Re: rory/wren : church at night
There was innocence in the cut of her dress, and her cream cardigan discarded along with her shoes at the entrance of the church.
Gone were the corkscrew curls, brushed out now and gleaming pale blonde as she walked barefoot between the aisles of blessed wood. Wren stepped down the aisle, toward the altar, with bare feet and toenails painted cream, and she touched each pew and offered benediction with sinner's fingers.
The church was empty, and its minders slept and dreamed sainted dreams, but the girl-sinner cared little about their absence. She knew the glares she received in church on Sundays, and yet she came and sat and worshiped, and she lit her candles, and she accepted the glares of the holy like things earned. Worked for hard, and they didn't hate her for her damnation. They hated her for her body, for embracing the things it could give, and their piety wouldn't allow for that kind of pleasure in skin and come and moans.
She'd gone to New York to see her children, but she'd done much more than see. She'd accepted. Here she was, and she was this. She'd made a deal with something dark and burning coals, but she'd been given things, oui? Sight, vision, forgetfulness, and she'd decided these were gifts given, things to help her step through what remained of this this life. Gifts, and no one would convinced the damned blonde otherwise.
She reached the altar and turned, and she saw Rory making the sign of the cross, his fingers dipped damp from oily salvation, and she sat on the altar steps, white linen spread around bare thighs, and she waited to see if he would make the journey toward where she waited, gray eyes bright and stained glass painting beauty through moonlight.