Work Text:
First decade
He lights a candle, sets it in the stand at the feet of the statue of the Blessed Virgin, kneels. Begins to pray.
Ave Maria, gratia plena.
It is not the first time he has fallen in love, oh no. There have been others: Héloise, Jean-Pierre, Rosamonde, Michel. Fleeting loves that could not, did not last; intense as resin on a burning coal, and as short-lived.
This one, this love, will surely be the same. Is his heart not a thurible, for smoke to pass through?
And yet, Hasting’s eyes: blue as the blue of Our Lady’s mantle. He can see them still.
Second decade
He lights a candle, sets it in the stand at the feet of the statue of the Blessed Virgin, kneels. Begins to pray.
Dominus tecum.
The scent of frankincense lingers: in the corners of the church, beneath the pews. The sun that enters through the long windows lies golden, thick in the afternoon. Turns dust and stone to amber. He is caught in the beam.
The beads turn through his fingers. When he presses the cross to his lips, for one profane moment he imagines the figure he kisses is Arthur: Arthur spread beneath him, Arthur with his head thrown back, the planes of his body bare to the touch.
Third decade
He lights a candle, sets it in the stand at the feet of the statue of the Blessed Virgin, kneels. Begins to pray.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
Quelle chance, that second meeting at Styles St Mary; quelles heures joyeuses, in the time that followed, with Hastings at his side.
(Hastings: not Arthur. Never Arthur. And he is always Poirot; never Hercule.)
This love, it has not faded, it has not drifted away like smoke. But now: Hastings in Argentina, with a beautiful wife, a ranch, with children to come. It will be long before they see each other again.
All charcoal burns down to ash, and the resin with it: blackening. Does it not?
Fourth decade
He lights a candle, sets it in the stand at the feet of the statue of the Blessed Virgin, kneels. Begins to pray.
Santa Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus.
He travels: not to Argentina. He solves cases: in France, in Egypt, in England, Iraq. In a train, stranded, surrounded by snow.
He is glad to see Hastings, when Hastings returns to England for business: burned brown with the sun, and with eyes still so blue, face so open. There are no secrets written there. There are none to be read on his own face.
Frankincense comes in tears. And he is past weeping.
Fifth decade
He lights a candle, sets it in the stand at the feet of the statue of the Blessed Virgin. He can no longer kneel. All the same he begins to pray.
Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.
It is fitting, is it not: that his heart should cause his death. Closing in on itself like a fist, at last, at last. After its long labours. He sees no other way.
The beads turn through his fingers, steady as ever. To Hastings, he will make only one confession.
In the censer the grains spin out scent sweet and clear as spring rain.
Amen.