#martyr in the catacombs

[tinytimism]

rock and hard place - better call saul / garden song - phoebe bridgers / the garden of death - hugo simberg / the roses of heliogabalus - sir lawrence alma tadema / sheep in fog - sylvia plath / martyr in the catacombs - jules cyrille cavé / ophelia - fredrich wilhelm theodor heyser / edvard munch

[venustapolis]

Mártir en las catacumbas (Jules-Cyrille Cavé, 1886)

[liivn]

Early Christian martyrs from the Rome catacombs - Paul Koudounaris (2015)

[dreamyartiste]

Jules Cyrille Cave- Martyr in the Catacombs

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Jules Eugene Lenepveu - The Martyrs in the Catacombs, 1855.

[emvidal]

[milksockets]

early christian martyrs from the roman catacombs in memento mori: the dead among us - paul koudounaris (2015)

[youryanderedaddy]

When The Flood Comes

tw: female reader, cannibalism, starvation, murder (not reader), religious imagery, hinted past sexual assault, imprisonment, hinted jealousy, slut shaming, dark!Cassian, disturbing descriptions

You used to love Easter as a child. It was the only time your mother would spare money on something as non - essential as chocolate or food dye. She would take a short break from her needlework, or whatever sewing project she had going on, and she would sit down to paint a few eggs with you, barely a carton, with whatever charge her client had left the day before. The first egg was always as red as blood, and she would rub a small cross across your forehead while the paint was still warm. For luck, she would say - and may the year ahead be fruitful. 

These days you think about your mother more often than you’d like. Sometimes you dream about her - you’re brought back to the tiny yellow cottage in the middle of the forest, so very close to the river that started the whole mess. You can feel her hands caressing your hair, the warmth of her long skirts soaking into your bare legs as she sings you a lullaby and rocks you to sleep. You can almost hear the melody in your head - you don’t remember the lyrics anymore, but you know it must be something soothing. Something suiting of a soul destined to go to Heaven. 

It makes you chuckle - but it also makes you cry, the thought of it all. Your mother probably thinks you’re up in the sky now, naked and running in a flowery field surrounded by angels. You wouldn’t blame her, you decide, if she has already given up on finding you. You’re not sure how long it’s been, but you’ve bled three times already - so it must have been three whole months at least, and that’s enough for the heart to grow weak, for the mind to forget. Especially those not worth remembering. 

Cassian doesn’t let a single day pass without reminding you just that. He explains that once you enter the catacombs, you become part of the church. You melt together with the stone and the marble, you blend in behind the old dungeon bars just like a martyr nailed to a cross. Nobody knows you’re here - nobody knows that this place still exists. As far as the public is aware, the catacombs burnt down to the last peg during the Saturah war. 

And yet here you are, chained like a dog. Your stomach hurts again. In the beginning of the Lent you didn’t feel much different, some phantom pains here and there, a wave of nausea washing over you as you woke up, but now the emptiness is almost ever - present. Just like a bitter past lover it doesn’t let go, leaving you curled up and aching more often than not. You can’t remember the last time you had something solid in your system - something different than watered down soup or herb tea. Chamomile. Hibiscus. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal.

It’s hard to see in the utmost dark - but Cassian’s candle burns bright, illuminating everything around. Once your eyes settle into focus, you make out his face - his eyes sparkle with cold reflected light, but he’s not looking at you. His entire focus seems to be directed at the plate before him. He runs a finger through the white satin tablecloth, wrapping his digits into one of the knitted holes, and your heart stops beating for a second, anticipating the crumble of the table and everything on it - but it never happens.

The deacon eats in absolute silence for what feels like eternity - the only sounds that leave his body are muffled moans of perverse appreciation as he cuts into the bloody meat and brings the piece into his open mouth. It’s utterly disgusting - the warm scarlet essence of the poor animal drips down his chin, his cloth, his hands, it smears all over the beautiful handsewn cover, and yet you’ve never felt such intense hunger in your life. All you want is to sink your teeth into the rich pithy texture, to tear into it until you feel the vein pop under your teeth. Your mouth is watering.

“He has risen.” The man finally smiles, a nice warm smile, but his eyes never leave the meal. You look up, keeping your hands on the ground to retain balance - even such small movements are enough to make you dizzy and you end up falling backwards. Cassian holds up something you barely recognise as a glass, greedy to gulp the liquid inside. It leaves a purple stain down his jaw and he quickly wipes it with the end of his white sleeve. “You must be hungry.” He purrs as if talking to an animal, and you nod with unhidden desperation. You’ve never been so hungry in your entire life.

He makes a gesture for you to come closer and you crawl towards the bars, opting to get your head out despite the tight gaps between the metal sticks. The man caresses you with one hand, calling you a good girl and a hundred other sweet names you’ve never heard him even utter before. It becomes increasingly hard to follow his voice as your stomach growls louder and louder, filled up with acidic emptiness to the brim. He finally takes pity on you and throws a ripped piece of the slab towards your feet.

Your past self would have laughed at that. She would have smiled mockingly, turning her back on this depravity. She would have broken the rusted grates with a shove - and then she would have strangled the fucker with her bare hands. But you’re not her anymore. You’re not the woman who could fall asleep under a cloak tree, who could smile and sing during a rainstorm, who could skip with the wind. You can pretend to be her all you want, but you doubt she’d want to share her skin ever again. The body you’re stuck in, her body, is wretched beyond repair. Covered in belts and bruises, melting into a puddle of pain and scarcity, begging for the tiniest moment of mercy. And what a mercy it is.

What a mercy it is to feel the raw, dense flesh on your tongue, to be able to bite into something instead of slurping salt and broth from someone else’s hand, someone else’s spoon. What a mercy it is to tastе the grease and the fat, the sweet, tangy bite, for the meat to stick in between your teeth and not flow through. To chew slowly because there’s something to chew on, to drink the fluid oozing out of each nip and abandon the bones hidden beneath. It tastes… divine. 

“Do you like it?” Cassian asks eventually, voice full of amusement as he brings his hands together. He’s covered in stains from head to toe, but somehow he still remains as proper and pure as a tear. You don’t want to break away from the pigsty on your lap - you want to bury your face in the meaty red goodness, to savour each and every bite, but the singular surviving thought in you tells you to obey the man, lest he takes the food away. You don’t want him to take it away. You don’t want to die. Despite everything, you don’t want to die. So you nod - with your whole body, and you bow, because you need him to understand that this moment right now is essential. Fateful. 

“What is it?” You rasp breathlessly, unable to hide the excitement in your tired, sluggish movements. You feel a spark of energy building up inside your chest and you want to scream with joy. Maybe the next bite is what gives you the strength to break out of this hell. Maybe the next bite will bring her back to life. “It tastes like lamb.” You mumble, tapping your knee impatiently - waiting for the man to speak so you can return to devouring the remains of your… dinner.

“You can call it that.” He chuckles, eyes glowing with pride. “It is a sacrificial lamb of sorts.” His finger grazes the flame, but the man seems oblivious to the burn. “Although, I’m surprised, dear. I mean, I knew you were an insatiable whore…” He finally looks at you. His eyes are inhumanly cruel. “But to forget your own lover...”

“W-what do you mean?” Your heart skips a beat and you immediately freeze in place. As your ears ring with uncertainty, you become painfully aware of the stench of blood soaking into the collar of your filthy robe. “Don’t you find the taste familiar? Come on, darling… I know you’re going absolutely crazy with starvation, but it wouldn’t hurt to use that pretty little brain sometimes.” Cassian sneers, ever so malicious, picking up the wine glass again.

You inhale sharply as your chest tightens with panic. Someone is screaming at the back of your mind, threatening to tear your head open. Your thoughts are racing. Places, places, men, meat, sweat sticking, drenched in… You don’t have a clue what he’s getting at.

“Aww, my love. You really don’t remember? You must be completely gone by now.” His voice is sweet, but nothing like chocolate. Nothing like butterfly kisses and sugar, nothing like a warm hug on a cold night. It’s so sweet it hurts your throat. “You’ve had his lips,” The deacon grins with all his pearly teeth out - it makes you shiver. “And now you’re having his heart.”

“Who the fuck are you talking about?!” You scream, unable to take the suspense any longer. You should be used to it, you should be used to his stupid love for theatrics and tension just like you should be used to the rats crawling around at night, and his hand gripping your neck until you see stars, and the stinging pulsing pain between your thighs, but you’re not, and you never will. Maybe that’s why you still have it in you to get angry.

“Michael, of course.” Cassian spits the name out like a curse, breaking the play - pretend once and for all. “That fucking tub-thumper you stole from Martha.” He laughs loosely, shoulders going up and down with ferocious madness. “I figured, if you love him so much, why not become one with him?” His voice drops to a sinister mumble. “Eve was created out of Adam’s rib. I wonder if his flesh will compose a new form inside of you and me.” He steps closer towards the bars, taking a hold of them like a man possessed - and for a moment you’re not sure who’s the prisoner and who’s the warden. “We’re born from blood and blood we become. His death will mark the beginning of our love.” 

His tone is gentle, his arms are soft, digging into the metal grates with the patience of a saint - trying to pull you outside through sheer will alone, but you don’t budge. You can’t. You’re stuck in place, tied down to the stone - cold filth you've already spent forever in. And before you know it, you’re emptying your guts upon the ground, watching the warm bile settle into each crook and nanny. Yellow, green and red mix together, painting the tiles all odds of brown. The reek of sickness fills the damp air, and you wish you could sense the mayor’s perfume beneath all the vomit, but there is nothing more to it now. He was a man and now he’s acid. He was loved, and now he’s less than meat. 

“How ungrateful.” Cassian hisses, letting go of you. He takes a second to brush the vomit off his shoes before turning back to you. “I decided to do something nice for you despite your betrayal, and this is the thanks I get?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. 

“You’re sick.” You clench your eyes tight, drowning in a storm of tears and snot. You can’t comprehend what just happened, what he told you. You’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or if you’re awake, if your reality has turned into an endless nightmare. Like crickets inside of your temple, the screams never end. “If I’m sick, then you must be poison.” The man bites back with venom, but you can see the smirk waiting to spill at the end of his lips. There is an air of conspiracy, of shared obscenity that should unite you, but instead it only makes you want to choke on your own spit. 

“I tried to cleanse you, my girl, I really did.” He squints, drowning whatever is left of the wine in one go. “I kept your body pure for forty days and forty nights. It’s the Last Supper. You can become one with me, or you can rot away.” He leans down, pushing himself closer to you. “All I ask is that you erase him from your soul. Devour whatever’s left of him, and let the memory go once and for all.” He speaks slowly as if he’s performing a ritual. You can feel yourself go drowsy, falling under his trance. “Then… Then come back to me. I’ll be waiting.” He kisses you deeply, urgently, letting you taste the blood off his tongue. 

The hunger is back.

[useless-catalanfacts]

On mythological beasts, water that still springs from an ancient coffin, and an on-going promise

Every year on July 30th, people from Montboló and Arles (Northern Catalonia) do a procession whose main element is a wheel made of bee-wax. The origins of this procession are to thank the saint who freed the towns of the simiots, mythological beasts who once terrorized the area.

Simiots are a creature in Catalan mythology, a kind of magic hairy monkey that is sometimes considered half-wild and half-man. They are wild animals that live on trees in the mountains, and they are the ones who cause the summer sudden storms, and can also cause hailstorms, strong winds, dense mist, and other bad weather that leads to problems for the fields.

The story says that, around the year 1000, the simiots were out of the forests and ran wildly in the Tec valley, terrorizing the villagers from Arles: they attacked humans, took their children to eat them, and caused droughts, storms and hail that destroyed the harvests. Desperate, the abbot from the Arles monastery, who was called Arnulf, went to Rome to find some relics that could protect the town. He asked the Pope which saints could protect them from simiots, but the Pope did not know what these are and could not give an answer. Arnulf went to the catacombs, where many martyr saints were buried. He said a prayer and then saw how two tombs started glowing: the tombs of Saint Abdon and Saint Sennen. Arnulf followed this divine sign and got the Pope's permission to take the relics. To keep them safe during the long trip, he hid the bodies in a metal box, and each metal box inside a wine barrell filled with water.

He arrived by ship to Cap de Creus and made his way up on a mule to Arles. On the way, all the simiots they encountered ran away. When they reached Arles, he opened the barrels and then all the simiots yelled with a horrible sound and ran away.

Arnulf gave water for all the villagers who were there, and everyone who was ill and drank from that water got cured. The relics and the remaining water were placed in an old 4th-century sarcophagus that was in the town. A long time later, the relics were moved elsewhere, but the miraculous water still springs from that sarcophagus.

The simiots were banished from the area, but in 1465 a shepherd from Montboló (town near Arles) saw two witches invoking the simiots to cause a storm. He quickly went to get the Saint Abdon and Sennen relics and managed to stop the new catastrophe. Ever since then, every year on July 30th, the inhabitants of Montboló offer a 20-meter-long bee-wax candle rolled on itself in the shape of a wheel (rodella). They take it on a procession from Montboló, crossing the forests, arriving to Arles.

That day is a holiday with music and dancing, people buy little rodelles, and there are religious ceremonies. It's still traditional to drink a glass of water from the sarcophagus, in exchange for a few coins for the church. This water is said to be miraculous and medicinal.

Photos by Jordi Borràs Abelló published in La Mira. Information from festes.org and the book Mitologia dels Països Catalans by Daniel Rangil and Laia Baldevey.

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Valentine

Died: 269

Feast day: February 14

Patronage: love, youth, happy marriagesSaint Valentine of Rome was a bishop and martyr of the early church. Not much is known about him, except that his relics were found in the catacombs and an ancient church was dedicated to him. Tradition has it that Valentine cured the blind daughter of a Roman judge who along with his household, was later baptized. St. Valentine married couples, going against the edict of Cladius II. It was said that on the day of his execution, he gave a note to his jailer’s daughter that he cured, that was signed “your Valentine”. He’s pictured with birds because birds start pairing in February around his feast day.  

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

[facts-i-just-made-up]

hey can i get some sweet sweet facts about ireland?

The sweetest fact about Ireland is of course, Cadbury.

In the town of Coolock is an unassuming building with the word "Cadbury" on the side. This is where the first Creme Egg was laid. With a chocolate shell and albumen of pure sugar, the Cadbury Creme Egg is not only the sweetest thing in Ireland but the sweetest object known to humankind, ranking over 95,000 Beetuses on the Wilford Brimley Memorial Scale.

The mystery of what laid the egg remains to this day. Once claimed to have been a rabbit, gorilla, or golden goose, genetic analysis of modern eggs suggest that the egg laying being has not only crustacean, but reptilian and annelid DNA. This suggests the existence of a proprietary, genetically engineered egg laying being, developed by Cadbury in the depths of Spike Island's catacombs, where it has been fed on the bodies of martyrs since the pagan days of yore.

Though nothing else is known about the creature, known by cryptozoologists as the "Cadbeest," the Cadbury Creme Egg is unquestionably delicious, and slightly less than 80% likely to result in its offspring bursting out of anyone who eats has eaten one, an event predicted by the prophet Chocoladamus to occur on St. Patrick's Day in 2028.

[classicalcanvas]

Title: Martyr in the Catacombs

Artist: Jules-Cyrille Cavé

Date: 1886

Genre: Religious Painting

[omgthatdress]

In Kirsten’s Surprise, Kirsten surprises her family with a St. Lucia Day celebration, a Catholic holiday so popular in Sweden that even the Lutherans kept celebrating it. St. Lucy of Syracuse was a 4th century martyr who brought food to Christians hiding in the Roman catacombs. To light the way and keep both of her hands free, she wore a crown with candles in it. Modern-day celebrations have young girls wearing white dresses to represent the baptismal robe, and a red sash to represent St. Lucy’s martyrdom.

(Nordiska Museet, credit @in-pleasant-company​)

If you want to make your own St. Lucia buns, which represent the light of Christ, here’s a recipe!

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Bejeweled skeletons, 12 martyred saints from the Roman catacombs, 17th century.

[elixir]

In the Waldsassen Basilica in Waldsassen, Germany, the halls of the church are lined with an unusual sort of decoration. Known as the “Holy Bodies,” they are the skeletons of Christian martyrs who were exhumed from the catacombs of Rome between 1688 and 1765.

more photos here.

[milksockets]

early christian martyrs from the roman catacombs in memento mori: the dead among us - paul koudounaris (2015)