[ He might as well be. A frightened baby deer jumping at every broken twig and mild growl, wide-eyed and running on wobbling legs to any place that might offer him safety. He prays for the deer’s determination, to keep going until he finds it or the mouth of a predator finds him, but he remains still, save for his fingers nervously rubbing at his rosary beads, paralyzed from the lack of direction. There’s no place for him that hasn’t been tainted by this violence and its fallout.
This place, if nowhere else, is supposed to be safe. When he can count on nothing else, he can count on his faith, and on the church to be a pure and holy place to rest his head, to clear it, to screw it back on. When this chapel was broken, Tim had mended it. When it was neglected, he brought it back to life with hard work and glistening varnish, giving it his love on his hands and knees. When it was empty, he filled it, with people across faiths and universes, taking the mantle he’s nowhere near qualified for so that someone might feel affirmed by it, so that maybe, if their prayers were said in unison, they might be heard.
Tim’s devotion has gone unanswered, but for the memory of the pool of blood that was right beneath where Koby’s shoes press against the floorboards now. His haven, desecrated. Koby’s, crawling with people to bump about, startle, disbelieve him. Tim’s own rooms, and the hands that he’s called home since long before Saltburnt, caught up in the chaos and bloodied. A crime of passion.
What is this place good for, if not adding fuel to that fire? ]
Can I? Is that even possible? [ Breathing out carefully, shaky, as he moves closer. Koby is safe. Koby is safe. ] It corrupts everything.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-10-23 03:49 pm (UTC)This place, if nowhere else, is supposed to be safe. When he can count on nothing else, he can count on his faith, and on the church to be a pure and holy place to rest his head, to clear it, to screw it back on. When this chapel was broken, Tim had mended it. When it was neglected, he brought it back to life with hard work and glistening varnish, giving it his love on his hands and knees. When it was empty, he filled it, with people across faiths and universes, taking the mantle he’s nowhere near qualified for so that someone might feel affirmed by it, so that maybe, if their prayers were said in unison, they might be heard.
Tim’s devotion has gone unanswered, but for the memory of the pool of blood that was right beneath where Koby’s shoes press against the floorboards now. His haven, desecrated. Koby’s, crawling with people to bump about, startle, disbelieve him. Tim’s own rooms, and the hands that he’s called home since long before Saltburnt, caught up in the chaos and bloodied. A crime of passion.
What is this place good for, if not adding fuel to that fire? ]
Can I? Is that even possible? [ Breathing out carefully, shaky, as he moves closer. Koby is safe. Koby is safe. ] It corrupts everything.