Grace Willing

It had been a long, long time since Mochrie had last set foot in a church. 

His parents had been, well, relatively devout; they didn't necessarily attend every week, or say every prayer, but they put their faith in Grace-- honored him, trusted him, hung a bushel of grain against the wall of the kitchen, over the door of the home. Thanking or cursing Grace for any odd thing was simply a family mannerism. 

Mochrie wasn't entirely sure he believed in Grace himself, at least not fully. There likely was some unseen force that granted boons to the willing, but why it wouldn't simply be the priests' own magic, or some latent magical energy floating about Ivras, was beyond Mochrie's understanding. Some everlasting entity, some sentient being with that much power, simply sitting by as the world turned-- it seemed a bit selfish, and a bit preposterous, if you asked him. 

Still, today he found himself in church again, for the first time since his late childhood. The musty scent of a worn wooden building wafted down within the nave, and faded sunlight trickled through the thick glass windows in their milky off-white; bushels of dried grain sat in vases nestled in each corner of the chapel, and a stained-glass mosaic of a gentle white bull perched just beyond the altar. The rough-hewn pews sat empty, save for him. 

The only other in the church was the priest himself, an older man with short graying hair and dark amber robes, who stood at the altar, facing the stained glass window, head bowed in prayer. 

Mochrie sat in silence with his own head bowed, hands clasped in his lap, one thumb rubbing over the other. He wasn't sure what to say, wasn't sure if Grace was real, much less listening. Instead he simply thought, though not of any particular message-- simply about why he was here. 

It wasn't long before the priest finished his prayer, turned to face Mochrie, and beckoned him with a subtle nod, turning toward the back door of the chapel. Mochrie rose, the creak of the wooden pew echoing in the empty church, and followed the priest outside. 

It was a bit of a walk, though not an unpleasant one; soft, dry grass whispered in the autumn breeze, and the trees leaned into the light, leaving golden speckles across the earth. 

The coffin was cheap. Plain, simple, without any polish or decoration, or even proper sanding; choppy slats of pine, firmly nailed together, not a single personal detail to denote whose body was inside. The priest paused a few feet from it and began the funeral rite, a collection of more prayers and the burning of grain, while Mochrie stood behind and waited, eyes falling to the coffin before him. 

It was unfair, oftentimes. Maybe it always was. People who didn't deserve to be taken-- good people, kind people-- were always the ones lost. 

Mochrie knew Isaac-- or had known him, he supposed. Friendly, a bit doddering, talkative, at least to Mochrie; he'd been a street sweeper, one who frequented Mochrie's home street with broom in hand, who took note of the cats often crawling through the windows. 

Isaac had not been entirely different from Mochrie, though he was a bit older, maybe forty. There had been something a bit different about him, too-- about the way he walked, maybe, or how he held his feet. Mochrie had never pushed it, never bothered to ask; it had never been a pressing question, nor a relevant one. Instead he'd simply humored Isaac, given him company when it seemed as though no one else would acknowledge his existence. 

Mochrie had seen it, too. Isaac's friendliness toward Mochrie, his chatter, his oddish nature, his quirks and unusual mannerisms-- all simply the result of regularly being alone. Being lonely. 

And now he was here, in a box, ready to be put into the ground, and he was still alone, still with no one here. Mochrie had a good fifteen years left of his own, twenty if he was lucky; he couldn't help but wonder if his funeral would look the same. If he'd even have one. 

His fingers rolled over the smooth item in his pocket, the nail of his thumb brushing against its hardened edge; he waited until the priest had finished before he withdrew his mother's engagement ring. 

In the times he'd managed to find Isaac, to speak to him, Isaac had mentioned a wife. Not that he had one-- that he'd hoped for one, hoped for a family. That it was a dream of his, one he greatly looked forward to. 

Mochrie placed the ring atop the coffin, the light glinting through the tiny gem embedded in its silver. He withdrew his hand, pocketed it again. Though the sun bloomed in the sky, the cold wind pulled the warmth from its rays before they ever reached the ground, leaving a solemn chill in its wake, where Mochrie stood. 

He didn't say anything, didn't speak; instead he stepped back, lowered his head to signal that he was done, that the coffin could begin its descent. There wasn't much to say. He knew that Isaac would make more use of the ring than he ever could; it wasn't meant for someone like him. 

Eventually the coffin was brought to its rightful place in the grave. Mochrie helped the priest lower it, cover it with dirt. His shoulders ached from the work, but still, he bore through it. His pain mattered less than Isaac's memory. 

And then it was done. Buried, unmarked. After a brief exchange, he and the priest parted ways; he walked back through the whispering grass, beneath the leaning trees, past the chapel, down towards his street, his home, far across the cobblestone. 

He'd made it most of the way there with an ache buried in his chest, hands buried in his pockets, thoughts buried in his head; he suppressed them all until he made it home. They all came out at once, overwhelming him, coming down in one massive wave; he crumpled into his chair, knuckles gripping against his forehead, and he cried, hard, for the first time in a long time.