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He can’t remember which came first—all the looks or his hiding away from them. Bettel considers that perhaps the nuns wouldn’t be so suspicious of him if he didn’t sneak around at night and act so skittish in the mornings, but they should also consider that he wouldn't need to find a proper moment to be alone or feel so nervous around them if they'd stop suspecting him of something. They might be receptive to this idea of a two-way street if he brings it up—he’s the only one in the convent who thinks that religion is more of a call-and-no-response kind of deal—but he is not hopeful.
Rain tears in dark, blustery sheets beyond the long corridor between the dorms and the chapel. The sound is loud enough to mask the swollen creaking of the confessional as Bettel slides one of its doors open. Seated clumsily inside is a young man, with the same red fuss of hair Bettel first spotted in the pews during a secret foray to the kitchen a few nights ago. He was scared enough then, and he’s scared enough now, and doesn’t do much to hide it with his hands trembling on the old wood.
"You finally found me," the young man frowns, but he sounds nonchalant. "Hm."
Or maybe he seems just a little displeased, in the way where he's trying not to show it. Like he doesn't want Bettel to trouble himself over it. This is perplexing if he’s trying not to be in the way. He's sitting in the priest’s compartment.
Bettel tells him so. “You’re in my seat.”
“Oh,” the young man says. He moves to get up. “I haven’t done this before. That might be obvious." He eyes the confessional curiously. "This is where I come to get help, right? Like if I lose something and need help finding it?”
“That’s actually quite correct,” Bettel nods, meaning it both honestly and sarcastically.
When the young man moves out of the dark shadow of the booth, Bettel assesses his chances of escaping: his own thin arms against little horns and a tail flicking around like a snake’s tongue. Neither trait bodes well, but Bettel has an apparent fascination with putting himself at risk.
He instructs the demon to take up the proper kneeling position in his section of the booth, which he does with no hesitation; he’s quite amicable, actually, and chats airily about the journey here—inconvenient, given the storm—and the few times he’d visited to see if this place might be suited to his needs. He knows Bettel had seen him a few times, and thinks it's funny.
“So, you’re looking for something?” Bettel asks, feeling less sheepish as the demon chatters away, but still wary based on the principle of the thing. And a demon confessing its sins feels much too ontological than he is willing to entertain at the moment.
The demon doesn't seem to share that sentiment. It says “Yes. Well, I am. But I’m unsure if I lost it. I thought I’d start there.”
“Ah, I see,” Bettel says, not seeing at all, but understanding. “And what is it that you might not have lost?"
"It was my birthday recently, you see,” the demon explains. "A demon's birthday is the day they regain a little more memories of their past life as a human."
"Happy belated birthday. Y'know, not that I'm the most learned person on this or anything, but I thought demons were fallen angels, not humans."
"Well, they can be either," the demon says patiently from behind his little curtain. "Nowadays, most of us were once humans. God realised Heaven was having a bit of a retention issue and changed up some of the conditions for eternal damnation."
"So He made it harder to go to Hell?" Bettel frowns. He is unsure if that's a good thing. He also ignores the existence or nonexistence of God—he prefers the room for doubt in either direction. "You seem pretty nice. I can't imagine what you might have done to get there."
The demon gives him a sad smile, then. Like he can't imagine what he'd done either.
"Memories of a life you used to have are very painful. I think that's true for both humans and demons. Maybe Hell is already on Earth."
Bettel laughs humourlessly. "Oh, definitely."
Then that sad smile passes from the demon's face, replaced by a remarkably blank expression. Like he can't handle what he'll say next, or like he's talking about someone else. Like he's only reciting it. "When I was a child I sold my soul to a demon. A really old one with a lot of power. But I don't yet remember what I could've wanted enough to do that, or whether I got it in the end."
"Damn," Bettel says in response, then flinches slightly like he does whenever he remembers God is Watching, especially here in the chapel, currently faced with His most fundamental of adversaries. Bettel doesn't remember if demons can be saved or whether he's supposed to try, whether it's only beings with souls that can be wrested from the Devil that he must make the attempt for. He wouldn't have bothered regardless, because he doesn't think himself pretentious enough for what saving someone requires, but he likes to keep track of his failures or the things people will think of as failures.
"That'll get you damned, yeah," he finishes pathetically. He doesn't think the demon wants comfort. He might need it in the way that many creatures do, like light, if they want a little less pain, but he seems very firm and careful about his purpose even despite his open demeanour, and comfort would likely throw him off. He wouldn't know what to do with it.
"You really seem too nice to be a demon. Or thoughtful," Bettel observes instead. "Not maniacal and evil at all."
The demon shrugs. "There's all kinds of demons."
"Uh-huh. Are you an old demon?"
"No, I'm only 18,432. And some of those years are from the future."
"Sure."
Bettel can hear a smile in the demon's voice. "I incorporated a lot of mechanical parts into my body when I went to the future. I tried using a battery as a heart, and replaced my tail with plastic and wires, and my eyes glowed with electricity, which is a kind of magic, but not the regular kind of magic you're used to. But I couldn't bring any of that back with me here. Even though I don't live on Earth, I have to follow some of its rules."
"You made all of that up," Bettel says, flippant, like a child. "None of those things are real words."
"You're funny," the demon giggles. "You're not afraid of me."
"Oh, no, I'm terrified," Bettel reassures the demon earnestly. "I'm hoping you'll stay in there while I stay in here, where I'm safe. And that you'll tell me your name, too, so that I can rebuke it later."
The demon laughs. Bettel is pleased he has a sense of humour, not because he's worried about being eaten or having his soul dragged down into the earth, but in the way that making a stranger laugh eases the tension of talking with someone new. Not for the first time he's remembering that he is far from an exemplary priest, with his irreverent priorities and his operating more on guilt than on faith. He's very lucky, too.
"Machina X Flayon," the demon says simply. It's a biblical name if he's ever heard one. "Just Flayon is okay."
"As a soldier in the army of the Lord I have been granted a holy power," Bettel explains. "I can cleanse any creature I know the name of, in His light, so that it might be saved. I'm sorry it has to be this way."
The demon laughs again. "You made that up."
"Of course I did. I hardly believe in this shit." Bettel flinches. "Oops, don't tell Him I said that."
"I won't. I also can't, y'know, seeing as I'm not allowed up there."
"Right. Anyways, we've lost track. What you're looking for, then, is your soul?"
"I think so. Or if I ever had one. I have yet to be sure."
"If you never had one, could you have sold it?"
“That's… true.” The demon stops to think for a second. “Wow, you’re very smart. It was a good idea to come to you for help.”
Bettel laughs nervously at that.
“At first, I just wanted someone to talk to. And you seemed like you wouldn’t judge.”
“Judging is my entire profession.”
“Well, you also seem nice. Why else would you keep that thing slowly sucking away at your soul around?”
That what? “That what?”
The demon hums. Then he mutters, sounding a bit pouty, “You asked for my name, you know. The least you could do is use it.”
Bettel does not even know where to begin thinking about that. “Okay.”
Flayon hums. “Step out of the confessional for a second, if you’d be so kind.”
Bettel obliges him. Not without a heavy sigh first. It wouldn’t do to seem willing to do what Flayon tells him to do.
They’re standing up. It’s dark, but even in the weak light Bettel can see the colour of Flayon’s eyes constantly flickering and changing shape. Flayon points to Bettel’s shoulder.
“It’s there. I think it might be something more like me than like you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised. What does it look like?”
“Well, it has one eye. It’s cute, actually. Like a dog. Like if a dog only had room on its face for one eye.”
“You’re quite the poet.”
Flayon leans in closer, peering at Bettel’s shoulder. Bettel, by this point, is too existentially exasperated to even bother flinching away.
“On second thought, it might be a phantom of some sort. You might want to exorcise it.”
“Is that something you’d be able to do?”
Flayon’s eyes flicker wildly, like if Bettel were to go hold a candle out in the storm. He watches as Flayon shivers, shaking the question off of him.
“I like you, so I’m going to tell you this. You shouldn’t ask demons things like that.”
Bettel opens his mouth. Then he closes it. “You’re right. I was too comfortable, there.”
“You were. There’s a lot of contracts and things in the way, but a more maniacal and evil demon would have no trouble getting you to agree. And then it would eat your soul and I can’t visit again if that happens.”
You’re going to come back? Bettel thinks. He wonders if he might as well have said it out loud.
Flayon purses his lips. “You’re not being honest with me,” he says after a moment, leaning back to fold his arms.
Bettel feels himself starting to sweat. “About?”
“You know it’s there.”
“I don’t,” Bettel says, instantly relieved. He thought this was about something else. He doesn’t even know what, just something else. “I didn’t. I didn’t know what it was.”
It had just shown up the first day he’d gotten to the convent, those months ago. And like his other, numerous bad habits, he couldn’t help but feed it. Maybe that makes him a good priest. Feeding things that ask to be fed. Not leaving a soul out in the rain.
Flayon sighs. “You really are too nice. It’s eating away at your soul, you know.”
Bettel doesn’t leave no-souls out in the rain either.
He shrugs. “You don’t seem too bad without yours.”