Disclaimer: Characters and world not mine, not making any money off of this.

Warnings: This fic deals with religious themes. Please keep in mind that the characters are not the author, and any religious views expressed in this fic are not necessarily mine.

Spoilers: Up to episode 41.

Immaculate Seduction

The bowl was chipped and broken, cracks running through it like spider webs. Scar frowned as he set it before the Holy Mother, eyeing carefully for leaks or spills.

"Goat stew," he said, simply. She didn't look at it, or at him. She simply sat, her hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing. Watching her, he felt a new surge of rage towards the soldiers who had no morals, no sense of human decency. Her silence was their fault. Her broken and fractured mind was because of them.

"You need to eat," he said, speaking as gently as he could manage. He sat beside her, as frightened of her as he was protective. She was a holy woman, though he knew he made more of her divinity than need be. But she was a holy woman, forged by God's own hand through suffering and trials.

She raised her eyes, finally. They were frightened eyes, but behind them Scar could see the signs of her sanctity. The quiet strength that lay behind the fear, the determination that spoke of complete faith in God. She met his gaze, and there was trust there. The fear melted away and a small smile came to her lips.

"You need to eat," Scar repeated. He gestured to the cracked bowl, and the Holy Mother nodded. She made some small noise, and Scar frowned.

"Here." He took up the bowl and placed it in her small hands. She dipped her head gratefully, and Scar felt another surge of anger. She was a holy woman! She had no need to bow her head to him. But she did. She was humble, and Scar felt a strange surge of jealousy that he could not explain.

He watched over her as she ate. The Amestrian girl was watching the child, and the streets were quiet. Soft light filtered in through the windows as the sun sank, dust motes dancing in the pale beams. Scar sat in silent contemplation, looking up only when the bowl was set on the table with a soft thunk. She had finished, and she was looking at him once more.

"Is there anything else that you need?" he asked, stiffly. Even here, with her, he was stiff and formal and reserved. He was in the presence of a sacred creature, one blessed. She looked at him, violet eyes so calm and serene and warm. She had beautiful eyes. She hesitated, her hand on the table, and then she reached for him. Her small fingers closed over his wrist, and there was a look in her eyes that Scar could not read.

"What is it?" Her fingers were tight on his wrist. She looked frightened now, holding him in the empty room. Her eyes shimmered, watery and bright. Her rosebud lips were twisted in a grimace, and still she clung to his wrist.

"I don't understand…"

She opened her mouth, and though no sound came out, Scar read the shape of her lips. Please. She was asking him please, and she looked tortured and pained and then she leaned forward, her lips brushing like butterfly wings against his….

"No!"

Scar jerked back before her lips touched his. A flash of pain came across her face as she recoiled and Scar collected himself. He hadn't meant to hurt her, to reject her so violently. But he could not do as she was asking, holy woman or not. He could not do it.

"No," he repeated softly, taking one of her hands in his. "It would be… a sin." But the words were hollow and empty to his ears. Sin. How long had he been a sinner? And what would one more hurt? And she was beautiful and desirable, and what would it be like to lay with a holy woman? To touch skin blessed by God himself? To give himself to her, wash away his sins in her skin and hair and lips…

"I cannot do this," he went on, holding her hand between his. He wanted to, but he would not. She twisted her hand, twining her fingers through his. God, but he was weak. And he knew that he was. How easy it would be to gather her into his arms and lose himself in he sweet softness. She would heal him. And good God, but he needed to be healed. And perhaps once he had touched divinity, he would no longer yearn for the touch of sin.

She leaned forward and now she rested her head against his shoulder and he held her, gently, as though she were a porcelain maiden. She shook in his arms and she made no sound, but he felt the wetness of her tears. His hands were still on her back and he closed his eyes, inhaling her scent and letting her exhaust herself against him. She tipped up her face and her bright eyes were haunting in the dim light. Her lips tasted of salt, and Scar shuddered as he kissed her, hating himself. He had no right to kiss her, had no right to ask her to absolve him of his sin. And her hands were small against his chest and she trembled in his arms and her kisses were girlish and sweet and as blasphemous as they were holy.

She made no move to touch him in any other way. She only kissed him, in his lap now and curled against him like a young girl. Her hands were unmoving on his chest, her kisses so delicate and forbidden. Finally, he turned his head away, not able to take it any longer. His resolve was crumbling. He wanted to be taken by her, touched by her, forgiven by her. Hers were the hands of god, and if she forgave him his trespasses...

She laid her head against his shoulder once more, silent and still and curled in his arms. There would be no forgiveness for him this night.

He held her until she fell asleep.