A sorta AU piece set sometime mid-to-post season 2. We're only halfway through season 2 here, so I haven't seen Doomsday…though I know what it's about. This could be seen as a post to that, or as something else. Try to be nice, please—I have no idea where this came from.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. No suing or I'll sic my power-hungry penguins on you.
I'll never forget the Monday afternoon when I was eight that my mum bundled me up for church and pressed a pristine white rose into my gloved hand, with strict orders that I was responsible for taking care of it. It was my job to get it to the church and to keep it from getting crushed through the memorial service. I was honored to be given such an important task, so the entire walk to the church I carefully cradled the rose, ever mindful not to bruise the petals or snap the stem. It didn't even matter that I had no idea whose memorial service we were going to.
It wasn't until we reached the cathedral that I made my mistake. You see, once something is sat on a church pew, be it bulletin, songbook, or children's church craft, it is forever lost, unless that item has a deep sense of personal value. I sat the rose on our pew in order to shed my winter garments, and forgot about it once it was buried under my gloves and coat. Which soon got sat on by Mrs. Carlson's four year old son.
I spent most of the service wondering if Macy McCoy was right and that Rev. Campbell's hair really was a toupee and doodling on the back of one of the programs. I only looked up when people started standing and going a few at a time to the front of the sanctuary before leaving. We stood and got our coats on, when my mum turned to me and asked me for the rose. Nervously, I picked up my gloves, hoping against hope that it would be alright. To my dismay, the petals were crushed, and the stem had been snapped in two, the bottom piece just barely hanging on.
I gently picked it up and sheepishly offered it to my mother. Furiously, she pulled me into the far aisle and asked me if I realized what I'd done. It was only then that I noticed the tear tracks on her face, and the fresh tears that threatened to spill over. At a loss for words, she finally just told me that I was to ask forgiveness for breaking the rose and to not come home till I understood what I'd done. With that, she stormed off, leaving me in the church.
I slowly made my way towards the alter. Most of the crowd had dispersed, and I sat on the third pew from the front to wait. I figured I would wait a little while before going home and making heartfelt apologies to my mum, and hope and pray that she didn't beat my butt black and blue.
The only people left in the sanctuary were a young black man who had fixed my mum's car once, an older woman who I recognized as living down the street from us, and a man who I'd never seen before. They were all sitting on the front row, and the woman was sobbing. After a few moments, the black man led her out, one arm wrapped around her shoulder. Then it was just me and the strange man, who went and stood in front of the alter, looking at the roses and mementoes that people had left there.
I wasn't sure why at the time, but before I knew it, I was standing next to him, the broken rose in my hands. I suppose I was thinking that my mum had said that I was to ask forgiveness for what I'd done, and we weren't Catholic, and this man was the only one left. Somehow, it seemed to be the right thing to do.
"I'm sorry I broke th' rose," I said quickly. The man looked down at me, a bewildered expression on his face.
"What did you say?" he asked. I held up the battered rose in my gloved hands.
"I'm sorry I broke the rose," I repeated, more slowly this time. He smiled sadly, and looked down at his shoes.
"I don't think she would have minded," he answered, and at first I thought he meant my mum. Then I realized he meant the woman who the service was for.
"Who was she?" I asked after a moment. He looked at me, surprised.
"Don't you know?" I shook my head. He gestured towards the pew.
After we sat down, he pulled a picture from the pocket of his brown coat and handed it to me. I vaguely recognized the woman in the picture—she used to live down the street from us. I remembered her visiting my mum sometimes, and then one day, she just went away. We hardly ever saw her after that.
The man started telling me about this girl, this girl that he'd met one day by accident and had loved ever since. He told me about this beautiful, wonderful, brave young woman who'd taken him by storm and saved the universe a hundred times over. The more he told me, the more I felt that he hadn't told anyone these things, and that he needed to tell me because he needed someone else to remember this woman the way he did. He continued to speak, and images began to fill my head, pictures of faraway places and creatures. I began to understand just who this woman was, and what they'd done together. He spoke, and I saw a golden light, as bright as the sun, and I saw this woman disappearing into that light. I chased after her, because of the pain in his voice and the simple need in his eyes. But I lost her in the light, and soon I was drowning in it, lost in a golden haze that filled my eyes and ears. Only the sound of the man's voice brought me back to reality, and I was suddenly filled with sorrow that I couldn't bring her back for him.
He looked at me and froze, as though really seeing me for the first time.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Katalin," I answered, after the briefest hesitation, because I'd forgotten it in this beautiful concerto that had been this woman's life. "Katalin Harper."
He smiled at me, a gentle, charming smile that could light up a room, and he tried to thumb away the tears that I didn't even realize were streaking down my face. He told me that I should be getting home, and pressed the picture into my hand, and stood to leave. Just before he did, he turned and looked at me one last time.
"Thank you, Katalin Harper," he said. "Thank you so much." Suddenly I had the thought that he'd known, that he'd known everything that had been going through my head and everything that I'd wanted for him and his lady friend.
And just like that I was alone in the sanctuary, just me and the picture and a broken rose. I stood, the rose in my hand, and walked towards the alter, tears still streaming down my face. I had the horrible feeling that something wonderful had been lost to the universe, not just in this young woman but in what she'd been for this strange man who I'd never seen before and haven't seen since. So I did the only thing that I could—I laid the rose on the alter, finally understanding what I'd done by not protecting it the way that I should have.
"I'm sorry," I said to no one. "I'm so sorry that I broke the rose…"