Origin drabble - Kurt

[deathpixie]

With permission from [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com], the drabble that came of us talking about Kurt's introduction to religion. Set shortly after Gemile was taken away.



There was a creak as the heavy church door opened a crack. Not so much, just wide enough to admit a skinny, blue-skinned boy. It was raining outside, and cold, and his teeth were chattering. Water dripped from his clothes, worn but clean and well-mended, and his bare feet left small puddles as he glanced around, making sure the room was empty.


There was no plan, only a hurt and miserable boy looking for a place to shelter.


There was a sudden noise, a door opening and footsteps echoing through the little church. The boy looked around wildly and spotted a small cupboard-like structure and dove into it with a sudden flurry of movement. Just in time – even as he pulled the door mostly-closed behind him, an older man dressed in black came into the church proper.


Father Michael hummed a little under his breath as he went about his duties, his voice a slightly cracked but still pleasant tenor. Certainly he had one of the village women to keep things tidy, but he liked to tend to the church himself on quieter days. Just him and God. Or at least mostly just him and God – he frowned a little at the wet marks on the floor near the door. Footprints, but strangely shaped. A small movement caught his eye and he looked over to the confessional; protruding from the door, twitching slightly, was the pointed end of what looked suspiciously like a tail. A blue tail.


The door to the space next to him creaked open and Kurt sucked in a breath, body stiffening despite the shivering. The small box-like space stank of wet fur and wasn't really much warmer than outside, and now he was about to be caught. What would the man do? Alert the police? Hurt him? Have him taken away the same as Gemile? At that thought, a strangled noise escaped him, not quite a sob and he clapped his hands over his mouth. Then there came a voice, quiet and calm:


"Do not be afraid, my child. You are in God's house, and he will not see you harmed."


He blinked, confused. Why was the man speaking to him? "It… it was raining," he stuttered, feeling the need to justify his presence, to reassure the man he'd meant no harm. "I only meant to shelter here."


"That is what a church is for, to provide shelter." The man's voice was unruffled, soothing.


"To anyone?" The question popped out before he could stop it, driven by curiosity and his desperate need to belong somewhere. "No matter what they look like?"


"God sees only your soul, the good inside you," Father Michael replied gently. "He makes no judgements."


No judgements? Kurt frowned. It sounded like a trick. "I do not think you would be saying that if you could see me," he said, a little bitterly. He'd heard the whispers from the other clans, saw the shocked expressions on the faces of the townsfolk they performed for. Demon. Monster. Only his family accepted him fully, and now they'd betrayed him, letting that man take his little sister away. His arms still hurt from where Stefan and his father had held him back.


"There is talk, in the village, of a demon acrobat who travels with the Rom," came the soft response. "I tell them there are no demons but what is inside of us. You are safe here, my son, from whatever it is you are fleeing."


"I'm not fleeing…" Kurt began, his pride stung a little. "I'm just… I just needed some time," he continued, a little lamely. "To think."


"This is a good place for that," Father Michael. He paused, and then added. "If a little cold. There is a fire in the vestry, and I was about to have some coffee, if you would like to join me."


Warmth would be good. Coffee even better. But it was easy to say such things without seeing the person you were speaking to and this man had no reason to be kind to a dirty gypsy. But his refusal was interrupted by a sudden sneeze. "Perhaps just a little while…"


"A little while is fine." There was a creak of wood as the man rose and left the little box-like room. Then his voice came from outside Kurt's door. "My name is Father Michael."


Kurt took a deep breath and pushed the door open, standing as tall as he could. "I am Kurt," he said, fully conscious of the man's eyes on him. "Kurt Wagner. In the circus, they call me the Amazing Nightcrawler."


Father Michael's eyes crinkled at the corners. "The Amazing Nightcrawler, is it? Very well, let us fetch a towel for the Amazing Nightcrawler to dry himself off, and then there shall be coffee. And cake, if Frau Schmidt has been baking today, which is entirely likely."


A small smile appeared, and Kurt nodded. "Cake would be good, yes."



And following the fic, the log of the conversation afterwards...



The boy sitting in Father Michael's vestry, unusual as he was in some ways, was demonstrating that in at least one, he was an entirely normal twelve-year-old (or one from a family that was often short of money, anyway). He was eating as if he hadn't seen food in a week.

Father Michael merely shook his head slightly in amusement, and nudged the plate holding slices of Frau Schmidt's excellent chocolate cake closer towards the boy. "Slow down, Kurt. The food isn't going anywhere and I would hate for you to choke."

Kurt looked up at that, offering an apologetic chocolate-smeared half-smile and a muttered but sincere, "Sorry." He didn't want the man changing his mind and chasing him out.

"It's all right." Father Michael studied the boy as he sipped at his coffee. As strange as he looked, with the blue skin, pointed ears and yellow eyes, he was not so different to the boys from the village. One who had been recently upset - those strange eyes were red-rimmed, and not from the cold and the rain. "Your family," he said, careful to keep his tone quiet and non-threatening. "Will they be looking for you?"

That got a darted glance at the door, and a nod. "I ran away from Stefan and Father", he admitted. "I'll go back. Soon."

"You don't have to, if you are afraid to," Father Michael told him gently. "You will be safe here."

Kurt blinked. "No, they... they want to keep me safe. But they let him take Gemile." The last was blurted, almost involuntarily, the words of a child with a terrible grievance on his mind.

"Gemile?" the priest asked, curious now. "And who is taking her?"

"My sister. He took her. The man in the car." He hadn't even stopped to ask who it had been.

"And your family let this happen?" He thought for a long moment, wondering what might have caused a family to do such a thing, especially a Rom family. They were notioriously protective of their families. Except that sometimes, there was nothing they could do... "This man, was he from the government perhaps?"

Kurt shrugged miserably, looking down. "He took her away. And Stefan and Father wouldn't let me do anything." He rubbed his shoulder, automatically.

"Are you hurt?" Father Michael asked, concerned. He hadn't thought to ask before, and with the dark blue skin, it was impossible to tell if there were bruises.

"I don't think so..." He'd been struggling, though, and they'd had to hold his arms hard to keep him from getting away and giving chase.

"Here, come over to the light, let me see." The priest rose, knees creaking a little from the damp, and gestured for Kurt to move over to the lamp sitting on the small desk where he wrote his sermons.

Slowly, reluctant and wary still of this stranger - the first he'd ever met without his brother at his side - he obeyed, settling on the edge of the desk with the light falling on him.

Under the brighter light, it was easier to make out several bruises on the boy's upper arms. Father Michael was gentle as he examined Kurt's skin, making sure he made no sudden movements. "Some bruising," he concluded, resisting the urge to pat the boy's shoulder - he was too skittish for such a familiar gesture. "But nothing that won't heal in a few days. You must have have given your father and your... brother, is it? quite the fight."

"My brother", Kurt agreed, looking again towards the door. "He... looks after me. But they wouldn't let me go."

The priest stepped away a little, giving Kurt some space. "Perhaps he was still looking after you, him and your father," he suggested quietly. "This man... he might have taken you as well."

This, clearly, was not a thought that had occurred to him. "But he was just one man. We could have stopped him!"

"Perhaps. But it might have made trouble for the rest of your family, if this man was from the government. Violence is not a solution, Kurt, and it almost always has a cost." Father Michael sighed, feeling the boy's pain. "It is not right, what happened to your sister. But your family, they did right to stop you. You might have been hurt, or taken also, or your whole family arrested. And then there would be no way at all to help Gemile."

"We can't help her now", the boy said sullenly. "They never bring them back, when they take the children away."

"There is always some way to help, even if it is simply prayer," Father Michael told him. "There are... systems, official channels, that can be used to challenge such a removal, if it is a government one. Your family can fight for her through these, and, God willing, she may be returned to you."

"But nobody listens to the gypsies." He slipped down off the desk, starting to pace. "That's why they take the little ones away in the first place. So they can make them better than us." His lip curled and he sounded very old for his age, suddenly.

The man nodded, sighing a little, the weight of the boy's cynicism making him suddenly very sad. "This is true sometimes," he agreed softly. "But not always. You are a gypsy and I am listening to you now, yes? Perhaps I can help you some way."

Kurt turned to look at him, yellow eyes alert in the dark face. "...why?" he asked finally.

"Because there is a wrong here, taking a child from a safe and happy home, and it ought to be made right," he replied quietly. "Because it is God's way to love all His children, no matter what or who they are and I would do no less for anyone. Even if it is to simply pray for her safety, and her return to your family one day."

"Even me?" It came out quiet, and doubtful still despite everything the man had said. "People say things. About what my mother or father must have done to deserve me."

"People can be misguided." It was more sorrowful than angry. "And they can say things without thinking. We are all God's children, Kurt. Even you. And He loves us all."

This was striking more than one chord with the boy in front of him, even if he wasn't ready to be won over all the way quite yet. "My mother is a witch." It was almost challenging. "For the clan."

There was a slight rising of Father Michael's eyebrows, but nothing more. "Does she do good?" he asked. "Or harm?"

"Good", Kurt said instantly, defensive of his family as always. "She heals people in the clan. Finds things."

"Then God has no argument with her." The priest spread his hands a little helplessly. "That particular section of the Bible is frequently mistranslated. People jump to conclusions, fail to read the fine print, as it were." He smiled. "But I am not here to argue theology with you, Kurt. I am here to help you, if you wish it. To be your friend, should you want one outside of your clan."

That made him hesitate. He'd been told, for so long, that it wasn't safe for him outside the clan, that people wouldn't understand... but the old man had been so kind.

Father Michael nodded, still smiling. "In your own time, Kurt. You've had quite the day." He glanced towards the small window, which showed the rain was beginning to slacken. "You should go home, when the rain clears. Your family will be worried about you, and your parents will have need of you, in this time. You can visit me again, if you like."

"I'll come back." That, at least, was unhesitating. "You're interesting."

He laughed, a warm, amused sound. "As are you, Kurt. I shall look forward to it. And..." He winked a little conspiratorially. "I shall ask for Frau Schmidt to be sure there is plenty of food, the next time you come."

That got a quick impish grin, much more suited to a boy his age than his earlier cynicism. "Thanks. Sir."

"You're welcome, Kurt. I look forward to seeing you again. And do let your family know that I am willing to help, in regards to your sister." Already he had resolved to light a candle for her, that she might be watched over.