Chapter Text
“Get a spot in the front lot, we don’t want to get all sweaty before going inside.”
“Sure thing, ma.”
I pull the sedan into a spot not too far from the main doors of the church. Good call by her, it’s sweltering outside today. Dang heatwaves are hitting us already and it’s only June. It’s going to be a hot first summer back in the old stomping grounds.
We pop out of the car and mom stretches her red feathery wings wide, shaking them slightly at full extension as a few joints pop audibly. I do the same, giving the leather of my own wings a good hard stretch and flapping them a few times, though with far less creaks and groans; one of many perks of being 23.
“Alright, alright, no need to show off. C’mon, let's pick up the pace. Don’t want to get a bad seat,” she snidely chides with an eye roll.
I give her a small smile, nod, and we begin our walk inside. Other members of the congregation are doing the same, converging on the place of worship from all over the lot. Saurians, sauropods, simians, and cetaceans of every color and species form a colorful rainbow of beings happily chatting as they go, all dressed in their Sunday best.
Despite being unseasonably warm, it is an otherwise gorgeous day. The sun shines high in a cloudless pastel cerulean sky. A light breeze causes the large mesquite and oak trees that dot the grounds to sing with their branches, leaves, and pods a shimmering song to herald the beginning of mass.
All the churchgoers are funneling towards three dark, large wooden doors located up a long set of stone steps that make up the front entrance. Reaching the base of the steps with mother and casting my eyes upwards, they’re drawn to the two lady pteros standing on either side of the only open door, handing out missalettes.
To the left stands a petite older-looking woman dressed in a plain, deep blue dress. Greyish-blonde hair lies in a braid over one shoulder, a cheery demeanor is painted over her pale light blue face, and her eyes fixed in a squint in the bright noon sunlight. Her mouth moves in speech as every being passes by; she must be well-acquainted with the regulars here. Either that or she’s just very chatty.
To the right of the door, slumped further back against the imposing wooden frame, is a similar looking woman, though that one appears much younger. She has the same scale color as the older one and is slightly taller; if not for the tone, her scale markings betray her relation to the diminutive ptero across from her.
But neither her pigment, nor long silvery hair, nor modest yellow dress are what draws my attention the most.
Like two giant, perfectly cut chunks of the finest fossilized gemstone, her amber eyes even from far away glimmer in the radiant solar illuminance. As we get ever closer to the door, their shimmering brilliance is undermined by a now-visible sadness previously hidden by distance. Dark circles ring underneath them. They don’t move to greet passers-by. The only indication of life within her is the stiff, robotic movement of one arm as she passes out the booklets.
I carefully nudge mother to guide us both drift right as we make our way up the steps. Reaching the doorway, the older woman is chirping away happily, greeting the steady stream of believers. The younger one says nothing, silently performing her duty, eyes fixed at a point somewhere in the middle distance.
Approaching her, I smile warmly.
“Good morning miss,” I greet as I extend my hand to take one of the missalettes.
“Morning,” her lips reply in a hushed, monotone voice. If I hadn’t been listening for it, I might not have even heard her words.
“Hope you have a wonderful day,” I say over my shoulder as I continue past with mother, entering the grand foyer of the church.
She doesn’t respond, physically or verbally.
We find an open pew and take our seats to one side of the altar. Mother kneels down and bows her head in silent prayer. I want to join her, say my hellos to the Big Man upstairs, but my mind is fixated on the scene from just a few moments prior. Those pools of bright orange hiding such sorrow refuse to leave my thoughts.
Who is the woman behind those eyes? I don’t ever remember seeing her when I visited home for the holidays. Is she new here? Maybe I’ll ask mother, she might know the young ptero.
A little while later the church is packed and the opening procession begins. We stand and begin to sing the opening hymn. The great vaulted ceilings of the place reflect and concentrate the individual songs of the congregation into a single voice of praise.
Mass proceeds as it always does and the whole time I’m scanning the crowd, looking, searching.
Hoping to see those amber eyes. Desiring to catch another glimpse of them.
The pain behind those eyes tugs at my heartstrings.
Who is she?
What sorrows fill her heart?
What, or who, hurt her?
…
The following week passes quietly. Most of it is spent helping mother around the house with her duties and sending out job applications. Evenings are quiet, though I did meet up with some old friends from high school who are still in town. Not many of us from St. Boniface High landed back in Volcaldera after all these years, but at least the ones who did are still on speaking terms.
The entire week though, I can’t shake her from my mind. I convince mother that we should attend Saturday evening mass instead of Sunday mass. The thought of getting another chance to see her, finally getting a chance to speak with her, consumes my waking thoughts.
Saturday early evening arrives and so do we to Holy Stone church. Mother is overjoyed to see me so eager to attend mass and I’m antsy as well. We take our seats on the other side of the alter this time, at my request. Such a beautiful creature might be a part of the choir, so this time we will have a better view of them if that’s indeed the case.
As the trickle of people turns into a steady stream, my eyes are watching, searching, waiting.
Waiting to see if–
There!
Walking along the far wall from us are the same two ptero women from last week, the small one in her same blue dress and my amber-eyed angel dressed in her Saturday best. A bright orange ribbon adorns her crest today, complimenting those delightful gemstone eyes and contrasting starkly against her pale blue scales. What a beautiful touch.
They make their way closer to us and, as I predicted, take their places among the choir. I have to be careful not to make things weird, and limit my looking to quick glances in her direction.
There is still a heavy world-weariness in her eyes. When not directly conversing with the smaller woman with her, she sits very still, hands in her lap, with those eyes of hers either shut or staring blankly at something in front of her.
As the opening hymn begins, the choir’s contribution is far more apparent this week. Trying my hardest to single out her voice, it’s not possible to tell exactly which is hers, but it must be the most angelic sounding. Her eyes are shut tightly as her lips move, singing praises, the muscles of her face showing visible strain as she seems to throw herself into the song. Her wings flutter slightly and her left hand rises and falls slightly by her side with the pitch of her tune.
It is the most wonderful thing to see her singing so passionately, so powerfully, putting all of herself into the words she offers up to The Lord.
For a moment, fleeting as it may be, the color seems to return to her. She’s animated, lively, and strong.
She seems so happy.
Then, as quickly as the joyous visage came over her, it leaves with the conclusion of the opening hymn. Her expression instantly switches back to one of distance, those eyes hidden behind light blue lids as she sits in silent contemplation or prayer.
I avert my gaze for a while, attempting to focus on the readings and the Gospel message but it’s a fool’s errand. I’m transfixed by this creature. Never in my life have I been drawn to someone so strongly who I do not even know. Something about her has captivated my mind and my heart.
I steal a glance during Father Bernard’s homily. What I see sends a slight chill down my spine and causes me to immediately look elsewhere.
There was no mistaking it, both of those fiery orange orbs were gazing directly at me. Not over me, not in front of me, not through me. Right at me.
Oh Dear Lord…
Please…
I must know who she is.
Following Holy Eucharist and the recessional hymn, I usher mother and myself to the foyer and make an excuse that I saw an old friend that I want to wait for to keep us around a bit longer.
Just a few more moments so we can bump into her.
Spying the smaller one of them chatting with another few older-looking saurians, I slowly begin to make my way towards them. As I do, mother chides me for walking off without saying a word, her miffed grumbles keeping pace behind me. Approaching the two, her face lifts and takes notice of my advance.
I lift a hand in greeting.
“Hello there miss.”
She limply lifts a hand in response but speaks no words.
“I’m sorry to bother, but do we know each other?”
She blinks blankly twice, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“I don’t think so,” she quietly answers.
“Ah, my bad. I thought I recognized you. Anyway, wanted to say great work singing today. You and the others sound really great.”
“Thanks.”
I step within arms reach of her. The older ptero woman with her turns and takes notice of me as well, giving a warm smile. My attention turns to her as she speaks.
“Oh– hello! I overheard you talking to Lucy, thank you for your kind words! It’s a joy to get to spend mass filling the air with song.”
I turn back to her.
“Lucy? That’s an awfully pretty name.”
She looks down slightly. I extend a hand.
“I’m Viktor. And this is my mother, Marian.”
The older woman extends her hand to mother and they exchange greetings, rapidly becoming sidetracked with their own conversation. Lucy weakly offers her hand and I take it in greeting. Her scales are cool to the touch yet soft. Well-cared for claws adorn the tips of her slender fingers. There is a delicateness to our first touch, a tenderness most wonderful.
“So, Lucy, are you and your…”
“Mom,” she loosely juts a thumb towards the smaller light blue ptero woman.
“Are you and your mother new to this church?”
Her brow furrows slightly.
“No, she’s been coming here for a long time.”
“And yourself?”
“Few years.”
“Newfound faith?”
“Mmm…” she responds noncommittally, her gaze briefly drifting away.
“I’ll take that as a yes. No shame, I’m kinda the same way. Few years away at college didn’t do me much good for my faith, but it’s good to be back. Same kinda story for you?”
“Something like that.”I give her a reassuring smile and a curt nod.
“I hear you. Well yeah like I said, name’s Viktor, but you can call me Vik. Just moved back in with ma over there a few weeks ago. Graduated from Rockpit State, master’s degree in welding engineering. Been looking for a job in the area, you uh, know anyone who’s hiring?”
She returns a look of what seems to be mild confusion at my question. I give a brief wave of my hand and shake my head slightly.
“Bah, didn’t think so. All good. So, Lucy, what do you do?”
“I work with children.”
“School teacher?”
“Daycare. I work with some of the other ladies.”
She grabs one arm with the other, rubbing the crook of her elbow with a thumb. Her eyes dart over to our mothers a few times.
“Oh, that’s nice. Do you like it?”
“It’s fine.”
“That’s good to hear. Say, I was going to as–”
“Hey, mom?” Lucy sharply interrupts my words.
“Yes dear?” the minty ptero replies.
“We should get going, we’re gonna be late for… uh…”
The small woman looks at her through squinted eyes, a similar look of confusion to the one Lucy gave me mere moments ago washing over it. Then, as if a cartoon lightbulb appeared over her head, she lightly claps her hands together.
“Oh! Yes yes, dinner with Moe! Well Martha it was lovely meeting you, but Lucy and I must be going. See you again next week?”
“Of course Sam! You’ll have to bring me that casserole recipe, it sounds divine!”
Our mothers chirp their goodbyes to each other as I attempt to give my own to her.
“See you next weekend?”
She glances at me and blinks, her gaze falling away. She shrugs and turns away, gently prodding her mother to usher them towards the exit.
As they walk, she keeps tightly holding her arm. Her mother places a hand on her back, seeming to take over guiding her as they walk through the front doors and out of the church.
Lucy…
I turn and look at Mother. She’s got a smile on her face.
“Sam and her daughter seem like nice people.”
I return the smile, nodding.
“They really do.”
…
Weeks go by following the same pattern of job applications, which slowly turn into more interviews, boring domestic crap, hanging out with old friends, and finding excuses to talk to Lucy before and after mass. I don’t see her every week, sometimes she’s not at Saturday or Sunday service depending on which we attend, but when I do it’s always a joy. I’ve never been able to get her number, the two times I’ve asked she’s not had her phone on her.
With life at home with ma becoming very dull, I decide to pick up work with a local landscaping outfit that has contracts with lots of large property owners around Volcaldera. This one in particular I found through the parish since they’re the groundskeepers for the church; it feels like a fitting job to take, being able to give back to the church.
And getting more chances to see her.
As summer draws on, the days become longer and hotter and the plants seem to grow more rapidly. It’s like we have to cut some lawns twice each day, once in the morning and again in the evening. The work is draining, the hours are long, but it’s all made worth it by the days I get to see my Lucy. Planting flowers and weeding the beds around the church grounds, I’ll catch glimpses of her bright yellow dress as she chases the little ones around the playground or rests in the shade with the other daycare ladies. It makes my day to see her so happy, doing what she loves.
Occasionally, I’ll get the chance to talk to her when I can swing it. Finding excuses to work on the bushes closer to the playground or schoolhouse are great ways to bump into her. Our conversations slowly begin to warm up, her replies less short and cold. Turns out she’s lived here her whole life, born and raised. Went to Volcano High and has lived with her parents ever since. I also noticed very early on that there’s neither a ring on her finger nor does she wear any jewelry.
All good signs for me.
Occasionally at mass Lucy and her mother will be joined by her father Ripley, a hulking beast of a man. Apparently he’s the police commissioner; it’s good to know that she and her mother are in safe hands with him around. I’ve spoken with the man a few times and from what I’ve gathered he’s an exemplary husband and father. We chat about things like bowling, hunting, and fishing. I think he’s taking a shine to me. Hoping one of these days he’ll invite me along on a trip with him and his son who I’ve yet to meet. The stories he tells sound like just the wildest things.
As summer turns to fall, the days rapidly become shorter and colder. The plants stop growing as quickly and the break-neck pace of work slows down. More importantly than that lowly laborer job however, one of my interviews bears fruit and after a few more rounds, I’m starting my new role with Schell Energy at one of their refineries in a few weeks. I gleefully put in my notice and they cut me loose early. Not like we needed each other anymore anyway.
With a few weeks of not much to do before starting my work, I decide to make it a point to pray at the Stations of The Stone Cross every morning in the church gardens. It’s a great way to begin the day in silent contemplation and a perfect excuse to bump into Lucy. I know she likes to spend time in the gardens as well, and now we have all the time in the world, at least for a little while.
The first morning I do so is a particularly warm one for Autumn. I show up a little early, hoping to be the only person there.
Well, besides the other person I’d like to see there.
Sure enough, sitting on a far bench facing a statue of St. Lucille is my Lucy. Her wings are resting over the back of the bench and the wrap on her crest looks like a pair of drooping bunny ears from the way she has her head bowed.
She looks so peaceful like that.
I approach quietly, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment or scare her. I take the long path around to where she is, taking time to silently ask The Lord for courage and strength. It’s time to shoot my shot.
Walking in front of where she’s sitting, I distract myself by admiring the statue of St. Lucille. A ptero herself, I believe she’s the patron saint of the blind? A bit ironic, given that Lucy can see quite clearly out of her two gorgeous eyes.
“Oh,” her startled voice croaks out behind me. I quickly turn and meet her gaze, giving a little wave as I do.
“Morning Lucy.”
“Morning.”
She’s holding a rosary in her hands, rubbing one of the beads with a thumb.
“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you. I can leave if you’d like,” I offer.
She shrugs. I’ll take that as approval to stay.
“Mind if I take a seat?”
She casts her eyes to the side and shakes her head. I steal the opportunity and sit on the bench next to her, leaving enough space for comfort between the two of us. I fold my hands and lean forwards, closing my eyes and offering up some words in silent prayer, though in reality I’m just praying that things go the way I hope they will.
After a few peaceful quiet moments, I speak up.
“Lovely weather for the fall, huh?”
No response. I turn my head slightly towards her. She opens an eye, looks at me out of the corner, and nods her head subtly.
“It’s a wonderful season. The changing of the leaves is so beautiful. My ma and I always used to go into the countryside and go apple picking when I was younger. Might be fun to do again sometime.”
My attempts at conversing are met with silence again. I know she was probably praying, but still she seems unusually quiet today.
I open my mouth to speak again, try a new avenue of conversation, but she opens hers first.
“Why are you here?”
Her words take me aback.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you talking to me?”
I knit my eyebrows together and cock my head slightly.
“Because you’re my friend?”
She lets out a huff.
“Just please, Vik, don’t… just stay away.”
I shuffle on my seat, turning my body to face her. She’s still facing forwards.
“Why do you want me to stay away?”
Her head turns to face me now.
“Why do you keep trying to be so nice to me? You’re always so chipper and smiley when we talk.” Her words come out with a hint of anger I’ve never heard from her before.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
“I’m not dumb, Vik. Just… please. You don’t want someone like me.”
I inch a bit closer to her, leaning in slightly. She turns her head away.
“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” she whispers towards a bed of lilacs.
“I know who you are, Lucy.”
Her head snaps back to me.
“You’re a tender, beautiful soul in this cruel world. The pain you hide behind those amber eyes is so hard to see everytime we talk. Something happened to you and I just want to know how I can help. You don’t need to carry that hurt with you, Lucy. You need to let it out.”
Playing my hand so firmly leaves her speechless. Her eyes look around my face, searching for something. Her eyes clamp shut and her lips begin to grimace. A sudden spasm jolts through her body.
Should I say more?
Should I let her talk?
No, I know what she needs.
I extend my hand, gently placing atop hers. A sharp gasp comes out of her.
“Vik…”
“I'm here Lucy. Let it all out.”
Her grimace contorts into a look of utter pain and sorrow. Her torso spasms as she chokes back tears, though eventually a few begin to break through at the corners of her eyes. Her hands clutch the rosary in them more tightly.
“You don't want me. I'm broken. I'm worthless. I'm nobody,” she whispers with vitriol, though it's clear the anger isn't directed at me. She manages to contain herself, intermittently taking steading breaths as she fights back the wave of emotion that is threatening to burst forth from her.
“You aren't nobody, Lucy. You're a wonderful person. You're so loving and kind. You're polite and caring; I see the way you treat the children you work with. You have a gentle heart, Lucy. A beautiful, tender, loving heart. The way you sing in church every weekend inspires the congregation and fills their ears with the most beautiful music. You aren't worthless Lucy. Your mom loves you. Your father loves you…”
I suppress the urge to continue the line of thought. She's not taking the words lightly, her hands now balled into fists as her nails dig into her palms.
She needs to hear this.
“You're the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on, Lucy.”
A sharp inhale. Gotta keep going. She needs to hear this.
“Your markings, your hair, your soft scales,” I gently rub my thumb across the back of one of her tightly clenched hands, “they all make you the wonderful person that you are.”
“And your eyes– my God, Lucy, your eyes. They're the most awe-inspiring things I've ever seen.”
As if on command, her lids lift to reveal those amber orbs, welling with tears, peering right into my own.
“I– I care about you Lucy. I want to see you happy. I want that pain to all go away. I want that for you.”
She clenches her eyes back shut tightly, then relaxes her face. They open back up, looking down slightly. Her hands relax, opening back up and flipping upwards.
I gently slide my hand into her open palm, grasping it loosely.
“I want to help you Lucy.”
She swallows hard.
“Do you mean all those things?”
I stare at her, unable to find the words to respond immediately.
There's a giddy sensation in my chest mixed with a resolute sense of calm.
I do mean every word.
She has to know that.
“Everything you just said, do you really mean all of that?”
I close my eyes and nod slowly.
“I do. I mean every word.”
“Fuck…” she curses in a wavering whisper as another silent cry racks her body.
I wrap my other arm around her shoulder, scooting closer so our legs are side by side. We sit in silence for a few moments while she calms herself down.
On a branch up above, a mourning dove coos its song. A trilling call that reminds me of childhood, of cool mornings, of home.
Minutes pass and Lucy is breathing easy now, the tension in her body gone. Her head gently rests itself on my shoulder.
“Lucy…?” I quietly ask.
“Yeah?”
“Do you sing outside of church?”
A pause.
“For the children, yeah.”
“I'd love to hear something, if you don't mind.”
Another pause, this one longer. Her head then lifts off my shoulder and she straightens herself out. I retract my arm and slide back to give her space. Her head faces forwards and she takes a deep breath.
After letting it out slowly, she opens her mouth slightly and begins to sing out in an angelic voice.
“You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don't take
My sunshine away.”
Her words flow through the air so elegantly, like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I feel a lump beginning to well in my own throat.
“The other night, dear
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you
In my arms
When I awoke, dear
I was mistaken
So I hung my head and cried.”
Her fists clench back into tight balls. She pauses, taking another deep breath and letting it out with a slight shudder.
So soft, so delicate, so fragile.
Who would ever hurt something so beautiful?
A seraph of song.
This beautiful creature.
“You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don't take
My sunshine away.”
She finishes, her eyes having since shut, and lets her head bow low. She sniffles a few times, then presses her hands to her eyes and begins to sob. I feel myself about to cry as well. Rising to my feet, I stand in front of her. She notices I’ve moved and looks up at me, those windows to her soul pouring out all their pain.
I extend my hand to her.
I will take care of her.
I will fix her.
I will make her whole again.