It takes a long time – more than months… years, perhaps.
Strange how a scant few words could drive such a rift between two people once so close. Uriel, the firm yet gentle leader, unwavering. Aster, the fervent follower, ever-faithful. Yet words can have such power, both great and terrible. They can leave indelible marks upon both the speaker and the listener.
Eventually, though, those marks can start to fade. You can’t gouge them out – they would just create a worse scar behind. But if you scrape away at them, little by little, you can change their shape, blur the edges. A little distance from the thing that hurt you. A little support from your other friends. A little time thinking about how it all came to pass, about the very way you think. A little passion eked out and poured into something new.
When Uriel and Aster meet again, it is on Aster’s terms. At first both are tense, painfully aware of the marks upon them each. But the marks have faded - they have been smoothed away just enough. Just enough that when they talk, it is as equals. Nothing to derive from the conversation but conversation itself, or perhaps to peer into another’s soul. Uriel and Aster are both able to set aside their desperate quests for purpose, and just exist in one another’s company.
“Hey, ready to go?”
Uriel closes an email from Thomas, turning around to see Jamie, books in hand. “Yes, give me a second.” He logs off of the church computer, then joins Jamie in his rounds.
There’s a lot to be done around the church before a service. Bar what is strictly the pastor’s job, Uriel helps to complete all the chores; a quick sweep, checking the pews, returning any books that have wandered from their place in the newly renovated church library (when Jamie officially moved out of the church, they offered their old room to Uriel – to stay in Bexgate, in St. Renagi’s, for as long as he wants. Kind a gesture as it was, it also means that Jamie’s untidy research habits have spread across a greater area of the church). Uriel carefully lights the candles at St. Renagi’s shrine and makes a note to replace the slowly wilting flowers soon. There should be another flower stall held by the Greens in a few days.
Soon, people start to enter the church, and the pastor hurries off to greet people at the door. Every Sunday it seems as though there are more people drawn to the church split in half by Heaven and Hell. Uriel does not approach them.
Rather, he watches the service from a pew in the back. From here he can see his friends - Rena, Teresa, Aster – where they sit closer to the front; after the service they will gather and talk. But for now, Uriel sits alone, in the peace of his own mind.
“Welcome, all. My name is Jamie Holton-Woodward, and I am the pastor of St. Renagi’s…”
ANGEL: It's been a long time.
SAINT: It has. [Pause.] Did you ever find your way to Wesmarch?
ANGEL: … No. It's on the wrong side, turns out.
SAINT: Ah.
ANGEL: So, you're some type of hermit now? How's that working out?
SAINT: It's - don't say it in that tone. It's good.
ANGEL: Sorry. I didn't mean to say it in a tone. [Pause.] …I wanted to talk about him. And I didn't…I don't know if anyone else would understand.
SAINT: …
ANGEL: Can I?
SAINT: …yes.
ANGEL: Right. The immortal hesitates, then joins the other in sitting down on cold stone. Neither really feel the cold. Sometimes I - catch myself saying something he would, or imagine what he would say to whatever I'm doing at that moment. Whatever horrible comment he would make. And I hate him. I hate everything he did to me. I'm glad that bastard is dead and gone.
SAINT: …
ANGEL: It was beyond cruel.
SAINT: Yes, it was.
ANGEL: And yet…
SAINT: And yet. [Pause.] You miss the angel. You miss the conviction she lent you, the kindness - because in the end, she did pick you, regardless of what she said about why, and gave you a new life.
ANGEL: …yes.
SAINT: And we'll never know if it really was kindness or not.
ANGEL: That's the thing, I just wish we could know. Maybe if I was certain, I could finally - move on, or mourn, or whatever the hell. It's just not fair.
SAINT: It's not.
ANGEL: How are you so calm about that?
SAINT: … I speak to him, sometimes. Keep a journal.
ANGEL: Isn't that worse?
SAINT: It's not for him, really.
ANGEL: …
SAINT: For a while I thought there was a chance he was alive. That I could find him, get him to explain everything, and that it would feel good - give me some closure. But I haven't thought about conclusions in a long time. Endings are for mortals, not for me, or you.
ANGEL: …I don't like that.
SAINT: Mm.
ANGEL: Endlessly waiting for the curtain to fall.
SAINT: Knowing that it won't.
A pair of supplicants ascend a winding path.
“$200 says he's not even there. Or just a fake. Actually my money's on fake. If he starts asking for money for this miracle cure, we're leaving.”
“Come on, I've talked to people who've met him.”
“Talked to confederates advertising fake miracles. If he was a real saint why can't we just pray, huh? St. Uriel? Anyone there? Nothing.”
“I'm not saying he's a saint: not miracles but hexes, hexes with no strings attached.”
“'No strings attached'? And how did that work out for Delly?”
“Delly was an idiot. St. Thackery says he's the real deal, and she is a real saint.”
“Another confederate.”
“Shut up would you? Or I'll throw you off this mountain once I'm cured.”