#Fallen Gods Twelfth Anniversary

[kniteracy]

Short Story Roundup

From The Author: Lately, I’ve not been inspired to write a lot of longish stories and have been sticking to single photographs. So here is a bit of a roundup of the last week or so in photographs. These have, except for one, already appeared on my Flickr feed, so they might seem familiar.

The Moth, or “Capture” and “Escape”

Moth Working Shot

I knew Ritual was going to release a green skin for the

[writtenmemxries]

I fell for you, Dean.

So today, 18th September 2020, it's Dean and Castiel's twelfth anniversary, and who am I not to post something in celebration?

Actually, this ficlet has nothing to do with their first encounter, it's just a love confession because I'm a sucker for that stuff.

I sincerely hope you like it! xx

[2060 words]

Jack is nineteen. Well, actually he's three, but, you know, he's in the body of a nineteen-year-old boy. And like all guys, he wants to experience stuff. New things.

When he walks around the city, accompanying Sam to the grocery store, and he sees kids his age, he always feels weird and odd sensations that he cannot quite define. They hug, sometimes they kiss, hold hands. And he doesn't understand.

Of course he knows about love, and he thinks he has felt it. After all, he loves Castiel, and he loves Sam, and he loves Dean. He loves his family. But that, that is a different kind of love. He sees it. But he can't quite understand it. He would like to, but he doesn't know how.

He may have the body of a grown boy, but deep inside he's still a child, often disoriented and confused, despite having had to endure more burdens and tragedies than anyone his age. But Jack, Jack was never a normal kid, of course. Although sometimes he would like to be. He would like to feel like them, like normal kids.

When he entered the bunker library that afternoon, Dean was sitting at the table, absentmindedly leafing through a book about rugarus. He sat down next to him and watched him for a while without saying a word. Jack looked at him and wondered if he had ever fallen in love. If Dean ever felt that kind of love.

"You okay?" Dean asked, feeling his insistent gaze on him.

"Yes," Jack said, and continued to stare.

After a few minutes, Dean closed the book and turned to the boy. "Why do you keep staring at me?"

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Have you ever fallen in love?" Jack asked innocently.

Dean's eyes widened. "Come again?"

"I said, have you ever fallen in love?"

Dean shifted awkwardly in his chair, a confused expression on his face. "Why you asking, kid?"

Jack shrugged.

"You met someone?" Dean asked smirking.

"No," Jack replied simply. "I just wanted to know if hunters were allowed to fall in love."

Dean looked at him in surprise. He certainly didn't expect that. "Kid, what do you mean, allowed? Everyone's allowed to fall in love, no matter what their job is."

"But, hunting-"

Dean cut him off. "I know. Believe me, I know. We lose people, especially the ones we care about. And it hurts. We gotta man up and face the situation. We just deal with it, somehow." He sighed. "But sometimes, you bond with someone. Could be someone you saved, someone you helped, another hunter... we travel all the time, we meet hundreds of people. It's inevitable, you know." He nodded, as if he was satisfied with his own speech.

"I understand," Jack said, despite his brow furrowing.

Dean smiled at him and started to get up, before the conversation turned to something more embarrassing that he was absolutely not ready to talk about with Jack. It wasn't his job to give him The Talk, right?

But then Jack spoke again. "So you have fallen in love."

Dean sighed, moving his gaze to the large bookcases surrounding them. "Yes, sure. I fell in love sometimes."

Jack looked at him in surprise. "You can fall in love more than once?"

Dean laughed. "Sure. Sometimes people fall in love, get together, but for some reason they break up." He swallowed, trying not to think too much about his past relationships. "But there's always some sort of... affection. That always remains."

Jack was silent for a while, deep in thought. Then he spoke again. "Are you in love now?"

Dean licked his lips, his heartbeat strangely increasing. Jack stared at him with his big blue eyes, his genuinely curious gaze. He cleared his throat again. "And who am I supposed to be in love with? Sam and I- we don't get to know many girls like we used to," he said, forcing a laugh. His heart was still pounding in his chest.

Jack thought about it. "What if it's not a girl?"

Dean blushed violently. "What- what do you mean?" he stammered.

"Can't you fall in love with a man?"

"Um-" Dean ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, sure. I mean, um- some- some people, they- they like same-sex people, you know- and it's okay, I mean, it's normal, perfectly natural."

Damn kid, why did he have to keep asking questions?

"But you don't," Jack noted.

"I- I don't, what?"

"You are not attracted to men."

Dean licked his lips again, his discomfort was palpable and he found himself mentally blaming the boy and his naivety, which made him ask all those stupid questions.

The boy just needed to understand how life worked, that's all. Dean could do it, could help him. It was fine.

But at that moment, Castiel entered, greeting Jack placing his hands on his shoulders and squeezing lightly, in a fatherly manner. He smiled at Dean, a warm smile that made his insides melt.

"What were you talking about?" Castiel asked with a loving smile.

"Dean is telling me about love," Jack replied cheerfully.

Dean took a deep breath through his nose.

"Have you ever been in love, Castiel?" Jack asked.

Castiel looked at him first, then moved his gaze to Dean, letting his eyes wander over the features of his face before answering, "Yes."

Dean jerked his head up at him, looking at him with eyes full of amazement and some other emotion he didn't know or didn't want to acknowledge. "Really?"

"Yes, Dean," Castiel replied with a sigh, sitting down opposite to him. "Really."

Dean swallowed. "Good. I mean, good for you. I mean, um, I'm... happy for you. And, um, who- who's the- the lucky woman?" He tried not to look him in the eye. Anywhere, but not in those damn blue eyes.

Castiel looked down at his hands, fidgeting. "It's- it's not a woman."

Dean didn't speak. He stood there, staring at him, his lips slightly parted in shock.

It was Jack who broke the silence, as always. "Don't worry Castiel. Dean said there's nothing wrong with that. It's natural." He smiled.

Dean blushed. God, how he wanted to run away, disappear, be locked up in their dungeons and never get out again.

Castiel didn't reply, continuing to fidget with his fingers, avoiding Dean's gaze. Avoiding his deep, playful green eyes.

"I gotta go," Dean muttered, standing up abruptly. He couldn't bear to be there, at that table, sitting in front of an angel of the Lord who claimed to be in love. Who was he in love with, anyway? Who the heck could he have met? Was it a hunter they'd worked with a few times, or a stupid dude he met somewhere? Whatever. Dean didn't care. He could feel a lump in his throat and his stomach turned upside down with jealou- no. It wasn't that. He didn't care. He simply had to walk away.

Castiel watched Dean leave. He listened to his footsteps echoing in the corridor, then nothing more. He sighed.

Jack watched him. "Are you alright?"

Castiel just nodded, giving him a forced smile.

"Did Dean... did he say something? Is he... in love?" he asked shyly after a while.

"He didn't say it. He kept blushing."

Castiel nodded again, swallowing. It was okay. He wasn't actually hoping for it after all. He got up slowly and gave Jack's shoulder one last squeeze before disappearing.

And so, Jack was left alone, with the terrible feeling that he had just unleashed something big.

At dinner, they all gathered at the table as usual. It felt like a normal, quiet evening, but the tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife.

Sam glanced at Dean and Castiel, who kept avoiding each other's gazes. "Did something happen while I was away?" he asked.

"No," the two said in unison.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, sure."

"Nothing happened, Sammy, okay? Everything's just fine. We're all happy and in love," Dean snapped, raising his voice at every word. Then he got up from the table, walking away with heavy steps.

"Dean-" his brother called.

"I'm not hungry anymore."

Sam looked at Jack and Castiel for some explanation, but they both looked as shocked and concerned as he was.

"Maybe I should go talk to him," Castiel said quietly, getting up from the table. "Excuse me."

He knocked on Dean's bedroom door, from where he could hear music coming.

"I said I'm not hungry, Sam."

Castiel opened the door slightly, peeking out. "It's me."

Dean stiffened. "What do you want, Cas?"

"What happened Dean?"

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.

Castiel entered the room, closing the door behind him. Dean gritted his teeth.

"Dean. Talk to me."

He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw even tighter until it hurt.

"I can't," he said so quietly that Castiel wasn't sure he had actually spoken.

"What?"

"I said I can't," he repeated, raising his voice. He looked at him bitterly. "I can't, okay? I don't know why- I didn't want to snap like that, okay? I didn't want to blame Sam. Damn, he's got nothing to do with it."

"So, what is the problem?" Castiel asked gently.

Dean sighed again. "Me. Just me. I am the problem, Cas. Me, my damn mind and that damn man you're in love with. Who is he, huh? A-a guy you met in a bar? And you fell in love with him? Really, Cas? Then why don't you go to him, go to the love of your life, or whatever it is." He was yelling and he didn't even realize it.

Castiel stared at him in shock, and Dean felt like an idiot. What right did he have to blame Cas for falling in love? Just because he felt something for the angel - because yes, damn, he felt more than just something for him - he didn't have the right to interfere in his life. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, ashamed of himself.

"Dean-"

"No, Cas. I don't- I don't know why- I'm sorry. Really. I'm sorry. I have no right to- It's none of my business."

"Dean. Look at me."

Dean looked up with difficulty. He had his nails pressed into his palms. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, the pounding of his heart.

"Dean." Castiel walked over. "I am with the love of my life." His eyes locked with Dean's.

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was dry and his thoughts ran so fast that chasing them and being able to give them a voice was impossible.

"Don't you understand, can't you see?" Castiel continued. "It's like everyone has always said. I fell for you, Dean. I fell for the Righteous Man in every way imaginable. And I would do it again. Over and over and over."

They were so close that Dean was sure Castiel could hear his heartbeat. It was deafening, it was painful, it was almost inhumane. Every inch of his body quivered, eager to reach out and feel what he thought he couldn't have, touch what he thought he didn't deserve.

But Castiel, oh, Cas... he was so tired of Dean's stubbornness, so tired of his own feelings, so tired of repressing everything, he couldn't stop himself. He reached out and took Dean's face in his hands, touching it with a kindness that Dean hadn't felt on his skin in a long time.

He closed his eyes, letting Castiel's thumbs softly caress his face, with slow but firm movements. He let a sigh escape from his lips as he completely melted at the angel's touch.

"It's you, Dean. I'm in love with you. I can't even tell you since when, I just know it happened."

"Cas-" Dean whispered. A whisper that tasted of unspoken words, words he couldn't say, words he felt inside himself and that devoured every cell, causing him to collapse inside himself. A star that implodes and creates a galaxy.

And as Castiel brought his face close to his, breathing against his lips before closing the distance with a desperate kiss, Dean saw it. A galaxy of pleasure within which he felt reborn.

And just like that, he kissed Cas back, and the galaxy exploded, leaving him breathless.

[sheliesshattered]

This Isn’t A Ghost Story - Chapter 7: The Museum

Whouffaldi non-canon AU. 8 chapters, will be about 32,000 words when complete. Rated Mature for heavier themes in earlier chapters, please contact me privately if you’re worried about triggering topics. Clara Oswald/Twelfth Doctor. Mystery, pining and angst with a happy ending. Available on AO3 under the same username and title. Updates every Friday.

This Isn’t A Ghost Story

Chapter 7: The Museum

13 May 2021, Cairo

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that the museum stay open late for us, today of all days,” Clara said quietly, as they strolled side by side through the nearly empty Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. Even after so many years travelling the world together, she was still cautious about attracting any undue attention from curious strangers, aware as always that no one but her could see or hear her ghost.

“We’re lucky enough as it is that they’re open until nine p.m. on Thursdays,” the Doctor replied. “If the thirteenth had fallen on a Monday this year, we would have been stuck visiting before sunset, they close so early. In 1921, the museum was only open that late because of the party celebrating the new exhibit.”

“You know, until we started planning this anniversary trip, it hadn’t occurred to me that the thirteenth of May that year was a Friday,” she said. “So much for the unluckiness of Friday the thirteenth.”

“Actually, the ancient Egyptians considered thirteen to be a lucky number. To them it symbolised immortality, resurrection, and rebirth.”

“Well, there you go,” Clara said, laughing softly. “Or rather: here we are, a hundred years later. And you’re sure we met at nine?”

He nodded. “The lecture on the exhibit ended just before nine, and we met a few minutes later, as everyone started to disperse into the surrounding rooms. It was half past ten before my colleagues from the dig site were able to pull me away. Unfortunately the museum won’t let us stay that late tonight, but at least we can mark nine p.m. in the right place.”

“One hundred years,” she said, directing a quick smile his way. “Things have changed a bit since then, I suppose,” she added, looking around at the few remaining tourists, half of them reading information about the exhibits on their smartphones. She self-consciously adjusted the small bluetooth headset she wore for show, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention, thankfully.

“They have and they haven’t,” the Doctor shrugged. “The building itself hasn’t changed significantly since I first arrived in Egypt, and the public remains fascinated with the archaeology and the history of the region. Obviously the exhibits have been rearranged over the years, newly discovered artefacts added, but honestly it still looks quite like it did then.”

“I meant more the people than the place. I seem to remember the party in ‘21 being a bit more of a formal affair.”

“They still host black-tie parties here, now and then. We could come back for one someday, if you’re feeling nostalgic.”

“Might be worth another trip to Cairo, if we can figure out a way to get an invite,” she said. “Do you remember what I wore that night?”

The Doctor kept his gaze focused ahead of them and his face carefully blank, but Clara swore he would have blushed if he could. “Yes,” he said shortly.

She laughed fondly and leaned into his shoulder briefly, charmed by his awkwardness even after six and a half years of living as a married couple again. “You’ll have to describe it for me sometime. In a more private location.”

He hesitated then said, “We won’t be able to stay here long tonight, anyway. Play your cards right and I’ll describe it for you in detail once we get back to the hotel.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, mister,” she said, grinning.

They lapsed into comfortable silence as the Doctor led her confidently through the halls of the museum, ending in a smaller room tucked away from the main flow of the central corridor. They had the room to themselves, and Clara let herself relax, shedding her perpetual wariness of someone seeing her interact with her ghost.

“Oh, this wasn’t here before,” the Doctor said as they entered, sounding surprised and pleased. “This is lovely.���

“What is it?” she asked, bemused by his obvious interest.

“It’s a reproduction of the burial chamber of Thutmose the Third, which is in the Valley of the Kings, near Thebes,” he said, looking around at the illustrated walls and the stars painted on the low ceiling, his expression like a kid in a candy shop. “That’s the mummified pharaoh himself, just there,” he added, nodding to a glass-enclosed display case in the middle of the room. “And I imagine the other artefacts are from his tomb, as well.”

“The ceiling is just like my ring,” she noted, glancing up at the spindly stars against the dark blue and fiddling with her wedding ring, its stone opaque now in the diffuse artificial light.

“It was a popular artistic element in the Eighteenth Dynasty,” the Doctor said absently, as he leaned in to examine an intricately carved scarab figurine on display. “Thutmose the Third was the step-son of Hatshepsut, after all, whose temple I took you to see after you found me in Thebes.”

“I forget, sometimes,” Clara said affectionately, “that this is what you spent your life working on. Your true academic passion, above all your other many interests.”

He shot her a quick smile. “It’s why I was in Egypt in the first place, that night in 1921.”

“And you’re sure this is the right place?” she asked, looking around. “The room where we met?” Like the rest of the museum and Cairo in general, it felt vaguely familiar, but nothing specific jumped out at her.

“Quite sure,” he said, meandering around the edge of the room to join her again. “A friend of mine stood in that archway just there, off and on for the better part of an hour, trying to get my attention while I studiously ignored him.”

“Naturally,” she said lightly, “being that you were otherwise occupied with an intriguing stranger.”

“Luckily for me,” he said, smiling down at her.

“So, what are we looking at here?” she asked, gesturing to the complex mural of stylised stick figures that adorned every inch of the walls of the room. “Put that doctorate of archaeology to good use and tell me about this, as we count down to nine p.m.”

The Doctor stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her, and Clara leaned into him, glad for the relative privacy of the enclosed space and the rare chance to touch him while they were in public.

“It’s the Amduat,” he told her, his voice soft near her ear. “Which translates to ‘The Book Of What Is In The Underworld.’ It’s a funerary text that details the sun god Ra’s journey through the land of the dead each night, from sunset to sunrise, on a river that flows from west to east. It’s found painted in the tombs of several pharaohs and on various papyri fragments. The text is divided into the twelve hours of the night, the different gates that Ra — and the recently deceased, who travel with him — must pass through to reach rebirth with the sun at dawn.”

“The twelve hours of the night?” she said, glancing up at him. At his nod, she recited the last eight lines of the poem from memory:

He whispered, “And a river lies Between the dusk and dawning skies, And hours are distance, measured wide Along that transnocturnal tide— Too doomed to fear, lost to all need, These voyagers blackward fast recede Where darkness shines like dazzling light Throughout the Twelve Hours of the Night.”

“...Seriously?” the Doctor asked when she finished, his voice sour. “We’re standing in the middle of the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities and you’re subjecting me to Ashbless of all people?”

Clara laughed. “You say ‘The Twelve Hours of the Night’ and my mind spits out that poem. I studied English literature at university, it’s a reflex, I can’t help it.”

“You know, I’m not convinced he actually knew the first thing about Egypt, much less the Amduat. Most of the rest of that poem is complete gibberish.”

“He did live here in Cairo for a time,” she said reasonably.

The Doctor sighed in exasperation. “It’s two minutes ‘til nine,” he said. “Are we going to stand here and debate nineteenth century poets of questionable literary value, or can we enjoy the moment?”

Laughing again, she turned her head and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Yes, let’s just enjoy the moment. Who else gets to celebrate their hundredth anniversary, after all?”

“Technically that’s not for another two years yet. And we’d have to go to Glasgow,” he added, and Clara knew without looking at him that he was making a face at the thought.

“Our wedding anniversary, sure. But I meant the anniversary of when I fell in love with you.”

The Doctor was quiet for a moment. “You think it was that night?” he asked softly.

“I know it was,” she answered in a similar tone, squeezing his hands where they were clasped low on her stomach. “I wouldn’t have followed you to Thebes otherwise. It just took me a while to put the word to the feeling.”

“You were — what was the phrase you used? — an intriguing stranger for me that night. But when you showed up at the dig site, that’s when I knew.” He took a deep breath and sighed it out, stirring strands of her hair. “I also knew you were less than half my age, far too beautiful for the likes of me even if you hadn’t been, and extremely unlikely to return my feelings.”

“And how’d that work out for you?” she asked playfully.

“Quite well, as fate would have it,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his tone.

Before she could reply, she felt him go rigid behind her, then sway in an alarming way. “Are you alright?” she asked, concerned.

“Bit lightheaded all of a sudden,” he said. “I think I ought to sit.”

She helped him to a bench at the back of the room, grateful that his hand remained solid in hers. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Possible explanations crowded her mind for why a ghost might feel lightheaded, none of them good.

“What is it?” she asked him, worry twisting her gut.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice distant. “I feel strange...”

Clara knelt in front of him looking up at his face, so familiar and beloved, now alarmingly pale and drawn. Somewhere in the distance she could hear an announcement, repeated in multiple languages, that it was nine p.m. and the museum was closing. She ignored it and focused on the Doctor, and on her fear that something had just gone terribly wrong. There was a sudden knot in her stomach, a growing dread that this happy semblance of a life they’d managed to build together the last six and a half years couldn’t possibly last.

“Is this it?” she said, and she could hear the panic colouring her voice. “Have we run out of time? A hundred years exactly and I’ll have to lose you all over again?”

“My Clara,” the Doctor murmured, his low voice cutting through her frantic rambling. “All I ever wanted was more time with you...”

“No, you’re saying goodbye, don’t say goodbye!” she cried, cupping his face with one hand. The pain of that possibility rippled through her, the unimaginable thought of facing a future without him. “Don’t go. Stay with me,” she said desperately. “You promised. You promised you would stay.”

He found her gaze, his eyes red-rimmed as tears began to form. “Clara.”

“Everything you’re about to say, I already know,” she told him before he could say anything else, afraid that at any second, he would fade out of existence right in front of her. “I’ve always known. If this is it, if this is all the time we get—” Her voice cracked, her tears overwhelming her, and she shook her head. “Until the stars all burn from the sky, that’s how long you’re stuck with me. That’s how long I’ll love you. I will find you again someday. I promise.”

The Doctor took her hand from his face and kissed her knuckles tenderly, and she clung to the solidness of him, trying to commit it to memory one final time, in case this was the last moment of this life she had left with him. He had been abruptly stolen from her once before, on that horrible night in 1927, and suddenly the agony of that was fresh and new all over again, threatening to swallow her whole.

“I love you, my Clara,” he said despite her assurances that she already knew. He squeezed her fingers, and raised his other hand to wipe a tear from her face. “I’ll love you ‘til the end of the universe.” His gaze held hers, blue eyes flecked with green that she would never, ever forget. “And I know how much you like to be right,” he went on, his voice gentle. “But just this once... Do you think you could bear it if you were totally and completely wrong?”

She blinked up at him, tears catching in her lashes. “What?” she asked, uncomprehending, as he moved her hand to press flat against the left side of his chest. It took her a moment to understand, to register the strong and steady heartbeat under her palm, utterly strange and unexpected after so many years grown accustomed to the lack of it. She stared at her hand in disbelief, then raised her eyes to his face, realising that he no longer looked nearly so pale. “How?” she demanded.

He shrugged, smiling softly at her. “Honestly? I’ve no idea. Lucky thirteen, perhaps?” he suggested. “I can’t claim to understand it. But it feels so distinctly different from the last ninety-three years, I can’t really question it, either.”

“We get more time,” Clara breathed.

“We get more life,” he corrected. “A real second chance. Somehow, we’ve passed through the twelve hours of the night, and now the sun is rising again.”

She stared at him for a moment, her heart still stuttering in shock at the sudden reversal of their fortunes, then leaned up on her knees and kissed him soundly, reveling in the living warmth rolling off of him. Her living, breathing, very much not dead husband. The reality of it was better than anything she could have wished for, and she clung to him, hardly believing what had just happened.

“Sir, ma’am?” called an unfamiliar voice as they broke apart. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s after nine p.m. and the museum is closing.”

“Quite alright,” the Doctor replied, his gaze never leaving Clara’s face. “It’s time we were getting home, anyway.”

--

Chapter 8: The Temple

[anastpaul]

Feast of the Dedication of the Basilicas of Sts Peter and Paul, at Rome – 18 November

From the twelfth century the Dedications of the Vatican Basilica of St Peter and the Basilica of St Paul on the Via Ostiense, have been celebrated on this day, as the anniversary of their dedication by St Pope Silvester and St Pope Siricius in the fourth century.   In more recent times, this feast has been extended to the whole Roman Rite.   As the anniversary of the Dedication of the Basilica of St Mary Major (5 August) honours the motherhood of Our Lady, so this Feast honours the memory of the two Princes of the Apostles.

The Vatican church, dedicated in honour of St Peter, is the second patriarchal church at Rome and in it reposes one half of the precious remains of the bodies of Saints Peter and Paul.   The tombs of the great conquerors and lords of the world have been long since destroyed and forgotten but those of the martyrs are glorious by the veneration which the faithful pay to their memory.   Amongst all the places which the blood of martyrs has rendered illustrious, that part of the Vatican hill which was consecrated with the blood and enriched with the relics of the prince of the apostles, has always been most venerable.   “The sepulchres of those who have served Christ crucified,” says Saint Chrysostom, “surpass the palaces of kings, not so much in the greatness and beauty of the buildings (though in this also they go beyond them) as in another thing of more importance, namely, in the multitude of those who, with devotion and joy, repair to them.   For the emperor himself, who is clothed in purple, goes to the sepulchres of the saints, and kisses them;   and, humbly prostrate on the ground, beseeches the same saints to pray to God for him;   and he who wears a royal crown upon his head, holds it for a great favour of God, that a tent-maker and a fisherman and these dead, should be his protectors and defenders and this he begs with great earnestness.”   And Saint Austin, or another ancient father.   “Now at the memory of the fisherman the knees of the emperor are bowed and the precious stones of the imperial crown shine most where the benefits of the fisherman are most felt.”

The body of Saint Peter is said to have been buried immediately after his martyrdom, upon this spot, on the Vatican hill, which was then without the walls and near the suburb inhabited by the Jews.   The remains of this apostle were removed hence, into the cemetery of Calixtus, but brought back to the Vatican.   Those of Saint Paul were deposited on the Ostian Way, where his church now stands.   The tombs of the two princes of the apostles, from the beginning, were visited by Christians with extraordinary devotion above those of other martyrs.   Caius the learned and eloquent priest of Rome, in 210, in his dialogue with Proclus, the Montanist, speaks thus of them:  “I can show you the trophies of the apostles.   For, whether you go to the Vatican hill, or to the Ostian road, you will meet with the monuments of them, who by their preaching and miracles founded this church.”  

The Christians, even in the times of persecution, adorned the tombs of the martyrs and the oratories which they erected over them, where they frequently prayed.  Constantine the Great, after founding the Lateran church, built seven other churches at Rome and many more in other parts of Italy.   The first of these were, the churches of Saint Peter on the Vatican hill (where a temple of Apollo and another of Idaea, mother of the gods, before stood) in honour of the place where the prince of the apostles had suffered martyrdom and was buried and that of Saint Paul, at his tomb on the Ostian road.   The yearly revenues which Constantine granted to all these churches, amounted to seventeen thousand seven hundred and seventy golden pence, which is above thirteen thousand pounds sterling, counting the prices, gold for gold but, as the value of gold and silver was then much higher than at present, the sum in our money at this day would be much greater.   These churches had also a yearly income of above one thousand six hundred pounds upon the spices which Egypt and the East furnished.   The churches of Saint Peter had houses at Antioch and lands round about that city; at Tarsus, in Cilicia and at Tyre, also in Egypt, near Alexandria, in the province of Euphrates and elsewhere.   A part of these lands was appointed every year to furnish a certain quantity of spikenard, frankincense, balm, storax, cinnamon, saffron, and other precious drugs for the censers and lamps.   Anastasius gives a large account of the rich vessels of gold and silver which Constantine gave for the service of these churches; but, perhaps, confounded some later presents with those of this emperor.

These churches were built by Constantine in so stately and magnificent a manner as to vie with the finest structures in the empire, as appears from the description which Eusebius gives us of the church of Tyre, for we find that the rest were erected upon the same model, which was consequently of great antiquity.

Saint Peter’s church on the Vatican, being fallen to decay, it was begun to be rebuilt under Julius II, in 1506 and was dedicated by Urban VIII, in 1626, on this day, the same on which the dedication of the old church was celebrated.   The precious remains of many popes, martyrs and other saints are deposited partly under the altars of this vast and beautiful church and partly in a spacious subterraneous church under the other.   But the richest treasure of this venerable place consists in the relics of Saints Peter and Paul, which lie in a sumptuous vault beyond the middle of the church towards the upper end, under a magnificent altar, at which only the pope says mass, unless he commissions another to officiate there.   This sacred vault is called, The confession of Saint Peter, or, The threshold of the Apostles, (Limina Apostolorum,) to which devout persons have flocked, in pilgrimages, from the primitive ages.

Churches are dedicated only to God, though often under the patronage of some saint; that the faithful may be excited to implore, with united suffrages, the intercession of such a saint, and that churches may be distinguished by bearing different titles.   “Neither do we,” says Saint Austin, “erect churches, or appoint priesthoods, sacred rites, and sacrifices to the martyrs because, not the martyrs but the God of the martyrs, is our God.   Who, among the faithful, ever heard a priest, standing at the altar which is erected over the body of a martyr to the honour and worship of God, say, in praying:   We offer up sacrifice to thee, O Peter, or Paul, or Cyprian;   when at their memories (or titular altars) it is offered to God, who made them both men and martyrs and has associated them to his angels in heavenly honour.” And again:  “We build not churches to martyrs as to gods, but memories as to men departed this life, whose souls live with God. Nor do we erect altars to sacrifice on them to the martyrs, but to the God of the martyrs, and our God.”

Constantine the Great gave proofs of his piety and religion by the foundation of so many magnificent churches, in which he desired that the name of God should be glorified on earth, to the end of time.   Do we show ours by our awful deportment and devotion in holy places and by our assiduity in frequenting them?   God is everywhere present and is to be honoured by the homages of our affections in all places.   But in those which are sacred to Him, in which our most holy mysteries are performed and in which His faithful servants unite their suffrages, greater is the glory which redound to Him from them and He is usually more ready to receive our requests:  the prayers of many assembled together being a holy violence to his mercy.

(via AnaStpaul – Breathing Catholic)

[ironqueendom-blog]

I Don't Date...

In which the reader is Finn's first - and last - girlfriend, and the reason that he doesn't date anymore: because he feels bad about how their relationship ended...and still has feelings for her.

The crowd at NXT Takeover was...like nothing I'd ever experienced before. The crowd was electric: cheering each and every spot, chanting, singing along with entrance themes...it was amazing. Possibly the best show I'd ever worked, in all the promotions I had worked in.

But even with all that in mind...I couldn't take my eyes off of the woman standing a few feet away.

Y/N. Lead singer in the band that had written tonight's theme song, and my first (and last) girlfriend.

  "So, you said you don't need any distractions from Wrestling..." Rami murmured, both of us now watching Y/N listen to the production team with the rest of her band: "...But you seem pretty distracted by Y/N."

"Because she was the original distraction." I responded absently, before realising that that probably didn't make much sense...and that now that I'd said it, Rami wasn't going to leave it alone: "Y/N and I go back a long way...her ma used to live in my hometown, and she used to come round to visit her every summer when we were growing up..."

"And?"

I shrugged: "And we used to date. Until I fucked it all up."

   "Fergal?" asked a soft voice, ringing out across the empty gym.

"Back here." I grunted, not pausing lifting weights as my girlfriend picked her way through the gym equipment: surprisingly quiet for once. Normally Y/N was bold and brash: it was one of the things that had first drawn me to her...so it was weird to see her being quiet, biting her lower lip nervously: "What's up?"

"We need to talk."

 I put the weights down.

This wasn't going to be good.

 "What's wrong?" I asked worriedly, reaching out to hold Y/N's hand...

...Only for her to pull it away: "This isn't working. We're not working."

"Y/N - "

"Fergal, what's today?"

"...Friday? The...twelfth?" I asked, confused over the question.

Y/N shook her head sadly: "It's our two-year anniversary."

 Oh...

 "Y/N, I'm so sorry! I'll make it up to you, I swear. oh my God: I can't believe I was so stupid..."

Y/N just smiled sadly: "You're not stupid, Fergal. You're devoted to your craft, and that's great...for you. But this isn't the first time you've forgotten something important to me, in order to be here at the gym, or for training, or going to wrestling shows. And that's okay." she paused: "It's good to be determined to get ahead, and I don't expect you to change that. But you can't expect me to be with someone who doesn't remember that he was meant to come with me to my half-sister's christening..."

 No. I couldn't.

So when Y/N pulled me into a gently hug, I didn't fight. I just hugged her back, allowing her to press a kiss to my cheek - before returning the gesture. And then I let her go.

           "I forgot countless dates. Events with her family. Her birthday. Several of our anniversaries...I wasn't really surprised when she told me it was over." I muttered, scuffing my foot along the concrete floor: "Hurt, but not surprised."

Rami 'hmmed' with agreement: "That was a long time ago, Fergal."

"And I haven't changed. I'm still devoted to what I do - I still forget to do things that aren't to do with wrestling. I still get so wrapped up in this that my personal relationships suffer. I'm still the person that she left behind because I wasn't good enough."

My friend shrugged: "But you don't know that she's the same."

"I'm not good enough." I shook my head: "There's no point in hurting either of us by trying...I'm just going to go and prepare for my match. I'll see you later."

 Rami still looked distressed, but he let me go. I slunk away to get changed into my ring gear and do some stretches: hide myself away from my past. I focused on getting myself into the right headspace for my fight - I was going after the NXT Championship: I couldn't let this slip through my fingers just because I got a reminder that I was an arsehole. I had to do this right.

I focused myself, cracked my neck...and then headed out to gorilla. Now was my time. My time to win the NXT Championship.

And I did.

The match was brutal: and Kevin Owens put up a hell of a fight...but I did it. I won. And after celebrating I went backstage only to find Y/N waiting for me: a small smile on her face.

 "Well done, Fergal. That was a hell of a fight..."

I didn't know what to say, where to look: "I...thank you, Y/N."

"I know you've worked really hard to get here...I'm glad that you did." she told me, making my stomach twist; because how could she sound so sincere about the reason we'd fallen apart: "And I know that this is only the beginning, so...well done. And good luck, you know, for the future. I'm sure you'll be awesome."

She turned to walk away...only for me to catch her wrist: "I'm sorry. That's what I should've said. On our anniversary."

 I'd allowed Y/N to walk away from me once. And it had killed me.

I wasn't going to be so stupid twice.

 "Fergal..."

"No, please listen. I know this was more than a decade ago, but there has not been a day that I don't regret being such a fucking idiot. I didn't fight for you, and I shouldn't have. I should've said sorry, and then I should've worked on not being so selfishly wrapped up in myself."

Y/N was shaking her head: "You weren't being selfish; you were working hard to reach your dream: just like I was. It just so happened that you wanted to be a wrestler, and I wanted to be in a band. Maybe things didn't end well, but both of us were soon going to leave Bray, and we both no the lack of ways to communicate would've killed the relationship eventually..."

I took a deep breath...before blurting out what could quite possibly make Y/N laugh in my face: "There are a lot of ways to keep in contact now days. You know...if you want to..."

"I'd like that." Y/N smiled shyly, a faint blush dusting her cheeks.

I knew mine probably looked much the same: "I'll give you my number then...maybe over dinner? After I shower, of course."

"Nope, you've got press." Y/N waggled a finger at me, laughing now: "But after that...dinner sounds good. I'll stick around."

I grinned: "I'll be as quick as I can, I promise. Thank you, Y/N. You won't regret this."

"I know." Y/N smiled: "Go be Finn Balor. I'll wait for Fergal for as long as you need."

 Smiling, I hugged her gently (and quickly, well aware that I was covered in sweat) and rushed off. I wasn't going to make Y/N wait for a second longer than I could help. She'd given me a second chance...I wasn't going to make her regret that.I'd won the NXT Championship, and now it was time for the important fight.

Keeping Y/N.