05-28-2025, 08:27 PM
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."
"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."
![[Image: Matias-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Matias-signature.jpg)
![[Image: aztec-quetzalcoatl-ouroboros-nikolay-todorov.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/aztec-quetzalcoatl-ouroboros-nikolay-todorov.png)