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crowsA great rush of wind swept through the broken roof of the once-temple, raising a mournful sussurus that Isolde's ears – so absent from the sound of singing for so many years – harkened to as if it were a phantom choir. The solemn hymn chilled her, but she stood still to listen, holding her breath fast in her chest as she swept her eyes across the front of the church. There, the pulpit where countless priests had conducted sacred masses before the third world war. There, the pews laying evenly alongside one another, backed with risers that awaited the genuflection of obedient faith.
Ruined buttresses flew high above, letting in the broken staggering of filtered light from the dull sky above. She narrowed her eyes beneath her lashes until she fancied she could see a pious, silent sea of worshipers, all bowed head and bended knee.
Once, in that other world and other life that filled her dreams hazily, Isolde had gone with a then-lover to see a traditional Catholic mass performed by singers at a historic cathedral in Dusseldorf. Despite not being of any stripe of faith, like the majority of her scientific and social contemporaries, Isolde had been gripped by the power of the voices weaving their rich tapestry of archaic Latin. Much of the language was familiar from the other arrangements in science and other studies she'd taken all her life, but in such applications it lacked the flowering poetry that it had in the form of the chants that hushed the audience. In interludes of translation interjected cunningly throughout, where the more familiar shapes of people dressed for modern times moved among frozen performers in religious garb of the former era, a picture of alternate wrath and love meted out by an all-empowered, omniscient divine came to life on the stage, and in her ears.
Standing in this ruin – to her eye, likely one much older than the recent devastation and dating to the third war when religious icons and establishments became targets for some of the destruction – she could hear the fine voices of those performers – some as young as six and seven, others ten times or more that age – floating ethereally over her head, and through her, and out beyond her to a life she could barely recall.
Isolde did not hear Ivan approach; he stood suddenly at her side, settling a hand to the small of her back and holding out one of two candles held in the other, lit with trembling flames.
“It's beautiful, weirdly,” he said under his breath, awe and uncertainty mingled in his features.
Mutely, Isolde nodded her head, before angling her gaze forward again. As if drawn by some unspeakable presence, the ghosts of long dead worshipers or some lingering scrap of the god once praised reverberating between the lonely walls, she took a few reverent steps forward. Ivan, not wanting to stray from the warmth of her side, fell in step with her, and they processed up the aisle between the uneven rows of broken pews, candles in hand.
“What is it? What are you looking for?” he leaned his head down to whisper, hushed by the greatness of the space about him and Isolde's unnatural calm.
“I'd just like to sit a little while, and think, I guess.” She glanced up at him after a moment, leaning closer as if to get away from the sheer space that thundered around them amongst the strange architecture of antiquity. “Stay with me?”
“Think?” Ivan said with a frown, lifting his arm from her back to her shoulders and giving her a gentle squeeze.
“Or...” Isolde hesitated, the word feeling unnatural as it worked its way up her throat. “Meditate. Or pray, I imagine.” Initially, she expected him to pull away, or scoff, or in some other way tell her that it was a silly waste of time, gently as always. To her surprise, he nodded slowly, and leaned down to sit on the edge of the altar with his candle set down on the stone. He patted the space on the floor next to him and Isolde sat, leaning her uneven-bottomed candle against his.
The tawny candlelight lit their faces from underneath. Ivan tipped his forehead against hers, and they each clasped both their hands together between their leaning bodies. Isolde did not find herself speaking to some presence, tangible or intangible, either within her mind or within the ruin. She felt no commune, no request for redemption or absolution or even guidance. Instead, she let her mind empty out like a river underneath the current of wind that moved inconstantly among the shattered rafters. The air around them settled, cooler and cooler as night just began to draw itself over the sky above them. Ivan's usually agitated breathing slowly evened out, long and deep like a sleeper. She glanced once up at his face and saw that his eyes were closed; his hands didn't stir from hers.
Her gaze slipped to their candles, burning together as the wax from one melted into the other and the light hesitated as a little rill of it ran and rapidly cooled on the stone below. Various sensations occupied her briefly and lost hold, as if her heart walked through a banded gallery of emotions that remained static while she traversed. Fear, resignation, despair... they fell on her like the brief shadows of clouds driven before a high summer wind in an otherwise clear sky. No light came down from it, only blue emptiness reaching onward into infinity in all directions. The stillness that occupied her after that was not peace, the sensation her mind lulled itself into something far from tranquility, when the tiniest of sounds interrupted her thoughts and called her slowly back to the cold present.
She listened, closing her eyes to focus, and the sound came again; the faintest breath of some vibration not wind on stone, not the rise and fall of Ivan's chest not far from her, but a rhythm too frenetic to be anything other than life. She stirred, looking around the empty, shadowy cathedral. Nothing amongst its walls seemed changed to account for the added texture in the ambiance that surrounded them. Her eyes drew up and up the walls, the broken stones hanging in precarious forms here and there, until she finally reached the now-gunmetal hue of the sky hung distantly above. Though her eye didn't believe it initially, on the second and third pass she felt confident that she could identify the darting, black shapes that cut the grey air sharply in wheeling circles above the cathedral.
Releasing Ivan's hands, she gasped a little, staring hard upward.
“Ivan, look!” she hissed urgently, thrusting a hand skyward to the circling shape. “Birds!”
The black shapes wheeled above, tracing arcs against the hazy firmament as man and woman stood slowly, unable to pull their eyes away from the otherwise empty sky. The first life Ivan and Isolde had seen outside of a few clinging patches of vegetation and the people they'd brought with them into the heart of this country, the dark avians seemed indifferent to their small presences below, bound to the earth by their weary feet.
One released a dry-throated cry to the other, and they spun together quickly, a tangle of wings and grace that flitted them out of view after a few more moments. Ivan too Isolde's hand, squeezing it tightly until her flinching grip responded, winding close around his fingers.
“So, you think this is the place, miss?” he said quietly, after the silence cut by the bird cry resettled its pall around them both.
“Yes,” Isolde whispered. “Oh, yes.”
Ruined buttresses flew high above, letting in the broken staggering of filtered light from the dull sky above. She narrowed her eyes beneath her lashes until she fancied she could see a pious, silent sea of worshipers, all bowed head and bended knee.
Once, in that other world and other life that filled her dreams hazily, Isolde had gone with a then-lover to see a traditional Catholic mass performed by singers at a historic cathedral in Dusseldorf. Despite not being of any stripe of faith, like the majority of her scientific and social contemporaries, Isolde had been gripped by the power of the voices weaving their rich tapestry of archaic Latin. Much of the language was familiar from the other arrangements in science and other studies she'd taken all her life, but in such applications it lacked the flowering poetry that it had in the form of the chants that hushed the audience. In interludes of translation interjected cunningly throughout, where the more familiar shapes of people dressed for modern times moved among frozen performers in religious garb of the former era, a picture of alternate wrath and love meted out by an all-empowered, omniscient divine came to life on the stage, and in her ears.
Standing in this ruin – to her eye, likely one much older than the recent devastation and dating to the third war when religious icons and establishments became targets for some of the destruction – she could hear the fine voices of those performers – some as young as six and seven, others ten times or more that age – floating ethereally over her head, and through her, and out beyond her to a life she could barely recall.
Isolde did not hear Ivan approach; he stood suddenly at her side, settling a hand to the small of her back and holding out one of two candles held in the other, lit with trembling flames.
“It's beautiful, weirdly,” he said under his breath, awe and uncertainty mingled in his features.
Mutely, Isolde nodded her head, before angling her gaze forward again. As if drawn by some unspeakable presence, the ghosts of long dead worshipers or some lingering scrap of the god once praised reverberating between the lonely walls, she took a few reverent steps forward. Ivan, not wanting to stray from the warmth of her side, fell in step with her, and they processed up the aisle between the uneven rows of broken pews, candles in hand.
“What is it? What are you looking for?” he leaned his head down to whisper, hushed by the greatness of the space about him and Isolde's unnatural calm.
“I'd just like to sit a little while, and think, I guess.” She glanced up at him after a moment, leaning closer as if to get away from the sheer space that thundered around them amongst the strange architecture of antiquity. “Stay with me?”
“Think?” Ivan said with a frown, lifting his arm from her back to her shoulders and giving her a gentle squeeze.
“Or...” Isolde hesitated, the word feeling unnatural as it worked its way up her throat. “Meditate. Or pray, I imagine.” Initially, she expected him to pull away, or scoff, or in some other way tell her that it was a silly waste of time, gently as always. To her surprise, he nodded slowly, and leaned down to sit on the edge of the altar with his candle set down on the stone. He patted the space on the floor next to him and Isolde sat, leaning her uneven-bottomed candle against his.
The tawny candlelight lit their faces from underneath. Ivan tipped his forehead against hers, and they each clasped both their hands together between their leaning bodies. Isolde did not find herself speaking to some presence, tangible or intangible, either within her mind or within the ruin. She felt no commune, no request for redemption or absolution or even guidance. Instead, she let her mind empty out like a river underneath the current of wind that moved inconstantly among the shattered rafters. The air around them settled, cooler and cooler as night just began to draw itself over the sky above them. Ivan's usually agitated breathing slowly evened out, long and deep like a sleeper. She glanced once up at his face and saw that his eyes were closed; his hands didn't stir from hers.
Her gaze slipped to their candles, burning together as the wax from one melted into the other and the light hesitated as a little rill of it ran and rapidly cooled on the stone below. Various sensations occupied her briefly and lost hold, as if her heart walked through a banded gallery of emotions that remained static while she traversed. Fear, resignation, despair... they fell on her like the brief shadows of clouds driven before a high summer wind in an otherwise clear sky. No light came down from it, only blue emptiness reaching onward into infinity in all directions. The stillness that occupied her after that was not peace, the sensation her mind lulled itself into something far from tranquility, when the tiniest of sounds interrupted her thoughts and called her slowly back to the cold present.
She listened, closing her eyes to focus, and the sound came again; the faintest breath of some vibration not wind on stone, not the rise and fall of Ivan's chest not far from her, but a rhythm too frenetic to be anything other than life. She stirred, looking around the empty, shadowy cathedral. Nothing amongst its walls seemed changed to account for the added texture in the ambiance that surrounded them. Her eyes drew up and up the walls, the broken stones hanging in precarious forms here and there, until she finally reached the now-gunmetal hue of the sky hung distantly above. Though her eye didn't believe it initially, on the second and third pass she felt confident that she could identify the darting, black shapes that cut the grey air sharply in wheeling circles above the cathedral.
Releasing Ivan's hands, she gasped a little, staring hard upward.
“Ivan, look!” she hissed urgently, thrusting a hand skyward to the circling shape. “Birds!”
The black shapes wheeled above, tracing arcs against the hazy firmament as man and woman stood slowly, unable to pull their eyes away from the otherwise empty sky. The first life Ivan and Isolde had seen outside of a few clinging patches of vegetation and the people they'd brought with them into the heart of this country, the dark avians seemed indifferent to their small presences below, bound to the earth by their weary feet.
One released a dry-throated cry to the other, and they spun together quickly, a tangle of wings and grace that flitted them out of view after a few more moments. Ivan too Isolde's hand, squeezing it tightly until her flinching grip responded, winding close around his fingers.
“So, you think this is the place, miss?” he said quietly, after the silence cut by the bird cry resettled its pall around them both.
“Yes,” Isolde whispered. “Oh, yes.”