Chapter Text
Religion is a simple thing for Quentin. It doesn't have to be. Is not, for most, who would disagree to see it that way but Quentin refuses to see it as a hindrance, as anything else. It comes naturally, it's just a belief and there's nothing else to it. And it's private, for it's not about him, but the belief is undeniably his. It would make no sense, to disconnect it from him for a thought is nothing without its thinker, nothing if nobody is personally involved.
It's all there is to it. A belief, or several, or none, that may be shared by other people but that, in the end, can't be anything but his (otherwise it wouldn't be a belief, would only be a vague notion some people regard as true). But that's not what it is. And the shared aspect doesn't matter much for Quentin. He cannot take umbrage for people conceiving things just like him, but that doesn't mean he has any particular interest in talking to them.
The necklace is a relic, as a very special item but it's for himself only, not for anyone to recognize and comment on. It's the same for the holy coin that is not frequently seen. It's not that he's ashamed, that he doesn't want people to know, but he won't mention it unless asked. He's not actively hiding it but would prefer not to display it in general. It's significant but holds a sense that wouldn't be understood without explanations, and it's certainly not something he would do with just anybody. For Nancy... It's complicated. He's not sure how he feels about her knowing, and what she really thinks of it. Doesn't really want to ask her. But he was genuine, even if his reaction was concise.
'You gotta believe in something, you know'. Just like some trace sigils for protection, Quentin prays. When he has a little time, when he's alone, when he won't be disturbed. It doesn't necessarily comes often, but he holds these moments dear. He doesn't maintain a schedule, refuses to force himself into it. There is not a time where it should be an inconvenience. It's not intuitive, nor authentic if he insists on doing it at specific times. No, the intent, the desire to go in this introspective state must come from him only.
At first, he wanted to get a rosary. But Quentin knows its meaning, the number of prayers, and the exact words and has no interest in them. It wouldn't be fitting.
He knows the institutions. Christianity is not exactly the most subtle of religions. Quentin has come in contact with it all, particularly during his late childhood and he rejects the idea of standing in a room to recite words interpreted over and over from a book originally written over a millennium ago. How sacred can a text be, when it has been changed and molded by whoever had the biggest interest in doing it for political agendas? What is it worth to study it, to repeat it over and over?
The prayers are his, only. They have to be. Otherwise it's not worth it if it's just some words, repeated one after another, hollowed of their meaning. Sentences that you learn exactly how to pronounce without ever questioning. Prayers are not shared. More often than not they're not about him, but they are personal. Quentin considers it's no use praying if it's to steal someone else's words. If you won't pray for yourself, or somebody you know, or even anybody you could think of, then why would you?
His religion, his faith, his hope, are all connected, so one cannot be without the other. Or, his faith can never bring him something else than hope. It is simply a thing he clings to, a way to keep on, to go forward despite what happens. Because he believes it will work out. Because he hopes it will get better.
And so, when he starts dreaming, he keeps praying. It's particular, because he doesn't sit, doesn't close his eyes, cannot ever and what if he sleeps and what if he does not, what if he wakes up and what if he can no longer. So he walks, and prays. Prays they can stop Freddy before... Before.
Prays Nancy will be able to hold on. Prays they can find what to do, and fast because Nancy is having micro-naps and he... He's barely sure he's awake. But he knows. He knows because he's alive.
And he prays, while driving, while walking, while witnessing helplessly the worst nightmares unfold.
And then he watches Freddy Krueger close in on him.
The last of Quentin's beliefs is his imminent death.
Yet, despite it's certainty it does not happen. Or does it? Quentin himself has no way of knowing and everyone who could tell him is gone, gone when he arrives at an eternally lit campfire with a dozen people all sharing the same forlorn look. All until they tell him, where they are, who they are.
It's not hell, he contemplates but it's close.
Quentin no longer prays, the only god in this wretched place is not a benevolent one. Quentin refuses to address it, to acknowledge its existence. If he's to spend an eternity dying (or not) at the hands of the same people, over and over, then at least he will give the least amount of satisfaction possible to the Entity.
His faith is now only hope, hope for Nancy to have made it out since the Dream Demon followed him, hope for him and all the others to make it out.
For they will.
One way or another, they will.