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Graves found religion a… tough subject.
Growing up in her family Sunday Mass had been... expected. It wasn’t a choice, it was just what was done.
She had to wear whatever perfect pressed dress her mom set out for her and she was expected to smile at the folks that talked to her - but not too much - “----- don’t smile like that you look demented.”
Her frown deepened.
Graves scratched a little at her arms, her sister's words echoing in her head.
Of course she’d been the perfect blonde blue eyed sweetheart. With just enough makeup to come across as a “little lady” without appearing too overly concerned with her looks either.
Graves remembered seething once as someone pinched her cheek while her older sister effortlessly talked to the adults around them and had her words taken seriously.
They stopped attending church weekly when she was …eight?
It became Easter Sundays and Christmas Mass only and then by the time she started high school – of course a boarding one so she no longer had to be at home, and her sister had moved out – their family no longer attended church.
Graves had never gotten to paint or dye eggs or run around in the grass looking for them.
‘Which was fine,’ She told herself ‘It's a stupid tradition anyways’.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek.
She supposed her parents had decided it wasn’t worth the trouble anymore.
Some of the trouble, Graves thought, was her reluctance to – “Oh honestly ----- it isn’t that hard to look somewhat presentable-.”
Her skin tingled warm as she dug in her blunt cut fingernails. She forced out a breath.
Her parents had given up on fighting her about it. Yet that didn’t mean they would walk into their local church with a daughter dressed head to toe in morbid black.
That would be too high a blow to their reputations.
And they couldn’t have that now could they?
The world knew about the supernatural now – the Maelstrom had seen to that – but that didn’t mean the world wanted to accept it or that the idea of religion fell apart.
If anything it was clung to harder. With desperation. Hope. Fear.
With her dealings she did now with the dead… she sighed again. What was she supposed to believe? Sure she helped many spirits, she worked hard to grant them their peace, she respected their presence but…
It was hard to believe in God - The God - with everything in her current life.
Furthermore she was wrapped up in a ritual involving two beings who claimed to be gods.
The man she was waiting for was just another caught in the crosswires of two supposed “deities” playing with their lives.
Graves shook her head sharper than she meant to. Letting bleached dyed hair fall in front of her eyes, not bothering to brush it back.
‘Why am I here?’ She thought to herself. ‘I should just leave now before he sees me.’
She leaned back in the pew and muttered a curse to herself as she realised she had crossed her legs instinctively when she’d sat down. A picture of “lady-like.”
Graves shifted immediately.
She slouched low, stretching out and hooking her boots through the gap in the pew ahead of her, claiming the space like it was her own.
Her mouth twitched.
Yeah. That was better.
She couldn’t wait for his reaction to her disrespect. She was sure it’d be amusing.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------
Father Quinn Rourke wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he returned to the current church he was being allowed to stay at. St Benedict in Manhattan.
He had taken some measure of amusement at his post.
Yes, place a Venator of St Benedict in the church called St Benedict.
An inspired thought of ecclesiastical veneration.
In someone's eyes at least.
He hadn’t realised it would make it easy for a particularly stubborn sort to track him down.
A sigh was leaving his mouth before he even thought to catch it.
The lass was sprawled across two rows of benches, hair falling loose over her eyes, and yet – her legs hooked through the pew like a bored child at a sermon – reminded him all over again that she was still, in many ways, one. Dangerous with those powers of hers and stubborn to a fault – always ignoring his well meaning advice and warnings, but.. a child none the less.
One doubtlessly in over her head – even if she disagreed. She had at least, the last time they spoke.
He wondered why she had sought him out now.
Graves turned her head back like a cat then - wide green eyes staring up at him on a pale face.
There was a challenge in them. He almost wondered if she’d come looking for a fight.
He wouldn’t give it to her if she had. Not here.
If they were anywhere else, he might have offered her a drink. But this wasn’t that kind of place. Then again, if she’d wanted this conversation over tea and biscuits, this certainly wasn’t where she should have chosen to find him.
Graves leaned back slightly, letting her legs stretch through the gap in the pew, eyes still fixed on him. “I suppose you were expecting someone else,” she muttered. She closed her eyes for a second, taking in a breath.
Quinn’s lips downturned for a second before his face smoothed “I wasn’t expecting anyone.” He forced the concern out of his voice – she’d only take offense. “If I had known, I’d have taken out the nice silverware.”
Graves tilted her head back, eyes flicking toward the altar. “Some fancy silverware there,” she said.
Her tone had lost its usual snark. It still had the bite of a dog expecting to be kicked – but it didn't have the usual snarling – or the posturing.
He softened further, he stepped closer, still being wary to give her space – to not stand over her. That would ring too close to judgement here. “What’s this about Lass? I doubt you hiked all the way out from Blackmoore Academy just to snark at me.”
“The last time we spoke…” She paused, stumbling once – like she had before. “…you said you didn’t have a problem with me trafficking the dead.”
She hesitated but as usual found her confidence to speak up matter of factly “I don’t like that wording, by the way. It feels disrespectful to them.”
He noted she didn’t seem bothered about the lack of respect shown toward herself but nodded in acknowledgment. He had reflected on his choice of words since then, partly trying to figure out how he could reach her, but also with the realisation that it was.. a harsh term, based on what he knew of her deeds.
He was glad though, that the Litch didn't seem to be with her at the moment. That choice alone, not bringing such a creature into a holy place, it showed strength – that she wasn’t beyond saving. It also, surprisingly, felt in character of what he knew of her.
He knows the others he’s run into during the rituals see her as just an edgy teenager who doesn't respect anyone. Yet she respected the dead, enough to speak up against him even in a place where he held supposed higher power.
Of course she would respect him and this place of meaning enough, to not push her luck by bringing her “friend”.
She continued, softer now. “Just… is it not wrong? What I do? Am I not disturbing the dead?”
“From what I’ve heard,” he said carefully, “you help them rest.”
Her green eyes sharpened. “I don’t think your church would agree with that,” she said, bitter and self-assured.
He paused, letting her words settle, thinking. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”
Her eyes were looking at him now – wanting – wanting something.
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes, lass,” he said softly, “peace isn’t neat. But it’s still work worth doing.”
She looked away from him then, and he took the chance to step forward, his steps echoing on the tile. He slid himself into the seat where she had her legs hooked through and turned sideways, so his full gaze wasn’t on her, but so he could see her and she could see him.
He tapped the wood near her feet and she – remarkably yet again somehow still in character – listened to the chide and took her feet out.
She shuffled in the opposite pew. Quinn tried not to stare as she wrapped her arms around herself. He couldn’t bring himself to say a word – even as he winced as her boots half sat on the seat – as she tucked into herself, retreating.
Maybe he had made the wrong move, coming closer.
He hummed looking forward again, his eyes resting on the crucifixion hung in the center altar.
“You grow up going to church?” he asked her, lightly. Brushing past the matter.
He heard softly almost a whisper “..didn’t get much of a choice.”
“Aye” he said in reply, “I suppose most kids don’t. Even so, I think that’s a poor way to introduce it.” He paused, then added with a wry smile, “It should always be a choice. Of course, I might not be here if my Ma had let me make that choice,” he laughed, low and deep, a sound that carried a hint of mischief but he let it teeter off.
He probed carefully “What brings you back?”
He let the silence stretch, giving her space. If she didn’t want to answer, that was fine.
Her feelings were hers to offer – or to keep. He could only respond to what she chose to reveal, offer advice or comfort based on the glimpse she allowed him.
He hummed softly, eyes tracing the lines of the crucifix.
“You,” she finally muttered.
“Oh?” He couldn’t help the slip of mirth considering how their previous conversations had gone.
She let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s not.. I meant. You being around, s’reminded me of everything. I hadn’t been to church since I was… thirteen.”
He nodded carefully, still not looking back at her. “A few years then,” he said.
“...yeah.” Her next words were very careful “I dont… I don’t think I believe in.. him, you know? I just..”
Quinn turned to her then though she wasn’t meeting his eyes with her confessions. “It’s always a choice,” he said firmly “sometimes you just need an old, familiar, comfort. And that's okay.”
“Thank you, Father.”
And this time, there was a hint of acknowledgement in the way she said it.
She took out her phone to glance at it, and he saw her face tighten at whatever she was looking at.
“I have to head back,” she mumbled.
He nodded. “You’re always welcome here,” he said. He then delicately offered “And – during the next ritual, find me if you can. I’ll keep an eye on you and you on me.”
Graves huffed then amused. “Sure thing Father,” she hopped to her feet. Her boots hitting the floor, she loudly stalked out, footsteps long and heavy, bouncing back to her usual demeanour the way youths did.
He shook his head staring at her leaving.
“Well,” He concluded, “two steps forward.”
Quinn had a feeling he’d be completing the phrase in their next stumbling attempt at conversation. He did, after all, realise that she’d most likely have that blasted hand with her at their next meeting.
He would try to hold his tongue about it, until the lass felt she could trust him more. She was very perceptive though so he had a feeling, no matter what he did or did not say, that there would be… a set back of sorts.
Except now.. he wouldn’t let that stop him, and if she didn’t go looking for him during the next ritual, he would go looking for her. Just in case.