[ starter for @ednsgrdn ]
He sank softly to his knees behind a dusty old pew, long-abandoned and in the process of being reclaimed by nature. The entire cathedral was like that: broken, forgotten, alone. The ceiling was partially gone, allowing stars to shine through above like God himself peering, exposing the history of all time — if one knew how to look. It brought him comfort.
He must have eventually cried himself to sleep, tired and curled up into a small ball sheltered between pews, guarded by Lisbeth — his ever-loyal protector, a small cat. He had no idea how long it had been; only that he was slowly awoken by the distant sound of music. Had he paid attention either now or later, he may have noticed the stars, how much they'd moved, worked out the time. But this was not that kind of moment. He did not have that kind of energy, not right now.
It took him a moment to realize that there was music, really, and that it was beautiful. He greeted Lisbeth with a kiss over her head and then pulled himself off the ground. Hazel eyes looked around to find the source of the music. He made his way to the back of the church, and stood in silence. There was a woman there playing the harp that had woken him from sleep. It was no wonder he hadn't seen her from the pews: she had been almost entirely hidden by the columns, in the transept where they both were now. He couldn't speak. He didn't dare destroy the sanctity of what he was observing. He almost couldn't believe it was real. Dmitry was almost convinced in the bellows of that church that he'd somehow managed to die again and get another glimpse at heaven. That must have been it. He didn't think he deserved to witness... this. How could a creature like that play music like this; who was he to get to listen freely to that?
He sat on the ground and simply listened. It didn't matter if she made any mistakes — he liked music all the same, and today, he was just lucky to be listening. Lisbeth eventually joined them, too, choosing to curl up near the harpist (but not at her feet, so as to not disturb the use of pedals).
Eventually, when she finally stopped playing out of her own accord, once the silence felt right, he spoke. "That was very beautiful," he said softly. His words were colored by a slight Russian accent, like someone who had long ago been transplanted from home and never returned but still clung tightly: just enough to remember, not so much as to forbid blending in. "I'm sorry if I distracted you, I just... hadn't realized anyone else came to this place too, and the music is just so... beautiful."
