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There used to be a congregation here.
Now there’s just thorns.
They grow from the pews, curl up the walls, push through the stone like the earth is trying to take it all back. Maybe it should. The stained glass is broken, but the light still comes in—red, gold, sickly sweet.
Immerred steps over a body that might’ve been praying once. Or screaming. Her fingers trail along the edge of a cracked basin. Holy water long gone. Her reflection warps in the surface—just oil now, and something that shivers when she breathes.
She finds Blurin where she always does. Curled beneath the altar, knees to her chest, eyes shut like if she just stays still enough, the past won’t find her.
It always does.
Immerred crouches. Her voice is soft. Almost reverent.
“Wake up.”
She doesn’t flinch when Immerred touches her. That’s new.
The automaton’s hand hovers first, like even she isn’t sure this is allowed. Then it lands—gentle, mechanical fingers pressing into the space just behind Blurin’s ear. A place that once meant comfort. Or control. Depends on the day.
“You’re still here,” Immerred says. It isn’t a question.
Blurin opens her eyes. Barely. The red light from the glass paints shadows across her face. Thorns wind up the stone behind her like veins, like veins made out of grief.
Immerred watches her breathe. Watches the little rise and fall like it’s a confession. Like every inhale says, I didn’t leave.
And every exhale, I should have.
“I brought something.”
Immerred reaches into her coat—black, ashy, too clean in the wrong places—and pulls out a pair of shoes. But not just shoes.
Clawed. Sharp at the toes like talons. The leather stretched tight, stitched like skin, curved to fit the bend of something more animal than girl.
Blurin’s shoes.
Immerred stares down at the shoes in her hands. They still hold the shape of Blurin’s steps—curved, feral, unforgettable. She sets them down beside her. Not as a demand. Not even a question.
An offering.
“They remember you,” she says, softly now. “But more than that... I remember you.”
Her voice isn’t venom anymore. It’s cracked. Quiet. The kind of quiet you whisper when someone you love is breaking themselves apart and you don’t know how to stop it.
“You think staying down here will make any of it mean something?” she asks, eyes on Blurin now, searching. “You think wasting away under stone and thorns will fix what we did?”
The red light through the glass stains her metal hand as she reaches toward Blurin again. Not to touch her this time, but to hold space. To be seen.
“I don’t feel sorry,” she says. “I never did.”
It’s not pride in her voice. It’s grief, almost. Not for what was destroyed—but for what’s left.
“We burned this place because it was killing you. Killing people like us.” Her fingers curl into a fist, as if the words hurt to say. “And now you’re letting it finish the job.”
Immerred leans closer. Her shadow spills over Blurin, but her presence is warm. Familiar. Like fire, not frost.
“You don’t need to repent, Blurin. Not for them. They’re gone.” A pause. “We survived.”
She looks down at the shoes again. At the dust curling up around their edges like ash still remembers fire.
“And I still see you. Beautiful. With them or without.” Her voice is steadier now. Stronger. “You were never the monster.”
Another beat.
“But you’re acting like one now. To yourself.”
Another silence grows between them. The kind that isn’t empty, but heavy. Saturated.
Immerred doesn’t fill it. She just looks at Blurin. Watches the shape of her, small beneath the altar, wrapped in thorns and dust like she’s part of the place now. Like she’s rooted.
She looks into her eyes—when Blurin finally lets her—and sees something that shouldn't be there.
Not hate. Not exactly.
Something harder.
Judgement? Grief? Memory?
It cuts. Just a little.
Immerred’s expression flattens. Lips in a line. She can’t tell if Blurin’s looking at her with blame, or with sorrow, or just… exhaustion.
In those eyes, lit red by the glass, she sees the fire. She sees herself.
Laughing. Crying. Screaming. She can’t tell.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Maybe I only belong here, she thinks.
In the wreckage. In her.
And Blurin—always quiet, always watching—just stares.
…
Blurin shifts.
It’s slow. Subtle. But it shatters the stillness like a scream. Her legs uncoil from beneath her, one twitch at a time, like a creature stretching after too long in a cage. The thorns catch on her shorts. On her skin.
She doesn’t flinch.
Her hand brushes the shoes.
Not to wear them. Not yet.
Just to feel them. The weight. The shape. The edge of who she used to be.
Immerred doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move either. She waits. Watches. That same ache in her chest, pressing down like guilt—but it’s not guilt. It’s fear. That this might be the last time Blurin lets her close.
Then Blurin stands.
Not graceful. Not strong. But upright. Her silhouette cuts against the light like something reborn and ruined all at once.
“I hate this place,” she says, voice like gravel.
“I know,” Immerred answers. Her tone is soft. Unbearably soft.
A beat.
Blurin turns. The thorns catch on her sleeves. Tear them. She doesn’t care. Her fingers twitch again—this time toward Immerred.
And Immerred rises too. Steps forward. Not quick. Not forceful. Just close.
Their bodies don’t quite touch.
But the heat between them is a shout.
Then—
Blurin grabs her.
Not hard. But desperate. A fistful of the coat, tugging her close. And Immerred lets her. No resistance. Her arms wrap around the smaller girl like they’re made to hold her together, like they’ve done this a thousand times in the shadows where no one could see.
“Why are you still here?” Blurin mutters into her chest.
Immerred doesn’t answer. She presses a hand to the back of Blurin’s neck, just firm enough to ground her.
And then—
She leans in. Just enough to brush her lips against Blurin’s temple. Not quite a kiss. Not quite mercy. Just presence.
“I’ll stay until you remember,” she whispers. “That you weren’t wrong. That you weren’t alone.”
Blurin exhales. Shaky. A breath that’s been stuck in her lungs for years.
The shoes still wait on the floor.
She doesn’t put them on.
But she doesn’t turn away either.
Outside, the ash falls like snow.
And beneath the altar, wrapped in light and dust and ruin—
They hold each other like it might be enough.
¬ Extra ¬
Blurin stays in her arms longer than she means to.
Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the fact that Immerred still smells like metal and old smoke, and somehow that’s more comforting than any prayer.
Her head rests against her shoulder.
“You’re still awful,” she murmurs, voice barely above a breath.
Immerred exhales a laugh. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just tired. Familiar.
“I know,” she says.
Her hand moves gently, fingers brushing up under Blurin’s chin, tilting it just enough so they’re face to face. So there’s nowhere left to hide.
“But you’re still here.”
And that’s the whole truth, isn’t it?
Outside, the ash keeps falling.
Inside, two monsters sit in the bones of a congregation, tangled up in thorns and the kind of love that doesn’t need forgiveness—just recognition.
The shoes remain untouched.
For now.