#not to mention the religious symbolism god grief

[threefuckencrowsinaleatherjacket]

Is anyone gonna talk about Rapture by Blondie and Ronan Lynch or do I have to do everything myself around here

[cloversnstrawberries]

platonic!yandere!alastor & 1950s!teen!gn!reader ! ! [chap. one]

series masterlist !

description; You know where you were, and there was no kidding yourself on it. After taking in your surroundings, you stood from where you'd woken up and headed out of the patch of stinging nettle. You didn't know what your plan was, but it definitely wasn't to get stalked and subsequently chased by a very tall, inhuman deer-man.

additional notes; woo!! this chapter introduces alastor, but it's pretty much just at the end. reader does not have a good time. have you ever been stung by a stinging nettle? i haven't, but i saw my brother get stung on his leg by one and. and it's such a funny yet terrifying sight to see a 6'1 20 y/o scream like a banshee and run around like a mad man because he brushed up against a plant. it's not fun (he told me so himself). i hope you enjoy, i, once again, had a lot of fun writing this!! there might be typos to begin with, but i'm usually much better at catching them after publishing fics (i don't know how it works D:) so i'll probably be coming in and out to fix them :]]

warnings; general terror, anxiety, isolation, lots of religious references (enough to be tagged)/mentions of sunday school, mentions of death + death of friends, grief, reader is terrified for their life, gratuitous use of symbolism done by yours truly, being 'hunted', Alastor is referred to an 'it' (this will change in the next chapter when he introduces himself), and let me know if i missed any major ones !! :D

w/c; 3.0k

You just sat there for a while, looking around. There was no trace of whatever had killed you, whether you’d succumbed to the blood or the unspecified brain injury you definitely sustained-- there was no lingering lightheadedness or nausea.

Physically, you felt… fine. Your mouth felt crowded to the point of discomfort, your hands felt quite heavy because of the claws now adorning the ends of them--

And you’re pretty sure you’d landed on your tail. Yes, you have a tail. At first, you couldn't believe, that you'd fall down into hell and suddenly gain a tail; but you’d shifted around and pulled the large, furry mass from where it’d been pinned underneath you.

There was no beating around the bush with it, you had a tail now; and you were pretty damn accepting of it.

…Or you were just too tired to care. Not physically so, but mentally. You could hardly believe it, that in such a short amount of time, so much had changed.

One moment, you’d been happily hanging out with your friends, and the next you were in a car accident, hunted down the spoiled brat that caused it (because God knows he would’ve gotten away with it on account of his filthy rich folks) and slaughtered him.

With that in mind, you completely understood why exactly you were in hell, surrounded by a bunch of stinging nettles-- you looked down to your left, having felt something brush against your hand. It didn’t feel like stinging nettle at all.

When you looked down, you saw a small patch of 4 Zinnias. One was yellow, another orange, then a hot pink, and the last a bright cherry red.

You don’t know what it was about those flowers, but something stirred deep in your in response. Those were their colors, you’d realized. And maybe it was just one big coincidence, a fluke that the yellow was the exact shame shade of the cardigan Lorraine had been wearing. Or that the orange reminded you of Rudy’s carrot-top hair, or that the hot pink was exactly the color of Marnie’s cat eye-framed glasses—

Or that the red was awfully too close to the color of Matty’s Chevy convertible that he’d so lovingly named “Sheila”.

It was silly that spotting the flowers was what got you to stand, to finally get off your ass and leave the field you’d woken up in. But no matter how silly the reasoning was, at least you finally stood, right?

You considered being slow with it-- it'd be leagues safer then just yanking yourself upright and immediately heading out. But you weren't really thinking clearly on that end-- you just wanted away from the flowers.

It was stupid. It was stupid, the unease you felt because of those-- but something in the back of your mind reminded you about unit you'd done in home economics the year prior.

You don't know why it was required by the curriculum to learn how to pick just the right flowers for a gift (in the case of the boys in the class), or to decorate your home with (regarding the girls, which you thought was ridiculous that there was a separation between the two, but you could do nothing about it). You thought it was a little silly, but your teacher at least tried to make it entertaining.

She included a mini-history lesson, something that brought back some of the history parts of the etiquette unit done the previous semester. The Victorian language of flowers,

You couldn't remember what zinnia's represented, but you don't remember it being anything good. You think it's something relating to grief, and at that point you put a hard stop to anymore prying into the subject.

When you stood, you stumbled a bit. For a split second, fear shot through you-- were you still affected by the brain injury? did that carry over, and you just hadn't noticed until you stood suddenly?-- but those fears were replaced with annoyance at what you figured out to be the actual cause.

Weight distribution and whatnot, you weren't used to your ears being on top of your head instead of the sides-- so that messed with your balance just as much (or perhaps even more) than having to readjust for the added weight of your tail.

Luckily, you caught yourself before tripping face first into the stinging nettle right next to you. You'd put your foot down quick, just a hair away from brushing up against the plant.

"Shit!" You tried not to swear too often, but you felt like it was appropriate for the situation. You were quick to take a few steps back, relieved that you hadn't touched the plant.

One time, when you and your friends had been at sleepaway camp right before the start of freshman year, you and your friends had came across a patch of stinging nettle, smaller than the one you stood in now-- but still pretty sizable.

Rudy, ever the class clown, said he bet 10 bucks that he would jump into the nettle. Matty tried to discourage him, and Marnie had already preemptively turned her gaze away and covered her ears, readying for when he'd start screaming his head off (and boy, did he scream).

Lorraine was always the smartest, most level headed of the group. Though, at that point, she wasn't as used to Rudy's antics as the rest of you were; she took him up on the bet, thinking it'd make her an easy 10 dollars. That Rudy would chicken out.

He took off his shirt and jumped into the patch. It was awful, he'd jumped up almost immediately and started running like a bat out of hell-- he screamed so loud and so blood-curdlingly that camp counselors barreled to where your group was, afraid that someone had broken a leg or something of the sort.

When they got one look at the angry red welts on Rudy's back, they rolled their eyes-- you're sure they'd encountered more than a few risk takers that'd done close to same thing as Rudy had.

Rudy was always one to play up things for the laughs-- but that was one of the few times you were absolutely certain he wasn't doing anything to make it seem worse. It looked awful.

You weren't too keen on trying it for yourself, thank you very much. Eyeing the plant wearily, you made sure to steer as clear as possible of it as much as possible.

While you'd been sitting, you'd noticed a path right near where your head had been laying. You turned that way, and looked at it-- real closely, this time around.

It was pretty narrow, all things considered, but it was doable. It stretched on pretty far, but-- and this might be perspective, but it didn't seem that way-- it looked like it gradually widened about half a mile down.

Sure, it wasn't ideal, but this was hell, after all. You'd take what you could get, and you really didn't want to stay in this patch for any longer. You didn't know if hell had a day/night cycle, but if it did, and it turned to night-- you're sure that wouldn't spell anything but trouble for you.

Honestly, you could've probably walked straight forward-- like a normal person-- but for some reason, that still felt too close for comfort.

You felt something brush against your leg, and it didn't hurt-- but you didn't know how fast a nettle's sting settles in, so you snapped your head down and--

Huh.

Your tail-- which, you knew that, realistically speaking, it would move. Considering it's just another limb-- was swinging in agitation, and you hadn't meant to do it.

With a frown, you came up with a quick solution. You scooped it up with one arm and held it close to your chest with both. Then, not wanting to waste another second in this open field, you turned sideways and started cautiously making your way down the path, being painfully careful as to where you put your feet, or if you felt even a teensy bit off balance.

By the time you got to where the path widened-- thank God, you thought; even though He definitely had nothing to do with this strike of unexpected luck-- you took a chance and turned, no longer feeling the need to move sideways.

Most of the time, your eyes were focused whole-heartedly on the ground. Tracking where your feet were, if the path started narrowing again-- all of that fun stuff. But you made sure to look up a couple times, and look behind you as well. Just to be careful.

You don't know how long you'd been walking for. It must've been a while, probably a couple miles-- the sky was getting darker (and you mentally noted that hell did in fact have a day/night cycle. isn't that just swell?) and your feet were starting to hurt.

It felt like a miracle, that right as you started to get a little reckless with your footing-- hunger, exhaustion, and discomfort being one of the main sources of you being less and less cautious as the trek through the field wore on and on and on-- the end of the path was within sight,

However, it was a forest. Not a smart idea to go into-- even if it was day, the large trees would probably block any light from filtering through the leaves. You were certain it'd be awful in the dark, and all you had was the clothes on your back.

It was getting cold-- which surprised you. The temperature before was far from pleasant, it was what you'd expect from hell more or less. Scorching, to put it lightly; but it didn't affect you too badly-- maybe on account of your new biology made to better suit Hell's climate--

But it was cooling down, and it was cooling down fast. A shiver ran up your spine, a soft breeze turning into raging, cold wind that seemed to blast you from every which way.

In Sunday school, they didn't talk about hell much; it scared the kids, the idea that them, or a loved one, could go to such an awful place. It was a necessary evil when it came to discussing anything relating to God, however.

This... hell, it had to be hell-- felt worse then what you'd learn about. You've been here for hours, and have encountered not one person. Not one thing, nothing but plants and the fear of expectation.

This can't be all there is, rang out in your mind. It was terrifying, that hell seemed so similar to your time alive. A day/night cycle, temperatures that changed (even if it was from uncomfortably hot to uncomfortably cold).

As you thought about it more, you decided that maybe this was hell, your own personal one. You'd lived your life as someone who held friends and family in high regard-- you much preferred a night in than out, always opting for a cinema over a drive-in movie; but bending to your friend's wills if they so demanded.

To be stuck out here, in an unfamiliar field where there was no sign of someone-- something else, no trace that there had ever really been anyone else-- with by far one of your least favorite-- if not the least favorite-- plant being all your eye could see.

When you made it to the edge of the forest-- a nice little 'peace zone' between the nettles behind you and the foreboding, dark forest ahead of you, where there was just grass. Nothing more, nothing less-- you contemplated not going in.

Maybe... Maybe instead of a one-size fits all fire-and-brimstone, closed in with a bleeding stone ceiling and chains hanging down, the sound of screaming, tormented and damned souls being the only thing you could hear-- it was much more... personalized.

That seemed so, so much scarier than anything you learned in Sunday school. If you got a choice, you think you'd pick the other, only because it'd be predictable. You'd know what to expect.

And now, and you stand in front of the daunting forest ahead-- you find yourself torn between two worlds. On one hand, you can just stay here in this field. It's safer, if only by a little-- because you've been here for the past however-many hours, and not much had happened (save for a few close calls with the nettles you were carefully skirting around),

Still, staying out in the open didn't bode well in your mind. Going into the forest wasn't any better, it was just as scary as the nettle patch-- except for the fact that it was far more unfamiliar.

You must've stood there for at least 10, maybe even 20, minutes before finally making your decision. It was getting colder and colder-- you looked behind you, and despite how freezing it'd become, there was no frost covering the plants behind you.

Right. So, no 'hell freezing over' kind of situation. The temperature was just always set 100, whether that be in one direction or the other. Fine-- that's fine, i can deal with that you told yourself, crossing your arms over your chest to try and conserve what warmth you can,

Before stepping into the forest. The path had let right to an opening, a trail leading through the woods as well. You had full intention to follow it the whole way through, not wanting to stray off if possible.

You kept looking behind you, seeing the dim moonlight coming from the entrance growing further and further away-- when it was no longer visible, you swallowed hard and focused your gaze ahead.

This was fine.

You can deal with this.

This is just dandy, swell-- amazing! You're fine, you're okay. You aren't hurt, there's nothing behind you, there's nothing watching you, nothing hunting you despite what the deep-seeded prey drive in the back of your head tried to tell you--!

Snap!

You tried your best to not look back, but it was getting harder and harder as the moments went by. There no other noise, save for crickets chirping, and fireflies buzzing by (though, they didn't look like any fireflies you'd seen before, not while alive), and your own footsteps and shallow breathing.

Then, you stopped dead in your tracks. There was a fork in the path-- one leading down a steep hill, the other turning sharply into a more densely populated part of the forest. It was impossible to see all the way down the hill, or through the trees.

You stalled, not a smart choice, but... you didn't know what to do. The hairs on the back of your neck stood straight up, posture becoming more hunched as the cold feeling of dread curled in your gut and refused to leave you alone.

It went quiet.

Entirely so.

No crickets chirping, no fireflies buzzing, no wind rustling the trees-- nothing. Your ears began to ring oh-so suddenly, and you flinched. Clapping your hands over your ears, childishly hoping that'd fix-- or at least help-- the ringing in your ears, that was getting so loud you felt your brain starting to rattle in your skull,

You squeezed your eyes shut, pushing and pushing and pushing your hands harder and harder against your ears, and at some point, it seemed like you were trying to crush your skull into pieces out of pure desperation. Desperation for the ringing to just stop already!

Just when you felt your head was about to explode-- or implode, maybe; considering how much pressure you were putting on it-- the ringing stopped.

A hand was on your shoulder, but you didn't feel it settle there. You don't know long it'd been there-- it's a hand, you know that much. It was large, and clawed, and bony-- it didn't feel like a person's hand, so much as it felt like the hand of a monster. The kind that you'd ask your mom to check under your bed for as a small child,

Before you could properly react, besides the way your blood seemed to turn to solid ice in that second of realization and your eyes flying open, another hand-- just like the one on your shoulder, grabbed one of your wrists-- delicately, almost gentle, but a hidden threat lied beneath it-- and pulled it from your ear.

"Hello, my dea--!"

You turned around, and all you needed to get you rushing past the- the creature, the man(?) that stood before you was to realize just how tall it was, the antlers adorning it's head, it's red eyes that seemed to glow all on their own--

and oh.

oh god, those teeth, bared in what you assume was meant to be a friendly smile, but got horribly twisted upon execution-- it's mouth could be considered more of a maw then anything,

Before it could get another word, before it could even finish its damn sentence, you ripped your hand from it's grip-- it was loose, easy to pull your wrist from its clawed hands--

And swerved around it, taking off the way you came. You didn't dare look back, your tail trashed wildly with anxiety-- surely getting sticks and leaves and burrs stuck in it all the while, but you didn't care about that right now,

All you cared about was getting away from whatever the hell had just approached you.

A foolish, almost naive part of you assumed it wouldn't follow you. That it wasn't that interested in you, or that it'd already got its fun from spooking you like a flighty rabbit.

The laugh that seemed to trail after you, seemed to worm into your very head and make itself a nice, cozy little home right in the back of your mind-- told you otherwise.

It dawned on you, maybe a little too late, that this was probably its intention. To get you to run, run like a rabbit being chased by a hunter-- knowing that if it turned around, if it looked back for even a second; it'd be staring down the barrel of a shotgun, one held by a man with a trigger finger when it came to things like rabbits.

You were being hunted.

Pretty fitting for your first night in hell, isn't it?

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@diffidentphantom

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[purplelupins]

Lamb

|Midnight Mass|

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Father Paul Hill/John Pruitt x fem!reader

Word count: 12k

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation,angst, murder (hello have you seen the show?), mentions of s*ic*de, drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

Notes:

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It took your last bit of energy to tell Father John to leave you alone…that it was his fault. Your vision was fading fast; you had lost enough blood that you were dizzy, but your fear and exhaustion had your brain forcing your body to shut down out of self preservation. As darkness gripped you, you heard the Father shift away from the small door and then your head thumped with his heavy footsteps as he walked away.

Maybe he finally listened to you.

Maybe he would actually leave you there to slip into a comatose state and let you die just to hide his sins.

Your eyes dropped shut as you listened to muffled voices. Angry voices. You smiled a dazed smile, and the last thing you could understand was something about limits. You didn’t care what he said…not then. All you felt was dizzy darkness that was making you float.

It was so calm you didn’t want to give in to that nagging feeling of uneasiness. But that nasty emotion was battered away with a serene humming all around you.

You felt like you were a baby again…you wondered if your body was making you remember being cradled by your father. Was this death? Reliving your entire life in mere minutes before your soul left your body. As you felt yourself being held gently, you relaxed even more when the serene sound of low humming lulled you back into that darkness until you were asleep again.

That was all there was until your senses began to return to you one by one. You were somewhere soft and warm. It smelled familiar but not familial. You ached…and your tongue felt heavy. Breathing felt as if your body was operating manually; difficult and jaded.

Your eyes cracked open, and you slowly took in your surroundings as your consciousness sharpened. It had been a few times now that you had awoken in that bedroom, and each time it became more and more unwelcome. You pushed yourself to sit up and winced when you tried to inspect yourself; your neck and shoulder and jaw hurt something terrible. All at once, you were bombarded with memories of the bite. The panic you had felt in that moment as that man’s teeth had sunk into you returned as you went ridged in the bed. Did you die? Had you been turned?

Your eyes flicked around the room anxiously to ensure you were alone. It all felt akin to waking up as a child from a horrible nightmare, and even though you knew you were safe in bed, you anticipated monsters and ghouls to crawl out to capture you. But after a few moments of staring at every shadow and and corner, you decided that you were indeed alone.

You pushed yourself out of the bed, and timidly padded over to the small table by the window where you saw a pair of scissors among discarded gauze. At one time you might have thought things through a little more, but you were on your last nerve, in pain, and cornered, and you were beyond thinking. You crossed the small room to the cracked door, and pushed it open the rest of the way as quietly as you could.

You saw the back of Father Pruitt’s black halo of hair where he sat on the small couch.

He greeted you- that low timbre of his voice resonating inside your ears far more comfortably than it should have. Without another thought, you threw the scissors straight at him. It missed the back of his head, but you saw the stripe of red that was left on his ear after it ripped through his lobe.

John barely flinched. Pain had become something he was used to, and feeling your wrath was something he had to do.

“I apologize for the…” He said as he turned to you and stood, “The suddenness of everything. I hope it didn’t startle you too much.” John gestured to you.

Your mouth opened with some prepared reply, but then when he looked at you, you snapped your mouth shut. Your brow pinched in confusion, and you looked down at yourself. There was nothing that stood out to you, but then you noticed the change in your attire. You didn’t wear pants and a t-shirt to bed typically. And you particularly remembered being disappointed about how your nightie had been soiled by the blood.

And you were clean.

Oh…

Oh…

Oh god.

Your heart began to thud in your chest.

Why were you clean why were you changed why-

As you came to each realization, you returned your gaze to the Father, and he saw every ounce of shock and contempt there, “You- what did-“ you started, trying to find the right thing to portray your feeling of violation, “You- you took off…You washed me? You washed me.”

John shuffled a step and reached his hand out slightly to you, “I’m sorry…this thing is, you were quite a mess after your attack and you needed the rest…your clothes were soaked in blood and I just-“ he began to ramble.

“Wanted to help.” You finished for him.

Just like he always said.

The good Father nodded, but didn’t move any closer. It was as if John could sense a shift in you then. How your rage seemed to almost boil over as you stood there in his clothes, smelling like him, in his home. It was all too much after what had happened. What he had done. The life he took from you. The people he took from you.

You clenched and unclenched your hand.

Impulse took over, and you lunged towards the fridge, swiped a magnet off of it and threw it right at the imposing man before you. It bounced off his chest.

John sighed. He knew you needed to work through this.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you-“ he started again.

You threw a cup from the counter at him. It hit his head and toppled to the couch. Father Pruitt flinched slightly at the knock, but continued nonetheless.

“- I know you likely will decline, but …I think it would be best if you stayed here unt-“

The spoon you threw at him hit his arm, so you threw a knife too- it cut his cheek. You found a pot lid and threw that too.

It missed.

“-until you heal fully and I hold a town meeting with everyone.” John finished and closed his eyes as he found his patience for you.

He knew you heard him. Especially when you started throwing objects in rapid succession.

And the Father let you.

He could see the tears starting to pool in your eyes; he could practically taste them. Your suppressed emotions surged to the surface of your heart and exploded out of you in pandemonium. Everything you had wanted to do since Easter came out of you.

After several minutes, you slowed your attack. You stood only a few feet from him now after making your way along the kitchen counter to launch various debris at him, and his immobility only made you angrier. If angry was the right word…unsettled, frustrated, scared…it was all muddled together with guilt and grief and you found you didn’t know what you felt anymore.

When the older man didn’t move or even try to reason with you, you pushed away from the sink behind you and walked to him and slapped him square across the face.

Silence rang in your ears.

Your hand stung.

Did he even feel anymore?

The action seemed to stun both of you; you a little longer than he. John nodded as he blew some air out through his nose as if he finally understood something.

You needed to hurt him. And to John, he felt a great sense of peace in that.

“Go ahead.” He murmured to you.

You stood there, head craning up to look at him. For a moment you thought he might be patronizing you. then it was like every bit of restraint left in you ebbed away. Your hands balled up and began beating on him anywhere you could reach. You hit him and hit him and he waited. John watched you patiently, taking even breaths as you shoved at him and beat his body that wouldn’t bruise.

Your hands hurt. They likely sustained worse injury than he did from your hits.

Then all of a sudden, you stopped.

Father Pruitt watched as you sunk your head down, leaned your forehead against his chest, and sniffled. Wet patches began to dampen his shirt, and Father John had to suppress a sound of surprise. When you didn’t continue, and didn’t move away, he raised his arms from his sides, and wrapped you in them. His hands clasped together around your back like a bow keeping you tied. To the Father’s surprise, you nestled deeper into his embrace. Long, shuttering breaths wracked your chest against his that would catch in your soft throat every so often.

John was terrified he might do something or accidentally say something and break you out of your moment of submission. He closed his eyes and breathed in the calm. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had let him hold them so intimately.

Even when he and Millie reuinited after Easter…they never embraced for long. Over the decades, the closest he had come to embracing anyone would have seen when he consoled someone as they grieved. Perhaps it had been when you had let him dance in your living room…yes that must have been it.

John knew that the last time he had sat privately with Mildred when they were young they hadn’t embraced…it had felt like more of a meeting than an ending of a…whatever relationship they had had. Sneaking around when the island went to sleep. Hiding away during the storms…little touches when they passed eachother. Best friends in another life.

Now here you were…this sweet little young woman with hands holier than his; a man who had sworn a life dedicated to God.

He felt envy…among other things.

Yet another sin, but he couldn’t help it.

John knew that he had a tendency to ramble or fill space with words- an attribute he had learned over the years of being a priest. So he decided not to push anything in such a precious moment. He eased a hand up to your head and drew you closer into his chest, and softly shushed you. He hoped he resembled more of a man trying to comfort a young woman, but somehow he knew that his arms encircling you and that low hum of his voice soothing you was more akin to a hunter about to snap it’s prey’s precious neck.

The older man pushed that ill acknowledgment to the back of his mind.

“You’re not alone…you never will be.” he whispered into the crown of your hair after a long ten minutes of embracing you.

You sucked in a steadying breath.

“I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying, Father…” you replied, a small tremor in your hands as your temper settled under his touch.

He shrugged a little, though not condescendingly.

“It’s entirely up to you.” John sighed, “Only you can decide if loneliness is a blessing or a damnation…”

He was with you. There with you.

A long silence stretched on, then you sighed softly into his chest, and the warmth from your breath blossomed across his chilled skin under his clothes. The sensation made John’s hair stand on end with delight. You were trusting him.

It took two more minutes of contemplation on your part before you said anything. That question that had been on your mind since you woke up close to an hour ago. The question you should have asked him first. Now it prickled up the back of your neck begging to be asked.

“Am I…” you tried, but it was so quiet, “Did I…?” You couldn’t get the words out. You sighed and your shoulders sagged.

“Father am I a…?” You prompted him and looked up for any confirmation or denial.

John searched your eyes for just a second then he realized what you were asking.

“Wha- No!” He whispered almost relieved, “No you didn’t get-…you…you’re fine.” His hands squeezed you tighter as if to reassure you. Maybe himself, too.

You nodded and slowly pulled away from him; your arms hung limp at your sides. You stared up at his brown eyes that looked darker now than they used to.

You jumped when you felt his thumb wipe a few tears that fell. You hadn’t even noticed that you were crying again.

“My dear girl…You’re going to be fine…you’re alright.” He murmured to you.

And for the first time since Easter, you believed him.

And you wanted to.

Father Pruitt sighed and swallowed on the thickness in his throat.

“This…this is my fault- my fault and I-I see that now. It was always about God but it…it all went wrong, so wrong…” he whispered reverently as he remembered how long ago you truly had been okay. John’s eyes held yours as his voice broke.

“It did.” You agreed in a lofty murmur in an attempt to keep any more tears at bay.

He twitched a smile, but forced it away. He didn’t deserve to smile.

You looked down a little, then ventured a glance up as you spoke. “You…I think…I think it would just be best if you maybe revised the descriptions of angels in any of the holy books before jumping to conclusions next time, Father.” Your mouth twitched just as his had. You pursed your lips to hide the bitter amusement that pulled.

Father John breathed out some air he had been subduing.

“I think that would be best.” He nodded, and felt his heart soar at the sight of you accepting him a little. A fragile little bit. Precious.

The two of you stood silently in each other's space as you both seemed to bask in your current truce.

It was you who spoke first.

"I...I'll go home." You said, yet somehow it sounded forced. Rehearsed. You were so used to saying it and needing to get away that asking him if you could stay felt wrong.

It took him off guard, and he deflated a little. But he understood. He didn’t like it.

“You know you’re welcome here, sweetheart…” he reiterated, and offered you a small tight smile that he hoped hid how badly he wanted to beg you to stay.

You nodded, and fiddled with the edge of your- his- shirt. “I know…”

Another moment pulled on, and John was near to sinking to the floor for an answer.

“Can I make you coffee? I still have some I think.” He asked gently. Would you agree? If you did agree was it a sign that you would stay?

You wanted to shake your head, not wanting to ingest anything that wasn’t yours, but a fresh cup of coffee did sound like a godsend right then. And while you were still a little weary of him…you were willing to give him a chance. One.

“Okay.” You said.

John tilted his head to look at you a little better as he was flooded with joy.

“Yes? Good…good.” He hugged you again, but released you almost immediately. He was growing a little greedy with touch.

You fidgeted with your hands and stared down at how clean your nails were. Had he done that too? The skin on the soles of your feet almost itched and made you shift from the amount of attention you were receiving. Months of isolation could do that to a person.

“How do you take your coffee?” Father John asked as he pried himself away from your air. You shifted a little on your feet and told him how you took it, and he grinned- pleased that you accepted his offer.

Have faith…

That was what he told himself then as he watched you from the corner of his eye. He needed to have faith in you, and you in him. He needed to nurture the little faith you had left in you. Help you to thrive.

John knew he had to work slowly and steadily with you. He needed to remind you that he did have good in him, and that he too had once been a lamb just like you. Just another soul looking for salvation. Sadly he had thought he’d found it in a cave. He hoped you might find some semblance of salvation in him.

The anxiety you had felt upon waking still sat at the base of your skull and made your hair stand on end. That little voice of scepticism tickled your ear and made you shutter; you inched your way as little closer behind him as he filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Watching.

John knew you were staring. You might have been the sweetest lamb in his flock but you hadn’t always been the best at being discreet. With your excitement, and your distain, your curiosity and boredom. At least not with the Monsignor. Evidently even now it was a force of habit that you let yourself be a little more honest around him.

When you saw him cross his arms as he waited, you stepped away and began picking up the various things you had thrown his way. The scissors, knife, spoon, recipe book, pot lid, among others. When you came to a mug you had hurled at him, you picked it up and meekly handed it to the man. He took it with a small smile.

The kettle boiled and steam made your cheeks flush from your spot beside the good Father while he poured the scalding water. John looked up at your watchful eyes, and his nose twitched in regretful humour. He wordlessly took his hands away from the small coffee press and began rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, then showed you his empty, innocent hands.

“Nothing but a morning brew I assure you.” The older man said calmly.

The reassurance he offered you did little to cub your hesitation. You sucked in a breath and sighed. “Do you blame me?”

You had gotten so used to being weary around him that you were half expecting him to slip some blood into the strong drink.

He blinked and with missing a beat he said, “No.”

It seemed the two of you had some sort of unspoken understanding then. He wouldn’t hurt you and you would let him take care of you. You nodded your head, and turned away to pad over to the far wall to busy yourself with what books he had on his shelf. There were a few new ones you noticed.

Then your eyes slowly travelled over to the window, then to the newspaper clipping on the wall. You walked to it and stared at the grainy, youthful face that stared back at you. The same man who was behind you making you coffee.

You nearly hit the ceiling when the glass caught the reflection of the same face right behind you. You spun; startled at his proximity just a couple feet away.

“Sorry.” He said with a quick and slightly awkward smile as he offered you the cup. Those sharpened, white peaks poked out when his lips pulled back, and you were forced to remember that night again; the sounds still clear in your ears as islanders unleashed hell on one another.

You took the cup slowly, and gazed back at him for a moment before finally taking a sip. There was no metallic aftertaste. You sighed and closed your eyes. You needed that.

“Thank you.” You murmured to him, which he returned with a nod.

Tension kept you rooted to the spot, but you eventually managed to take a couple steps away, and gingerly moved past him to sat down on the small couch.

John didn’t want to crowd you too fast, and so stuck to picking up any remaining objects from earlier and washing a few dishes that had laid in the sink.

It was so quiet. While you were used to silence, you were not used to silence between people. You had been begging for an opportunity to talk to someone and here you were with exactly that, yet as fate would have it you couldn’t think of a word to say.

So you said the first thing you could manage.

“You swapped the cassock for jeans, hm?” You asked. It was stupid, but it had been something that made you shake your head with bemusement for months.

The jab at him made Father Pruitt’s brow jump and the lines beside his eyes deepen. Your humour had always been a welcomed companion even when you were little.

“Defiantly more inconspicuous.” He said, pausing to look back at you.

He missed you.

“Sure had everyone fooled…” You murmured. But he heard you…of course he heard you.

John pursed his lips and sighed quietly.

There was so much resentment and hostility inside you, and John knew that he put every bit of it there himself. You wouldn’t trust him on your own; you needed that guiding hand like he always had offered you. This time, he supposed, he faced the possibility of being nipped.

Father Pruitt was aware that you didn’t know every series of events following the vigil. You had run so fast and so far…so determined to stay alive. A crying lamb scattering away from the sharp blade that marked its fate with a red line.

The older man smiled bitterly, then moved slowly towards you.

“Can I sit, young lady?” He asked, coming around the edge of the small couch.

You watched him for a moment, then nodded and tucked yourself into one end of the couch to put space between you.

But then when John finally looked at you, he didnt know where to start.

You waited for a minute. When he still hadn’t spoken, you stared down at your coffee and blurted out another statement that had no rhyme or reason.

"Quite the cult following you have." You said.

Oh well done.

Months of loneliness truly had disintegrated your social skills.

But John’s head snapped up, and he laughed at the suddenness, "For a little while, yes...I did…I…the thing is, I thought it was their ability to hear God through me but…turned out they were more interested in what I had to say rather than God himself. They...they don't consider me much better than Judas now though and admittely I don’t blame them." He weaved his hands together in his lap and looked up at the ceiling.

You were surprised at the admission, "What do you mean?”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “There is no short version of this for me to tell. But I’d like to tell you…” He said, leaning forward onto his knees, “Properly.”

You shifted a little at the seriousness in his voice, but supposed every story had a few sides to it, “Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” He said genuinely, “I’d like to start…I’d like to start from the beginning…”then he paused and thought, “No, no that’s not right. I’d like to start by saying that…you have every reason to resent my actions, and me. But I think it’s only right that you know everything.” He nodded to himself.

You looked down at the coffee in your hands as he spoke, but once he stopped, you slowly looked up at him. He was staring at you intently, as if gauging where to start. There was so much he needed to tell you and so much he wanted to tell you. He needed to tell you how utterly devastated he was by his selfish actions. He needed to tell you that he had been a coward for most of his life. He wanted to tell you that he missed you. He wanted to tell you that you were what kept him alive.

He supposed there was time for everything.

“When I was young…” he started quietly, “I was in love with a woman who I could not have…not that I’m supposed to have any- well, she was married. She was very devout to the church…a regular just like you were. Her husband was in the war and…she was alone…so alone…we…we let our feelings grow…I gave in and -…She had a daughter by me…Sarah…she had my eyes-“

“Doctor Gunning?” You blurted out, then your eyes widened,“You and Mild-“

“Yes.” He said absolutely, “Our lives were spent staring at eachother from across the church while I watched our daughter grow and I couldn’t even have the courage to come down and tell her…not until it was too late. Sarah…” he sucked in a breath as his throat tightened, “Sarah was shot…She died that night…Millie she…she was distraught in every sense. I tried to give her this gift of life so we could try together and it went all so wrong and it was only me to blame.” You watched him speak, and watched tears well in his eyes. You didn’t know he could make tears being what he was…but here you were with the man who had baptised you, weeping.

He swallowed and gathered himself, “Beverly she…she spun everything out of control. I meant what I said when I first came here, you know? That I’m-“

“-only here to help.” You echoed him.

He looked at you a little relieved that you were there with him.

“Yes. Yes exactly- I meant that. I told lies, but that was not one of them.” He assured you, “All I wanted was to help. To fix the mortality that keeps us from living every chance we desire…take something off of God’s hands but even saying that now out loud it’s foolish. I was foolish because God does not need help He is above help and only needs us to follow his will and somehow I thought I knew better. As a priest, I am supposed to let God speak through me, but at that time I was speaking for Him. Creating my own message…so clouded by this gift given to me that I couldn’t listen…and He was telling me to stop. But I didn’t.”

You didn’t say a word, and he continued.

“Then Bev she…I thought she was doing good and helping spread this gift and spreading the good word…but she…no she was even more clouded than I was. She spun everything until it was all so so wrong…she unleashed a living hell onto the rest of the island. Screams…God help me so many screams that night…”

“I know.” You choked out as you both shared the memory.

“And then it was quiet. So, so quiet. She wanted me to chose who lived and who died. She said it was always going to be me who chose and I realised then that she was no better than the pagans worshipping idols and false prophets…she had put me in ranks with our Lord’s messengers and sought to give me power that no man should be trusted with. As the sun rose, the island hid inside the rec centre and St. Patrick’s…but when the people needed aid and guidance, she made an enemy of herself. It wasn’t a week before the people turned on her and locked her out as the sun rose…now they govern themselves. I- I believe they resent me. We still hold Mass, but it’s so fascinating to witness the shift of a persons perception of you even if it is negative. It…it is…different. I pray that in time they will see that my intentions were only good. That I was merely lost.” Father Pruitt trailed off, and clasped his hands together- squeezing them as guilt gripped him.

“You…” you sat up, coffee gone cold ages ago as you tried to process everything he had told you. “You wanted to give yourself another chance with her…you just…wanted…to help.” You said, mostly to yourself, but John nodded.

“I did. I still do. Only now I truly mean it when I say I am merely a servant of God…to God. My guilt follows me everyday until I am ready to meet my fate…decide it is my last day and I feel the sun for the last time.” His voice broke and he stared at his loosely clasped hands, “Until I am…set free.”

You placed your cup down and settled back onto the couch. You knew this could all be an elaborate lie to manipulate you. You weren’t stupid. But when you finally looked over at him, there was such a startling vulnerability there staring back at you. Like he was baring his soul to you.

“She was your best friend, wasn’t she?” You asked slowly, shifting your gaze to a crack in the floor. “Mrs. Gunning.”

A smile twitched at his mouth, “A lifetime ago…”

You weighed his words, and thought.

There had been so many times now where he had failed to lend his help; that cumulated with his ability to twist words and situations to his betterment did not provide him with the most wonderful track record.

“You’ve lied to me.” You whispered.

“I did, yes.” He replied. Honesty. Have faith.

“You…you manipulated me,” You swallowed, “When I trusted you.”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse with regret. He wanted so badly to tilt your head to look at him.

“You regret it.” You stated.

“I do. Every day.” He shifted a little closer to you. So minutely. Just a little bit.

“Can you help me?” You asked quietly.

At that, his head perked up, and he finally caught your eye. “Anything.” He meant it.

You were everything now. Perhaps you had been everything all along.

You considered your request carefully.

“Can you stop them?” You were meek and didn’t expect much. Honestly you were expecting him to give you an answer that would make you want to ask more questions.

As you stared back at him, you felt as if he was taking you in for the first time. Like he was memorizing every ounce of you that he could see, and you felt suddenly very aware of your skin and your hair and the teeth in your mouth.

John considered what might happen if he stood up for your absolute safety from the rest of the community. Many of them had become domesticated and had settled into their existence, but many were still resentful, vicious creatures of his own making. And in their eyes, you were their forbidden fruit. Perhaps you would become even more enticing to them with his authority over you. Regardless of the steady supply of blood to the island, he knew they craved the warmth of a live body to suckle. He was beyond well aware of the craving because, admittedly, he too coveted your tender flesh. John so wished he was far above such vulgarity, but he still found himself having to remind himself that you were sacred. Untouchable. That he was not to pin you down under his weight and expose your neck and bite into your fragile skin…

It would be a lie if he said that there weren’t nights where he was particularly hungry and he didn’t find himself imagining smelling your hair as he drank from you…he had gotten lightheaded by the thought alone and prayed for the remainder of the night.

But John had control.

“I can. Yes I can help you.” He nodded, “I’ll need your faith though.”

You stared at him. He knew exactly what you were thinking, and it pained him. John took your hands in his, and knelt down in front of you as he spoke.

“One more time. I promise…just one more time.” He assured you.

You pursed your lips, and vaguely looked out the window.

“I can’t keep doing this…I’m…I’m so exhausted.” You half laughed out of spite.

Father Pruitt nodded.

“I know…I’m so sorry I know you are.” There was that break in his voice again. Like he was on the verge of tears. “You are on such a higher level than I am in God’s eyes. He sees you and He is testing you. And you…you are doing so well.”

“I don’t feel like I am, Father.” You weren’t sure why you were being so honest. There was something magnetic in the man that pulled your heart from you so carefully that you didn’t even feel it.

“Tell me what you feel.” He squeezed your hands. You twitched at the contact, having not touched anyone for so long. His hands were soft…so soft.

You were nervous to open up to him completely.

John could almost feel your apprehension.

“Please, I am the one who put you here in this situation, in this…life. Please make me know your pain.” He whispered.

You looked down at your joined hands, and bit the inside of your lip to keep from crying.

“Tell me what is happening to you.” He urged you one more time in a whisper. And you felt a single tear fall from your eye and onto his thumb. He wished he could encapsulate that tear and keep it- precious.

Your last bit of restraint crumbled under his desire to help you.

“I…I feel washed out from the shore,” you choked out, “Like…like no matter how hard I try, I get dragged back out by a squall that just wont stop. It doesn’t matter how many times I gather my strength…I can’t get back. I feel like I’m in some foreign land and no one is there. And all it’s going to take is one wave that’s a little too big and a little too strong that I won’t be able to get over…and I’ll be gone. Lost under the surface.” Another tear fell onto your hands.

Father Pruitt stared at you, barely blinking as he regarded you.

“Giving in sounds so much easier than whatever it is I have to do everyday.” You shook your head; you hadn’t said any of these thought out loud, and now hearing them made your heart ache even more.

It would be a lie if John said he didn’t know how you felt. There had been many a time where he considered giving in…burning. But each time he would remember you, and how cowardly he would feel if he abandoned you there. He would see that photograph that sat in your hallway of you on Easter as a child in his mind and manage to make it through another day.

“I remember your baptism…” John said after a moment, “You hated it…” he laughed a little, “But when I gave you back to your mother you were fine…resilient and glowing. I have faith that you will weather this. The waters may be stronger, but you’re still that same soul.”

You felt your tears fall, “This time you can’t hand me back to my mom though.” You laughed a little at the ridiculousness of it.

He sighed and looked around the small house for a moment then moved and sat down beside you, and opened his arms to you. You eyed him wearily, but he only waited. He had done the same gesture to you many times over the years. Helped you when you had slipped and scraped your knee, or when your father lost his temper when you got ice cream on your dress on Easter…when you got sick and missed Mass. Always gentle and paternal, but not nearly as intimate as this. Your soul was bared to him now. It was no mere injury or heart ache.

You were grieving.

And he would guide you through it.

You took a deep breath, and scooted closer to him. You felt one of his arms wrap around your shoulders, and draw you into his chest. Your shoulders were ridged for a moment, then as your anxiety waned, and he drew small circles on your back with his thumbs, you relented. You timidly brought your arms around his shoulders and what was meant to be a hug turned into you clinging to him.

“I hate you.” You mumbled. It wasn’t a lie. Not a whole truth either but it was the only thing you could get out.

The Monsignor sighed out an amused breath. You could truly be so curt when you wanted to.

“Hate is such a strong word…used to express how despicable and irredeemable a person is…and I understand. I’ll admit I’m not my biggest fan either.” He agreed.

You laughed.

It was pained, but you laughed.

You sunk into his embrace a little more, minding your neck and shoulder to not disturb the injury too much. He nosed your hair, and settled into the cushions with you in tow.

Your heart clenched when you tried to recall the last time you had been embraced by someone for so long and unrushed. You only grew sadder when you truly could not remember.

You didn’t know when you fell asleep. What you did know was that you were opening your heavy eyes, and your body was warm and relaxed. You slowly took in where you were, and found that you were still in Father Pruitt’s arms.

There was a rumble against your ear, and you noted that it was him sighing. Your hand was gripping his shirt like a lifeline, and he still held you to his chest. And oddly enough, you felt safe. Wrapped in the embrace of the person who terrified you. Friends closer and enemies closer you supposed.

You slowly pulled away from him, and looked up at his face and he stared down at you. Your noses brushed for a moment, and you felt your breath hitch. He didn’t dare move- like a hunter about to shoot his beloved doe.

“Don’t leave me.” You whispered, warm air wisping against his lips.

He knew it then just as you knew it.

You were lost without him. And not in a way that made you reliant on him for your saving, but instead made him responsible for your healing.

“I won’t.” He murmured earnestly. He would always be a part of you; he had single-handedly etched himself into your life, and even if you left him right in that moment…he would somehow still be with you.

You pursed your lips, and fought the sting in your eyes as tears threatened to spill over again.

Then just as you started to pull from him and stand, John spoke. “Stay…” he said almost pleadingly.

You paused and looked at him as he rose to stand with you.

“Please, just…just for a day or two, you’re not fully healed.” He added, shifting a little as he stumbled over his words, “ I need…I need to speak with the town too…I may not look it anymore but I’m still their elder and they will hear me.”

You paused.

Redemption. You were letting him redeem himself in someway. His offer, while likely coming with good intentions, still made you nervous. You knew what they were like when they were hungry. And Father Pruitt was turned for longer than them, so either he had better control than the rest or he was even hungrier-

“You will not be harmed here, I swear.” He said, “I want to help you.”

You stared up at him, still thinking. You wanted to be helped…at this point you needed it. You were losing yourself completely to solitude.

He whispered your name.

“I need- need to help you. You’re lost…you said it yourself- how hard everyday is for you…and I have to take most of that blame. The thing is, I gave you so much security and assurance when I returned that now you cannot move on from this traumatic point in your life without my help. Let me help you…I know the horror you feel there in your heart- I- I saw it all too. Felt it. No one else could do that for you. Let me help you.” He whispered, hands coming to rest on your shoulders as he spoke, “Please…I need to.”

You bit at the side of your tongue, but found yourself growing weaker in resolve; you weren’t sure if it was from the wound still closing on your shoulder or from the way his dark eyes entranced yours as he spoke to you like you were the most important thing in the world in that moment. But the desperation in his voice ensnared you.

“…Okay.” You whispered back.

John nodded, a rush of air spilling from his lungs.

“Thank you…” he whispered back, and pulled you close, one hand on the back of your head, and the other around your ribs; careful to not disturb your wound, “I’m…I’m going to take care of you.”

Those words alone had your nose tingling as tears began to rise to your eyes, but you sniffled and fought them back.

The remaining hours of the winter daylight were only a few, and you spent them wrapped in a blanket that smelled of the man sat at his desk.

A respectful distance away from you.

Old fashioned.

You laughed a little to yourself when you looked at him so concentrated in his grey jeans and sweater. You wondered if he was more vibrant when he was young. Or was he always an old soul at heart?

“Old man…” you breathed out absentmindedly into a cup of broth he had made you.

“Deprecation is not in good manners, young lady.” He murmured back to you, and you nearly choked.

You forgot that he could hear the tiniest of whispers.

“S-sorry…it just…funny to see Monsignor Pruitt in jeans.” You said, cheeks warming.

John grinned.

“Ah…yes well…I can’t say I’ve worn them since I was a young boy…always saw the young parishioners wearing them by the 80’s and I always wondered what drew people to wear them so often…I won’t lie they are a little stiff at first.” He said in good humour, looking up from his writing.

You held his gaze for a minute, then nodded, “They suit you, Father.”

Your comment caught him off guard, and you chose to let him sit in that slight discomfort. So instead of saying another word you just smiled a little then turned away from him and nestled into your blanket a little more.

A half hour passed before either of your spoke again. This time it was he who approached you.

You were nodding off when you heard him walk over to the couch and crouch in front of you.

“We gotta change your dressing.” He whispered gently, patting your knee. His eyes flickered over your face as he tried to discern how you were feeling. What you were feeling.

You drew your heavy eyelids up and curled in on yourself, “Can we do it later?” You mumbled- already half asleep and so comfortable that you finally knew what those cinnamon rolls you used to make felt like.

“I know…I know…c’mon, hold onto me.” He slipped his hand under your blanketed legs and hoisted you up to walk you to the bathroom. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and buried your face there.

“There we go…good girl, just sit there for me and I’ll be right back.” He sat you down on the small counter, and retrieved the gauze from the bedroom before returning to you. You peeled your eyes open to watch him work. He snipped the fabric to have it ready quickly, then took a deep breath before gently removing the medical tape that kept your old dressing in place.

“Father it hurts…”You hissed a little at the sting and ache of the wound and how some of the gauze was stuck to the edge of the wound and pulled.

“Shh…shh…there you go,” he cooed to you. You then heard him swallow as the bite was exposed.

“That bad?” You asked.

The good Father blinked and took a steadying breath, “No- no not at all. Healing well actually…just…uh- just it- well…it’s- you’re doing good.” He stumbled over his words as he cleaned around the skin.

You looked up at him now, and he seemed to catch your sobered expression.

“I’m fine.” He said reassuringly.

And you nodded.

“I’m going to take care of you.” He repeated, then tossed the bloodied wipe into the bin and began bandaging you up.

“There you go…good as new.” John didn’t smile; he was almost looking for your approval. Still uncertain. He was almost waiting for you to say that you had enough and that you’d leave. But it didn’t come.

You nodded and let him help you into bed, and he felt a little reassured.

But then as he went to go after bringing your blanket up to your neck, he felt your hand grab his sleeve, and he paused and knelt beside you. Your eyes were closed and your breathing was already slowing.

“Thank you John…” you whispered.

The older man felt tears well in his eyes, but he swallowed and leaned his forehead to your hand.

“I will make this right…” Father Pruitt said quietly to himself. He watched you fade away, and found himself tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear before leaving you to rest.

You slept well into the evening, long past sunset.

When you awoke, the room was dark aside from the sliver of light from the cracked door. You blinked slowly, willing your weariness to go away as you slipped from the bed and to the floor; the cold wood sobered you a little as you padded to the door.

“You must be hungry.”

You jumped at the soft voice from the kitchen.

You pushed the door open and meekly looked out into the main room- your eyes adjusting to the light.

John was stood over a small pot that he stirred occasionally on the stove. It was only then that you smelled that he was making, and your stomach growled in recognition of food.

John hid his grin well when he heard your hunger.

“My mother used to make this all the time when we needed some healing…physical or mental…tell me if it needs anything I…I can’t really taste it.” He said gently, raising his bowed head to look at you. John stood with a spoon full of the soup as he waited for you to decide, and he felt a swell of pride in him when you slowly started to walk to him.

You tried to hide the fact that your stomach was doing flips at his gesture. You couldn’t recall the last time someone had made you food.

“Open…” He breathed out, and you parted your lips; his eyes caught your pink tongue just inside your mouth as you accepted the spoon. A detail he didn’t know what to do with.

You let the taste fill your mouth.

It was good.

Really good.

You swallowed and nodded, “Thank you…it’s really nice. Just a little more salt, please.” You wrung your hands as you spoke.

The older man nodded, and watched you turn away to sit on one of the chairs in front of his desk. A shiver ran through you then, and you sighed as you begrudgingly went to stand to retrieve a blanket.

John turned to bring you a bowl of soup, and quickened his steps when he saw you getting up. “What do you need?” He asked.

“I’m just a bit cold.” You said, and went to move past him but his large hand caught your arm.

“Sit, I’ll get you something.” John sat you back down and placed to soup in front of you while murmuring something about the liquid being hot. You watched him disappear into his bedroom then reappear just a moment later with a pair of thick socks, and a blanket.

“Oh thank yo- …Father what-…” you went to take the socks from him but he knelt in front of you and tucked the blanket around your hips and thighs, then began putting the socks on your feet like it was the most normal thing in the world.

John’s eyes caught your surprised stare, and blinked up at you, “Eat up, sweetheart or it’ll get cold.” He hummed.

You felt your ears grow warm, but you didn’t dare open your mouth to protest and tell him you could take care of yourself. You also decided to ignore the warmed that gathered behind your navel. So without another word, you turned and began to eat what he gave you. You sighed as it went down your throat; you didn’t know how you had managed to make it this long without some kind of human connection.

“I have Mass tonight.” John said and he stood and sat behind his desk- sorting through his papers.

You looked up from your bowl and nodded. Your anxiety rose slightly at the prospect of being alone after what had happened.

Evidently he heard your heart rate spike, and his focus broke from the papers and jumped to you instantly.

“You will not be harmed. It will only be a couple hours. I have the only key to the rectory after Bev- after she…passed. I’ll be speaking with the island tonight…I put in a word for all to attend tonight.” The priest spoke earnestly.

You peered up at his direct gaze, and sighed then nodded. “Okay.”

He returned the gesture, “Okay.” He whispered.

You watched him gather his things, and found yourself surprised by how your eyes followed him around the modest house as he readied himself. You startled yourself with the realization of how attached you were becoming to his presence, and you quickly looked away from him.

John sighed and grabbed his notebook then came to crouch down in front of you. “If anyone knocks, go into the cellar…if anything happens, open the back window and you come to me.” He said firmly.

Your eyes flickered between his, “Okay.”

He grinned a little and patted your cheek lightly, “There’s a good girl…eat, and have more water.” He pointed to the kitchen and you watched him leave. The lock clicked into place.

You felt alone again.

Although this solitude was not altogether uncomfortable. Just quiet.

You could hear voices approach the church and wander nearby. Unease churned in your guts as they drew close, and you chose to relocate to the bedroom. You filled another bowl of soup and shuffled to the back of the house where you cocooned yourself on Father Pruitt’s bed. A wince escaped you when you laid down wrong, and you rolled your shoulder to try to ease the pain. It was more of a dull ache now that throbbed every so often.

You downed the soup, and curled in on yourself. You wanted so badly to shower…to brush your hair and feel more like yourself. You felt far more exhausted than you should have; you wondered if the bite had come with some sort of poison that your body was fighting off.

Sleep took you before you could stop it. It wasnt until you felt a large palm against your cheek that you started to wake up. You nestled into the hand and burrowed yourself deeper into the pillows below your head.

Then you could hear your name being said softly.

After several minutes, you cracked your eyes open. When you did, you were given a bit of a fright.

John was leaned over you just a foot away as he tried to rouse you from your sleep. What startled you however was how the light from the living room caught his eyes and made them glint in the darkness like the cats that used to populate Crockett.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and backed off a touch, “It’s been a few hours…just need to check your dressing.”

You sighed and while you truly did not wish to move from your spot, you did not want an infection in the middle of winter.

“‘S okay…”you mumbled as you got up.

Father Pruitt gingerly pulled your shirt’s neck down and removed the bandage. You were healing, slowly.

“Father?”

John blinked and looked at you, “Yes?”

“Could I take a shower?” You asked. It had been almost two days, and you could feel yourself growing itchy.

The older man ground his teeth for a moment at his lack of care for you.

“Of- of course. The uh…the bite is healed enough that you can wash up under warm water.” He began looking anywhere but at you as he was reminded of how he had cleaned you.

You nodded and slipped past him into the small bathroom, “Um…do you have some clean clothes?” You asked timidly. You hated that you had to keep asking him for help; John on the other hand was elated.

“Y-yes just let me…um…” he began searching through his clothes and found you some pants and a shirt that would likely be warmer than what you had currently. The pants you would likely have to roll up.

You found a little amusement in how he seemed to be so uncomfortable; it wasn’t that it was sweet or gentlemanly, it was that you had been so distressed for so long because of him, and you enjoyed seeing him in the same position.

“Thank you.” You said, and left him there to wash yourself.

John released a breath that relieved a little of the pressure on his chest when you closed the door. He needed to do more than his best for you, and you seemed to be very aware of that. Knowing that you needed him to be better made him unable to relax. John knew he could be cowardly, and selfish, and very wrong, but he was going to do his damnedest to be more than his mistakes and sins. Even if it was the last thing he did.

When you returned to the living room, you found Father Pruitt standing with the rectory telephone pressed to his ear as he looked out one of the windows. You felt your stomach sink at the thought of him telling anyone you were there. But then again, they likely already knew.

“Yes…yes it seemed to go well…blunt or not, they needed the line drawn. No, just wait. I wou-…y/n, it’s okay, sweetheart, you can come out.” He called to you as he paused his conversation.

You timidly shuffled out the door and peeked over at him. He held his hand out to beckon you over as he hummed and mumbled a few things over the phone. You padded over to him, and he kept his gaze trained on you once you came within reach.

John reached up and tucked a few hairs behind your ear and touched your chin gently, “Good…and they understand?…good,” he said, “Yes…she’s strong. Alright. Take care.” He extended his arm to place the phone back on the receiver, and sighed, “Annie.” He said.

Your heart squeezed, but didn’t say anything.

“She’s worried about you,” John hummed, “I spoke to the island last night. Instilled the fear of their god into them lest they touch you again.” His voice lacked any malice or anger, in fact it was very calm, but there was no hiding how tight his jaw was.

You nodded, and tugged at the blanket you had wrapped around your shoulders.

“Father?” You asked him.

“Hm?” He hummed.

“I want to take a walk.” You said.

John stopped looking at your bandage and focused on you, “I don’t-“

“And I want you to come with me.” You finished.

That surprised him, but pleased him greatly.

“Lead the way, young lady.” He cracked a small grin.

You nodded, and disappeared back into the bedroom to find the socks he had given you and a sweater. When you returned, you frozen in your place when you saw him shrugging on that long black coat that was older than you.

“You kept it…” you mumbled.

Father Pruitt paused and looked down at himself, “Ah…yes well I suppose we all have things we grow attached to.”

You pursed your lips, and pulled the sweater you had taken a little tighter before you walked to your shoes and slipped them on. They were clean now, no longer muddy and full of grass.

John joined you by the door, and you looked up at his as he opened the door. He seemed to feel your pause, and turned his attention to you.

“You’re safe.” He whispered earnestly.

There was a calm that came over you then. You didn’t necessarily want to trust him, but you had told yourself that you would let him try to redeem himself. Trusting him was the first step.

You nodded, and stepped outside into the early morning air. The winter temperature made you shiver, but the crisp air was refreshing. You took a slow step out onto the grass, and looked back at Father Pruitt who stood at your shoulder like a guard.

A guardian angel.

You almost laughed at the thought.

He nodded, and placed a gentle hand on your back to encourage you. You truly hoped he was being sincere and wasn’t guiding you into the hungry mouths of the islanders. That this hadn’t all been an elaborate lie.

The frosty dirt and gravel under your feet crunched far too loudly. You could only imagine how loud it was for the man beside you. He chose not to comment.

John couldn’t have cared less about the sound of the road you walked on; he was far more occupied with listening for any islanders nearby, or that winged monster. He didn’t know who had done it, but whoever had cut holes into its wings had done Gods work. Forever contained to Crockett.

The two of you made it almost into town without incident. As you passed the marina, there were several old fhishermen maintaining their boats. Men you used to feed and laugh with. It look mere seconds for them to smell you and hear your heart. One by one their heads snapped up.

You could feel your natural instinct to run, but you felt that hand on your should and farm around your back that steadied you as you and the father stared back at the men.

You sucked in a breath, and turned to the older man, “I’m okay.” You said quietly.

John turned his attention to you, and his clenched jaw loosened.

The two of you moved on through the town. Left and right, heads poked out from windows and people stopped to stare at the pristine lamb walking through their den. Neither of you said a word as you passed the general store, and your old shop.

“Y/n?”

You stopped in your tracks. That voice broke your heart with just your name. You looked over past Father Pruitt, and saw Ali just several feet from you with Warren.

You couldn’t breathe all of a sudden as the memory of burying his father flooded you after so long of you praying to forget it.

“Ali.” You whispered.

The boy took a few tentative steps towards you, then almost ran to you and held you tight. You knew he wasn’t the most affectionate teenager, but as he gripped you, you could almost feel his own sorrow. You pushed the pain of the wound away even as his arm pressed on it.

“Thank you…” his voice came from your uninjured shoulder.

You embraced him and rubbed his back gently, “He loved you, Ali…he still does.” Your voice broke, but tears wouldn’t fall.

He sniffled, and tightened his grip, then slowly pulled away. You noticed how he wouldn’t look at the men beside you. In fact many didn’t. Perhaps he had told the truth about being ostracized.

“I’m sorry…I’m- I should have listened to you I’m sorry-“ he started to ramble.

You shook your head, “Ali…Ali it’s done,” you whispered, then remembered something his father had told you, “Inshallah God will have mercy on you. If I meet him before you, I’ll put in a good word.” You smiled a little, and he stared at you like you had given him the best possible news.

“Thank you…thank you.” He hugged you one more time, before you let him go, and began walking again.

John watched you from the corner of his eye every so often as you made your way through town. He was pleased that he only had to ward off a couple islanders who got a little too curious, and he noticed how you could subconsciously lean into his side when he did.

You house was always a no-go zone for anyone. Especially after your attack. That night when he addressed the islanders, John hadn’t been that angry since Easter…hadn’t yelled so venomously in so long. Now your home sat peaceful and empty.

He watched you gather the things you wanted and needed and stuffed them into a duffle. Photos and books and things that held memories or that you held dear to you. Things that could make anywhere feel like home. Clothes and shoes and snacks. You muttered occasionally to yourself, and gazed longingly at your stand mixer sitting on your counter as you passed it. You missed being you. You missed…living.

You might have stayed and reminisced a little longer, but the sun wouldn’t stay down forever. With just a few more things placed into the bag, you pulled it over your shoulder and walked back to the door where a Father Pruitt stood waiting.

He extended his hand out to you, and you stared at it a little confused, then he nodded to your bag, “I’ve given you enough of a burden to carry in this life.” John didn’t wait for you to hand it to him- he slipped it off your shoulder and onto his like it weighed nothing, then opened the door for you. You grabbed a coat off the pegs by the door, and slipped it on over your borrowed clothes.

Your fingers ached from the cold as you walked back across the island. You buried them into your pockets, and kept your gaze ahead as you went. Just as before, several heads turned as you went by. Your stomach hurt when you saw Annie standing with Ed in their doorway as you passed by. It had been almost 10 months since you saw them, and now you almost felt estranged.

You had begun to notice that whether you wanted to acknowledge it or not. But you truly didn’t belong anymore.

As your journey passed by that gap in the brush by the shore, you paused and began towards it to visit the halo of stones. You crouched down onto the cold earth, and placed your hand over the now-framed photo of Hassan and Ali on his grave.

You sighed, and looked up at the dark sky, “Put in a good word for me, too.”

John swallowed any words that tried to worm their way out. He didn’t deserve to comment. Instead, he stood by and watched you wipe off your knees as you straightened up, and continued on.

The two of you began to come up to the rectory, but then just as you went to turn down the path, you stopped again. You thought for a moment, then turned to the Father.

“Can I take you one more place?” You asked.

“Of course.” He said, and quickly placed your bag inside before joining you again. This time, you continued on past the church and towards the other side of the island.

You slowly led him out to the Uppards, and you walked him over to a patch in the grass that you now knew well. You sat, and patted the spot beside you, “Sit.” You said.

John took the place next to you, and stared out at the water.

“This was where I sat that night.” You said into the wind, “Waiting…”

John watched you, pain clinging to his chest. He had wondered where you had run. What shelter you had made for yourself.

“I tried to keep Leeza and Warren safe, I really did but…it just wasn’t enough,” your broken whisper came out in puffs of vapour. You could feel those emotions you had been certain were guarded start to rear their heads.

John so badly wanted to comfort you…to offer something. But your heart was racing and your breathing was heavy. You needed to say more and he wasn’t going to deprive you.

“He-…” you tried, “He was a good man, Father. Hassan just…he just…wanted some place quiet and safe for Ali…he died being hated but he deserved so much more. Ali deserves so much more and you took that.” Your cheeks warms as that rage began to seep into you.

“I did,” He said finally, voice hoarse, “I did take that and I’m so…so sorry and I wish I could give it all back…” he shook his head and looked over at you as he spoke. You met his gaze and pursed your lips, “There are no words that I could say now or in a hundred years that could express my sorrow to you.” He spoke earnestly.

You sighed, and stared at him, “And what about me?” You whispered.

His breath caught.

“What about me, Father?” You asked.

He thought for only a moment, “I took so much from you…I think the only thing I didn’t take was your faith. I told you…that night…to have faith. The thing is, you do have it. Your ability to believe in good and better is…astounding. You are…so good. And I hurt that. I cannot tell you how guilty I am. I was greedy.” John said honestly, “With so much, but especially with you, I was greedy. They say God mends wounds in time- physical, mental and emotional…but I would place no blame on you if you didn’t heal from what I put you through. You were so bright…so loved…just…Lord so beautiful. So beautiful inside and out and I was a coward for much of my life trying to hide that ugliness and I envied you. I am…so, so sorry.”

The older man looked away from you to stare out at the dark water. You felt a stray tear fall down your cheek at his words. He had hurt you, but you hadn’t expected it to be more than skin deep.

“I hurt something because I found it sublime and I wanted it to last forever. I was…cruel. I was cruel. I didn’t notice the destruction that came with it. And I’m sorry.” John looked back at you, and you noticed the glassiness in his eyes. A few tears fell.

The two of you sat in silence for a few moments. It might have been an hour that passed before you slowly reached over to him and grasped his hand. He was almost instantaneous in holding it in return.

“What’s it like, Father?” You asked, and looked over at him.

He returned his attention to you, “What’s what like, little one?”

You stared back at him and took in his handsome face. His dark hair that fell a little over his forehead, his dark eyes and full brows. It took a moment of your staring for him to realize you were asking about the… “gift”.

He paused and sucked in a breath before shaking his head, “Well you…you see things you’ve never seen and heard things you never thought you would be able to…smell things you didn’t know could be smelled. I could hear the flowers blooming when I stood close enough…the world breathes. Sings…glows brighter…magnificent.” John thought aloud, looking around him until he came back to you, “But too much of a good thing is bad.” He smiled bitterly.

You blinked, and nodded.

Father Pruitt squeezed your hand, and sighed, “I may not feel the cold but you do. C’mon sweetheart, let’s get you back.” He stood, and pulled you up with him.

You didn’t protest, and let him guide you out of the brush and onto the path. He took you through the marshy woods and along the stone road until you neared the rectory. You noticed then how it was starting to get lighter out. You slowed your steps as you came to the grass, and stopped completely.

John felt you stop moving and looked back at you. His brows pitched up in confusion, “Are you alright? What’s wrong?” He asked, fearing your wound had opened up or you had gotten ill.

But you just stared up at him and waited. A beat passed between you where he looked around and inspected you, trying to figure out why you wouldn’t move, then it dawned on him. John stopped looking around, and tilted his head down to gaze back at you. Seconds ticked by and the world around you grew brighter and brighter.

And you waited.

But the Father wouldn’t move. You saw his eye twitch when the warm glow started to break through the trees.

That was enough.

You took his hand and tugged him along where he scooped up your bag that had been resting on the stoop and entered the rectory just as the sun rose. Neither of you commented on what had just happened, not that you needed to. You wanted to see if he had been truthful; did he honestly want to change and stop being a coward? Would he die for you if that was your wish…as someone who he had taken everything from and manipulated.

You felt yourself soften towards him after that night.

For once, he told you the truth.

You let him take your jacket off and watched his hands unzip it. You took your bag and placed it in his room, where you opened it up and slowly took everything out. You felt silly grabbing so many things that you didn’t need…but not having them felt stranger.

You pulled out a fresh pair of your own clothes and didn’t think twice before you lifted up your borrowed shirt.

John Pruitt, ever the gentleman and holy man, froze when he caught sight of you through the open door. He might have chastised you for being so careless if it was anyone else, but he couldn’t get the words out. He saw the curve of your back and swell of-

Turn around John.

He spun on his heel and grabbed a book off his shelf and sat on his couch, facing the very opposite of where you were. It took a few more minutes of you shuffling through your things before you padded back out to him. You passed the couch and placed a pair of your shoes by the door. John could smell your scent again now that it wasn’t muddled with his clothes.

Then you came back and plopped yourself down beside him and leaned over to his shoulder to see what he was reading. “What’s this, Monsignor?” You asked softly.

The title gave him pause and he looked up from the pages.

“It um…it’s a collection of German fairytales.” He mumbled, only now realizing what he was reading.

You leaned closer, and laughed quietly, “Didn’t know you were German.”

“Oh I’m not- it was a gift…many years ago. Decades…Christmas I think. People seem to have the idea that priests lack any fear and don’t like a nice ending for stories. I’ll be honest, y/n this book always scared me a little.” John turned the page and grimaced at one of the illustrations.

“Be not afraid…” you whispered quietly. Those words made his heart ache; words meant to help and comfort were now tainted by his own doings.

You both quietly sat there, not saying a word. As you slowly let you guard down, you could feel yourself starting to recover after months of running on nerves and willpower. Your head grew heavy on his shoulder, and John realised after a minute that you had fallen asleep. He remained where he was and shifted you so your legs were across his lap and your face was in his chest. The last thing you needed was an aching back.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

@ellies-dad-jokes @littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian @erialuna @nilla-bear @vintageglassheart02 @ethanhoewke @dancingisdangerouss @cherrysugarx @daisychainsinknots @thesoundresoundsecho

[futuremrscameron]

angel!reader

content warnings: referenced child abuse, attempted murder, religious psychosis, delusions of grandeur, mentioned patricide, chronic migraines, blasphemy, violence, blood, religious symbolism, mentions of drug abuse, breeding kink, suicidal ideation, stabbing, violent thoughts, religious imagery, toxic relationship

angel!reader technically a pogue but she lives just outside of obx so she doesn’t fit into the category

angel!reader lives in a house house that’s decrepit and falling apart because she doesn’t wanna “forget the damage”

angel!reader grew up in a small southern town with her father who resented her for “killing” her mother

angel!reader saw church as her safe place because her father wasn’t there. he was usually too drunk from the previous night’s ventures to go + he hated god for taking his wife away from him

angel!reader suffers from chronic migraines. they started when she was five and she learned how to treat them herself so she wouldn’t have to ask her father for help. she tried that once and had to sit through hours of yelling about how she “killed his wife and had the nerve to talk about her pain”

angel!reader who would ask god for guidance on what to do about her father every day. she took actions into her own hands but she would prefer to believe that god steered her to those abandoned ropes argue the church and the gasoline canister from the station. she really only counted her father’s lighter being on his nightstand instead of in his pocket like it usually is as luck

angel!reader knew she was destined for great things when the town rallied around her after the death of her father, pies at her doors, praying for her, telling her their door was always open, and offering to help clean up the damage caused by the fire

angel!reader already knows about the cross because religious items

angel!reader who gives all her money to tithe and is constantly struggling to make ends meet when she meets rafe and barry

the two men went to the house after receiving information about a pastor that knew the whereabouts of the cross of santo domingo but like many leads it was a dead end. or so they thought. the pastor, after some convincing, gave them the address of a member of the congregation that had been worrisome lately but they all brushed it off as grief.

he told them about her whispers of crosses and how she was planning on leaving he small town to find it.

when they arrived at the small house they found was a sweet looking girl who invited them inside for tea and cookies. she invites them in, tells them to make themselves at home, and disappears into the kitchen to check on her cookies.

barry knows something’s up but rafe tells him to chill and goes to look around. he finds the burned bedroom and realizes barry was right. then he hear him scream, it’s a feral, pained scream that he’s never heard from barry.

he rushes back downstairs and sees the “harmless” girl raising a switchblade over her head ready to bring it down on barry. he shoots her.

she falls on her back, clutching her shoulder, mumbling a prayer as rafe checks on barry. the stab wound is deep, he needs aid now. rafe ties the girl up, holds her at gunpoint, and makes her clean and close barry’s wound until they can get back to obx

angel!reader uses alcohol, her father’s lighter, and her sewing needle to fix barry up. she convinces rafe to untie her so he can stop her bleeding. she walks him through he using the lighter and her switchblade to cauterize her gunshot wound

angel!reader is more or less kidnapped by rafe and barry after the incident. she’s scared of dying because she believes she’s going to hell for killing her father, rafe of course uses this to manipulate her

angel!reader hates the way rafe makes her feel, she sees him as a temptress who’s trying to take her godliness (he is but not in the way she thinks)

angel!reader does not get along with the pogues. she believes they're troublemakers who have no care for anyone but themselves. the only one she befriends is pope because he's kind to her and wants the cross for "selfless reasons"

angel!reader believes rafe when he tells her they're after the cross of santo domingo to get it back to its rightful place, with the heywards

angel!reader who frowns when barry says she’s got “big brown soulless eyes” because when they met she stabbed barry in the gut and all he could do as he bled out was look at her big brown eyes staring down at him with contempt

angel!reader who feels a type of way whenever rafe calls her 'angel'

angel!reader had a breakdown before during and after rafe melted the cross

she told him not to but he wouldn’t listen. he didn’t care about his soul being damned to hell, that’s how she knew he was the devil.

when she got there he was watching the fire consume the cross with glee in his eyes. barry stood a good distance away, taking a swig of beer and shaking his head in disbelief every couple seconds.

“how could you?” barry has the decency to look ashamed but rafe? he doesn’t even look at her, too entrances by the fire.

“you knew this was coming.”

“i told you not to.”

“you should know better than anyone else, when .”

were still setting up their makeshift furnace

angel!reader swears to get revenge on rafe and barry after because they've "desecrated the cross"

angel!reader becomes a genuine problem when she visits limbrey and gets information on rafe’s potential dealings. she plans on killing anyone who plans on buying the gold pieces

angel!reader is stopped by rafe when he finds her tailing him to his meet up with a client. they tussle for a bit, she pins him down but she can’t bring herself to kill him. she sobs into his chest and asks him why he did it, why he betrayed her, why he burned the cross. it’s a ‘come to god’ moment for him (no pun intended)

angel!reader misses her church back at home so she joins the congregation of obx’s church and quickly rises through the ranks and uses it for its community

angel!reader hangs out with barry even when rafe’s not around. barry may find her scary but it’s fun to listen to her read the bible while high and if she’s in a particularly good mood shit talk members of her congregation.

angel!reader keeps rafe on his toes with her perception of him, allowing him to be seen not as a devil but as a dimmed angel. the way she sees him makes him wanna keep her all to himself, he’s scared to fuck up now because he’s scared of losing one of the few people that he has left

—————————————————————————

i hope y’all liked this one, i’ve been working on it for a while and i’m excited to hear y’alls thoughts as always feedback, praise, and criticism is welcome (keep it classy though) <3

[springsylph]

MAGNOLIA, CHAPTER ONE: “THE ROOT”

ghost x f! reader | read on ao3 | playlist

summary: your return to your coastal hometown is punctured by the sudden disappearance and subsequent death of your father. with all proof of his physical presence effaced, you resign yourself to a life of solitude. how fitting, then, that you should find God amidst your perils.

this story is 18+. minors/ageless blogs, do not interact. mind the tags!

warnings: 3.8k. dark!simon “ghost” riley. description of injuries. religious imagery/symbolism. blasphemy at some point in the near future (oops?). paranoia. mentions of suicide. familial grief is WEIRD, but simon is weirder so don't worry. 1 (one) slap. 1 (one) bug is consumed. just the one.

el·e·gy

/ˈeləjē/

noun

a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.

You happen across a snarling dog in an alleyway.

The rain is a whip, and the darkness is a yawn stretched long enough to be cause for concern; muscles are pulled thin, vertebrae begin to collapse. Appraisal will only be possible if morning comes.

Moonlight cannot reach you here—will not reach you here. The only proof of life spills out from the window of a flat overlooking the alley, yellow glow a monitory push away as your soul unknowingly pleads for scraps. It warns you of danger. A weakened liver.

Yours recalls, with a sardonic twist, that it is far beyond help. So you approach.

The instinctual flinching stops after the first three barks, but spittle and rain continue to wet your face with each snap of his maw, nerves crackling the closer you get.

At seven paces away, he stands at odds with gravity. It’s not quite sure what to make of him.

At four, the beginnings of what might be fear breach the surface of your psyche. You’ve not seen your ribs, but you think that if he were to pry you open they might look a bit like his teeth.

It’s when you’re at arm's length that you realize he’s large enough to look you in the eye.

His breath, hot against the chill, reeks of an unfamiliar intensity.

(Liar.)

You stand transfixed until the wetness on your cheek splits, and you press a hand to the divide.

Tears.

You draw in a generous breath—your first sin. It’s all rusted iron and scorched muscle tissue, adhering to your lungs like the seductive intonation of a cigarette, and you’re addicted before you can swat at the hand stuffing it down your gullet.

You’re brought back to the dog as your hand lowers, now silent beneath the spray. 

The blood matting his coat isn’t his, but how could you have known?

How could you have known?

(Blood is blood.)

Blood is blood. So you kneel on the cobblestone—-though there is no need to. The rain continues to shout, and he is ever so tall, but you kneel. Bend the rain to do your bidding with the twist of a limb. Strip down that Red luster to a blank slate, vestiges of watered-down violence running down your fingertips in a wet stream. It collects under your nails like damp earth the harder you scrub, replaced and replaced and replaced again until you concede the empty space.

(Well done, well done, well done—)

His fur is wild briar when you finally pull back; ready to burst into flames if you aren’t careful, and so stiff that your hands begin to prickle at the loss. His teeth are still bared, mouth still parted. But he is silent. Frozen in time. And you can’t help but wonder if that softness the blood had alluded to was a ruse—the slick lip of a pitcher plant punishing you for your altruism.

(Altruism. Tumbling right into the belly of the beast, unarmed. Acid burning through your credulity.)

But there’s a spot of Red, just between his incisors. 

(Is it yours?)

Globbing at the tip of your ring finger.

(His? 

Is it his?)

You reach forward. Wipe.

(Again. And again. And again. And again.)

And it is a strange thing, Devotion. If not for the slip of the blood against your fingertips, the rain blurring where one wound ends and the other begins, you might notice that Desperation and Destruction wait just outside the downpour. Patient, but still lingering, for there are things far worse than the Red that bleeds onto the cobblestone to fear.

(Dog is made man. Man is made God. Abomination.)

You reach forward. Wipe again.

And begin anew.

The symphonies composed by the houses of the deceased ought to be a case study.

No matter how softly you tread, how carefully you press the weight of your body against the wall, the stairs let out a fetid belch. An old lover—now free of all pretense and releasing the pungent smell of mildew and wood rot while you creep to the bottom of the staircase.

But the smell is hardly noticeable when set beside the rest of the orchestra’s musicians. Dissonance was a given; their only valued patrons had been the insects crawling amongst the dust until you’d discovered that you’d been named your father’s beneficiary—hardly a qualified audience. At the behest of the rocking handrail, you turn the corner. Amble into the cramped kitchen, yank apart the yellowing curtains above the sink till they grind against their rusty rods to permit the sun entry.

Only, there’s no sun today. Just as there was no sun yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Nearly a week spent cohabitating with empty threats of war. You’re trapped in the jaws of a waterlogged trench with nothing to show for it but waning patience and a stiff neck.

Outside the small window, the houses just down the shallow hill are still that same shade of diluted molasses, dulled by the awning stitched together from heavy rain clouds. The cottage isn’t quite elevated enough to see the full stretch of the ocean that lies just beyond—only small underscores between clusters of buildings and trees. The waves you can see are cleaved into wedges, crowned with white foam and kneaded into themselves by the wind. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear them collapsing against the rocky shore.

(You’re eavesdropping on your own consciousness. You were weak, then—scraped your shin after the fishing line nearly dragged you out to sea. He’d cupped the salty water to your leg as you’d wailed, thrashed, clawed at his forearms. Everything not absorbed into the exposed flesh was returned to its source, and the meaning of the word “fester” was spelled out in the days that followed: pus bulging out of what could not scab, an agonizing itch that you were not permitted to scratch. A bad omen.)

You shut the curtains.

Looking down, you manage to scrounge up a little regret over the lack of appropriate attire. Someone would nag. A funeral in a ratty sweatshirt and jeans was in bad taste, yes, but you could hardly be blamed: yesterday’s laundry still swims in the wet breeze. You make a mental note to bite the bullet and call in that favor from Mr. Davies while you pull an empty glass from the countertop and shove it under the faucet.

The pitch of the water drowning out last night’s wine lacks the hubris of its competitors. It’s a difficult admission to make, but it rings true nonetheless. Each atom that exists in this foreign plane is an affront to them—an insult. It’d likely remain that way even after the last brick sunk into the wretched earth. 

But, it’s still a house.

The house is all you have left.

Your thoughts continue to perspire, pilling up the cheap fabric of time until you feel the water curling over your hands and hitting the bottom of the sink with a splat.

“Shit, shit, shit—” You slap the lever down, dump the excess liquid down the drain. The pipes give a weak gurgle and you shut your eyes with a sigh. 

Just for today. Just for today, and you were free. Absolved of all faults.

You wet your throat with the little bit of water still left in the glass. Set it down gently into the sink. Peer down the corroded pipe and into the hells below as your fingers dig into the countertop.

It’s much easier, you find, to regret and correct when there is silence that needs to be filled. Silence to shame.

So you keep your mouth shut, and quietly consider the water amidst the noise.

Your steps down the winding dirt road are hurried, but careful.

The trees are no less curious today than they were the last time you’d taken this trek to the church; trunks held back by the dry stone walls, dark branches suspended overhead like lightning. A swampy gust of air passes through their fingertips, tangling them together in an achromatic flash of black and grey before they settle their grievances and separate. They share a common interest. 

Air on the coast is a permanent brine. The very essence of it settles on your soft palate, tenderizing your tongue till you’re on a sharp enough edge to spit a glob of accumulated saliva into a patch of grass. The mosquitoes have grown tired of you by this point. They hover over the sweat on your neck, the skin of your ankles, discomfiture evident in the irregular beat of their wings. You’ve not made a move to swat at them in the twenty-seven minutes you’ve spent tripping over your shoelaces, and it seems your tacit assent has disturbed the natural order of things.

You can't help that your mind is elsewhere. Timing your arrival and your exit requires a considerable amount of effort.

When the steeple begins to poke out in the distance, you pull your phone from your pocket. 11:43 am. Good. At the pace you were walking it’d likely be another ten minutes till you reached the main yard, leaving you with just enough time to say your “hellos” without having to linger. But just as you begin to slide your phone back into your pocket, it pings.

>> Sounds like an issue with the ventilation. Earliest I can do for you is tomorrow afternoon.

You squint. Right. You’d contacted Mr. Davies about the issue with your dryer just before you’d left the house this morning. How he’d managed to suss out the issue with your stairs from a single phone call was beyond you, but the persistence of your wet clothes had backed you into a tight corner.

But…tomorrow. Tomorrow, Tomorrow. You’re off early tomorrow—though not of your own volition. You’re halfway through typing a message of confirmation when your phone pings again, and your gut punches into your spine.

>> Can send my guy over to have a look at the cellar.

Another text comes in.

>> Emergency with the missus, won’t be back till late next week. Best to have it looked at ASAP if we’re dealing with mold.

The trees looming overhead are suddenly sharp in your peripherals. Pikes for your beheading. As you rack your mind for memories of other employees, your hands begin to feel clammy. You didn’t want someone else. You wanted Mr. Davies. And the cellar. What did the cellar have to do with the mold in the staircase—

A shout just down the road startles you. Your head snaps up and you’re shoving your phone back into your pocket when you hear your name called again.

The figure that approaches waves a hand, and you feel your body instinctively mirror her in an attempt to shelve your panic for later. Community connections are important, after all. Even when they’re breathing sour coffee into your nostrils, and their cheap red press-ons dig into the meat of your cheeks while they pinch, and coo, and squawk.

Distant cousin, aunt, family friend—you’re not quite sure yet. But she has your father’s nose and the same crow’s feet, so you suspect she’s somehow related to you by blood. And, judging by the smoldering cigarette hanging from the corner of her dry lips, she’s already well into her exit route.

“Christ, haven’t seen you since you were still running around in nappies!” She takes the fat of your right cheek into one hand and gives it another tug, using the otherwise unoccupied hand to tap her cigarette ashes into the air. “Shot up like a bean sprout, you did. I told them—told everyone, really—you’d catch up. Knew you would, eventually. They didn’t believe me, but I knew.”

Unaccustomed to the familiarity of the gesture, you stiffen in her grasp while your mouth twists between a smile and a grimace. There’s a dig nestled in there somewhere. But there’s not much time to process it; your equilibrium is tipped the moment the woman loops a leathery arm through your elbow to pull you forward, and you stumble after her as she turns to walk back toward the church. Her pace only evens out once you’ve settled in close enough to brush shoulders.

Not knowing her name is a disadvantage. The conclusion is drawn in greater detail the longer she speaks, twisting around your lungs with enough force to burst the blood vessels that reside there. You don’t know enough. Either that, or she knows too much. It should be easy enough to ask what exactly she is to you, and yet, you can’t. You’re not sure you know how. You chalk it up to her unbroken ramblings and settle for the polite choice: nodding in place of a response.

She doesn’t ask you much about yourself—small mercies. It’s balanced out by the curious glances she shoots you as the minutes slog by. But something etched into the ground must remind her of your sentience, because her face suddenly lights up as she breaks off in the middle of an anecdote to look at you.

“I hate that we had to meet under these circumstances,” she begins, voice rife with something you now can categorize as pity. The coffee still renders it rotten. “Terrible thing, what happened to your father. Can’t imagine what you must be feeling.” 

“Mm.”

You curse inwardly. Too clipped—you’ve let your frustration get the better of you. But the woman doesn’t seem to mind; she finally pulls her arm from your elbow, and you’re almost able to relax until she begins to rub her hand up and down your back. The sensation is peculiar, as is the sound of her hand passing over your sweatshirt.

“Still living in that old shack?” She prods.

Old shack, house, same thing. “I…still am, yeah.” You pause. “Why do you ask?”

“Just reminiscing, is all. It’s a good thing you’ve got there.” And her voice trails off, lost to another round of tapped ashes and shifting dirt.

You manage a nod. You didn’t have much choice in the matter, anyhow.

The churchyard comes into view soon enough. Despite how often you haunt its grounds, you’ve never had much to say about it. It’s old, you suppose. Made from stone, but more of an imprint than a structured thing now that the dense fog has settled over the cliffs behind it.

(At the foot of the cliffs is the sea, still churning in time with the wind.)

“I’m here, if you need anything.”

It’s your turn to look. She’s finally stopped touching you, both hands empty and swinging lazily at her sides. 

If you…need anything. 

“Of course,” you mumble.

You’re distracted by the hesitant timbre of an organ. Its handler is unpracticed.

“I appreciate it.”

It’s over.

You’re sitting in the very first pew. Hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes glazed.

It’s over.

You remember a few faces, more unfamiliar than familiar. Pupils had narrowed as you’d trailed in behind “Bethie.” A family friend, not a relative. The nose had meant nothing.

They’d smelled the tobacco clinging to her and laughed, sucking out the humidity that’d crept indoors like venom from a snake bite. Proximity had allowed you to reap the benefits, but not for very long. Their eyes had turned to you with the same curiosity Bethie hadn’t the wherewithal to fully disclose, but they were quick with their heavy-handed condolences in the interest of time. Another blessing.

You can remember more things than faces. Light filtering through the stained glass windows. The sound of tongues unsticking themselves from the roofs of mouths before every speech, every discordant hymn. That air of indecisiveness in knowing that the urn was hollow, that there was not enough left of the body to constitute a casket.

They express their joys, their sorrows, though you identify with none of them. There’s disbelief, too. That such a man would take his own life. You find yourself nodding along with the chorus of sniffles and sobs. Impossible. Unbelievable.

But one voice—you cannot, for the life of you, remember the face it belonged to—relied upon the poeticism of it all. The ocean had been harsh in its taking, he’d said. But your father, more than anything, had loved it. Those gathered could be hopeful in that regard. He had died at the hands of something he loved.

Everything after that was a blur. Whatever words you’d uttered during your speech were a blur. But it was enough for claps, and a few chuckles. Nothing like the laughs Bethie had prompted, but a response was a response. 

Invitations to convene afterward at the local pub are declined. You’re tired. You need time to think. You miss him.

They leave.

The nave has been emptied.

It’s over. Long gone. Downstream. Discarded.

And you’re still sitting in the pew.

You look down, after hours have passed, to find your shoelaces still untied. The growling of your stomach and the weight of your head on your shoulders fold you over, and you will your fingers to refasten them. It’s time to leave.

When you stand, it’s with a wince. You’ve tied your strings too tight. You can feel your arches pulsing in time with your heartbeat, but you can only hope that the sensation will keep you sane long enough to make it home.

As you turn to finally walk down the aisle, you’re struck by a sudden chill. Anxiety blossoms in the confines of your throat, tearing through muscle and vocal cords that are ill-equipped to handle such pressure.

It should be over.

But something has been unearthed.

Your eyes flit from one thing to the next in the cavernous space, searching for the disturbance until your eyes lock with a divot in the shadows. 

The moment you meet his stare is like flint to steel. The darkness disperses, leaving behind—

This.

(There is a dull horror here. The crepuscular noises of your residence, appearing only at night when the chill has set in and the foundations have shifted. A tree felled by a violent storm. Sinking its teeth into a house occupied by unsuspecting bodies. Time has remedied what it can, righting nature’s wrongs with roots and vegetation to soften the edges of all that has split open. Pieces of the outside world have been braided into the vines. But the more you look, the more you begin to see that it is not a braid, but a sickening tangle. Hair shorn with rusted clippers and impatient hands. A bent nose pushing out from beneath a mask. Bones, wrapped in hulking muscle. Eyes. The hint of a mouth. Was there a victor? The tree? The house? You’re unsure. But you do know that all who set eyes upon this mass have lost.)

You’re sure that he is many things. But he appears to you as a human, so you greet him as such.

“...Hello?”

You think his eyes have withdrawn under the heavy cliff of his brow bone until it dawns on you that he’s blinked. A slow sort of thing, yet once it’s over it’s as though it never happened.

“‘Ello,” he responds. An echo tinged with mockery. Flint to steel. Flint to steel. Flint to steel until there is nothing left to strike with but your bare hands.

In the back of your mind sits a flinching clock. Growing more and more anxious as the seconds stretch on. The man sits in the rear of the church, closest to the exit.  The pews reject him. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you reach for it almost immediately. Some robocaller looking to scam you out of your meager savings. You set it to your ear like a shield as you walk, measuring your steps so it isn’t obvious that you’re attempting to flee.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Over and over until his voice spears your chest in one quick thrust once you’re standing just beside where he lurks.

“You’ve been sitting there a while.” You think you can hear the wood screaming under his weight. It chokes out into a whimper when he opens a heavy thigh out into the aisle. “Believe in God, do you?”

He thinks you were praying.

“I’m just here for my dad,” you supply. You keep your eyes trained on the heavy wooden door. You don’t look, but you hear the pop of a single knuckle.

“Tha’s not wha’ I asked.”

Cheek still pressed to your phone, you gulp. You should answer, and answer only. Par for the course. But you overshoot:

“No,” you confess. Then, after a pause, “not really.”

The man hums as the rest of his knuckles pop. “Why.”

He sounds young enough not to judge you for your lack of faith. Old enough for you to recognize that he’s probably toying with you. So you throw him a bone: a saccharine pursing of lips while you “contemplate” your response. You’ve been plagued by thoughts of this omniscient stranger longer than most.

“It’s a little easier to believe all the shit luck I’ve had happened by chance.” You slide your phone into your back pocket, seeing as the poorly put together excuse isn’t working. “Someone else trying to pull my strings sounds a little too human for my tastes.”

Nerves are shoved into a cramped corner, and you shift your focus from the doors to the man’s face. Interestingly enough, he turns his gaze back toward the altar.

“Made in his image, ain’t we?”

“I hope not.”

He barks out one laugh, then another, and your body seizes up. It rattles up your spine, metal rod clanging against the bars of a cage.

You’ve met your fair share of strange men, but something tells you that you’ve bitten off more than your mouth can chew. More than your stomach can digest. More than your body can entertain.

A glance at the crack in the door tells you that the sun has been cut from the sky. It’s nighttime.

Go.

“I’ll…be off then,” you say. His shoulders are still shaking when you finally wrap your fingers around the cold door handle, prepared to walk out into the nothingness.

Only to stumble sideways when a calloused hand slams into your neck, shoulder crashing into the wall next to you and sending a spark of pain through your collarbone. One blink, and he’s towering over you. Previously dispersed shadows form a curtain around the two of you as he hauls you upright with one hand.

“Mosquito,” he says. “Nasty little buggers, hm?” He flashes you his palm as proof.

You, still winded, still lightheaded, force yourself to nod. There is no apology.

Any sense of composure you’d prided yourself on is torn to shreds when you burst out of the front door, neck still throbbing. You must be imagining things. Another bad dream, come to haunt you.

It must be.

(You’re sure of it, for no other reason than the fact that when you chance a look over your shoulder, you think you see him drag a palm over the flat of his tongue.)

CHAPTER TWO: “ROOT ROT” ->

[nynyhaha]

How Kurapika’s revenge and the Spider’s Requiem are one and the same

When HxH fans think of requiem,Chrollo appears in their head.No wonder,since it’s yorknews most memorable scene.

But what if that requiem was caused by another?

What do these events have in common?Bloodshed,revenge and grief.

Something akin to a prayer.It’s a way for the living to cope with loss and honour the dead.What is Kurapika performing if not a requiem?His whole arc is one big,prolonged requiem for his clan.

The only way to get closer to the dead is to send someone else their way,to avenge them or to fulfil their wishes.

Outlet for emotions:

By acting out the feelings of rage, closure can be found only briefly and temporarily but what else can one do?Interestingly,Kurapika gets revenge on the murderers of his people (as far as we know) whereas the Troupe takes out their anger on the broader mafia scene.

Their revenge is somewhat misplaced.That’s why Nobuanga,Uvogins closest friend,doesn’t participate,instead choosing to babysit Gon and Killua.If Nobunaga really saw the mafia members the troupe killed during the requiem as guilty,he wouldn’t have sat back and would have insisted to participate.

Then why does the troupe do this?How does their and Kurapikas revenge relate to

Feelings of the dead: Uvogin would’ve wanted this.He liked murder and he has always loved Chrollo’s shows.

Would the Kurta clan expect Kurapika to avenge it,at the cost of his life and sanity?We don’t know.

Sending a message:

Chrollo says”don’t mess with us,one of us dies,everyone around us dies.And we don’t know if Uvo can hear us,but we will play a requiem for him,showing his life was worth something.To us,it’s worth other people losing lives.”

Kurapika says”The kurta clan isn’t to be killed for eyes.We are people and I’ll force the world to see us as such.You’ll pay for reducing us to eyes”

Religion:

As said above,Kurapika and Chrollo both look as if they’re performing some religious ritual,as if they appeal to a higher power.

But neither of them mention god.Even tho both use religious symbols,it’s unlikely either one is a real believer.

Chrollo addresses Uvo directly,supposing there is some sort of afterlife and some soul that can hear him.To him there’s no higher authority than the dead man himself,it’s not about God to him

Kurapika seems to be praying to the moon,but it’s likely he believes in some sort of ancestor religion where they’re watching over him and expecting him to act in the clans interests.

There is no doubt spirituality involved,and yet both scenes would work just as great if they were atheists.

If there was a just god,they’d just have to wait for him to establish justice.But there’s no sign of that,so they’re left to enforce their own will and idea of fairness.

They’ll make the wrong right by acting in the dead person’s interest,as absurd as it may be.

After all,that’s the last thing they can do for them.

So far neither of them managed to escape that mourning period.

[bat-luun]

(tags via @encryptidarchivist)

YESSSSS i love him very much hes my darling beloved!!! <33

(ramble below cut cuz this got so long oh my god lmao - cw: suicide mention)

The tma oc is actually an au version of 'Pai Rite' (he/she)! He's player character i made while co-DMing a Call of Cthulhu campaign. He's originally from 1982 Chicago and about 28 years old. Her og lore and backstory and what played out in the campaign is rather complicated so imma leave it out. (tho i'd happy to rant about it lol-)

For the tma version: She uses her full name more often than just her nickname/chosen name; Joshua 'Pyrite' Kerr (he/she). She was born in 1978 in LA, moved to England in 1997, and died 2010 at age 32.

She is marked by both The Vast and The Spiral! (in the same way Martin is a mix of The Eye and The Lonely)

Pyrite has a rocky relationship with his parents from the start, his father was killed/taken by The Vast when Pyrite was only 17. His mother was killed by The Spiral, which triggered Pyrites leave to England to study mathematics at the King's Collage in London.

(Idk if it would really work all that well in canon but I've taken The Vast in a less 'real' direction? Like making it less of a place of endless mist or whatever but making it more like a concept?) Pyrite's father was a mathematician and investigating/trying to figure out more of the pi number. The horror of the uncomprehendable powered my the Fear drove him to insanity and eventually suicide, leaving his family suddenly and without a word.

Her mother, turning even more hyper religious than before, turned to pseudoscience as a way to cope with the grief (buying crystals and crafted religious symbols/spells to protect her, and doing other low-key paranoid superstitious stuff).

She eventually got her hands on some colorful (sea)glass shards which she hung by the windows to catch the light and "ward off evil".

The glass is an artifact of The Spiral! It slowly multiplies in numbers in the given location, and starts changing colors/patterns of objects within it's line of sight (though the owner is the only one who can see it's effects).

The longer the artifact is a set location and affecting it's victim, the more intense the distortions get (pottery/dishes "melting" or changing shape, entire rooms becoming mirrored, objects switching places with each other, glass clinking sounds being heard from every room, ...). Eventually it moves from inanimate objects to people in the victims life.

Pyrite's hair got turned a purple/pink as a cause of the artifact. Panicked, Pyrite's mother took a hammer to the glass, breaking it untill there was nothing left but dust. Pyrite found her body later that day as it was being taken away by paramedics. He moved away after that, taking a single glass shard as a keepsake to remember her by, having no idea of it's effects.

He went on to study mathematics in London and found his fathers research notes, going down the same cursed rabbit hole he did.

She did become an avatar for The Spiral later on as the artifact went on to distort any research notes Pyrite made/found beyond recognition, essentially 'winning' and making her a Spiral avatar. Pyrite died in 2010 after Gertrude and Michael stopped the great twisting. Died mad and dazed and out of breath, trying to keep her grip on the only thing that was left of her mother, the destruction of the ritual making her take her own life.

me and my best friend(one of the other co-DMs) did art of Pai Rite and his gay boyfriend Revemine for valentines day!! :D

(also tagging @horrid-mothlegs for if you want more info for when our tma ocs can hang out >:])

[zukkaoru]

for the drabble prompts: “I always thought the choice was mine / and I was right / but I just chose wrong” from the laurel hell lyric prompt list for any character(s) you want!!

i debated which character/s to write for this for a bit but ultimately i had to go with nikolai bsd because i think this line fits him very well. uhh sorry jupiter ik you don't know bsd but i have very bad brainrot. also this isn't edited bc i don't feel like it right now

(prompt requests are still open)

warnings: heavy religious imagery & symbolism, character death/dismemberment (#just fyolai things) word count: 602

.

Fyodor’s hands have always been cold. This was true when he was alive, when Nikolai grabbed hold of him and the only thing separating skin from skin was a pair of stolen gloves, thin enough to allow the iciness of Fyodor to seep through into Nikolai. And it is true now when all that remains of Fyodor is a severed arm, when Nikolai cradles the dismembered limb to his face and each finger is a lifeless icicle caressing his cheek.

This is what he wanted.

Congratulations, Dazai told him. Fyodor is dead. You did it. You killed the unkillable, you transformed yourself into Judas by choice. You brought the thirty pieces of silver to the men who wanted him dead, placed the proper tools in Dazai’s hands, and turned your back while he was crucified. You did it.

You proved your own free will.

You chose this.

Behind him, Dazai and Chuuya murmur to one another—about their friends back in Japan, about administering the antidote, about Dazai’s injuries, about Sigma. They talk about Sigma like Dazai is the only one who has ever cared about them. Like Nikolai didn’t save them from death, like Nikolai isn’t the only reason they were here and Dazai was able to use them in this game. Thirty pieces of silver. Thirty coin bombs never detonated.

Jesus was executed with two other men, one on either side, men who actually deserved the punishment they faced. To hang on a cross and slowly bleed out, nails through their hands, nails through their feet, their suffering on display for all to see.

Fukuchi is dead in Yokohama, if Dazai’s intel is to be believed. Sigma will never wake, if Fyodor’s words were true.

Which one of them begged for forgiveness in their final moments, and which died still rotting in their sins? Does it matter? They are gone and Nikolai is still breathing and this was his choice. This was his choice. This was his choice.

But Judas took his own life after betraying the one he loved.

Fyodor’s hand is cold. If he raises in three days’ time, Nikolai will be long gone. The Savior has the power to raise the dead, but why waste your time on someone who sold you out for thirty stray coins? Nikolai knows the stories; he grew up having them carved into his flesh each Sunday. He knows who lives, who is resurrected, who is redeemed. And he knows who turns traitor, then lets his grief and shame consume him, and is never mentioned again.

But Judas didn’t have a choice. Judas was merely a pawn in God’s perfect plan. Nikolai chose this.

Nikolai wanted to be free, so he took Fyodor’s life in his own hands and he made the choice and he has proven that no cage can hold him inside. No imitation of God can control his whims. He is free by no hand besides his own, but there is something inescapable forming in his chest that calls itself grief, and Nikolai is beginning to fear escaping one cage only leads you into another.

He always believed it was his choice, to bring about Fyodor’s death. He believed in his own free will, and he saw his plan through to its end. He was right—there is such thing as the existence of choice, because Fyodor is dead and his arm is clutched in Nikolai’s hands and no one sane would choose to kill the only person who ever understood them.

The choice was always Nikolai’s.

But now that the irreversible has come to pass, he fears he chose wrong.

[swearyshera]

You can't really get away from the religious / Christianity undertones with this, the "stained-glass language" as it were, but I would like to put a bid in that I think what She-Ra got at with the canon on this stuff was something of a specific form of it - a popular form, but there are actually many shades of "Christianity" out there. I've known Progressive Christians and Liberation Theology folks who are the absolute opposite of the authoritarian views. (There are LGBT+ ministers out there, in liberal churches, is what I'm saying). There are also people like me who are ex-evangelical, but who kept certain aspects of the belief system to become Progressive / go our own way. Granted, the authoritarian types, the Evangelical-authority structure that Prime represents, they don't think of the "liberal" or "leftist" Christians as actual Christians and tend to gatekeep authors and speakers out of "Christian" venues. (It's basically the reason like Rob Bell, a pastor who wrote a book arguing that Hell doesn't exist got drummed out of mainstream theological circles, to say nothing of what they do to LGBT+ believers and allies). I am sorry for rambling, but this is a long-term interest of mine. I'm an ex-evangelical in a long deconstruction. I've also been going through a fresh round of the Deconstruction That Never Ends as a part of my grief-process (I'm the person who lost a loved one this week, previous ask), so it is on the forefront of my mind. I just... in response to others, I do want to put in a word that describing Prime's ways as symbolic of "Christian" is... not inaccurate at all and is very on-point, but to warn that to fall into the trap of* all* things under the broad "Christian" banner are emblematic of that is kind of like saying "All Muslims are ISIS" or "All dogs are Dobermans." I do think the "Christian Left" needs a new name because "Christian" is essentially ruined, but we have not found it yet. All Dobermans are Dogs, but not all Dogs are Dobermans, I guess. I find, personally, that Prime represents a specific thing. He's the God who is worried about what's in your pants. He's a God who believes that suffering purifies. He is the God who will send you to Hell for not living to his perfection. Some of us who believe in a higher power and might even still call ourselves "Christian" for lack of a better, modern term stopped believing in that God long ago. (And want to murder him with as much extreme prejudice as future-Hordak with neck-grab strangle abyss-drop). You can guess at what scene I am most looking forward to in Sweary She-Ra. Make my boy Hordak shine. _freedfromthegalactichivemind

Nate has said a couple of times, I think, that Horde Prime and the whole storyline surrounding him was inspired by his own evangelical upbringing, so it's very much not a coincidence that much of Prime's world is a reflection of that particular type of Christianity. Personally, I grew up as Roman Catholic, which is a rather different type of Christianity to Evangelicalism, so this kind of outward, 'repent or go to hell' preaching is a little alien to what I'm familiar with. But there are still parallels.

The reason I haven't explicitly mentioned religion in the comic is twofold. The first being that I just don't have enough experience with the type of Christianity that Prime represents to make it (for want of a better word) faithful. It would either be a poor imitation or an exaggeration. And yeah, religion means a lot to some people - I mean, this is tumblr so you could all be out there like 'God is dead and I killed her', but I think there's a chunk of you who don't want to see the sledgehammer 'Religion bad' message it would end up as. The other reason is that I don't have an axe to grind against religion - I'm not religious now, but I've never had reason to say 'the church is awful and we should take it down'. Maybe I'm lucky, I dunno. So I focus here on the things that I do have stronger opinions about - the rise of anti-lgbt hate (shown in Prime's story), and the importance of persevering and showing that it really does get better if you just hold on (shown in Catra's).

And yes, Prime does represent that specific type of God used to strike fear into people to obtain obedience and compliance. And this scene, the 'purification' is a perfect example of that. I genuinely don't think Prime is too bothered by Catra calling Hordak by his name, I don't think he needs to go through the whole memory wipe thing for that. He does it as a show of power to scare Catra into obedience and compliance with his wishes. It's bad enough at face value, what Prime does, but when you consider that he's needlessly torturing a living being as a threat to someone else... ugh, that's utterly horrific.

Anyhow, I am not nearly knowledgeable enough to be debating religion and its portrayal in SPOP. All I can do is tell you things from my point of view and how I reflect them here. But one thing's for sure, I think we're all looking forward to Prime's defeat!

[catholic-saint-tournament]

Can I submit Our Lady of the Snows and the icon of Our Lady of the Rainbow (v. Controversial, so I get if you don’t want to include it)?

Our Lady of the Snows is most welcome! As for Our Lady of the Rainbow, I had to do some digging and theological reflection. More under the cut.

On its face, I assumed our Lady of the Rainbow just referred to a random image of Mary with a rainbow. With the mention of controversial, I looked a bit deeper and I think you're referring to the Black Madonna image that was redesigned with a halo, with a specific nod to the LGBT community.

I am very torn about adding it to the nomination list. Let me tell you why I'm not making a decision about it just yet.

First, I'm trying to keep the bracket to what is canonical. For Marian images and apparitions, I'm sticking to ones that are approved by diocesan bishops, if not the Vatican. This is why Our Lady of Medjugorge isn't being included - there are a lot of question marks around that apparition or set of apparitions and messages. I haven't been consistent with this in the past, which I acknowledge now - see St Guinefort and Santa Muerte, neither of which are really saints in the Catholic tradition. Our Lady of the Rainbow, as it is, isn't approved by the Church, local or global, so that becomes an issue.

I have no objections to the image itself OR what it represents. Jesus and Mary have always reached out to those on the margins, the oppressed, the poor, and the outcast. An image that is 'offensive' to one set of people is uplifting to another; the cross used to be seen as a symbol of degradation and humiliation for the Roman empire, but is now seen as a symbol of the hope of the resurrection. I don't see a problem with having a Marian image that reflects the lived experience of LGBT folks and affirms their human dignity.

I'm torn about the way the image was brought into Polish Catholic circles. On the one hand, the Polish government is clearly in the right here; I don't find a Madonna image with a rainbow to be offensive or religious mockery. It would be if someone spray painted dicks onto the painting, but that's not what happened. I'm frustrated by the bishops' overreaction, which then fueled more antagonism and made it a long, messy legal battle that was ultimately pointless. Dialogue should've been the bishops' response, but as a theologian, I understand why the bishops didn't do that. That's just not how things change in the Catholic church, especially in corners where clericalism is a big deal.

At the same time, theologians in the last 100 years have worked so hard, often being censured or disciplined by the Church, for proposing ideas that border on 'unacceptable.' Take, for example, Elizabeth Johnson's Quest for the Living God, which was lambasted by the USCCB. The USCCB isn't perfect, but they're not the worst (I've heard some ultra conservative Catholics say the USCCB is too liberal and infiltrated by demons, wtf). But Johnson, left leaning, feminist theologian, went through the ringer for that book. I assign passages regularly for my students. Johnson's text is accessible and I find nothing wrong in it. There was polite dialogue between Johnson and the USCCB regarding the book, with ultimately, the USCCB's statement not really doing anything except for causing a lot of grief for Johnson and giving her book sales.

I would say that this image of Our Lady of the Rainbows perhaps falls into the same territory as Quest for the Living God. It ruffles feathers, is benign on its face, and it's my hope that in the future, such images and texts/takes will be more accepted in the Church.

All of this is to say that I'm torn. I want to keep it canonical, and I don't have problems with the image, and I don't know how to reconcile that for a Tumblr bracket.

[1800duckhotline]

dont expect this to be a well-put together analysis/interpretation/etc because im extremely bad at putting my thoughts together but i HAVE to write this down before i completely forget.

sister amalie brainworms ahead. skip over if youre not a #pentimenthead (or dont idk up to you)

so while i dread talking to my parents abt religion theyre regrettably more knowledgeable about a lot of its aspects than i am (never did cathechism and never did communion as a child and idgaf about doing it now aged 23) but i asked them a bit about Why does sister amalie have Purple in her habit. Because purple is a color that REALLY stands out not only against her basic vestments which are white, but also because literally nobody except maybe priests during certain festivities/periods of the year for mass/ceremonies wears colors that vibrant as a like, religious uniform.

from basic history i'd gathered that purple is a regal color. this was completely unrelated from Why amalie has purple in her habit. (lol) But anyways from what i understood long story short is that purple in religion represents grief, penance and wait (for the coming of Christ iirc). This is like, the baseline for what purple represents in ALL usage of it in paraments.

We know Amalie is a mystic and an anchoress; specifically an ascetic who lives a mostly reclused lifestyle and has possibly been a regular nun before turning to this specific kind of lifestyle (which is surprisingly free of rules, anchorites aren't constricted by vows such as chastity for example, nor do they have obligations to the public or the church: their life is reserved exclusively to study and prayer) - I'm referring to times before she was at her old convent with Father thomas (according to the game, 10 years prior the story).

Mystics can either recount of their visions, reserve themselves to prayer or even become exorcists. We know pentiment isn't fully founded in like 200% realism but we know well Amalie is a mix of the first two; her 'visions' are even well explained by her probable chronic pains which, for the time, weren't treatable much if at all - pain that strong (arthritis and scoliosis are no joke) is assured to give you Visions and this is still very true to this day. It does seem however that she decides to give in to this pain, as part of her asceticism, as part of her prayer and devotion. More or less it is a deliberate choice, and being the times they were a lot of these folk had a belief that the pain was a trial given to them by God for them to endure so to speak. It wouldn't be silly to claim Amalie falls under this specific type of asceticism.

If you remember what I mentioned about purple representing penance, among other things, pentiment (ha) for one's sin and past faults, it correlates also perfectly with the concept of Contrition which is central to christianity in particular and later is more or less heavier or lighter depending on the different doctrine. Contrition is essentially 'to feel crushed by guilt for a previous sin committed'. Amalie's habit is more and more decorated by purple as years go by; I can't say if this is a deliberate choice on the devs' part, though I think it'd be cool if it was both a like, literal and 'symbolic' choice. Both because more purple in habit = more years spent in 'waiting', a milestone mark of sorts - and because more purple in habit = more years spent in guilt, consciously or not, for the part she played in the terrible murders that took place in tassing (Lorenz deserved it though, fuck that guy).

Idk it was puzzling me for a WHILE because purple is SUCH a strong color to use for a design. And this makes so so sooo much sense to me. If you're still reading this I'm sorry i'm so mentally unwell about this woman

also talking to a friend apparently it was part of the anchorite rule, specifically for anchoresses, to shave their hair or otherwise keep it short (according to an old english book which, well, y'know, doesn't probably apply to all places universally, but we can nitpick information for fun here). so basically sister Amalie should be shaven. she is to ME. she is BALD AND BEAUTIFUL

[freebiblestudyhub]

How Many Wives Did Ezekiel Have?

The life of Ezekiel, one of the major prophets in the Old Testament, is filled with dramatic visions and significant messages from God. His prophetic ministry took place during a crucial time in Israel’s history, specifically during the Babylonian exile. While much of the focus is on his prophetic messages and visions, there is also interest in his personal life, particularly regarding his marital status. A question that often arises is: how many wives did Ezekiel have? This article will explore the biblical texts, historical context, and interpretations regarding Ezekiel’s marriage, providing a comprehensive look at this topic.

The Biblical Account of Ezekiel

Ezekiel’s story is primarily found in the Book of Ezekiel, which is part of the Old Testament. He was a priest and prophet who was among the exiles taken to Babylon after the fall of Jerusalem in 586 BC. His prophetic messages include warnings of judgment against Israel, as well as visions of hope and restoration.

Ezekiel’s Background

Ezekiel was born into a priestly family. His father, Buzi, was a priest, which positioned Ezekiel within the religious framework of Israel. This background influenced his prophetic calling. He received visions from God that often reflected his role as both a priest and a prophet.

The Context of His Marriage

In ancient Israel, marriage was a significant aspect of life. It was not just a personal relationship; it also had social, economic, and religious implications. For priests, marriage could play a role in their status and responsibilities. The context in which Ezekiel lived—during the Babylonian exile—was particularly challenging. The Israelites were in a foreign land, grappling with loss and identity. Ezekiel’s personal life, including his marriage, must be viewed against this backdrop.

The Scriptural Reference to Ezekiel’s Wife

The primary biblical reference to Ezekiel’s wife is found in Ezekiel 24:15-24. This passage provides insight into his marital status and the significance of his wife in his prophetic ministry. Here’s a summary of this passage:

The Death of Ezekiel’s Wife

In Ezekiel 24:15-24, God tells Ezekiel that his wife will die. This event is significant and serves as a symbol for the nation of Israel. God instructs Ezekiel not to mourn for his wife. Instead, he is to continue his prophetic ministry without showing the typical signs of grief, which included public mourning rituals.

This situation emphasizes several key points:

Symbolism of Loss: The death of Ezekiel’s wife symbolizes the impending loss that the Israelites would face due to the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple. Just as Ezekiel was to endure personal loss, the nation would face a collective loss.

Prophetic Significance: Ezekiel’s actions, or lack thereof, following his wife’s death served as a prophetic sign to the people of Israel. God used Ezekiel’s personal tragedy to convey a larger message about the fate of the nation.

Emotional Resilience: Ezekiel’s ability to carry on with his prophetic duties despite his wife’s death demonstrates his commitment to God’s calling. It highlights the weight of the prophetic office during such a turbulent time in Israel’s history.

The Implications of This Passage

The passage does not explicitly mention whether Ezekiel had more than one wife. Instead, it focuses on the profound impact of his wife’s death on Ezekiel and how it relates to the nation. This lack of detail has led to various interpretations among scholars and theologians.

How Many Wives Did Ezekiel Have?

Given the limited information in the Bible, the question of how many wives Ezekiel had remains somewhat ambiguous. The text primarily emphasizes the death of one wife without elaborating on any other marital relationships. Here are some interpretations based on the available scriptural evidence:

The Argument for One Wife

Focus on the Singular Event: The narrative in Ezekiel 24 specifically addresses the death of Ezekiel’s wife, suggesting that she was his only spouse. The emotional weight of her death and the symbolic nature of her loss could imply that there was no other wife to mourn.

Cultural Context: In the context of ancient Israel, it was not uncommon for priests to have one wife. The priestly role had specific requirements, and a singular focus on a spouse may have been more conducive to Ezekiel’s prophetic duties.

The Argument for Multiple Wives

Historical Precedents: Some argue that, like other prominent figures in the Bible, Ezekiel may have had multiple wives. Many patriarchs and leaders in the Old Testament had more than one wife, so it is conceivable that Ezekiel could have followed this tradition.

Lack of Detail: The biblical narrative does not provide comprehensive details about Ezekiel’s family life, which leaves room for speculation. Without explicit mention of other wives, it cannot be definitively stated that Ezekiel had only one.

The Symbolic Nature of His Marriage

Regardless of how many wives Ezekiel had, the focus of his prophetic ministry transcends his personal life. The relationship with his wife, particularly in the context of her death, serves a deeper symbolic purpose. Here are some key points regarding the symbolism of Ezekiel’s marriage:

Representation of Israel: Ezekiel’s wife can be seen as a representation of the nation of Israel. Just as he was instructed not to mourn, God was preparing Israel for the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, emphasizing the need for them to understand the gravity of their situation.

Prophetic Actions: The way Ezekiel handled his wife’s death and the subsequent absence of mourning illustrated his role as a prophet. It showed the people that God’s messages were paramount, even above personal grief.

God’s Sovereignty: The event signifies God’s control over all aspects of life, including personal relationships. Ezekiel’s obedience to God’s command in this situation highlights the sovereignty of God and the seriousness of the prophetic message.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the question of how many wives Ezekiel had remains largely unanswered due to the limited details provided in the biblical text. The primary focus of the narrative is on the profound significance of his wife’s death and its symbolic implications for the people of Israel.

While some argue that Ezekiel may have had one wife, others speculate about the possibility of multiple wives based on cultural practices of the time. However, the emphasis should be on the prophetic message conveyed through Ezekiel’s personal life.

Ezekiel’s marriage and the events surrounding it serve as a reminder of the complexities of life during a time of exile and judgment. His commitment to God and the prophetic calling is a central theme that transcends his marital status. Ultimately, Ezekiel’s experiences offer valuable lessons about faith, resilience, and the importance of heeding God’s messages, regardless of personal circumstances.

[wedesignyouny]

The Tradition of Sitting Shiva: A Window into Jewish Mourning

When someone in the Jewish community passes away, family and friends often gather to offer support and remember the departed. One of the most significant customs associated with Jewish mourning is “sitting shiva.” Sitting shiva is a practice that provides comfort and solace to the bereaved, allowing them to navigate the difficult journey of grief within the warm embrace of their community. In this blog, we’ll explore the history, significance, and various aspects of sitting shiva in Jewish tradition.

Understanding the Meaning of Shiva

The term “shiva” is Hebrew for “seven,” which directly reflects the seven-day mourning period that typically follows the burial of a loved one. During this period, immediate family members, such as children, siblings, and spouses, observe a strict form of mourning. The core idea behind sitting shiva is to allow the grieving family to focus on their grief and healing without the distractions of daily life.

The Origins of Shiva

The practice of sitting shiva has ancient roots, dating back to biblical times. In the Book of Job, for example, we find evidence of a seven-day period of mourning. Similarly, the Book of Genesis describes Jacob’s intense grief after learning of his son Joseph’s apparent death. This historical connection shows that the concept of sitting Shiva has deep cultural and religious significance in Judaism.

The Shiva Process

The process of sitting shiva involves several key elements:

The Seven Days: As mentioned earlier, the mourning period lasts for seven days. This period begins immediately after the burial.

The Mourning Home: The bereaved family typically sits shiva at their home or the home of the deceased. They often cover mirrors, remove leather items, and sit on low chairs or cushions to symbolize their grief.

Reciting Kaddish: During the shiva period, family members often gather to recite the Kaddish, a traditional Jewish prayer that sanctifies God’s name and expresses the hope for the deceased’s soul to find peace.

Community Support: Friends, neighbors, and other members of the community visit the mourners, bringing food, offering condolences, and lending a sympathetic ear. The support of the community is a vital component of shiva, reinforcing the idea that grief is a shared experience.

Abstaining from Work: Observing shiva typically involves refraining from work and other daily responsibilities, allowing the grieving family to concentrate on their mourning.

Wearing Torn Clothing (Keriah): Family members may rend a piece of their clothing as a symbol of mourning and loss.

The Significance of Sitting Shiva

Sitting shiva serves multiple essential functions:

Healing and Grief Processing: The focused period of mourning helps the family navigate the complex emotional journey of loss. It encourages them to express their emotions, remember the deceased, and find comfort in their faith.

Community Support: The presence of friends and neighbors provides a crucial network of support. It reminds the mourners that they are not alone in their grief and that the community is there to help them heal.

Respect for the Deceased: Sitting shiva is a way to honor and remember the departed by gathering loved ones and sharing stories about their life.

Connecting with Jewish Tradition: Observing shiva connects the mourners with their Jewish heritage and religious identity.

The practice of sitting shiva is a profound and time-honored Jewish tradition that offers solace to those who have lost a loved one. It provides a structured mourning period and creates a sacred space for healing and reflection. The support of the community, the recitation of prayers, and the adherence to customs all contribute to a meaningful and culturally rich experience. Through the process of sitting shiva, Jewish people come together to comfort one another and celebrate the life of the departed while paying tribute to their faith and tradition.

[redahlia-writes]

funeral liturgy. | matt murdock

Abstract:  “You’re standing right in front of me,” she pushed one hand forward - no matter the resistance he put up, she laid her palm on his chest. She could feel his heart, too. Almost even. “You are Matthew Michael Murdock. Your father was Jack Murdock. You’re a lawyer, graduated from Columbia University. You live in a penthouse apartment that gets too much light because of a neon billboard across the street - you put up light blocking curtains for me when I moved in.”

Words: 4.7K

Content: f!reader, she/her pronouns used; angst, grief, mention of death (a lot), s3 matt comes as a warning in and of itself, religious guilt, religious symbolism, imagery from greek mythology (theseus and ariadne), a smidge of hurt/comfort, slight canon divergence towards the end, another matt fic inspired by fleabag. who’s surprised? not me, UNEDITED

also on AO3 - masterlist

feedback is always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

“The funeral liturgy says life is changed, not ended - isn’t that right, Father?”

Father Lantom looked at the woman slouched on her seat, the big coat engulfing her, eyes puffy and reddened, lips chapped. She looked like the ghost of a woman - like what remained behind when the spirit left the body.

“Indeed for your faithful Lord, life is changed, not ended,” she recited, trembling hands reaching up to wipe her cheeks, though the tears were only dwelling at the corner of her eyes. “Isn’t that right?”

She’d been coming for days, weeks - timorous at first, seeking comfort in that space that reminded her of him, and then in the same man he’d confined in over time. Father Lantom sat with her, held her hands as she prayed, soothed her with empty words of reassurance - he knew who she was, repented each night for the secrets he kept from her.

It was never enough - when she walked out of the church (her heart still heavy, her pain still sharp), Sister Maggie would be standing there with her arms crossed, waiting, a disapproving look in her eye as the priest made his way back inside. She was the image of Judgment itself staring him down.

“You gotta pick the lesser evil sometimes, Sister,” he knew it was wrong, but pushed forward. “There is no evil here, just a stubborn man and a scared woman,” she retorted, her voice loud enough it echoed through the aisle and all the adjacent rooms. “One would think that’s an easy choice, Father.”

But it wasn’t. How could it be? The broken man, the broken Devil sleeping in their basement was as stubborn as he was sullen and angry - angry with himself, with God, the line that separated the two blurred in his mind.

So he wore his anger like a cross and insisted Matthew Murdock was dead, and that was what was best for everyone - the woman who mourned him with God’s name hanging from her lips included. 

“She came back today,” it was a dance they’d learned in the time spent together - Maggie announcing her coming, a sharp reminder in her voice of the days Matt had spent in a delirious state in which he called for her, begged for her to forgive him. 

“I don’t care,” the lie had started falling easily from his tongue now that he did not have to deal with the surprise. But Maggie knew her son - he was just like his father.

“She asked about the funeral liturgy,” she went on, unconcerned with his pretending. “Perhaps she’s thinking about organizing my funeral,” he deflected with bitter humor, his back turned on her.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, watching him carefully - his shoulders shifting, muscles taut, head bowed as if in repentance. “She asked whether life truly is changed, rather than ended. What would you say?” a humorless scoff left him. “Is your life changed or ended, Matthew?”

“Ended,” his voice was firm, unrelenting, leaving no room for argument (or trying to). “Matt Murdock is dead,” the mantra he’s been repeating for days now, “she’ll get over it.”

“Isn’t it tiring, lying to yourself all the time?” it wasn’t the first time she’d asked him that - he never replied. “We should’ve just brought her to you when she first came. It would’ve saved us all the hassle.”

“But you didn’t - you’re just as guilty as I am,” the woman scoffed, loudly - so loud it hurt his ears.

“What do you know about guilt, Matt?”

Maggie started to believe that the weight of all their sins would make the church crumble around them. The lies, the deceiving, the endorsing of Matt’s self-destructive nature. She convinced herself that one more wouldn’t hurt - perhaps it would fix things. At the very least, it would give them all less to think about.

“You’ve been coming here often,” her first thought was how frail she looked up close, watching her jolt in her seat. “Father Lantom isn’t here today, may I?” she gestured towards the empty spot at her side.

“Oh, sure,” the church was the only place she allowed herself to cry - in there, she could be vulnerable. In there, she could crumble, picking up the pieces of herself when she stepped out the wooden door. “I’m afraid I haven’t always been this devout. Or maybe it’s just -” it lingered in the air with uncertainty.

“Something you’d like to talk about?” an offering - an opening. “It’s not only priests that are good listeners, you know?” a smile, albeit small, flashed across the woman’s face as she nodded.

Her head was bowed, back hunched forward, hands clasped together - from afar, she was the perfect picture of the pious woman, waiting on a miracle. Up close, she just looked grief-stricken. 

“My - my partner disappeared, a few weeks ago,” as she spoke, her thumb pressed into the ring on her finger - an engagement ring, Maggie knew. The symbol of a broken promise. “He was involved in an accident and no one can find him, or his -” the pain cut through her words sharply, taking her breath away for a few instants as her eyes fluttered shut. His body, she meant to say. “Matty came here a lot - he grew up at Saint Agnes, and he was certainly more devout than me - for some reason I thought that by coming here I could find something of him.”

“Matty,” Maggie tasted the name in her mouth - she’d called him that when he was young, and so had Jack. It was achingly familiar, intimate, and it fell from the woman’s lips like a prayer, sweet as honey.

“Matt - Matthew, Murdock,” she shook her head, eyes screwed shut as she inhaled deeply. “Yes, I know him,” Maggie nodded, and at her side she straightened a little. “Stubborn boy - I imagine he’s grown to be much worse.”

If Matt was listening, which Maggie doubted, he’d be scoffing and grumbling at her.

But the woman chuckled, a wet laughter as she reached to wipe her eyes. She then glanced down at the ring on her hand, a delicate thing that captured the candlelights, a fond expression twisting her features. There was a slight tremor in her hands.

“He is stubborn, and yet -” she paused again, clasping her hands together to stop their shaking. “My mother used to say you like because, and you love despite - he’s stubborn and takes too many risks, he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve good things and he can be a real ass about it sometimes,” Maggie snorted, and for a moment the woman paused, realization she’d just cussed inside a church dawning on her.

“It’s alright - I’ve said worse,” she reassured with a cospiratory grin as she relaxed back against the bench. “And yet?”

“And yet I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she looked up then, towards the altar, the stained window, an image of the future vanishing like a mirage. “Because no one has ever loved me the way he does. Because he’s smart, and kind, and just - and I’m still talking about him as if he’s just waiting for me at home,” with a gasp, she let her eyes flutter shut just as tears started dwelling at the corners again.

“Sweet child,” Maggie hummed, soothingly - she reached for her, her hand on her shoulder, and the woman all but deflated towards her touch, a broken sob escaping her as she leaned into Maggie.

“I agreed to a church wedding just for Matt’s sake - I know what it means to him, what this place means to him and I just -” she hid her face behind her hands, now trembling more than before, and Maggie scooted closer when she bent over, closing onto herself. “I’m starting to feel like I should give up,” a terrified whisper muffled by her hands and cries. “That I should just accept he won’t come back - let this be his place of rest.”

Maggie remembered what it felt like to be broken. To look at her own future and see nothing but all-encompassing darkness. She knew the feeling all too well, and knew that little by little this woman - this wonderful, kind, soft woman - would let it get her. She would succumb to it, let her life be overturned by that sense of despair that clung to her bones and heart.

“No,” she said, harsher than she meant as she got up. The woman hiccuped a breath as she looked up at her, eyes swollen and perplexed.

“What?” her voice had fallen, hoarse and fearful. “No,” Maggie repeated, and offered her her hand. “Come with me.”

He remembered the first time he’d met her.

Foggy had begged him to be his plus one to the wedding of a cousin or an aunt, claiming he couldn’t possibly bear it on his own, and that if Matt was present some of the attention would be directed at him, at the very least. It took him three days of convincing, promising paid dinners and an unlimited amount of favors.

It was her perfume that got to him first - a sweet, almost overpowering scent of flowers he let him lure across the room, away from Foggy and an overbearing aunt that was chatting away, an excuse me his last words before he got up, cane in hand.

“Do you need any help?” his friend pleaded, but Matt was too distracted already, his mind conjuring up a picture of her to accompany the steady heartbeat he would learn to recognise across the city or right next to him in the middle of the night. “I’ll be alright,” he reassured, half-way gone already, much to Foggy’s dismay.

He would hold it against him for the years to come, saying how if it hadn’t been for him they’d never have met - if it hadn’t been for his sacrifice, he would’ve probably been stuck on a blind date (no pun intended) with one of his cousins rather than his flower girl.

He did the whole scene for her: accidentally bumping into her, listening as her heart picked up and she turned around, careful not to spill her drink on any of them, lips parting to speak and -

“You must be Matt,” she said, to his surprise. Later on in their relationship he would tell her how perplexed that single moment left him, once she’d learned about his heightened senses and he’d confessed he had been seeking her out through the room. “Sorry, did I get any on you?”

“No, no, my fault - you’re fine,” he managed after his initial stupor subsided. “I’m sorry - how do you know my name?”

“Wedding favors,” a matter-of-fact reply that left him even more confused and enthralled - he thought, even if he never met you again, those moments were worth it. It had been a while since someone had caught him off guard like that. It was nice. “They wanted flowers for the guests and asked if I had any for a blind person which -” she waved her hand dismissively, bracelets chiming with the movement. “I made you my guinea pig for a project instead.”

The smile in her words had made him laugh so hard he knew people had turned their heads and didn’t care, especially when her own smile widened furthermore.

“There are flowers for blind people?” he questioned, gaining a snort from the flower woman. “Something like that,” she mused, and he heard her bracelets chiming again, hand being lifted towards him. “I can show you, if you want - my hand’s in front of you.”

“Is this an excuse to get away from the crowd?” he chuckled, letting his palm fall into her hand gently - hers were the hands of someone who worked with them every day, slightly calloused and dry, with a lingering smell of hand cream. She tucked his arm under hers and guided him across the room once more - still trapped in conversation with his aunt, Foggy followed them with his eyes and muttered an unbelievable under his breath.

“Oh, absolutely,” she admitted, nodding eagerly. “I love weddings, don’t get me wrong - I just like the quiet more.”

He couldn’t agree with her more.

Up close, beyond the flowers, he could smell the soil and grass on her, taste it on the tip of his tongue, could imagine her kneeling in the middle of a garden, elbows deep into a work she so clearly enjoyed - it brought a grin to his lips.

“Here,” she announced, the weight of her arm leaving his as she stepped away and bumped into a table - the room was empty save for them, and the music echoed in the distance. “Give me your hand,” she instructed, turning to him, and he obliged right away.

Her own closed over his knuckles, fingers aligning with his to guide his touch towards the object resting in her other hand - he traced small seams across soft fabric, the bump of a skeleton that drew the tridimensional picture of a flower. It sang under his touch, a gentle rustle that had his head turn lightly until it reached the middle of the object - where the stamen would be. 

“You made a flower?” she chuckled again, her body shifting with her dismissive shrug as she guided his hand towards a second woven cluster of petals, placed in a different shape than the previous one. “Is this silk?”

“I thought it was the closest texture to the real ones,” she’d lowered her voice now that there was no noise up close, and her head was bent slightly in his direction, allowing him to catch another whiff of her perfume. “And I liked the way the light plays over it. It’s still rough work - but, unlike the others, it’ll last forever.”

Slowly, he guided her hand holding it up towards his face, nose wrinkling slightly as he sniffed it as if a real flower - surprisingly enough, he caught the shadow of her perfume clinging to it, too.

“Smells just like you,” a whispered confession that had blood rush to her cheeks and a bashful smile form on her lips he'd get to know so well.

It would be the only thing he could smell in his apartment during the month it took him to ask her out - and then, it would merge with her again as she took up more and more space in his place, his life, the house reshaping itself around her presence, his existence shifting to accommodate and welcome her.

The church smelled, among other things, of roses - offerings, people carrying their mourning, the pearls of rosaries nuns and guests had with them. Always roses. Only roses.

Whenever she came by, he could tell - the place filled with that haunting scent that reminded him of home and hurt his heart. Even worse, he could taste her tears with it, a concoction of sadness and grief that flooded his senses.

She was there, he knew, and he didn’t listen - he never did. He should’ve listened.

By the time the scent became overpowering, it was too late, and their steps echoed down the crypt. He was trapped, heart leaping in his chest and guilt clawing at his insides, scrambling here and there in an attempt to find shelter, to hide away, to remain dead.

Her breath caught, and Matt knew it was over - he froze on the spot with his head bowed while holding his own breath, bracing himself for what came next. The heartbeat he’d learned to listen for quickened, a trembling in her hands as she grabbed Maggie’s shoulder to balance herself, blinking and blinking and blinking as if to clear away a mirage.

For a moment, she thought she was gonna be sick. All those empty days she’d tried to fill with hoping and prayers; the weeks spent crying in his bed, their bed, begging for his safety, pleading he would come home; all her anger and desperation and desire had led to that moment - Matt, standing perfectly still, face turned away from her, and her body crumbling underneath the weight of relief and confusion.

“Matty?” she’d started to believe in so much during his absence - yet she found it so incredibly hard to believe her own eyes. “Matthew, please -”

Please. A word repeated over and over to a God she could not see, offering her heart on a platter so that he could come back to her - and now she was uttering it again, directly to the object of her desires, of her prayers.

Please, be real. Please, exist. Please, tell me I’m not dreaming.

And just like every other supplication, it went unanswered.

“I don’t understand,” a step forward with a heavy heart - maybe she was dreaming. He wasn’t there. It was all in her mind.

He took a step back. A simple motion that made the whole world stop - it was real, and suddenly it hurt just as much as the idea of having lost him. Rejection.

“Matthew,” Maggie called, and his head snapped in her direction, anger flashing across his face - it made the woman hold her breath again, gripping the nun’s arm as worry coursed through her, bitter on the tip of Matt’s tongue.

“No,” he bit out, and she tipped her chin up - pride. Stubbornness. Cut from the same cloth. “This is your fault. It shouldn’t have been like this.”

“You’re right, it’s my fault,” she rested her hand on the woman’s - a gentle touch, such a contrast with the irritation in her words. “But at least I’m owning my mistakes - are you going to do the same?”

She went away quietly - a reassuring squeeze of the woman’s wrist, a gentle look - and left the couple alone in the eerie quiet of the crypt. Her heart beat rapidly, eyes running up and down his frozen frame, lingering on his face half shrouded by the darkness.

“Matty?” another shy attempt, the tip of her shoe dragging across the floor as she moved in his direction. “What happened? Are you hurt?” a second step, longer, heavier. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Even in her fear she was so sweet to him - always had been. Always cared for him. In return, he’d lied to her, worried her, asked her to stay, betrayed her. He should’ve stayed dead.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Her confusion only grew, and now she stood in front of him - her scent was intoxicating, making his eyes fall shut as the taste of home engulfed him. His heart, treacherous, vile, betrayed him. It told him he was safe, it told him it was alright - but how could it be, when he was bound to break her?

“Matt,” she’d known his name before meeting him and she always said it like she’d treasured it. Like a precious thing she’d later tucked in the safe of her heart. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

“You can’t be here. You shouldn’t be here,” he repeated, and flinched when her hand reached for him - the tip of calloused fingers brushing his cheek, warm and familiar as her palm cupped his jaw. A single, small, cold spot kissed his skin, the promise he’d failed to keep - his ring.

Why had he thought it could work, anyway? He wasn’t made for that - he wasn’t made to love, especially not a precious thing such as herself. The Devil in him wouldn’t allow it.

“Tell me what happened,” she repeated, firm, her eyes never leaving him. “I thought I’d lost you, Matty. I thought you were gone,” he could feel his hands shaking, his wicked heart beating a little louder for her to hear. “Were you here this whole time?”

“Yes,” a hiccup at his confession, her fingers curling over his jaw. “Just go home. It’s over.” “What are you talking about?” an incredulous scoff left her, hand weakening against his cheek. “Matt -”

“You can’t keep waiting on a dead man,” he protested, voice hardened as her heart quickened - too much, all at once. He was bound to break her.

“You’re not dead,” fierce, she grabbed his face - her fingers so used to handle delicate things digging into his bruised flesh. “You are not dead, Matthew. You’re here. You’re okay.”

“Stop,” he pulled away harshly, forcing himself to touch her just to pry her hands from him. His palms burned wrapped around her wrists. “I’m here,” she said instead, pliant under his touch. If he squeezed any harder, he’d leave bruises on her skin, blood already flowing to the surface with a dull noise that pushed itself under his skin. “Talk to me. I’m here.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he sounded like a broken record - he had to repeat himself, or else he would crumble, succumb to her and give himself up just to feel her arms around him and sleep again after the months gone by.

“You wanted us to believe you were gone?” he heard in her whisper as the realization settled in - and there it was, the first crack of her heart, an erratic beat that echoed in his head. “Why?”

“It was better this way. It still is,” while he spoke, she was shaking her head - tears had welled up at the corners of her eyes again, and as he listened to her heart breaking, he felt his own start to shatter. “I’m not who you think I am. The man you knew - he is gone. I left him behind.”

He was still holding her, that weak part of him hanging onto the thread she’d given him, a thread that would bring him home, should he follow it. Theseus too had abandoned Ariadne. In the end, she’d been so much better without him - made into a constellation, made into a goddess.

“You’re standing right in front of me,” she pushed one hand forward - no matter the resistance he put up, she laid her palm on his chest. She could feel his heart, too. Almost even. “You are Matthew Michael Murdock. Your father was Jack Murdock. You’re a lawyer, graduated from Columbia University. You live in a penthouse apartment that gets too much light because of a neon billboard across the street - you put up light blocking curtains for me when I moved in.”

His expression hardened - the fight suddenly wasn’t against her anymore. It was an internal battle, a turmoil that grew with each of her words. When he stepped back, she followed him, a dance with music only he could hear.

“You’re the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,” she continued when he didn’t reply. “You told me six months after we started dating, right after saving my life - you called me sweetheart with the mask still on, and then told me I could walk away if that’s what I wanted, and you’d understand.”

“Stop,” his resolve began to fade away, hard edges being smoothed down.

“I didn’t go then, and I won’t now,” there was a finality in her tone - a stubbornness she rarely displayed, but Matt knew was impossible to fight. “No matter what you tell me.”

“I was with Elektra,” if he was bound to hurt her, he thought, let it at least be worth it. “I went because of Elektra. I stayed in that building knowing what was going to happen next for her. I left you because of her.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she suddenly sounded so exhausted, the tears falling out of sheer tiredness. “I heard you and Foggy. I heard you telling me you’d be back.”

“Well, I didn’t, did I?” he pried himself away, shaking his head as the buzzing in his ears started becoming unsustainable - the lights, her breathing, her tears, her heart, her heart, her heart. “I left. I was selfish in asking you to stay with me, and then I left.”

“Do you really think asking me to marry you was an act of selfishness? Matthew -” “Putting you at risk is,” he snapped - she inhaled sharply at his words, but otherwise didn’t bat an eye. “I can’t have you around, knowing you’re at risk of getting hurt because of me. And why aren’t you mad? I left.”

“Stop saying that,” her own voice rose, and so did the thrumming around Matt’s head. “Believe me, I’m livid. You disappeared for months, made us all believe you were dead, when all along you were down here. That’s what I’m mad about,” another dance - her step forward, his step back, his hands coming up to his temples. “Caring about Elektra doesn’t make you selfish, it doesn’t mean you betrayed my trust. It doesn’t mean you betrayed me. Asking me to marry you doesn’t make you selfish.”

“You can’t -” “You don’t get to decide for me, Matthew!” one step forward, one tentative step back, a thrumming hitting the back of his head, echoing in his ears with her voice. “You don’t make that decision for me. I knew what I was getting myself into.”

“It’s not the same,” he breathed out, and when she stepped forward he didn’t move - her perfume soothed him, the sudden override of his other senses making his skin crawl. “It’s all different. I’m not the same. I’m not him.”

“You’re Matt - my Matt, my love,” her voice lowered as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. She was right in front of him, and the noises did not stop as she reached for his wrists. “You drive me insane, and you’ve always taken risks and apologized for it, even though you were going to do it again. You’re a terrible cook and you take up too much space on the bed.”

“I can’t risk you,” he felt like the broken one - his voice cracked as she pulled his hands away from his face, intertwining her fingers with his.

“I know,” a whisper, standing toe-to-toe. “You told me already. Because you love me completely, and I love you the same - and that’s how I know you’re still you. And I’m furious, Matt, because you didn’t come to me.”

“Whatever it is I’ve become, you don’t deserve it,” it quietened slowly - his heartbeat, her heartbeat, as she brought his hands towards her. “Let me decide that, will you?” her lips brushed his left palm, a tender touch that melted his muscles, lured her close. “I’m a big girl, I can handle myself. And I love you.”

“Sweetheart -” he breathed out as she kissed his wrist, then guided his hand to her tear-stained cheek. “I love you,” she repeated, repeating the motion on the other side. A kiss to his palm, a kiss to his wrist. “I’ll keep saying it until you get it into that thick skull of yours - I love you.”

He held her face in his hands and exhaled. He was not worthy. He was not worth it.

“I love you,” again, and again, peppering kisses wherever she could reach - his covered shoulders, his chin, the corner of his mouth, her hands covering his still on her face, her heartbeat steadying him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled it when her lips ghosted his, not fully committing to a kiss, but telling him she was there. She was there. “I’m sorry.” “I love you,” she retorted, words kissing his skin, dropping her hands from his. He did not step away, kept listening to her, kept listening to that slowing sound. “I forgive you.”

The thread snapped, Theseus was lost - in his place, Matt collapsed against her, their foreheads touching, her scent rooting him, bringing him back.

“Thought you said you were angry with me.” “I am,” she nodded, nuding the tip of his nose with hers. “Doesn’t mean I can’t forgive you.”

“I don’t deserve you,” a fearful confession as her hands came to rest against the back of his head, locking him close.

“Too bad,” the ring on her finger brushing his neck sent a shiver down his spine. “You’re stuck with me,” a long inhale as she moved to kiss his cheek, slowly, slowly dragging her mouth until she could whisper in his ear. “No matter what you think or tell yourself, Matty, you deserve the good, too.”

The guilt would come back, the desire to run away and hide too, the need to atone for his sins away from those nice things life had to offer him, and he’d feel himself drift away - when it came to that, just like in that moment, he’d let his head fall into the crook of her neck, let her scent be the only thing his senses could perceive, place his heart in her hands knowing it would be safe. The question would always be the same.

“Can you take me home?”

[the-teddy-bear-butch]

Hey I have nothing better to do, here’s some fic recs for y’all!!

If you have followed me for any amount of time you know which one I’m about to lose my mind over—

Bloodletting by agentgenevra / @agentgenevra

Nancy is a vampire hunter… And also a vampire. Robin is a vampire. The plot of this fic is SO incredibly woven, I am NOT kidding guys. Every character has their place, and everything connects in just the coolest way. I’m literally obsessed. The slow burn dynamic between Robin and Nancy is incredible and full of tension as well! I am feral about this fic.

dancing in the moonlight by summersociety

Nancy is a monster hunter and Robin is a werewolf. This fic is the PERFECT mix of wacky and serious and I adore it for that. The tension is incredible, I would kill for the side characters, the internal struggle for Robin is so well written! The way this author writes for the werewolf in a different way is such a cool creative choice. This fic will have you crying over “aroo.” Just saying.

a never ending story by summersociety

Robin and Nancy play D&D and their in game romance definitely has nothing to do with Nancy having a big fat crush on Robin. Their dynamic in game and out of game is just so lovely and we love a little comphet Wheeler. Plus!!! This author just has some very poetic writing and I adore it

Raise Dead by EskaWrites / @eskawrites

Robin died in the Upside-Down. Nancy is grieving, but the kids are scheming. One (1) fic has brought actual tears to my eyes. I don’t usually cry over media but this one will pull at the heart strings. Go in knowing that this fic will devastate you, but it will fix you afterwards. I found myself holding my breath through some of the more intense portions, and the way this writer describes Nancy’s grief and uses symbolism just broke my heart.

you’re the reason that i’m hanging on by EskaWrites / @eskawrites

Robin gets Vecna’d. INCREDIBLE angst, I don’t want to say too much and spoil it, but the dynamics are wonderful and the ending is fantastic.

choke up (on my bat and on your heart) by gfbuckleyxwheeler / @werewolfxwheeler

As a bitch who didn’t think I’d be into sports aus, this fic!!! Ronance are on a softball team and they have a wonderful hate/love relationship and I adore it!! And Max and Chrissy are both lovely in this au <333 Em also has a wonderful blog here, please check them out!

feels like I’ve been gettin’ anointed (ever since the day that I met you) by khalasaar / @sapphicriley

Catholic school au with the partner project trope PLEASE. This one is spicy. The writing is incredible, the tension is fantastic, and also I think you can tell she writes/reads poetry in her writing, which I happen to think is cool as shit. Inappropriate use of religious imagery my beloved <333 Did I mention tension—

put me in the movies (on a king sized silver screen) by khalasaar / @sapphicriley

Robin works at a drive in theatre and Nancy keeps visiting her because she’s a dumb lesbian. This is one of my favorite fluffy, sweet stories, oh my god. They are so!!! I want to squeeze them. Their dynamic and their banter and Nancy being So Totally Smooth is the best. I need to reread this one

Handle With Care by ElFandomBirb / @el-fandom-birb

Centering around Robin thinking about love and her Handle with Care patch. Oh. My. God. The types of love actually killed me, this fic is so soft and so sweet. Repetition as a plot device!!! Seriously one of my favorite one shots. Also another great Ronance blog

400 Bones [series] by DearApparition / @anxiouswerewolf

You want to read some of the most delicious angst out there? Here you go. Ronance is messy and angsty but they’re there for each other and I could easily cry about any of the fics in this series

here and wherever you are by penguinwritesbooks

The Half Of It au. Steve recruits Robin to write love letters to Nancy. One of my favorite movies and my favorite ship lovingly rolled into one. Everything feels very true to the characters and the dynamics without being a scene by scene retelling!! There’s a Steddie sequel if that’s your thing

[cuchufletapl]

There's. Something. About the fact that the Flamel Symbol in FMA was ascribed to the three human characters that willingly committed alchemy's greatest taboo and lost (a part of) their bodies as a result.

As I understand it (and I should do more research on it, so take this with a grain of salt), in real-life, historical alchemy, the Flamel Cross is pretty much analogous with the philosopher's stone. And because western alchemy wasn't just about the science but rather had a strong religious component to it, the philosopher's stone itself was never really about obtaining gold in the most literal sense (as a valuable metal for monetary reasons); it symbolises the achievement of spiritual and physical perfection. (And excuse me for being pedantic for a second, but I feel like it's relevant here to know the etymology: in Latin, perfectus -a -um means "finished", "complete".)

Edward, Izumi, and Alphonse aren't whole, they lost a part of themselves in trying to do something that was out of their reach (Al in particular is physically nothing), and yet from the very beginning of the story they're the closest to illumination, they met god (essentially) and knew the knowledge of the world.

I don't believe Arakawa ever told us when Izumi got her tattoo (the extra chapter about her past as an alchemy apprentice has her cleavage completely covered), but I would venture that she got it after her failed human transmutation. There is nothing in the manga to suggest that she did it earlier, at least. Meanwhile, Edward and Alphonse definitely started wearing it after they tried to resurrect their mother — or, more accurately, after they set out on their journey to restore what they lost.

We are never told the reason why they decided to take on Izumi's emblem, interestingly enough. We don't even see them make the decision, they just start wearing it from one page to the other. Chronologically, the first time that we see Ed wear his red coat is in chapter 23, when he travels to East City to take the State Alchemist exam. However, in the one panel where he has his back towards the reader, his arm is positioned in a way that hides the symbol. Al isn't present for the exam, and the next time that he appears, at the beginning of chapter 24, when they burn down their childhood home, we're not shown his left shoulder — only the right. Nevertheless, we could infer that he already had painted the Flamel on, like we can infer that Ed's coat had it as well, and infer we shall!

I read someone here point out how both Al and Ed carry things of the people they love with them, giving the Flamel as one example of it. (I'd quote them properly, I know I reblogged it at the time, but I can't find the post.) And while I'm sure that's part of the reason, an homage to their master, I can't help but think that it isn't a coincidence that Izumi's symbol specifically resonated with them.

Again, we're never told what the Flamel means within the universe of FMA, it's there but not mentioned, a subtle literary symbol — but given that Arakawa had other real-life alchemical symbols in the series mean the same thing that they meant historically... well. Ed and Al are alchemists, after all, so they would know that the Flamel Cross represents spiritual perfection.

I think that the Watsonian and Doylist explanation for the Flamel is the same here — Ed, Al, and Izumi chose in-universe to wear the Flamel for the same reason that Arakawa chose to identify them with that symbol.

I'm not entirely sure what I'm getting at here, to be honest. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. I don't quite have a conclusion to offer. This is why I don't usually do meta lol

But it just feels like it means something, to have these characters, who were overtaken by their grief and punished for their hubris by taking away their bodies, be identified with a symbol of completeness.