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Dominating and overwhelming stood the Cathedral before him; or rather—he kneeled before it. Madeline's light became iridescent as Horn plunged deeper into the inescapable darkness. The wooden pillars seemed to twist in pain, as if the grave was nothing more than a child that couldn't help but recoil beneath a raised hand.
This time, Pierre wasn't there for a mass, a prayer nor comfort, but instead—for Gazma. He did not know what state he would find him in: a sinner with the face of a saint, or a feral animal, whose only salvation was a firm hand. Perhaps that's what excited him so. Perhaps Gazma, despite all his harsh words and not-so-subtle threats, had already been reduced to a dog who could only wait to be put down.
Horn's sun cast long, weak shadows as he walked through the maze of the grave. In no time, his shadow will leave, too, making him the last lone soul in this galaxy.
Repetitive rustling reached his ears, hands trembling in desperate search for something. Whether the target was food or shelter, or forgiveness, the sound of nails scraping on the altar—so familiar to him—echoed all the same. Just five steps to his right, a savage devastated the sacred grave of Izmir.
One, two, three steps, a tilt of his head from behind the timber monument; there he was.
Long, long hair, a hollow face, the shadow of many restless nights visible on it. Like a pendulum, the expression on Gazma's face changed: from fierce to frightened, and from frightened to resigned. Half of it, at least. Stains, almost woody in their texture, stretched his thin face tightly over his bones, uncovered his sharp teeth, raised one of his eyebrows. He looked hysterical, he looked absurd. And Lavone looked down on this inferior being, a subhuman rotting from the inside out, and all the commandments, all the verses were forgotten. All that he could offer were his own words, unadulterated and rid of the Church's suffocating influence.
"I can help you."
Unwilling—or unable—to speak, Gazma remained crouched down. Was Lavone, too, predestined to this fate?
"God is gracious. Perhaps He will be willing to listen to a child, no matter how unruly, if the message is sincere." How selfless he was, promising a beacon of hope to a hopeless man. How selfish he was, reducing the man to a lab rat for his own sake.
With difficulty, Gazma opened his mouth and like chalk on a blackboard, he spoke:
"Father..."
He reached out, his hand missing Pierre's by millimeters. He tumbled to his knees.
Gazma—the forsaken—looking for forgiveness. Pierre fixed his collar, hiding the wooden veins.
"Save the prayers for yourself, Father. There is no use wasting them for a lost cause."
Lavone crouched down, meeting him at eye level and yet he still hovered above Gazma, curled up, shaking.
"Then what is it that you want from me?"
"Can you stay here? Until it's too late?"
***
Stars, myriads of them. Unnamed constellations above them and beneath them, and on both sides. But their light was dull, weakened by light years of distance.
For Gazma, it was already too late—he truly was a lost cause. No matter which way the sprout is placed, its roots will always grow downwards. Together with blood, his heart pumped auxins through his veins. Or so his knowledge was telling him. He wasn't sure. In different circumstances, he would see Gazma as an exquisite object of scientific observation. But now, when he had no other choice but to observe, he had lost all interest in the biological intricacies.
It was already too late—and still, he stayed. Why? He wasn't sure. He wasn't a psychologist. He never had any interest in the intricacies of the human mind to begin with.
Gazma's roots sprouted. Pierre's own face stilled, like that of a statue, like the wooden pillars, like the Cathedral. How long have they laid there after it was already too late?
"Nobody will come."
Gazma turned his head with great difficulty.
"To the Church, I am a lost cause. I wasn't meant to come back from the very beginning."
'I know', said Gazma's eyes. And this time, he was the one who spoke:
"Come closer, Father."
So he did. Why? Gazma was like soma for his mind. Dumbing him down, rounding his edges, dulling his mind.
Gazma more felt than saw him with eyes full of white fog. First, he touched his hand. Then Gazma's own hands slide up Pierre's arm. Tired, they rested on his shoulders. At last, after wandering around his back, they found his neck. Gently tucked the fragile chain from under his shirt. And pulled, pulled until they stopped feeling any resistance and the links flew about, for a few seconds turning into cheap imitations of falling stars. Lavone did not protest. He only looked, like he always did.
With determination in his eyes, he threw the crucifix as far as he could—the most demanding movement he made that night. It wasn't far at all. It was within Pierre's reach. But those few centimetres were the longest distance he could imagine at this moment.
"As long as you wore it, you were a lamb that willingly came to its slaughter."
"It's a symbol,” he stated bluntly. “Of faith."
"Maybe it used to be. But now it's hollow. Haven't you said it yourself? God has abandoned us," he wheezed painfully when he meant to laugh. "But go ahead, pick it up if you want. "
He didn't. Instead, he asked:
"I came to Horn because of orders, from God. Why did you?"
"Me? I was sick. It seems that schizophrenia is a form of leprosy—it can only be healed with the help of a miracle. And the Cathedral healed me, it did. But by doing so, it turned me into a martyr."
"So you were a willing martyr, then."
"No... No," Gazma shook his head gently—Pierre knew that he intended to do it harshly, but couldn't. "I was never willing, Father. Martyrdom was forced down my throat, just as the bread and wine were shoved down yours."
Casting his eyes to the side, all that Pierre felt was emptiness.
"There is no need for you to call me that. To Death, we are both equals."
"We are not... Father. After our death, you shall be beatified—announced a saint, a martyr buried on the same grounds as Izmir Predú... whether you deserve it or not. If the truths you preach aren't fiction, if you really do believe—suspect!—that God exists, then shouldn't you be happy? While I..." Bitterness seeped thick from Gazma's mouth and it stung deep.
Pierre leaned closer, until he was hovering over Gazma, just as the ghost of Izmir hovered over both of them.
"All I wanted is to live sincerely. Is it really wrong? Is it?"
"These days, sincerity is not a virtue. Perhaps that's why you are here, with me. Maybe this is your punishment—the worst temptation that you can't resist."
Gazma's heart was a time bomb, he knew it. He rushed his words, blurred them together.
"When you first came here—I remember it vividly, even though you don't remember me being there at all—you said that you don't merely believe in God, you suspect. So, what do you think now? I know your answer doesn't matter—we're the last people in the entire world. But, still, what do you...?"
The necklace laid there, within the reach of Pierre's arm, untouched and so very small inside the all-consuming Cathedral.
He laid his head on Gazma's chest, above his heart, just where the sternum was located. This was his only answer.
Without a word, he listened to the frail heartbeat, echoing like great earthquakes that shattered his malleus and crushed his incus. He counted in his head for 15 seconds, then multiplied by 4. The numbers jumped up and then fell down, and then fell up, and jumped down. And after they ceased to change, he still laid there, unmoving, for 60 seconds. Because this was the only thing he could offer, now that he didn't have anything left.
But it was a lie, most likely. Or maybe it wasn't. He could've laid there for 60 seconds, or 6 seconds, or 40 days and 40 nights. It didn't matter. For him, this was eternity.
If the circumstances were different, he would've left chrysanthemums on Gazma's grave. But there was no grave, no flowers for Gazma.