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Just past hour seventeen, Father Orlov requested for his presence at church. A demand that wasn’t uncommon, nor unexpected – however, to ask for his attendance during the weekend was sat in the realm as out of the ordinary.
--Yet it is a request Cyrus wouldn’t ignore or question. Whatever Father Orlov wished of him, it most certainly was worth his time. More than to linger within his family home – coped up in his bedroom to rehearse speeches he already knew word for word, or to repeat practices of languages he felt confident enough to write without a hitch.
(Speaking them was another matter entirely.)
Regardless, the dress shoes he adorned (a fashion choice influenced by his mother’s demand – for an Akagi must present himself in the best way possible, even when guests aren’t present to see) carried a modest heel that clicked rhythmically against the stone tiling of which spanned the church halls. A heel that gave him height, which was something he rather enjoyed – because at age fourteen he had yet to hit his growth spurt that would place him above the average.
(In this moment, he stood at a meek 1,60cm. The heels of his shoes, however, offered him an additional two centimeters.)
Down halls he knew as though it was his own home, Cyrus carried himself with shoulders pulled back and steps that betrayed the tingling within his stomach as a restless knot. For he was anxious to know what Father Orlov may desire of him – his reasoning’s to request for his presence. It must be a task that had just come forward now, or else he would’ve been given it during mass just the previous day.
Or, perhaps he just wanted him around – a prospect Cyrus wasn’t opposed to.
On Saturdays, the church laid mostly bare save for those that carried the title of divinity. And though Orlov was a minor such figure within his ranks – a youth’s pastor that took care of the children and teens in a separate building just west of the church – he still held status like all the others.
--In Cyrus’s eyes, even more so. Perhaps because he wanted to follow in the older man’s footsteps, to one day become the assigned Pastor to lead the youths back into the faith that seemed to lack presence for each day that passed. Too many youths littered the streets of Hearthome these days – lost in what their purpose in life may be, leading to less than appropriate activities taking place.
… Perhaps because Orlov saw him as an equal, if not more.
It tickled an ego that still sat in its infancy – a smoldering flame in need of careful attention, so that it could be given the chance to manifest into something greater.
(But that would come in due time, certainly.)
Movement of a different set of footsteps reached his ears, stilling his own, and though it was a door he already passed – Cyrus turned and look back towards it. The heavy door carved out of wood, engraved with such finesse and bejeweled with intricate designs, stood ajar. The light of the evening sun spilling past the cracks like liquid gold.
--Within, shadows were cast as the man inside moved before the windows lining the adjacent wall. And though Cyrus had no way of truly knowing – very well could’ve disturbed another Pastor within the church that he held no personal connection to, something within him told him that this?
This was Orlov. Father Orlov, who was pacing one of the studies not often shared by those younger – awaiting his arrival in a fashion that read as rather impatient.
Not one to disappoint, Cyrus rolled his knuckles against the door to signal his arrival – pushed at it, to better look inside. Father Orlov, dressed in the typical fashion of the pastors within Hearthome (a hand dyed cassock, to be exact – made out of wool but occasionally out of lighter such material, given the shifting seasons), barely seemed to react to his presence – until he raised a hand to motion him forward.
--Deeper into the room, and Cyrus took care in fully closing the door behind him as he followed the pastors calling.
Moments passed in silence, or something imitating such calm. For in reality, the faint flutter of feathers made themselves known – the gentle scraping of a broken beak against wooden boards.
The young boy’s eyes fell on the desk placed in the middle of the room, supposedly previously housing chairs to be seated at yet they were nowhere to be found in this given moment. From where he stood, just to the right of Orlov towering frame, all that Cyrus could make out was a silhouette.
--A dark mass overshadowed by the light pouring in from the stained glass windows.
“I have come to realize something very important, my dear Cyrus.” Father Orlov’s voice broke the serenity of the scene – but if you asked Cyrus, then he would say it added to the sanctity of it all. For when Orlov spoke, you ought to listen.
--The older man began his pace, shifting his feet until he stood before the table displaying… whatever it may be. Hands, lacing together at the small of his back.
“… They do not speak to you, hear your prayers,” words that stung harsher than they ever held a right to. Cyrus physically flinched. Hung his head in shame for truly – that was what he felt. Yet Orlov continued; “But I now know why.”
A bated breath – held within his throat for he dare not make a sound.
“They are testing you.”
Once more, Cyrus was beckoned forward. Orlov’s right hand, outstretched for him and perhaps to anyone else, the motion would’ve meant little.
--But to him, it meant everything.
Down on his knees before the pastor, he went. Taking care in pulling the leg of his pants up as to not stretch the material beyond repair – and before he was fully seated, Orlov’s palm found its way to his cheek. Cradled it between the dip of finger and thumb, smoothing over unblemished skin spared from the haunting blemishes that came along with certain puberty.
… Forever and always, in these moments of devotion – Father Orlov radiated like the sun upon the sky above him. For with golden locks and eyes that burned like amber, no other light could guide him through the process of becoming something more.
Someone more.
--Something out of this world.
Finally, after a breathless pause – words spill past his lips. Dry, hungry and with a pitch that lacked maturity. “Testing me?”
Orlov smiled in that peculiar way that caused lines to form over his cheeks – aging him beyond his given years. “Yes, Cyrus. They doubt your devotion to the name of He who created this world. Arceus must be displeased with you, my boy.”
Ice sunk into the pit of his stomach.
“… But I know something that may change His mind.” The soft pad of a thumb against his cheekbone – a brush of feathered wings, followed with the sound of an equal such description. Once more, Cyrus’s eyes divert to the shape upon the nearby table.
His throat felt thick.
“You trust my judgement, don’t you?”
“… I do.”
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Cyrus had been left with one task, and one task alone. With instructions to guide him, but with choices to make – that he was left on his own was show enough that whatever he may do, Father Orlov need not see. What decision was reached was one to be shared by him and Arceus alone, and by no other.
--Still, something numbed the tips of his fingers and locked their bones as he stared at the Starly, but a few month old certainly, meekly struggling against the nails that had been driven into the junctions of its wings. To keep it bound was one thing.
To crucify it, another.
“A test of devotion, of faith,” the young boy mumbled under his breath – something he would’ve been scolded for, has he been anything but alone in this moment. (And though perhaps he shouldn’t be – should feel as though Arceus and his favored children are with him in every breath he takes; Cyrus cannot confess to feeling as though that’s the truth. For it is as Orlov had said.
--His prayers, as they were, have never been answered.)
(He was alone.)
Cyrus rounded the table so that the light cast past stained glass windows would least blind him for his choice.
--For one had to be made.
To sever the head of Starly’s was a practice he had read in scriptures as well as having seen drawn imagery of the very task. However, the practice had long since been banned as it was seen as rather cruel to breed the young creatures for such things – no matter if the purpose was religious or not. Where Orlov may have gotten the bird was a question that lingered within his mind.
But not one he would dwell on for long.
Tentatively, almost as though just simply touching the creature would harm it, Cyrus let his finger brush over plush feathers that had yet to fully evolve into their proper, fine state. To be this close to one of the wild beings children used for battling was an opportunity he had had few times in his life – his father, having seen it an unbefitting a man such as himself to play in the dirt with those less fortunate.
--He didn’t feel like he had missed out on anything, however. It did not fit his view of ‘fun’.
Still, a soothing motion began. The palm of his hand, spreading over the span of the birds back – the tips of his fingers getting lost within its coat the deeper he dug. At times, it would twitch – make it known that it still very much was alive.
Had a heartbeat, a soul. A mind intelligent enough to understand the speech of humans.
Repeating the motion once more, Cyrus would stop at the dip of its neck. A clear indicator where the width of the bird narrowed, dipped, and became much more fragile. As he felt for the throat beneath the feathered coat – the words of Orlov repeated within his mind.
(At his side, a dagger laid polished and bare.)
--“Either you use your bare hands – to break the fledgling’s neck and have its head twisted free of its body – or by the use of the blade being pushed into the juncture between the bird’s throat and breast.”
At first, he had been unsure if it truly was asked of him to kill such a pitiful creature. It seemed unaware, yet distressed – broken – unusually quiet and weak for a bird so common to the outside world. Yet the nails stuck into its wings (clipped, he would guess) had left stains upon its coat that undoubtable was blood.
--Already cruel, and in the end perhaps it was a blessing for it to die.
After a moment of silence, he would pray. Just as all good sons of Arceus should, and asked for an answer for which means he should take this birds life with. But, as had become common (and he certainly had expected no less) – he got on answer. And so Cyrus moved forward without guidance – tested the stability of linking his fingers around its throat only to find the motion to build a sickness within his gut. The pulse of the Starly beat against the pad of his thumb and he swore, would in this moment swear Arceus’s name if he had to – that its heartbeat quickened as fear took hold of it.
How cruel, how very, very cruel…
It would seem the poniard would be the best, if not only, option.
But even still, as he felt its weight within his right palm – its hilt still heated from where Orlov held it moments before – the very same nausea filled him. The evening light cast shadows over the bird’s small frame, blocked by his own and if he dared to look, then he could’ve sworn it stared right back at him.
--Sinister, mocking in its delight for it knows that Cyrus?
He is weak.
He isn’t worthy.
And thus, he will not kill the bird.
The dagger slipped from his grasp, falling onto the table with a clear ringing clang that may as well have echoed down the hall for all to hear – and Cyrus pushed the board holding the bird captive off its resting place. A hasty such decision he hadn’t truly registered – yet followed through with regardless. Took a step backward, felt the windowsill press against the small of his back and just as quickly, he grasped for it to find stability.
--Orlov was at his side again, as though he never had left him in the first place. Hands cupping the young boys face to gaze into ocean eyes – and Cyrus felt as though he would get scorched, should he fall under Orlov’s judgement in this moment.
“I can’t,” he voiced – quiet and apologetic. And as Father came to hold on to his chin – dip his head back to better stare up at him, Cyrus gently began shaking his head. Denying, refuting; he hadn’t meant to be disobedient.
--He hadn’t meant to be weak, to not do what was asked of him.
Yet Orlov hushed him. Placed his forehead to rest against his own – and closed his eyes as silence spread around them. The pads of his fingers smoothed over his skin, until they reached the hollows of his cheeks. A hold that was oh so familiar, so common, between the two of them.
If it pained him in any way, then Cyrus did not let it be known. And perhaps for that reason, Orlov pressed harder.
“You can,” the pastor would speak, finally. His tone, however, sat hollow. “You can, and you will… Just not on this day. It’s alright my boy, it’s alright…”
His breath fanned to meet his own, something that caused a coil to tighten within Cyrus’s gut – holding on to something different, yet similar, to the nausea previously present. And though he felt lighter, felt better, a part of him knew that Orlov was not, in fact, pleased with him.
--He would not hold him in this way, if he was. He would not stand this close, would not dig blunt nails into his skin and would not breathe as though he needed to force himself to, or else he may forget.
Once eyes of gold opens once more, there is a narrowing to their curve. Still, a smile plays upon the pastors lips.
A show of his good will, his intentions, that don’t always come through in the most favorable of actions.
“You’re not yet worthy of your station, is all. You’re still so very immature, so young… so undeserving.”
Orlov removed himself from his person with one last shake of his palm. To cast away that of which did not please him, and Cyrus found his eyes trail the others path as he rounded the table. To where he had so hastily, so wrongly, discarded himself of the creature already in harm’s way. Discarded himself of the task that would prove him worthy.
Cyrus once more felt his limbs lock up as Father Orlov stared down at the pitiful bird – unmoving yet breathing and very much still alive. Something passed over the pastors features, his hands cupping before his waistband and his back slightly bent. To better view the Starly upon the floor, as he kicked the board it laid upon to better align with himself.
--Looking back to Cyrus, he would once more speak.
(A tilt to his voice that display humor, mirth.)
“I will forgive you this time, however. I understand it can be scary to take a life as meaningless as this ones.”
Under the heel of Orlov’s foot, its head crushed.
“… Go to the study and pray, Cyrus.”
--He need not be told twice.