[drabble][Misc, G] Ave Maria
Jul. 15th, 2004 08:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ajremixTitle: Ave Maria
Fandom: Er.... anyone you can think of that fits?
Rating: G (it's too vague to really think of /anything/)
Word Count: 807
Characters: Read above^^;;
Summary: Someone's got problems. And I think it's me.
Sounds echoed eerily in the great hall of the cathedral. It stood like a giant whale in the middle of the decrepit city. Though untouched by the grim blackness of sin, it- as every holy ground -reflected the world it (failed) protected. Empty. Cold. Gutted.
He could still hear the choir as the ghosts floated through the air. This was their life, their home. They sang for the glory of God, of Mary, of the Holy Trinity. Their only desire was to reach their Lord in the only purity they had left. In the passion they had for song, for the untouched innocence in hymn.
It seemed odd for him to be there, now. The cast color of the glass washing the worn carpet in the waning light. How it seemed the filter the world outside into a pure and honest illumination. Maybe, one could think, it could actually wash away your sins. It could purge your evil thoughts, standing in the pale light.
But he knew better. He was no longer the child that thought such innocence. Vaguely he wondered if the moments his knees touched the floor, his head bent to the alter, if the purity of this nearly shattered religion would burn him. Mark his soul for the devil. He wondered if his prayers would be stopped at the gates. He wondered if he were denied the right to even confess his many sins- the only things that bothered to keep him company in the dark of the nights.
It was a hard decision to wrestle with, if he dared to leave his weapon outside. While he didn't trust any passing body to not pick up his arms, he didn't wish to desecrate the sanctity of this holy place. One of the last, few holy places.
It is an honest place, he thought, kneeling before the worn cross. And that is why it was abandoned.
He knelt and he prayed. But, as his hands clasped before him, he could not find the words.
His faith faltered then, and it was all he could do to pick up the broken lines that the choir left for him to piece together.
"Ave Maria...." his voice was as hollow as the lost hall, "gratia plena. Dominus tecum...." He looked up to the woman, standing there, watching him with impassive eyes. He didn't know what he wanted from that woman. Forgiveness, perhaps? Understanding?
He tried to pick up again, the streaming glass behind the cross became a halo to the carved Mother as tears blurred in his eyes. He didn't notice when one plopped gently against his robe. "Et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria-" the words were jumbling in his head "Mother of God. O-Ora pro nobis...."
Breaking his clasp, one hand went to cover his face. In shame or to hold back the tears, he wasn't sure.
"I.... I no longer know the words...." he admitted. "I haven't come here, or to any place to pray for so long.... I don't know how to anymore. The prayers, the songs, they were drilled into me so long ago. I could recite it all as easily as I could the names of the fathers that taught me. But I can't now. I wanted to speak to you in my own words, I wanted to find the words I mean to say, find the strength to say it. Now.... Now I'm not sure who I am. I don't know where I draw my strength. I've lost myself, I've lost my courage. I've lost the voice that you've given me and now I can no longer ask you to help me find it."
He didn't know how long he knelt there, crying to himself, wishing that the Virgin Mother's hand would unfreeze from time and rest upon his head, to tell him that it was okay. To tell him that he would be all right. To hold him like a mother was supposed to hold their children.
But he was an unholy creature, brought of unholy union. What chance had he to gain that soft gaze when no others would allow him that moment of compassion? The world, after all, was imperfect. He was imperfect. Why should someone such as he be allowed a moment of comfort in the pain that he had created?
The world could collapse on him and he wouldn't have the strength to carry on. But he would move, one step at a time because that was all he knew. Endurance was something he did not hold in bounty, but what he had would- hopefully -be enough for him to wait. Until someone had pity and helped him.
"Sancta Maria," he said again, "Matre Dei. Ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc...." He stood, crossing himself before the Mother. "And at the hour of our death. Amen."
Fandom: Er.... anyone you can think of that fits?
Rating: G (it's too vague to really think of /anything/)
Word Count: 807
Characters: Read above^^;;
Summary: Someone's got problems. And I think it's me.
Sounds echoed eerily in the great hall of the cathedral. It stood like a giant whale in the middle of the decrepit city. Though untouched by the grim blackness of sin, it- as every holy ground -reflected the world it (failed) protected. Empty. Cold. Gutted.
He could still hear the choir as the ghosts floated through the air. This was their life, their home. They sang for the glory of God, of Mary, of the Holy Trinity. Their only desire was to reach their Lord in the only purity they had left. In the passion they had for song, for the untouched innocence in hymn.
It seemed odd for him to be there, now. The cast color of the glass washing the worn carpet in the waning light. How it seemed the filter the world outside into a pure and honest illumination. Maybe, one could think, it could actually wash away your sins. It could purge your evil thoughts, standing in the pale light.
But he knew better. He was no longer the child that thought such innocence. Vaguely he wondered if the moments his knees touched the floor, his head bent to the alter, if the purity of this nearly shattered religion would burn him. Mark his soul for the devil. He wondered if his prayers would be stopped at the gates. He wondered if he were denied the right to even confess his many sins- the only things that bothered to keep him company in the dark of the nights.
It was a hard decision to wrestle with, if he dared to leave his weapon outside. While he didn't trust any passing body to not pick up his arms, he didn't wish to desecrate the sanctity of this holy place. One of the last, few holy places.
It is an honest place, he thought, kneeling before the worn cross. And that is why it was abandoned.
He knelt and he prayed. But, as his hands clasped before him, he could not find the words.
His faith faltered then, and it was all he could do to pick up the broken lines that the choir left for him to piece together.
"Ave Maria...." his voice was as hollow as the lost hall, "gratia plena. Dominus tecum...." He looked up to the woman, standing there, watching him with impassive eyes. He didn't know what he wanted from that woman. Forgiveness, perhaps? Understanding?
He tried to pick up again, the streaming glass behind the cross became a halo to the carved Mother as tears blurred in his eyes. He didn't notice when one plopped gently against his robe. "Et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria-" the words were jumbling in his head "Mother of God. O-Ora pro nobis...."
Breaking his clasp, one hand went to cover his face. In shame or to hold back the tears, he wasn't sure.
"I.... I no longer know the words...." he admitted. "I haven't come here, or to any place to pray for so long.... I don't know how to anymore. The prayers, the songs, they were drilled into me so long ago. I could recite it all as easily as I could the names of the fathers that taught me. But I can't now. I wanted to speak to you in my own words, I wanted to find the words I mean to say, find the strength to say it. Now.... Now I'm not sure who I am. I don't know where I draw my strength. I've lost myself, I've lost my courage. I've lost the voice that you've given me and now I can no longer ask you to help me find it."
He didn't know how long he knelt there, crying to himself, wishing that the Virgin Mother's hand would unfreeze from time and rest upon his head, to tell him that it was okay. To tell him that he would be all right. To hold him like a mother was supposed to hold their children.
But he was an unholy creature, brought of unholy union. What chance had he to gain that soft gaze when no others would allow him that moment of compassion? The world, after all, was imperfect. He was imperfect. Why should someone such as he be allowed a moment of comfort in the pain that he had created?
The world could collapse on him and he wouldn't have the strength to carry on. But he would move, one step at a time because that was all he knew. Endurance was something he did not hold in bounty, but what he had would- hopefully -be enough for him to wait. Until someone had pity and helped him.
"Sancta Maria," he said again, "Matre Dei. Ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc...." He stood, crossing himself before the Mother. "And at the hour of our death. Amen."
