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Garroth has been praying.
Or, well, Laurance thinks he knows this, but he might be wrong. He knows Garroth comes from a long line of religious O'Khasian power; and that he's tucked a little gold necklace under his tunic; and that he reaches for it on occasion, fingers falling over the spot on his armour where a charm would hang. He knows his eyes linger on the monument in town every time they walk by it on patrol, and that on the rare occasion he takes a break, he'll find his way over there, one way or another. All of this is to say, Garroth praying to Lady Irene is not something totally out of the question. It's actually more than plausible-- likely, even.
A door creaks open downstairs, and someone shuffles out of the guard tower. It feels like the hundredth night in a row.
Laurance is beginning to worry it's becoming a little obsessive.
He's always been a little bit too observant, and when he was younger and bright-eyed, Joh had held his face between his hands and told him it was a wonderful thing. He told him it was beautiful to see what other people could not, to love where other people fell short. Cadenza would poke him in the ribs and laugh about how, somehow, he knew more about what was going on in her head than she did.
He's never really tried to psycho-analyze the people in his life, he just happens to figure things out a little bit quicker than the people around him. So, when Garroth stares at the monument a little longer, desperately; when he catches him with a hand over his chest, always staring, always caught and then immediately looking away; and when he starts to leave the guard tower in the middle of the night, every night-- Laurance starts putting two-and-two together.
Laurance has never considered himself particularly devout, even before-- he can probably count the amount of times he's genuinely prayed on both hands. If the occasional "Oh, thank Irene," under his breath after finding something he lost counts as religious, then fine, but he's never been committed, not the way some people are. He's never worshipped, never left an offering, but to say he hasn't knelt would be a lie. To say he has never prayed, never begged, would be a lie. But She did not answer. She did not save him from that place. Now, it seems silly to have expected Her to. Now, it seems silly to have expected anything at all.
Laurance doesn't pray.
But, Garroth? He's been praying. Laurance, now, knows this for certain, after trailing him out of the tower, undoubtably beyond midnight, and to the monument of Lady Irene in the heart of Phoenix Drop.
He kneels, somewhat ungracefully, and bows his head, hands resting on the polished stone of the basin. Laurance watches, unblinking.
It feels wrong, to stand there and watch Garroth, essentially, lay his soul bare for, what Laurance assumes, is judgement. It feels even worse to speculate on what Garroth is praying for. He does it anyway.
"Midnight prayer?" Laurance says, because standing there against the shadows makes him feel judgemental, and Garroth is getting enough of that from Irene. Interrupting feels wrong, but he does this, too, anyway.
Garroth doesn't jump, doesn't flinch, when he speaks, and maybe Laurance should've expected this. Of course he knew he was there.
"Yes," he replies, head still down, eyes shut. "Would you like to join me?"
No, he thinks, not at all. So, obviously, he says, "Yeah. Yeah, sure."
He feels a twinge of guilt when he makes his way over to where Garroth is knelt under Her shape, and sits cross-legged on the ground, folding his hands in his lap. He knows, probably, that this isn't what Garroth had wanted-- that he had wanted him to pray, kneel and share a God, but Laurance isn't capable of that.
He opens one eye to look over at Laurance, sat on the cold ground at the foot of Irene, and gives a gentle nod before closing his eyes again. He doesn't say anything after that, doesn't screw up his face, and Laurance finds himself wondering if he was ever expecting him to pray in the first place.
It's quiet, then, as Laurance runs his finger over a spot on his hand where he had pulled a splinter out of earlier that day. It doesn't sting, not anymore, and he heals faster than most, but he can see the pinprick of red where it had dug into his flesh, can feel it when he brushes past. He strains his ears for any noise, but there's no wind tonight, nothing to carry distant sound towards him and nothing to rustle the leaves. It's just the quiet night and Garroth's breathing.
He clears his throat, and Laurance immediately looks over at him, like it's instinct. His eyes are open, and Laurance assumes this means he's done praying, because he's fiddling with his fingers, now, too, an odd sight for someone allegedly stoic. "I, uh-" Garroth says, struggling for whatever reason. "I worry. About you."
Laurance laughs, short and shocked, "What?"
When Garroth's lips don't twitch at the corners, when his shoulders don't relax, when he keeps staring at his hands; his humour dissolves.
"What?" He repeats, serious this time.
Garroth doesn't answer.
"What are you praying for?" Laurance asks, suddenly nervous, unable to pin-point why.
"I worry about you," He says, again, unhelpfully. "You're a good person, Laurance. You're a better man than me." He's breathless, as if this is taking a lot out of him to admit. As if it's painful.
Frantic, a broken record, Laurance says, "Garroth, what are you praying for?"
Hellfire swells in his chest, and Garroth replies, "You."
Laurance stands up, suddenly a little bit sick. How ironic, how hilarious, that he had sat there under the eye of something that claimed to be God, that people claimed to be God, unknowing, while someone did the begging for him. He knows She will not answer, not for him. Garroth does not.
"I don't need you to pray for me." He spits, a little angrier than he should be, but he just can't. Garroth can't do this for him. He can't pray in Laurance's name, in his spot, because how long will it be until Irene ignores Garroth, too? How long will it be until She stops answering him? Who would he be to bring Garroth down with him? What would that make him?
"Someone has to." Garroth mumbles, under his breath, from his spot on the ground.
The anger hits like a freight-train, and he isn't sure where it comes from. Some deep, unwanted part of him that sings for violence. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Garroth rolls his eyes a little, then, turning to look up at him. "That someone has to pray for you."
"And, what? You're taking on the charity?"
"I don't understand why you're so upset."
Laurance throws his hands up in the air, "I know! I know you don't!"
He stands up, slowly, brushing off his legs. "I'm trying to help you." Garroth says, voice firmer.
"You aren't. You can't. She won't help," He says, stepping towards him, hands shaking. The idea that Garroth has been sneaking out to pray for Laurance's unattainable salvation, this entire time, is all-consuming. It's maddening. It might be the worst thing anyone's ever done to him, and he isn't even sure why. "Please, oh my Gods-- Stop. Just stop. Don't do this again."
"You don't give me orders, Laurance. Have you forgotten?"
Laurance groans in frustration, running his hands back through his hair and tugging when they snag on the knots. He hardly notices the pain. The only thing he can think about is Garroth, stubborn, not understanding the gravity of what he's doing. The only thing he can think about is what will happen to him when She turns a blind eye.
"For once in your life, listen, Garroth-- Why can't you let me do this for you?" Why can't you relieve yourself of my burden?
He scoffs, hearing but not listening. "Why can't you let me do this for you?"
"I'm trying to save you." Laurance says.
"Aren't I doing the same thing?"
He feels like screaming. He feels like he could rip something apart, piece by piece, and leave it to sew itself back into something resembling a man.
"You're condemning yourself." He says, very slowly, holding himself back, desperately beating out the fire burning his throat. "You aren't a hero, Garroth," his shoulders sag, just slightly. "You're self-sacrificial."
Garroth blinks at him for a beat, then two, and Laurance lets his shoulders fall in sudden exhaustion. The fight runs out of him, leaving him dry. He is a shell of who he used to be, he has been for a long time.
"... Then let me be condemned." Garroth whispers, after forever, but his voice shakes when he says it, and his face scrunches up like he's waiting to be struck down on the spot. Laurance almost laughs, but it would be a sad, empty thing.
"You don't want that." Laurance says, because it's true. "I don't want that for you. I don't want this for you."
And they both know what he means.
Garroth does laugh, but it's mean, it's scared. "Praying for you will not turn me into a Shadow Knight, Laurance."
Maybe Laurance is being horrible, irrational, when he says, "Won't it?" -- But what's more unholy than giving the devil a shred of God's light? A shred of Her love?
He shakes his head, barely. “I am just asking that She forgive you. All that you are.”
“What if there’s nothing to forgive?”
Garroth doesn't answer, so Laurance steps closer again, face-to-face in every way that matters. “I am not a martyr, I am not suffering for the greater good. I am not suffering in the name of Irene. I am made of sin. I am reborn from sin." He says, speaking so quietly, hopelessly, only noise in the warm night. "Don't you understand that? She turned Her back on me a long time ago."
And it was true. It didn't matter if he had done anything wrong, anything worth the suffering, because he suffered all the same. He suffered, and She did not answer.
"She didn't." Garroth says.
"How could you possibly know that?"
"I know, Laurance," he says, gently, bringing his hands up to cradle either side of his jaw, "I know. She couldn't do that to you."
He sounds so certain, so disgustingly honest that Laurance almost believes it. Garroth is holding his face so carefully that he almost forgets what he is, cold fingers against his skin, he almost lets himself believe he is worthy of that touch.
He doesn't have the heart to say anything, so he stares at him, quietly, like a coward.
Garroth studies his face like he's worth committing to memory, and then leans forward.
It's hardly a kiss. It's almost juvenile, really, a petal-soft touch of lips for what couldn't possibly be more than a few seconds, but it takes every bone in Laurance's body not to revel in it. Not to give in. Selfishly, he wants, but he knows that when this is over, they will still be stood under a statue of a God that does not love him. He knows that Garroth is in Her light, and he is far from it. Selfishly, he wants, but he can't let himself pull a man into his shadow.
And he's right.
It does not fix anything. Garroth must realize this when he pulls back, because he frowns.
Laurance brings a hand to the back of Garroth's neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. He smiles, sadly.
"You can't save me," He says, and hopes he understands, but he knows better than to pray.