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The case at hand is your problem. It isn't anyone else's, because anyone else would've had this done already. Affiliation be damned, people flock to well written sermons, let alone concise. If you can't do that, the clergy won't be happy. Furious, given the population of this small town's proclivities. You were assigned here, even at your age, to preach about His love, His care, and His devotion.
The town was... somewhat hesitant to accept someone outside of their beliefs but you took it in stride. The only issue was the pastor. Was being the key word; since his passing had abruptly ended all issues with his school of thought. The nuns looked at you with disdain nonetheless, treating you like you had killed their beloved clergyman with your own, Godfearing hands.
The only normal one in this town was the youngest woman of God, Angelica. She couldn't attend sermons, of course not, but she did bring extra produce from the convent's garden when they had some. It wasn't much but you didn't need excess. That's a sin, even if it's a basic one most subscribe to on accident.
Not that every 'sin' was bad. Some were just human acts, ones that you were sure any higher power would understand. The need to change your body, to mold it inside His grasp into an image you enjoyed... that was as close to understanding the machinations of Him as you could get. It had to be or you would go crazy from overthinking, from doubt and fear. Your body, as it was now, was as you made it. You were older now, liked to think you were wiser, and content with the image you had of yourself.
Some in the town thought older meant closer to their morbid rituals, but you weren't that old. Middle-aged at most, but not on your deathbed!
At that thought, you sighed. This sermon wouldn't be finished if you kept on like this. Maybe organizing would bring you inspiration, desks and cloth righted with candles lit. Maybe the Mother would like some light shined upon her visage? You smiled softly at the idea, righting your glasses from where they'd slipped down in your moment of small panic.
As you walked over, small lighter in hand, the icon slowly became basked in the soft orange light of the burning wick. Lidded eyes shone as they bore into her Son, hands cradling like He was merely a child. It was sweet, a kind of innocence inherent to Mary you admired. You blinked, an idea ping ponging in your head. A little prayer to a saint or angel! That would help immensely, rather than agonizing over it all night. Your hands clasped together nearly on instinct and you opening your mouth to begin. "Dear guardian angels and archangels, I ask for—"
"You called?" came a rough voice behind you. You whirled around, rosary swinging with your robes as you stared wide-eyed at whoever came in. The door hadn't creaked, had you really been so engrossed in your mind that you had forgone checking the outside of your church at night? You wanted to chastise yourself, run your hands through your hair and sigh at your forgetfulness.
"Hey, you know it's rude not to greet a man granted sanctuary," the man said, grin clear in his voice as you blinked. The moon had long been up, light filtering through the stained glass and painting the church in a soft white glow. The stranger was especially highlighted, as if the moon itself was drawn to fall on him. A golden eye bore into you behind a mop of white curls. he seemed to glow in the blues and whites that fell upon him.
"I haven't... I mean, I don't recall seeing you come in. Nor requesting sanctuary...," the words died in your throat as he stood, coat trailing behind him as he strolled towards you. Part of you was scared, part of you was mesmerized. Another annoyed due to being interrupted during a prayer. It wasn't rude, it happens, but still! You clammed up as he stood in front of you, eye never wavering as he looked down at you. He looked amused, like your floundering was funny to him. Like there was something to laugh about.
"No, Father, the prayer. You dedicated one to angels, pal," he laughed, almost a giggle as his eye crinkled up into a crescent shape. Fear doesn't factor in anymore, mere confusion does. His smile dropped slowly as he glanced down at you once more. He didn't look bored, merely waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When he saw the puzzle pieces click in your mind, he laughed again. It wasn't a giggle anymore, but a full blown rumble that escalated into a bellow. You stayed silent, mouth hanging open slightly as he slowly calmed down. "Oh, man. Pal, your face... damn, that's— shit, sorry. It's just funny! Ha!" His index finger wiped his eye and he smiled tiredly down at you once more. "Forcas, it's a pleasure. I'm no demon, just a..." he trailed off, eye rising to the ceiling before zeroing back in on you. His hand rose under your chin to realign your jaw with your face. "A guiding hand, really," he said gently, hand lingering before shooting back to his side. Like he'd been burned.
And wasn't that a thought? An angel, with an eye like molten gold and bubbling magma, to be burned? From merely a stray touch, a soft hand to save you from your embarrassment? You were a grown man, he appeared to be one too. You weren't a schoolgirl nor a young man to be gaping like a fish up at assistance. You felt something like shame creep up on you, hair on the back of your neck standing up as your face grew red. If you were as hot as you felt, you'd be fogging up your glasses. Maybe he was dishing out some heavenly mercy, but Forcas said nothing of it. If anything, his smile grew wider.
"I... I need inspiration. Assistance, if you will. The sermon I must write, I want it to be special. My clergy is mixed, parts of them dislike me and others view me as a good replacement," you sighed, turning away with a soft frown. "Really, I'm distraught," you continued, eyes falling on the reliefs that lined the columns' metopes. The Son was there, His death clear even in faded marble as His mother and the Magdalene wept at His feet.
"Uh-huh, okay. Why not..." Forcas went on listing ideas, each of which sounded decent, but not enough. Something that would be captivating but not insomuch that it would distract from the parable. You sighed, sitting down at a pew and casting a look outside. Cinture coilled around your waist like snakeskin, tapering like a forked tongue thrice over. You were over your head. Age didn't matter, nor did your experience.
A warm hand fell on your shoulder. Both, really, since you were suddenly pulled into a half-embrace. "Get out of your own head, pal. It isn't as big as you're making it," he laughed, soft enough that you strained to hear it. Embarrassment crept back up before being replaced with a nervousness unrelated to sermon preparation. If he was an angel, you were Tobias. Jacob had wrestled, hissing and spitting. Tobias had allowed himself to be guided and found by Raphael. Selfishly, you wished for the closeness the scene spoke of, arms and hands intertwined in a short walk. It was wrong, terribly wrong, but as warmth never left your side, you felt calm.
"There you go. Oh, right, your weird waist sash is hanging too low. You could trip. Or I could throw you around by it," Forcas giggled, near your ear and grin in full force. "Fix it, pal," he said, hand patting your shoulder before pulling back quickly and speed walking towards the altar. Away from you. Maybe angels got just as nervous at closeness? You had no clue, merely frowning and retying the sacrament tighter and higher.
Maybe you'd send prayers up more.