cinerarium
Who was he really?
Standing at a grave, gazing down at the stone marker that was all that remained to remind the world that the man had existed at all, Connor wondered.
Who was he and who had he been?
Crouching down, knees coming to rest on the edge of the freshly dug earth, he slowly ran his fingers over the stone angel's surface, as though endeavoring to memorize it through touch alone. The hand trailed down to explore the brief testimony of life. The letters were cold beneath skin as fingertips whispered lightly over the etching of the name, and pliable flesh dipped into delicate grooves.
The man had lived, or so the stone attested. Died too, that much was evident by the grave and the body quietly still under the surface, beneath the watchful, unblinking gaze of the man's personal sentinel that bore witness to the world's silent decay. Unmoved by its own.
Decaying.
Dust.
Soon all would fade, and then who was he? When time and pressure had reduced bone to powder and letters had faded and stone crumbled… who was he? Who was anyone?
Did it matter? Did any of it ever matter? What a person did in life, or didn't do? He and Murphy had killed a lot of people. Bad people, but still people. They'd been called, and could anyone refuse the bid for God's justice? They'd become his flaming sword, in a sense, striking down those who were beyond redemption. Yet in the views of the church and the law, what they'd done was murder and it was wrong.
A sin.
Forgivable, that's what confession was for, but still it had turned them both darker. Made them tougher, grittier, and it seemed like each new sin was harder to wash clean than the last had been. And ever so slowly it had hollowed them out and left them nothing.
Left them dead.
Where was the justice in that?
Maybe it was their own punishment. Their own atonement for a lifetime of sins. Maybe. He could deal with that - mostly. Connor could handle the punishment for himself, could accept that he deserved it, but what stirred anger within the depths of his soul was watching what it was doing to Murphy. Watching as the light glowed beyond feverishly bright from once vibrant blue eyes, eyes that had once so closely mirrored his own.
Eyes that frighteningly still did.
Watching as that divine light within burned away everything that was Murphy and reduced it to ash like so much kindling. Bare remembrance of what it once was. Of what it was meant to be.
Who was he now?
It summoned every last ounce of protective instinct he had, seeing that soul wilt and die under the harsh attention of too much sun.
It was possible to have too much religion. To follow faith too blindly. The cost was high, as well, and he rose from the ground, absently dusting off dirt from his jeans. Too high. Much too high when it involved his brother.
He remembered when they were children. When he had asked the good Father why God didn't listen to prayer, why he didn't answer. He'd been told that God always listened. Always answered... it was just that sometimes the answer was no.
Who was he? He knew.
As he brushed cooled fingertips against chilled stone, Connor felt the twinges of the call in the back of his mind. A summons to duty. He ignored the demanding persistence of the call, turning his back upon the new grave, and went in search of Murphy.
Sometimes the answer was no.