kalleah | The Calm Before the Storm (Chapter Seven)

I spent a lot of time this week reading and researching, and, to give credit where credit is due, I found a great deal of information (and the words for the service that Rose attends) at Universalis.com. As before, I've taken literary license with the service but wanted to have it grounded at least somewhat in fact.

Putting this chapter out there for the world is a little like standing naked in front of an audience. Constructive criticism and feedback is always welcomed, read, and occasionally reread. I continued to be amazed at the response to this story and hope you're getting half the enjoyment out of reading this than I am from writing it. The little creative part of my brain is all aflutter. :)

Previous chapters:
( Chapter One )
( Chapter Two )
( Chapter Three )

( Chapter Four )

( Chapter Five )

( Chapter Six )

Rose's steps were heavy as she walked away from the dormitory and back toward her cottage. As she walked among the buildings, she saw monks headed in different directions, off to their daily chores and labours. She hesitated briefly at the dining hall, and allowing her empty stomach to make a decision for her, entered cautiously. Two brothers were efficiently cleaning the long tables and bustling back and forth from the kitchen area in the back of the hall. Rose paused, not wanting to interrupt, but one of the monks returned from a foray into the kitchen with a wrapped bundle, which he tucked into her hands with a smile and a quick nod of his head. The bundle was soft and warm in Rose's hands and she smiled back at him gratefully.

She reached her cottage more quickly than she would have liked and hesitated before opening the door. Would the Doctor be there? Would he pretend that the last night's conversation had not happened? Rose was full of worry for him and Jacob. Her hand touched the doorknob, lingered, and then, with an indrawn breath and a tightness in her stomach, she turned the knob and pressed the door open as silently as she could manage.

Her bed was empty.

Rose's shoulders sagged and she came into the room. A quick scan of the cottage revealed no one in the chair by the fireplace, no one in the loo, no one hiding improbably behind the door. She flopped down in the chair and let her head fall backwards, sighing deeply. After a moment of feeling deeply and utterly sorry for herself, she sniffed the air curiously. A yeasty smell, rather an appealing smell at that. Her stomach rumbled and she remembered the little bundle, still clutched firmly in her hand. She unfolded the brown paper and removed three of the crusty rolls she had become so fond of, still slightly warm, one of the odd citrus fruits, and a waxy round of cheese. As she ate, she began to feel more like herself, and noticed something about the room that she had missed in her initial survey.

The bed was made. She looked from the plumped pillows at the head to the precisely tucked corners at the foot. Surely the Doctor - no, it had to be one of the monks who previously lit the fire in her fireplace and provided fresh towels. But, her mind noted distantly, they were all at prayers while I was visiting Jacob. She tried to visualize the frequently disheveled Doctor making perfect hospital corners and failed utterly. Once she noticed the bed, she also noticed that her notepad, carefully positioned so her message would be immediately visible, had moved. She stood up and walked to the table, chewing a roll, and picked it up. Her page had been folded over and another message written.

Back soon.

She huffed in annoyance. Two words, no details, no explanation, no signature (not that she could have mistaken the identity of the writer in any case). At least, she thought with a grain of optimism, he wrote a note. She thought of times when he had simply wandered off and expected her to figure it out, trying not to think of times when she had done exactly the same to him.

Rose returned to her chair, finished her breakfast, and folded the peel of her fruit and the wax from the cheese into the brown paper as neatly as she could, creasing the paper again and again until the edges slid smoothly against her fingertips. I am not waiting for him, she thought, I am being neat. She flipped the folded wad over her shoulder and heard it land with a crinkling thud. Or not.

"Don't wander off," she said aloud, sticking her tongue out. Her words echoed strangely in the empty room. She had not spent a great deal of time here in the day, and the furnishings which had seemed elegant in their stark simplicity in the kind glow of firelight or early morning seemed now just to be plain. She stood, retrieved the wad of paper from the floor with a guilty thought, and placed it neatly on the bedside table next to her notepad. As she did, she noticed again the small row of books on the bottom shelf, and bent down to study the spines. At least she could read a little, and pass the time until the Doctor decided to return, when she would have to determine which of his mercurial moods he had assumed. She found with pleasure that one of the books was The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, which she remembered with fondness from childhood. She scooped it off the shelf and returned to her chair, folding one foot underneath her as she sat down.

Rose quickly realized that she had a different perspective on the book than she had as a child. As she read about the Pevensie children fleeing the Blitz, she recalled the faces of frightened children and the air raid sirens. You may have traveled through a wardrobe, she thought with amusement, but I have traveled through time in a police box, and flown over London hanging from a barrage balloon! She laughed, and lost herself in the story.

When she next looked up, the light from outside was stronger and the shadows shorter. She checked her watch and saw that it was almost noon, and frowned in annoyance at the absent Doctor. Soon was a relative term for an alien who traveled through time, after all. She stood, marked her place, and set the book on the bedside table for later. The urge to roam was overpowering, and she felt very little hesitation as she left the little cottage and headed back to the main clearing.

The bells tolled sonorously as Rose arrived, all of the monks walking purposefully toward the church. It was time for the midday prayers. She thought of Jacob's invitation to join them, and felt a momentary pang that he would be in his bed, hearing the bells and unable to attend. Her decision was easy, and she followed the line of men into the church.

The church, on the inside, was arranged much differently than Rose had assumed. The room was rectangular, with the door where she had entered occupying the short side. There were several rows of pews facing into the center of the church, and then beyond a tiled open space, more rows of pews stood, but at right angles to the ones nearest the door. Windows allowed light to stream in at the top of the high, vaulted ceiling. One of the monks touched Rose's shoulder lightly and motioned for her to sit in one of the pews near the door. She did, and saw the men file past her and into the pews further down, facing the side wall. The procession was, as everything else seemed to be here, orderly and silent. Rose heard the the soft shuffle of shoes on the floor, the squeak of wood as men were seated, and her own breathing. When everyone was seated, one of the monks stood at the front of their rows of pews and spoke in a clear, carrying voice.

"O God, come to my aid."

"O Lord, make haste to help me," responded the brothers in perfect unison, the echoes reverberating in the enclosed space.

"Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end."

"Amen. Alleluia," came the response.

They stood as one and sang, the words lost to Rose, but the voices buoyant. She let the sound wash over her, at once joyful and dignified, the voices harmonizing together with familiarity. She thought of Jacob's musical voice and wondered if its absence diminished the whole, or if, in his room, he joined in the song and communed with his brothers. She felt an unspeakable desire to join in the song, but her throat was tight, and she did not know the words. After a time, they quieted, and the silence hung for a few moments in the church. The sounds of the shuffling feet, the shifting pews, even Rose's own breathing, faded to nothing in the aftermath of the song.

"Lord, keep your family always in your care. Our only hope is in your divine grace: keep us always under your protection," intoned the first monk, breaking the silence.

"Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God for ever and ever. Amen," responded the others, in a single voice.

They filed out, as orderly as they had come in, and while no one spoke to Rose, she felt their camaraderie extended to her in smiles and nods. When they were gone, Rose sat, her hand running idly along the back of the seat in front of her. After some moments, she stood, opened the door, and let herself out into the brilliant light of noon.

The Doctor was waiting for her in front of the church, standing perfectly still. Rose felt a jolt and knew he had seen her well before she had seen him. For a heartbeat, their eyes met and neither moved. Rose took the first step toward him, but he extended his hand and she felt her breath rush out in relief. She took his hand in hers and they walked in companionable silence toward the dining hall.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. Rose shook her head. "No, I'm not either. Want to walk for a while?"

"Yeah," she said, feeling almost shy with him today. They headed past the other buildings down the path to the gardens, taking their time, lingering along their walk. "Did you sleep well?" Rose asked, wanting to fill the space between them with words.

"I did." He studied the low brush along the path as they walked.

"I haven't seen you sleep since Christmas," she said, and flushed.

"Quite a bit different, I'd imagine," he said. She did smile then. "I don't need it often, really, just enough to keep me glued together. But that was," he hesitated slightly, "nice."

She stole a look over at him. He was looking back at her this time. "Yeah."

He considered that response for some time, and they found themselves at the garden table where they had taken tea with Jacob after arriving here. They sat on one of the curving benches together, knees almost touching. "Did you enjoy the service?" he asked, changing the subject.

She thought about that. "Sort of. Yeah. I guess I did. They sang, and it was --" she struggled for the right word for a moment before finishing, "like they were part of the same person."

"They have been doing this together for a very long time. After a while, it is like a well-oiled machine."

"How did you come to be here?" she asked, curious, and wondering if this crossed a line to ask.

"I met Jacob when he was a boy," said the Doctor. "Several times, actually. Our paths kept crossing. When he became a brother here, I came to visit." Rose was quiet, hoping that he would share more than the barest outline of a story, but he put his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, and studied her carefully. "Do you believe them?" he asked.

"Believe?"

"The prayers. The service. Do you believe in it?"

"Not like they do. But it was --" again, words failed her. She shook her head, frustrated. "Important, somehow. You don't, though." He didn't respond, but looked at her levelly. "You are here, and you don't believe one word of what they do."

His eyes flicked past her into the trees, and Rose resisted the urge to turn around and look at what he was looking at, knowing he would distract her with something. "That's true," he said finally, chin still in his hands. "I don't. But I still find the idea of faith attractive. These men live their lives with such comfort, such peace, sure in the knowledge of their God. It would be easier if I felt that way."

She nodded, seeing his point. "Would you forgive yourself then?"

He sighed. "I hope that I would, yes. That's the allure too. Abdication of responsibility to an Other, for forgiveness and acceptance and peace. It would be nice."

"If you're responsible for your actions," Rose said in a low tone, "then you can forgive yourself for them."

He straightened and leaned back in the chair. "I can't."

"Won't."

"Maybe won't," he agreed. He drummed his fingers on the table.

Rose reached across and covered his hands with hers, stilling his movements. "Then I do," she said.

"You do what, Rose?"

"I forgive you."

The Doctor stared at her in shock, then wonder came over his face. "You forgive me for the deaths of millions of innocent people?" he asked. "They weren't your people. All those decisions I made, you weren't even there -- weren't even born."

"Doesn't matter. I forgive you."

He looked at her in consternation, then broke into a laugh. "Rose, you can't do that."

"I just did." She squeezed his hands under hers.

He squeezed back and lifted her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. "You astonish me," he said. "Humans, always barging in." He kissed her hand again, quickly, and released her.

"Don't you understand?" Rose said. "I know now. You thought it was all this horrible thing that would make me hate you -- would make Jacob hate you -- and it's not. You're still who I thought you were."

"And who was that?" he asked, his voice low.

"My Doctor," she said simply.