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No one prays quite as well as the dead.
He could spot them from a mile away, hunched over in their pews with their heads tucked between their knees and hands clenched together so tightly that their palms begin to lose color and the extensors in their forearms begin to tremble. They are the ones who have sacrificed and lost everything in the war, and Marcus knows this because one does not earn an embry star without witnessing soldiers shatter so hard that they place their last remaining shred of hope into the grace of a higher power.
The ones wailing low and soft in the middle of the night are the men and women who are too far gone, and Marcus cannot either confirm or deny that this is the very same reason he is here now, awkwardly situated in the back row of pews with a tattered hymnal clenched in his fist. Following the confirmation of the end of the lambent pandemic and locust war as a whole, what was left of the COG had opted to reconstruct the sanctuary at Mercy in order to honor the fallen. Though he was never a particularly religious man, Marcus had to admit that they had done well. Dom would have been proud.
Perhaps that was the reason he was there now. Ever since they were children, Dom had always been spiritual in some respects. Marcus could recall being toted along with the Santiago family to Sunday mass and the feelings of shame that crept along his spine when Dom reached over to gesture him into a prayer position to follow suit with the rest of the congregation, aware that the practice was foreign to his friend.
That was the reason, Marcus told himself. He was there to honor Dom, his fallen brother at arms. It wasn't like he bought into any of it. Religion was nothing but myths and fairytales designed to deliver peace to the restless, and he could respect that. Hell, he could respect anything that helped to cope with the devastation the locust left in their wake.
He unclenches his fist and leans back in the pew, tilting his head back to admire the intricate mural painted on the ceiling above him. Certainly the reason he had wandered into the empty church in the first place was for a moment of silence, some stillness within which he could honor his fallen comrades. That had to be the reason—it wasn't as though he was seeking solace in a higher power that he didn't believe in, and his sudden interest in the temple definitely was not a result of hopelessness.
No, Marcus Fenix was not lost. After all, war heroes do not crumble beneath the weight on their shoulders.
He shakes his head bitterly, his lips tightly closed as he clenches his eyes shut. Some war hero he was with his laundry list of fallen men—Minh, Benjamin, Anthony, Dom…
The sound of heels softly clicking against stone breaks him from his reverie and he inclines his head towards the entrance, but does not turn. He recognizes the silhouette in his periphery and relaxes, allowing his arm to fall heavily alongside the back of the pew.
Anya approaches him slowly, pausing briefly alongside his pew as if debating whether or not she is allowed to sit beside him.
"Marcus." Her greeting is soft, accompanied by a small smile that does little to hide the sorrow in her eyes. It's something he doesn't miss, a signal that cues him in on the fact that she knows, knows that he's suffering, that he's losing a new war to grief.
He suddenly feels pathetic.
She sits beside him soundlessly, fidgeting slightly. She's simply trying to get comfortable, she tells herself. It's not like she was hoping to find the church empty. She isn't the type to sob quietly behind the pulpit for the ones she has lost.
Marcus leans forward, and the sudden movement catches her attention. Tucking strands of hair behind her ear, she surveys him slowly, taking in the dark circles framing his ordinarily brilliant blue eyes and the deep crevices lining his face. He seems so tired, so exhausted, and she'd be lying if she said it hadn't at least fractured her heart.
She is the one to break the silence, resting her palm on his knee and flashing that morose, tight-lipped smile. "We all miss him, you know." She knits her eyebrows together, pursing her lips gently before correcting herself. "Them. We all miss them."
He rewards her with a heavy sigh, his head falling to rest in his hands. "Yeah, I know."
There is a torturous silence between the two of them, and Anya begins to take in the sight of the church, admiring the skeleton of the dark, curved beams that support the stained glass and heavy tapestries that litter the walls. It reminds her of her childhood, and she swears that if she closes her eyes hard enough, she can still taste the wafer and wine on her tongue.
"Anya."
The sound of her name falling from his lips catches her by surprise. She turns towards him, only to be greeted by the profile of his face as he keeps his eyes downcast to the worn cover of the hymnal curled up in his hands. "Do you pray?"
The question catches her off guard. Does she? She isn't sure. When she was a child, she prayed daily, perching herself at the end of her bed and pressing her tiny palms together as she wished good health and happiness upon her family and begging that her mother please, please, please allow her to have a puppy someday soon. Somehow, curling up at the bottom of a dirty tent in the freezing cold at age thirty and hoping that she is not woken at four in the morning to hold some poor sap's chest together as he screamed out for a medic didn't seem to count as proper prayer. It wasn't quite as innocent, not nearly as sweet.
After much deliberation, she nods. "Sometimes."
He nods curtly, and they fall into silence once more. Marcus remains hunched over, his elbows resting upon the tops of his thighs as he absentmindedly wrings the booklet in his hands. The setting sun causes a series of colors to dance along his skin, illuminating each and every scar that lines his face and neck, amplifying them. Anya begins to fidget again, watching the bands of color dance along the stone flooring and velvet tapestries that line the walkways before he speaks once more.
He hesitates momentarily. "Show me?"
She attempts to hide the raw shock that flashes across her face by simply nodding, maneuvering swiftly so that she is between his knees and the back of the pew in front of him, kneeling. He lifts his head from his hands, mildly surprised by her actions, but says nothing. Slowly, she reaches for his hands, lifting them from his thighs by his wrists. Her own are so diminutive that she is unable to circle his wrists with her fingers, and opts to cover the backs of his hands with her palms instead, finding that the tips of her fingers do not even surpass his knuckles. Cupping his hands in hers, she joins them, lining his fingers up with their counterparts and holding them closed before nodding and leaning back on her heels.
"That's it?" He asks skeptically, and she begins to worry her lower lip between her teeth. She doesn't really know.
"Well," she begins, "You find a position that you like and you think about it. What you want." She nods. It sounds good to her. "And don't forget to be nice."
When she rises to her feet, he takes the time to take in her appearance. The tight black pencil skirt and plain blouse are a far cry from worn out fatigues and heavy breastplates, and Marcus begins to wonder when Anya Stroud transitioned from sharp angles and flat planes to gentle curves and soft edges. He finds that he is suddenly aware of the rise and fall of her chest, the swell of her breasts apparent without the concealing layers of metal, and the soft glow of her skin in the low light.
He surprises himself when he reaches out towards her, gently gripping her waist between his palms and pulling her towards him until she is resting in his lap, tight-clad legs bent and knees pressed against either side of him.
She suppresses a gasp when he leans forward, resting his forehead against hers and closing his eyes momentarily before drawing back to press his lips along the curvature of her cheekbone. His lips are warm and dry, and she tilts her head to the side, situating her own beneath his.
This is the comfort they both seek, solace in the form of mouths, tongues, and fingers entwined in hair, gripping hard as though it were their own rifles. Anya is suddenly reminded of the taste of the wine and hymns in her mouth as a child, sweet and light, and she tilts her head back, allowing him to drag his lips across the expanse of her throat. "Do you remember Hollow Storm?" His voice is gruff, huskier than usual, his breath hot and moist against her carotid pulse.
"Of course." She murmurs, shivering at the feel of his mouth grazing against her collarbone.
"I thought I had lost you."
It isn't long before Anya finds herself laid out on the pew, her body trapped between it and Marcus as his hands go to work at the buttons of her blouse.
Later, when she is curled up beneath his arm and deep within the throes of sleep, he creeps out behind the sanctuary, locating the memorial dedicated to Dom amidst the sea of white crosses. Dropping to his knees, Marcus bows his head and presses his palms together tightly, and decides to give prayer a try.