Who: Pepper When: Sunday Where: His old church in Bethnal Green, London What: Churching Rating: PG Status: Complete
Incense and the sound of low murmuring hung heavily in the air and every other moment some feature of the building caught on his eye and grabbed his attention - the large stained glass windows, featuring a young woman holding a baby or a sinner screaming in agony and despair as they suffered an eternity in Hell or a witch burning from the feet up, hands tied behind her back and the stake that held her in place. The front wall was dominated by a cross, bearded Caucasian man hanging from it - and at least his face wasn't contorted by pain or terror, only a lingering, infinite sadness despite the blood that poured from his feet and hands and side.
Old women sat in the pews, heads bent and arthritic fingers clutching rosary beads, turning them as they muttered prayers in Latin or English. Some of them had small children with them, bored, legs kicking but carefully so they wouldn't thump against the wood and draw attention and ire and maybe a spanking when they got home.
This was God - angry and hard and stern and someone you didn't fuck with because he would fuck you up right back, mess all your shit up and leave you alone and forsaken forever, pain like you didn't even know nestling deep down inside your heart. His son died for the sins of humanity and he never forgot that and holy fucking damn did he want to make sure you never did either.
Catholics had guilt down to an art form.
It all made Pepper feel like a child again, six years old and confessing sugar-candy sins like white lies and hitting his sisters in a temper, hacked off because he was sick of being poor and the only boy and not showing magic yet (though he couldn't tell the priest that), accepting his penance with a grave face. His sins were worse now. He confessed the least of them, the ones easiest to explain, those that had nothing to do with war or werewolves or terror, but he still felt the judgement of the priest heavy as he stepped out of the booth and walked towards the front of the church.
Technically you weren't allowed to take communion in a state of mortal sin. He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered blood. If there was any recurring theme in his life, that would be it, moments of violence tied together by a narrative, only the one that had brought him here today wasn't one he had wrought. For once.
The bread was flavourless, but he didn't taste the wine either, so he supposed it was more his state of mind than any comment on the fare itself. Another priest blessed him and he ducked his head, silently whispering a prayer as he touched the crucifix dangling from his neck. Candles: he lit one with unshaking hands, watching the flame jump from wick to wick.
He didn't know if this was supposed to be a comfort, and he didn't know if it was, but somehow it still felt... okay. It was familiar, at least. Even if he doubted Mill had ever been baptised (don't think about that)-- well. He wasn't even sure if he believed, about Heaven, or how you got in, at least. There were so many conflicting statements, and supposedly God was loving and forgiving, even if He didn't feel like it.
It was still daytime for hours, yet, and Rhisiart wouldn't be missing him. He sat down in one of the pews and thought about the confession booth, the stench of incense cloying and thick like it was supposed to be the smell of sin and everything he'd done wrong, the crucifix on top of the kneeler smaller and more grotesque than the one at the front of the church, and the low murmur of the priest saying,
"Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."