchly christian and their deep faith has been a strong identity element ever since.

While they had been stripped of most of their own culture by necessity and other men’s greed, Chéri still saw the Church as the ultimate deliverance place. Wherever they went, if they found a church they knew God would be there for them, not only to save and forgive them, but also to comfort them.
Chéri knew nothing of religious differences, here they probably would not have guessed the difference between a catholic and an Anglican church, but somehow they got lucky and could rely on a place where concepts like dear to them their saint protector, the Virgin Mary and repentance passing purely through their heart were accepted.

Chéri wasn’t here for repentance though, not today. They were here for assistance. As they approached the Church’s door, they bumped into the last attendees of the morning mass and into an exceedingly tall priest, sighing to their backs.
Confused, they turned back, turned again to the priest, and then crossed their arms, trying to sign “is the church now closed?”, potentially having given up on bumping into someone who understood them.
They were definitely an oddity to see: average height, Chéri looked light and delicate, even ephebic. They could be twenty yet, fast and light in their movement as they were, blessed with all the energy of the youth and an angelic face that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a sacred painting. Their clothes were splendidly cut but too flamboyant in colour, which easily identified them as a foreigner, no matter how determined they looked as they walk towards anything. They were clutching a bag in their hand, the international sign of the traveler and a pleading look painted on their face that demanded at least a few minutes inside the sacred place.

As foreign to Whitby as the delicate thing that approached him, if not even more so -- Malachi could recognize when someone needed help. He needed it often enough himself, each time he was relocated from one place to the next. For that reason, his confusion with the vague, attempted signs was only brief, and he stepped aside so as not to block the open doorway.

"You're welcome to come inside," offered Malachi, hoping that he had at least caught the gist of what they'd meant. Leaving the door propped open, he turned to enter the nave himself, and gestured for the foreigner to follow him.

"Do you speak English?"

He hadn't heard them speak, nor could he immediately tell if they had any other issue speaking. Whatever the case, he'd make do, if they were seeking something from him. Malachi returned his gaze to them, calm and patient; the antithesis of the youth's colorful and spirited demeanor.

Not having the same amount of experience with the town as Malachi, Chéri did not recognise the priest as their peer, hence they kept a respectful distance, like an animal who is in need of assistance but does not dare fully trust the other creature they have approached. But alas, the priest welcome them and Chéri, made a quick, grateful gesture, exhibiting a non-threatening neutral expression, slowly stepping into the sacred place.

But -surprise!- the priest seemed to have the intention of leading them inside. Chéri’s English was very basic, but the question was clear enough. They shook their head and said “Non, monsieur”, which was per se an answer to a following question. Like a good second violin, Chéri tamed the energy of their movement, their place slowed and their exuberance faded, matching the calmer dignity they saw in the priest.

Probably filled with what Chéri would describe as “appropriately christian respect”, Chéri stated their general intentions. “I am here to ask for advice.” And whether that would be to god or to the man that stood in front of them would be unclear even to a fluent French speaker.

Monsieur. It had been a long time since Malachi had heard that one.

"Père," came his gentle correction. "Père Brennan."

They were French, then; he adjusted as quickly as he could to the realization, feeling suddenly grateful for his father's insistence regarding the learning of other languages. He was not fluent, but he could easily hold a conversation when need be.

Malachi folded his hands, allowing them to rest behind his back in a comfortable hold. After they spoke, he waited a moment, going over the words in his head to make sure he had understood them.

"Advice," repeated Malachi. While his tone sounded unsure, his French was at least correct, if slightly basic. He nodded to the nearest pew.

"Would you like to sit, and tell me what you want advice for?"

“Père Brennan,” Chéri corrected themselves, nodding, offering a light smile. Through a fortuitous combination of youth, a bubbly personality and acute physical self awareness, Chéri’s smile was incredibly warm and intimate, even in its lighter form like in this case. The authenticity of their relief only added to the twinkle once could see in their eyes. Effortlessly, Chéri said with their facial expression what they wouldn’t say with their words: I am grateful to meet someone who understands me and is willing to make themselves understood.

Chéri absolutely notice the very gentlemanly pose the priest took and the time he took to evaluate his words, adding them to what they knew about Malachi.

Chéri nodded. Advice. They moved to a pew, where Chéri rested their luggage and sat with their legs together, the palms on top of heat other, both on one of their lap. They looked in front of them, trying to find the words, then turned to Malachi, their words now measured and clear “I have lost everything. I don’t know where to go. I will make some money, but my old life is over,” they said that with the hardness and the objectivity of someone who found this circumstance less than alien.

Malachi followed them, at a slight delay to ensure he maintained his distance, to the aforementioned pew. Once he was seated, he crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands atop his knee, pale fingers stark against the darkness of his robes. There was a gentle silence as he waited for them to speak, eyes following the delicate profile of their face.

When they turned to him, there were no hints as to the priest's thoughts displayed in any visible fashion. It was his place to listen, and to offer what advice he could, but not to inject anything more.

"Your old life..."

Malachi paused, searching for the right words to ask the question he wanted. He wasn't sure how to be as formal as he usually wished to be, but his casual understanding would have to do.

"Can I ask what happened? Why do you say you've lost everything?"

While the need to confess their situation and their quest for help had put Chéri in a contemplative mood, they couldn't help but notice the priest movements. Always interested in how other humans moved, Chéri followed the flow of Malachi's movement like a play, like music, to undo and redo them in their mind. Encountering his thoughtless expression again, Chéri took it as an invitation to lower his gaze, turning their head once again.

Chéri did not seem to mind waiting for Malachi, and as he next question came, they took extra time to properly formulate, as simply as they could. Once again, they felt the need to not look in his face.

"Someone who... Took care of me requested I came to this land. For this person, I have given up those who took care of me before and I have lost my career. Going back alone is dangerous and the person who brought me here is bad. So bad I cannot go back for my things. I have no money to start again, here or in France, and I am alone." They looked at the cross "I need the Lord's guidance". No pity or repentance in their voice.

Someone who took care of them... Malachi gave a nod as he followed along, catching the majority of what was said. Enough to glean the meaning underneath.

"That must have been very hard," he commented, still sounding somewhat unsure. All the phrases required for his duties as a priest, he knew by heart -- but the rest of it? Malachi was just hoping that he did not say anything strange or inappropriate on accident. Following their light-eyed gaze, he looked to the cross.

"God is always here for you, and I am too, when you need me. I would be glad to..."

A pause.

"...to help you, if you have trouble finding a job or a place to stay. What do you do?"

Malachi did seem to follow, but his face was still a mask of neutrality and Chéri did not know how to take it. They side eyed the priest, hoping to catch him unprepared and guess at least the general direction. No luck.

Chéri sighed. “It was hard,” they confirmed. Chéri looked down again, reflecting on their decision, starting to patch together new ones. And while they were still in the process, Malachi spoke again.

Chéri raised their eyes and stared at him, their eyes so big it was impossible not to guess how young they must be and yet there was something very defensive about them, like a pet that never became properly domesticated and still distrusted humans, probably for good reason. Chéri adjusted their back and, showing now a hint of pride and said “I’m an entertainer.” They left that sink in for a moment, probably giving Malachi the chance to show any potentially horror or morbid interest or anything that could give Chéri I cue on whether they should be running away now. Then they added “I also was a dancer.” Which implied they no longer were “I can sing and I can act while I sing.” They went slow, to make sure they were understandable. The rest of their skills, they left unsaid, it was something that would require a proper confession and this was not it.

Chéri cleared their voice and this time didn’t look away. “I would be grateful even just for a meal,” they finally confessed.