Work Text:
Mercy
Nadir arrived at his customary early hour to the worksite, the church he and Erik were renovating, walking the quiet Brussels streets from home in the cool morning air, with a stop at the bakery on the way for the freshly made croissants, replete with butter and jam, of which he was especially fond.
He liked to arrive well ahead of the crew, to allow time to reappraise yesterday’s work and make any adjustments to the plan for the current day. He did not expect Erik until early evening, after the crew had left, to do a progress check and consult with Nadir on next steps.
Things had returned to normal between the two of them, since that morning almost two weeks ago when Erik had confided the Vicomte’s highly suspect plan, and Nadir had chanced a question to shock Erik back to reality. With the not unexpected but still surprising result of Erik flinging him into a door, storming away, and refusing to speak to him for five days. They were speaking again, amiably, their usual banter, but that particular subject had been most definitively declared off limits, and Nadir had not yet seen reason to press the issue.
There had been a strong storm last night, high winds and lashing rain. Leaves tinted with a hint of autumn colors littered the wet stone of the courtyard leading to the church entrance, torn untimely from the surrounding trees. Nadir was pleased to see the scaffolding in place and undisturbed, but he still planned a full exterior inspection after first reviewing yesterday’s interior work, done in lieu of outside work due to the threatening skies.
He shifted the bakery bag to his left hand to work the lock on the arched front door. He noticed immediately, despite the scent rising from the bag of baked goods, that the church smelled…different. A damp, fresh, earthy smell overlaid the usual heavy dust and must, mixing with the overtones their renovation project had introduced, the sharp odor of new canvas drop cloths and fresh cut framing wood.
Nadir moved to his worktable by the altar, setting down his satchel and deferring the morning’s first croissant until he inspected further. He checked the rear door, found it secured, and poked his head into the westside sacristy, which had been partitioned off some years ago into the priest’s office and a few other small work areas. Erik had claimed the office immediately as his workspace, as he was often at the job site late into the evening, sometimes sleeping there if the mood struck him, Nadir knew, and the small fireplace there was enough to keep the night’s chill at bay.
A quick turn through the rooms revealed no Erik and nothing amiss. Not that those two things were necessarily always paired, thought Nadir, with a quirk of his lips, but experience with Erik had been a thorough teacher.
That left the eastern sacristy. This had renovations underway according to their plans, dividing the largish space into a vestry, plus an additional small space specifically for the preparation of the bread and wine of the Eucharist, and the creation of a room for items relating to the maintenance of the church and grounds. The church gardens were predominantly on the eastern side of the church and the priest had indicated that a door here leading directly to the outside would be immeasurably helpful, the front entrance being unwieldy and the rear door opening onto a set of steps that were becoming difficult to navigate.
The exterior wall’s stone had been cut, the door framed and installed. As a security precaution, a locking inner door to this room was also added. Nadir tried the knob of the inner door; locked, as it should be. But he could feel the air gusting under the door ruffling his pant legs, cool and damp against his ankles. The new outer door must be ajar.
Bracing against the unlikely event of trouble—again the influence of many years acquaintance with Erik and the unaccountable alteration of the laws of chance that seemed to follow the man everywhere—he eased the door open, throwing himself abruptly against the wall behind him as a host of pigeons took abrupt wing out of the room through the now revealed, partially opened exterior door.
Pigeons! Nadir had remarked on more than one occasion to Erik that all of Europe seemed to be swarming with pigeons, filling the public squares, whirling in formation about church towers, but he had never expected to see them actually inside a church! That was about as unlikely as, well, a Muslim and a lapsed Opera Ghost renovating a Catholic sanctuary, he supposed.
He edged away from the wall at his back, peering into the unfinished room. The torrent of pigeons had cascaded out the door, leaving behind only a canvas tarpaulin on the floor, dotted with little pools of rainwater in its folds. Nadir crossed to the exterior door. It was unfortunate to have to close it, and he considered leaving it open, both to dry the floor of the room and continue the flow of fresh air into the church, but he did not care to risk the birds’ return.
He stopped, hand outstretched to close the door, struck by some incongruities. The tarpaulin was not just tossed haphazardly on the floor; it had been folded, lengthwise, in half. And what was a tarpaulin doing here, there being no work scheduled on the room’s interior yet, and indeed, there was nothing in here to cover anyway.
He turned, surveying the room—and his eyes caught on the huddled form of a pigeon, standing on the floor to the left of the interior door, head facing into the wall, feathers fluffed, tail drooping forlornly.
Oh, dear. Not normal pigeon behavior at all. It had not fled with its fellows and indeed seemed unaware of Nadir’s presence. Injured perhaps. Or sick. He scrutinized the visible movement of its feathered sides with each breath. Perhaps dying.
Nadir felt a small flutter of panic. Ridiculous, in a man of his vast prior experiences. But…what was he to do now? He couldn’t just toss it outside. That seemed inhumane. He looked more intently. The bird showed no obvious sign of injury, nothing he could intervene and change. If it was mildly injured, perhaps dazed from the intensity of last night’s storm, maybe all it needed was time and a safe place to recover. And this room, he thought, would serve. Far better than grabbing it and throwing it outside to become prey for any number of opportunists.
He journeyed quickly to the priest’s office, where he and Erik kept tin plates and cups for the occasional late night meal with wine that was definitely not sacramental, either in quantity or quality. Oddly, there was only one cup and plate to be found. With a cupful of water (the pools on the tarpaulin seemed too far away for the poor feathered thing to attempt) and some crumbs from a croissant, he returned to the garden room, as they called it, where he half hoped the pigeon would be gone.
But no, it still stood, head to the wall, close enough that its neck had turned, pressing the side of its head against the plaster, its beak and eyes facing Nadir’s way as he entered the room. He pushed the cup toward the bird, scattering croissant crumbs beside. There was a faint raise of the tail, a slight shiver of wings, that seemed more fearful than anything, but the bird made no move toward either water or food.
Nadir sighed. He would check back later. For now there was nothing more he could do save leave the exterior door ajar. He left the wet tarpaulin where it was, no need to cause the bird even more alarm by further entry into the room. He closed and locked the interior door, and by the time he returned to the nave, the first of the crew were already arriving. He would have to prep and eat on the fly today, half his morning spent on a pigeon that would likely be dead when he next checked on it.
Six hours later, when he remembered to check on the pigeon, it was not dead. It was still there, with no improvement; if anything, it looked slightly worse. It stood in the same position, breathing heavily, tail down and feathers fluffed about itself.
Nadir closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was most likely suffering. He should do the right thing, and end its misery. Opening his eyes to unfortunate reality, he took a step toward it, watched its own eyes become alert and follow his movements…and found himself unable to proceed, neither in his forward movement nor his plans. He just—couldn’t.
He noted the unchanged water level in the cup, the crumbs upon the floor, the exterior door still ajar, letting in a soft breeze and the afternoon’s slight warmth. The tarpaulin still lay on the floor, drier now. Nadir looked at the pigeon again.
Erik, he thought. Erik would be here soon. Erik would be able to deal with it for him.
He left the room, locking the door behind him.
When Erik arrived two hours later, just after the crew had left for the day, Nadir laid all before him, risking scathing remarks about the Daroga, protector of Mazenderan, being unable to cope with the laying to rest of a single small creature.
But Erik remained silent, his gaze moving between Nadir and the bird.
“You’ll take care of it, then, Erik, won’t you?” Nadir finished, keeping his tone admirably level, he thought.
Silence, both the masked and unmasked sides of Erik’s face revealing nothing, in that uncanny way of his, able to veer between uncontainable animated passion and complete inscrutability. Their long acquaintance meant virtually nothing at these times; when Erik wished to be unreadable, there was no sense trying. There did seem to be a flicker of something in his eyes, but Nadir was so anxious to be away from the garden room, he could not linger to begin to fashion an interpretation.
Finally Erik spoke, looking at the bird, not at him.
“Yes, Daroga, I’ll deal with it.”
Nadir sped away, unaccountably eager to inspect the exterior western wall where the crew had been working today. The inspection and note taking, and various other tasks occupied his time for a few more hours. A walk past the eastern exterior revealed the garden room door still ajar. He threaded his way through the scaffolding and looked inside.
No Erik. No pigeon. No sign there had ever been a pigeon in this room.
And still the damned tarpaulin on the floor where it had no business being.
Nadir stepped inside, locking the door behind him. He swept the tarpaulin from the floor, and jumped a little at the clatter of the tin plate and mug revealed beneath it.
He folded the tarpaulin thoughtfully, tucking it beneath his arm as he bent to pick up the mug and plate. He exited by the interior door, unlocked, damn Erik anyway, a theory fully formulated as to the origin of the strange tableau of tarpaulin and dinnerware in the garden room where they had no business being and went to confront the scenario’s probable architect.
Crossing the nave, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows, sifted sunlight dappling the floor with the colors and patterns of stained glass, Nadir paused, setting the tarpaulin on the floor, struck again by the incongruity of it all. That they two should be here, after all the years of turmoil, in this unlikely place, working together to restore a Christian house of worship.
Let it not be said that Allah did not have a sense of humor.
Even in the disarray of the nave, pews pushed to the side of the great hall, scaffolding cutting sharp dark lines across the mosaics of the stained glass windows, dust thrown high by the work in progress catching the light, still Nadir had a sense of the order set in place by God’s hand underlying everything. Allah was here, as He was everywhere, guiding in a way that men often found incomprehensible.
Who would expect that he, Nadir, would have survived the loss of his wife, the death of his son, only to have his shell of acquired cynicism scratched open by the most unlikely of creatures—Erik. This incomplete man, who thought only the worst of himself, managing to bring out the best in both of them.
Damn the man. Damn him. And bless him, Allah, bless him, appoint for him a way out of every distress, a relief from every anxiety, and provide for him from where he does not reckon.
As he had not caught fire from muttering an Islamic prayer in a Christian church, Nadir continued across the nave toward the priest’s office, where he was certain he would find the cause of all his distress in life, and most of his joy, toiling without regard for the passage of time or the thousands of prayers Nadir had said for him over the course of their years together.
The priest’s office was warm, a cheerful fire flickering, throwing light to complement the sun’s golden haze slanting through the western windows. An odd assortment of small stones caught the firelight from where they had been scattered on the hearth.
As he did with everything he touched, Erik had subtly remade the priest’s office in his own image, that confounding combination of order and creative chaos. The desk at a perfect right angle to the window, the implements in the drawers each in their assigned place--while the desk’s surface was a profusion of papers, pens and ink, architectural drawings from this project and several others as well as sketches of edifices Erik had dreamed up that quite probably would never take shape upon this Earth.
The desk chair was empty, as was the comfortable reading chair tucked next to the fireplace. Nadir noted with a small pang that the mirror above the chair had been carefully covered with a cloth.
Yet Erik was here in body, not just in the changes he had brought to the room, kneeling upon the floor a little distance from the fireplace. And before him, nestled in a nest of rags in a wooden tool tray—the pigeon.
Nadir shook his head in a gesture of familiar wonderment. In a world of yes or no choices, of this or that, trust his contrary friend to forge a third path. And that it was a choice of mercy, a path he had not considered for any involved, caused Nadir no little shame.
The unmasked side of Erik’s face was toward Nadir, firelight and sunlight revealing the familiar contours, the masculine architecture of jaw and cheekbone, pale rose lips quirked in a small rueful curve, his dark gaze softened beneath the ironic arch of his brow, well and truly caught in a moment of tenderness. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing ivory forearms, scars carrying stories, some of which Nadir knew, most of which were unknown and unspoken. One long hand splayed across his black clad thigh; the other was upturned, gently curled as he caressed the pigeon’s feathers with the back of his fingers.
Nadir set the plate and mug on the desk, removing his spectacles to pass a handkerchief over his eyes, finishing with a quick polish of each spectacle lens. Doubtless the warmth of the room had caused the sudden moist fogging of the glass.
Erik turned his gaze toward Nadir, clearly bracing for the comments to come.
Oh, no. Not nearly so easy, my friend. “What are you doing?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well, relishing in the perverse satisfaction found in causing Erik to have to explain his actions.
“Simply what you asked, Daroga. I am taking care of him,” Erik replied, his hand ceasing its soothing motion, leaning further back upon his heels.
The pigeon for its—his?—part, looked remarkably unconcerned, and indeed, quite a bit better, his feathers unruffled, his eyes half closed in what looked like contentment rather than distress.
“So it’s a ‘him’ now? Erik, you never cease to amaze me. I was not aware your expertise extended to pigeon sexing,” he intoned, pulling the office chair carefully forward and seating himself upon it.
“Yes, he, Daroga, though that is but a guess. I have learned through personal experience that calling any living being a thing allows the caller to perpetrate any number of horrors upon it, leaving a remarkably clear conscience.” Erik’s lips set into a thin line, though his tone was teasingly soft.
Nadir cleared his throat. “Next you will be naming it—him!”
“No,” said Erik. “I rather thought I’d leave that to you. You found him, after all.”
“And what is your professional opinion? How long will we be tasked with pigeon care?” Nadir shifted in the desk chair, crossing his legs.
“Mercy has no timeline, Daroga, you of all people should know this. Steps forward and steps back. It takes the time it takes.”
Nadir shook his head, very slightly, offering again a silent prayer to Allah. Every day, this man was a surprise. An unfinished mosaic, like stained glass, each new and disparate piece adding a different color, pure and scintillating on its own, yet blending in while subtly changing the ongoing work.
“Shall we fashion a cage then, to keep him safe and out of the heights of the nave?” Nadir deliberately spoke with light humor, not expecting Erik’s more somber reply.
“No. No cages or locks. No tethers or chains or nooses. It is simply not in me anymore.” Erik gazed full on at Nadir, his face split as always into two distinct halves by the white mask, the reflection of the fire dancing upon it, half of his face living flame, the other half living man. “I will consent though, to closing the door to this chamber, for his own protection. Though if he becomes well enough to fly, he will shortly thereafter be returned to the wild.”
“Do you think that likely, Erik? What do you think happened?”
“I think…he might have simply been caught in too strong of a storm. Flown too close to the lightning.” Erik’s own tone returned to humor, despite his words. “Conditions with which I am not unfamiliar.”
Erik smoothed his hands upon his legs, eyeing the little grey bird in its soft nest before him. “It will go one of two ways for him, Daroga. Either he will die, and we shall bury him in the graveyard here. No, better the garden where he may nourish the flowers. Or—he will live, to fly away and perhaps return to visit from time to time.”
He eyed Nadir sidelong. “It is not unknown for wild things, after all, to remember kindnesses and become—almost—tame under certain circumstances.”
Well. And on that subject… “Erik, just who did you let shelter in the garden room last night? And why?”
“Oh, that,” said Erik. “I found Wim—for that is his name—in the garden room upon checking the doors prior to leaving late yesterday evening. There was no sign of our little friend here, though, at that time. The weather was fierce. He made to go, but I allowed him to stay. He had come seeking sanctuary after all, and this is a church.” Erik’s mouth curved as Nadir rolled his eyes. “I fetched him the tarpaulin to use as a cover, and some food. And wine.”
“Erik, wine? For a man abroad at that hour and doubtless in his cups already? Surely water would…”
“No, not water, Daroga, he’d had enough of water for the evening. One learns over one’s life that certain moments call for wine and this was certainly one of them for Wim.” Erik moved his arms above his head, indulging in a luxurious stretch of his long spine. “Oh, and I also bade him come back two days hence, so that you would be forewarned of his appearance when he comes to enter our employ. You can expect him tomorrow.”
“Our employ?!” Nadir all but sputtered. “A job, Erik? Take a chance on a complete unknown, someone who could be any sort of person whatsoever—”
“Exactly, Daroga. Nothing new for you at all, you see?” Erik gestured to the hearth. “Now, be a good man and fetch me those stones. I have them tucked under and around the nest to warm it, but they cool quickly and must be replaced often.”
Nadir sighed, from the depths of his soul, and crossed the room to gather up the stones.
Oh, Allah, what you have brought me in this man, what you have done to me with this man. And thank you, for every minute of it…
And he returned to Erik and knelt beside the little pigeon in its humble nest of rags, the stones from the hearth warm in his hands.