Ballykissangel, BallyK and the characters belong to Kieran Prendeville and World Productions. I do not own them and am gaining nothing from this writing. It's just for fun. Maeve O'Riley is my creation and is not to be used without my permission.
 

                You know that feeling you get when the most popular kid in school asks you to the dance of the year? How your skin gets all tingly, your breath catches in your threat, your heart pounds a mile a minute in your chest? Well that's how I felt when I met Maeve O'Riley. When I shook her hand, I felt like a little kid again, all excited about Christmas or about going to visit Gramma.

                She spoke then, introducing herself to me as I shook her hand. "Nice to meet you," I replied, smiling charmingly down at her, taking in her beautiful pale blue eyes, her ruddy locks that brushed down to her slender waist. She was lovely. A sight to behold. I imagine this is one time I should thank Brian Quigley for getting involved in the affairs of the town.

                I suppose I was staring at her, though I can't really remember if I was. But, believe me, there was a good reason to stare. She was like a vision, like a perfect painted portrait, every detail enhanced by the lighting of the room and the way she smiled. I felt as if I was gazing upon the most perfect angel. And when she spoke my heart fluttered.

                Now, I'm not, by any means, a romantic man. I mean, I don't have much use for romance since I am a Priest, but this woman could easily change all of that. Everything about her tugged at me, my soul, at my heart. For the first time in ages, I felt a loneliness that I never knew existed. Always before that desolation had been pressed into the recesses of my heart by my belief in God, but not this time. This time not even my great love for the Lord Almighty could keep me from feeling such an unending need.

                The lovely woman who seemed to have caught my attention smiled at me as she turned from Brian to speak with Brenden. I wasn't sure at first exactly what she was doing in Ballykissangel, but as she spoke, I picked out bits and pieces of the conversation. She was a teacher from Dublin, here in Ballykissangel to help Brenden with the school.

                A teacher. She was a simple teacher. How could such a lovely creature do such a menial job? I had to kick myself suddenly to tear her from my thoughts for that moment. Someone was speaking to me.

                I turned, finding Father MacAnally frowning up at me. He was speaking about the church and the finances, but my mind was on Maeve O'Riley. At that moment, I could have cared little about the funds of the church or anything else. She seemed to be all that I could think about.

                Long, lonely, tiresome days passed, leaving me feeling empty and cold. I performed the services at the church as I always did, though something was not right about it. How could I perform services to God when I could not focus on anything but that lovely red haired teacher? It seemed blasphemous in the worst sort of way.

                Confession was even worse. I listened to Brenden speak of how he cared for Siobhan and how he wished there was more that he could do for Aislinn, his daughter with the town vet. I heard Kathleen speak, but paid no heed to what she was saying. I could not free my mind from the woman that came to town. I could do nothing but think of her.

                It was then, when I felt at my lowest point, that Father Mac came to me, to speak, to voice his concerns of my recent behaviour. I knew what he meant. I had been distant to everyone in town. Not my usual behaviour at all, but I couldn't help it. If the discussion was anything other than the lovely new school teacher, I cared little for it. Father Mac was not my best friend, but he did care. He wanted to know what was wrong with me, why I seemed to be unable to focus on my duties within the church. How could I explain to him that it was because of a woman? And not just any woman, but a school teacher. One whom I didn't even really know.

                That's when it hit me. I didn't even know her, yet I could not stop thinking about her. What was happening to me? Was I, dare I say it or even think it, falling in love? No, I couldn't be. I couldn't be falling in love. That would destroy everything. Or would it?

                I had to talk to someone. I had to get it out of my system. But who could I talk to? Who would understand? Orla. My sister Orla. She would know what to do. Or at least she would be able to explain to me what was going on inside me.

                I found her at home, cleaning the kitchen of her new abode. We spoke. She understood what I was saying, what I was feeling. According to her it sounded more like an infatuation than love, but I wasn't sure. I felt like the woman was the center of my world. I felt as if I could not survive without at least seenig her. My heart ached to hear her voice, to gaze upon her lovely smiling countenance.

                Orla could see my troubled expression. It was then that she told me to speak with Maeve. To get to know her. Maybe then I would feel different. Once I found out who she was and what her personality was like, then maybe it would all go away. I doubted it, but it was worth a try.

                My next destination was the school. I found her there, sitting quietly outside, watching the children as they played, sipping tea from a delicate china cup. She smiled at me, offering me the seat next to her. Of course she would. I'm a harmless priest. Nothing else. She was an angel. My every thought was of her.

                We spoke for a while as she let the children play. I found her voice and her actions charming. Her laughter was like listening to a choir of angels. Her eyes were like staring into heaven itself. Her hair flittered in the wind, reminding me of the great burning fires of hell.

                Blinking, I disengaged myself from the conversation to fall into my mind. Where did that last one come from? Why in the world would I suddenly compare her, or anything about her, to the realm of the Devil? No, she's an angel. She would have nothing to do with the fire and brimstone of the underworld. She's far too perfect for that.

                We continued to chat, discussing the weather, the town, the school, the church, anything that came to mind, until she had to return to her duties at the school, to the children that needed her presence. I watched with sadness as she went inside, flashing a bright smile and waving to me as she stepped inside, the children following her. My world went dark then, losing all meaning as the light in that foggy realm winking out.

                Orla offered her assistance again, explaining to me that it was nothing more than an infatuation, that Maeve could not feel the same. It was sin, she told me. A sin. That thought echoed in my mind. Maybe it was all a test. Yes, that was it. It was a test of my will to obey the calling of the church, to spread the word of the Lord. But how could I when I seemed to fall into the trap so easily? Because of my failings of the heart, was I not a good priest? Was I not able to lead a flock?

                My sister consoled me as I let it all flow from my lips. My fears, my reasonings, my beliefs, all of it. Tears followed, pooling on the table top around my fingers. I wanted to weep until I could weep no more. I wanted to tear my heart from my chest, to leave it beating on the table where I could watch it slowly die, for I knew that would happen anyway. My heart would die without the love that it needed. Orla saw that in my tear filled eyes.

                "Aidan," she said, her voice so soft and quiet, "do what you feel you must."

                Those words continued to echo in my mind as I laid in my bed that night, staring at the ceiling above me. My eyes gazed at the stuccoed surface, though they did not see it. Instead they saw Maeve, smiling and laughing, her hand on my arm, squeezing it gently as she spoke. Tears filled my eyes once again, threatening to fall, to wet my skin and hair with their moisture. I didn't want to cry, to show that sort of weakness. Instead, I lept from my bed, dropping to my knees beside the mattress, my hands clasped in front of me. I prayed. Long and hard. I prayed.

                That was where I woke in the morning, my head laying on the mattress, the rest of my body settled on the floor. I had fallen asleep while praying for my salvation. Because of that position, my neck hurt terribly. I had little thought for how I was going to get through the day after I woke. I knew what I had to do. I had to forget her. I had to continue on the path that I had chosen.

                With those thoughts in mind, I began the day, first showering and clothing myself, then a bite of breakfast, all the while thinking about Maeve. What would I do if she approached me? How would I react? I didn't have any trouble before, but that could change. With a sigh and a heaving breath, I threw myself into the workings of the church, determine to push her from my thoughts and return to the man that I was.

                It was much harder than I originally thought, especially when it came time for confession. I entered the tiny confessional, seating myself on the blood red velvet bench and waited. After several minutes the door opened and someone entered. The footsteps were light, so I determined that the person was female. I knew everyone in town by the way they walked, their voice, the way the sounded when they said nothing. Call it a gift, but in this instance it was a curse.

                "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," came the voice. Maeve's voice.

                My eyes widened as I took a breath. Oh god, what was I going to do? There she was in my confessional, about to tell me of her sins. In my eyes she could do no wrong, yet she had a confession to make, one that could change everything.

                "How long has it been since your last confession?" I queried, trying to keep my voice calm. Would she know it was me? Of course she would, there was no other priest at Saint Andrew's.

                "I can not remember, Father, it has been far too long," she replied. I could hear the anguish in her voice. I wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, to tell her that the Lord forgives her for her sins, but it was not my place to do so. Yes, I was the comforting ear in town, offering kind words and assurances of the faith, but how could I deal with listening to her confession when I felt so strongly for her?

                "Go on, my child," I responded, my voice almost quivering from emotion.

                She was quiet for a moment. I could hear her movements, see her out of the corner of my eye through the small window. She was crying. Softly, barely perceptibly, but I could tell. "I feel that I have committed a wrongful act, father."

                "And that would be?"

                More silence. Was her act so terrible that she could not bear to inform me of it? She knew that confessionals were private, that thoughts and words exchanged were confidential. I wanted to spur her into speaking, but I knew that I had to wait, to keep quiet, let her speak in her own time. "I have had thoughts of a man."

                My heart stopped with her words. A man. Could that man be me? I would not be so lucky, but I had to hope. "And why is this a wrongful act?" I knew that if the man she had thought of was me, then it was sinful, but at the same time, I could not hold back the elation that I felt.

                "Because he-" she stopped, choking back a sob. God, now more than ever I wanted to comfort her, to hold her in my arms. The pain I felt at hearing her weeping was far more than I could bear. "he is a man of the cloth," I heard her finish. My breath caught in my throat, the blood rushed in my ears. For a moment, I felt dizzy, felt the world take a turn around me.

                "A man...of...the cloth?" I repeated quietly, slowly, letting the words sink in.

                "Yes, Father."

                "Dare I ask who this man is?" I wanted it to be me. I wanted her to feel what I had been feeling. It was selfish on my part, but at that moment I didn't care.

                "It is you, Father Aidan," she confessed in a great rush of breath, sobs racking her slender, fragile body.

                Oh dear Lord. She had been having the same feelings I had. Could it have truly been love? For if it was only infatuation, then it would not be so strong that she could not tell me face to face, but only in the sanctity of confession. More than ever I wanted to throw back that curtain that shielded me from the rest of the world, to enter the tiny confessional where she sat, weeping, and pull her into my arms.

                "Maeve," I began, finding it hard to hold back my own tears, "it is wrong."

                "I know, Father," she answered after several moments of painful silence. "But I can not deny what I feel. It's been so strong. So powerful."

                My heart beat rapidly in my chest, that fleshy organ that controlled the pumping of my blood, that sent it rushing into my head, filling my ears with the sounds of its passage. I wanted to tell her, to blurt it out, but I couldn't. Not in confession.

                "Maeve, I must speak with you outside of confession."

                "No," she replied quickly, taking a breath. I could see her head shaking from side to side. "No, it is safe here. Nothing can happen."

                Nothing could happen? It took me a moment to realise that she meant physical contact. It wasn't as if that thought had never entered my mind, for it had on many occassions. The thoughts of holding her were not all I had had. No, by no means had my imaginings been so clean.

                "But we must discuss this."

                "Can we not discuss it in the safety of the confessional?"

                I wanted to tell her no that we had to be face to face, but I knew that was not the truth. I knew that the discussion could take place between the oak panelled walls of the tiny free-standing rooms. "Yes, we can, but Maeve-"

                "Then let us discuss this." She didn't let me finish. It wasn't as if I didn't want to speak of it, to blurt out that I felt the same as she, but it was her confession, not mine. To whom does the confessor speak when he must tell what is in his heart?

                "Go ahead," I whispered, leaning back against the wall, my hand holding my head still, keeping in it place.

                "Since I first met you, I have felt this way. I know that it is a sin to feel such things for a man of the cloth, but I can't help it. I don't know what else to do, so I am going to leave Ballykissangel."

                Pain shot through me. Leave? No! She can't leave! "No," I said, shaking me head, my eyes squeezing shut. "You can't."

                "Why not?" she asked, obviously shocked at my words, possibly even my tone of voice, for I had sounded forceful as I spoke.

                "Maeve, please, this is why we need to speak of this outside of the confessional."

                She did not respond, though I knew she was still seated there, listening to me breath. Silence fell between us, uncomfortable and dark as it was. It laid there, creating a deep, impenetrable wall, cutting us off from each other. I felt as if I was falling deeper and deeper into the darkness it had created when her angelic voice broke through, giving me the hand that I needed to return.

                "All right."

                My heart leapt in joy to hear her affirmation. "Tonight, then. I will come to see you." I knew that I was taking a risk in doing so, but I had to do it. I had to see her.

                She nodded, knowing that I would see her movements, then left the confessional without another word. Silently, I sat in the enclosed space, watching the wine coloured curtain sway with the breeze from the open windows. Thoughts of seeing her filled my mind, my heart, my soul. No longer was God my main focus in life. Maeve had taken his place.

                I stood outside her door, staring at it, trying desperately to work up the courage to knock, to beckon to her, but I could not. A light breeze blew, chilling me to the bone, slicing right through the grey sweater I wore over my black shirt and pants. I could feel my bones freezing beneath my skin, my muscles tightening as I pondered my being there. My mind told me to go, but my body would not listen. No longer was my brain controlling my actions. My heart headed all of it now.

                My hand raised, my knuckles striking the wooden door several times, creating a rapping sound that seemed to shatter the silence of the night. I could only watch in a detatched manner as my body went against my commands.

                Somewhere near an owl hooted, causing me to start. Then the door before me opened, making me start once again.

                There she stood, an angel in my eyes, a vision in the darkness of my soul. Her hair hung in beautiful soft waves, cascading about her shoulders like a satin curtain, just waiting to be caressed, while her beautiful pale azure eyes gazed at me. The beating of my heart ceased for a split second as I gazed upon her beauty, feeding off of it, letting it fill me to the brim.

                "Good evening, Father," she said quietly. I could tell she'd been crying, even though she'd done a good job at reducing the redness in her eyes. It was almost as if I could just feel the sadness emanating from her.

                "Maeve," I nodded, stepping inside as she moved aside, allowing me access to her lovely home on the hillside. I heard the door close behind me, barring my escape. Escape? I didn't want to escape. She could jail me in her home, hold me against what little will I had left, and I would not care.

                "Are you thirsty?" she offered, striding across the room toward the dining room table. I noticed her home was much smaller than it appeared from the outside, for the dining room and living room were attached to one another, making one large area.

                "Tea or water would be lovely," I replied, offering her a wan smile, for it was all I could muster. Gazing upon her only made it harder. I knew that she was having the same troubles by the way she continually dropped her eyes from mine. I didn't want her to have to hide from me.

                Carefully, she filled the kettle with water and placed it upon the burner of the old stove in the kitchen. From where I stood, I could see every move she made, could watch how her flowery dress swirled around her ankles. My heart ached the more I watched her, so slowly, I tore my eyes from my vigilant regard of her to glance around her home.

                "Lovely home you have," I remarked studying a painting that hung over the stone mantle of the hearth. My study of the brushstrokes and the colours had taken my mind off my predicament so much that I had not heard her approach.

                "Thank you," she said from just behind me, causing me to turn abruptly, to gaze down at her. She was not much smaller than me, her nose coming to my shoulder. Perfect, I thought to myself, frowning inside as I did.

                I knew that we had to get down to business, to speak of the emotions boiling inside both of us, therefore, I spoke, bringing the words from the bottom of my heart. "Your confession is still safe with me, I will tell no one of what you said."

                Her pale eyes gazed up at me, locking onto mine, regarding them with the loving stare of one longing to be held. "Even with all that I said?"

                I nodded, wanting to reach out to her, to touch her cheek, to feel the smoothness of her skin. "Though, I must ask you to hear my confession." I knew that it was wrong, but she had trusted me with her deepest emotions, therefore I had to trust her. Trust was not hard to find within me.

                Maeve looked shocked as she blinked, her lips parting, those soft, sweet lips. "Confession? I am not qualified to hear your words."

                My head shook from side to side rapidly. "In this case, you are the only one to hear them."

                Silence once again fell, surrounding us in its cold blanket, drawing us together. A loud whistle shocked us both into action.

                "The kettle," she said quickly, turning on her heel and practically racing into the kitchen. Fear welled within me, causing me to hold my breath. Had I frightened her? Was she going to run from me? Leave me before I could even mirror her words to me?

                My fear on that part was resolved moments later when she returned with two mugs of tea, handing one to me. As I took it, my fingers brushed hers. Her skin was as soft as I'd imagined. It only made me long for her more. Words did not come as we settled on the sofa. She sat on one end as I seated myself on the other. The physical distance between us was needed, for I felt that I would not be able to keep from touching her hand again.

                I did not know how to begin, but I knew that what I had to say was important so there was no point in beating around the bush. "Maeve," I started, settling the mug of tea onto the coffee table, my eyes watching the way the tawny liquid churned within the confines of the stoneware cup. "I have much to say and I don't know exactly where to begin. You confessed something to me that surprised me greatly."

                "I'm sorry," she whispered, her fingers wrapped tightly around her mug of tea.

                "No," I said, turning my eyes to her. "You do not need to be sorry. I was surprised to hear your words, that doesn't mean that I'm upset about it." This was much harder than I thought it was going to be.

                She watched me then, studying me. I didn't feel the least bit uncomfortable under her scrutiny. In fact, it made me feel very happy. Happier than I'd felt in so long. My gaze dropped from hers, instead finding my hands clasped in my lap, the tips of my fingers turning white from where I had been squeezing them together with such force.

                "Maeve, I...well...I...think...that I'm falling...in love...with you," I stammered, hoping that I hadn't frightened her with my words. As I slowly lifted my eyes to meet hers, I was elated to find her smiling at me.

                "Really?" she asked quietly, her muscles tensing beneath the material of her pretty dress. I knew that she wanted to be near me as badly as I wanted to be near her.

                My silent movement of affirmation only made her smile more. It was so hard not to reach out to her, to pull her into my arms, to feel her soft lips pressed against mine. And as the moments passed, the restraint that it took to keep from doing so was becoming too much for me to handle.

                "But I am a Priest, I can not act on these feelings I have for you," I whispered, feeling the sadness welling in me again, pushing aside the happiness I had felt.

                "I know," she replied softly, reaching a slender fingered hand up to her hair, brushing some of those ruddy waves back over her shoulder. I watched her do so, longing to feel her silky mane between my .

                "If there was a way, Maeve, I would do it in an instant," I breathed, gazing at her, letting her see the love mirrored in my eyes.

                She nodded slowly, her fingers dropping from her hair, sending wisps about her face. I knew that it hurt her as much as it hurt me, but there was nothing that I could do. Nothing that could change my predestined fate. I was a man of the cloth, a Priest. It could not be changed.

                "I understand," she uttered, glistening droplets pooling in the corners of her pale sky blue eyes. I wanted to reach and wipe them away as I watched a single tear slip down her silky cheek, rolling over the skin and landing on her arm, puddling there amongst the fine red hued hairs.

                I couldn't stop what I did next. I extended my hand to her, my fingers stretched out, offering her some comfort. Without a thought, she took it, her fingers lacing with mine, resting comfortably there against my skin. I could feel a tingle start at the base of my feet, working its way up my legs, then my chest and finally to my head, causing those tiny hairs at the base of my neck to salute.

                I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue, pursing them slightly as I did. I wanted more. It was like a drug. Touching her hand was like an addictive drug, one that I could not put down. I wanted to feel her skin touch mine, but not only with my fingers, with the whole of my body. It was a sin and I knew it, but at that moment, I didn't care.

                Slowly, I moved closer to her, seating myself beside her body, my hand still holding hers. With a gentle movement, the fingers of my other hand touched her cheek, felt the wetness of her tears. "Don't cry," I said with low, comforting tones.

                Maeve's eyes met mine, glistening with unshed tears in the soft light of the room. My heart ached, cried out to hers, telling her that I loved her, that I cared for her, that I needed her. I believe, at that moment, in that single instant in time, her heart heard mine for her lips curved upward at the corners, offering me a soft, caring, charming smile.

                My fingers gradually moved across her cheek, coming to rest on her lips. My skin tingled as it met the softness of those vessels. I watched her eyes close, felt her breath upon my skin, felt my soul plunge deeper into the blackness from which I had tried so hard to keep it from.

                "Maeve," I breathed as I leaned into her, my lips inching closer to hers. She made no move to stop me, instead her fingers squeezed my hand as she moved to return to action, her lips meeting mine suddenly.

                The world stopped then. The clouds ceased their eternal trek across the azure skies. The chirping of the birds quieted. The waters of the earth stood still. In that single action, everything ceased to be. Everything except her. My service to God had come to an end with that choice. No longer could I be a priest, a man of the cloth, a man of God. I had made a decision that would change the rest of my life. I fell in love and I exhibited that emotion with no shame.

                I don't know how long the kiss lasted, but however long it was, it was enough for me to make up my mind. I loved her and I would be with her. I would never let her go. Never. Father Mac and the rest of the town would have to understand. A new priest would come to take my place and I would be with the woman that I loved. God would not be angry with me. He would understand. I was, after all, made in God's image.