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The church was quiet and still, almost unnaturally so, in the way that places that are normally full of people feel when empty. It made John uncomfortable. He wasn't even sure the church was open to late night visitors. It was possible he was trespassing.
But John needed guidance, and he dare not seek it during the day. If it was wrong to break into a church so be it. He had greater sins to confront.
He quietly moved to the front of the church, sliding into a pew and pulled the stacks of parchment from his greatcoat pocket and began to unfurl and order them.
John stared down at the letter clutched tightly in his hand in contempt as he read his own words over and over. He'd thought putting his thoughts down on paper would purge them from his mind, but instead had only made them stronger. Disgusted, he crumpled up the pages and threw them over his shoulder.
There was a quiet 'oh' of surprise from behind him and the soft sound of paper hitting skin. John spun around lightning quick, an apology already spilling from his lips.
"I'm sorry." John sputtered, scrambling out of the pew. "I didn't realize there was anyone else here." He bent over to grab the papers, but the stranger beat him to it.
John's heart jackhammered in his chest as the man uncrumpled the papers.
"Those are private!" He snapped, reaching out to grab them.
The man smoothly avoided his reach. "Well you clearly were not that concerned a moment ago with where they ended up, seeing as you smacked me in the face with them."
John felt his face flush red with embarrassment and the familiar feeling of shame.
"Yes. I am sorry for that. Still, those are my private thoughts. They were not meant to be read. Please." He asked, hand held out, a slight quiver of desperation in his voice.
"If they were not meant to be read, why are the addressed to someone?" the man asked in return. "My dearest Thomas, I hope this reaches you in good health."
John lunged for the letters again, again missing. "Please, stop. Give them back. What does this matter to you anyhow? We are strangers."
The man ignored him and continued reading aloud. "I find that since leaving your company my thoughts have been preoccupied by you. I miss your company terribly, and wish only to be by your side again. I am almost joyful of our experience in that frigid wasteland, as without it, we may never have met, and certainly never have bonded as we did. Do you remember that night? The one in which we-"
John was finally successful in ripping the papers away, and not a moment too soon. He finished the job more thoroughly this time, ripping them apart in long strips, then again, until all that was left was confetti.
"Those. Are. Private." he gritted out. "How dare you."
There was a long beat of silence. John tried to settle his heartbeat as he took in the stranger properly. He was a man of similar age to himself, light blue eyes that reminded him too much of ice, dusty brown hair cut short, and a prominent nose. His accent was foreign, Italian if he had to guess, but he was no expert. The man held his hands in front of him, a gesture full of apology.
"I am sorry, that was out of line." the man admitted. "But perhaps this will be a lesson not to be so careless with your things, hm? You put yourself in danger, just throwing these away."
John bristled. "Am I in danger now?"
"No, not at all." the man replied gently. "But the man those letters are for, you love him, am I right?"
It wasn't really a question.
John sighed, bracing himself.
"Yes."
The man smiled, but it was sad. "You are ashamed of this."
John looked at him in disbelief."How could I not be? It is a sin."
"You know, the way you write is very beautiful. Poetic." he said, ignoring John. He smiled again, real and joyful. "Reminds me of my Yusuf."
John paused, caught by surprise.
"That is not an English name." He hedged.
The man leaned over, voice lowered in a false whisper. "It is not a woman's name either." He winked. "May I sit?"
John nodded, curiosity warring with caution in his mind.
The man sat, looking around the church. "This is my first time inside one of these churches. I must say, it could use a few more stained glass windows."
This man was full of surprises. "Are you Catholic?"
The man laughed. "You could say that. It is not so easy to describe these days. I have a relationship with God, not any organization of man. I left behind such labels long ago."
John furrowed his brow as he sat next to him. "So you have no religion?"
"Mmm, there are traditions I follow, sometimes. And I pray. That is enough for me."
"You've read the bible then?"
"Yes, many times. Many translations as well."
"Well then you know what it says about…about men such as ourselves." John replied, looking anywhere but at the stranger next to him.
The man chuckled again. "It says a great many things. Almost all of which have been ignored at one time or another. It is a book written by men, translated and interpreted hundreds of ways."
John let those words pour over him and into the cracks of doubt in his mind. It was a thought he had had before, but never allowed himself to examine closely. That perhaps the word of man had distorted God's true meaning.
The man was silent, watching him. Waiting.
Eventually John caved against his steady gaze.
"I have recently returned from an expedition to the Artic and I find myself struggling."
Why was he saying this to a complete stranger in the middle of the night in an empty church? Why did it feel so good to do so?
The man listened, his attention never wavering from John. For some reason John felt compelled to continue, strongly comforted by this man's presence.
"When I was in that place, I saw things no man should see. Things I cannot explain. I thought a place such as that would bring me closer to God, but I'm afraid it only set me adrift. I turned instead to a different kind of comfort, and–" he sucked in a breath.
"And I am ashamed. I felt–I still feel for him. At the time, I thought we were never making it home. There was no point in worrying about decency or the church or society. We were going to die in that place with only each other as comfort. I couldn't begrudge myself that. But now we're here. We did survive. How do I–how can I reconcile such thoughts? How can I return to the way things were?" he choked out, words spilling from him like water from a leaking pitcher.
"Perhaps you shouldn't. You are not the man you were before. No one is, after seeing such things." the man replied.
The stranger paused, clearly debating something. He seemed to come to a decision, and began to speak again. "When I was your age, I was a soldier."
John blinked, surprised. Both at the thought of this unassuming man being a soldier, and at his word choice. He couldn't have more than a few years on John, if any.
'I was sent on a holy mission from God, or so I believed. I killed innocent people in His name. I met Yusuf there on that battlefield. I...tried to strike him down, as he did me. We tried many times to fell the other until I realized it was not God's will I was following, but man's. Why would God send me to kill a man that–" he cut himself off.
"God had led me to this man yes, but not to kill him. I think He sent me to him to open my eyes. To let me see the true purpose of these crusades. To free me from my prejudices. To love him."
"Love thy enemy." John muttered.
The man laughed. "See? How can that be a sin?"
John smiled despite himself. "I doubt that's how that was intended."
"Not by the men who wrote it down, no."
They say in silence for a moment, absorbing each other's words. John was surprised to find it comfortable instead of awkward. He kicked a boot through the confetti littering the floor. He had never intended to send those letters, but he felt a pang of regret at destroying them.
"I am sorry you feel shame for those feelings in those letters." the man said softly. "They were very beautiful. The real shame is your beloved will never read them."
John's face burned. "He's not my beloved. Or at least I am not his. Our relationship was a great comfort to him on those long miles home, but no more."
"Oh I doubt that very much." he said. "Bonds forged in such circumstances are difficult to break. I would not be surprised if your Thomas is struggling as much as you."
"I can only imagine being in a place like that." he continued. "In all my years, I've never been so far north. But I have seen death and suffering and unnatural things. I know what it is to be far from home, for your faith to be tested. It is not a weakness, but a reminder of your humanity."
"That is a greater comfort than you know." John admitted. "I was afraid I had lost it there among the ice."
"You found love there, that's one of the most human things there is." he replied. "Don't give up on it."
"You think I should send those letters?"
"Well, not those letters. Not unless he is a fan of puzzles." he smirked.
John laughed properly for possibly the first time since returning home. It startled him, and a bird hiding in the rafters.
"But you think I should tell him?" he asked after he caught his breath.
"I do." the man smiled.
"You are so kind to dispense advice, and I don't even know your name."
"I am going by Nicholas at the moment."
"John. John Irving." he replied, holding out his hand.
"A pleasure." Nicholas said, taking his hand in his. John couldn't help but notice the tough callouses on his hands.
"Why are you here in the middle of the night?" John asked, wanting to turn the conversation away from himself.
Nicholas shrugged. "I haven't been in England since...well for a long time. I was curious. And I couldn't sleep with Yusuf gone."
"He's not with you?"
"No, he's gone with Andrea to sea. Our friend." he clarified upon seeing John's confusion. "I'm waiting for them to return."
"Why did you not go with them?" John asked. He couldn't help himself. Something about this man drew his curiosity.
"I needed a break. You know what it is like to be at sea for years at a time, it became too much."
John knew all too well.
"Yes, I understand. I'm not actually sure I can go back." he admitted for the first time. "I don't want to go through that again."
"What about Thomas? Will he be returning?" Nicholas asked.
And like that, the conversation was back to him. Damn this man.
"I do not know what his plans are. We have not spoken since he returned home."
Nicholas turned his body in the tiny pew, so he was staring straight at John. He had never felt more exposed. His gaze was intense, like the man was looking into his very soul. These eyes had seen more than John could imagine. The man in front of him couldn't have been older than thirty-five in face, but suddenly John understood he was much, much older.
"John, please. If you take anything I say tonight to heart, let it be this. Your life is short. Do not waste it. If you love this man, which if your writing is anything to go by, you do, then go to him. Do not let this beautiful thing slip through your fingers. Do not let him go on a ship far away, never to return, without telling him where your heart lies. This world is a dark place, it needs all of the love it can get. Give it."
John was taken aback by the raw pain in his voice.
"Did you make that mistake?" John whispered.
Nicholas sighed.
"Yusuf and I's last words were not kind, no. We argued about his leaving. The journey he is on is a dangerous one, and futile, I'm afraid. I have already lost a dear friend to the sea, I don't want to lose him to it as well."
John was silent for a moment, mulling over the thought of Thomas leaving and never returning. could he live with that? Never telling him how he felt? To have unspoken words between them?
"Thank you." he said.
Nicholas smiled.
"You are most welcome."
He stood then, patted John on the shoulder, and left the church without a backwards glance.
John left the church that night with letter fragments tucked in his pockets and new purpose in his steps.