The interior of the church was empty, but a strong citrine hue illuminated the space. Filling the surrounding walls with a palpable warmth, one that nearly banished out the chill of the bitter Birmingham evening and seeped into the seats as if your body was not the only soul to occupy the wooden pews. The air, still touched by the sharp wind of the cold November night, smelled of extinguished flames. Engulfing your senses in the strong aroma of fizzled smoke that disappeared into the shadows.
Few candles continued to sway in the still air up upon the alter, the very candles you'd lit on more than one occasion in the company of Polly Gray. Lighting candles for the boys down at The Garrison who lost their lives in France and proceeding to light a few more for the men who returned. The ones who's bodies came back but their minds remained at the bottom of those trenches. You'd lost count over the years, of just how many candles you lit with the silent whispers of your prayers for the poor souls, but you knew without a doubt that out of all of the candles burned from your spared flame, that Tommy Shelby received the bulk of your prayers.
His footsteps fell heavy against the panels beneath him, creaking with soft stomps as if Thomas hadn't a single care in the world that he was stepping into a house of God. For he strode into the church just as you knew he would, as it didn't take very long for the King of Birmingham to search you out, and he walked like he owned the damn place. Even with your back to the approaching figure, the echo of his presence was strong and commanding. Tommy was a man of calm and calculated silence and yet, his presence spoke in volumes his voice might never reach.
The church was nearly suffocated in it's all-consuming void of silence, but there was something about Tommy's sudden presence that simply amplified the quiet. For his company, which you'd grown over the years to equate with comfort, still sent a chill up your spine. It was not one of startlement or fear at the man, like so many in Small Heath felt, but rather one that alerted you instantly to his company. As if it were possible to miss the man who commanded the streets and even now, God's very house, as his own.
Your lips twitched softly as you felt Tommy's powerful shadow cast over your shoulders, as his footsteps stopped just short of the pew you resided in. Standing behind your straightened frame, allowing for the chill of his shade and the intoxicating swirl of his cologne to engulf your next inhale. "Tommy Shelby in a fucking church, God must be shaking in his boots."
All your life, or at least a good half having known the second eldest Shelby boy, you had never once caught sight of Tommy in a church. Even as Polly went like clock work each and every week, more when the boys were off fighting for their country and very lives in France, you'd never seen the man with your own two eyes inhabit a church. You were sure he'd had to have been at one point or another, but you'd never seen it for yourself until this very moment. It was a sight, as Tommy made his way from behind you and slipped into the pew you resided upon. Sitting down without an effort to ask if he could join you, taking up the end seat on your left as his back straightened against the uncomfortable wood.
For there was something strange about witnessing him in this environment, as if out of the entire building, he was the one thing that simply did not belong. Perhaps, the harsh citrine glow of the flickering candlelight, managed to illuminate the red staining his hands or the shadows accentuated the haze of pain clouding his brilliant mind. Perhaps, it was strange to witness Tommy in this holy light, as though under God's scrutiny it cast a glow across all of the sins that tarnished his very soul.
"And what about you, ey?" Tommy's voice was low as it pierced through the density of the surrounding silence, arching a brow as he glanced over to his right towards your awaiting gaze. "Spilling confessions?"
Tommy knew, since the moment his feet stepped back upon Birmingham soil and left the mud and decay back in France, that you hadn't ventured into a church since the passing of your mother only a week prior. The funeral had been held out in the nature that she loved, watching as her gypsy soul ascended into heaven in the swirl of dark smoke and blistering flames, the caravan burning until there was nothing left. Perhaps, you were too distraught to think of facing God in his very own house or maybe, you were simply too angry. Angry at him for taking your mother from you, as you hadn't the shoulder of your dearest friend and the man you loved most in this world, to cry upon. But Tommy didn't judge you, how could he? When all he'd seen in France made him certain that there was no God up above looking out for him, simply luck as he'd made it out with his life as so many others hadn't the fortune.
