Prayer and Contemplation [St. Basil's Cathedral]

[Marta]

Marta dipped her finger in the holy water outside the entrance before making the sign of the cross and entering the main area of the church itself.  She was here to take her religious education classes and they had just dismissed.  Ricky had dropped her off for class, and would return later.  She had asked to stay for awhile because she thought the church was quiet and pretty.  It was pretty common and it was good self-reflection time for her. It was a church; no one was going to hurt her here and she had Splash with her as well, covered in her Emotional Support vest. Marta's own eyes were covered by her contacts as always.

Marta wasn't just here to see the pretty church though and think.  Not today.  Today she was actually going to pray.  She went to the side and genuflected before putting down the kneeler.  She crossed herself as Splash lay down next to her.  She folded her hands together, resting her elbows on the pew in front of her. She looked up at the crucifix above the altar with Jesus hanging from it. She wasn't as devout in her prayers as some, but she did believe.  She had found herself praying more lately.  Sometimes she wondered if what she was planning was the right thing - if she really should stand up to the cartels. As she looked up at Jesus, she wondered what he would do if he was her.  She still didn't have an answer.

Her prayer today wasn't for herself.  Sage had told her not to worry.  Hayden had told her not to worry.  Everyone was telling her not to worry, but she couldn't help it.  It upset her how much Nox was hurting - or rather not hurting. He was numb, and that scared her more than it would if he was in pain.  So when she prayed it wasn't for herself.  It was for Nox.

God...if you can hear me. Help him...or help Sage help him...or anyone.  Please.

As was her custom, she never really spoke her prayers out loud - at least not her personal ones. She spoke the ones for Mass out loud like everyone else did. That was her whole prayer.  She kept it simple and to the point.  As she finished she felt moisture on her cheek and wiped away the tear.  Even if her prayer was done, she remained knelt with her hands folded, her eyes focused on the crucifix at the front of the church.

[Matías]

Moscow had surprised him in ways he didn’t expect. It wasn’t the snow, or the size of the buildings, or even the blank-eyed men in gray coats that watched the street from every corner. It was the color. Stark against the long Siberian sky, the onion domes of St. Basil’s rose like painted fire above Red Square.

Matias stood at the entrance of the cathedral, the plaza still empty save for the soft echo of his own footsteps on cobbled stone. A hush hung in the cold air. Not silence exactly, but a kind of waiting, like the city was holding its breath. Even now, two weeks into his temporary posting, Moscow still felt like a place he was trespassing through. Too many cameras. Too many conversations you weren’t supposed to hear.

St. Basil’s stood still at the edge of Red Square, its towers rising like flame-frozen brushstrokes against the pale gray sky.

Even here, in one of the most photographed places in the country, there was a kind of gravity. Tourists clustered at the steps, photographs clicking like insects. A few were already inside, their voices low but not reverent, bouncing off ancient walls with a carelessness only the unfamiliar could afford.

Matias paused at the threshold. He adjusted the collar of his coat, then stepped past the open doors into the cool, perfumed air of the cathedral. The scent of incense hung in the stone like memory: half smoke and half sanctity. His shoes stepped softly on the tile as he moved inward, careful not to disturb the rhythm of the space.

He didn’t come here for prayer. Not exactly. But he’d missed morning Mass again, meetings, of course, and something inside him had felt unfinished all day. A dull weight behind the ribs. He wasn’t Orthodox. That much was clear. But he’d grown up Catholic enough to recognize holy ground when he saw it, and so, standing before the cathedral's intricate façade, he whispered the sign of the cross and stepped inside.

Matias stepped past the thick wooden doors and into the cool hush inside. The scent of wax and old incense met him first, followed by the quiet shuffle of feet on stone. He had expected a grand nave like back home—St. Patrick’s in New York, or the cathedrals in Spain his abuela once whispered rosaries in—but this was different. Not open. Not soaring.

Inside, the cathedral was a labyrinth of narrow passageways and painted arches, each turn revealing a tucked-away chapel or staircase, each chamber small and echoing. The walls were alive with color: reds, greens, and golds faded by centuries, and every chamber felt closer, heavier, and more personal. It was like stepping inside the spine of an ancient book and wandering through its margins.

Tourists spoke in hushed tones, reverent more from the mood than from belief. A pair of them squeezed past him in one of the corridors, map in hand. Another snapped a quick photo and was quickly scolded by a docent in a dark scarf.

That’s when he noticed her.

A girl, young and no more than fourteen or so, was kneeling near the front, just off to the side. Her posture was steady, her head bowed, her hands folded tight. She wasn’t Russian by the look of her. Something in her stillness struck him, not the way a tourist might linger out of curiosity, but the way someone prays when they mean it. Beside her, a dog rested on the marble floor, its vest marked with words that Matias couldn't read from this distance, though he guessed the purpose easily enough.

He didn’t mean to stare. But something about the girl’s presence pulled at him, like seeing someone carry a weight you recognized from far off. He chose a pew on the opposite side of the nave, lowered the kneeler, and made the sign of the cross—left to right, his way. His Spanish came quietly, reverently.

"Señor... dale paz. A ella. Al muchacho. A todos los que se olvidaron de sentir."*

The girl was focused on the crucifix above the altar, eyes bright with something that might’ve been sorrow or strength—or maybe both. He didn’t know who she was praying for, but he knew the look of someone carrying someone else’s pain. He closed his eyes. For a few moments, the city, the Kremlin, the meetings, and the unspoken things fell away.

Just quiet. Just prayer.

*Lord... grant peace. To her. To the boy. To all those who’ve forgotten how to feel.

[Marta]

Marta sighed as she continued to think, and she began to pray again, silently, her mouth moving to the words though as her thoughts turned towards the victims of the cartels and Mexico.

Am I doing the right thing?

People had come in and out of the nave as she prayed.  It wasn't an odd thing.  St. Basil's was a tourist attraction as much as a church.  The docents always tried to keep the place respectful of those who weren't here to see the sights. You got used to ignoring the extra sounds, even if there was something that bothered her that people thought this was just a place for them to look at.  It just seemed...irreverent.

Another person entered and Marta didn't look, even as she heard the kneeler touch the floor.  Another person was here to pray. She kept her focus on the crucifix at the front.  The man spoke his prayer aloud, albeit quietly. Some people prayed out loud.  It was usually pretty easy to ignore even with her keen sense of hearing.  Like the people walking in and out of the church, you just got used to it.  Marta would have ignored it, but he wasn't praying in English.  He was praying in Spanish.

Her recent prayer had been about the cartels and her decision to fight them in her own way.  That always brought thoughts of Mexico, and then a man stepped in and began praying in Spanish. It was enough to make Marta turn her head. She saw the man now, dressed sharply but not overtly so.  The most prominent thing she saw was a golden crucifix that hung about his neck.  She looked at him with curiosity.  It just seemed very coincidental that she had been thinking about Mexico and someone who spoke Spanish showed up.  By his accent and his skin tone, she assumed he had come from there as well.

His words echoed in her ears. "Grant Peace. To her."  Was he praying for her to have peace? Peace. Peace sounded so nice.  Marta felt peace at times, but it was short lived. She could count on peace when she watched Lily, but any other time, it depended on a lot of different factors.

Marta looked down in embarrasment as she realized she had been staring at him. She tried really hard not to be rude. "Disculpe, señor. No pretendía mirarlo fijamente. ¿Está rezando por mí?"*

Spanish came easily to her, even if she didn't speak it as much anymore.  It was nice to hear it and nice to feel the words on her tongue again. The language itself was one of the few good memories she had of Mexico. She kept her eyes down and absentmindedly began to scatch Splash's ears.

*Excuse me, sir. I don't mean to stare. Are you praying for me?

[Matías]

Matias tilted his head, surprised but not displeased to hear the girl speak Spanish. His gaze rested on her for a second longer than usual, thoughtful.

"I was," he said. The words came in their shared language. "I haven't heard Spanish since arriving here." He glanced around the chapel subtly, his tone more a quiet observation than a personal comment. "I didn’t know you," he added. "I still don’t, but you were praying like it mattered."

Before she could respond, movement caught his eye off to the side, near the entrance to the chapel. One of the clergymen, gray-bearded and robed, stood watching them from the corridor. His eyes narrowed, not with open hostility, but with a restrained disapproval. Foreign language. Foreign presence. This was a church, but also a cultural relic, a guarded space. Spanish didn’t belong here. Not in his mind.

Matias returned the man’s look briefly with neutrality and respectful calm, then inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. Message received.

He turned back to the girl. Switching to English, his tone didn’t lose its quiet volume. "You don’t seem like someone asking for peace for herself. Not just for herself." The transition between languages was smooth and practiced. He knew when not to provoke attention, when the battles weren't worth it.

His eyes flicked briefly to the crucifix above the altar, then back to her. "It’s rare to meet someone here who prays like they expect an answer."