Brium landed in a field outside of what looked like a darkened store that sold carpets or something. He checked it over, quickly determining that the store was closed, and no one was home. He folded his wings up, and they vanished in the twin slits that he had cut down the sides of the black jacket he wore. He then checked quickly with a glance, and a feel with his hand to make sure that his means of flight were tucked safely out of sight; they were. He had done this on many occasions.
He then waited silently in the dark, next to the quiet road. He waited for anything to make a sound. He waited precisely two minutes, was satisfied, and began his casual trip to the church, which was a quarter mile away; the only sounds were that of the wind, and of his steps on the cold sidewalk.
Oh yes, he finally admitted to himself, is was indeed very cold. Winter in Denver, Colorado. He had dutifully ignored how cold it was during flight; best to keep his mind of such obstacles. It was much easier to concentrate on objectives if one ignored such things.
It was easily below freezing. Brium smiled; he liked the cold. He liked the way one could see their breath, projected out like a mist. It was soothing. Brium liked soothing things.
He mentally started playing his favorite track from his favorite album in his head, and he smiled. Sometimes the world can be quite beautiful if one just opens their eyes and gives it a chance.
The church was drawing close now, and Brium once again hoped it would be open. If it wasn't, Plan B would have to be put into effect.
His thoughts turned once again to his predicament in life. What was he living for? He was alone, he had no obvious purpose to exist. As far as he could tell, he was a science experiment, who was only created to answer a "what if?" question. He had no true reason to be alive. And that was his motivation. He had promised himself while still a captive of the School, that would do something to justify his existence in this world. It was a pretty hefty promise, considering he was nine years old when he made it.
Brium looked up at the church, and smiled wider; it was a very normal looking church, with stained glass windows. Some lit by a dull electric candlelight, that shone through the panes with a yellow glow. He walked up to the door; he reached out and grasped the freezing handle, and with minimal effort, pulled it open.
He continued smiling, for at this moment, the Lord was smiling upon him. If you believed in such things.
Brium swung the door open, and stepped inside. He was greeted by numerous candles, and the multiple benches of the large, open room. A typical House of God. He maneuvered until he found a place that suited him; about the middle of a bench a half dozen rows up from the door, which clicked shut behind him a few moments before he sat down. There was no one else sitting anywhere on any of the other church benches, but Brium knew he wasn't alone. He took a deep breath, and held it, snapping his eyes closed, and tilting his head back. He was just gathering his wits, though it was probably a strange sight to see at two in the morning.
And for Father Richard Neville, it was a strange sight indeed.
Father Neville was the pastor of this church. He was good at his job, and he truly believed what he preached. He also loved his church, having become very attached to it during the sixteen years he had led sermons there. So attached, in fact, that during nights of restlessness, he would often stay late, reading or doing some other menial task that needed doing. He left the church open during his late nights so any passerby could stop in to deal with whatever issues that needed to be dealt with at a church past midnight.
Needless to say, Father Neville rarely had any visitors. But this night was different, it seemed. A young man had strolled in not two minutes ago, and was sitting alone in utter silence. Father Neville had watched with interest when the young man had entered (he was shamed to say he had jumped slightly) it had interrupted his reading, and Father Neville had quietly watch, fascinated at who exactly this was in his church.
The young man was tall, over six feet at least, and he wore a black jacket, a pair of what looked like green shorts (in this temperature?) with black shoes, with white ankle socks that were barely visible. He had now been in the church three minutes, and hadn't said a word. Father Neville wondered if he had been completely overlooked.
Which couldn't have been farther from the truth.
Brium had known Father Neville was there from the moment he had stepped inside. He breathed out, and wondered if the Father would say anything.
They were in minute number six when Father Neville did.
"Are you alright, my son?" Father Neville asked, marking his page, and putting his paperback down.
The young man gave a snuffled half laugh, and paused for a moment, considering the question, "Relatively," he said.
"Is something bothering you," Father Neville asked, noting that the young man hadn't reacted at all when he spoke. He was still leaned back, with his eyes closed.
Brium took a breath, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
Father Neville nodded, and stood up, walking to the young man. At first he wondered if this was a good idea, because for all he knew the young man could be dangerous. But if God wanted to take a faithful servant in a house that represented him, Father Neville was okay with that. He was fifty-nine years old, and an unwavering believer. He feared not death.
So he approached the young man and asked to sit down; he was answered with a slight nod.
"What troubles you, my son?" he asked.
Brium brought his head forward and looked at Father Neville. He smiled, "That's between me and God. Whenever he comes around could you let him know I was here?"
Father Neville smiled a tad and he realized that this young man wasn't being smart with him. He looked tired, and aged far beyond his years, and everything that he had said, and most likely would say, would be completely sincere.
"I will," Father Neville said, "But you can always tell me."
"Right, because you're a messenger," the young man said. It wasn't a question.
Father Neville nodded, "Yeah. Something like that."
"Thank you Father, but I may be able to tell him personally, soon..." Brium paused, "Anyway, I'll just sit here for a couple minutes. And then I'll leave."
Father Neville nodded, "Is there anything at all I can help you with?"
"Yes," Brium said, "Yes, actually there is... I was wondering, Father, what are the requirements for one to possess a soul?"
"What do you mean?" Father Neville asked, curious at what this young man had to say.
"What kind of person does one have to be to have a soul?" Brium said.
Father Neville blinked, "Everyone is born blessed with a soul. Everyone has one," he said.
"Born with one," Brium replied, "And there's the dilemma," he smiled.
"I don't understand," Father Neville conceded with a slight shake of his head.
Brium smiled; an understanding smile, "I didn't expect you would." Brium lost his smile, and thought for a moment to figure out how best to clarify, "Suppose one was born not by any natural means. Suppose one was... created not by any natural means... Would one still have a soul?" he asked, looking the Father right in the eye.
The question was something Father Neville had never faced. What kind of chain of events in someone life could originate such question? But yet the young man seemed so sincere. He wasn't asking to waste Father Neville's time. He was asking for a very specific reason.
It took nearly twenty seconds of silence for Father Neville to think it all through and come to some conclusions.
The young man waited patiently the whole time, never showing impatience.
"I suppose," Father Neville said, "it would come down to what someone does with his life. If something or someone is created... but not any natural ways, and if he has intelligence enough to think his actions through and reason what he wants to do… If he modeled his decisions on what was most commonly believed to be right, and if he showed remorse over his failures, then yes. He would have a soul. And of course what his decisions, what he does with his life, would decide what the fate of his soul would be after he moves on. He has control over his own fate. Just like anyone else… So yes... he would then have a soul."
The young man said nothing for a few moments, and Father Neville waited, wondering what sort of reaction his answer would bring.
Brium smiled, and stood up, "Thank you, Father," he said, only a notch above a whisper.
And then he turned to leave.
Father Neville noticed that the young man's jacket was incredibly torn; he wondered why, but he didn't ask.
In fact, he didn't say a thing. He just watched as this fascinating young man (Father Neville hadn't managed to get his name) walked away as quietly and with as much purpose and drive as he had demonstrated walking in.
Brium paused in front of the door, and cocked his head slightly to see an empty wooden collecting bowl placed on a desk. He stopped walking.
Father Neville watched silently as the young man pulled out a wallet (a very quick, percise move) and flicked a couple of bills into the collecting bowl.
He then opened the door, stepped outside, and was gone when the door clicked shut.
Father Neville didn't move for a few moments. What had just happened? It was the most unique religious experience (can it even be called that) of his life. He didn't know if it was good or bad, or what it meant at all.
After several minutes, Father Neville got up to gather whatever money the young man had deposited in the collecting bowl. He would put it in the church safe, and he would call it a night. He got to the bowl, and was expecting a couple of ones; whatever change the young man had on him. But that wasn't the case. Not at all. The whole situation only got more intriguing, Father Neville realized.
There were ten crisply folded hundred dollar bills in the collecting bowl.
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Author's Note:
I'm trying to keep chapters relatively short (this one not so much. Oops) because I'm trying to get people to read it before it gets to long. It needs reviews! Otherwise people just won't read the thing.
Does anyone have any ideas on public relations to help advertise stories? I've always been bad at that…
Anyway, hope it's enjoyable so far, and thanks for reading!