Cross
He had been poor all his life; at least, all the life he remembered. The one precious thing he owned was a simple silver cross that, it seemed, he had always had. In any case, he knew how to scrimp and save very well, and he did it ferociously, especially where it concerned himself. Only the best that he could get for other people; it did not matter what he got, as long as his children got what they rated – everything. He often cut corners he could not afford to cut, took chances he could not afford to take, skipped meals he could not afford to miss, just to get a little extra for his children.
Except his cross. No matter what else he did or sold, he never pawned his cross. Maybe he was aware of the fact that it was not worth enough to merit the heartache losing it would cause, or maybe he just could not bear to let go of it. He had devoted his life to helping others. Surely he would be allowed this one indulgence?
Or maybe it was his reminder. Just as it was the symbol of his religion, the tangible reminder that Christ carried his cross and died on it to redeem us, his children, maybe he used it to remind himself of his purpose there. That he was placed on Earth to save his children, and that he can never waver from that all-encompassing purpose. The small silver representation of two pieces of wood fixed at right angles to one another was, perhaps, his own personal cross that he bore willingly and lovingly.
And then he gave it away.
It was a little kid. He reminded him of himself, at that age. He, too, had been a child too old for his age, too cynical for wide-eyed innocence, mothered by the streets, fathered by Death. He, too, had once believed in the existence of no other God than the God of Death. And, just as his Father brought him to the truth through patient explanations and gentle words, so was he determined to save this child. Just as he was saved.
Nothing seemed to work. He did everything he could, everything he could remember being taught all those years ago, and added some things of his own, little lessons he had learned in his years of running an orphanage. Through it all, the child challenged his God, questioned his faith, asked never ending questions about the how and why of it all. He answered each question to the best of his ability, somewhat enjoying the fresh, childish yet sharp perspective on a religion so accepted and set in its ways that it had become static. Of course, sometimes he could not provide the answer, and then he was forced to concede the battle, but always threw out a last gambit with an eye to the outcome of the overall war. He knew well enough what the child was doing. He was simply playing Devil's advocate, wanting to understand fully the entire concept of the religion before committing himself to it.
And when the day finally came when the child stated his belief in Christianity, he recognized in his voice, words, manner, the same longing that had brought himself to his Father with the same declaration all those years ago. The longing to know that he was loved, even if it was by an incorporeal entity, the need to know that everything that had happened to him had happened for a reason, even if it was not one he could understand.
Maybe he hoped for the child to follow in his footsteps, since his path to Christianity was so similar to his own. Maybe he was just being fanciful. Maybe he had a premonition, and knew the child would need a reminder, and hoped to provide it in the cross he bore. Whatever the reason, for good or ill, he gave his cross away.
The child wore his cross, and he thought about getting a new one for himself, but never quite got around to doing it, just as he never quite got around to doing anything exclusively for himself. One morning he found a crude replacement, made of two flat used matchsticks covered with the shiny, silver tinfoil from chocolate pieces and tied together with a bit of string, at the end of this bed. A hole had been drilled through one end and a length of thread that looked like it had been pulled out from the fraying edge of an old, yellowed blanket had been strung through the hole. He immediately put it on and, just as he did with the first one, he never took it off.
He took even more care with this one than he did with the first, though. Maybe it was because it was so fragile; one good tug would break the strings and wood and the entire thing would fall to pieces. Maybe he recognized that the cross he bore had just been made heavier, and had to be carried with even more caution. He now had to keep the child on the right track, and he had to do it in a time of war, the antithesis of the peace his religion advocated. Maybe he was just an old man who felt his heart quiver at the sweet innocence of the gift that came straight from a cynical, hardened child's heart. Maybe his God recognized the significance of and love behind the gift, and protected it for him. Whatever the reason, he was still wearing it when he was shot to death and his church was burned, a year later.
And when he was crucified on the cross of his duty and faith, falling to the floor of his beloved church in a pool of blood, his cross finally broke and was soon consumed by the flames that obliterated every trace of a child's life.
A/N: Basically unbeta-ed, except by little sister. Who didn't really do much actually. But still. And, I'm not Christian, in case you were wondering. Though I kinda sorta believe in it, and I know quite a bit about it. I think. So don't kill me for the assumptions and ideas I make in this fic. Please. *Sirius eyes* *sniffles at OotP where he...nvm*