Embers of Hope

“You know what? I quit.”

The fire within the hearth winked down to its final embers, the dwindling wisps of flame fading like a final, ragged breath. There was an unnatural finality to it; the hearts of the remaining embers did not pulse with the echoes of life. All traces of warmth within the ramshackle cabin vanished. However, its lone occupant remained - a man draped in a ragged cloak. From within the hood, cracked lips pulled into a frown, deepening the hard wrought wrinkles on his face.

He stared into the depths of the empty hearth with a strange sense of detached mourning. As though he were an attendee at a funeral with only loose relations to the deceased. Yet, there was an ache in his heart. It was his duty to keep that flame alive, regardless of how low it burnt. But he had found his own limit. Had found that the weight of hope had become untenable. And so he had let the flame, after thousands of years, go out.

His fingers curled on the rails of his armrest, nails digging into the wood. What had he expected? To hear a sudden wail from around the world? For the earth to cave in on itself and cease to exist? He waited, muscles taught.

No such cataclysm came.

The floorboards groaned as he rose tentatively to his feet, and began walking towards the place which held answers. Because there was only one way to truly know the ramifications. His eyes drifted to the door - that door as old as time, and as intimately familiar with the world as he was. He reached for the doorknob with a thought in his mind - that of a familiar place - and turned it.

It was the first time the door revealed the place to be occupied by a rather inhospitable darkness. In his prior ventures here, candles were always lit. Now though, as he surveyed the tall, marble columns, the domed, painted ceiling limned with gold, and pews carved from mahogany, their absence was striking.

Watery daylight trickled in from behind stained glass windows, though it did nothing to lift the dour mood of the place. Still, he persisted forward, trying not to stare at the plentiful candles displayed on either side of the wide aisle. At their cold, barren wicks.

A smattering number of people sat in the pews. Though his feet were soundless on the tiled floor, many turned to him. Their expressions seemed on the verge of recognition. Like they were seeing a friend after a protracted time apart. But then their faces would fall, and go back to a listless, unfocused staring.

This no longer felt like a place where hope persisted.

He swallowed down the uncomfortable knot in his throat. Did people still endeavor coming here, like the haphazard flutterings of moths to the light? But, there was no light to be found here. No flaming candles to fill the void. Instead, an unnamed hollowness had taken root and festered. This place, like the hearth of his cabin, had declined into nothing more but lifeless embers.

A long sigh escaped his lips. This was the consequence. These people were embers of hope, and with nothing to urge them onwards, what was left?

The pew groaned slightly as he fell into it, the wood firm and unforgiving. Life was often the same - unyielding and uncompromising. He had heard the fervent prayers and wishes of those wishing to avert disaster. Felt hope burn in their hearts like mighty bonfires. He, in turn, fed on that pure light. And when the flame in his hearth burned bright enough…

But those were the old days. Before he discovered the depthless chasm of human wickedness.

The pew groaned again, the weight of someone filling the once unoccupied space. Curiosity drove him to angle his head toward this person, though he took care to keep his hood firmly in place. A man sat hardly an arm’s length away. Close enough to be felt, but not so close that it could be deemed intrusive. It felt intentional. Like he had practiced this sort of measured distance countless times, and now, this man dressed in black robes had found him here. This paragon of hope in a hopeless world.

“Do you deem me to be one of your lost children in search of comfort?” It had been hundreds of years since he’d spoken, and the gasps which echoed throughout the cavernous cathedral told him they were shocked. The sound of his own voice, once familiar, felt strange to him. Like the raking of cold coals in search of a single, warm ember.

The man - a priest, now that he got a proper look at him - to his credit, did not add to the chorus of hushed exclamations. Instead, a ghost of a smile flashed on those old features.

“I deem you to be just like anyone who finds themselves in a church. A person in search of answers.” His tone was pleasant. Gentle. The landing of a snowflake on a fingertip.

“Do you claim then, that you are the great fountain of answers?”

“Quite the contrary. I find that the longer I spend time on this earth, the more questions I have. And I have a feeling I’m speaking with someone who’s spent a great deal of time here. I can see it - the way time itself seems to press upon you, weighing you down. This place…this church…is where people come to ease their burdens.”

He was a deity, and yet, he’d never truly pondered the ramifications of the effect of time, or the burden it carried. He’d seen it all: the burst of light from the endless void which sparked life. The advent of humanity, and how their depth of curiosity matched their ingenuity. They were imperfect in many ways, and they found cruel ways to turn those imperfections on each other. But hope, through those early days, had always burned bright.

Until recently.

“Tell me, priest,” he said, turning to face him, though still keeping his hood in place. “What purpose do you serve when the fire of hope itself is extinguished? What do you offer these people? Empty words? False promises? If so, you’re just like me. You’ve become nothing more than the distant light of a cold moon. Feigning the warmth of the sun, knowing that comfort no longer exists in this world.”

A space of silence spread between them, and the deity watched the priest curiously, waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure. For his pleasant facade to break? For his expression to take on the listlessness so prevalent in the faces of the others who sat behind them?

“You speak of that shadowed forest. One I’ve wandered and wondered to myself the purpose for which I was put on this earth. I’ve felt the sun above me. Felt its warmth on my skin. Yet, its comfort could not reach me.” The priest folded his hands together, thumb brushing over a well worn ring. Its surface was mottled and markedly ordinary looking. Yet, his thumb caressed it as though someone else might be wearing it.

“I do not claim to be a beacon in the night, or the kind of savior which steps down from a golden throne to hear the cries of children. Who could understand the gravity of hope - the heart within those flames - without knowing its cost?”

“The…cost?” The deity echoed. In all his years, he hadn't endeavored to ponder what it had cost him to keep that flame alive. What it cost humanity. “You speak about hope as though it, too, is a burden.”

The priest, at last, turned in the pew to face him fully. “There it is. You've found it - the conundrum. Why do we bother ourselves holding onto that small little flame in the darkest of nights? If disaster awaits us, surely, it would be easier to remain blind to it; extinguish our little candle, and welcome oblivion.”

The deity lifted his head, and his eyes swept over the many bare candles surrounding them. A pang seared his chest.

“Or do we dare to find something else? Perhaps an answer to our dreams, hopes, and prayers. The wherewithal to pursue those things comes at a cost.”

“Which is?” The deity leaned forward, attention rapt.

The priest turned in his seat, gaze sweeping over the people with drawn faces and unfocused eyes. “To realize that, regardless of how stubborn reality may be, we must continue to strive for the change we wish to see.”

The deity joined the priest in his survey. Somehow, their faces reminded him of the hearth in his old cabin. It was almost a relief to let the fire die. That fire had required so much of his strength, he wondered if he was the last soul who dared hope. But…these people were here, weren’t they? Something had drawn them to this place, even when there was nothing to be found.

His hood suddenly felt stuffy. An irritating thing to be removed, like an itchy scab. And so, he pulled the old, dank cloth from his head, letting the loose material fall unceremoniously around his shoulders.

When the priest beheld him, the smile slipped from his face. He took in the gray skin. The deadened eyes. The brittle hands, which the deity now held up as though seeing them for the first time. For a long moment, he merely let the priest take him in, knowing his appearance - like that of the oldest, coldest ember in a pile of ashes - must be a shock. Yet, he kept his expression pleasantly neutral, as though he might be watching a steady sunrise. Was this priest a deity as well? Had he some magic which kept his spirit so tranquil?

At last, he said, “Well then, my wayward friend. What council can I offer you?”

The deity’s gaze roved over the candles, their vacant wicks, reminiscent of the vacant stares around him. His hearth would need tending to soon. If not for him, then for those who needed a light in that stubborn darkness.

“Don’t waste your worries on me,” the deity said. “Instead, be for others what you’ve already been for me.”

At once, all the candles in the church sprang to life, bright, incandescent flames crowning each and every wick.