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"Thirty pieces of silver."
The words are spoken impossibly softly. Judas' throat struggles around them, almost chokes. It tumbles clumsily from his lips to land on the grass next to their bare feet, like stones sinking to the bottom of a lake. Judas listens to the silent ripples in the air around them.
They've been sitting alone for what feels like hours now. The silence leaves a faint ringing in his ears. Jesus knows where he'd been today. Of course He did. There was nothing He didn't know. As much as anything that could die could know, at least. His information came from the Father. In order to die, He had to be mortal, after all. How often does Judas wonder if that which makes Him mortal also makes Him capable of sin.
Despite his doubts, he hopes not. Hopes more than anything that their love isn't sin.
Judas knows better.
"That is what they decided Your life is worth. Thirty pieces of silver." Just like that, they had decided what the Son of God is worth. As if they could ever quantify Him. As if there was any amount of silver on earth that would be enough for him to betray his Lord.
"My death," Jesus corrects him. His voice is gentle as always, like calm waves on the ocean. It carries, fills the space around them like a campfire late at night. His breaths fill the silence in-between like stars. "That is how much they are willing to pay for My death."
And Jesus is right, because He always is. And Judas listens, because he always does. Judas curls into himself, mulls over it in his mind like a wine that's gone sour. Like stale bread or rotten fruit.
"It's pitiful," he spits out. Pitiful doesn't begin to cover it.
Jesus' only response is a hum. Neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Simply an acknowledgement. Judas has known Him for long enough now to know that He wants to say something, but can't. That the Father's wishes keeps Him from speaking His mind. While He so often preaches on all manners of things, that which is close to His heart is so often guarded.
Judas would know, the first time he had confessed — and that's what it had been, a confession — his love to Jesus, he had received the same hum.
That's okay. Loving the Son of God wasn't something that could ever truly be returned. Not in the way a normal mortal could return it. There would be no blossoming flowers in spring, gentle touches, or honey shared between two pairs of lips. Jesus has a role to fill. A role that didn't include Judas in the picture, or at least not in the way Judas craved.
What he wouldn't give to never leave His side.
"There is no one else I trust enough to do this," Jesus speaks as if able to read his thoughts. He does so often, even if He's assured Judas that unlike the Father, he couldn't sense mortals' thoughts. He simply knew his disciples, knew Judas especially. "I need you."
"You know what they'll do to You." Of course He knows. He'd confessed to Judas late one night that the Father had told him exactly what was lying in wait for him. He refuses to tell him any details. The closer they got to it, however, the clearer it's becoming to him.
"You expect me to not just let that happen, but to be the very one that betrays You? Ask anyone, my Lord. Anyone but me. Please, I beg of you." And he would fall to his knees if he wasn't already sitting. Instead, he clutches at the edges of Jesus' robes, like so many faithfuls had before him.
None of it seems to be swaying Him, an unmoving oak tree in the face of a breeze. Nothing but the slightest stirring on the surface.
"Or better yet, don't do it at all. People already believe. We can spread the word as we have been. You can have a life." Where I can stand next to you, Judas thinks but doesn't say. It didn't need to be spoken aloud. For as long as Jesus lived, Judas would be by his side. It came as easily as the sun rose every morning.
With a gentle hand, Jesus covers Judas' with His own. "This is My Father's will." There's a sadness to His tone, right underneath the surface. A hesitancy in the words like a stumble over a pebble during a dance. If you didn't know the steps as well as Judas does, it could easily be mistaken for part of it. But he knows better. It wasn't.
Just as he knows Jesus, so too did He know Judas. "The people need this. For them to believe, for their sins to be forgiven; I must be the Lamb." Because he knows how Judas feels for the people. Always the one to put himself last. While he may believe strongly in the gospel, his belief in what was best for the people is even stronger.
The breath he lets out is a shaky stutter, an autumn leaf falling to the floor too slow and too fast at the same time. The weight is cracking his ribs. "Please, my Lord." It's barely above a whisper. A plea to which he knows he won't receive what he wants. None of his prayers will be answered. That is the price for his sin of loving the Son of God. He voices it regardless, unable to keep it in as much as one can indefinitely cup water in their hands.
"Do not beg, My Judas." Jesus brings his hands up to His lips, brushes them against Judas' knuckles. The touch is featherlight. Gentle in a way he only ever is with Judas. How selfish that was of him, to want to keep Jesus to himself when the world needs Him so desperately.
While his expression stays clear, he can see the storm brewing within Jesus' eyes. The deep brown holding dark thunderclouds. It doesn't threaten to spill over, not yet, but Judas feels like he's been hit by lightning. "I have already begged My Father. We must give ourselves over and trust in His plan."
Fuck the plan.
Shame floods Judas as soon as the thought crosses his mind. How could he think such a thing? On reflex, he withdraws his hands and wrings them together. The blasphemy burns through his mind like hot coal. Judas has dedicated his whole life to His plan. So he trusted the plan. Of course he did.
Didn't he?
The smile on Jesus' face is wrong. Hollow. An echo of Judas' own chest. He doesn't reach for Judas' hands again. He so seldomly initiated contact. Judas mourns the loss of touch immediately and tries not to regret his actions.
"You have given so much already, my Lord." As if he could somehow change the Son of God's mind. A mere man.
"I know."
"There is still so much left to do here on earth." As if Jesus hasn't already done more than any one person would ever do.
"I know."
Judas feels frustration building, a dam on the brink of bursting. The tears make his vision blurry, but none fall. "I cannot go on without you."
There it was. The truth. This time, Jesus reaches for his face and cups his cheek with a gentleness that makes Judas flinch. It's not something he's worthy of. He accepts it regardless, just this once. Selfishly.
"I know."
There's more of a sadness to those two words now. A deep grief and understanding. Of course He understood. He was Jesus of Nazareth, Son of God, Lover of Judas. No one could understand better.
"This is far bigger than you or Me, My dear Judas. More than some mortal want."
Everything in Judas rages at how unfair that is. At how unfair life is. He's never been a selfish man. Never. Not until he met Jesus. Not until he started craving those eyes, those hands, those lips. He had been so good all his life. Does he not deserve something other than eternal damnation for that? Simply for loving. Is that not what Jesus preached? Love?
But more than himself, he mourned for Jesus. For His mother. For the pain He would go through. Judas had overheard them talking. How they would bring Jesus to an end. A cross. A crown. A crucifixion. More than just death, it would be humiliation. He'd been born for this. Born to die. And Judas had been born to lead Him to the slaughter. Judas couldn't bear the thought. Not when it felt like he was born to love Him.
"Please." But it's a useless plea and they both know it.
Jesus leans forward, brushes His lips against Judas' cheek. It lingers, like sticky sweet nectar, like a hot summer's day, like splinters from the callouses Jesus carries from his life as a carpenter. It feels like home. It feels like a death sentence.
It is one.
"How could I deny You anything, my Lord?" Judas' voice is filled with a quiet resignation. As lonely as a dinner table with no one sat at it.
"My life is Yours." And he knows Jesus cannot say the same to him. His life belongs to humanity. He will sacrifice Himself for them, because His Father demands it. But just for a moment, he catches a glimpse of an apology in His eyes. For a second, he is standing on water, and he's not looking down. Judas knows as long as he is looking at Jesus, he cannot fall. He can pretend to see the same love reflected in his Messiah's eyes as the one that burns like a wildfire in his.
Thirty pieces of silver wasn't the only cost. Judas' soul would be taken as well. But it was a small price to pay, wasn't it? For their cause. He would love Jesus even after he was cast to Hell. Judas would love Him endlessly. More than anyone else ever could.
Wasn't that a privilege? Perhaps if he pretends it is, those thirty pieces of silver won't feel quite as heavy.
He looks away, breaks eye contact, and feels himself fall. Feels himself drowning.