Fish Be With You

Father Tristan Greene unlocked the rectory door with hands that were still trembling—not with fear, but with the aftershock of exertion, like a runner who had crossed the finish line and only then realized how hard his heart was pounding.

The exorcism had lasted nearly four hours.

Four hours of Latin prayers spoken hoarsely through a throat that felt flayed raw. Four hours of incense thick enough to sting the eyes. Four hours of resistance—violent, cunning, and cruel—pressing back against every word of Scripture he pronounced. Four hours of standing between a terrified human soul and something ancient, intelligent, and furious at being told to leave.

It had left him hollowed out.

He closed the door behind him and leaned his forehead briefly against the cool wood, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. The house was silent in that way only church-owned buildings ever were—not the warm quiet of a home, but the disciplined stillness of a place accustomed to prayer.

“Thank You,” he murmured, not for the silence, but for the fact that the exorcism had ended at all. For the way the possessed man—the afflicted man, he corrected himself automatically—had finally gone slack and sobbing, utterly himself again, whispering the name of Jesus like it was a lifeline.

Tristan straightened, removed his coat, and hung it carefully on the hook by the door. He slipped off his Roman collar next, fingers lingering there for a moment as if making sure his own pulse was real and steady. Only then did he allow himself to feel how exhausted he truly was.

He had not eaten since early morning.

The realization hit him with startling force, like discovering a forgotten injury that suddenly screamed for attention. His stomach cramped sharply, and he let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

“Of course,” he said aloud. “Of course.”

He padded into the kitchen, the overhead light flicking on with a faint hum. The room was neat but lived-in—stacked theology books on the table, a chipped mug by the sink bearing the faded logo of a long-defunct Jesuit retreat center, and a small crucifix above the doorway that had been there longer than he had.

Tristan opened the refrigerator and stared inside, already knowing what he would find.

Mustard. Milk that had probably expired. Half a lemon wrapped in foil. A container of something unidentifiable and deeply suspicious.

He closed the door again.

“No,” he said decisively. “Absolutely not.”

He reached for his phone.

If there was one thing he had learned in his years as a priest—and especially in his years as an exorcist—it was that heroics were overrated. Martyrdom was holy, yes, but unnecessary self-denial was not. God had given humanity wisdom, and that wisdom included knowing when you were too tired to cook without setting something on fire.

DoorDash it was.

He scrolled through the app with bleary eyes, bypassing the healthier options without guilt. Tonight was not a night for salads or soup. Tonight required something solid, greasy, grounding. Something unmistakably real.

His thumb hovered, then stopped.

Fish and chips.

Hot, battered cod. Thick-cut fries. Malt vinegar. Tartar sauce. Something that smelled like salt and the sea and the promise of satiety.

“Yes,” he breathed. “That’ll do.”

He placed the order, added an embarrassingly generous tip, and set the phone down on the counter as if afraid it might disappear if he didn’t keep an eye on it.

While he waited, he poured himself a glass of water, downed it in one go, and immediately poured another. Hydration, his spiritual director had once reminded him sternly, was not optional. Neither was rest.

Tristan sat at the small kitchen table, elbows resting on the worn wood, head bowed—not in prayer this time, but in sheer fatigue. His hands were marked with faint red impressions where the afflicted man had gripped him during the worst moments, nails digging in as if Tristan himself were an anchor in a storm.

He flexed his fingers slowly, feeling sensation return fully.

The demon—the enemy, he corrected himself again—had been clever. Mocking. It had known Scripture well enough to twist it, had mimicked voices of people Tristan loved, had accused him of hypocrisy with a sneering accuracy that would have rattled a less experienced priest.

“You’re not worthy,” it had hissed through another man’s mouth. “You doubt. You fail. You’re tired.”

And Tristan had answered—not with anger, not with pride, but with truth.

“Yes,” he had said. “I am. And Christ still commands you to leave.”

The memory made his chest tighten. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

A knock sounded at the door.

He startled, then laughed softly at himself. “Right. Food. Normal human interaction.”

He stood, smoothed his hair reflexively, and went to the door.

The delivery driver was young, cheerful, and utterly unaware that he was standing on the threshold of a building that had, only hours earlier, echoed with prayers shouted into the teeth of darkness.

“Fish and chips,” the driver said brightly.

“Bless you,” Tristan replied, and meant it in the most literal sense.

He took the bag, thanked the driver again, and closed the door with reverence normally reserved for sacred vessels.

The smell hit him immediately.

Hot oil. Crisp batter. Salt.

His stomach growled audibly, and he shook his head, amused. “All right, all right,” he said, setting the bag on the table and pulling out the containers with careful hands.

He opened the box of fish first.

Steam rose in a fragrant cloud, and he inhaled deeply. The cod was golden and flaky, the batter blistered just enough to promise crunch without greasiness. He opened the fries next—thick, soft inside, crisp at the edges—and then the little containers of sauce like sacred accompaniments.

Tristan paused.

He folded his hands, bowed his head, and said grace—not the rushed, distracted version he sometimes muttered between meetings, but a slow, intentional prayer.

“Lord,” he said quietly, “thank You for sustaining me. Thank You for the soul You freed today. Thank You for this food, and for the people whose hands brought it here. Restore what has been spent. Amen.”

Only then did he eat.

The first bite of fish was transcendent.

The crunch gave way to tender, steaming flesh, and he closed his eyes involuntarily as the warmth spread through him. It wasn’t just hunger—it was relief. A reminder that he was still embodied, still human, still capable of simple pleasures.

He ate slowly at first, deliberately, savoring each bite as if grounding himself in the present moment. The exorcism receded slightly with every chew, the echoes of Latin prayers replaced by the very ordinary sound of fork against cardboard.

“This,” he murmured, gesturing vaguely with a fry, “is what victory tastes like.”

Halfway through the meal, his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen and smiled faintly.

Father Wayne McKnight.

He answered on the third ring. “Wayne.”

“Tristan,” Wayne said, voice warm with concern. “You alive?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m eating fish and chips,” Tristan said. “Which suggests survival.”

Wayne exhaled audibly. “Good. I was praying. The whole house was.”

“Tell them thank you.”

A pause. “How bad was it?”

Tristan considered. He took another bite before answering.

“Challenging,” he said finally. “But finished. The man is resting. He asked for confession afterward.”

Wayne smiled through the phone; Tristan could hear it. “That’s always the sign.”

“Yes,” Tristan agreed softly. “It is.”

They talked a little longer—about nothing and everything. About the mundane, grounding details that tethered Tristan to the world beyond the spiritual battlefield. When they hung up, he felt lighter.

He finished the last of the fish, then the fries, scraping up the final crumbs with something approaching reverence. He wiped his hands, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

His body hummed—not with adrenaline now, but with nourishment slowly taking hold. Warmth pooled in his limbs. The tightness behind his eyes eased.

He thought, briefly, of Sir Tristan of legend—wounded, weary, faithful to the end. He had once joked that God had a sense of humor assigning him the name.

Maybe.

Or maybe names carried weight for a reason.

Tristan rose, rinsed his fork, and set the empty containers aside. He would throw them out in the morning. Tonight, rest was more important than tidiness.

He returned to the living room, sank onto the couch, and let his head fall back against the cushion. The crucifix on the wall caught his eye, the figure of Christ serene even in suffering.

“We did good work today,” Tristan said quietly. Not to congratulate himself, but to acknowledge grace.

Outside, the night was calm.

Inside, Father Tristan Greene—Jesuit, exorcist, servant—closed his eyes, full at last in body and soul, and let himself sleep.