Re: rory/wren : church at night
He echoed. Not literally, but she could hear his footsteps in her ears, reverberating inside her, and he echoed. She couldn't see the midnight of his eyes, but she remembered them from that night in the woods, and she'd believed him lost to her then. The blonde on the altar steps, irreverent and knees pressed close and skin bared to the thigh, she feared all things about the grave. And not only her own demise, but she feared him bleeding out and viscera seeping into the wooden floor as it had the grass. It was an old fear, something calcified and made fossil in the marrow of her bones. She didn't fear that soulless deep. Non, she feared nothingness.
The church felt like safety, and she lit candles on Sundays, and she loved the smell of incense and piety. She was a sinner among purity, and it made her thrum and thrill. Sitting there, with him walking toward her, it was like worship. She almost rose her voice in song, and she would spread herself out for him on that altar should he wish it, and she wouldn't feel the need to confess her sins before any man in a cassock or chasuble.
Before her, he paced, and she waited for him to say something. He would, she knew, and it was only for her to wait. She could wait, and she rested her hands back on the altar and looked up at the ceiling overhead. She wondered that a building could be sanctuary for bones, but it was, and then his question came, and it was surprising.
She looked at him, her wide gray eyes thoughtful and knowing in the blessed gloom of the church. The red and blue of the stained glass painted her face in dirty divinity under moonlight, and she didn't lie. "Oui. I know many things in this town, but he's a client. Pourquoi demandes-tu?" Curiosity lit her eyes, and there was no fear there. Damned they both might be, and she a fallen thing with wins torn off and no understanding as to why, but she didn't fear.