Puppy on the run again
The final hymn was being sung by the time Bran arrived. He looked around the moderately busy church for a moment before spotting the groundskeeper from earlier that morning, standing in a corner at the back with his hands resting on a broomstick. Quietly Bran slid towards him, hands firmly stuffed in his pocket. The groundskeeper didn’t acknowledge him until he stood right next to him.

“How’d it go down?” He asked quietly under the sounds of the congregation. Bran smiled dryly.
“Well, I scored some time off.” He said. He swung his bag off of his back and dropped it gently to the ground, ducking down to rummage through its contents to pull out the folded letter. He handed it to him with a small amount of mock ceremony as the hymn finished. The groundskeeper opened it during the noise made by the congregation returning to their seats and read in silence.

Bran looked towards the front, where the priest was giving his final blessings. Above him was suspended the large, wooden cross so that it hung imposingly over the stone and wood alter below, cleaned of the remains of communion by the alter boy who now sat on the side. He couldn’t hear what the priest was saying – the hanging cross filled his vision, blocking out all other sensory input. The image itself started to shift – He could remember looking at it from below, from the stones of the isles as the structure stood, resplendent in the coloured morning light through the stained glass windows. It bought back memories of fear and pain, although none of the events that caused them, but above all of comfort and understanding, and the phantom smell of incense and hemp. He could hear a bitter voice; his own he was certain, trying to cut through the fog.

“Ave, amicus vetus.”

“Wake up kid, class is over.”

Bran blinked out of his daydream and realised he’d been gripping his wrists tightly enough to turn his knuckles white and red. Cautiously he released his grip and adjusted his sleeves so that they covered his hands again and looked around. Most of the congregation was leaving. He looked over to the young man next to him, who was looking back with a flat expression.

“What did it say?” Bran asked.

The groundskeeper gave him a disbelieving look. “You didn’t read it?”

“I was given the gist of it – I figured it’d be easier in the long run to just ask you.” Bran shrugged. The groundskeeper nodded.

“Just detailing what I’m to do in your absence, that’s all.”

Bran nodded. “I understand what you meant now by ‘From the fold’. You’re not just one of us… You’re one of hers. Right?”

He groundskeeper nodded and smiled. “I was originally recruited by her predecessor.” Neither of them said who she was – both knew instinctively that she was Angel, although Bran had never met her predecessor – most people said he was just as dangerous, twice as imposing and far less pleasant to look at, so the change seemed to be for he best, if only temporary. “I was young.” He seemed unwilling to go further into it. Bran nodded his understanding – in his place, he’d be equally unwilling.

“What do you do normally, if you don’t mind me asking?” Bran questioned. The groundskeeper shrugged.

“I tend to the garden.” He said. Bran gave him a depreciating look. “And, of course, I shake a few sleazes up and keep them honest to the great mother organization.” He added with a boyish grin. “Have to be good at your work, whatever you do.”

Bran nodded his agreement, glancing back up the front where the priest was carefully removing his sash. “I have to talk to him too.”

“Then you’d better do it now.” The groundskeeper swung the broom out from under him and placed it against the far wall. “I’m going to go water the flowers. Hope it’s not too short a time before I next see you.” He gave Bran one of his more pleasant smiles and left.

Bran watched him go for a moment before taking a breath and turning back to the front. Slowly he began walking up the isle, heading towards the altar and it’s overhanging cross. He took hold of his own black cross pendant and swallowed his nervousness, genuflecting at the end of the isle.

The priest, hearing the footsteps, snuffed the last of the candles in that area and turned to see who approached. He audibly drew a breath in when he saw Bran.

There was a moment of silence, eventually broken by the priest.

“It’s been a long time, Bran. How have you been?” He asked with reserved friendliness. Bran smiled nervously.

“Yeah, no, I’ve been good. Thanks. How about you?”

“Quite well.” The priest replied. Another pause. “So…”

“I’m all healed up now.” Bran said, starting to feel less nervous. The priest was clearly just as nervous as him, and for some reason that gave him a little more confidence. “And I stop by occasionally…”

“Yes, I’ve seen you around. I didn’t exactly know what to say… ‘Hello, how are you, been involved in any…’ um…” He paused, embarrassed.

“I see you got the blood off.”

“Yeah… our groundsman is quite good with that…”


The conversation progressed that way for a moment, both making small talk and trying to avoid the issue. It was during the next lull that Bran decided to break out the box. He handed it to the priest, rubbing off a spot of melted chocolate as he did so. The priest gave it an odd look.

“What’s this?” He asked, opening up a corner.

“A present. From me and my guardians to you, as thanks. And… as an apology for causing such… trouble.” Bran looked down. The priest looked up from the box and gave him a stern look.

“It isn’t your fault.” He said forcefully. Bran looked up, startled. The priest turned his attention back to the box, picking at the string. Eventually he got it open.

Inside was a large amount of money, supported by a pile of feathers. A small thorn wreath held them together. Inside, a poorly scribbled note said something that he knew he’d have to sit down and actively decipher in better light.


He looked up to speak, but the church was empty.

- posted by Washi @ 2:04 pm