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foundtherightwords · 3 months ago

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As the Sun Will Rise - Chapter 1

Pairing: Grunauer (Overlord) x OFC, Beauty & the Beast retelling

Summary: After losing most of his unit in a disastrous D-Day mission, Derwin Grunauer returns to his hometown near Miami, body riddled with scars and heart heavy with guilt, only to find his neighbors shunning him due to his German name. He retreats into his family mansion and remains there, unwilling to rejoin the living, until the day Alba Reyes turns up at his door with a basket full of warm bread. As the daughter of a Cuban immigrant, Alba knows something of being an outsider, and when she offers to work for Derwin as his housekeeper, it is not only to pay off her father's debt to the Grunauers, but also because she feels some connection to the reclusive young man. When that connection develops into something more, they must overcome both the town's prejudice and their own doubts to find happiness.

A/N: My inspiration for this came from these lovely artworks that reimagine Beauty and the Beast in a 1950s setting. The idea of making the Beast a World War II veteran jumped out at me, and given that "Overlord" is a World War II movie, I immediately knew I'd write this for Grunauer. I based this on the original screenplay more than the movie itself (Grunauer's full name and the fact that he's from Miami are both in the script), since Grunauer actually survives in that. The title is, of course, a lyric from "Beauty and the Beast".

Warnings: period-typical attitudes (sexism, racism, prejudice), PTSD, some violence, non-explicit smut

Chapter warnings: period-typical sexism and prejudice

Chapter word count: 5.2k

Chapter 1

"I'm so glad the sugar ration is over, aren't you?" Mrs. McLeish said, peering at the rows and rows of cakes and pastries behind the glass.

"We all are, Mrs. McLeish," replied Alba, handing the gray-haired lady her purchase neatly wrapped in paper bags. "That'll be a dollar and sixty-three cents."

"Are you sure, dear?" Mrs. McLeish felt the bags, trying to remember what she'd bought.

"Of course. Ninety cents for half a dozen loaves of bread, fifty-two cents for ten ham croquetas, and twenty-one cents for three cheese pasteles," counted Alba. There had been no mistake—Alba knew this was only Mrs. McLeish's way to weasel some discount out of her.

Mrs. McLeish started counting out her money with excruciating slowness. "My Ted has been so looking forward to your bakes ever since he came back from the Pacific, you know."

Alba smiled and reached into the display case again. "Well, here's a slice of tres leches cake, to thank Ted for his service. On the house," she quickly added. Mrs. McLeish's wrinkles immediately relaxed, just as Alba knew they would. Papi wouldn't like it, but they couldn't afford to alienate a customer now.

Mrs. McLeish was barely out of the door when the cheerful chime of the shop bell was drowned out by an obnoxious roar. Alba looked up to see a bright red Aston Martin screech to a halt across the street.

"¡Mierda!" she muttered under her breath. This bit of profanity earned her a stern look from the statue of La Cachita, the patroness of Cuba, on her altar set in a corner of the bakery. "Sorry," Alba mumbled to the statue. She tried to dip behind the counter, but it was too late. The driver, a tall, broad-shouldered man with raven hair slicked back, wearing a leather flight jacket that was too heavy for Miami in late June, was already striding toward the door. He pushed it open with unnecessary force, making the bell chime furiously in protest.

"Allie!" he declared, flashing a grin that showed his white teeth to perfection. "Just the girl I want to see."

Alba tried to pull her lips into the semblance of a smile and ended up with something more like a grimace instead. "Mr. Grant, good morning," she said. "What can I get you today?"

"Call me Gastin, dearest Allie," replied Grant, leaning against the counter. "How many times do I have to ask you again?"

"As many times as I've asked you to call me Alba, not Allie, Mr. Grant," Alba said smoothly. Grant's smile faltered, but only for a moment, before returning to full blast.

"But Allie sounds so much nicer! Allie Grant. Just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

Ignoring his suggestive leer, Alba repeated, "What can I get you today? A pastelito, perhaps, or some croquetas?"

Grant shuddered. "God, no. Do you have any idea how fattening those can be, with all that cheese and butter and frying oil?"

It was on the tip of Alba's tongue to snap that he was in a shop that thrived on cheese and butter and frying oil, but she bit back the retort and simply said, a little impatiently now, "Then what do you want?"

"You know what I want, my dear Allie." Grant was now leaning so far over the counter that a bystander may think he was trying to reach into the till. "A date with you."

"I'm afraid I'm very busy at the moment," Alba said automatically.

Grant let out a derisive laugh. "Busy with what?" He gestured around the empty bakery. It was after eight; the first waves of customers had gone, which meant Grant had timed his visit to catch her specifically. He certainly hadn't driven all the way here from his swanky family mansion on Millionaire's Row for one of La Perla del Sur's pasteles.

Mierda.

"Come now, Allie," Grant continued, seizing her hand in a tight grip. "I don't understand why you keep working in this dump. When we're married, you'll have the biggest mansion on Miami Beach and never have to deal with all this misery..."

Alba's face tightened. For six months now, Grant had been hovering around the neighborhood and pestering her into going out with him, despite her making it clear that she had no time for him. She knew she was the minority in this. Most people would consider him a great catch. A war hero and the heir to a real estate empire, courting the daughter of a lowly baker, a Cuban immigrant at that? She should have been over the moon. It was true that she had been flattered by his attention at first. But she wasn't interested in finding a boyfriend, and she'd treated him the same way she did all customers, polite and friendly. Only when Grant started harping on about marriage, as if they were already engaged, that she firmly shut it down. Even then, he couldn't seem to take a hint, whether because he was too arrogant or too dim, Alba wasn't sure. So her politeness had turned into grudging tolerance and finally into barely concealed dislike. Still, he refused to leave her alone.

"Maybe I like the misery," she bit out.

Grant opened his mouth, but before he could come up with a response, an angry voice rose from the street. It was Mr. Olson, whose grocery store was across the street from the bakery, and whose front door was currently being blocked by Grant's monster of a vehicle.

"Who's the schmuck that parked his car in front of my store?" Mr. Olson shouted, waving his broom. "Move it before I smash your headlights in!"

Grant flung Alba's hand aside and ran out of the bakery without another word. Seizing the opportunity, Alba ducked through the swinging door that separated the front of the bakery from the sweltering back room, where two enormous ovens were constantly belching out steam and heat. She almost collided with her younger sister, Beatriz.

"Alba!" Beatriz exclaimed. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I need you to man the counter for me," Alba said.

"Why?"

"He's here."

"Who?"

"You know who. Señor Slick." Alba's lips curled in distaste.

"Really?" Beatriz craned her neck to look through the curtain. Alba glanced behind her. Grant was busy arguing with Mr. Olson, but she grabbed Beatriz's shoulders and positioned herself so Beatriz would hide her from view anyway.

Alba couldn't understand why Grant was so determined to woo her. She definitely wasn't as pretty as Beatriz, though they shared the same features and coloring. The same hazel eyes on Beatriz were bright and clear, while Alba's eyes couldn't seem to decide which color they wanted to be and ended up as a sort of muddy brownish green. The same dark curls on Beatriz were glossy and bouncing with her steps, while Alba's had a tendency to frizz maddeningly in the humid Florida air, so she mostly kept it under a headscarf. Beatriz's figure was all soft curves, while Alba's was straight and flat as a pond cypress.

And most of all, Beatriz, like other girls in their neighborhood, was always making sheep's eyes at Grant. He never paid attention to any of them though. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he only set his sights on Alba because he liked a conquest.

But Alba had no time to dwell on all of that now. "Yes," she told Beatriz, "and you can ogle him to your heart's content if you man the counter for me."

Beatriz's face fell. "But Papi told me to make the delivery." She gestured to a basket, packed with loaves of bread in paper bags, a box of ham and cheese croquetas, and a box of pasteles filled with guava jam, still warm from the oven.

"Delivery? Where to?" La Perla del Sur Bakery did not do deliveries. Those who knew of their bread and pastries would line up outside its door before the opening time of six o'clock, come rain or shine.

"The Grunauer place," said Beatriz.

Alba smacked her forehead. Of course. How could she forget?

The late Dr. Grunauer had been their landlord. When they first arrived in Miami from Cuba thirteen years ago, Alba's parents, Mauricio and Ana, had found a nearly dead town, brought to its knees by two great hurricanes and the Great Depression. They had rebuilt their lives alongside the city. They had found this place for cheap, and Dr. Grunauer, a professor at the university, had only been too glad to let them have it after the crash of the land boom. Mauricio had traded his suit and tie for an apron and worked tirelessly next to his wife to open this bakery. But it was difficult to curb the ambition of a high-ranking government official, even if the coup d'état of 1933 had stripped him of his power. Mauricio had borrowed from Dr. Grunauer to buy a vacant beachfront store, hoping to open another La Perla, to be run by Alba's older brother, Rafael. Then came the war, and Rafael joined the Air Force and never came back from the Pacific, and Ana soon followed him, so that was the end of that. The beachfront property was left to languish through the war, and in the end, Mauricio had to cut his loss and sell it for cheap.

Dr. Grunauer, too, had passed away a year before the end of the war. Mauricio was not one to ever forget a debt, and although Dr. Grunauer's only son, who had come home last year, never mentioned it, Mauricio had been sending him bread and pastries and even fresh fruits sometimes, hoping that he would not call in the debt any time soon.

Now Alba snatched the basket out of Beatriz's hand. "I'll go," she said. "You man the counter."

"But—but—" Beatriz glanced at the back, where Mauricio and the assistant baker, young Frank, were busy loading trays of shaped dough into the ovens. Alba knew Papi didn't like Beatriz to be at the front alone, despite the fact that she always drew a crowd, mostly of young men—or perhaps precisely because of that.

"Bea's too busy flirting," he'd once said to Alba. "She'll mistake flan for croquetas and sell her own shoes as pastelitos next. I need you there, to keep an eye on the till and tell me when we're running low on things." And so Alba had no choice but to grin and bear it, though she didn't have Beatriz's natural charm and ease with the customers, and a day working at the till always left her with crescents of sweat under her arms, sore cheeks from having to stretch them into unnatural smiles for so long, and a raging headache.

"The breakfast rush's over, you'll be fine," Alba assured her sister. "I'll be back before lunch." She rushed out the side door before Beatriz could raise further protest and draw Papi's attention.

"Be careful," Beatriz called after her. Alba wondered if the warning was meant to be about Grant or the Grunauer place.

As she wheeled her bicycle out the back gate and down the lane, Alba saw her best friend, Claudia Barron, watering her garden, the hose curving over her pregnant belly. Claudia had spent her whole life in their neighborhood of Cypress Grove. She'd grown up down the street, dated a literal boy next door, Marty, and after Marty came back from the war, they had gotten married and moved into a house on the same street. Sometimes Alba thought she would go crazy if she were Claudia, never going further than a few miles from where she grew up. Other times, she envied Claudia her straightforward life.

"How's Marty Junior?" Alba nodded at Claudia's belly.

"Kicking up a storm last night. It's this heat, I don't think he likes it." Claudia raised a quizzical eyebrow at the bread basket. "Where are you going with those?"

"Delivery to the Grunauer place."

"Some sweetener for Gruesome Grunauer, eh?"

"Don't call him that," Alba said, rolling her eyes.

"It fits him, though. Like father, like son. He's been back for what, a year? Yet nobody's seen him. He's locked himself away in that mansion with all those snakes and gators." Claudia shuddered. "I wonder at your dad, letting you go there alone. Why can't he or Frank go?"

"They're busy," Alba said shortly. "I have to go now."

Without waiting for Claudia's goodbye, she got on her bike and rode away. Claudia was a good friend, but she could be an awful gossip sometimes. "Gruesome Grunauer", indeed! Yes, it was true that Dr. Grunauer had always been rather strange. With his balding head, owlish eyes, and quiet, mumbling voice, he reminded Alba of a mad scientist, like Victor Frankenstein or Dr. Jekyll, and she, like the rest of the neighborhood kids, had been slightly afraid of him. The nickname had started when they found out he raised snakes and other reptiles on his land, and it stuck. There was a rumor that he even kept an alligator. Every Halloween, the kids always dared each other to go to the Grunauer place to get a glimpse of this alligator.

And then there was Mrs. Grunauer too. Apparently she had been bedridden, and nobody had ever seen her. When she passed away, shortly after Alba's family moved to Cypress Grove, people had whispered that Dr. Grunauer had poisoned his wife.

During the war, those childish rumors had persisted and taken on a more malicious tinge. The war hadn't been easy for Dr. Grunauer with his German name and German accent, and some people had even turned against the Reyes for their association with him. And now, with the old man dead and his son back at the mansion, more rumors had surfaced. They said young Grunauer had been badly injured in the war, and those injuries had left him disfigured. It didn't help that he never set foot outside of his home.

Alba never subscribed to the local rumor mill, but she couldn't help feeling a slight sense of trepidation as she rode her bike down the back lane that followed along the Tamiami Trail. Alba preferred this shortcut, which ran right through the cypress swamp west of the city. She had always loved the swamp, loved seeing the bald cypresses rising from it like majestic giants, their trunks dripping with ferns and orchids, loved watching the herons and egrets that waded amongst their roots, loved the thrill of sighting an alligator floating lazily over the dark water. Even with the occasional blare of a truck horn from the interstate in the distance, it still provided a quiet spot in the busy city.

This morning, though, Alba paid no attention to the beauty of nature. Leaning on the pedals, she only hoped that she'd made enough of a head start that Grant wouldn't be able to follow her in his car. She wondered how the Grunauer place had changed. She knew where it was, of course, though she'd been too much of a wimp to come right up to its gate. In her childhood memory, it was the grandest house she'd ever seen, as grand as the Palacio del Valle in her hometown of Cienfuegos back in Cuba. She also wondered what young Mr. Grunauer would be like. Though they were roughly the same age, young Grunauer had never been a part of the Cypress Grove gang—he had been sent to a boarding school in Jacksonville even before Alba arrived, and none of the kids in the neighborhood knew him.

Soon, the lane branched off into two even smaller trails, little more than footpaths lined by willow and cocoplum bushes. Rolling her bike down the right trail, Alba finally came to a clearing. The willows and cocoplums gave way to magnificent oaks covered in Spanish moss that stood on either side of the path like sentinels, guarding the mansion of her memories. It stood back from the path, a little aloof, a little wary, a queen surveying her empire, its white walls shining like a mirage against the dark canopies of the trees surrounding it. A porch held up by tall columns ran around the house, shielding it from the sun and prying eyes. A beautiful frangipani stood in the back, its branches, dotted with star-like blooms, reaching toward the house as if in adoration. If those oaks were the sentinels, then the frangipani was an attendant bowing down to the queen.

Alba shook her head. Such flights of fancy were usually Beatriz's purview; Alba herself was more likely to notice that the yard was overgrown, the porch needed sweeping, one of the window shutters was sagging, and the paint was chipping. A swing full of dead leaves creaked on rusty chains on the porch, adding to the overall abandoned air of the place. As she drew closer, she also saw a sign hanging crooked on one of the oaks, with "BEWARE OF DOG" scrawled across it. This mundane little detail dispelled any fanciful impression she had of the house, and instead of the palace of her childhood, now she only saw a sad, neglected place.

Alba looked around cautiously. There was no sign or sound of the dog she should beware of. Emboldened, she wheeled her bike past the rank of oaks and leaned it against the porch. The front door had no bell—Dr. Grunauer probably had gotten rid of it after the kids played too many games of ding dong ditch, and nobody came out here now—so she knocked instead.

No answer. She knocked again, louder, calling out, "Hello? Anybody home?" From somewhere deep inside the house, there was a bark. Although it was deep and rumbling, it wasn't the bark of a dog one should beware of. It was not ferocious or angry, only rather annoyed, like that of a dog that had been wakened up from a nap.

Alba reached for the door handle. It turned with some protest. She pushed the door open and stepped into a cool, dark front hall. Something crunched under her foot, and Alba looked down to find more dead leaves strewn across a hardwood floor that hadn't been swept in God knew how long. A door on her left was ajar, showing what looked like a living room overlooking the oak-lined drive. Next to this door was a staircase, its top disappearing into the dimness of the second floor. On the top of the stairs were some strange, pale shapes that looked like logs or a rolled-up carpet that somebody forgot to put away. Sunlight from the open door behind Alba couldn't penetrate the gloom, and thoughts of snakes and gators swirled around her head, making her hesitant to step beyond the little patch of light.

"Hello?" she called out again, her voice lost in the profound stillness of the house. "I'm from the bakery. Is there anybody here?"

There was that bark again, more excited than annoyed this time. In the hallway beyond the staircase, a huge shape emerged, silhouetted against the darkness. It was a dog, she could see that. The biggest dog she'd ever seen.

Alba stood rooted to the spot. She only had the presence of mind not to scream. Screaming would only agitate it further.

The shape came into view. It was a great boarhound, so dark and glossy that it appeared little more than patches of shininess in the dark. It stalked toward her on paws as big as dinner plates, eyes glinting, nose sniffing, tail lifted in alert.

Then, slowly, that tail moved side to side.

Alba couldn't believe her eyes.

The huge dog was wagging his tail. He'd stopped by the bottom of the staircase, seemingly trying to make up his mind about her, but clearly he didn't see her as a threat.

"Here, boy," Alba said shakily, reaching out a hand.

The dog ran to her and almost bowled her over in his eagerness to sniff the bread basket she was carrying. She tried to lift the basket out of reach, but it was quite difficult—when stood on his hind legs, the dog could easily reach her shoulders. "Down, boy," she said. The dog sat and looked up expectantly at her with his liquid black eyes. Alba gave him her hand. He licked it. "Oh, you're just a big softy, aren't you?" she said, laughing in relief and kneeling to rub his ears.

"He's an idiot," said a voice above her.

Startled, Alba looked up. What she'd thought was a roll-up carpet turned out to be a leg encased in khaki pants, and the logs were the arms. A person was lying on the top of the staircase.

"Who are you?" he said. She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the scowl in his voice.

"Alba Reyes," she replied. "I'm from La Perla del Sur."

"La what?"

"The bakery. I'm Mauricio Reyes' daughter. We rent your store in Cypress Grove?"

There was a groan, and the shapes moved. The man was sitting up. The dog gave a little woof and bounded up the stairs to join him. Alba involuntarily craned her neck, trying to get a better look. His face was still half-hidden in the gloom, and in the light shining through the window at the landing, she could just make out a shock of sandy brown curls and a pair of dark, dark eyes. There was no sign of those disfiguring injuries that she could see.

As those eyes met hers, fragments of memories flitted through her mind—a pair of brown eyes, schoolyard noises, the sudden, bright pain of a split lip, and a voice, asking, Where did you learn to punch like that?

Before she could grasp it, the memory was gone, like the reflection on the surface of a pond being broken up by a pebble. The eyes on the top of the stairs were scowling at her again.

"Good morning," she said uncertainly.

***

Derwin Grunauer was not having a good morning.

He'd woken at five, as usual. Even though he could now sleep in as late as he wanted, the habit developed after eight years of boarding school and three years in the army was hard to shake. He hadn't gotten up though. What would be the point? He had nowhere to be, nobody to see, nothing to do.

But Otto, who seemed to have a sixth sense of when his master was awake, had scratched at the door and whined, demanding to be let out, so Derwin had reluctantly gone downstairs, opened the door, and gave the dog his breakfast. For himself, he hadn't wanted any. His pantry had been empty since the day before, but he loathed picking up the phone to call the grocer. He knew he had to, eventually. Either that or starve to death, and Derwin didn't think he was brave enough or desperate enough for that. And so he'd made himself a cup of coffee with the dregs left in the pot and gone upstairs to mentally prepare himself, otherwise he would start panicking and stammering on the phone like an idiot.

Then his treacherous leg had tripped at the top of the stairs, making the cane fly out of his hand and sending him sprawling face-first across the steps. The fall hadn't hurt that bad—he'd been climbing as fast as his leg allowed, which was not very fast at all—but it had drained him of whatever energy he had, and left him angry and despondent. Angry at himself, at his throbbing leg, at the world in general. And despondent at life. He'd turned over and remained there, ignoring Otto's attempts to pull him to his feet. There was no point in getting up. There was no point to anything. He wished he could have stayed there until he melted in the heat and dissolved into the floor. Eventually, Otto had given up and returned to the kitchen to clean up the remnants of his breakfast.

He hadn't heard the knocks.

It was the smells that hit him first. The heavenly, warm, yeasty smell of freshly baked bread, the rich, savory smell of fried ham, and the buttery, sugary smell of pastries. His stomach growled.

Great. He was so hungry that he'd started hallucinating.

Then he heard the voice. Olfactory and audio hallucinations might be a bit much, so he cracked open an eye and looked for the source of the sound.

Somebody was standing in the front hall. No, not just somebody. A young woman. Wearing a sleeveless blouse and a sensible pair of slacks and sandals, with strands of her dark hair falling out of her headscarf. Sunlight was streaming in through the open door behind her, framing her like a halo as she looked up at him, her mouth falling open in surprise. She was too far away for him to make out the color of her eyes, but he could see that they were light and bright, fixed on him with none of the suspicion and hostility he was used to from other people, only curiosity.

Otto was licking her hand too. Traitor.

Still, Derwin refused to let himself be taken in. A lack of animosity didn't necessarily mean kindness. When he came home last year, after several months in St. Mary's Hospital in Portsmouth and a longer stint at the VA Hospital up in Bay Pines, where they'd tried and failed to get his leg back to working conditions, Derwin hadn't expected much. His father was gone, killed by the strain and loneliness of the war, and they had never been popular in town to begin with. He'd only hoped to settle down and have a quiet life. Yet somehow, what he found was even less than what he'd expected. People turned their backs on him in stores and restaurants, whispering to each other and pulling their children close wherever he went past, calling him Kraut and Jerry and worse. All because he had the misfortune of bearing a German name.

This young woman, whoever she was, probably hadn't heard much about him. The moment she did, she would turn and run, like all the others. And when she said she was renting the old store in Cypress Grove, it fell into place. She was his tenant. No wonder she was friendly. She couldn't afford not to.

"My father asked me to bring you some bread," she was saying.

Derwin's stomach growled again, so loudly that he was sure the young woman heard it from all the way at the bottom of the stairs. He grimaced, mortified.

The bakery... yes, he remembered now. In the past few months, he'd been finding bread and pastries outside his front door with a note saying "Compliments of La Perla del Sur Bakery". He'd been wary, but then he'd come across the name on his monthly bank statements and realized they were just trying to be nice to their landlord. The bread was good, and the pastries were phenomenal. Plus, it saved him from having to go to the store. They had tried knocking at first, and when he never answered them, they just left everything on the porch, like a silent offering to some faceless deity. Once, he hadn't found it until days afterward, when the bread had gone soggy in the humidity and the pastries stale. He'd eaten them anyway.

His love for pastries didn't stop him from feeling annoyed with this young woman for invading his space, however.

"Are you OK?" she asked after a while, when he didn't say anything or make any move. "Do you need help getting up?"

He grunted a refusal.

"Should I bring these into the kitchen for you?" she continued, lifting a wicker basket to show him. The mouthwatering smell intensified.

"No need," he mumbled. "Just set them down there."

"Where?" The woman looked around the front hall. There was no place to put anything, except for a side table piled high with mail that Derwin couldn't bring himself to open.

"Anywhere."

"Your dog may get into them."

"I don't care."

"I'm going to put them in the kitchen," she said in a voice that invited no further argument, and before he could stop her, she was walking briskly down the corridor. She tossed a piece of pastry to Otto, and he immediately followed her, tail wagging. Traitor.

Grumbling under his breath, Derwin pulled himself up by the banister and limped his way downstairs. If he didn't catch her in time, this woman may go through the entire house, and he couldn't have that.

He stumbled off the last step and almost ran straight into the woman, who was coming back from the kitchen.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, catching his arms and helping him stand up straight.

Their eyes met, and Derwin found his breath caught in his throat for a moment. He'd been right—her eyes were light, bright green, gleaming like a forest pool in the shade, where the leafy canopy above is reflected in the quiet depth of the water.

Those eyes flicked briefly to the scar on his left cheek, before turning away, not out of disgust as Derwin had expected, but rather of embarrassment. She took a step back and let go of his arms.

"I've put the bread in your bread box," she said (I have a bread box? though Derwin). "I'm not sure when you want the pastries, so I've put them in your fridge. Heat them in the oven before you eat them, they'll taste better. The guava pastries will go great with some coffee."

That was probably the most anybody had ever said to him in over a year. Derwin stared at the young woman, not knowing what to say. She gave him a smile—quick and uncertain, but a smile nonetheless—and walked out with that same brisk, graceful stride, still followed by Otto, who was gazing at her adoringly.

"Otto, stay," Derwin said sternly when the dog looked like he wanted to follow the woman out the door. Otto reluctantly obeyed.

"Oh and, don't set the oven higher than two hundred degrees when you warm the pastries, or they'll get burned," the woman said over her shoulder, before closing the door behind her. A moment later, Derwin heard her bike rattling down the drive.

He glanced at Otto, who met his eyes with a wistful, reproachful look. "Don't look at me like that," Derwin said. "I didn't chase her off."

Leaving Otto in the front hall to whine and watch the figure on the bike disappear behind the oaks, Derwin limped into the kitchen to retrieve the pastries. She was right; they tasted much better warm, though he wouldn't offend them by pairing them with his dishwater coffee. Otto soon gave up his vigil and came into the kitchen as well, looking inconsolable. Derwin took pity on the dog and shared the ham croquettes with him.

"Just because she gave you pastries doesn't mean that she's your friend," he told the dog.

Otto always fell in love with anyone who showed him the smallest bit of attention. It was a terrible habit.

Chapter 2

So here's the Grunauer fic that I promised! It's my longest to date (82k, 20 chapters plus an epilogue), so I'm going to post it twice a week. If you want to be tagged when I update it, let me know, or you can just check back here every Tuesday and Saturday!

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #grunauer #grunauer overlord #overlord 2018 #grunauer x ofc

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magicaguajiro · 6 months ago

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Caribbean Folk Saints and Mighty Dead: La Caridad del Cobre

Few symbols represent Cubanía or Folk Saints better than that of La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre. For almost as long as Cuba has existed as a colonial country, Cachita has been its Patroness.

La Vida de La Caridad

La Virgen de Caridad del Cobre is the Patroness of Cuba, copper miners, Rivers and Storms, and of violent rebellion. She is a Spirit unique to this part of the world, worshipped as a Goddess, venerated as an Ancestor, worked with like a Witch. The lore and practice of her Folk-Cults have become so intertwined with ancient Indigenous and African Spirits that its almost impossible to separate them. The story of Cachita, as she is called, is where many of her perceived areas of influence come from. Here is a concise telling of her story, of which I will break down and explain the folkloric elements;

"In the 16th Century, three men from Barajagua were out at sea to collect sea salt. Indigenous brothers Juan and Rodrigo de Hoyos and a young Black boy named Juan Moreno, "The Three Juans". A fierce storm came, so they turned to the young boy's Marian medallion in prayer. As soon as they finished their prayer, the skies cleared and up floated the physical statue, which stayed dry in the water. Attached to it was a sign that read "Yo Soy La Virgen de La Caridad".

The Virgin’s Vessel

These men brought it to an official and a church was erected, and all was well for a time. Until one day, when the priest went into her locked chapel to find the statue missing. He alerted authorities and a search ensued, only for her to reappear the following day. This happened three more times, so the people of Barajagua decided she must want to be moved to a different location. They took her to El Cobre, a copper mining town. The people here loved her, and rang bells and celebrated upon her arrival. The disappearances continued.

In 1801, a mestiza girl known as Jabba or Apolonia in the Sierra Maestras came upon the statue atop a mountain, and thus a church was built and the statue moved once again but not far. This is where her church was built once again. Eventually, she made her way to the colonial capitol of Santiago. This was seen by many as a power grab of influence by the government over the Indigenous and African Communities’ sovereignty.

There are many elements to this that represent her patronage. We have it starting with her being found by two Indigenous and one African men. Barajagua is still to this day an epicenter of culture preserved by Indigenous and Black communities of the Island, and in this time it was no different. This shows her patronage and reason for syncretization amongst these oppressed groups. Her power over weather has clear syncretic significance as well. Her being moved to the mining town of El Cobre shows her patronage of Copper and Miners. I will go into more detail, but the message is clear: La Caridad is more than just a Marian Apparition. She is a Spirit of her own, with pacts to act with authority in certain traditions.

The Cemí of Horizontal Waters

As with many aspects of Cuban culture, her roots in ATRs are clear and undeniable. What is lesser known are her ties to Indigenous practices within Cuba. I will mention that some refute these claims, but I recommend the in depth analyses by Olga Portuondo Zuniga and Maria Nelsa Trincado which is where I draw much of my information here apart from family and cultural history. I have spoken before about Atabey, and there is a wealth of information (and misinfo) on her all over the internet. She is the primary feminine Cemí, or ancestral spirit, of the Taíno groups in the Caribbean. She is called the Mother of Waters and is a primordial force of nature as well as an ancestor. She also has significant ties to La Caridad del Cobre, as well as other Cuban Madonnas venerated by the Indigenous Cubans.

Firstly, in her origin story, we see La Virgen has power to dispel storms. Later on, even as recent as COVID, we see dances and festivals held in her honor to bring rain or stop fire. This part has been attributed to come from Atabey, specifically to her destructive form known as Guabancex (Gwa-Ban-Sesh). She is the Cemí of natural destruction, called Cacique of storms and earthquakes with various sets of Twins at her aide. One set rules the wet and dry seasonal cycle of the Caribbean, known as Boinayel and Marohu respectively. Another set known as Guatauba, Cacique of Winds who would call all the Spirits of the Land with his Guamo (Conch Shell) and Coatrisque, Cacique of Torrential Waters who would gather and then release them unto the Land. One of her helpers, Jurakan, is where we get the word hurricane because he’s the cemí of Spiral Winds. Some even believe that this specific spirit was created to represent Atabey/Guabancex and baby Jesus to represent Yocahu/Jurakan. Cemí were also physical objects many times, carved or crafted to literally have the spirit inside of it.

These statues were considered alive, and could speak and move around according to colonial accounts. This is interesting because in her story we see how her statue moves around to various locations, often moving from indoors to somewhere in nature. This is strikingly similar to the accounts by Fray Ramon Pane on the behavior of a Cemí who “wished to be under the stars”. This Cemí statue would often get tired of the enclosed space he was in and would choose to run off to various locations. In this way, we see that La Caridad herself is a Cemí in a way. In analyzation of her physical vessel, they have also found her head is her original and is made of Corn fiber, meaning at this point in history it must have been made in the Americas. This further cements her Indigenous connections.

Something interesting to note is that almost immediately following first contact, my Indigenous ancestors welcomed the spiritual beliefs of the newcomers, but not in the way the colonizers wanted. Rather than turn away from ancestral faiths in favor of the Catholic Saints and Madonnas, they simply added these European statues to the same altars as the Cemi. While this was not the case for all Taino people, we do have one specific case in Cuba where a Cacique named Comendador and his people worked with a painted image of Mary, to whom they would petition for aide in War. While Caridad del Cobre is not this exact Mary, it is believed some of her traditions and virtues are sourced from this and other similar Spirits from the Island. I see her as merely one very specific face of Atabey, and there are many other Spirits and Saints who are others.

Afro-Cuban Liberation

You will often see La Caridad del Cobre syncretized, or associated, within Lúcúmí spaces with the Orisha Oshun, but she also has come to be used as a mask for many female spirits in other African Traditions, such as with Mama Chola Wengue in Palo. These religions and systems were often outlawed, so to continue them they had to be hidden. Its important to note that La Caridad is NOT an Orisha or mpungo or Lwa, she is a Saint who Afro-Cubans recognized as having similar domains of influence as their Ancestral Spirits. From these associations we see a rise in her popularity among practitioners in petitions for beautification and love, as well as for protecting mothers in childbirth once again.

La Caridad del Cobre also became associated with Oshun because of her connection to Copper, similar to that of Oshun’s Gold. Also, being found by an enslaved person and being housed in El Cobre, a town majorly built of enslaved Afro-Cuban Copper Miners. Similar to the Erzulies in Haiti, I have heard Oshun masked as Caridad inspired the miners to fight against the often fatal conditions they worked in. As a matter of fact, the edict which freed all the miners was read in front of the Statue of Cachita at her chapel in 1801. This further strengthened and showed how she was a Patron and Liberator of the oppressed, especially the Enslaved and their descendants.

There is also Cachita Tumbo. I include her here because she is from ATRs. She is a Lwa or Misterio venerated in Haitian and Cuban Vodou alike, as well as other practices. Sometimes mistaken for Anaisa Pye, another Indigenous-related spirit. It is important to note La Caridad also has connections as Ercilli in Cuban Vudu, but this is a syncretisation where as Cachita IS La Caridad herself. She is considered a New World or Indigenous or Creole/Mixed Spirit, connected to the River, sexuality, femininity, childbirth and the like. Her name Cachita is thought to come from the Taino language, and Tumbo an Afro-Cuban word meaning a dance involving thrusting the body. Think "La Negra Tiene Tumbao". This shows how she has roots as both Indigenous and African. She is a Spirit associated with La Virgen during the Slave Revolts, a connection strengthened in Cuba's Revolution against Spain. In this war La Caridad becomes known as La Virgen Mambisa, and it seems the War-Hungry Mary of Comendador is shining through once again. It is hard to find where Cachita ends and La Virgen Mambisa begins.

Traditional Catholic Practice

DISCLAIMER: Nothing I say here will include practices or knowledge that is closed, nor part of closed practices. Anything I share from this point on should be assumed to be UPG. DECOLONIZATION: This "saint" went unrecognized by the church for over three centuries. She was originally a Spirit venerated by Indigenous and African Cubans for resistance who was taken by the church and used to push Nationalist Ideals and Mestizaje. Know her history and preserve her ways that the Catholic Church has tried to erase.

Working within the Catholic Framework is the safest and most approachable way to work with any Saint, canon or not. I will say it is important to recognize that this particular saint went unrecognized by the church for over three centuries, most of her history up until relatively recently. She was originally a Spirit venerated by Indigenous and African Cubans who was taken by the church and used to This is because there is a set system and rules that can be followed. If I were approaching La Caridad the way Catholic Cubans would, it would be by either simply carrying her with me and visiting her holy sites or by setting up a space for her in my home. This would be a clean, bright space with a yellow candle, a depiction of her and any offerings I may choose to include, like Sunflowers or a glass of water. I would NOT include Orisha or Cemí imagery, as you should be wary to approach her as anything other than La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre unless you are under the direction of an elder. She does have a traditional feast day, which is September 8th. This day, devotees of all paths will visit her chapel, ‘ermitas’ that house replicas, or to the river to make offerings. Gold Milagros and prayers of healing, like those offered to San Lazaro, are a common Catholic charm used with La Caridad as well.

In Folk Practice

In my experience, La Caridad del Cobre is a spirit deeply tied to this part of the world I am in, the Caribbean (including Florida). She IS the Land in a way, a face of the Earthen Mother. I have spoken before on how I like to call her La Madre Mojada or the Wet Mother, the Mother of Swamps. Sometimes even Mother Gator depending on the situation. This is because she is the very Spirit of the pact between the Water and the Land that allows our wetlands to exist. Its important to remember she is not a historic figure who died and is venerated, she is a more of a Land Spirit given an image and name to facilitate her worship, so she often wears many faces. I also see her as a Witch Queen type figure, being the Creatrix and Immaculate Mother of God. I take this to mean shes the Mother of all the spirits of this Land as well.

Offerings that I have given that have been well received include various perfumes, gourds/pumpkins, gold and copper things but especially mirrors, sunflowers, oranges and local honey. As she is a bioregional spirit, I tend to bring her offerings to a River for her as this is one place she is often associated with in all traditions. I also try to source my offerings and workings for her as locally as possible. She also enjoys bells, which is attributed to the bells rung upon her arrival to El Cobre. She likes the number 5 and its multiples, and enjoys music and dancing. Yellow is classically associated with her, but also blue.

Much of my work with her is simply veneration, honoring and respecting her and my Ancestors through her. Seeing as she is barely Catholic in many ways, she has few qualms about lending her aid to witches and spiritual workers. She especially is a great ally to any marginalized people, and can help them to work or fight their way to a better position. She can be petitioned to for help in abusive relationships or in finding love or beauty. She is very ‘elevated’ even for a Saint, so while she does have certain domains, she can also be petitioned to for just about any situation for which you have no other recourse.

Baños de Caridad - Baths of Charity

There are many spiritual bath recipes associated with each of the previously mentioned spirits, but I’m gonna share a folk recipe associated specifically with La Caridad del Cobre so that anyone can use it. This recipe, literally called Baños de Caridad, is great for when you have had some rough luck and need a pick me up. Best made on a friday, this sweet bath is used often for finding employment, bettering health and attracting love. The process is as follows:

Light a yellow candle for La Caridad and dedicate it to her with a prayer. Light her some incense as an offering and to cleanse the space. Then place a large bowl of cool water in front of her. To this, add the sweet plants basil (albahaca) and boton de oro (gold medallion), working them into the water with your hands. Both of these plants are known for attracting money, improving health and clearing up the vibe overall. Then, add a drizzle of honey to increase sweetness and magnetism. Finish it off with two raw eggs, representing the divine twins and new life.

Charms of the Rainmaker

I’ve mentioned before the many connections between the many Mother of Waters figures in the Caribbean and her Divine Twins. This is seen in both Taíno and Seminole legends, as well as even within Lúkúmí with the Twins known as Ibeyi. There are also many charms in this area associated with the Weather, specifically protecting from storms and calling in rain.

One charm that is used in Taíno Indigenous Communities to this day to bring rain in times of drought is to take find stones, each representing one of the twin Cemí of weather. Tie them together and then find a tree brand to hang them in, preferably a Holy Tree like a Ceiba. Pray to the Wind, Rains, La Caridad del Cobre, whomever you are working with. Say that you will not untie the stones until it rains. Once the rain starts, and it will, quickly untie the stones and place them somewhere dry with offerings of flowers, water, fruit, tobacco or a song. You may choose to blow a Guamo when first petitioning, and then again when finishing the rite. This lends an extra power in calling the Spirits of water, harkens to Guatauba’s role.

Another charm I shared in my recent post on the Everglades the charm of tying a blade to part of your house in the direction of an coming storm to make it split and go around your dwelling. In the past a form of matari stones was used. These are basically Caribbean arrowheads, indigenous artifacts once used for their sharpness, now used in practices like Ochá and called ‘Thunder Stones’. You can also use any sharp outdoor tool, Seminole have an almost identical charm using an axe. The idea is the same in both cultures, you are splitting the Weather Twins apart and both have corresponding myths I talked about in that post.

A Note on Honey: Historically, there is a taboo associated with offering honey to La Caridad that you have not tasted yourself. This is a Lúcúmí belief stemming from practices related to Oshun, that transferred to popular zeitgeist. I include this not to recommend following it, but instead to say you may want to omit offering Honey to her altogether.

Fe, Amor, y Caridad

La Caridad is a complex and multifaceted spirit. She is now a recognized Saint, but she is definitely more than that. She has a deep relationship with this Land, and with the other Spirits that she was syncretized with. I hope this post helps adequately share what I’ve been lucky enough to learn and experience with Cachita and Elders who have spent their lives devoted to her.

Luz y Progreso 🌻

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