Author's Note: Hello and welcome to part seven of "Cross". The scene in this chapter was briefly referenced in the last installment, but I thought it could use a little elaboration in order to show just how Priest and Priestess started to become friends. As always, I have to thank all my wonderful readers and reviewers, Faith-Catherine, Beautiful Liar Please Save Me, saichick, Genius-626, FireChildSlytherin5, MythStar Black Dragon, ShipsThatFly, Inwe[z]247 and VoloDiNotte. I am truly grateful for all your feedback and support. Thanks, everyone! I do hope you enjoy this installment.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Priest.
Part 7 Something
He was everything to her.
Rowan had never realized just how empty her life was until she found him. The yawning, hungry void in her heart, the one that she had been nursing since the day the Churchmen took her away from Sage and her mother and their home, was instantly filled by him. Him.
He was her new idol. More real to her than God or the statues of the sad-faced saints that stood in the stony alcoves inside the chapel. Rowan found it easy, all too easy, to pin her child's faith on him, on the solemn, blue-eyed young man who rarely spoke but was beautiful to her anyway. She envied his quiet devotion and would sit behind him during Mass to watch him pray. She admired his kindness, which only expressed itself in small ways, like when he gave his meager rations to Marcus, who had been struck down by a violent fever in the second year of their training. And secretly, in her moments of girlish fascination and infatuation, Rowan loved his strength, which seemed to know no bounds.
She had seen him topple Priestess at the training grounds. She had seen him defend the weaker novices when they fell in the sands of the arena, either too weak or too wounded to rise to their feet.
She had seen all that was wonderful about him, and he was everything to her. Absolutely everything.
But Rowan was nothing to him. He almost never noticed her. Never noticed the little shadow that followed him to chapel. Never saw the girl who tried to sit near him during meals, when the long tables in the mess hall were packed with the other novices and Rowan could only hope to squeeze in on a bench a few spaces down from him. And he never seemed to hear her, never seemed to be listening during those rare times when she managed to pluck up the courage to speak to him.
She was the dust of the earth and he was the sky. She was nothing and he was something, something. And he never noticed her. He never, ever seemed to notice her.
Until one day. It only took one day.
Rowan was still a girl then, only three years into her training. She was not yet a warrior, not yet a Priest and she hated her life. The days were long and Priestess was cruel and she was told, all the time, that God would reward her for her sacrifices, although He never did. No longer spared the brutality of the arena, she had already been granted the privilege of standing shoulder to shoulder with the other novices, sometimes having her nose broken or her ribs cracked or her arms pulled from their sockets as she tried to fight, yet failed.
But the worst wasn't even the arena or the days of desperate deprivation. The worst didn't come even when she would think of her family and try to remember home. The worst only happened when Rowan realized, when she finally realized, that she was alone.
One day. It only took one day.
During the hour after vespers, Rowan sat in the iron-walled courtyard outside of the chapel and stared at the empty, hopeless space before her. The stones of the floor were polished smooth from the pacings of too many boot heels and the chapel itself was an unforgiving structure, a square block of metal that had the clammy, stale air of a crypt. And Rowan stared at the space, knowing all the while that she was expected back at the dormitories, but she decided that she wanted someone to come looking for her.
She wanted someone to care.
She waited a while, perched on one of the benches in the courtyard, glancing up to see that the sky was still dark, although it could have been morning. Rowan waited, but no one came, because no cared.
She started to cry.
Her tears were cold on her cheeks, slithering down to the base of her throat in tiny, trailing droplets. Rowan cried and let her sobs rise, hoping that maybe someone would hear her, that someone would care. That she wouldn't have to be alone in a world that was harsh and that she hated, hated.
If only someone would hear her. If only someone would come. If only she wouldn't be alone…
"Why are you crying?" The voice was low and frayed, but it reached around the oppressive confines of the iron-walled courtyard, dominating the small space with a profound echo.
Rowan recognized the words and the tone. She shuddered, her tears turning hot on her cheeks even as she struggled to wipe them away. The mark of her shame was evident, a brand on her soul that was reflected in her bleary eyes and clenched fists and the way her breathing hitched when she tried to speak.
"I'm sorry," she said, apologizing for what she was. Her embarrassment doubled when she saw the edge of his shadow on the ground near her feet. He was standing close by. He could see her stringy hair that stuck to her cheeks, could see the tiny stream of mucus that ran from her nose.
Rowan scrubbed her face viciously on the rough sleeve of her black shirt, wishing, for all the world, that she had been wearing her coat with the hood. She could hide herself then, could pull the musty mantle over her head and disguise her weakness, this treacherous crack in her strength that she wanted no one to see…and least of all, him.
But he only surprised her when he stepped closer, dropping down on the bench beside her, his arms thrown casually over his knees. His face was like a skull and the hair on his head had been shaven close to the scalp, close enough to leave the skin blaring red where the razor had nicked him.
And he glanced at Rowan, truly stared at her, as if this moment of quiet had given him the opportunity to take her measure and he pitied what he saw. Because she was pitiful, a girl with gangly legs and bruised arms and a face that was haggard even though she was only thirteen.
He sighed, deeply, his nostrils flaring and Rowan thought he was going to smile, but he didn't.
"Why are you crying?" he asked again.
She bit her lip. She almost wanted to tell him then. Tell him how exhausted she was. How she missed her home, which was only a faded memory. How she wondered if her mother and brother were still alive. How she hated Priestess. How she was hungry all the time. How she thought he was the world, because he was the strongest of them all and even now, she was looking to him for the strength to carry herself through what God had chosen for her, this never-ending, soul-consuming trial. This wretched, wretched life.
But even that would be a concession, another sign of her weakness. Rowan shrugged, banging the heels of her boots against the wall and the sound her feet made against the iron was almost like a death knell. Almost.
"I hate it here," she said.
"We all do," he replied.
Her eyebrows raised in surprise. She had not expected such an admission from him, he who was always silent and seemed so devout. He who never complained or cried or showed any sign that his life was hell, as it was for all of them.
"But you're the strongest," Rowan said. For some reason, she wanted him to know that, know that he was wonderful and that she thought he was everything. Everything in the world. Everything to her.
He nodded, acknowledging her words, although his expression was reticent. "There is weakness," he said, tapping a spindly finger to his chest, "in here. We all have it. Strength is an illusion."
And Rowan wondered what he meant, but she didn't dare to ask. Whatever it was, it made him look sad.
"I hate this place," she repeated, loathing how clumsy the words sounded on her pouting child's lips, "I hate this place and I hate being alone."
"We are not alone," he replied, speaking matter-of-factly. His eyes were clear and hard, but not unsympathetic.
Rowan tried to laugh but the sound was strangled in the back of her throat, cut-off by another sob that rose to her lips before she could stop it. "You mean God," she said, her words sounding like a sigh as she tried to mask her weeping. She knew she seemed cynical then, and cynicism was dangerous, because it was linked to doubt. Priestess had warned them all against doubt. She had told them that there was only faith and without faith they had nothing. They were nothing.
And I want to be something, Rowan thought, but she did not say it. She wanted to be something…something like him.
"I wasn't talking about God," the young man said, surprising Rowan again.
Perhaps his devotion wasn't as steadfast as she believed. Maybe her idol was false. Maybe he didn't believe in what they were doing, or rather, what was being done to them. Maybe he was nothing.
No, she told herself fiercely. He is something. He has to be.
Because if he wasn't, then she truly had nothing.
"We are not alone because we have each other," he said, bracing his hands on his knees, his thin arms stretched before him. His lithe frame was overwhelmed by the folds of his scratchy black coat and he could have been Death sitting there next to her. "We have friends."
"I don't have friends," Rowan said automatically.
And then the young man did what she wished he would all along. He smiled. His mouth creased and faint lines formed around his lips and he smiled. "We are friends," he said.
"No we aren't." Her protest was numb, a mindless defense against what she perceived as impossible. Rowan stared at him then, really stared at him and tried to take his measure anew, tried to see him for what he was, not what she thought he could be.
And oh, he was still beautiful. Still so beautiful to her.
"Then we will be friends," he said. "I will be your friend."
Rowan dropped her eyes, stared at the toes of her boots that were smudged with scuffs and stained with the sands of the training grounds. She wanted to smile but she didn't, because she knew he couldn't mean what he said.
He was being patronizing. Understanding. Kind. He was humoring her, a young girl who he had found crying in the iron-walled courtyard. A young girl who was tired and scared and alone.
A young girl that he couldn't possibly be friends with, but had tried to help nonetheless.
"All right," she said, agreeing to what she knew would never happen.
He wasn't smiling when Rowan looked at him again. He wasn't smiling, but she thought he was beautiful anyway.
And that was enough, she decided. Just enough. It wasn't exactly something, but it was certainly better than nothing.
Author's Note: Thanks so much for taking the time to read! The next installment is already in the works and should be posted next week. Until then, take care and be well!