Vespers


by llamajoy


author's note: a sort of songfic for a billy, on friday the 13th of october, day of the full moon.

(Coder's note: this was the very first Billyfic llamajoy ever wrote, on October 13, 2000. It was the first outward manifestation of a long and enduring affection. -TnK, September 9, 2013)

there's always one reason
to feel not good enough
and it's hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction, oh beautiful release
memory seeps from my veins
let me be empty and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight

- Sarah McLachlan


Vespers.

His hands folded before him on the prayer-rail, he lay his head down and listened. The church was breathing with evening, the muted footfalls of his brothers in the chapels adjoining, the rustling whispers of candles being lit. Already he could scent the flickering honey-smell of the beeswax tapers, golden warmth suffusing the deepening night that rolled down off the mountainside.

And through it all, the joining voices, the multi-voiced harmony of the twilight chant lifting through the air. Standing in the doorways, as tradition dictated, each priest sang in the change of day, welcoming the descent of nightfall.

His favorite time of day.

He did not sing with them. He never had; it was not something he could explain. They had been more than welcoming, even allowing him the main entryway, but he had declined. Maybe it had been the look in Primera's eyes, regarding their outstretched hands-- perhaps his sister's silence was contagious. Or perhaps, as he liked to think, he merely liked to listen, and adding his own treble voice to the descant would have made it difficult to hear the full range of the music as it wound around the building and into the night.

And so, as always, with his head bowed, he listened.

It would be a long evening ahead, he knew, keeping the second vigil. But he didn’t mind it. It seemed to him that the vespers would sing the Ethos to sleep, his brothers' ancient lullaby touching each searching soul to quiet dreaming, to wake rested for the next day's struggles.

Such a life had he chosen, and full knowingly. A world fashioned of shades of quiet serenity, balanced along the blade-fine edge of violence. Where age was meaningless, in the face of strength and faith and a steady hand. Where fire and blood and prayer together could work a new beginning.

Behind his eyelids, he saw the children of the orphanage, his children. How proud he was, of each of them. The path they trod was not an easy one, that he knew. But each kept a brave face, and each helped the other, and he and Primera--

The hymning ended, trifold echoes dissipating like smoke from a snuffed candle.

The playground brightness of the children's voices darkened, and was silent. He shivered, the stillness adding chill to the advancing night. Too soon it would be winter, creeping in on snow-colored feet, and the evenings would be too cold for outdoor chant. How he disliked the cold-- and the doors would remain closed at evening, regardless of tradition. And he would kneel at his accustomed rail, prayerbeads dangling from fingers long since numb.

For an instant, it was something more than winter, than cold or blackness-- it was something inscrutable, like deepest space, or creation. Huge and breathing, something with a gaping speechless maw, wide to swallow them all whole...

He started, eyes flying open. Beyond the stained glass of the chapel windows, he could see the sliver of moon was already high; he had been there longer than he thought, kneeling at the prayer-rail. Shaking his head, he murmured a quick prayer to steady his heartbeat. What was he thinking? Ridiculous half-dreaming thoughts. His hands were still shaking, and he found himself repeating the prayer for serenity, wondering why he felt so... Empty.

"Brother?" A fellow priest, concern in his voice, hovered in the doorway. It was autumn yet, the doors, for now, were still open.

Without turning, Billy nodded, and blew out the candles.


it don't make no difference
escaping one last time
it's easier to believe in this sweet madness oh
this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees
you are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort here


Vespers.

Or as close as he could come, here, a long long way from home. But the slap and rise of the ocean against the hull was almost like the hiss of wavering candles, and there was a certain music to the stars, shining one by one through the luminescent sky.

Head uplifted in open-eyed prayer, Billy was learning to find God in unexpected places.

The pages of history had failed him, in a glorious fire-scalding betrayal, and pulling back the layers and trappings of time he found himself weightless, lost. Perhaps this was what creation was like, after the blood and the flame, building anew. Too easy to believe it was simple, everyone falters. Is not grace offered to all? Aboard a submarine, of all things, surrounded by unlikely allies.

And here on deck there were no doors to close, and the evening spilled, open and generous, over everything.

It almost made him smile, laughter wavering in his chest. Truth was hovering close, he could sense it. So close he could drown in it, thirsty for it. His prayers had gotten rather unconventional, and he'd barely noticed. Breathe on me, oh sweet inspiration breathe... What more must I do, which way turn to set myself on fire? I believe-- I believe-- What more do you ask of me?

He found that he was kneeling, watching the sky, wishing for something so simple as a sign, some indication that his path was not utterly obscured, some direction to step.

There was a half-heard sigh, somewhere behind him.

Shakily he turned, and the moonlight slid across his hair, a silvered halo. "Who's there?" Whoever it was had not made a sound. He would have rather been alone, would that no one had seen him, so lost and seeking. But he almost did not recognize the figure there, nightgown floating white by the shine of the moon, bare feet silent against the black metal. "Primera?" he whispered. "Prim, is that you?"

The girl came to him, and her slim hands were affirmation enough, one on either of his unsteady shoulders.

"You should be asleep--" he began, but she lay her cheek on his hair, and sighed.

"You’re right, Prim," he said to his hands, learning the way that a sky heavy with stars sounded around his sister’s familiar silence. He had measured much that way, in the space between her breaths. "I’m always thinking. I should go to bed, too."

"Billy." It was a candleflame dancing in a darkling church, a wash of incense rising in a chapel far away, long gone.

Billy’s breath caught in his throat, and he didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes. His pulse wasn't sure if it should stutter or sing. It might have been the ocean, he thought, seawater against the hull of the boat. The night cry of some high-flying seabird. The--

"Billy?"

He turned and her arms were close about him. Humbly he held her, and for once he was the one without words.

"Are you cold, niisan?" He marveled that her sleeping-gown seemed untouched by the night breeze, that her hands were so warm. He nodded without letting her go, his tears staining her collar. "Your bed will be warm," Primera said, all practicality, and helped him to his feet.

Perhaps salvation was simpler than he’d thought, after all.


~o~





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