The Lovebirds - XII

"Does God answer all prayers? Even ours?"

The nave of Saint James Cathedral was still, and, save for the drum of rain against the windows, silent. Overhead, the ornate chandeliers were dark, while votive candles stood before a statue of Saint Anthony of Padua cast a dim, flickering light over the pews and shifting shadows creeping across the faces of saints and apostles, all rendered in colorful glass. The only other light in the church came shone upon the altar, set into the floor, shining up upon a baroque, gold-trimmed display of graven images depicting angels, the Holy Mother, and, above them all, a battered and bleeding man wrapped in rags, nailed to a cross. He gazed down with listless, painted eyes carved from wood upon the pews that lined the church floor and, even though they saw nothing, the lone occupant present felt as if she could feel them fixed upon her all the same.

She could have sat anywhere, but she had opted to sit in the center-most pew, close to the aisle. Absent eyes stared at the ornate display of religious iconography, seeing all of it at once yet taking in none of it as she did. She didn’t jump or flinch or move at all as she heard the heavy oaken doors to the nave open with a groan that resounded across the tile floors and echoed in the sepulchral air. She kept her eyes fixed on the altar and listened to the approaching footsteps, moving slowly and leisurely in her direction. A man stepped into her peripheral vision, dressed in a rain-dappled black overcoat that trailed down to his feet. He removed a stetson hat, black as the rest of his clothes, from his head, and revealed silver hair that thinned to a point on his forehead. He knelt, performing the sign of the cross before taking a seat in the pew opposite hers.

“Sister Roniel.” The emptiness and size of the nave amplified his soft voice, tinged with a Southern drawl, twofold.

“Brother Yariel,” said Roniel, toneless and flat.

Yariel shifted in his seat, one hand resting atop the hat now seated in his lap. Neither of them looked at one another, but rather kept their heads turned forward and their eyes upon the altar.

“Seeking guidance on how to handle your new neighbors, I presume,” said Yariel.

“And I’m guessing you’re here to give it,” Roniel replied.

“The cherubim were quick to spread word,” Yariel told her.

“So, let me guess. Every angel stationed south of the Mason-Dixon knows I’ve got demons living next door, now.”

“Nobility, at that,” added Yariel. “A prince. The son of Stolas, no less. And his wife. Quite the illustrious personalities.”

“Yeah. Ain’t I lucky,” Roniel intoned.

The two sat in silence for a moment with only the sound of rain to disturb the quiet.

“I should’ve whacked ‘em. I should’ve put a silver bullet right between his eyes when I had the chance and sent him and his miserable wife right back the way they came.”

“And what would that have accomplished?” asked Yariel.

“I’d have wiped a dirty piece of scum-suckin’ filth off the face of the planet before he could make it any worse.”

“And you would have thrown all of our operations into turmoil, and made yourself an enemy of Heaven and Hell in the process. Do you think that such a petty act of thoughtless violence would have been worth that much trouble?”

Roniel wanted to say yes, but she knew that wasn’t the answer she was meant to give, or the answer that Yariel wanted to hear. She swallowed hard and clenched the black fabric of her dress.

“Maybe.”

Yariel continued staring at the figure of the man on the cross. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

Roniel shifted in her seat. She felt a heat blooming behind her face. Her hands trembled and her fingers twitched.

“It just ain’t right.”

“Right. Wrong. That’s not our judgement to make,” said Yariel. “We have our orders. We follow them accordingly.”

“So, what am I supposed to do, huh? Just sit there and twiddle my thumbs while a f-” She bit her tongue and stopped the expletive about to jump out of her mouth before it could escape. “You're right. I got my orders. Sure. But I don't know how I'm supposed to keep to ‘em with a pair of frickin’ demons runnin’ around.” Then, quietly, she added - “He’s testin’ me.”

“It’s vanity to assume that you know why the Lord does as he does, Roniel.”

“How else am I supposed to take it?” Roniel asked.

“You see not what he sees, nor do you know what he knows. It’s not your place to try and divine why we’re given the tasks that we are. The only thing you can do is meet them with grace.”

Roniel clasped her hands together, rested her elbows on the pew in front of her, and leaned forward, pressing her hands against her face.

“I dunno. I just - I dunno what to do.”

She heard Yariel shift in his seat. For a long while, he said nothing. She was beginning to wonder if he was going to say anything at all until she heard him clear his throat.

“Rumors say that Prince Stolitz was banished from Hell. The Cherubim report that he hasn't come to sow sin or interfere with out plans, but rather… well, apparently, it’s a matter of familial discord.”

Memories of her encounter with Stolitz replayed in vivid detail within the theater of her mind.

“He said somethin’ like that,” she confirmed. “I don't buy it. Ain't like demons are known for bein’ honest.”

“Our orders, Roniel,” Yariel continued. “Are to offer assistance and guidance to all of God's creations on Earth.” The wooden pew creaked as Yariel leaned against the divider that separated him from the aisle. “All of them.”

Roniel's eyes opened. She lifted her head and turned to find Yariel looking at her with an inscrutable expression on his weathered face. She, in turn, wore an expression of naked disbelief on her own.

“You… oh, I know you ain't sayin’ what I think yer sayin’.”

Yariel shrugged. “And what do you think that I'm saying?”

Roniel balked. “Yariel - they're demons.”

“And are they not also God's creation?”

“They're - they're -” Words failed her. All that she could think to express was a growl of indignant frustration, the culmination of hours and hours of relentless torment, agonizing over what course of action to take, only sit there and be told that these… these abominations, these wretched, fallen beings, these unclean things that existed for the sole purpose of antagonizing and desecrating all things good and holy…

“They're fallen creatures,” said Yariel. “Debased, degenerate, and defiled. They may reject him, and they may live beyond his light, but they, too, were fashioned by the hands of the almighty. They have their own part to play in his plan. As do we all. And if our part is to act as shepherds of the Lord's flock, and offer aid to his creations, both big and small, righteous and otherwise…” Yariel paused. He placed a hand on the pew before him and rose to his feet. Roniel watched, puzzled, as he stepped out into the aisle, once again kneeling briefly as he did. He only glanced at Roniel out of the corner of his vision, holding to the crown of his hat in the palm of his hat.

“Well… I can't imagine anyone or anything that might need our help more.”

Roniel watched Yariel go down on one knee and repeat sign of the cross, touching his forehead, chest, and both shoulder in ritualistic fashion before standing again.

“Be well, Sister Roniel,” said Yariel. Be returned the hat to his head, turned, and walked away. His footfalls were heavy and loud, echoing in the spacious nave, and growing softer until disappearing behind the door. Roniel, again, was alone, with nothing but the graven images of saints and the Messiah around her. The rain continued to pound against the stained glass windows. She stared at one particular image of Christ, doubled over beneath the weight of the cross and surrounded by jeering and sneering onlookers. Raindrops poured down his face like tears.

Roniel's mind reeled back to a time, many centuries ago. She, along with other young, newly minted angels, their halos unblemished, their wings downy and white, seated before Gabriel himself. Another fledgling angel had raised a hand. She'd long since forgotten this angel's name, but the question they'd asked had remained in her head, etched into her memory in a way so little else was.

Does God answer all prayers? Even ours?

Gabriel's answer, too, had stuck with Roniel. She recalled his expression - the archangel had smiled, though, in it, there was an unmistakable note of sadness in his eyes.

Yes, Gabriel had said. Then, he sighed. But, sometimes… the answer is no.

Roniel's neck went limp. She nestled her face in her hands. Inside her head, she repeated the words that all angels were taught to live by; the unquestioning credo that defined their existence. The answer to all their questions, without fail. She slid from the cushioned seat of the pew and onto her knees, hands clasped into a quivering fist that she pressed to her face. The tile was cold and hard against her skin as she muttered the words aloud to herself and the one individual in all the universe that she knew, despite the overwhelming emptiness and silence and stillness of the nave, was listening.

“Thy will be done."

---

“If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink: For thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head, and the Lord shall reward thee.” - Proverbs 25:21-22, KJV

(There’s a song linked, there. Go on. Give it a listen. It’s good.)

This is the eleventh installment of my ongoing series for Thorny Thursday, which is spearheaded by Kathrine Elaine and The Brothers Krynn. I encourage you to check out the other authors that are participating, a full list of which can be found on either of their pages.

As always, I sincerely hope you enjoyed, and I hope to see you in the next.