Grace: Reflections
At these hours of the night, the church turned into a somber place of reflection. There were few people inside; a young priest obviously set to the evening hours when few would seek out the church, a cleaning lady carefully dusting each bench and shelf in preparation for the next day, a man that could have either been praying or seeking just a warm place to close his eyes in the back row. It was a good sign to her that he was allowed to stay there regardless, for it was always in her though that faith should purchase body and soul for everyone, not just those who fit onto the narrowest path or had the most coins to cover transgressions. The church itself felt like a place to call people in, not driven them out. A low level of faith, of acceptance played along her skin, but it was the kind that would welcome a sinner, not so ridged it would drive away anyone from its doors. That would come in time, as it aged and faith grew more ridged as the years slipped into decades and the walls came up around it.
Grace moved though the church as silently as she could, to leave those others to their own contemplations as she wished to be left to her own. She chose to forgo the padded kneeling, taking instead the plain one at the end, as it had been what she had become used to. The formal rituals and words had become second nature to her in this life, her Sire's old faith replacing what was once a middle class gentile acceptance of the Church of England, more in word than in deed. She closed her eyes and started to repeat the simple words of the Hail Mary to herself, letting herself fall into the trance of the words. It was gentler this night, not to have the words punctuated by the bite of the lash as she prayed for forgiveness.
The calm of the church settled into her as the words were repeated over and over again. No politics, no demons, no woman with third eyes and questionable reputations, no other demands. Just herself, Grace Victoria, and what she was and could be. She feel silent for a long time after the required contrition was over, her thoughts twisted in and around themselves. Stevie had words for her, Ansu had words for her, even the damned Regent had words for her. She had tasted the comfort and the purity of their faith, seen the simple truth of Stevie in the honest speech of someone who would not easily lie simply because it would be too hard for her to work that way.
It was hard to conceive of such a thought, through both the love that was both pure and the coils of his blood around her that bound her every closer to him. What would it mean if they were right and her Sire was wrong? That it was not her actions that caused her to sin and fall, but rather the guilt that came from them, from lying to herself and both fearing and wanting at the same time that was making her prey to those that serve the darkness. What would it mean if they were right, and she could remain faithful, still serve her Father, still serve the tower in all its ways, and still be able to face that which frightened and drew her? What if she could become something more than just a child, become truly her own person?
These were not easy thoughts to face, even in the quiet church, even as her strength of will returned to her as she rested. She finished with a final prayer, ancient words in old Latin slipping easily from her lips, more herself again that she had been in week. Grace gave the priest a quiet smile as she rose to her feet, shaking her head when a raised eyebrow and a titled head invited her to talk. There were others in the church now, a woman pale and weeping softly near the altar, a trio of men looking as if they had faced their own demons that night. All the results of another's push towards faith that night.
The university and the downtown were not too far apart, and so she took the time to walk home, to be alone with her thoughts and the still night. With all the bars closed, there was little to bother her, not even the opportunity for a quick snack form one unlucky enough to try violence. The house felt more solid, more real as she stepped inside the front door and keyed in the security. She paused for a moment to look at herself in the hall mirror, and let herself admit that she was more than just another faceless servitor. There was beauty in the dark hair and pale skin, in the eyes that showed emotions freely, and in the way she laughed and spoke. Not the cold loveliness that launched ships perhaps, but the warmth of life in her eyes and the passion that enveloped her face and voice that made others want to be near her. She was herself, and that was enough.
She slipped her shoes off to walk upstairs in bare feet, taking care to make as little noise as possible as she moved into the second apartment. He was there, alone, and his presence made the blood sing in her veins, made her want to be near him and please him in all things, even as the rational part of her mind knew this was all part of the blood. She always knew when he was troubled, when his faith was low, when he needed someone to bear the pains he could never admit to himself and make him stronger by being weak. She could not always be there for him, not always be his conscience, his support, to say the things he needed to hear, but she could try.
He was reading a book that night, an old Latin tome of common prayers and thought, a favorite he turned to when his thoughts were as twisted as her own had been. She could see the strain of this conclave in the tension in his hands, the faintest crinkle around his eyes. And so she went to him, kneeling next to him in the way she always did. Simply being there, offering what measure of her strength and calm she could without voice, without demands. As his hand went to her hair, to sooth himself by twisting the curls around his fingers as he though, she just closed her eyes and let herself simply be in this moment.
Grace moved though the church as silently as she could, to leave those others to their own contemplations as she wished to be left to her own. She chose to forgo the padded kneeling, taking instead the plain one at the end, as it had been what she had become used to. The formal rituals and words had become second nature to her in this life, her Sire's old faith replacing what was once a middle class gentile acceptance of the Church of England, more in word than in deed. She closed her eyes and started to repeat the simple words of the Hail Mary to herself, letting herself fall into the trance of the words. It was gentler this night, not to have the words punctuated by the bite of the lash as she prayed for forgiveness.
The calm of the church settled into her as the words were repeated over and over again. No politics, no demons, no woman with third eyes and questionable reputations, no other demands. Just herself, Grace Victoria, and what she was and could be. She feel silent for a long time after the required contrition was over, her thoughts twisted in and around themselves. Stevie had words for her, Ansu had words for her, even the damned Regent had words for her. She had tasted the comfort and the purity of their faith, seen the simple truth of Stevie in the honest speech of someone who would not easily lie simply because it would be too hard for her to work that way.
It was hard to conceive of such a thought, through both the love that was both pure and the coils of his blood around her that bound her every closer to him. What would it mean if they were right and her Sire was wrong? That it was not her actions that caused her to sin and fall, but rather the guilt that came from them, from lying to herself and both fearing and wanting at the same time that was making her prey to those that serve the darkness. What would it mean if they were right, and she could remain faithful, still serve her Father, still serve the tower in all its ways, and still be able to face that which frightened and drew her? What if she could become something more than just a child, become truly her own person?
These were not easy thoughts to face, even in the quiet church, even as her strength of will returned to her as she rested. She finished with a final prayer, ancient words in old Latin slipping easily from her lips, more herself again that she had been in week. Grace gave the priest a quiet smile as she rose to her feet, shaking her head when a raised eyebrow and a titled head invited her to talk. There were others in the church now, a woman pale and weeping softly near the altar, a trio of men looking as if they had faced their own demons that night. All the results of another's push towards faith that night.
The university and the downtown were not too far apart, and so she took the time to walk home, to be alone with her thoughts and the still night. With all the bars closed, there was little to bother her, not even the opportunity for a quick snack form one unlucky enough to try violence. The house felt more solid, more real as she stepped inside the front door and keyed in the security. She paused for a moment to look at herself in the hall mirror, and let herself admit that she was more than just another faceless servitor. There was beauty in the dark hair and pale skin, in the eyes that showed emotions freely, and in the way she laughed and spoke. Not the cold loveliness that launched ships perhaps, but the warmth of life in her eyes and the passion that enveloped her face and voice that made others want to be near her. She was herself, and that was enough.
She slipped her shoes off to walk upstairs in bare feet, taking care to make as little noise as possible as she moved into the second apartment. He was there, alone, and his presence made the blood sing in her veins, made her want to be near him and please him in all things, even as the rational part of her mind knew this was all part of the blood. She always knew when he was troubled, when his faith was low, when he needed someone to bear the pains he could never admit to himself and make him stronger by being weak. She could not always be there for him, not always be his conscience, his support, to say the things he needed to hear, but she could try.
He was reading a book that night, an old Latin tome of common prayers and thought, a favorite he turned to when his thoughts were as twisted as her own had been. She could see the strain of this conclave in the tension in his hands, the faintest crinkle around his eyes. And so she went to him, kneeling next to him in the way she always did. Simply being there, offering what measure of her strength and calm she could without voice, without demands. As his hand went to her hair, to sooth himself by twisting the curls around his fingers as he though, she just closed her eyes and let herself simply be in this moment.