In the begining...

Author: hossgal

Rating: G

Words: 515

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In darkness, the abbey chapel is huge. Candle-freckled gloom pushes the stone walls back from their daytime stations. He knows the walls are not the klick distant they seem, but the impression is hard to shake. Despite himself, he keeps close to the other acolytes as they pace slowly towards the nave. It is foolish, but it is not the first time he has clung to companions against unseen dangers.

The light rises as they approach the dais. The line of applicants snakes its way around the altar proper. He knows each bare head as it in turn bows and kneels. Closer than brothers, now, despite the differences in ages, in histories. He is not the oldest, nor the only one with scars, and the war has touched them all, even the youngest. He knows them all, but he can name them no longer. They are all without name, as is he. Finally it is his turn, and he bows deep toward the altar and the cross. Then he goes to his knees and lays himself full length upon the stone floor.

They have been years in preparation for this. More than once, in the drudgery of their daily studies, they had spoken among themselves, wondering at the minutia of the full ceremony, at the wonder of the ritual. Now that it is here, he finds his mind blank, his thoughts swept clean. There is no wonder here, only the distant murmur of the chant, the hard stone on which he lies (his robe is thin and threadbare, and the floor drinks heat from his body) and the scrape of the bishop's slippers on the uncarpeted dais.

And then, sooner than he wished, they come for him. Two elder monks take him by the arms and helped him rise. A new alb floats over his head and is tugged sharply into place. The stole lands feather-light on his shoulders. Almost before it settles, the bishop reaches out and firmly grasps his head in both hands, drawing him close until their foreheads brush together.

When the bishop releases him, it is to hold him still with voice and eyes. "By the power vested in me, and with the blessings of God, I welcome you into the ministry of the clergy. Go forth and shelter the faithful and the wandering alike, John Book."

The name hums in his ears and his bones. He closed his eyes and opened them again – the Easter candle his first sight with his new eyes. His first breath is thick with incense, his first heartbeat a hammer blow in his chest. He finds the bishop's eyes still upon him. He cannot help but smile, giddy with the rush of life. The bishop smiles back, his eyes warm with welcome.

Shepard Book bows. Taking the bishop's hand, he touches his mouth to the violet jewel.

Book straightens only to be embraced by his fellow ordinates. As they crowd close, the air full of murmuring laughter, Book tells himself that it is merely his imagination that gives the stole the weight of the world.

*end*

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I think I've pushed the theme here a bit, I apologize for going astray a bit.