Thank you so much to LoveMei000, MaFerviolon, smrb, Mominator124, Pensez-a-Erik, Phantomgirl24, SloaneDestler, phanrose, Child of Dreams, and peanutpup for the lovely reviews!

Another pretty short chapter!

Enjoy!


Erik

Chapter 79

The Prayer

At times, I did find the urge to burn my skin or put a knife to it. But I imagined Giovanni - what he'd say if I did so - and couldn't bear to even look at a hot needle or blade. Not until the urge went away.

But despite Ayesha's warm company, icy loneliness still sometimes crept in, and I couldn't quite find a flame warm enough to keep it at bay. Not music, nor magic, nor engineering. Nothing worked. I knew Ayesha loved me - and I loved her dearly in return - but there were moments that it simply wasn't enough. After finding a family where I was truly an equal, the lack of human company was terrible.

And though my time with Javert had been painful, at least the pain took up too much of my mind for me to consider my own solitude for very long.

I wouldn't ever want to go back to that, but now...

Now I saw eternity stretching before me. Now I saw how Ayesha's inevitable death would be the end of my importance in this world, and I would truly fade into dust.

That thought was so particularly wrenching that I found myself walking toward a church. Russian Orthodox. I had been raised Catholic. But God was God I suppose.

Of course, I'd stopped believing the moment I'd killed Javert. But there was something about the church that drew me toward it, like opening an old toy chest even though the urge to play with the toys was gone. Nostalgia. Visiting the grave of a long-gone friend.

I walked into the church hours before the sun rose above the horizon. It had been locked - but that proved little issue for me. I found my way through the church, the space illuminated dimly by white moonlight shining through the high square windows. I could see, even here, all of the opulence of the building's décor - gold gilded walls, paintings of vibrant colors, and enormous chandeliers hanging from the arching ceiling.

Where did all of this come from? It had to be paid for. Who was paying for it?

Surely the money used to purchase the materials for this church was better suited going to the people who attended services.

I looked up at the large painting at the back of the interior. I could just make out the image of Christ standing there, arms open, as if welcoming me into His arms. As if He would ever welcome me.

I looked down.

"If I could ask you for anything," I said aloud, "I would ask for a love that won't abandon me."

Silence greeted my words.

"I have lost every person who has ever cared for me, and it has happened too many times for me to consider the possibility of a coincidence. So if I could ask for anything, it would be that one person - just one - doesn't perish before their time. That this person doesn't die at my hands. I want companionship. That's what I would ask for."

The only sound was my breath. I turned my gaze back up to the painting, where Christ merely mocked me with His unmoving eyes.

"But you are not real," I whispered. "So I will not receive it."

I turned on my heels and exited the church.


The crowd today was enormous.

It was the middle of summer, and the sky was as clear as my audience was greedy. Greedy for the image of my face. They'd seen my magic - now they wanted to see the unholiness that hid behind it.

I tore off my mask and let them scream and jeer and laugh. Let them whiten and redden and back away. And then I sang.

All of the loneliness I felt. All of the grief. The loss. I poured my soul into the song.

It worked its own sort of magic. I pulled their hearts from their chest and shattered them, just as I showed them my own broken one.

And I watched with a blend of sadness and satisfaction as they felt what I felt. Sadness because I could see their own loss. Satisfaction because at least, for a moment, I was not alone in those feelings.

One man in the front of the crowd caught my eye, as he stared at me, tears falling from his jade eyes.

Tan skinned with a severe expression, dressed in a blue uniform that didn't appear Russian, he removed his spectacles and wiped his eyes. He kept his thumb and forefinger pressed into his eyelids as he said a word aloud - I wasn't at all certain, really, that he realized the word left his lips:

"Rookheeya."