When Reverend Roy Le Grange woke up on April 3rd, 2002, he couldn't see. He opened his eyes to reveal nothing, merely that same pitch-black abyss of closed eyes, only worse because he actually expected to see something. The first few moments were terrifying, trying to see through the darkness, trying to stand, to move, to go about his business and hope things got better. Then came the equally terrifying, though in a different way, realization that he couldn't just carry on, the trips with Sue Ann at his side, to the hospitals and the doctors, to the people who would look at his eyes and try to figure out why he was suddenly struck blind.
Eventually, they settled on cancer, and the trips to the doctors and the hospitals turned into a permanent stay in the hospital, into constant attendance from beeping machines in a room that smelled of sterility and death. Sue Ann, at least, stayed by his side, her hand the one warm part of the entire room as it gripped his, holding him - anchoring him - as though trying to make sure he didn't leave. When he finally did have to slip away, to listen to the siren call of perhaps-permanent sleep, he told her to keep praying. It was a test - for her, he assumed, for her and from God - and he couldn't bear to see her fail.
When Reverend Roy Le Grange woke up on May 15th, 2005, he could See. Even as everyone hailed his return a miracle and sighed in disappointment over his sight's failure to return, he could See and he knew it was a miracle. He couldn't speak, couldn't articulate what he was Seeing to the doctors. Most of him was convinced that they'd commit him if he did, if he describe how, while the doctors sat in front of him with a flashlight, testing his eyes for dilation and coming up empty, the darkness was interrupted, interspersed with warm, sparkling colors and patches of deeper, colder shadow.
They held him in the hospital for observation, checking to make sure his miraculously gone cancer would stay gone. They'd thrown that word around a lot - it was a miracle he wasn't dead, a miracle that the cancer was gone, a miracle that it didn't seem to be coming back - but it wasn't until he was alone, sitting - actually sitting, of his own volition, which he hadn't thought he'd ever do again - in one corner of his room, not-seeing the light puce wallpaper his nurse had described earlier as he stared into space, that he realized how right they were.
His nurse was an older woman, matronly in voice and action, and a self-professed Christian. She'd had experience working with the blind, evidently, giving descriptions of herself and of the room in an otherwise blank landscape, helping him figure out where he was and what was around him before he fell headlong into anything. He'd asked her the date when he'd woken up, and she'd answered, in her calming way, "It's Pentecost, Reverend. May 15th."
And as he looked in her direction, as he Saw the bright blue hovering like a crown around her head and diffusing into a calmer azure throughout her, he had known that he had been given a gift. A gift given on Pentecost, a celebration of the Holy Spirit descending upon Christ's disciples. A gift of a purpose.
– – –
The first time he healed someone, it was an accident. She had been sitting in a wheelchair in the lobby as he checked out, and he'd stopped because the exuberant rose-pink he could See swirling around her hands and fingers had made him stop and go closer. She had told him, then, that she was a journalist, that she'd been working a job and had gotten shot, that the bullet had severed one thing too many and she'd lost the use of her legs. He'd asked if he could pray for her, had beckoned Sue Ann over and lain their conjoined hands on the girl's head, and had prayed with every ounce of fervor - and, ever since waking up, faith had been in no short supply - that she would be healed.
The unbelievable thing was that she had been healed. He could feel it. As his hands lingered in her hair, he could feel as the darkness left her and coalesced in the room, a mass of darkness that he could See as it coalesced into a cloud about as tall as a human before it faded away. And then the girl had practically leapt to her feet, the rush of air swishing past him as she tested out her regained mobility, and the cheers and gasps and ahhing filled the room as he tried to wrap his head around what had just happened.
He'd always prayed for people, had poured everything he had into entreating the Lord to heal someone, to save someone else. Those had been answered sporadically at best, and he'd told his flock outright that the key to having faith was having it even when the miracles didn't happen. But he'd felt - he'd Seen -- this one come true right before him, had watched as the paralysis was pulled from the girl and dissipated into the ether… and he knew his prayers were answered. He wasn't impotent anymore, forced to watch as terrible things happened to his flock and unable to help. He couldn't see their faces but he could See their characters, their purposes, could pray and, in doing so, actually heal them. That was his purpose.
– – –
Sue Ann took charge of finishing checking him out from the hospital, signing forms and talking to nurses so he didn't have to. She seemed different in some ways, as though something about her had changed, but he couldn't place what, not with the conflicting sensory shock of seeing nothing and Seeing everything at the same time. She acted the same way she'd always acted, friendly and familiar, so he must have been imagining the pit of darkness he swore he Saw in her stomach, the way the pulsating, red-tinged darkness mapped out her skin like a network of veins. She was his normal Sue Ann, so maybe the darkness wasn't all bad.
He was still telling himself that as they walked out of the door, but he got distracted by the whirling of sirens pulling up outside. He tried to convince Sue Ann that they should investigate, that if he could actually heal people, that he should start with whoever had just shown up, but she refused, citing his doctors' orders to rest and not exert himself. Still, with the way he had helped that girl in the lobby, it was a shame to be unable to help the newest arrival, another paralytic - this one a young male, shouting angrily at a phone about the stock exchange - being wheeled in on another wheelchair. Roy couldn't help him yet, but that didn't mean he couldn't help him later.
– – –
The second time Roy healed someone, it was in a tent in one of their many Nebraska fields, ground slick and muddy with a sudden storm a few days prior. He was young, little more than a boy, yet coughing up blood-stained phlegm into a handkerchief after being injured working the family farm. As Roy buried his hands in the long, tangled locks of hair and prayed, he could See tendrils of brilliant green spiraling up from his feet, twisting vine-like up his legs. So, too, could he See the darkness of sickness coalesce, almost like a harbinger of death fading away.
– – –
When the storm hit just after his fifth healing, thunder crashing overhead, it didn't feel like a normal storm. The way the sound shook the window panes, the way the lightning forked near-constantly down from the darkened sky, striking a tree near their house and sending it splintering to the ground in broken, charred fragments… it felt as though something had changed. Something important had happened - was happening - and Roy needed to be ready.
– – –
It wasn't until a few days later that Roy knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what he was intended to do. He almost wondered if this had been his purpose all along, if he received his Sight and his healing solely to help the young man being dragged through the tent's entrance, forced to the front few rows, and made to sit down by someone who could only be his brother.
And so, as Roy started the sermon, he listened, waited for a way to get the boy up to the front so that he could be healed. The reverend couldn't help a moment of pause at his words, at the sullen pitch of his voice that told of bone-deep skepticism, but it didn't stop him from beckoning the young man towards the lectern. It was all very familiar, the same patter, the same routine as always, nothing different between this healing and any of the others, nothing to merit that storm.
Except the boy didn't listen. He stayed where he was. He said no. That was different.
"You've come here to be healed, haven't ya?" It should have been a simple question. It should have been easy to answer, a simple "yes" and then on with the show, because humility and restraint aside, everyone who went to that tent went there to be healed.
And yet this kid - Dean -- hesitated. And while, in the end, he said yes, it didn't take being blind to notice that he almost said no. It didn't take having real sharp ears to hear that, with less hesitation than he'd exhibited when determining whether or not he wanted to be healed, Dean told him to pick someone else.
Any doubt that this kid was important, that he needed to be healed, that he had a purpose so great that Roy had received a purpose to ensure Dean could fulfill his, evaporated. And, more so than he ever had before, when he said that the Lord had chosen Dean to be healed, he meant it.
Eventually, Dean caved, bowing under the weight of his brother's pressure, expressed in hushed whispers still too loud to escape Roy's notice. The reverend watched as he made his way up the aisle, slowly fighting his way to the stage and picking his way up the steps. It was an achingly slow process, marked only by the movement of the kid's purpose in the amalgamation of color and darkness and shade within the tent. It was impossible to lose sight of it, even amidst the crazy kaleidoscope background, because Roy hadn't ever seen anything like it.
In the months since he'd discovered his Sight, Roy had figured out that the purposes - and how they manifested - were significant. The blue crown on Nurse Andrews, a symbol of intellect, of saving lives through a knowledge of calming and healing. Pink around the hands of a journalist in the hospital, perfectly representing the good she could achieve with little more than a way to write. Green spiraling up from a boy's boots, perfectly mirroring the hard work and rebirth he could achieve if he lived. A purpose was always a stationary color wrapped around the extremities. A purpose never looked like the one standing before Roy as its owner confided that he wasn't a believer.
It was pure, snow white, starting at the boy's heart and wending its way throughout his body, slowly turning into a bright, metallic gold at the edges where it twisted around his fingers, where it wreathed his head in shining light. It didn't sit still, either, constantly shifting and evolving, amorphous and energetic even as Roy could See it struggling sluggishly, fighting against whatever was ailing the boy.
No, this was important, and, as he reached for the boy's shoulder, sliding his hand up to sink into short, spiky hair, he felt the same sense of awe from that first, inauspicious healing in the lobby of a hospital. And, as the darkness was pulled from the boy, as he collapsed to his knees and then fell, momentarily unconscious, to the floor, as that purpose flared even brighter for a few seconds - an aura of pure white and untarnished gold rising into the air before condensing into that same shifting pattern against his skin - Roy knew that, whatever this boy was meant to do, it was frighteningly important. He was also quite certain that he didn't envy Dean the honor.
– – –
The boy came around quickly, sitting up as his brother shook him back to consciousness. For a second, Roy's attention was caught, not on the newly healed Dean, but on the brother. His purpose, too, was unique, though not like his brother's. His was not cohesive in its shifting, a cloud of bright, blood red and darkened black clashing with a blend of yellowish-orange amber as they swam around his arms and legs. Neither held his head and neither held his heart, and it looked like they were warring. Briefly, Roy wondered what his purpose was, but then the boy was moving, pulling his brother to his feet and dragging him out the door, a thanks tossed over one shoulder.
– – –
Roy hadn't expected to See Dean again, but he turned up the next morning, lingering outside their house. Sue Ann had told him who the visitor was, but Roy hadn't needed her to, could See that oddly holy mix of white and gold from a mile away. It was agitated, the metallic hue almost liquid as it ran into the pure light and back again, and, even as Dean acted as though things were normal, Roy could See they weren't.
He answered the boy's questions, told of his cancer and the miracle and how he could heal people. They were simple questions, easy to answer, but they felt somehow new. Roy had told his story to countless people at countless healings, and yet, telling it to Dean felt different. It almost felt like he was giving confession.
And then the boy had shifted in his seat, his purpose - temporarily calmed during their conversation - roiled again, the halo-like wreath around his head oscillating between expanding and condensing, a crown floating immobile in the darkness, and he asked why.
No one had ever really asked that before. Most were simply too pleased to question it, unwilling to push their luck, happy with the gift of life and eager to set mortality behind them. Roy didn't have an answer, didn't know how to describe the light tracing elegant patterns around the boy's heart, the gentle glow diffusing into the room. If he weren't looking at it himself, he wouldn't believe his own description. And so he simplified it. "I looked into your heart, and you just stood out from all the rest."
Dean hesitated before asking, "What did you see in my heart?" Roy could hear something akin to fear in the question, as though the young man wasn't sure he wanted to know. It was almost painful to hear - about as bad as that hesitation before answering that yes, he'd gone into that tent to be healed, about as bad as the fact that he only agreed to be healed for his brother's sake and not his own - and Roy had to do something to help him understand.
"A young man with an important purpose." Gold and white, locked together in an unceasing dance. "A job to do." Flickering light, fast as electricity, as lightning, standing out amidst a darkness like storm clouds. "And it isn't finished." The jolt of the purpose, almost like a shock coursing through it, like surprise. The words were still ringing in the empty room when Dean left.
– – –
The next time Roy healed someone, it was simple. Normal. Just an old man who Roy knew from the countless healings he'd attended. He was estranged from his son, but wanted to reconnect; the only thing holding him back was the lung cancer keeping him in hospice and unable to speak over the phone. It was no wonder why the man's purpose floated about his head in green tendrils, reaching out and spiraling near his mouth; he was supposed to talk to his son.
And yet, as Roy healed him and that familiar darkness seeped out of him, something felt wrong. It wasn't like healing Dean, didn't fill him with a sense of right spreading throughout him. It felt cold, uncomfortable, like something in the room that didn't belong. He kept his Sight firmly directed at Sue Ann throughout the process, hearing her whispered prayers - a distant part of him wondering what she was praying since he'd never heard Latin like that - but he pushed it aside and focused on the prayer, finishing as the final remnants of cancer disappeared.
– – –
When Layla's purpose manifested, the memory of that cold, wrong healing fled far away. He had a fondness for the girl, for her patient waiting despite the arrogant self-promotion of her mother, for the way there never seemed to be any deception or doubt in the happy smiles she sent those who were healed in her place. As much as he could while remaining impartial, Roy had wanted her to be healed.
The light purple blossom hovering at her throat and sending light over her head like a helmet and twining through her hair was fitting. He didn't know what her purpose was, but it was so inherently her that he called her name immediately, glad to See her getting what she deserved. He smiled as she stood and walked closer, the glowing purple flower getting closer as she walked.
And then that familiar shock of white and gold slid into place and he could See Dean, could See the way he stopped her, the way the bright purple flared in his presence, casting her entire head and torso in a light pinkish-purple light. Whatever was said, Dean wasn't happy from beginning to end, his purpose twisting and writhing as he spoke, and slowing resignedly as she left. The freeing feeling of knowing that someone good was getting healed faded, uncertainty claiming its space… But Roy kept moving, pushed it aside. Layla deserved to be healed and he would heal her.
Still, he couldn't deny the relief he felt at not having to decide when the shout of "Fire!" rose up from the back of the tent.
– – –
They reconvened later that night, a private session for the healing of Layla Rourke. This time, Roy couldn't push the feeling aside, couldn't move past the sickening knot in his stomach that something was wrong. Layla deserved it and Layla had a purpose and he could help Layla live… but everything inside of him was telling him that no, she couldn't, she couldn't be healed, that it was very important for her not to be healed.
He stood at the front, in his usual place on the stage, but he couldn't bring himself to start the patter, to push past the sense of something is wrong beating at him without any reasonable explanation of what could be wrong, of why he felt like something was. He skipped past the patter, the welcome, skipped straight to his trademark, "Pray with me now."
He ignored the way his fingers wanted to curl away from her head as he touched it, the way her hair made his skin tingle uncomfortably, like an allergic reaction just beneath the skin. It had never happened before, not in his countless healings, or even before, back when his prayers went mostly unanswered. He forced himself to pray through it.
He ignored the way Sue Ann lurked at the back, the way her hands were held up to her chest, something that he could See was dark and evil clenched within it, some of that same pulsating, veiny red clustered in a knot in her hands.
He ignored the way she was uttering words that he didn't know, didn't - couldn't - understand. They were probably just mumbled or inarticulate, or some obscure Latin prayer. Sue Ann was the same Sue Ann she'd always been, and he loved her. He knew her. She wasn't bad or evil; he was just misinterpreting.
No, Layla had to be healed and he wasn't misunderstanding that. He could still See the purple flower, bright and colorful in the darkness, and he couldn't let that purpose die because he was misinterpreting things. So he stayed, hand clasped in hair that, he remembered, lay golden around her face, and he prayed as hard as he could.
– – –
The darkness dissipated too early. This time, it wasn't as though the darkness left Layla, but as though the darkness entered the room, oddly humanoid in form. It didn't feel like he was Seeing a healing, but Seeing death itself. It felt wrong, that same cold not-right feeling from when he helped take away David's lung cancer. It barely flickered into the room, was barely present long enough to be Seen before disappearing. Roy spoke even before Layla, just as confused as she was to See the light of that flowery purple purpose die a little again.
At about the same time, he noticed that Sue Ann and her dark reddish black shadow were gone.
– – –
After everything ended - after Sue Ann was found dead of a stroke that he couldn't heal, after his countless prayers went unanswered, after Layla came back to the closed and empty tent - it was just the two of them left. Most of the congregation left with his healing, off to find some other miracle that would actually work. Those that didn't stayed away, "giving him time to grieve," they said, but actually just leaving him alone.
And then along came Layla, walking down the center aisle with a whisper of cloth, that familiar, taunting purple flower coming nearer. He couldn't bring himself to speak to her, to face the way that purple had distorted to something sickly after his failure to heal her; in the end, she spoke first. "I wanted to thank you."
"You're still ill, child." He frowned, wishing he could see her face instead of just that bright flower. "I couldn't heal you."
She laughed, the sound light, little more than a breath of air. "No. But that's okay."
"You have a purpose. You were chosen."
"Yes. And I will fulfill it, if I haven't already." She paused, then asked, "What does my purpose look like?"
He paused, unsure how to describe the patterns etched near her throat. "Well, my child…" He floundered. Words were his strong suit. He prayed, gave speeches, lectured, preached, but he had no clue how to describe what he was Seeing… until he did. "It's your voice."
"And I can still speak. I've not been struck dumb simply because a tumor in my head wasn't healed." There was a smile in her voice, small and quiet, but there, even as she changed topics abruptly. "I spoke to Dean just now." He inclined his head, waiting for her to continue. "He's leaving with his brother."
"Yes… That boy didn't seem the type to stick around our town long."
A rustle of movement, like she'd shaken her head, was followed by a fond-sounding laugh. "No, he didn't." She paused. "He had a purpose too, didn't he?" It wasn't a question, not really. "A big one."
"Yes." He stopped, remembering bright white and pure gold, stark against the darkness. "Yes, he did."
"I think I was supposed to help him. To talk to him. He needed to hear that it was okay. That he deserves to live." She stopped talking, then laughed. "That sounds absurd, doesn't it?"
Roy smiled, something akin to realization giving him certainty as he spoke. "No, my child, not absurd. I could only heal physical ails. Sometimes - as with that young man - it's the mind that needs help the most. Yours was a much harder job, Layla." He sighed, sitting down on one of the abandoned chairs and propping his cane at his feet. "I'm afraid that you were never meant to be healed. Something unholy was going on here, and those boys had something to do with stopping it." He sighed, crossing over into speculation. "Dean has a purpose. I don't know what it is, but I know that no amount of healing can make up for it. He needed to hear what you had to say, and you needed to stay sick. And I'm sorry for that, I truly am."
Layla laughed again. "You told us, Reverend. You can't only have faith when the miracles happen." A beat of silence. "And anyway, I don't think talking to Dean was my only purpose. You still see my voice, don't you?" He could. He could See it, glowing purple, rising and falling with her words. He nodded. "Well, then. I think I was supposed to talk to you, too. To tell you it's okay. Because it is; I'm fine. And I'll be fine, even if I die in a week, or a month, or three months. You can rest, Reverend. And whenever you're ready, write your next sermon and be ready to give it, because I'll be waiting in church every Sunday." With that she stood, shaking his hand once and then leaving, not even waiting for him to respond.
– – –
The Sunday after, he went to church, sermon in hand. As he gave it, looking out at the rows of color and darkness, the one that shone the brightest was a bright purple flower in the front row.
– – –
Layla Rourke went into the hospital a couple of months after Sue Ann died. She lay in the hospital bed with her flowery voice turned a dull, deep violet, more a shapeless mass than the intricate pattern of her voice that it once had been.
– – –
When she asked for last rites, it was Reverend Roy Le Grange who showed up, a Bible in hand even if he couldn't see to read the letters, a fatherly smile for her as she drifted off to sleep for the final time. Before he left, he patted her hand one last time. "Your purpose is fulfilled, Layla. You can rest."