Scars on Holy Ground

The cathedral floors felt exceptionally hard under Marcel's boots, a shining pristine floor only outshone by the statues of the altar and stunning stained glass. He put his hands behind his back and cleared his throat, peering over the veering line to the front of the cathedral. These rituals, while beautiful in their own way, felt dull after doing them for several decades. He sighed as they inched their way forward, his eyes wandering to those arranged in the pews and completing their duties. People of all shapes and sizes came to worship, but none of them left a spark of interest in Marcel's mind. Nothing new or special…just the monotonous drone of prayers.

"I wish…"

"I pray…"

"I want…"

"Pardon me, Monsieur," A voice gentler than the bells above made him jump as a delicate hand touched his arm. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you."

"Not at all! How can I-" Marcel threw on his practiced smirk, but it vanished as he turned to face her.

He hadn't seen such a vision in his lifetime, and yet her face was one he felt he had seen all his life. The light from the heavens poured through the window, a mirage of colors spilling over her and making her seem almost ethereal. She pulled her hand away at his expression, a small gasp escaping her lips as if she had commited a sin simply from interrupting. Marcel blinked several times and fell into a bow, taking a shallow breath while his face was hidden.

"My apologies, madam," Marcel plastered a grin on his face. "I was simply stunned to see an angel walking the Earth. How can I assist you?"

"Well, this might sound strange, but I was in deep prayer and I felt called to speak to you," The woman dropped her gaze and took a step back. "Perhaps I made a mistake…"

Marcel's grin dropped at once as his heart leapt in his throat. "No! I made the mistake with my behavior. We're in the house of God, I mustn't be so low. You felt called to me, you say?"

Marcel stepped out of the line, all of his worries of reputation and boring rituals far from his mind. While he was beyond grateful for this unique interruption, he knew a call all too well. It's what got him stuck in this forsaken and stinking city in the first place. The woman reluctantly walked with him as he walked to the a corner tucked away closer to the cathedral doors, away from prying ears who might write the poor girl off as a heretic, or worse, a witch.

"Monsieur-"

"Cross. Marcel Cross," Marcel cut her off. "While I'm eager to know your name, madam, we have more pressing matters at hand. What were you speaking to the Lord about? I'm no priest, mind you, but perhaps you were called to me to help."

"Monsieur Cross," The woman echoed. "I was praying for guidance. I find myself trapped in a difficult circumstance, but I couldn't ask you for anything more than a prayer."

Marcel let out a harsh breath through his nose and gestured to himself. "A prayer? Prayers are a powerful thing, and it seems you already received your answer with the last one."

The woman shook her head. "It seems I was mistaken, after all. I'm sorry to bother you, Monsieur Cross. May God bless you and be with you through the rest of your days."

She walked back to the crowd of people towards the center of the cathedral. Marcel let out a grunt, turning and hurrying out to the courtyard. The heavy wooden doors thudded shut behind him as he turned to the secluded gardens, his footsteps echoing against the cobblestone. Once he got to the ornate wooden bench that overlooked the roses, he began to pace in small circles, his speed quick enough to almost leave grooves in his path. His eyes darted up to the looming towers of the cathedral, hideous gargoyles staring down at him with judging eyes. He scowled at them, the heat rising in his cheeks as his anger peaked.

"What is the point of this?" He shouted up towards the heavens. "You force me to stay down here, outside of Your hand, yet You feel the need to constantly poke at me! And now You send me a message, and the messenger walks away before I even get to learn what it is? Why torment me?"

Marcel dropped into the bench, his hand holding up his head from the exhaustion. Like nearly every prayer he's sent up for the past 1,800 years, it was answered with silence. Only the fluttering of pigeon wings invaded his ears.

"Is this a joke to You, Lord?" He groaned. "You've kept me here so long. Could I please get some relief?"

"Monsieur Cross?"

Marcel's eyes flitted up to see the old man he had come to know as Mosieur Laurent, one of the many priests that he has met over the years. This one, however, was one of his favorites. He always had a listening ear, not to mention incredible timing. Marcel nodded a hello, too exhausted from the emotional turmoil to grant a proper etiquette response. Monsieur Laurent sat on the bench with him, taking a deep breath and gesturing to the roses.

"They're gorgeous this time of year, no?"

Marcel let out a dry laugh. "I suppose they are, yes. But roses look more radiant when they're open."

"Perhaps, but opening too early would mean they'd be gone all too soon," Monsieur Laurent mused. "Similar to a young man, ambitious to move on to the next step."

"I don't need the next step. I just need some sort of answer," Marcel grunted. "I've been praying for so long, Monsieur Laurent, and the few times I've had an answer, I promptly regretted it."

Monsieur Laurent chuckled. "Our Lord has a funny way of teaching us our lessons, doesn't He? I was in your shoes once, Marcel. I promise you, there is still plenty of time left, and God will stand with you through every moment of it."

Marcel looked up at the sky, then at Monsieur Laurent with a shaky smile. "I suppose you're right, and who knows? Maybe He gave me the relief in the form of a friend."

Monsieur Laurent patted Marcel's shoulder and stood up. Marcel did the same, happy to see the satisfaction on the old man's face. He hadn't lied; Marcel may not have had an answer, but he did find relief in the fact that there was at least one person still on Earth who cared about his wellbeing. Monsieur Laurent cleared his throat and held a hand up, freezing Marcel in his tracks. As the priest slowly moved towards the cathedral doors, Marcel tilted his head. The two had been friends a long time, and not once before had he received any sort of instruction. He watched as Monsieur Laurent paused at the corner, not moving behind it but whispering to someone hidden behind the stone wall. He nodded and held out a hand, only for a gentle hand to reach for it. Marcel's eyes lit up as a cautious madam, one who had run from him not an hour ago, walked warily with Monsieur Laurent right back to him.

"Monsieur Cross, I'd like to introduce you to this lovely child of the Lord," Monsieur Laurent stepped to the side. "This is Mademoiselle Moreau."

"It's an honor to meet you, Monsieur Cross," Mademoiselle Moreau glanced at Monsieur Laurent. "If it would be alright, Monsieur, the matter I need to discuss is sensitive."

Monsieur Laurent nodded. "I understand. I won't be far."

The priest made his way to far end of the gardens, far enough away to avoid the conversation but close enough to keep a loose eye on them. Marcel gestured to the bench, but Mademoiselle Moreau shook her head, her eyes darting from one end of the area to the other and her hands moving closer to her chest. Marcel looked over her, his brows furrowing. For a moment, guilt panged at his chest. He was used to charming many of the women who crossed his path, and he had always been one for a strike of humor, but this time it may have made this woman's very existence so much harder.

"Monsieur Cross, I don't know why God instructed me to ask you, but He has yet to fail me in my darkest moments," Mademoiselle Moreau shuddered and took a quick breath. "I find myself in a…unique predicament. It's led me to be flee my home, and if not for sanctuary for the church, I might not be stnading here with you today."

Marcel pursed his lips, his chest tightening as his eyes glanced around as well. He had no idea why the Heavens would keep him around this long to simply protect this woman from whoever it was willing to go after her, but he was more than willing to fulfill the role. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a finger.

"I'm sorry, but if I don't get it all out now, I'm afraid fear might overtake me," She said, her hands shaking. "My mind seems to be failing me, and I'm afraid I'm going mad. Illness has overtaken me, and it's like nothing I have seen or heard before. My father calls me an abomination and a demon, and I'm unsure if he's right."

With one more quick glance, she tilted her head to the side and gingerly pulled at her high collar, where a jagged scar danced across her neck. "This was two days ago, and it was a gash deep enough to dig through my throat. I did not bleed. I have not eaten in weeks, and yet I do not grow hungry. A terrible plague hit the village I come from, and I remained healthy while so many died. They fear me, and if I'm honest, I do too. They could burn me any day now, and I fear that I would feel the flames but it would not take me."

Marcel stood silent, unable to comprehend what he had heard. He stood there, frozen until the silence began to fill the garden. Mademosielle Moraeu fixed her collar and looked down at the ground with wide eyes, as if she had made a terrible mistake. Finally, Marcel shook his head, and then shook a fist at the cathedral.

"Of course, this is what You thought I was praying for!" He cursed up at the sky before turning back to her, his voice softer. "When did you discover this?"

"A month ago, during the plague," Her eyes welled with tears. "I came here today to pray for rest, to pray the Lord return me home to Him. And then I looked up and saw you, and something whispered in my soul…He knows the way out."

A cold rush of wind brushed the back of his neck, sending a chill up his spine as a breathless, dark laugh bubbled in his chest. "What's your first name, if I may ask?"

"Genevieve."

"Well, Genevieve, I can't say that I know the way out, but I do know one thing," Marcel raised his jacket sleeve to reveal a choir of old wounds—scars that danced on his skin as if they were a stage. "You are not alone, and we're going to get through this together."

Genevieve's tears finally spilled over and she fell into him, heavy sobs vibrating off his chest. He stood stiff for a moment, the panic of physical touch nearly overtaking him. But her warmth and her sadness was contagious even to him, and soon he return the embrace. As his thoughts caught up to him, a single tear rolled down his cheek. You didn't send me a messenger. You sent me a prisoner.

And for the first time ever, Marcel doubted the mercy of God.