Work Text:
The woman at Maxwell Rayner's right hand scorned her.
Natalie snuck glances at her when they were in the same room and too often got caught by Manuela looking back. No one was supposed to see her: the ingenious creator of the dark sun that would bring true night to all the Earth. Natalie had been sent to gaze upon it once, in sacrifice. She alone had walked out of that chamber, enlightened— no, endarkened, but still alive. And since that time she had seen its maker sometimes, when she ought to have been cloaked totally in shadow.
What special gift or devotion had marked Natalie out for this honour she didn't know, but clearly Manuela had higher standards then even Mr. Pitch itself.
She came across Manuela today in a dreary room out the back of Hither Green, choked with stacked pews. There was some equipment in the corner that she was adjusting and perfecting, and Natalie turned away to pretend she hadn't seen her. She saw the light switch, though, and stopped to turn it off.
Natalie could felt the sudden notice and contempt of the woman in the dark like a shuddering under her ribs. She turned back and opened her mouth to try to speak.
"What do you think is the point of doing that?" Manuela snapped.
Natalie drew in a breath and reminded herself that uncertainty was correct in the face of that depths of the universe, and her superiors in its understanding. "I thought it would... be correct. I'm sorry, I didn't understand."
Manuela scoffed. "Petty little tricks. I should expect nothing better from you."
She came across the room and — there was nowhere to sit, so she knelt down before Manuela. "I regret my transgressions. I can only act within my own power, little as it is."
"And now you seek what? More power?"
"No," Natalie said. "Nothing for myself. I - I only want to understand how I could do better."
Manuela spat. Her cheek almost stung with it. Natalie raised her hand, shaking, to gently scoop the spittle off her skin. She was possessed of the sudden urge to lick it.
"Understanding? Embrace your ignorance, first, and surrender the idea that you should understand The Dark.
For all the scorn in her voice, that was a piece of deep truth that Manuela blessed her with, she could feel it. "I'm sorry," Natalie said, and pressed her damp hand to her heart. "It was childish of me."
Manuela looked away—no, obviously not, she merely turned her face away from Natalie. Eventually she said, "And children fear The Dark more fervently than adults."
And Natalie could feel that to was another glimpse of the deeper, darker truth that she was still too unfaithful to deserve. Rayner spoke of peace more often than fear. "If I have only a child's faith..." she faltered, unable to think of words that weren't borrowed from the feeble, stale religion she had discarded. "I will worship!" she finished. I will worship you, she thought, and flinched. She dipped her head and tried to scrub such unworthy thoughts from her mind.
Manuela sighed. "You're not a child, you must have work to do. I do. Obviously. Get up, get up."
Natalie obeyed. She paused in the doorway, though; not to look back, of course, but only to feel the penumbra of Manuela's shadow press at her back—and then went on.
(She left the light switch off.)