Beautiful Goodbye (Theme: Reunited, #88)
Title: Beautiful Goodbye
Author: Lii
Fandom: Below Dark Heavens (Original Fiction)
Pairing or POV: Bastian (human)
Warnings: Bad squick, for anyone with 'corrupt priest' or 'apparent suicide' issues.
Special Note: This is set in the world of Below Dark Heavens, though it has no (current) connection to the main cast.
It was late; cathedrals were always quiet when it was late. That was one of the things Bastian had always loved the most about them in the beginning: their solemn peacefulness as he lit candle after candle, incense wafting through the air, the stained glass windows stretching high as they fought to tell their stories with a backdrop of moonlight and stars.
But there were shadows in the corners, and the statues of the angels seemed to weep darkness, and Bastian would often wake screaming with the memory of how those statues had seemed to come alive, accusatory and anguished for how he'd forsaken his faith, given up, lost the ability to believe in a god that no longer filled his soul, much less his heart and mind.
This night was no different.
Rising from his bed with slow and careful movements, Bastian dressed in the darkness and fled his shabby apartment, turning his back on the void in the dark skyline where the twin towers used to be. Feet clad in old shoes stepped slowly through the streets, avoiding the alleys on sheer instinct as Bastian let himself roam, let himself drift, let himself run away inside his mind as he sought happier times.
Sometimes those happier days could be found at the bottom of a bottle, but solace came at no cheap price these days, and Bastian had been forced to look elsewhere, a search that had so far proved fruitless. There was no miracle cure that could make him forget the bad things or remember the good; he was forced to endure this hell of his own making.
The cathedral rose out of the darkness in front of him, and all at once everything assaulted his senses, as fresh as they had been when he'd first walked into the building. The smell of the wood polish, of sulphur from matches, the smoke of burning candles; the cool slickness of marble, the unyielding metal of a rosary cross; the rainbow patterns of the windows and the awe-inspiring monoliths of stone -- he knew it all and could not purge it from his mind.
His heart, no matter how broken, belonged here. He had spent his time here more than anywhere else, lost in an ecstasy of worship, secure in the sense that everything was going to be okay, that God would guide them all, and that his soul was safe from the burning fires of Hell. That was, at least, until the real world intruded rudely upon him, dark and restless and bitter like a city street still riddled with bullets. For years, he had tried to remain oblivious to the sounds of whimpering, hurting children in the back rooms, certain that he was just mishearing things, that the priests would never commit such a crime as abuse.
One had tried to stand up againt the others; that one, an old man with the kindest heart Bastian had ever known, had been set up by the others, forced to take the fall, and though he was eventually acquitted, his name was forever tarnished.
The guilt remained etched on Bastian's heart. If he would have gone to the hearings, would have testified, Father Miller would never have had to suffer the way he had, and those children would have gotten the justice they deserved so much sooner. In the end, Bastian was no better than those priests he hated so much.
Without realizing it, Bastian had a hand on the wooden door of the cathedral, and he pushed his way inside for the first time in eight years, falling to his knees before he managed to take three steps through the nave.
This was his Hell! This was where his faith had shattered! What sort of god would allow his holy men to tear away the innocence of children? With opened eyes, the taste of bitter apple in his mouth, Bastian had stepped outside his marble Eden so many years ago and seen the darkness beyond, seen the starving homeless in the street, prostitutes turning tricks on the corner for a touch of powdered bliss, a government bent on destroying freedom and a world full of people at war with themselves.
The god of the people had vanished, and taken hope with him.
On hands and knees, he crawled along the nave towards the altar, leaving a salt track of tears behind. He couldn't take this anymore, could no longer handle the pain that wracked his body and soul without end. He knew what he had to do. He had only one choice left, and the tool to implement it was in his pocket, like it always was.
He had been a bad priest, but he could be a good example. He would give himself. He would purge his sins and make of himself a sacrifice to a god he no longer believed in. He would use his blood to silence the statues that loomed, accusatory angels, high overhead with mocking pity in their eyes. He couldn't even feel the wounds as they were made, he could only clutch at the shattered memory of lost faith, of delighting in raising his voice to the sky, certain that if he only put his heart into it enough, God would hear him.
God stopped listening long ago.
Bastian sank into a front pew, head against the back of it, arms to either side as his lifeforce oozed from his wrists. Somewhere, distantly, he heard one of the heavy wooden doors open. As black swept across his his hazel eyes to block out the dawn rising behind the stained glass windows, he could only smile bitterly, for the last thing he heard as he sank into darkness was an old, familiar, concerned voice calling his name across the cathedral, years too late to help him now.
"...Father Kettering?"
Author: Lii
Fandom: Below Dark Heavens (Original Fiction)
Pairing or POV: Bastian (human)
Warnings: Bad squick, for anyone with 'corrupt priest' or 'apparent suicide' issues.
Special Note: This is set in the world of Below Dark Heavens, though it has no (current) connection to the main cast.
It was late; cathedrals were always quiet when it was late. That was one of the things Bastian had always loved the most about them in the beginning: their solemn peacefulness as he lit candle after candle, incense wafting through the air, the stained glass windows stretching high as they fought to tell their stories with a backdrop of moonlight and stars.
But there were shadows in the corners, and the statues of the angels seemed to weep darkness, and Bastian would often wake screaming with the memory of how those statues had seemed to come alive, accusatory and anguished for how he'd forsaken his faith, given up, lost the ability to believe in a god that no longer filled his soul, much less his heart and mind.
This night was no different.
Rising from his bed with slow and careful movements, Bastian dressed in the darkness and fled his shabby apartment, turning his back on the void in the dark skyline where the twin towers used to be. Feet clad in old shoes stepped slowly through the streets, avoiding the alleys on sheer instinct as Bastian let himself roam, let himself drift, let himself run away inside his mind as he sought happier times.
Sometimes those happier days could be found at the bottom of a bottle, but solace came at no cheap price these days, and Bastian had been forced to look elsewhere, a search that had so far proved fruitless. There was no miracle cure that could make him forget the bad things or remember the good; he was forced to endure this hell of his own making.
The cathedral rose out of the darkness in front of him, and all at once everything assaulted his senses, as fresh as they had been when he'd first walked into the building. The smell of the wood polish, of sulphur from matches, the smoke of burning candles; the cool slickness of marble, the unyielding metal of a rosary cross; the rainbow patterns of the windows and the awe-inspiring monoliths of stone -- he knew it all and could not purge it from his mind.
His heart, no matter how broken, belonged here. He had spent his time here more than anywhere else, lost in an ecstasy of worship, secure in the sense that everything was going to be okay, that God would guide them all, and that his soul was safe from the burning fires of Hell. That was, at least, until the real world intruded rudely upon him, dark and restless and bitter like a city street still riddled with bullets. For years, he had tried to remain oblivious to the sounds of whimpering, hurting children in the back rooms, certain that he was just mishearing things, that the priests would never commit such a crime as abuse.
One had tried to stand up againt the others; that one, an old man with the kindest heart Bastian had ever known, had been set up by the others, forced to take the fall, and though he was eventually acquitted, his name was forever tarnished.
The guilt remained etched on Bastian's heart. If he would have gone to the hearings, would have testified, Father Miller would never have had to suffer the way he had, and those children would have gotten the justice they deserved so much sooner. In the end, Bastian was no better than those priests he hated so much.
Without realizing it, Bastian had a hand on the wooden door of the cathedral, and he pushed his way inside for the first time in eight years, falling to his knees before he managed to take three steps through the nave.
This was his Hell! This was where his faith had shattered! What sort of god would allow his holy men to tear away the innocence of children? With opened eyes, the taste of bitter apple in his mouth, Bastian had stepped outside his marble Eden so many years ago and seen the darkness beyond, seen the starving homeless in the street, prostitutes turning tricks on the corner for a touch of powdered bliss, a government bent on destroying freedom and a world full of people at war with themselves.
The god of the people had vanished, and taken hope with him.
On hands and knees, he crawled along the nave towards the altar, leaving a salt track of tears behind. He couldn't take this anymore, could no longer handle the pain that wracked his body and soul without end. He knew what he had to do. He had only one choice left, and the tool to implement it was in his pocket, like it always was.
He had been a bad priest, but he could be a good example. He would give himself. He would purge his sins and make of himself a sacrifice to a god he no longer believed in. He would use his blood to silence the statues that loomed, accusatory angels, high overhead with mocking pity in their eyes. He couldn't even feel the wounds as they were made, he could only clutch at the shattered memory of lost faith, of delighting in raising his voice to the sky, certain that if he only put his heart into it enough, God would hear him.
God stopped listening long ago.
Bastian sank into a front pew, head against the back of it, arms to either side as his lifeforce oozed from his wrists. Somewhere, distantly, he heard one of the heavy wooden doors open. As black swept across his his hazel eyes to block out the dawn rising behind the stained glass windows, he could only smile bitterly, for the last thing he heard as he sank into darkness was an old, familiar, concerned voice calling his name across the cathedral, years too late to help him now.
"...Father Kettering?"