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abandonedabandoned · 7 years

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Soldier’s Prayer

A fic with Chris Walker and Father Martin.

Mount Massive was cold. Not as cold as it usually was, the humidity and blood took care of that for sure. Walker’s thoughts could trail on about how the blood and bile looked. Red on red on red became echolalia. He could hear voices, and this was one of the few times he knew it wasn’t himself imagining it.

“We found more scraps.”

“We managed to find some that wouldn’t leave you splintered.”

He’s wrestled these two before. They’re in the way of containing it. I have to contain, have t-

“You’re lucid, Chris. Keep yourself together, god damn it.”

“My sons, words alone cannot express enough how much your help means to me. All of this toil is not for nothing, I promise,” said the softest voice that Walker’s heard since he was thrown into this pit. If it wasn’t the softest, it certainly was the most genuine. Schizophrenia or dementia or whatever medical terms thrown at ‘Father’ Martin couldn’t diminish how religious the man could feel, no matter if his current faith was-

“DON’T think about that. He worships God, just like most other people.”

It wasn’t too difficult finding the church. After a while, leading yourself through with noises alone made up for the shot eyesight. As his chains jingled and shook with each of his steps he could hear Variants whimper prayers and hide behind doors. More little pigs to chase down later.

It’s now or never before he loses his nerve. Chris Walker opens the door to the cathedral and enters. The two men- twins, Walker had heard- were tying up bits of wood stolen from doors and benches. They glared at their intruder with what simultaneously appeared to be mild annoyance and utter malice.

“Oh dear.”

“We have a guest.”

“Come to contain something?”

“Come to hurt.”

The mocking of the first man hurt for a second, but it didn’t matter. Walker wanted to feel redeemed, and fighting the priest’s flock wouldn’t look good.

“Come to pray.” His voice was lower than it normally was, which was something, and for a split second the twins’ faces actually showed a hint of emotion. Father Martin entered through a door near the altar with a few torn bibles and battered rosaries in his arms. The twins stood ready to pounce for their blades if the soldier made any sudden moves.

“Please, I,” Walker started. He felt scared right now, maybe even vulnerable. “I just want a free conscious. I can’t…”

The oldest man set down a few of his bibles, his heart was filling with sorrow. Martin couldn’t bear to see others hurt like this, and it was his job to take that pain. It was his duty to the Lord. The other men in the room were cautious. Walker had killed multiple of their congregation before, what’s to stop him from doing it this time?

“Why would they trust me? If they killed me now they’d be justified and you know it, Chris.”

“Father, I’m not sure about-“

“Don’t you start on about any of what he has done, child. The Lord forgave Judas after all that he had done, as the Lord has forgiven all of us for what we have done.”

The taller of the siblings shifted uncomfortably.

“Why don’t you two leave us, for now? Gather up the last of what we need,” Martin almost pleaded. “I can handle myself.”

How in the hell a small man nearly a foot smaller than himself could defend himself was beyond Walker’s current state of mind to imagine. All he knew was he was moving forward as the other men were pushing past him with eyes plotting revenge they didn’t even need to exact yet.

The chapel doors shut as Walker was about a yard away from the priest, and he was about as far away from the priest as he was from losing his resolve.

“I don’t know what to do, Father,” Walker spoke. His insides flinched at his last word, as he was still fighting every impulse he had to contain the specter that the man in front of him worshipped. The walls outside of the church were red. Red on red on-

“Sit down, my son, relax. You are in a house of God, and I will help you find your conscious.” Father Martin guided him to the nearest pew, almost forcing him to sit. “You don’t need to cry anymore, you are safe here.”

“I’m crying?”

He’d been so tense he never even noticed the few tears he’d shed. He wiped the wetness off his face and chuckled for half of a second.

“I don’t know exactly how any of this works. Never been much of a praying type. Especially not…” he trailed off, gesturing at the open room, the whole asylum. Martin put a hand on Walker’s arm reassuringly. Walker added on, trying to seem like he wasn’t falling apart inside, “Is this the part where I tell you all the shit I’ve done wrong?”

“Confessional has always helped me when I’ve felt wrong, child. I will be your confessor.”

Chris paused.

“How do I start…? Forgive me, Father?”

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the other corrected softly.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

“Now, you say how long it’s been since your last time.”

Chris paused once again.

“Ah, I see.” Martin sat himself down besides the larger man. “Now, just continue with everything you wish to confess, my dear child.”

“I could confess my whole lifetime, if I could, Father”

“Well… hell, where would I even start? I’ve drank myself shitfaced more times than I can count. Done a few things that would make God cry.” Walker cringed, he wasn’t sure if that was a proper joke to tell to a priest. “I’ve never prayed. Not genuinely, anyway, not anytime I wasn’t about to die. Never really went to church. Never saw a reason why I’d need to.” The tears started again, slowly. “I’ve killed. Innocents, guilty, I’ve killed them both. I want to do the right thing, but I can’t tell the difference between right and wrong anymore. The fact that I’m even here is…” His hands clenched at his legs, only to have a softer, smaller hand be placed on one of his. The priest cared, no matter what he had done before, which in itself was a miracle.

“God better make him a fuckin saint for listening to my bullshit”

Walker waited a second, maybe two. “I guess that’s all I’ve done wrong. The important things, anyway.” He was sure God Almighty didn’t care about traffic tickets and library fines.

Martin straightened his stiff back. “Now you say ‘I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life.’”

"I’m sorry for these and all the sins of my past life,” he looked at Martin and added, “I don’t think you could find a sorrier man right now, Father.”

It took a few moments for the priest to respond. “I cannot exactly,” Martin paused to find his words, ”I don’t know standard penance for your sins, my son, so perhaps helping a bit in the church will suffice.”

Walker smiled lazily, possibly dissociating some, and stood up. He hadn’t felt this decent in a while, and he barely noticed they weren’t in a decent church. Pews were strewn around, and Walker spent the better part of an hour setting them where they were supposed to be. Wooden seats soon lined the entryway from the door he himself had entered, and it looked hallway nice.

“Thank you, my son. Thank you so much,” Martin smiled, gesturing for his companion to sit back down on a pew with him. Walker obliged, wishing he still had his shirt on.

“Your guard dogs should be back soon. What do we do now?”

“Now you have to say the act of contrition,” Martin started, and as he saw Walker’s mouth about to open with an I-Don’t-Know-That, he finished “Just say after me, child. O my god,”

“O my god.”

“I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest my sins,”

“I’m heartily sorry for offending you, and I detest my sins.”

“Because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell,”

“Because I dread the loss of heaven and pains of hell.”

“But most of all, because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love,”

“Most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of my love.” Walker knew he was messing up a few of the words, but just because he felt better doesn’t mean his mind was any less fogged beyond belief.

“I firmly resolve with the help of your grace,”

“I firmly resolve with the help of your grace.”

“To confess my sins,”

“To confess my sins.”

“To do penance and to amend my life.”

“To do penance and amend my life.”

Martin smiled. “Amen.”

Chris closed his eyes. “Amen.” Once again he felt another hand on his, prompting him to look at the other.

"I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Walker’s hands were claws covered in blood, and the Father’s were small and frail, but one of the men seemed stronger than the other in this moment, and Walker knew it wasn’t him.

#watch the sky #like if u read please #outlast #chris walker #father martin #martin archimbaud #outlast fanfiction #my works #i wrote a fic!!!

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jclifou · 7 years

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Why Gaston? Why harbor feelings for him when there are so many others more worthy and more compassionate than the boorish brute? What makes Gaston worthy of your affection?

i asked people to bother lefou on anon about his relationships!

but @bitinghunter confessed to trying to hurt my heart.

You don’t understand. Gaston--Gaston is a hero.

I was living in Marseille when the war started. I signed the draft there and they brought me inland--anything to help with the fight. Gaston was a lieutenant in the troop they assigned me to.I had never seen a braver man in all my life. I still haven’t.

There were a few others in our troop from Villeneuve--Tom, Dick--and when they spoke of Gaston, you could see it in their faces. Their opinions of him had changed. I remember overhearing them one night speaking to another officer. They said Gaston was braver than they thought, and stronger, and that war had tested and proven his mettle. I had seen him from afar, but we hadn’t spoken much. Why would he speak to me? I was a tailor-boy from Marseille. I was all but a child and he was already man. I had yet to see combat; he had earned rank. But from the stories they told...I felt like I knew him.

And then a few weeks later, we were caught in open combat. There are no words to describe it. I had never been so afraid before: every second threatened to swallow me whole. Muskets fired; canon balls exploded next to me, hit the ground like someone had seen me and aimed only for me; people were falling everywhere, everywhere--and there was Gaston. Alone among us all. He looked unnaturally fierce, some unholy thing--or, I suppose, like an angel. Terror and light. I knew I would never want to see that snarl turned on me! He engaged everyone who came his way, ran his sword through belly or fired his pistol into their back, and I started running towards him. I thought--I thought even as inexperienced as I was, I could help him. He was so brave. He made me brave.But they got him from behind. I heard the shot just before I saw him stumble. I was with him just after that--there wasn’t time to drag him anywhere--but he was alive, only bleeding--everything after that felt like instinct.

Gaston said afterwards, in front of everyone, how well I fought. But I...I was only defending my lieutenant. I got him out of the woods as soon as I could. I was the one who sutured him in the medical tent, once the field doctor was done. (He, the doctor, asked me to tend to a handful of others as well. It’s very difficult, stitching a man back together. Very different from anything I had done before.)

And then Gaston became a captain, and he insisted I come with him. Stanley joined us then, as I recall. All of us fought together. We rallied around Gaston.

I have been...the only one of us to see him unwell.And I don’t mean in the medical tent, stitching him up and praying fever didn’t take him.

Gaston and I, we grew close after that. Part of the reason the rest of the troop was able to keep admiring him was the distance he kept from them. But the world was on his shoulders, and it was so...so heavy. He did contract a fever. I felt...I tended to him. I could be spared, I told them, I could suture soldiers and stay by his side. Nobody argued; the doctor was overwhelmed, I don’t doubt he told them not to argue. For weeks I removed bullets and closed wounds and bathed injured men--and for weeks, I was given special leave to take care of Gaston. He spoke so ardently in the fever, things he never said before, never said since. He prayed for God to let him go home, and find a wife, start a family. He sometimes thought I was a priest and confessed to me. He gripped my hand--so strong, even in illness!--and he...he bore soul to me.

And I’ve been the keeper of it ever since.

There’s no man more worthy than Gaston. None, none at all! And you--you should be more understanding. He fought for Villeneuve, for France! He faced nightmares you wouldn’t understand. Even I watched him become a different man. I know where his seams are. I stitched them...more times than I care to count. And some nights I am still his confessor, his healer, his doctor, his comrade-in-arms. There is a bond between us I pray you never understand, for to understand it you would have to witness firsthand what horrors we faced.

#;;too much? (bitinghunter)#bitinghunter #;;to a fault (headcanon)#//...eh. not a fan of the voice but i do like the ideas!#anonymous

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