ataraxion | (no subject)

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(no subject)

How do you keep faith, here? How do you remember that God wants...how do you keep some kind of faith, keep from losing your mind with the things that happen to us?

My whole life I've heard God; all I had to do was listen and there He was, like music, like a symphony, and even when I was at the height of being terrified, there He was just working the notes of this great symphony. But then I followed that music, I followed Grigori, and I did something and now I can't hear anything, for the first time I've lost God and I just want Him back-

What if I did was unforgivable? What if saving another person isn't enough? What if what I did has stained my soul?

How do I keep believing that God loves me when I can't hear Him anymore?

How do you keep faith?

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[This is really more than he can remember her saying (well, "saying") about anything of the sort, and he stares at her words a second before he looks up at her.

But there is something, isn't there. Something that goes beyond math or music, something deeper. Once, maybe, he caught some hint of it--but better to forget that than linger over it.]

What power?

[She never talks about it with him. Her relationship with Sirius was always just supposed to be fun and quiet and funny, not about the things that go on in her head.

But things change. She's been with him for more than a year. She's fallen - she suspects - in love with him, somehow, in the only way she can.

And maybe that means more trust.]

I think it has to do with why I can't speak. I think that...there's something about my voice.

[He looks right at her as soon as he's read those words--doesn't even finish reading the last sentence before he's asking:]

Something like what?

[She just looks at her hand for a moment.]

Something big.

When I scream, things change.

[But you can't scream, he nearly says it, and then realises that might actually be something of the point.]

What-- happens, exactly? What changes?

[The first thing he thinks of are banshees, thanks to that wizarding education of his. But that can't be what she means.]

[She looks a little cagey, for a moment. She's never had to explain this, and it's not exactly something easy for her to describe. She looks away for a moment.

And then she takes a breath and writes an answer.]

Just. Things. The way the world is.

[Someone else might question the vagueness of that. It's very little explanation. But there are things that have no sounder explanation. Often they're things to be wary of.]

So-- that's what happened? Something changed?

[She nods. A lot of things changed. She can feel it in her skull, the shifting of the world, the shifting of the universe, a softening, a weakening of the music in creation, if she could only just hear it again.

She knew it changed something when whatever that thing was got stunned, when the boy's attention snapped to her like her scream did something.]

I changed creation, Sirius. I did it.

[He can accept a lot, without question. But that declaration is so broad, so-- undefined. Changed creation, changed the creation of what, is what he thinks, first, because he was raised on transfiguration and those changes of creation--

But that isn't what she means. He doesn't know what she means.]

What happened?

[She takes a moment. He does magic, he changes things from one second to the next, but she isn't like him, she's not magic, she's different and strange.]

I think I made something die. Without touching it. Then I stabbed it to make sure.

[She looks terrified, like she hates that she did it, like she's afraid he'll be afraid of her, too.]

[Without touching it. He studies her--warily, not out of fear, but more out of uncertainty.]

In-- the corridors, you mean.

[She nods a bit, to confirm, and then reaches for his hand.

Make it better, Sirius.]

[Well, bloody hell, he thinks, because this isn't something you can just - lightly make better. Paper mice don't do much for things like this.

He takes her hand regardless, looking down at it for a second before he looks at her face again.]

If it was a thing out there-- it might be all right.

[She moves forward a little, kisses him on the corner of his mouth.]

What if I hurt you?

[He shakes his head--not so much to put her off, or to knock off that kiss.]

I can take care of myself. Whatever-- happened, I can take care of myself all right.

[He studies her face, even at that close angle.]

Are you-- I mean, are you all right now?

[She shrugs and takes her slate.]

I am hearing things weird.

[He shoots a glance at her ears, like-- that's going to reveal anything.]

Right now?

[She takes a moment, and then she nods.]

[He studies her face this time, ignoring her ears--and then, all at once, he tugs her forward into another embrace, for lack of anything better to do. Uselessness does not suit him. This is minor, to wrap his arms around her and hold her in close like this, but he can't help it. He has to do something.]

[She lets him hold her for a long long moment, and then she pulls him so she can sit at the piano, and he can sit next to her.

20th Century Fox is easy enough to play, and Seraphim's arrangement is just different enough to make it interesting.

It's a gift. For sitting with her. Even when he's crazy and dangerous.]

[He goes along with it, without protest--he sits next to her, at enough of a distance that he doesn't inhibit her playing, but close enough to touch, his elbow bumping against hers.

It's not that he doesn't believe her. If she said it, then it must be true. But he's used to the dangerous being a part of his life, and he doesn't mean that dramatically. It comes of being best mates with a werewolf. If there's one thing you do not do, it's abandon your friends. Of course he's going to sit with her. That's what he does. And if there were something more that he could do, he'd do it.

Instead, he just sits, and listens, for now, and tries to quell the worried feeling in his stomach.]

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