Synopsis: Gilbert was an unorthodox priest struggling for acceptance; Matthew was a ghost straining to understand 'life' after death. This relationship had been complicated from the beginning. Sometimes, though, all you need is a little faith that you are precisely where you are meant to be.

Dedication: This piece is dedicated to Mayurei 13, who is wonderful and deserves to have her wildest wishes come true.

Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do any of the countries mentioned. Get back to me after 'World Domination Phase 3' is complete.

Gilbert Beilschmidt equals the character Prussia. Matthew Williams equals the character Canada. This piece takes place during the late 1800's or the beginning of the 1900's.

Faith

March

The church was tucked in a dale on the outskirts of town; close enough to attend service one morning of the week and far enough that it could be ignored for all the rest. It was a striking whitewashed church with twelve stained glass windows and twelve short pews inside. The surrounding grounds were neat and trim with small patches of melting snow still in the shadows.

It was quaint.

The minimalism of a countryside church was a novel concept to a priest who was used to the grand cathedrals of bustling cities. He had never felt more alone; no one in this town would speak to a priest unless attending service, seeking guidance, or confessing sins. The townspeople were simple folk and it should have been a simple matter to connect on some level. It was not.

Gilbert sat on the front steps with his chin in his hand and watched a flock of birds disappear overhead until his gaze shifted back to the task before him. There was a collection of gravestones to the left of the church with the streaks of changing seasons and poor care colouring the stones. One of his tasks as the priest was to tend to the graves of the forgotten. It seemed from his perch that all of the graves had been forgotten at one point or another in this quiet town.

There was a tin bucket at his feet with water and rags. He pushed the edge of the bucket with one of his polished boots and some of the water splashed over the side.

He was not looking forward to the chore but it was not as if he had a better offer. Gilbert glanced towards the heavens.

"You owe me one."

He reached down for the bucket and wandered to the gravestones with a sigh. He had to gather the hem of his cassock in one hand to keep himself from tripping on the gentle slope.

The first gravestone was covered in moss and the second one was tilting to the side with stains. The third one was in two distinct pieces with little hope of repair. He knelt in the grass and plucked one of the rags from the water. He began scrubbing.

It went on and on all afternoon with Gilbert shifting from one gravestone to the next. His hands were raw and the tips of his fingers were wrinkled from handling the wet cloth. He reached the end of the glade and the chore just as the sun began to set. He tossed the rag back into the bucket with a growling moan and brushed the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. It was perhaps not the best use of his religious garments but it would have to do.

Gilbert watched the sun set behind the mountains in the distance and paused to appreciate the moment. His lowering gaze brought him to one last gravestone at the edge of the trees. There were two sparrows sitting on the stone and singing gentle tunes.

"Damn." He glanced upwards. "I meant 'darn', of course."

He fetched the dreaded bucket again and stomped towards the lone headstone. The sparrows fluttered off into the forest. It was much more worn than the other ones and he thought that it might have been here before the church had been built. There were wild flowers surrounding the base but nothing had grown over the stone itself; no moss, no lichen, no vines. It was pristine for its age.

Gilbert knelt down in the grass and ran his fingers over the inscription because it was too worn to read it. He sounded it out as if he were blind.

"M – A – T – T – H – E –W. Matthew! W – I – L – L – I – A – M – S. Matthew Williams."

There was no date of birth or death beneath the name and no dedication written beneath that.

"Yes?"

Gilbert spluttered and twisted to see who was behind him; his hand reaching into his robes for a pistol. It was well and fine to believe in Heaven but he was in no rush to visit and he did not believe in the kindness of men. His bible would do little to help him if someone decided to tiptoe behind and stab him in the back. His interesting childhood had left him a touch paranoid.

He was a terrible priest.

Gilbert shifted his gaze back and forth but there was no one to be found. It was possible that he had imagined it; he had been isolated, more or less, for over two months.

"Hello? Hellooo?"

No, there it was again; a little soft but insistent. He swept his eyes left and right before glancing up to see an angel.

"Ummm… Hi?" He wished he could have managed to be more eloquent.

The angel was near invisible but too beautiful for a poet to describe or an artist to paint. He seemed to flicker in and out of sight.

"You can hear me?"

"Yes." It would have been wise to be afraid but some part of his mind had disengaged from the fact that this situation was quite outside the mortal realm of possibilities; he was floating, first of all, and Gilbert could see through him to the trees behind the gravestone. He should be struggling with a sense of alarm but he felt a bit numb instead.

"And see me?"

"Ummm... Yes? Yes, I can… Are… Are you an angel?" It seemed odd to ask; should a priest not recognize an angel on sight? Should he not be granted some sort of divine insight?

He cocked his head to the side with a light frown and a confused, vacant stare before his eyes widened in understanding and he burst into laughter.

"You... You think...?" He was floating off to the left as he gasped and clutched his sides. The bible had taught Gilbert that angels were serious warriors with intertwined destinies and a sense of purpose.

This one was not.

"Oh, oh dear," he was wiping at the tears on his cheeks with the open palms of his hands, "I cannot believe you would..." He trailed off into another bout of hiccupping laughter. Gilbert crossed his arms over his chest. Patience was a virtue, but it was not his strongest suit, and what little he possessed had run out eighteen gravestones ago.

He floated back over to Gilbert with the last echoes of his laughter and a subtle shake of the head.

"No, I am not an angel; I'm a ghost."

"A ghost?" Gilbert paused in disbelief.

"Yes, sir."

"I do not believe in ghosts," Gilbert squinted at the 'ghost' and he did indeed match the description; pale, transparent, and not quite there. He wondered if believing in ghosts was so different from believing in angels. He had seen his share of strange in this lifetime; he was an amoral, unethical, unorthodox priest with a pistol. Who was he preach?

Oh, right... He was the preacher.

"That is alright," the ghost twirled in languid circles with his arms stretched up and cradling the back of his head in casual gesture, "I am not so sure I believe in priests."

Gilbert snorted and the sound made the ghost, if that was what he was, smile. Gilbert found himself returning the smile despite his best intentions to frown.

It was nice to have someone to talk to in this town.

The ghost was washed in shades of pearl and smoke and his form seemed to flicker like soft candlelight; waxing to almost there before waning to almost gone. His hair was a mass of curls that were in need of trimming; the fringe of his hair fluttered where it tangled in his eyelashes. His eyes were silver with the lightest blush of lavender.

His clothes were simple in white chemise and britches and bare feet.

Gilbert bent low to retrieve the tin bucket at his feet but never let his gaze wander from the ghost. He was appraising him in much the same fashion and Gilbert wondered what he thought of him. He was almost as pale as the ghost with fine, loose hair to match. His black robes were startling against his skin tone. The one bit of colour between the two of them was the bright red of his irises.

Gilbert straightened and brought the bucket with him. He studied the ghost and tried to decide whether or not he was dangerous as he passed the bucket from one hand to the other in what could be mistaken for a nervous gesture.

He did not seem dangerous, but then again, the bible taught that a demon could be unassuming and charismatic. As a priest, he was required to take in all lost souls, and there was no clause excluding ghosts but... If he was a demon, Gilbert would be required to perform an exorcism.

In either case, he needed the 'ghost' to come with him. If he was a ghost as he claimed, he should be able to enter the church without issue. At least, Gilbert thought so; this particular issue had never come up during his apprenticeship.

If he was a demon, he would be banished the moment he crossed onto consecrated ground. Gilbert was not sure if the plots themselves were blessed but he knew that the church was.

"Come with me, then." Gilbert turned towards the church and expected him to follow.

He did not.

"Come along, ghost," he said it with a little more force and waited. The ghost was watching him with an unreadable expression. Gilbert was used to the trust and respect a priest demanded and was granted. He was not used to being ignored but, then again, he was also not used to dealing with ghosts. "Come on."

The ghost frowned, and that was an expression that Gilbert recognized.

"Matthew," he said.

"What?"

"My name is Matthew, not 'Ghost'."

Gilbert felt the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Alright, Matthew. Come with me... Please." He added the 'please' as an afterthought and was quite proud of himself.

Matthew floated towards him with a suspicious air but he still followed Gilbert up the slope to the church.

He crossed the threshold without a problem, and all of a sudden, Gilbert did not feel quite so alone.

April

"What is that?" Matthew pointed to the rows of candles that Gilbert was lighting with matches and soft prayers. Matches had another name that was accurate and a bit unnerving in the House of God; 'Lucifers'. He chose not to dwell on the matter.

"Vigil Lights."

"Which are…?"

"The candles are lit with prayers for those who are suffering and for lost souls." Gilbert blew out the match and attempted to ignore the ghost as he floated overhead. "For lost souls like you."

Matthew had been, well, haunting the church for the past three weeks and Gilbert was beginning to wish that he had left him outside with his forsaken headstone. He was curious and meddlesome and distracting during services.

He was irritating for all of the same reasons that he was wonderful.

Matthew passed his ethereal hand through the flame of one of the candles as if he was wondering if it would burn and ache. It did not seem to.

"What makes you think that I am a lost soul?"

"There is the fact that you continue to follow me around, for one."

Gilbert finished with the candles and reached beneath the pulpit to pluck a diminutive flask of unmarked alcohol from one of the shelves, next to the bible. Matthew floated around him with a frown like the lost soul he was.

"Is that alcohol?"

"No."

"Thou shalt not tell a lie."

"I 'shalt' do whatever I please… and the ninth commandment is 'thou shalt not bear false witness'. There is a difference."

"You almost sounded like a priest for a second there."

"I am a priest."

"Which I still do not understand… You, sir, are the most blasé and nonchalant priest I have ever met and I have seen more than a handful pass through this church. None of them could see me but I could see them. Most of them were uptight, cantankerous old men with no sense of humour."

"You do not have to uptight to have faith."

Gilbert took a sip from the flask and made a face before tucking it back and grabbing a thistle broom. He swept the worn stones but he was just settling the dust in the cracks between. Matthew floated out of his path, although he was intangible, and sat in mid air with his legs crossed. He watched Gilbert for a moment.

"Why are you here?" He sounded confused and a bit wistful. "At this church, I mean. Why are you here?"

Gilbert glanced up from his sweeping at him and cocked an eyebrow.

"Why are you here?"

Matthew laughed and the sadness in his gaze softened somewhat.

"You do not need to be alive to have faith."

May

Gilbert meandered into the simple bedroom he slept in. There was a low cot against one wall with faded maroon bedsheets and a small desk against the other. The two were almost touching. There was a single dust covered window high in the corner that Gilbert kept meaning to dust but never did; the coating kept the sunlight at dawn a little more subdued and manageable.

The few trinkets and memories he had from his old life were tucked beneath his bed in an unremarkable canister. There was a portrait of his brother drawn in quick, short strokes of ink and a couple of buttons and acorns from his friends of juvenile cutpurses and pickpockets. There was a garnet set in silver knotwork and the dried petals and centres from an edelweiss flower. There was a crude iron cross with two distinct dents.

His memories of a lifetime before priesthood.

Gilbert held open the door for Matthew, due in part to polite habit and forgetfulness, but Matthew nodded in appreciation of the gesture and his smile warmed Gilbert to his toes despite his fatigue.

It had almost been three months since Gilbert had met Matthew. The ghost spent most of his time following Gilbert in companionable silence or strange, halting conversations. He seemed to be as intrigued by Gilbert as Gilbert was of him and just as pleased to assuage the loneliness.

When he was not following Gilbert around the church, he was standing at his headstone with wraithlike stillness. He seemed regretful.

Gilbert would always fetch him before he could become too depressed.

The two of them spent most of their time together now and Gilbert was grateful. He felt a little less alone in the world.

Gilbert unbuttoned his cassock with one hand and swept his robes to the side.

"What is that?"

"Hmmm?"

"That." He pointed at the pistol in the holster hanging from his hip. It was seldom seen when his robes were buttoned and Gilbert had managed to keep Matthew from it so far. He did not want him to think less of him but seeking approval from the dead was a strange concept. Their concerns were quite different.

"That's a Colt SAA. 1873."

"That means nothing to me."

It occurred to Gilbert that Matthew might have died when the barrels were still long and cumbersome, or even before such weapons were invented, and thus it might be unrecognizable.

"It's a projectile weapon. Small, contained explosions launch bits of lead at the target and tear or puncture... Whatever it is you are shooting at."

His eyes widened.

"No."

"Yes."

Matthew floated towards the pistol as Gilbert laid it upon his cot. He seemed to want to touch the weapon but it was impossible.

"... Does it hurt?"

"Very much." Gilbert had three scars of his own and each one hummed with phantom pain at the question.

"Why do you have one?"

"Protection. Paranoia. Pragmatism."

Matthew tore his gaze from the pistol to stare at Gilbert. He scrutinized him.

"Is that allowed?"

"Is what allowed?"

"Is a priest allowed to cart such... destruction around in his pocket?"

"Holster. It's dangerous to keep a pistol in your pocket, and yes, it's generally frowned upon."

"Then why?"

"Because there are monsters in this world beside the Devil and the bible cannot protect you from everything." Gilbert allowed his robes to slip from his shoulders. He pointed to a jagged scar below his collarbone. "This is from a drunken man on Fifth Street with a knife and not much else to his name. I was eleven years old."

Matthew floated to the left to see it a bit better.

"This," he pointed to a brand mark in the shape of an Ouroboros over his heart, "is from initiation. I was twelve."

Matthew came forward and laid his hand over the scar. He was not touching him, he could not, but Gilbert still felt a tingling sensation where their flesh should have met. Matthew laid his hand over the wound but his gaze was focused on Gilbert.

Gilbert swallowed.

"This," his voice was a little softer as he continued. He pressed his fingers over a braided line of scar tissue stretching across his stomach. "This is from someone I thought I could trust."

Matthew removed his hand from the scar on his chest and fluttered down his stomach to cover his fingers with own. The tingling tickled across his stomach. He was still searching his eyes and Gilbert was embarrassed but he could not look away from him.

"There are monsters but..." Matthew floated even closer until their noses were almost 'touching'. "I am not so afraid when I am with you."

Gilbert had nothing else to add. He felt the same.

June

Gilbert was waiting for the first trickles of his congregation to arrive. He would greet the town that did not trust him before preaching and expecting them to listen to his sermon. Small towns were not used to strangers and had even less experience with albinos. The cities were rich and diverse; the towns seldom were.

No one knew what to do with him but no one had tried to run him out of town. That was more than he had prayed for upon arrival.

He was leaning against the railing on the front steps with the bible cradled in his sweating hands as he reviewed the passages he had chosen for this morning. He had never been gifted at public speaking and standing in front of a crowd still terrified him. It was worse that the Mass was in Latin.

He wondered yet again why he was a priest.

"Are you practicing?"

"Yes. Be quiet."

"You were practicing last night and the night before last."

"And now I am practicing again." Gilbert glanced up at the ghost who was floating a couple of feet over his head. Matthew shrugged.

"You already know it," he sighed, "and you know that you know it. You do this every week. Calm down."

"You calm down."

"I am calm. I am dead; I cannot get much calmer than that."

Gilbert smiled. It was nice that Matthew could be so candid about his… situation. It kept their odd arrangement from becoming awkward.

"You're right, of course."

"Of course I am."

Gilbert snatched a bookmark from his pocket and tucked it between the pages. It was a piece of fabric with cross stitched border and quote.

"What does it say?" Matthew asked as he looked over his shoulder at the bookmark before Gilbert could close the bible. Gilbert sighed and held it out for him to read.

Matthew stared at the bookmark and then back to Gilbert before glancing away again. He knotted his fingers together in a gesture that Gilbert had come to realize in the past months meant he was uncomfortable or ashamed. He might have been calm now but Gilbert thought that he must have been a nervous wreck when he was still alive.

Matthew mumbled and Gilbert was unable to catch it.

"What? I mean, excuse me?" Matthew seemed to appreciate it when Gilbert was polite so he tried to be as often as possible. It was strange that priesthood could not tame his coarse language, not completely, but a ghost was well on the path to succeeding.

"I said," he spoke a little bit louder but not much, "that I do not know how to read."

"Wha… Pardon?"

Matthew refused to meet his eyes and Gilbert fought the urge to laugh; to be illiterate was nothing to be ashamed of. He had not been able to read more than his name and a shop window or two before he was sixteen.

"I cannot read it."

"Would… Would you like me to read it to you?" He was worried that the offer might be insulting but his worries disappeared when Matthew lit up and huddled closer to Gilbert and the bookmark.

Gilbert pointed to the phrase and sounded it out. Matthew wrapped his tongue around the words and followed along with him.

"If. God. Can. Work. Through. Me." He said each word in clear, concise tones. "He. Can. Work. Through. Anyone."

"If God can work through me, he can work through anyone," Matthew repeated. "What does that mean?"

"The quote is "I have been all things unholy. If God can work through me, he can work through anyone." It means that faith is for everyone and that anyone can change. Saint Francis of Assisi. A friend of mine made this for me when I left to become a priest. To be honest, I wanted to strangle her at the time but... It means a lot to me now."

"Strangling her might have made it difficult to join the church. What was her name?"

"Elizabeta. I lost contact with her not long after I left. She was one of the few girls amongst the pickpockets and one of the fewer still who did not begrudge my decision."

"Do you miss her?"

"I always will."

Matthew was quiet for a moment as he turned to watch the first of the townspeople approach the church in their best clothes.

"Would you teach me?" Matthew was avoiding eye contact again and his fingers were knotted together. "If it is not too much trouble, would you teach me to read?"

Gilbert placed the bookmark back in the bible and closed it. He was also watching the parishioners in the distance.

He wondered if there were moral ramifications in teaching the dead to read. He wondered if he cared.

He thought of the quote and Elizabeta and the fact that no one had taught him to read until he had worked up the courage to forgo his pride and ask.

"Yes. I would love to."

July

Gilbert was sitting on the back steps of the church with his eyes closed and listening to the wind whistle through the trees and rustle the wind chimes. He wondered which priest before him had left the chimes behind. He was thankful for them.

The hem of his robes was pushed up to expose his bare feet. He had abandoned his boots in the grass.

He was leaning back with the barest hint of a smile.

"You seem… content."

Gilbert peeked through one eye to see Matthew above him.

"I am."

Matthew floated downwards, next to him, and appeared to sit although he could never touch the steps. He was sitting on thin air but the illusion was there and that was enough.

"Why?"

"The wind." He opened both eyes and settled his sight on the trees. "The wind followed me from the cities and it will follow me wherever I go. It's comforting. As a priest, I have the time to be introspective."

He laughed. He had never had the time for such thoughts when he was preoccupied with where the next meal would come from or whether someone was creeping up behind him in the darkness of the squalid back lanes. The differences between lifestyles still astonished and amused him. He had an abusive sense of humour.

Matthew was quiet for a moment.

"I cannot hear the wind," he murmured.

"Wha… Come again?"

"The wind can not follow me where I have gone."

If Matthew had been a member of his congregation, Gilbert could perhaps comfort him with a parable or such, but Matthew was quite beyond his reach in both the literal and figurative sense. He thought about apologizing, for what he did not know, but it seemed redundant.

"What can you hear?" He asked instead.

Matthew cupped his hand around his ear and closed his eyes to listen.

"I can hear… the insistent whisper of my gravestone calling me back. I can hear the mourning cries of a mother in the distance. I can hear death." Matthew opened his eyes again. "But… But I can also hear you breathing. Why?"

Gilbert did not have an answer.

"I can hear you breathing." Matthew repeated in awe before his eyes hardened and his mouth twisted into a grimace. He covered his face with his hands and let a choke of laughter escape. "You're still breathing."

His laughter was a little too loud and a little too harsh. It was a private joke, just for him, and it was breaking his heart.

It seemed that Gilbert was not the only one with an abusive sense of humour.

August

"You look ridiculous."

"That is quite enough out of you," Gilbert muttered.

"You do."

"You're not even wearing shoes," he growled. "Your opinion is forfeit."

"No one can see me."

Gilbert stood at the front of the church with his hands clasped in front of him. His robes were fancier than his regular cassock with some gold threads and red roses stitched on the stole hanging around his neck. It was white and the lack of colour washed him out. He tried to keep his voice low enough as to not bring attention to the fact that he was talking to someone who could not be seen. The pews were packed with the townspeople although it was not the morning of worship.

"It's a wedding. You are expected to wear your best clothes."

"He is well dressed." Matthew pointed to a gentleman in the third pew wearing a soft charcoal vest with shining silver buttons and a silk cravat. "You just seem to be wearing a dress."

Gilbert coughed.

"'Thou shalt not kill.' Please notice that there is no mention of maiming."

"Dead, remember?"

The bride and groom came through doors holding hands and the gathering stood in respect. This was a small town; there were no grand ceremonies here. There was no precedent for such. The bride was wearing a simple dress of white lace that brushed past her knees and soft ballet shoes of the same lace; the outfit would be useless in the fields but she was glowing in pride. Her mother and grandmother had been tatting the lace for weeks. Her hair was wound with violets and she clutched more still between her delicate fingers.

"He is spectacular," Matthew sighed.

'He?'

Gilbert glanced at Matthew and followed his line of sight to the groom. He was wearing a soft wool vest and coat in dark blue. His trousers were a fine knit and his shoes had been oiled and waxed until gleaming. He was wearing a silk top hat purchased for the occasion over his slicked golden hair. He was beaming and his cerulean eyes were sparkling with pleasure.

He was attractive.

Gilbert glanced back to Matthew and put two and two together.

Interesting.

He was well aware of the stance his religion had assumed on such matters but he knew that life was not so black and white and death was even more ambiguous. Matthew was still staring at the man with that wraithlike stillness that meant his mind was elsewhere and focused on a life that Gilbert could not see.

Gilbert pressed his hand over his heart and the scar in absentminded thought.

He was not so innocent himself. There were some sins that could not be forgotten and some that he did not wish to forget. He could still smell the mountain flowers when he let his mind wander. He could still feel those soft fingers on his chest and lose himself in those dark eyes.

Gilbert shook the thoughts from his head. He was not so innocent.

The couple approached him and Gilbert could not help but return their smiles. The sincerities of idealistic youth were infectious.

He covered their joined hands in his own and peeked at Matthew. Matthew was watching at him now and not the groom but the strange, distant stare was the same.

Gilbert winked at him before returning his attention to the couple.

His lips were sealed.

September

Gilbert struggled with the wooden crate weighted with candles and polish and communion wafers. He hitched it up just to have it slide down again until he was clinging to it with the tips of his fingers. The package had been sent to him by the convent two towns over.

He set it down with a wheeze.

"Fuck this." He sheepishly glanced at a statue of the Virgin Mother and her Son. "Oh, I mean, 'forget' this. Forget this. Sorry."

Matthew floated down from the rafters were he had been perched watching Gilbert struggle.

"You need to stop doing that."

"Swearing?"

"No, no, not that. You need to stop apologizing to someone who is not there."

"I am a priest. It's a requirement. Guilt is a powerful emotion."

"Guilt is useless. It does not change the past," Matthew growled.

"You're not in a great mood," he noticed.

"No."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. I do not remember much from when I was alive. It's nagging at me. This date is important and I do not remember the reason. I hate that."

Gilbert frowned.

"I'm sorry."

"Do not apologize to someone that is not there." His tone was sharp and cruel as his voice grew louder.

"You're right in front of me."

"I am not even here. I am not sure I ever was."

"Is this some sort of existential crisis?" Gilbert was not quite shouting but it was close.

"That's exactly what this is! I am not here, I am not there! Do you know what it is like to exist in two places at once and not be a part of either one?"

"No!"

Matthew stumbled. He had probably not expected Gilbert to be so honest.

"What?"

"No, I have no idea, at all." His voice softened. "Explain it to me."

Matthew began floating back and forth and he would have been pacing if he were still alive. Gilbert leaned against the crate and waited. He realized that he was much more patient now than he had been several months ago.

Matthew was changing him for the better and he had the impudence to believe he did not exist. Gilbert clenched his hands and felt his fingernails bite into the wooden crate.

It was infuriating.

"It is like watching a performance." Matthew stopped his 'pacing' and twirled to glare at Gilbert. "You can see it but you cannot touch it and you cannot participate. You can only watch. Can you imagine what that feels like?"

Gilbert thought about his life on the streets and watching families through the frosted glass of their windows and wishing to be inside with them instead of out in the cold.

"Yes…"

"Can. You. Imagine what it feels like to lose your sense of touch?" Matthew was brimming with a quiet rage that had been building for perhaps decades. He floated over to Gilbert and thrust his hand through his chest.

Gilbert gasped like a drowning man. It felt as if his breath had been stolen.

Matthew had never done that before. It was invasive and unlike him. The two of them had more or less ignored his otherworldliness out of respect for their differences and pretended that this was a friendship between mortal men. Gilbert had ignored the uncomfortable questions of whom or what Matthew was.

Gilbert was unable to ignore this. Matthew was dead. Matthew was a ghost.

And the two of them would never be the same.

The hand through his chest was not painful but it was uncomfortable. He could not describe it.

Matthew was too close in all senses. His eyes were more silver than lavender and harsh. Gilbert glared back and wondered when the conversation had spun so out of control.

He was a ghost.

"I cannot feel it. I cannot feel it. I cannot feel it." Matthew was repeating it over and over again with rising manic alarm. He seemed near tears, if the dead could weep, and Gilbert felt his own anger break like waves upon the shore.

Matthew needed him. This was not his fault; he was a victim of circumstance and he needed his kindness. Gilbert did not have much but he could grant him that.

He was a ghost and Gilbert did not care. He was his friend first and foremost.

"Matthew," his voice was soft. "What are you so afraid of?"

"Living," he choked. "Not living at all. Death. Both. Neither. I do not know!"

Matthew slipped his hand out from his chest and Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief. Matthew floated backwards and turned so that Gilbert could not see his face. He was fading in and out of sight faster than usual, like a frantic heartbeat, and it worried him.

Gilbert sank to the ground and rested his head against the wooden crate as he remembered how to breathe. This morning had started off so normal, or as normal as his life ever was. What had happened?

It was quiet for a long time before Matthew broke the silence. He still did not turn around.

"I'm sorry…"

Gilbert snorted.

"I thought guilt could not change the past?"

"It can not but… Perhaps it can affect the future."

"How so?"

Matthew did turn to look at him now. His fingers were knotted up together and that nervous restlessness reminded Gilbert that it was almost time for his next reading lesson. He put aside an hour, four times a week, to teach Matthew and he adored every minute of it. Matthew was forever nervous that he might make a mistake but he would light up when he managed to sound out a sentence on his own. It was endearing.

"Maybe, just maybe… You'll be able to forgive me?"

Gilbert snorted again; he could be so heart warming in his ridiculousness. He crooked his finger and motioned Matthew closer to him. Matthew came forward to 'sit' next to him with his legs drawn up against his chest.

"I already have."

"Why?" He sounded small and unsure. He sounded as if he was expecting to be hit or for someone to scream at him. Gilbert let their hands 'touch' as if he could grant him some small comfort. It tingled.

"Why, indeed," Gilbert sighed.

October

Matthew set his gaze to the lights dancing over the town on the horizon. The sun had long since set but the town was sleepless and vivacious. The echoing laughter washed over the church.

"It is late. Why is no one sleeping?"

Gilbert was sitting on the front steps, leaning forward on his knees, with his pistol clutched between loose fingers and pointed at the ground.

"It's a festival."

"Is it?"

"Yes, it's a feast and celebration of harvest, changing seasons, and the dead."

"It seems strange that, as someone who is dead, I was not invited."

Gilbert burst into laughter and Matthew gifted him with a smile. He was floating a couple of feet in the air with his legs crossed and winding a piece of his hair around his finger.

"The invitation must have been lost in the post."

"Of course." He returned his attention to the pistol. "Is there a specific reason we are sitting on the steps with a weapon?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"I hope so…"

There was chanting lost on the wind and the orange stain of a bonfire in the distance. The temperature was beginning to fall and soon no one would want to frolic outdoors.

"Sometimes the celebrations become a little too boisterous."

"Oh?"

"Someone will come to piss on the graves or make love on top of them."

Matthew grimaced and glanced back at his own headstone.

"I would prefer neither." He sounded disturbed by the thought.

Gilbert laughed again.

"That is the reason I am out here. I love the festivities but I do not trust the children. I remember stealing from the church on All Hallows Eve when everyone else was distracted."

"You are a terrible priest."

"I know."

"'All Hallows Eve'… That sounds familiar…"

"It might. It's an old, old, old ritual that encompasses numerous religions and spiritualistic faiths. No one can agree where it came from. You might have celebrated it when you were… still alive."

Gilbert and Matthew had been attempting to be more honest concerning his death and the fact that he was different since the outburst six weeks ago. Matthew was endeavouring to be more open and Gilbert was challenging himself to become better at listening.

In exchange, Matthew had demanded that Gilbert share more stories from his past and he realized how difficult it was. He had swallowed his pride and apologized for provoking him. Matthew had apologized for antagonizing him. Gilbert had apologized for pushing the matter. Matthew had apologized for his 'knavish' behaviour, whatever that meant.

There had been a lot of apologies between them. It could not change their past mistakes but it might change the future.

"Maybe," Matthew was quiet. He still struggled with not remembering much from before his death. He had compared it to catching butterflies whilst blindfolded; you might feel the dusting of their wings against your cheek but the chances of you catching one were few and far between. If he did remember, it was a simple glimpse and not much more. Meanwhile, Gilbert had been brimming with memories and parading them in front of him with such crassness that he was ashamed.

Matthew changed the subject.

"Are you planning to shoot them, then?"

"Just a little bit."

"I thought the bible was quite particular on these matters?"

"On murder, yes, but there is much less written concerning kneecaps…"

"You frighten me sometimes."

Gilbert covered his face with the palm of his hand.

"The ghost is afraid of me. Great."

Matthew giggled and twirled in circles, dancing, and Gilbert watched him. He was wonderful.

Tomorrow would be All Saints' Day and then it would be All Souls' Day. He would need to cleanse himself of such thoughts beforehand. Gilbert wondered how much repentance would be required to counteract this one moment of longing, except that he knew it was more than one moment, or even two.

He wondered if it was considered a sin of the flesh or a sin of the spirit.

Gilbert had spent the first half of his life sure of himself and the second half sure of a higher power. Since meeting Matthew, he was not sure of either.

He wanted him and he could never have him.

November

Gilbert lay sprawled on the grass with his hands behind his head and attempted to focus on the stars above him instead of the ghost beside him. It was not as effective as he might have wished.

It was becoming more difficult to discount his emotions with each passing week. He spent much more time repenting than usual and Matthew had begun to notice.

"What are you looking at?"

"The stars."

"Is that what you call them?"

Gilbert turned over onto his side and cocked an eyebrow. Matthew was almost touching the ground but not quite. He was looking at the moon instead of at Gilbert.

"What do you call them?

"I'm not sure. I said that I do not remember much from when I was alive; I meant it. I do not remember what I used to call them."

Gilbert nodded his head. There had been more and more conversations between them on this topic over the past two months.

"What do you call them now that you are dead?"

Matthew thought about it.

"Beautiful."

He was not quite glowing in the darkness and the beautiful stars were only there to compliment him. It was almost poetic.

"What do you remember, then?"

"Hmmm?" Matthew was still watching the moon above them.

"What do you remember from when you were alive? Not the doubts or questions or suspicions. What do you see when you close your eyes?"

"Not much, truth be told."

"Close your eyes." Gilbert was firm. "Tell me what you see."

He did.

"I remember a stream… and a girl with caramel skin and a patterned dress. I remember… My reflection, except it is not my reflection; I think it is my brother. I remember a tree with red leaves," Matthew shrugged and opened his eyes again to stare at Gilbert. "I do not remember much but perhaps I remember what is most important."

Gilbert met his gaze.

"Is it hard?"

"You know that it is."

The wind ruffled his hair. He propped himself up and threaded his fingers together so that he had a legitimate reason to distract himself.

"I had a rough childhood," Gilbert focused on the calluses on the edges on his palms. "It was my brother and I against the world, at least in the beginning. A childhood spent on the edges of good grace can leave someone cynical."

"You? Cynical?"

Gilbert could hear the sarcasm painting his wry words. He ignored it.

"It was a hard life," he continued, "and I made some decisions I am not proud of… After a near death experience, or five, I could no longer ignore that white light I saw each time. I decided to change."

Matthew shifted his eyes back to the moon but he was not seeing it. He was seeing some other place or time that Gilbert could not. When he did speak he sounded wistful, tinged with something darker.

"There was no white light when I died."

"Wha… Excuse me?"

"I remember that much. There was no white light. There was the darkness and the cold and then there was this," Matthew gestured to himself and his transparent nature.

Gilbert just stared at him. He knew what he had seen, he was positive that he had seen a white light, but here Matthew was telling him quite the opposite. How could Matthew claim to have faith in a higher power if he himself had been forsaken? What could Matthew have done in his life to be forsaken in his death? He was such a sweet soul.

Matthew was forever causing him to question his faith.

"It is alright. I do not mind." Matthew 'touched' his knee with his hand and Gilbert found he was almost becoming used to the tingling sensation.

"How could you not? How can you believe in a god that would abandon you?" Gilbert bowed his head. He was ashamed of his religion for the first time in his life.

Matthew shifted his hand from his knee to his cheek and Gilbert glanced up. His eyes were as soft as the first time Gilbert had asked him why he was here.

"Why are you here?"

"You do not need to be alive to have faith."

"I do not think that He has abandoned me. Never. I think that He left me here for a reason." Matthew sighed with a smile as if he had thought this through a thousand times before. Perhaps he had. "I think that reason might have been you."

"Me?"

"I think that He left me here to meet you." Matthew trailed his hand back down to Gilbert's as if he could hold his hand. He looked back to the moon. "That makes it all worth it."

Gilbert returned his smile, although his was a bit shaken, and followed his gaze. The moon seemed brighter all of a sudden.

The stars seemed brighter.

And Matthew seemed the brightest of all.

December

The inside of the church was covered in garlands and candles on the ledges, tucked in the corners, and around the foot of the pulpit. The wax was running onto the stones and he did not care. The incense wafting through the air was thick with scents of frankincense and myrrh and his Altar Boy, who was only ten years old and easily distracted, was wandering around instead of preparing the altar.

Gilbert wished that he could treat his parishioners to the ceremonies and choirs of the cathedrals but he was pleased to see their faces light up despite the late hour. Their exhaustion was masked by their happiness as the townspeople laughed and exchanged greetings. There were pats on the back and kisses on the cheeks. It was Midnight Mass.

Wives were straightening their husbands' ties while children were chasing each other between the legs of their parents. There an older brother holding the hand of his younger brother and pointing to the stained glass windows as if telling stories. A woman was sitting with dried tears on her cheeks but she was still smiling as she watched the festivities.

It was the most cheerful the church had ever been.

It was a couple of minutes to midnight.

It was almost Christmas.

Gilbert was wearing a similar cassock to the one he had worn to the wedding but Matthew had not teased him at all. He was just as delighted by the overabundance of candles as the townspeople.

One of the men came to shake his hand at the front of the church and thank him for his effort, followed by another, and another. One just came up and stared at him from too close. He did not say a word but he did tip his hat in recognition.

A little girl tugged on the hem of his cassock and handed him a folded paper flower.

"Mama says that no one has ever stayed this long," she said. Her cheeks were flushed with the pleasure of being up past bedtime. "Mama says that you are the first one. She says that she likes you."

Her mother ushered the child back towards the pews with a cluck of her tongue but nodded her head with a smile.

It was a Christmas Miracle.

The couple he had married in the summer came up to him to showcase the slightest swell of her stomach. There would be a new addition to the town to baptise soon and she wanted him to do it.

Gilbert knew that his smile was a bit lopsided and not at all suiting the demeanour of a priest. He did not care.

He felt welcome in this town for the first time.

Matthew floated down next to him to sigh in his ear. His smile was smaller and a little more reserved and fragile but sincere nonetheless.

"You deserve this."

Gilbert turned to look at him as everyone settled back into their seats. It was almost midnight. It was almost time to begin.

"Happy Christmas," and he meant it; between the acceptance of the townspeople and having met Matthew, this was the best Christmas he could remember.

"God bless," he whispered and his voice was soft and sweet. Matthew leaned forward and 'kissed' his cheek. It tingled and Gilbert was glad that none of the townspeople could see the reason for his sudden blush.

Matthew could choose the most inopportune moments to embarrass him but he did not care.

It was time to begin.

January

Matthew was dancing between the pews in the church with closed eyes and his hands held as if he were dancing with some invisible partner. Gilbert had noticed that the happier Matthew was, the more he would dance.

He had been dancing more and more often as of late.

And Gilbert found himself watching more and more often.

The church was washed in darkness and cold except for a couple of candles to keep Gilbert from tripping but it was not as cold as it was outside. He was leaning against the pulpit as Matthew twirled and humming under his breath although he did not know what song Matthew was dancing to. He thought it might be a ballad.

Matthew paused; opening his eyes and lowering his arms. He cocked his head to the side and stared at Gilbert with that unreadable expression.

There was a scattering of books on the stones at the base of the pulpit and across the floor from their earlier reading lesson.

"Come dance with me."

"Excuse me?"

"Come dance with me," he repeated. "You never dance."

"No."

"Why?"

"Just no."

Matthew floated over to him and 'sat' on the pulpit. Gilbert stepped back out of his reach.

"Humour me."

"I do not dance."

"You do not dance or you do not know how to dance?"

Gilbert could not meet his gaze. He was more intense than usual tonight; he was much more assertive than his quiet character should allow. It was unnerving.

"I do not know how," he pressed the words out through clenched teeth. Matthew tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear with a smile.

"I can teach you."

"No."

"In exchange for the reading lessons."

"… No."

"Please?"

"… Fine."

"Are you sure? I do not want to force it if you are uncomfortable." His words were serious but his lilting tone had a teasing edge to it. It was a challenge.

And he could never back down from a challenge. Gilbert reached beneath the pulpit to the flask of alcohol and drank all of it. He tossed it to the ground.

"I'm sure."

Matthew chuckled and came down from his perch. He held his hands out and waited for Gilbert to come to him.

Of all the nerve.

He stepped forward and glared at the waiting hands.

"… What do I do?"

"Turn around. Place your right hand in mine and your left hand on your hip."

He frowned but he did as he was told. His right hand tingled where their hands should have touched. Matthew rested his left hand on top of the one on his hip.

"We will move forward two steps," he whispered and Gilbert shivered. His skin was tingling from his ears to his toes and everywhere in between. He was too close; if he had been tangible, his chest would have been touching his back and his breath would have been on his neck. "The third step will be to the right."

Gilbert did it with a growl and Matthew burst into laughter. The sound broke the tension and relaxed Gilbert, or perhaps that was the alcohol hitting his bloodstream. In either case, he found himself smiling.

"Now what?"

"Two steps back and one to the left."

He followed his instructions because he could not follow his lead and trusted Matthew to let him know if he misstep.

The two of them repeated the steps a couple of times until Gilbert was comfortable and then Matthew taught him some more complicated ones. It was some sort of folk dance that Gilbert did not recognize and Matthew could not remember the name of. Both of them were laughing as Gilbert stumbled across the church.

Matthew pointed out how strange this would look from outside the windows and Gilbert laughed even harder.

The pattern collapsed until he was just shifting across the stones with a rustle of fabric and the scrape of his boots. Matthew made no sound at all.

"This is nice," Matthew said. Gilbert had no idea how long he had been dancing. The room was spinning or perhaps that was just him. He had lost his bearings some time ago.

"Mmmm."

Each of them was dancing to music that the other could not hear but their steps were somehow as one. Gilbert was freezing. There was one last flickering candle burning and he was still shivering where Matthew should have been touching him.

"I love you," Matthew sighed.

It was so sudden that he thought he must have misheard.

"What?"

"I love you."

Gilbert stopped dancing. Matthew floated around so that he was in front of him. Gilbert opened his mouth and closed it.

"I…"

"I love you."

"You… No."

"I do."

"No."

"I do not remember much, Gilbert, but I remember what love is. I love you. I have for awhile."

Gilbert sat down on the pews as his knees started to buckle. Some part of him had wanted this and the rest of him had been dreading it. It was too great of a temptation.

He was not so simple as to not realize that the lines of their friendship had been blurring for months but this… This would have been complicated enough if both of them were mortals.

It was even worse when Matthew was a ghost.

"I'm a fucking priest, Matthew." He covered his face with hand and, for once, did not ask forgiveness for his swearing.

"I did not say that I wanted anything from you."

"Then why did you tell me?"

"I hate secrets," he shrugged his shoulders but he was sounding unsure now, "and I hate keeping them from you. We promised to be more honest. We promised."

"Matthew…"

"I just wanted you to know."

Gilbert massaged his temples. How could it be that this was both a dream come true and his worst nightmare at once?

"You should have just kept this to yourself."

"I just wanted you to know…" He repeated.

"What difference does it make? You're not even here." Matthew flinched and Gilbert regretted it as soon as he said it; he had assured him that he was, but he continued spitting out lies. He could not trust himself around such temptation and he knew it. He had to extinguish what hope he had left. He had to. It was self preservation. "I cannot touch you. I cannot kiss you."

"But…"

"And I cannot love you."

Matthew went still in the true fashion of the dead; he did not shift or blink or even shimmer. No mortal could have done that. His eyes were wide and staring.

"I do not want…"

"I cannot love you, Matthew."

"I never asked you to love me!"

"I. Cannot. Love. You." Gilbert leapt up in a swirl of cassock and snarled each word that burnt as it left his lips. The alcohol in his stomach was churning and his fingers were still tingling where their hands had been not quite touching. "Go away."

"You brought me here!"

"Leave."

Matthew floated up towards the rafters with eyes narrowed in anger but his arms were crossed over his chest as if that feeble barrier could protect him. He was fragile and upset about it.

"I never…"

"Leave!"

There was a brilliant flash of light and Matthew was gone. The last candle sputtered and flickered out.

Gilbert sat alone in the darkness and realized that he had never felt more alone in the world than he did in this moment.

February

The whitewashed church was covered in a frosting of snowflakes and the grass and stones surrounding it had been painted to match.

Gilbert shook hands and bid his parishioners farewell after the service. His smile was tense but none of them commented on it and he was grateful.

He watched them disappear in the distance, beating a path through the white with a hundred footsteps, before glancing back at the gravestones. The burning of Sodom crossed his mind and he wondered if he would become a pillar of salt. It seemed a fitting punishment for this longing grasping at his heart.

Nothing happened.

He could see Matthew sitting on his headstone and watching him as he had been for the past two weeks. His arms were still crossed over his chest. He had not shouted or cursed or cried after Gilbert had banished him. He had not said a word; he had retreated to his grave without one accusation or pleading proposition.

He had not come back.

Gilbert would have preferred it if he had shouted; the quiet was driving him mad. It was worse than it had been before he met Matthew.

Gilbert lowered his gaze to his hands clenching his cassock in unconscious gesture. He pried them loose with effort. His nails had been worried until raw and bleeding over the last fortnight. He had thought of nothing else besides that declaration of love and his reaction for sleepless night after sleepless night. He had questioned his faith and his morals and the meaning of life. He had questioned the difference between life and death.

He had questioned whether or not he gave a damn.

And then he had apologized for swearing.

The truth of the matter was that he felt the same. He could not as a priest, he should not as a mortal, but he did as a man.

It was the fourteenth. If he could not tell Matthew under the protection of Saint Valentine, then he never could. This might be his last chance. Matthew might be dead but he would not wait for Gilbert forever.

Gilbert wanted to believe that his god could forgive him but, if not, he thought that Matthew might just be worth his immortal soul.

He swallowed his pride and set off towards the gravestones. The snow pressed to his black boots in contrast.

He stopped in front of that lone gravestone that was older than the rest and it was still pristine for its age. The wild flowers had been hidden beneath sparkling snowflakes but Gilbert thought that there might have been a couple more cracks in the stone than that first time. The trees behind the gravestone were bare and quiet as if the sparrows had all come together to watch him make a fool of himself.

He could see them perched in a line along the branches; mocking and huddled against the cold.

Matthew was sitting on the headstone and kicking his feet but his eyes were narrowed in anger and suspicion.

Gilbert still thought he looked like an angel.

"Matthew."

"Gilbert."

"I'm sorry." His breath escaped in a mist that could be seen. It hovered in the air. "I am. I'm so sorry."

"Apologies cannot change the past; I told you that. You cannot take back what you said." When Matthew spoke, there was no breath to be seen and nothing to prove that he was there. Gilbert thought that perhaps he did not need proof.

"What about changing the future?"

"… Maybe."

Gilbert focused on a sparrow in the tree. It cocked its head to the side in that same strange fashion that Matthew would and Gilbert wanted to laugh. It whistled a tweet in encouragement.

"I cannot love you, Matthew, but... I do. I do. I love you, God help me. I do love you."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes. I should have told the truth before. No more secrets... No more lies. I love you."

"Even though I am not here?"

"Even though."

"Even though you cannot touch me?"

"Even though."

This was worse than all of the awkward flirtations Gilbert had ever had added together. It was sickening, quixotic, and idealistic but there was nowhere he would rather be than here with Matthew.

"I cannot be more than I am, Gilbert. I am a ghost. That will never change."

"I do not care. I have been thinking about it since that night, I was thinking about it before that, and I don't care. I love you."

Matthew sighed but there was the slightest hint of a smile gracing his features.

"Can you love me when you are old and I am still the same?"

"Yes."

"Can you?"

"Yes!"

Gilbert came forward until their noses were almost 'touching'. Matthew ran his fingers down his cheek in a tingling sensation.

"Can you love a ghost?"

Gilbert did laugh this time, too loud, and the sparrows slipped from their branches and into the air in a swirl of feathers at the sound. The question was ridiculous.

"Can you love a fool?"

Matthew chuckled.

"I knew you were a fool before I fell in love with you."

Gilbert wanted him. He could not have all of him but what he could have was more than enough. His soul was more than enough.

It was a question of faith and, more than faith in himself or even faith in his god, Gilbert had faith in Matthew.

"Come with me," Gilbert turned back towards the church and prayed that Matthew would follow him. "Please."

"Always."

Gilbert felt his hand tingle and knew that Matthew was holding his hand.

That was more than enough.

"'Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo'." He was smiling for the first time in two weeks.

Matthew burst into laughter as the two of them ascended to the church and it was contagious. Their laughter was echoing throughout the pristine, white dale and Gilbert wondered if the townspeople could hear it. He wondered if the children in the streets could hear it or the wives and their husbands or the pregnant woman dreaming of a new future for her son or daughter. He wondered if his hysterical laughter would lead to scandal in the town or suspicions and rumours.

He did not care.

He was no longer alone in the world.

And that was enough.

Author's Notes:

I suppose the themes for this piece could be loneliness, life after death, memories, acceptance of differences, forgiveness, and, of course, faith. This piece was requested by Mayurei 13, who has drawn several pictures for previous stories of mine as MapleVogel on Tumblr, and always leaves me the most wonderful reviews. This might have been more than either of us had bargained for. It is 12 000 plus words, for one…

I believe that life (or death) is a collection of moments when all is said and done. This is a collection of moments, one per month, but there would have been more between them. This is a glimpse.

You will notice that I never go into their pasts, not with detail, so a lot of it is left up to you to decipher. I did leave clues scattered throughout.

Please feel free to ignore the multitude of notes written beneath, although some of them might answer questions or offer insight. I tried to divide the notes on the basis of month.

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From 'March': Cassock: an ankle length religious garment. It is often black for Roman Catholic priests (there are other accent colours depending on rank within the church, such as bishop or cardinal). There are other colours for specific events or celebrations such as red, white, green, or purple; each with there own meanings.

From 'April': In the first half of the 1800's matches were often referred to as "Lucifers". This was originally the name given by Samuel Jones to his own brand of matches but it spread as slang and was still in use in the 1900's, long after Samuel Jones' matches had been replaced in 1830. "Lucifers" is an apt name because the name Lucifer, to mean "light bearer", is the name of the fallen angel of biblical lore and the most beloved to the Christian God.

From 'May': Colt SAA 1873 or a Colt Single Action Army, Peacemaker, Frontier was first introduced in 1873; a six shooter revolver manufactured in three 'generations' by Colt Manufacturing that became popular the world over, but especially in the Wild West of the United States of America. It was considered to be a very reliable pistol and was favoured by civilians, lawmen, and outlaws. It was later adopted by the U.S. Army for the same reason.

Ouroboros: an ancient symbol of a snake or a dragon eating its own tail. It is considered to represent the perpetual circle of life, death, and rebirth.

From 'June': Latin: before 1966, Mass was conducted in Latin is all countries of the world. The homily (preaching or sermon) would be spoken in the mother tongue of the parishioners.

Saint Francis of Assisi: patron saint of animals, merchants, and the environment. His feast day is the fourth day of the tenth month.

Illiterate versus Literate: for most of history, those of considerable wealth or privilege and religious figures (priests, monks, etcetera) were among the few who could boast an education. These were the portion of the population in high societal positions and the scholars of the time; these were the only ones who needed to be able to read. Most of the population subsisted on spoken word and relied on the priest to read the bible to them.

From 'August': The white cassock signifies joy and purity of the soul. It is often worn for specific feast days and Christmas. A stole hangs around the neck and symbolizes the spiritual powers and dignity of the priest.

From 'September': communion wafers (or the Host) is made by Nuns.

From 'October': Knavish; adjective; dishonest, unprincipled, unscrupulous. Middle English.

All Hallows' Eve: also known as Halloween. The Christian feast is thought to incorporate traditions from pagan harvest festivals and rituals and festivals honouring the dead.

All Saints' Day: celebrated in honour of all Catholic Saints.

All Souls' Day: commemorates the faithful departed.

From 'December': there is more pomp and circumstance in a Midnight Mass than a Mass conducted during the daytime. There are more rituals and ceremonies to be followed.

Altar Boy: a young boy who has completed the sacraments of his first confession and first communion and assists the priest during Mass.

From 'February': Sodom is one half of the twin cities Sodom and Gomorrah which were burnt for their wickedness, sins, and perversions. When God went to smite the cities, Abraham came to him and pleaded for him to save the righteous. Lot, his wife, and his daughters were the four in all of Sodom to be found pure and just. The angels transported them from the destruction and told them to "escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed" (Genesis 19:15-17). The reference to the pillar of salt concerns the wife of Lot who, while escaping the burning city, looked back in longing and was turned into a pillar of salt for her impudence.

Saint Valentine: patron saint of love, youth, and happy marriages. His feast day is the fourteenth day of the second month.

'Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo' translates, more or less, as 'grant me chastity and continence, but not yet' and is supposed to be a prayer uttered by Saint Augustine.

Saint Augustine of Hippo: patron saint of brewers. He used to live a wild hedonistic lifestyle of parties, entertainment, and sexual exploits before his conversion. His conversion came about upon hearing a voice oft repeat "tolle, lege" which translates as "take up and read". His feast day the twenty second day of the eighth month.

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Let me state here that I am not religious. Not at all. In fact, I am not fond of what many religions have become and am ashamed that someone can use religion as an excuse for horrible doctrines and deeds. I do love the parables and stories of religions, all religions, and have been gathering the lore from the various sources for a long time. I tried to write this in such a fashion that religion is important to both of the characters, perhaps for different reasons, but it is not the main focus. It is very important but not as important as their relationship.

Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. You are free to leave an anonymous review; I do not mind. Please let me know what you think of this piece.

P.S. The lyrics for 'I Believe in You' by Kylie Minogue match this piece, if not the tune or tone.