There is a chapel inside the base which she uses whenever she requires some peace and quiet. Despite the ceiling being tall enough to accommodate a man twice the height and width of Franky's, it feels very small and intimate. It is situated far away from any of the open spaces that carries the desert wind through it- still and silent as a grave, with almost no visitors barring herself and one curious young man.
Every day around midday the same events unfold- she hears his footsteps from the outside hall, slow, measured and dignified. He would stop whenever he entered and noticed her first, but has lately gotten used to the sight of her sitting in the pews. He sweeps the entrance and the aisle, lights the candles placed beside the icons at the altar and checks that there is a Bible in front of every seat. He then kneels by the altar and clasps his hands in silent prayer in front of two images she recognizes only to well- an icon of Saint Demitri… and an image of Bartholomew Kuma. The eyes that she sprouts in the ceiling allows her to see him weeping during most of his visits- an old part of herself silently admires the effort he puts into making sure she can’t hear him.
But this time is different. She is impatient for a change in status quo, and has been observing him as he walks around the base. When in the company of his fellow revolutionaries he strikes her as yet another rash and hotheaded young fellow, but she is intrigued by how he always pays extra attention whenever the subject of Dragons son is broached, yet never actually participate in them. He merely listen. She has also noticed that he looks at her differently than many of the others - not with suspicion, wonder, fear or lust. There is an unspoken accusation in the darkness that comes over his eyes when he looks at her, and now, when he is at his most vulnerable, is the time to see what it is all about...
”Someone once told me to laugh when I’m feeling sad. That there was no better medicine against sorrow.”
He startles and almost turns to face her, but remains where he is and tries to find an inconspicuous way to dry his eyes and hide the frog in his throat, before he replies.
”I… can’t say I’m surprised. You are able to smile, despite many hardships… you would know the value of a bright spirit, wouldn’t you miss?”
She’s surprised at how formal and collected he sounds. She could never quite pick out any specific speech patterns of his before, but she must admit surprise at how learned and thoughtful he sounds. And oddly stilted- as if he’s trying to emulate the cold, mechanical voice of the man upon the altar.
”Not always. That lesson was taught to me by good friends. They knew it far better than I did. ”
”… I suppose they would.”
She eyes his back, draped in a long coat that he keeps tightly buttoned at all times. His hair is neat and shortly trimmed, and his posture when inside the Chapel commendable and upright. This place is his pride, she can see that. She would go so far as to guess that he feels as much at home in here as she does in a library
”Can you tell me why there is an icon of Demitri Vyshnevetsky at the altar? I thought the Church had him excommunicated?”
Every day around midday the same events unfold- she hears his footsteps from the outside hall, slow, measured and dignified. He would stop whenever he entered and noticed her first, but has lately gotten used to the sight of her sitting in the pews. He sweeps the entrance and the aisle, lights the candles placed beside the icons at the altar and checks that there is a Bible in front of every seat. He then kneels by the altar and clasps his hands in silent prayer in front of two images she recognizes only to well- an icon of Saint Demitri… and an image of Bartholomew Kuma. The eyes that she sprouts in the ceiling allows her to see him weeping during most of his visits- an old part of herself silently admires the effort he puts into making sure she can’t hear him.
But this time is different. She is impatient for a change in status quo, and has been observing him as he walks around the base. When in the company of his fellow revolutionaries he strikes her as yet another rash and hotheaded young fellow, but she is intrigued by how he always pays extra attention whenever the subject of Dragons son is broached, yet never actually participate in them. He merely listen. She has also noticed that he looks at her differently than many of the others - not with suspicion, wonder, fear or lust. There is an unspoken accusation in the darkness that comes over his eyes when he looks at her, and now, when he is at his most vulnerable, is the time to see what it is all about...
”Someone once told me to laugh when I’m feeling sad. That there was no better medicine against sorrow.”
He startles and almost turns to face her, but remains where he is and tries to find an inconspicuous way to dry his eyes and hide the frog in his throat, before he replies.
”I… can’t say I’m surprised. You are able to smile, despite many hardships… you would know the value of a bright spirit, wouldn’t you miss?”
She’s surprised at how formal and collected he sounds. She could never quite pick out any specific speech patterns of his before, but she must admit surprise at how learned and thoughtful he sounds. And oddly stilted- as if he’s trying to emulate the cold, mechanical voice of the man upon the altar.
”Not always. That lesson was taught to me by good friends. They knew it far better than I did. ”
”… I suppose they would.”
She eyes his back, draped in a long coat that he keeps tightly buttoned at all times. His hair is neat and shortly trimmed, and his posture when inside the Chapel commendable and upright. This place is his pride, she can see that. She would go so far as to guess that he feels as much at home in here as she does in a library
”Can you tell me why there is an icon of Demitri Vyshnevetsky at the altar? I thought the Church had him excommunicated?”
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