SPOILER ALERT! : Changes. Ginormous spoilers for Changes.

Disclaimer: Jim Butcher's. Not mine. And thank all gods for that.

Author's Notes: Okay, This might get a little confusing, primarily because I've made Maggie very, very incoherent. But hey, she's an adolescent trying to talk to God. It's to be expected. And I'm sorry Sanya has only so much screentime, but I think I got tired of trying to write him as Sanya towards the end. Better abandon ship than sink canon, I say. XD

Hopefully, you'll be able to sit through this without fidgeting too much. Happy reading!

Heavenly Reassurance

"I will do everything in my power to help make your daughter safe until you can return."

-Sanya, The Dresden Files 12: Changes

"So, here I am."

The cruxifix didn't answer me, obviously. The statue of virgin Mary was pretty silent too.

"Um, okay. Dear God, I know this is stupid, but it's just- there're somethings on my mind, all right? And the church is empty right now, which means I can talk to you without sounding much like an idiot. I hope. I mean, I'm going to have the time of my life if any of my brothers or sisters come barging in here. And my birthday cake'll probably end up with 'Maggie, she who converses with the Almighty' on it."

"Oh, I know Dora and Simon will try to make it a proper birthday cake, but it's only two of them against four of them. So yeah. You can guess how it'll go."

I swung my legs a little. Or tried to, anyway.

"Um. I'm pretty sure I could gain hellpoints for just asking this, but still. It's just- I guess at some point you start wondering where you came from, you know. I mean, don't get me wrong. I love Dora and Simon. I love all of my sibs, which doesn't say much for my sanity and all, but you know… I'd never want to leave and I'm doing pretty good here. So, seriously, I'm not being ungrateful. At all. I think."

I winced a little at that. It sounded a lot like I was trying to convince myself, but I was determined to go through with this.

"So, I guess you already know everything there is to know about me. I mean, I'm Margaret Angelica Mason. Usually called Maggie. I was adopted at age eight by the masons and via the Church. Before which I lived in South America or something. I don't really remember much about all that, and especially not the insurgency. I just know all of my then-family died, and I was part of a hostage situation, and that someone ended up saving me. Pretty spectacular history for a thirteen year old, isn't it? Okay, twelve-year old. Whatever."

I stopped, considering.

"Is that disrespectful? Whatever, I mean. Because I didn't mean it that way."

I paused again, and took a deep breath before continuing.

"But even if it did… look, I know this shouldn't be coming from a person raised strictly Catholic, and my little sibs would look at me in horror if I said this to them; but… I don't even know if you're real. He- uh, heck, I know it's supposed to be about faith and not proof, but sometimes, things just don't make sense, you know. This whole conversation is just…"

I stared at my feet, too embarrassed to look at the statue. Why did I go off on that tangent again? Was it the whole teenage hormone thing? If so, I could tell the coming years were going to be a real blast.

"Back to the point," I said, a little forcefully, "I just wanted to know more about my parents. Um. Not Dora and Simon. My real parents. You know, the birth ones? The whole DNA-sharing thing? Dora and Simon looked into it, of course. My family were called the Mendozas. I had four siblings, same as here. And whatever else I know is just a blur of names and faces, because they're all well… dead, now."

"And I feel guilty about how little I remember them. Someone diagnosed it as PTSD, some sort of repression of memories. They're probably right, because the thing I remember the most is… well, blood. Lots and lots of blood. It gets creepy, so I guess I don't even try to think about them much. And that's that, I suppose. If I'm happy here, why should I even try remembering something which has horror movie written all over it?"

"See, but the thing is, I do. And I went all angsty on Dora a couple of days ago, and we talked. And she told me something. She said she'd wanted to wait till I older or something, but when she saw how much it bothered me… well, turns out I was probably not a blood child of the Mendozas. For one thing, they were Latin American, and it's pretty obvious I'm some sort of ethnic mix. Also, a couple of their kids were born within two months of me or something, and from photographs, they had colouring much darker than mine, and looked a lot like their parents, so-"

I took a deep breath again.

"I'm sort of adopted and again adopted. I just want to know why. I know I shouldn't be complaining and I'm sorry if this means you think I don't appreciate Dora or Simon, because I do. It's just… I want to know. Did my parents hate me or something? I know that's an unfair thing to say but why would they leave me otherwise? I can't-"

Someone coughed, and the sound echoed around the chamber. I froze in mortification.

Typical. Just when I was getting into it too.

Footsteps echoed down the aisle as I stared, fascinated, at my shoes. If this was a polite person, they'd probably keep quiet. Please let it be a polite person.

Someone slid into the pew next to me, and I winced. I'd probably used up all my luck snagging decent adopted parents two times in a row.

"Good evening," the guy said. His English was marked heavily with some accent I couldn't place.

I stared at his boots.

"You were talking to him?"

I winced again and looked at the man. And stared.

He was black, and large. Really large. Around six and a half feet, maybe. He was also… large. I mean, around. Those arms were probably as big as my legs, or something. And let me tell you, I'm no petite. I'm past five-six, and still growing at an alarming rate. But anyone would look tiny compared to this guy… heck, I didn't come close.

I edged away just a little. He flashed a giant grin dominated by great white teeth.

I edged away a little more. I get all the crazies.

"You do not have to be afraid," the man said, still grinning, "although I suppose it speaks highly of your sense of survival. I will not hurt you."

"Um, right." I edged away until I was sitting on the opposite side of the pew. He didn't make any move to come closer, so I relaxed a little.

"You were talking to him," the man waved at the statue.

"God, actually. Um, not Jesus," I wanted to smack myself.

"Of course," he nodded amiably, "But you are not sure if he exists."

"What?" I squawked, "I'm just- how long were you eavesdropping?"

"Long enough," he shrugged, still grinning.

I muttered a word that was probably disallowed in church, and stared at my shoes again.

"I understand."

"I'm sorry?" When I looked up, he was smiling at me.

"You cannot tell if he is there, and yet you feel the world would be better if he were. And then you start thinking again and you see how there are some not very good things in the world and that could mean he isn't there. And then there's hope, which means he is there. And then again, we could all just be walking along life and everything happening happens because it is so, and not because of a divine plan or scheme," he shook his head, "Confusing, Da?"

I stared. This guy had thoughts even more convoluted than mine.

"It is hard to find resolution," he shrugged, "all you can do is live life and do as much good as you can, and ignore the great question."

I'm not sure what made me reply.

"You too, huh?"

"I am agnostic, yes."

"I guess that makes sense. I mean," I could not believe I was talking to a stranger about this, "If you don't have proof."

"Even then," he flashed a grin at the altar. He grinned with alarming regularity, "It is hard to say for sure."

"Right. Um." I looked around awkwardly, "I'm Maggie."

"Sanya," he grinned again, "It is my pleasure to meet you."

"Yeah. Me too. Um, do you always do that?"

He looked at me quizzically, and I started blushing. God, this was stupid.

"The grin thing, I mean. You really don't have to answer that. Never mind, okay?"

He laughed, disregarding he was in an empty Church. The laugh was loud and long, and it positively echoed around the church. I went redder in proportion.

"Yes, always," he smiled, "It is good to laugh, da?"

"I guess," I smiled back, "Which language is that?"

"Russian."

"Oh. You don't look Russian."

"No," he said solemnly, eyes dancing.

I shook my head and went back to staring at the altar.

"Some legacies always catch up," Sanya said, after a minute or two of silence.

I looked at him.

He smiled back (of course), and said it again, "Some legacies run deep. Some bonds run even deeper. I would advise you to put the matter out of your mind, you will have to deal with it soon enough."

This was getting predictable, but I stared. He grinned again.

See? Predictable.

"And in the meantime," Sanya got up, almost toppling over the table in front of us, "you do what we all do. Live, love, learn. Hope. And laugh, a lot. I know you father, at least, would want that."

"What?"

He gave me a cheery grin and wave, and walked out of the Church. I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to go back to my complaints, but it was just too weird. And I suppose I'd been given some sort of answer. Kinda. What were the odds of random crazy strangers coming in and talking to you, anyway?

I shrugged and walked out myself. Tomorrow, I was going to be thirteen. Teenaged.

I had plenty of time for angst and tantrums and family legacies.