All The Way Here

Leaving Matt in a cafe, Mello walked out on a pretext of buying chocolate. Instead he slowly climbed the stone steps towards the huge, Gothic building. Gazing up, he viewed the torrets and windows, swirling architecture rising right up to Heaven. For whole uncertain minutes, Mello couldn't move. It had been a long time since he had entered a Church and this one, St Patrick's Cathedral, had once been visited by the Pope. He doubted there was a priest with the stomach to hear his confession; nor if there were enough Ave Marias in the world to absolve him now.



Mello was unsure and hated the feeling. He turned away, but caught the reflection of this side of the street in the vast mirrored walls of the Rockefeller Building opposite. The Cathedral itself loomed large, glorious, shining gold in amongst the stonework. The blond man seemed so insignificant standing there at its doors, as if there was nothing he could do that would make a difference. How could someone or something so tiny be damned in the face of the incomprehensibly huge, majestic sight of the Everlasting?



Before he could change his mind, Mello touched the handle of the great, wooden doors. They didn't budge, locked from within. The cynical, self-condemned sinner wasn't surprised; but the believer underneath was shocked to the core. He leapt away as if burned, but was immediately swamped by a group of German tourists heading towards a smaller, open door just to the right hand side. As they passed, he followed.



Mass was over, but there were still a lot of people around. Only a few sat quietly in the pews, even less had their heads bent in prayer. Most wandered about under the dizzyingly high archways, in and out of the smaller side chapels. Candles shone, little flickers of hope and remembrance, in stands throughout the vast, sacred place. It made him want to cry. Eyes steeled against it, Mello crossed himself with water from the little font and tentatively moved in search of a quiet nook.



He found one. Deeper in than most of the tourists seemed to reach, a tiny chapel waited. Just half a dozen pews lined with kneeling pads and a couple of plastic chairs. In place of the altar was a five foot Christ fixed agonisingly to the cross. Frozen in the moment of his greatest sacrifice, blood streaming from numerous lacerations. To Mello, standing in the middle of the narrow aisle, this somehow seemed more real. He had been hoping to find the Mother, someone who might speak on his behalf, to intercede with the inevitability of things. But this was just fine. This was violence and Mello felt, perhaps blasphemously, that Jesus could understand things that could never be spoken before the Lady.



As quickly as he'd thought it, Mello felt like a fraud. He shouldn't be here, demanding salvation as his birthright, while his past lay so bloody behind him that he'd shrunken away from confessing it; and while his future promised more of the same. He couldn't even kneel, afraid that contact would somehow contaminate the consecrated ground. He had things to say, but they were so at odds with the sacred love that he couldn't say them. It would be too false. He would be like Hamlet's Claudius, crying out, 'my words fly up, my thoughts remain below, words without thought never to Heaven go.' Mello turned to leave, too impure for this.



He stopped, realising that there was something. There was one thing in his life that was worthy to be asked of the man who had died in agony to save them all. One thing that Mello could safely, righteously bend his knees, slapping leather upon the hard, cold floor to beg of the Almighty. He didn't have the words, but a voice from the far, distant past, prompted the way. If you can't think how to say it, just feel it. My God is strong enough to read the hearts of all little boys.



Crossing himself again, Mello whispered aloud, "U ime Oca, i Sina, i Duha Svetoga. Amen." Then he allowed the emotion of his request to wash over him, thinking very loudly, until the awkwardness ebbed away and he felt he knew how to ask it. "Oce Nas, I've done too much. I'm a lost cause, but I've never..." He paused, trying to get this right. "I never forgot." His rosary was already in his hand and Mello wasn't quite sure when that had happened. "I am guilty of the sin of..." He steered away again, suspecting it was all of them. "Isus, I failed you, but grijesnike that I am, I have faith."



His eyes were tightly closed, his back undefended. Mello brushed away that sudden realisation, along with the knowledge that he would never let that happen ordinarily. It was just a sign of his black soul that it had even drifted into his head now. This was too important to mess up. Angrily, the blond forced himself to relax, to concentrate on the matter at hand. As soon as he let it, that strange serenity returned, as if he wasn't alone, but it was alright. It was the One who watched over them all. Mello let the emotion go.



"I am prepared to enter Hell, as is my reward for the pain I've caused on earth. But..." Mind keenly focused now. "I'm going head to head again with that vrag... the vrah, Kira. I'm taking someone into danger with me and I don't know if I should. Matt..." Inside, Mello thought with missile precision, Mail Jeevas, "is a non-believer, but he's a good guy. He's one of the best. He is so much more deserved of attaining the Kingdom of Heaven than most of the Catholics I know." The blond's memory flashed through various Mafia members, killing within sight of the crucifix and statues of the Mother of Christ. "Isus, if I could..." Certainty hit him like a wash of cold water. "I spent years praying Ave, they must still count against the ages of Purgatory. Matt is a non-believer, but if I could pass them to..." Mello didn't even have to finish the whispered sentiment. Something instinctual told him to open his eyes.



All around him danced tiny flashes of prismed light. Over the polished wood and even on the anguished face of the Christ himself. Mouth gaping in wonder, Mello felt a calmness and a clarity soothe inside, watching him almost childlike innocence. Right now, he could even believe that there was hope for himself too, but he had certainty that Matt would be saved. It was acceptance more vividly realized than he could ever have imagined. Even when he worked out that it was just the sun climbing to a position to shine through the stained glass, it didn't matter. Breathless and blinking, Mello watched until, a minute or so later, the room dulled again and the little lights disappeared. His whole being cried out, 'Thank you!'



The moment passed, but Mello stayed kneeling for a moment longer. "Zdravo Marijo, Milosti Puna, Gospodin stobom." 'And with me', he mentally added in utter faith that, right now, it was true. "Blagoslovljena ti medju Zenama i blagoslovljen plod utrobe tvoje Isus." The image of the light on the Christ's face again. "Sveta Marijo, Majko Bozja, moli za nas grijesnike, sada i na cas smrti nase. Amen."



Now it was gone. Mello stood, feeling lighter, even has his mind slid to the chaos awaiting him outside. Knowing how badly this could end, but also aware that he was going to do it anyway.