Finding God: Chapter 5
A/N: This is a little late getting out but I was busy over the weekend. This chapter has heavy religious undertones, so I apologize if that makes anyone uncomfortable, but I think Fyodor's character carries a lot of religious connotation, especially his teaming up with Hawthorne and the way he controls the people under him, ie brainwashing. So there will be some religious hot takes and if that kind of thing is bad for you, please feel free to skip this chapter. Thank you for reading and supporting!
It's been four days now. Four days of running errands, some of which seemed particularly pointless. Four days of kneeling by her bedside to pray, just like she was tonight. Her calloused hands clenched around a rosary, eyes blankly scanning the sheets in front of her. Prayers seemed more like a ritual than anything else to her. Who am I praying to again? Her god was already off somewhere else, claiming salvation. She concentrated on each bead, absentmindedly trying to remember what meaning they were supposed to hold. Instead, she replayed old memories of Fyodor teaching her about Catholicism. About faith and corruption. False idols. She wasn't even sure how much of that particular religion he believed in as he would often criticize blind faith and many of the traditions that had come about over time. She could picture the mirth in his eyes as a low chuckle was pulled from his pale throat. "A soldier who was raised to know nothing of religion is closer to God than everyone leaving that building." She remembered watching the tired eyes as the church-goers left the building and headed home. Vacant. Docile. Obedient. Wasn't I just like that? As a soldier, the government must have become her religion, until she found her true savior, she supposed, sighing lightly. That man had always reassured her there was a place for her in paradise even though her only care was for all the world to burn. Her glassy eyes refocused on the beads in front of her, each prayer a simple one. Either to thank god for putting Fyodor in her life or a plea to bring him home safely. That was all. The repetition gave her peace until she was interrupted by a knock on the door-frame.
"A pious woman, I see." The reverend Hawthorne sat in a chair by her night table. Immediately, her posture stiffened as she eyed the man, his bible on his lap. The slightest laugh of indignation escaped her, "Is that what you see?". "I do." She bit back the grimace on her face. "That's because to religion, to governments, to companies, desperation looks like obedience." Her eyes held spite as she spoke. It was the truth, wasn't it? She was desperate for Fyodor. The same way the religious were desperate for meaning, or civilians were desperate for safety or that soldiers were desperate for orders. The silver-haired man eyed her thoughtfully as he adjusted his glasses. "I suppose that is true in some cases. But in desperation, some may find salvation. Even I am desperate." He cast his glance downward, trying to cover his strangled voice. That woman. Margaret Mitchell. He was desperate for her. Perhaps she and this man weren't as different from another as she thought. Whether he was aware of it or not, that woman was his god. As devout as he was, he would never admit to it. But, she knew his actions would prove it. He'd already made a deal with the devil to save her. A devil with magenta eyes, black silk hair that swept his shoulders, and a smile sharp enough to cut to the heart. "You're welcome to pray with me, if you'd like, father." Turning back towards the bed in front of her, she left the invitation open. The rustle of his robe was the only sound as he wordlessly knelt next to her. "But, I think we both know who it is you should be praying to." Her lips split into an arrogant smirk as the man's eyebrow twitched visibly. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it after a moment, in favor of sharing a prolonged silence. After a few minutes of prayer, both heads bowed, Nathaniel opened his bible to James 3:6 which he had higlighted, leaving the book open on the bed as he exited the room. Curiosity struck as she read the verse, "The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one's life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell". So, this was his way of chiding her then? The thought honestly made her want to bubble with laughter. Fyodor had taught her this verse before. About the power of the tongue rather than its evil. His words had the power to set not only his own life on fire, but the whole world's as well. Of this, she was certain. With a renewed faith, she flipped the bible to a separate page, grabbing a pen from her nightstand and underlining a verse before leaving it open on the bed to return to her work in the main computer room. Hebrews 12:29 "For our God is a consuming fire."
And that, he was. Each night, that red-haired boy had come to see the man. Curiosity burning as he spoke to the pale captive, but never hearing much back other than a low hum. "Karma," the boy had said, "that's my name." Fyodor found the irony amusing. A boy named Karma who seemed to have been forsaken by the very notion. What could this boy have possibly done to acquire enough bad karma to be placed under a bafoon like Ace? That's why karma could never exist adequately. There is far more evil in the world than good. And if evil begets more evil, then the world should have already turned to hell in a handbasket. Karma requires balance, something this world is severely lacking. Abilities have already broken any balance that could have saved this world. And this boy here was simply a victim of that unbalance. But, Ace's ability that imprisons him, will be nothing compared to what would save him. Fyodor smiled lazily to himself, lost in thought. The boy's eyes widened at the expression. It's likely the first change he's seen in the man the past four days. He usually sits there, listless yet composed. A mystery to the boy. But, he'll either be enslaved like himself, or killed when Ace gets enough intel. Ace had just went out to go plead with the head boss to let him take lead on the interrogation. Then it was only a matter of time before this frail-looking man in front of him would be forced to submit. And they'd all be trapped here together.
There was an emotion in the boys eyes that Fyodor recognized well. It was pity. To be on the receiving end of such an emotion was new to him, no matter how unfounded it may be. Usually, he regarded others with pity. Whether they had been cursed with ability or whether they were victims of a world afflicted by ability users. Some people felt empathy, some people felt sympathy, but all he was ever left with was pity. It was comfortable and familiar to him, even being on the receiving end. It was such an easy emotion to digest and understand. And to use, if need be. "I'm thirsty." His accent was thick as he allowed himself to speak for the first time since being brought here. His eyes met the boy in front of him, as his saw him jump slightly from the sudden sound of his voice. Once the surprise settled, the boy broke out with a large grin, excited at the chance to help someone. "I'll go get some water, you'll wait right there, right?" The boy chuckled at his own joke before running off down the corridor. The small joy he could take in being Ace's prisoner. Fyodor smiled to himself as his eyes narrowed in anticipation. Ace is a fool. And in his end, those below him might seek salvation, outside of the evils of this world.
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