February 23rd, 1890 — Church of St. Fergus

Every now and again, once the last echoes of Sunday service had faded, Djura liked to stay behind in church and take a moment for himself. There was something about the institution that felt tantamount to nature; and although he disliked Irvingly for its magical community, he liked the Church of St. Fergus. It was so close to the treeline, freedom from people a mere few steps from the door.

Service had ended nigh half an hour ago, and Baron Crossridge sat alone in a pew, breathing the cold air that had spilled from the frosty afternoon without. Finally he stood to his full, considerable height, with aid of his silver cane, and turned to leave — only to be alerted by an echoing clatter by the pulpit. A small bronze statue of Mother and Child had fallen to the floor. What on God's green Earth...?

Blythe Fairchild

  

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There was something...calming about the first service 'back' after Hogsmeade Sundays, as Blythe thought of them. She had always had a true passion for the Church (how could she not, with her father being who he was and her guardian being Temperance Fairchild?) but always found Mr. Dursley's sermons more relaxed and the mix congregation, surprisingly, homier.  That was not to say she did not look forward to the magical services at Hogsmeade Hall, not at all—it was just that she looked forward to getting back to St Fergus more.

As she often did, Blythe accompanied her aunt to tea in the vestry after the service, an affair that she felt certain God Himself had organized to test the poor vicar (her aunt's company was not easy for anyone). As the Fairchilds prepared to leave, however, Blythe realized she had left her muff in their usual pew, ducking back into the church proper to retrieve it.

She stopped, however, in her progress when she saw the pews were not empty as she would have expected and, for want of any better ideas, ducked so as to be out of sight, feeling as though she had intruded deeply, for all that this was a public space for all God's children to feel his embrace.

The witch remained there for a moment before a demure sneeze caused her to jostle the bench and now there was a statue on the floor and Lord help her he was looking at her.

"M-my apologies," was the best Blythe could muster.

— Djura Crossridge —

  

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When you're alone you are someone else entirely; the presence of another soul twists your identity to extremes. So it was with Baron Crossridge, who upon realising he wasn't alone felt betrayed by his own sense that he was. It was a sizeable church, and a person with a small, subtle step could easily have a presence without making it known; but Djura resented it as soon as he was aware of it.

Of course, it was unfair that he should feel this way; and more so that the subtle other should suffer the consequences.

Especially as she transpired to be not so subtle, an inadvertent vandal as the bronze idol fell to the stone floor as a result of her jostle. The clatter echoed accusingly for seconds to come.

The solitary man looked at her for scarcely a moment; just enough to note a small, slight child (or young woman?) who reminded him vaguely of his maid's daughter back in Canterbury.

Cane tapping coldly on the floor as he did so, Djura stood and made his way across to the fallen Mother and Child, dipping to pick it up. He observed it. The Virgin Mary's nose had come clean off.

  

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She knew, of course, who he was.

Though magical folk put little store, as a rule, in the nobility, few in the congregation were unaware of the Baron Crossridge's presence in Irvingly (or at least, just outside of it). Still, Blythe had never had—nor anticipated having—occasion to actually speak to the man. He moved without speaking to pick up the felled statue, and all the colour newly risen to Blythe's face drained entirely when she saw she had given the Mother herself an impromptu rhinectomy.

Perhaps if she prayed hard enough, the ground would open up and swallow her.

— Djura Crossridge —

  

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It was a disaster, albeit on a small scale. And not one he was going to abandon, or lump on an unknown girl. Djura allowed himself a slight sigh of exasperation at the statue's damaged face, but that was about the extent of emotion he betrayed.

It was stone; there was no repairing it. "I shall take this through to the porch and leave some coin. Or perhaps the rectory... do you know where this should be left?" he asked of the girl. Djura had not been attending this church for long after all, while she had the air of someone who'd spent her childhood in these aisles.

And perhaps this was not the first time she'd broken a statue.

  

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"I—I—" Blythe stammered a beginning, brain working a mile a minute but that knowledge nowhere near reaching her lips.

He would help her, he, who did not know anything about Blythe Fairchild and who came across as not the warmest fellow. This was not quite the earth swallowing her up, but was certainly a tolerable alternative...or it would be, if Blythe could get her damn tongue to work!

"The vestry would be best," Blythe offered softly before hurriedly adding, "or it would be, if Mr. Dursley was not presently using it for a small tea. Perhaps the rectory would be best..."

She met his eyes fleetingly as she trailed off, her own resembling very much those of a startled deer.

— Djura Crossridge —

  

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Djura nodded, and proceeded to the rectory. The door creaked and the air smelt of stone dust. He left the broken Mother and Child statue — together with her nose — on the table, along with a neat stack of shillings. Then he withdrew an ornate pen and scrap of notepaper, and explained that the statue had been accidentally broken, and he was very sorry. He signed it Baron Crossridge and made no mention of the girl.

Heralded by the echoing of his cane on the floor, Djura returned to the chapel. He paused to regard a stained glass design, then turned his gaze to the floundering lass. "Sometimes one feels that magic is ungoldly, doesn't one."

  

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Blythe was not certain if it was politeness or a general sense that her aunt would simply know something was amiss that kept her anchored firmly in place as the baron dealt with the matter at hand. Perhaps it was a bit of both. His words on his return, though, filled her at once with a (low) level of confidence hitherto unseen during their exchange as she responded, "Oh no, not in the least!"

After a beat, she explained, "Magic is the the Lord's gift to us—those of us blessed with its use, that is, that we might better understand His potential." It occurred to Blythe here that this was not a conversation she had ever had with a muggle before. "The smallest spark of the divine within our grasp, to reassure us of His might."

— Djura Crossridge —

  

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Djura didn't know why he'd had such a moment of honesty with this flustered girl. Perhaps he was hoping for a spontaneous spark of kinship here in this house of God. But what he received was the opposite. Oh he could tell from her tone and the passion in her eyes that her faith was respectably real and her intentions were pure and heavenly, but as a man not "blessed" he once more got the feeling he always got from wizarding folk —

That they thought themselves above those without magic. To the point of deeming themselves superior in the eyes of God. It burned Djura to his core; not because he was proud — for despite his stoic disposition and his numerous lofty ranks, Djura was not the arrogant type — but because God's creation of these magical people was nothing short of hateful. People like this innocent girl had stood by in a sunbeam, feeling all blessed, while thousands of non-magic folk died of causes that could be magically prevented in a trice.

It was in moments like this that he regretted ever letting Isaac attend that Hogwarts school.

Feeling like he wanted to break another statue, Djura paused before opting to reply. Though his instinct was to walk out, for he knew such conversations could come to nothing. Eagles and lions cannot talk to one another, they can simply snap their beaks and shake their manes.

"And did God, upon 'blessing' you, insist that you stand back while those 'unblessed' suffer and die in great numbers?"

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   Blythe Fairchild

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"Of course not!" Blythe exclaimed, taken aback by the question. Had Aunt Temperance been in the room, she most certainly would have chastised her niece for the outburst—but then, she likely would be the one enlightening the baron instead.

"We are all blessed to be His children."

— Djura Crossridge —

  

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As a lone, aging war veteran whose best friend was a hawk, Djura's thoughts could sometimes emerge unexpectedly like this, directed at someone completely inappropriate. Yes they both believed in a Godly influence, but Djura believed that her youth, femininity, lowborn background and — most importantly — her magical powers meant that they could never see eye to eye. He'd been a fool to think she would rise to his challenging question in any form.

Indeed, he believed that no witch or wizard would ever be able to answer his question. For the truth was that they all felt themselves superior (or "blessed with the Lord's gift"); they let non-magical innocents suffer and die not because they couldn't help them — but because they did not care.

"So you say", he growled, and then sought to end their acquaintance before he said anything else he regretted. Djura had tolerated the wizarding presence at St. Fergus's long enough, and now intended to attend only normal sermons, or else to find some other parish.

A curt nod, then he left the church, the hard tap of his walking cane echoing through the pews.

-wrap? <3-

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   Blythe Fairchild

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Though Blythe did not know what precisely she had done, the witch could not help, as he retreated, but feel as though she had deeply offended the Baron Crossridge in some way. The whys and wherefores would no doubt be scrutinized at length later, but for now, Blythe hastened to return to her aunt before she was missed.

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   Bragi Holm

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