Waiting

by Athena Phoenix

Written for the Fanfic 100 Challenge. Prompt: Purple. Dedicated to our friend Averroes.

Rating: PG

Shayera Hol was one more face in the throng of people braving the winter wind in search of Saturday night entertainment. Downtown Midway City sparkled with lights, and it seemed like every building she passed sported a wreath, a candy cane, a Santa Claus, or some other symbol of a holiday that had meant nothing to her – before John.

She was tired. Tired of pushing her way through the gale that the buildings seemed to channel right toward her. Tired of wondering whether someone in the crowd would recognize and confront her, even though her overcoat hid her wings. Tired of making excuses to Carter as to why she couldn't see him again. Today, she'd told him she was busy.

Yeah. Busy. Busy entertaining my new friend Jack Daniels while watching yet another war documentary on the History Channel.

Sometimes, she felt like she couldn't stand it anymore. She wanted to go somewhere – anywhere – where no one knew her name or had any expectations of her. But she didn't go. Soldiers didn't desert their post; that was the first lesson she'd learned in the army. And no matter what Paran Dul or any other Thanagarian thought, she was still a soldier with a duty to uphold. Superman had told her often enough how much the League needed her. Some days, she actually believed him.

Kal-El – ever the kind, civilized, peace-loving Kryptonian. Fat lot of good it did them. She remembered watching the holovid footage in her Galactic History class, fortuitously captured by a Thanagarian scout ship. A handful of Thanagarians had died on Krypton, most of them spies. Their technology had been breathtaking – well worth stealing.

The wind had worsened and her eyes started to water from its cold blast. Shayera turned away and kept walking, nearly tripping over a set of stairs. Through streaming eyes, she looked up the stairs and saw double wooden doors set into a large stone building. As she watched, they opened, and two people unidentifiable under their coats, hats and mufflers emerged. Whatever it was, the building was a shelter, and she headed up the steps.

What's that phrase John always said, "Any port in a storm"?

The door creaked as she pulled on it and fell heavily back in place once she'd passed. She glanced around and took stock of her surroundings; she was in a sort of lobby or vestibule, with a second set of double doors leading to a large hall of some kind. Judging by the statues, the benches, and the presence of what someone had told her was a "crucifix", she was in some kind of Christian church. She entered the hall and moved toward the closest bench – pew, she thought she remembered John calling it – and sank gratefully onto it, taking off her gloves.

"Excuse me, miss, are you needing some help?" She looked up to see a man, probably in his sixties, with a kind but inquiring expression on his face.

"No, thank you. I just needed to get out of the wind."

"That's all right, then. I'm just going around tidying things before I lock up. You wouldn't believe the things people leave around here. It's a shame, it is." As he walked away, scanning each pew, he added, "Stay here as long as you want. I'll be telling you when I'm ready to close."

Shayera glanced around the church. Although Christmas was in two weeks, she was surprised to see none of the lights and decorations she'd seen elsewhere. Wasn't that supposed to be a major festival for this religion? If anything, the church seemed bare. The one item that caught her eye was a wreath lying flat on some kind of pedestal, rather than hanging on the wall. Instead of a big red bow, it had four candles – three purple, one pink. Two of the purple candles and the lone pink flickered in the stillness.

The man seemed to have finished his duties on the right side of the church, and moved over to the left side, looking down each pew.

Religion wasn't ordinarily a topic she thought much about, and John hadn't said much about the faith in which he had been raised, but she was curious about the wreath.

"What's with the wreath and the candles? Do they have something to do with Christmas?"

He smiled. "In a way. We light them during the four weeks that lead up to Christmas, which we call 'Advent'. Each Sunday, we light another candle. Tomorrow is the third Sunday of Advent, so we light three candles."

That seemed reasonable to her. Three Sundays; three candles. "Why is one of them pink?"

"Joy," he replied, turning to pick up a toy some child must have left in the pew.

"What?"

"Joy," he repeated. "The third Sunday of Advent is called Gaudete Sunday and the candle represents joy – gaudete in Latin. It's pink because it symbolizes the dawn, the end of night."

The man put some books in the rack behind the pew and turned to face her. "You see, Advent's all about waiting – waiting to celebrate the birth of Jesus, but also waiting for Him to return. It's dark, it's cold, and it's hard to wait, but we know one day our wait will be over and we can be joyful because of it." He continued to work his way, pew by pew, toward the front of the church.

Shayera glanced away, pulling her coat more tightly around her. "Joy hasn't been part of my vocabulary lately."

"It will be."

"What?" She spotted him at the next to last pew, picking up some papers.

"It will be. Just wait."

"I hate waiting," she muttered and drew on her gloves again. Maybe the wind's died down and I can make it home.

As she was about to leave, she noted other candles in various groupings around the walls, many in front of statues. The effect was striking.

She did a double take when she saw a statue of what appeared to be a bare-faced Thanagarian knight, slaying a monster.

"Excuse… excuse me. Who is that?"

The man looked up from sorting the pile of mislaid belongings. He raised an eyebrow and smiled. "That would be St. Michael the Archangel, slaying the serpent."

"Which serpent?"

"The serpent." Doubtless noticing Shayera's still-puzzled look, he cleared his throat. "The Prince of Darkness…"

Darkseid?

"…Satan." He lowered his voice as he said the name.

"Like Hades? Sorry, I'm not familiar with your mythology." She turned back to examine the statue – a copy, she surmised, of an ancient work.

"Nowhere near as innocuous, I daresay. More like your Ichthulhu. Not as kind-hearted."

Startled, she whirled around to face him. The church was empty, and the Advent wreath candles were cold and dark.

Despite her warm clothing, she shivered.

The End