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lemurious · 2 days ago

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[mme. euphrasie pontmercy pays her respects]

A belated fic for @lesmis-prompts. October 24: girls of Les Mis; October 25: reflections; October 30: love.

Here on AO3 and below the cut (it is on the long side).

She swore to remember them all. She would tell Marius of how they had looked, calm and victorious in the morning light.

It is the early morning on the day after the barricades fell, and Cosette quietly slips out of her house and walks towards the square where the guards are cleaning the rubble.

Cosette knew what Paris looked like at dawn only too well; she’d never been able to kick the habit of waking up while it was still dark, and didn’t try that hard either. Secretly she was almost grateful for the ball of anxiety that inevitably unraveled inside her, pushing her out of bed to scramble into the pre-dawn mist, where she could almost see the silhouettes of the nuns walking over to Matins, almost hear Mme. Thenardier yelling at her to get to the housework already.

It provided her with the only hour when she could slip out of the house, as long as she didn’t make noise, but that was easy, she’d had a lifetime of learning to be quiet. It wouldn’t have occurred to her father that Cosette could’ve been doing anything other than sleeping peacefully, so he'd remained insensible to the little creaks of the floor and a click of the key turning in the lock.

In any case, this morning he was half dead with exhaustion from the previous night, which had brought him home dripping with black sludge and stinking like, Cosette smiled wryly to herself, in a manner her father still had never noticed, well, like the sewers. Well, that wasn’t anything a good bath, or a dozen, couldn’t fix.

And Marius was alive. Her father had told her as much, followed by a dejected sigh, before he slunk off to bed. Marius – her Marius – was fighting for his life, over at M. Gillenormand’s.

From the games of Azelma and Eponine back in what had seemed like another life, Cosette had managed to gather snippets of fairy tales where princes, or perhaps, princesses (she wasn’t too sure about the details) were able to lure their lovers from death’s own threshold with a kiss. That said, it was unlikely that M. Gillenormand would accept Cosette showing up at his doorstep before dawn with an offer to kiss his grandson, and it didn’t seem that sitting at the bedside of an unconscious Marius would be able to achieve much in terms of helping him anyway.

When he woke up, though, Cosette was going to wrap him in her arms and tell him that he was safe, that she would keep him safe, and mean it too, but she already knew that regardless of what he would say to her in response, no reassurances that she could give him would be sufficient.

There was a special kind of a hole that opened in the heart when there was no gravestone where one could go to mourn, and she had enough of those already. There was no need for another one in what was soon going to become her family.

So well before the seventh of June dawned over Paris, Cosette put on her outfit with great care: a black gown, complete with a hat and a pair of gloves, and she would’ve sold her soul for a veil. At least she was pale enough from the sleepless night to have lost the rosy glow of youth, and the rest had to be in the bearing.

When the vocal mothers of the Petit-Picpus were taking one of their yearly baths, they didn’t look any different from the most pathetic, half-mad sisters, and, as one of Cosette’s own ditties had said, they didn’t fart in words of scripture either. Even so, the briefest motion of their hand could make any of the girls freeze on the spot, terrified that she had been found out in some nebulous sin, and one single look could turn the worst troublemaker in the crew into a trembling child, asking for forgiveness.

Cosette had watched, and she had remembered, and she had practiced, alone in the cemetery, scolding one gravestone, and praising another, until she knew she got it. The way to wear the clothes, the correct modulations of voice, the set of shoulders, the spacing between the steps. Much later, on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg, she had added to her arsenal the power of a shy glance and a fleeting smile, and a shower of ringlets sent over her shoulder with a shake of her head, which, when wielded with skill, could win her the heart of any young man who wasn’t otherwise inclined.

This morning, she tied her hair back in a severe bun instead, and hoped with all her heart that it would be sufficient.

When Cosette slipped through the gate and strode towards the Place Saint-Michel, watching the sky turn pale grey behind her, she was struck by the silence.

Not a cart in sight, nor even the morning postman. Not a bakery door open, with the baker singing tunelessly as he was kneading the dough, getting ready to start serving the morning crowd before they went off to work. Not a passing lady of the night, her eyes blank, her feet dragging her home at last. Not a shadow of a worker standing in the corner, hoping to be hired to a construction crew for the day. Not a beggar asleep on a bench in the garden before he was turned out by a guard. Not a single gamin, darting around the corner just out of sight.

Cosette had been used to the sights and the smells of the mornings, and the early risers had known her as the girl who couldn’t fall asleep, who’d come in for the first bun of the day, and give it to the first gamin she met on the way out of the bakery, so it was rare for her not to have a trail of those ever-present kids of Paris, the younger brothers and sisters of the ones she had known when she was a kid herself, and the girls of the convent had devised a complicated system of sending messages, love letters and overripe pears back and forth over the wall, a system that had been carefully guarded and transmitted between generations of students.

Today the streets of her city had turned into a graveyard, and even the birds sounded muffled in the pre-dawn light, as if they, too, were in mourning.

Cosette straightened her hat, and with a look behind her to make sure that she wasn’t being followed, hurried on.

The street-sweepers hadn’t come out yet.

Only the guards were standing around their cannons next to a pile of broken furniture that was slowly getting dismantled.

The captain was giving orders in a hoarse voice to a pair of soldiers barely older than Cosette herself, who were carrying what looked like heavy packages, wrapped in cloaks, and placing them on the ground outside the café, its entire front now pockmarked with bullets.

The last one had finally been brought in, much smaller than the rest, and the soldiers began to argue about which of them would have to go upstairs into the café.

Cosette walked straight up to the captain, and with the exact mixture of politeness and disdain that she had learned from a courtesan who stopped by Cosette’s favorite bakery every morning on her way home, bade him a good day, and asked him for a chance to spend a moment alone with the bodies.

“And what does Mlle…? need to do with the bodies?” he asked, clearly bewildered by Cosette’s sudden emergence from the mist.

“Sir, that would be, Mme – it wasn’t even a lie, not really, she would start wearing the name soon enough, this was just trying it on, like a dress at the tailor’s before it is done – Mme. Euphrasie Pontmercy, and I would like to pay my respects, thank you.”

It wasn’t what one said. It was how one said it.

Cosette stared down her nose at the captain until he appeared to accept her statement, which in truth had explained absolutely nothing. Perhaps ready for a break himself, he called off the guards and told them to go get breakfast before returning to cleaning the site.

Cosette kneeled next to the first body in the line.

The man’s figure was slight, almost as if he’d gone hungry with passing frequency. He had luxurious brown hair and was dressed in a waistcoat embroidered with flowers.

The lavenders and peonies were barely visible through the dark brown of the congealed blood, and the man’s eyes, which were the shade of dark blue that was more striking than any flower, were staring at Cosette with a mixture of surprise and disbelief, as if it was a remarkable inconvenience, and not at all acceptable, that one so beautifully dressed should find oneself dead on this fine June morning.

Cosette stretched out her hand and gently closed his eyelids. She arranged his cravat, and crossed his arms over the chest, and buttoned his coat around the waistcoat, until he looked no less dead and scarcely less bloody, but dignified enough to be lying in state before a solemn funeral, not merely as one of the bodies thrown on the ground.

Cosette stood back to look at the man, made a sign of the cross, pulled up her sleeves and went towards the next body.

She swore to remember them all. She would tell Marius of how they had looked, calm and victorious in the morning light. She would draw them, as best she could, and she would learn their names, and she would ask the sisters of Petit-Picpus to put them in their prayers.

The one whose glasses were all askew, and she had to snap them into shape before she put them back on his head.

The one whose hat she had to climb the barricades to find, and she knew it was his because its band was the exact same shade of purple as his waistcoat.

The one whose hands were holding a gun so tightly that it was easier to arrange it by his side instead of removing it.

The one who had been shabbily dressed, with the right shoe beginning to gape open, and his face blazing with determination undimmed by death.

The one who had a book in his coat pocket, and after Cosette closed his hands over it, she noticed that she was arranging a treatise on fighting infections in the slums as if it were a holy book, and it was entirely appropriate.

The one right before the end.

Her arms were so thin that her wristbones were showing. Her crooked smile made her face look more peaceful than all the rest, and her hat couldn’t quite cover the messy strands of hair falling over her shoulders.

Cosette had met her before. She had used to carry messages for Marius, and even then Cosette could easily see that all she had wanted was to be loved.

“Maybe you had it the easy way,” Cosette whispered, her mouth dry as the dust on the pavement.

“Myself, I will have to live for him instead. I’ll try to do it for both of us.”

She took off her own cloak and covered her tattered dress with it. After rearranging the hair and pinning the hat back on, the woman looked so suddenly beautiful that Cosette surprised herself by smiling at her, as if they were going to exchange little compliments and confidences any time now.

The smile vanished as soon as Cosette had turned to the last body in the line.

This is why the gamins were absent this morning.

There was little that Cosette needed to do. The boy looked perfectly presentable. Someone had arranged his clothes and closed his eyes already. He must’ve died earlier than the rest.

The guards were still at breakfast.

Cosette turned towards the wall, stuck two fingers into her mouth, and let out a high, shrill whistle, echoing down the streets.

It used to be their sign, back at the convent, the one that had warned the boys on the streets that something important was going on, so the girls wouldn’t make it to their meeting place across the wall.

Of course, this had been years ago, and words and signs on the streets change faster than the costumes at the opera. But if this was the only way Cosette could show that the boy was remembered, was loved for who he had been, before what he must’ve thought of as just another adventure, and perhaps, well, perhaps it was –

Cosette brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. There would be time enough for tears later, when she would see Marius, when she would have to help him mourn, and then, help him find joy again. But this morning was hers, and hers only.

The previous night she hadn’t even tried to get out to the barricades, aware that there was little she could do but die, gloriously or otherwise. Instead, she had decided that, should they fall, she would have to live to be worth of the memory instead.

Cosette suddenly remembered that before the guards were told to leave, they had been talking about going into the café.

After a short prayer, over the boy whose name she was now going to have to find out together with the rest, she opened the door of the café and stepped inside, to the rubble of the broken furniture, thrown aside to make a path to the stairs.

She found two bodies on the second floor.

While it’s been a while since Cosette had last carried buckets of water for miles, she wasn’t frail by any accounts. Still, it took her the better part of the hour to drag the bodies back down, and lay them side by side, the one in the green jacket right next to the boy, the one in the red vest, who had been held against the wall by the bullets piercing his chest, at the end of the line.

By the look on his face, which could inspire others to follow him even in death, he must’ve been the leader.

The golden light of the morning fell on them all, but the leader’s smile was more radiant than the dawn.

Cosette had noticed that he had looked as if he had been reaching for the other man, the one who had been lying on the ground, and after a brief consideration, she placed their hands into each other.

For a moment, it seemed that the man in the green jacket glowed with the same radiance, but perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

There was only one thing left to do.

Stumbling with weariness, Cosette turned back into the café.

When she climbed up the stairs, to collect what she had left behind while she was taking care of the bodies, she noticed two handprints, clearly marking the wall near the window, and the floor under it.

A heavy dresser stood in the corner of the room, having somehow survived the wreckage. Cosette pulled and pushed at it until she got it wedged under the window, covering both handprints and preventing the soldiers, or the women who she suspected would be ordered to clean up the debris, from washing them off.

If the gamin who Cosette usually found near a bakery in the mornings returned the following day, she would tell him about the handprints, and where he could find them.

Somehow, she felt that it would be more appropriate than telling Marius. The handprints didn’t quite belong to the revolution, nor to the group of friends who had started it. They belonged to the bright June sunrise when the city was in mourning.

Cosette’s skirts were dusty and torn, and smeared with old blood from dragging the bodies. The guards were not going to let her stay around much longer; after the last glance around the room, she grabbed the flag, torn and stained, and folded it until she could tuck it under her arm.

Cosette had thought to arrange it under the flowing golden hair of the leader, or put it in his hand, but then she realized that it would only ensure that the flag would end up in whichever mass grave to where the bodies would be carried.

Instead, she was going to take it home.

And after Cosette Fauchelevent truly became Mme. Euphrasie Pontmercy – even though she felt that it had already happened somewhere between the pre-dawn light in her chamber, and the cold skin of the dead bodies under her fingers – she was going to put it on the wall, so that the new friends of Marius and of her own would be able to see it, and hear the story of where it had come from.

And when another barricade rose again, because it was always when and never if, not in this city she loved with all her heart, then the flag would fly over it one more time, and Mme. Pontmercy would stand close behind.

#lemur writes #my fic #les miserables #cosette #cosette fauchelevent #after the barricades #cosette is tougher than she appears #(to marius at least)#cosette's past in her own words #belated submissions!#bricktober #lesmisoctober24 #grief #hope

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oneatlatime · 11 months ago

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Appa's Lost Days

Dare I hope?

You know, if ten year old me had turned on my TV to watch my weekly dose of Avatar and been greeted with a nearly two minute long uninterrupted sequence of a frightened and distressed animal being mistreated, that TV would have turned right back off again.

I don't buy that a ten tonne bison who has the leverage of his own weight as well as his airbending abilities would succumb to so few people.

Name one other character that Avatar has presented as so thoroughly without any redeeming characteristics. Even Zhao was at least kind of funny. Everything about the chucklehead on the left is rotten to the core. "What's your dad going to do when he finds out we broke his stuff while doing crime?" "Nothing. It's not his stuff; it's previous crime."

I thought beetle-headed was a commentary on their intelligence, but it's actually a description.

I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that I should have waited to get my hopes up until I came to an episode called Appa's Found Days. Is this whole thing going to be a series of near misses with the Gaang?

You know, if I had a nickel for every time an animal companion on this show has been threatened with a trip to the butcher's, I'd have two nickels. In the space of two episodes.

This is not fun to watch guys.

Not if I break you first asshole.

The way this Nurse Ratched type circus guy says "earn it" is chilling.

Of course the Fire Nation would find a way to turn bending into animal abuse. Of course.

a) that cage is way too small b) who knew cabbage suction could be so cute?

Completely unsubtle parallel with the boy here, right down to the complete disregard they show to the threats thrown their way.

Stubborn and wilful are not adjectives I would use to describe Appa this episode, or ever.

Wind buffalo. Wind Buffalo. Really? Was Fart Cow taken?

That's a very relatable facial expression.

That makeup and costume is awful.

Now that's satisfying.

Is the Fire Nation kid voiced by Aang's voice actor?

Nevermind. THAT'S satisfying.

I was right - this episode is Appa always being a step behind the Gaang.

Baby Appas! This almost makes this episode worth it!

It's funny how a single feature can contribute so much to a character's design. Arrowless Aang is just some kid. Let me rephrase that, since such a big part of Aang's character is the fact that he's just some goofy kid. Arrowless Aang is indistinguishable from other kids for the first time this series, because every other time we've seen him on screen he's either the only child airbender with his arrows, or the only airbender left.

Lady monks. Nuns? I don't think I've seen those before.

Appa and Aang share a dreamscape? That could be useful.

There's dumb, there's really dumb, and then there's 'wake a completely asleep and therefore harmless unknown creature with threats of violence' dumb.

Close call for Iroh. Do you think he's suspected that Appa (and presumably the Avatar) haven been in Ba Sing Se this whole time?

Bipedal Appa is strange. A very effective fighter, but strange to look at.

I'm amazed that giant boar thing walked away from that.

And now they're hitting me with an 'Appa's given Up' montage. Someone who works on this show hates me.

*Heroically refrains from ranting about the impracticality of using white fabric for an active warrior's glove.*

"This could be our most important mission yet." Foreshadowing?

Did Suki and Appa actually meet at any point in the Warriors of Kyoshi episode?

Turns out 'Aang' is a magic word.

Appa kisses!

Appa is apparently legally banned from having anything good for more than five minutes. Although it's good writing that they're using a previously established weakness - Appa's shedding - to bring the danger ladies back in.

I guess they have Azula drop the line about her brother to remind the audience of who she is, but surely Suki's like "Who are you? Who's your brother? Why should I care?"

Azula going after the Kyoshi warriors is completely unnecessary right? The Avatar isn't there. Neither are Zuko and Iroh. It doesn't even net her Appa. She's just looking for someone to beat up.

WOW this is bad writing. Like really bad. My Immortal levels of bad.

Would it be too much to ask for the Kyoshi warriors to do even slightly ok against the Azula ladies? Couldn't they at least get a couple of hits in?

Kudos to Suki for essentially sacrificing herself and her warriors to save Appa. 'Most important mission yet' was a bit on the nose.

Out of options, Appa goes home. Ouch.

Someone explain this to me. Air Bison teething ring?

My what a human sounding cough you have buddy.

This is why you don't use Air Bison as guard dogs.

I like what this Guru is saying. Fear displacing trust but not love feels more accurate than how I usually see the consequences of trauma discussed.

The music playing throughout this sequence fits so well. I think it's some sort of metal thing you hit - I want to say a variation on tubular bells, and maybe something Glockenspiel adjacent? It's unlike anything I've heard in this show before and it fits so well that I'm nerding out a bit.

Disney princess Guru. Aang has Disney princess moments too. Maybe it's an Air Nomad thing?

No wonder the monks built a temple here. Even destroyed, it's gorgeous.

And Appa decides to trust again. I love it when an animal visibly comes to a decision about your trustworthiness.

This energy reading stuff makes sense given that Aang and Appa already share a dreamscape.

He IS a great beast. The best!

OH COME ON

Someone whip up a wanted poster for Long Feng: Cattle Rustler. It had also never occurred to me that he was an earthbender.

That flip move with the earthbending platform must have caused Appa to land on his back. I bet that hurt.

One of the times I am very grateful that the closing credits music is so upbeat.

Final Thoughts

@aboutiroh I see why you recommended I save my chocolate for this episode.

The Tale of Momo was really just a preparatory taste of things to come, huh? Almost a microcosm of this episode.

This is the first episode where I had to take breaks while watching. Especially the circus sequence, I think I got up twice to do things like get a cup of tea and stare randomly out windows at squirrels. I didn't even have to do that with Zuko Alone, despite freaking out a lot about it, because at least that episode took breaks from the child abuse to check in with Aang being miserable. This episode was unrelenting.

If I had seen this episode when I was the age of the target audience, this may well have turned me off the show for good. If my Mom had seen this episode, I would have been banned from watching the show entirely. Not a decision I'd agree with, but my Mom is the type of person who banned her kids from watching Bambi.

To watch through all of that unrelenting animal (at best) unhappiness, and still not get Appa back at the end of the episode? That's a bit much. It's not often that this show ends its episodes without at least a little bit of something positive.

Once again, the music did a lot of heavy lifting this episode. The animal noises weren't quite as emotive as the ones in Momo's Tale, but Appa's face is more expressive, and more was shown through his expression than through Momo's, so I feel like this episode had just as much non-verbal animal communication as Momo's Tale.

I think I'm renaming season 2 "the Suki redemption arc." I really didn't like the Warriors of Kyoshi episode, and I didn't like what her character did in that episode. But every time Suki appears in season 2? She absolutely nails it.

The show since losing Appa has taken to wallowing. Even with bright spots like the poetry bouncer, the overall tone since Appa's appanapping has been ever more dark. If this keeps up for many more episodes, it will no longer be fun to watch.

Somehow I don't think this one is going on my rewatch list.

#atla #avatar: the last airbender #avatar the last airbender #appa's lost days

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paparitoffxiv · 2 months ago

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Finally got around to drawing Dewlala. Thinking early on about other characters that Lolorito and Papashan would interact with and, given Lolorito’s position (an asshole with a ton of money and power, probably surrounded by ass kissers daily), I thought that Dewlala could be a good fit for a “friend”.

More thoughts under the cut.

Though if you would ask either of them they would NEVER call each other that. Colleagues or co-workers, AT BEST! But the fact is that they are two (I believe) pretty smart people in positions of power who don’t have many other people in the same situation who they can just relax and shoot the shit with.

And given that they probably also have pretty different ideologies and opinions on everything (a capitalist and a nun, I mean cmon), they would also be able to have engaging conversations with and even, maybe, have some pretty personal talks that they wouldn’t be able to have with anyone else (under threat of death to each other if any of it is used against them).

I like that Lolorito would have someone who can call his shit out on him when needed. And someone with whom he can be allowed to show more than just a veneer of smugness and pride.

They wouldn’t exactly be nice to each other; in private, he would call her hag and she would call him a dick fart and they would bicker and talk shit about the rest of the Syndicate over a drink and pastries until they were tired of each other’s faces and then do it again next Tuesday.

He probably donates to the Order. She probably gives it straight to ala mhigo refugees to fuck with him.

He makes fun of her taste in hats; she makes fun of his taste in men. You know, friends!

And of course, from the scene where Lolorito comes clean with Raubahn about the whole Nanamo plot, beforehand Dewlala was nagging his ear off to get it done once she figured things out and so HELP HER she will drag him by the ear if she has to!

#paparito #lolorito #Dewlala Dewla #ffxiv #fanart #headcanon

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journeytothewestresearch · 1 year ago

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Peng Doesn't Like Farts

Fans of Lego Monkie Kid, as many of you may already know, Peng is based on an ancient monster king appearing in chapters 74 to 77 of Journey to the West (Xiyouji, 西遊記, 1592). In the end of his arc, he is trapped above the Buddha's throne and submits to Buddhism. But you may not know that this very same character appears in a later novel, The Complete Vernacular Biography of Yue Fei (Shuo Yue quanzhuan, 說岳全傳, 1684 CE; a.k.a. The Story of Yue Fei). Peng is exiled from paradise for ... and I'm not joking ... killing a stellar spirit for farting during the Buddha's sermon.

Chapter one of Yue Fei's biography reads:

Let’s talk about the Buddha Tathagata at the Great Thunderclap Monastery in the Western Paradise. One day, he sat on a nine-level lotus throne, and the Four Great Bodhisattvas, the Eight Great Vajra Warriors, the five hundred Arhats, the three thousand Heavenly Kings, nuns and monks, male and female attendants, all of the heavenly sages who protect the Dharma, gathered to listen to his lecture on the Lotus Sutra. His words were like flowers and precious jewels raining from the heavens. But, at that time, a star-spirit, the Maiden Earth Bat, who had been listening to the lecture from beneath the lotus throne, couldn’t bear it any longer and unexpectedly let out a stinky fart. The Buddha was a great, merciful lord, so he didn’t mind even the slightest bit. But don’t sympathize with the Dharma protector above his head, the “Great Peng, the Golden-Winged King of Illumination,” whose eyes shone with golden light and whose back was a scene of auspiciousness. He became angry when he saw the nasty, filthy Maiden Earth Bat, and so he unfurled both his wings and dropped down to kill the spirit by pecking her on the head. The light-point of her soul shot out of the Great Thunderclap Monastery and went to the Lands of the East (China) in the world below to find a mother and reincarnate. She was reborn as a daughter of the Wang clan. She would later marry the Song Prime minister Qin Hui (1091-1155) and come to cruelly kill the righteous (i.e. Yue Fei) as a means to get revenge against today’s enemy. We will talk about this later. Let’s return to the Buddha, who saw what happened with his all-seeing eyes and exclaimed, “Good! Good! It turns out that this is an episode of karma (cause and effect).” Then he called the Great Peng bird to come closer and shouted, “You evil creature! You already took refuge in my teachings. How can you not follow the five precepts by daring to commit such a horrible crime? I don’t need you here; you will descend to the mortal world to pay off your (karmic) debt and wait until you have fulfilled your work. Once that is completed, only then will I allow you to return to the mountain to achieve the right fruit (Buddhist merit).” The Great Peng complied with the decree, flying out of the Great Thunderclap Monastery directly to the Lands of the East to be reincarnated. We will stop here (translation by me). 且說西方極樂世界大雷音寺我佛如來，一日端坐九品蓮臺，旁列著四大菩薩、八大金剛、五百羅漢、三千偈諦、比丘尼、比丘僧、優婆夷、優婆塞，共諸天護法聖眾，齊聽講說妙法真經。正說得天花亂墜、寶雨繽紛之際，不期有一位星官，乃是女土蝠，偶在蓮臺之下聽講，一時忍不住，撒出一個臭屁來。我佛原是個大慈大悲之主，毫不在意。不道惱了佛頂上頭一位護法神祗，名為大鵬金翅明王，眼射金光，背呈祥瑞，見那女土蝠污穢不潔，不覺大怒，展開雙翅落下來，望著女土蝠頭上，這一嘴就啄死了。那女土蝠一點靈光射出雷音寺，徑往東土認母投胎，在下界王門為女，後來嫁與秦檜為妻，殘害忠良，以報今日之讎。此是後話，按下不提。且說佛爺將慧眼一觀，口稱：「善哉，善哉！原來有此一段因果。」即喚大鵬鳥近前，喝道：「你這孽畜！既歸我教，怎不皈依五戒，輒敢如此行兇？我這裡用你不著，今將你降落紅塵，償還冤債，直待功成行滿，方許你歸山，��成正果。」大鵬鳥遵了法旨，飛出雷音寺，徑來東土投胎不表。

#Great Peng #Golden-Winged Peng #Peng #Great Roc #Journey to the West #JTTW #Sun Wukong #Monkey King #Lego Monkie Kid #LMK #Azure Lion #Demon Bull King #Yellow Tusk Elephant #Celestial realm #sworn brothrs #smelly farts #farts

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have-a-hiddles · 6 months ago

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Within Your Heart, A Story To Be Told

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

Pairing: Cardinal Copia/F!Reader

Words: 4.5K/16.4K

Warnings: Vague reference to suicide, but no such act occurs. Intense bullying both verbal and physical. Reader is a Sister of Sin and is written to be quite plump. Lots of swearing, both in English and Italian.

🔞 MDNI 🔞

A/N: I’m keeping Primo, Secondo, and Terzo alive. Because I fucking can. However, Sister Imperator is still the only one aware of Copia’s familial connection. Copia knows Imperator is his birth mother, but not that Nihil is his father.

Everything takes place circa 2018-2019 between Terzo getting dragged off-stage (30 September 2017) and Copia being anointed as Papa IV (March 2020).

Tucked away in a short hallway that only led to a janitor’s closet, hiding among discarded crates of merchandise, you struggled to breathe without sobbing. It was not the first time you’d had to utilize this barely frequented hiding spot. You’d been with the Ministry for nearly five years; yet you still remained unable to find your place. It seemed to be a lifelong fault of yours; never fitting in.

Your earliest memory was of being picked last for recess sports in elementary school; of stern-faced priests telling you to stop crying, stop being so sensitive. Boys will be boys and boys like to pick on their classmates. Maybe if you didn’t present such an irresistible target, they’d leave you alone. Always turning a blind eye to your skinned knees and bruised arms.

Middle school was no better. In fact, it was worse. Now, the girls got in on the bullying too. They mocked your chosen hobbies; reading, drawing, singing. The one time you got a solo in the school choir for a special Mass for some important visiting Cardinal, they made farting and oinking noises behind you, whispering and laughing just low enough that the Sister didn’t hear them. You’d faltered in your singing, trying desperately not to cry, your cheeks flaming red. You had worked so hard on this part! It was your favorite hymn! Sister had yelled at you and berated you for not practicing enough on your own. In the end, she took the solo away from you and gave it to another girl who wasn’t as good a singer as you were but was vastly more popular.

And high school? High school was pure torture. Everything that sucked about middle school, but now with hormones and heartache mixed in for a toxic cocktail. Other students now sought to humiliate you by dangling a mirage of hope. Some bold joker would sidle up to you to say something along the lines of: “Hey, my friend over there thinks you’re super cute. You should ask him out.” And naturally, naively you did, hoping against hope that said boy was telling the truth.

Said boy never was.

University life hadn’t treated you much better, although the overt bullying ceased. You tried to keep a low profile. Went to social events even though you were an anxious wreck the whole time; house parties that your exasperated roommates might drag you on, street festivals for arts and crafts by local artisans, concerts in crowded and often smoky clubs.

It was at one such concert that you first saw the band Ghost and had something of an epiphany. If the so-called “good” people were so horrible to you; then maybe the so-called “evil” people would treat you nicely. Twelve years of Catholic school with its mean nuns and creepy priests had soiled much of your interest in faith. You hadn’t been to Mass since graduating from Saint Hubert’s. Not even for Christmas or Easter. When you’d flat out refused to attend a Catholic university, your family had all but disowned you. And sadly, that changed very little for you. They’d never been much interested in you.

Then Ghost had returned to your city, now as their own headliner instead of an opening act. You’d ponied up the money for general admission tickets to the Haze Over North America tour even though the idea of being jostled around by a bunch of sweaty strangers made you feel nauseous. You’d queued up before anyone else even got there. You’d even caught sight of the band and roadies arriving, although you wisely did NOT rush over to them even though you really wanted to. You very briefly caught sight of Papa (still Secondo at that time!) in his full robes heading from a black SUV into the side of the venue.

You’d been all but clinging to the stage, watching them and, more importantly, listening. Secondo liked playing to the pit, often making eye contact with various individuals. He had a reputation of being something of a man whore and you could see where that idea had come from. Despite his papal robes and miter (or maybe because of it?), he exuded a dark and very tempting sexuality. Still, he didn’t see you, his mismatched gaze always seemed to go to someone just to your left or right.

Then came the encore, Monstrance Clock. The quieter instrumentals reminded you of that long ago choir that you had loved so much. You had closed your eyes to take it all in, your heart feeling as though it was expanding to press against your ribs, a shuddery sensation going through you. You were a virgin, yes. But you knew what an orgasm was; and although not quite the same, this feeling was very similar. Distantly, you remembered that many paintings and sculptures depicting a spiritual awakening often called them an “ecstasy”.

Hypnotizing horns of ram Paralyzing pentagram And the eerie sound of the monstrance clock Singing

Come together Together as one Come together For Lucifer's son

You then felt as though you were falling, but you weren’t scared at all. The sensation of a dark and heated cloak being draped gently over your shoulders, wrapping you in warmth and safety, made you feel completely protected and loved. It was a feeling you had searched for all of your life and never expected to find at a metal concert! When you finally opened your eyes, Papa was kneeling on the stage right in front of you with his eyes boring into yours. And despite his very stern and somewhat scary expression, you weren’t afraid. He’d narrowed his eyes briefly then nodded at you, claiming one of your hands and brushing his lips over your knuckles. When he rose to his feet, he looked to one of his ghouls and jerked his head in your direction.

When you’d stayed put long after everyone had left the pit, that same ghoul had darted out to you, explaining that Papa wanted to see you. To say you’d been surprised was an understatement. Backstage, Secondo had already removed his skull paint, although the absence did not lessen his presence. Under the watchful gaze of the Nameless Ghouls, he explained the Ghost Project and the Ministry. As Papa, he had a few subtle quirks that sometimes helped him find those who would be excellent additions to the faith.

And apparently Satan had singled you out. During Monstrance Clock, when you’d been so overwhelmed by the music; that had been something of a test. A test to see how you reacted to His Light, His Presence. A test you passed with flying colors by not panicking or blaming the feeling on some physical malady caused by the festival environment, by accepting the warmth of the Father of Outcasts.

Did you want to join their faith? You would be sheltered and cared for. You would be protected. You would have a job for which you would be paid. You would take classes to further your knowledge. And, oddly enough, your Catholic upbringing would prove to be an advantage. You already understood the ritual and hierarchy and language. You knew enough Latin to easily understand what the prayers meant. You understood nebulous concepts like transubstantiation and substance–attribute theory.

You’d agreed with almost no hesitation.

Everything after that was a blur. You’d packed up your few belongings and quickly been instated as a postulate in the New York ministry. You’d had very high hopes after being lauded for your intelligence and organization skills. You were set up as an assistant in the library, which also gave you plenty of time to study up even more on this new path you found yourself on. As such, for the first few months, you mostly kept to yourself, your hyper-fixation on learning temporarily replacing the bleeding need for companions. When you did try to make friends, swallowing down your fear as best you could, things did not go as planned. Attempts at jokes only got you blank looks. Trying to join in on conversations or activities only seemed to make others around you uncomfortable.

After two years, it was decided that you didn’t fit in at the New York ministry. And while they weren’t kicking you out, they thought you might do better in a different location. One year in Los Angeles later, it was decided you didn’t fit in there either. So, you’d been moved again, this time to the main Ministry in Sweden.

Two years into your life here and you were still longing for that feeling of belonging that you’d experienced for a scant few moments at the festival while Secondo had sung. Secondo had “retired” and it was Terzo’s turn under the miter. He was wildly successful; more personable with audiences than Primo or Secondo, more confident and charismatic. You’d never spoken to him directly. The handful of times you’d made eye contact (during Black Mass or on-site rehearsals) he had smiled and winked at you. But you knew full-well that he did that to everyone. It was a band-aid over a slit wrist, but it was better than nothing.

Abruptly, that had all changed too and now there was no Papa, but a Cardinal was “filling in” while he was also schooled in being the new Papa. You’d only seen him a few times, his red cassock drawing attention amongst all of the black and white of the habits you and your Siblings of Sin wore. He always seemed to be off in his own world, muttering to himself in Italian, probably going over prayers or sermons. Most people thought he was a tad weird. You, however, found him a bit fascinating.

Most of the other Siblings fawned over Terzo, which you could hardly blame them for. He was incredibly popular. Cardinal Copia, though? Something about him struck you with warmth whenever you did catch sight of him or overheard him at rehearsals with the band. You found him very handsome in an off-beat kind of way. Whenever he led Mass, you were more attentive than you ever were for any of the previous Papas. Something about him just called to you.

Whatever that something was, it was obviously one-sided. The Cardinal had never so much as glanced in your direction.

You were still working as a librarian, but no longer an assistant. You were the scribe of the ancient texts; carefully going through delicate parchment of dense Latin and digitizing them so they would never be lost. Being one of the younger members in the Ministry scholary, your grasp of technology was far and away better than that of the other librarians.

You didn’t know what you’d done to draw attention to yourself; but less than a month into your time in Sweden, you were re-living junior high school. A trio of your fellow Siblings; Kaser, Lynx, and Cantata, had decided that you were a fun target to torment; with plenty of ammo at their disposal. You were still awkward and anxious. You’d developed something of a nervous stutter and struggled more than ever to put your thoughts into words. Worse, your body had decided that freshman fifteen was meant to be a challenge; as you had gained thirty pounds, so you were much chubbier than most of the others; wide hips, a sizable ass, a rounded belly, and tits that refused to be contained by most bras. Like the long-ago middle school boys, they liked to painfully snap your bra strap. Or they would trip you in the hallways. Shove you into walls. Tug off your veil when they knew Sister Imperator was near so that she would scold you for having it off.

Their favorite thing, however, was to harass you about the fact that you’d been a postulate for five fucking years! Most postulates became novices within a year and then a full Sibling at three. Were you too stupid to pass the exams? Were you such a loser that even Satan didn’t want you? Were you afraid that Papa would turn you down?

That last one was closer to home than they knew. Part of a postulate’s “graduation” into a novice was to have sex with Papa; sometimes in private, sometimes on the altar in front of everyone. You simply couldn’t stand the idea of any of the Papas taking one look at you and deciding that he was not going to put his cock in someone as pathetic as you. It had never happened before to your knowledge (and you’d looked it up!) so there was no reason to fear such a thing. But fears are nothing if not irrational.

All of which led to your current predicament, sitting on a crate of Ghost merchandise near a janitor’s closet, hiding from your triad of bullies behind a double-stack of the same crates. If the closet hadn’t been locked, you’d have been in it. You sputtered and coughed, choking on your own tears. Were you always going to be so painfully lonely? You prayed as hard now as you ever had as a Catholic… and, like God, Satan was now frustratingly silent. Perhaps it was just time to accept that you didn’t fit in anywhere and never would. Maybe you’d ask to transfer to another Ministry just to escape your abusers; but you’d stay with the church since at least your work was satisfying.

Footsteps approached, prompting you to cover your mouth to silence yourself, not wanting another round of abuse if it was Kaser, Lynx, or Cantata. You curled yourself into the tightest ball you could, cursing your extra weight for making that very difficult.

“Eh, hello?” a soft voice, lightly accented in Italian. Oh, fuck… had they lied to Sister that you’d done something wrong to get you in trouble? They’d done it before; blaming you for something they’d done. Fucking hells bells, what had they done that would prompt one of the elder Italians (of which, there were many) be addressing you?

“I’m sorry!” you burst out, covering your face with your hands. “I was just, um… j-j-j-just… ah, taking a… m-m-moment-.“ Curse that idiotic stutter!

“No! N-n-n-no, sorella. It’s… ah… okay. I only… I mean I just was passing and I h-h-heard you.”

The foreign sound of someone else stuttering made you look through your fingers. At first, all you saw was red. A long, red cassock and black gloves.

The Cardinal.

You were so shocked by the revelation that the man who would soon be Papa was apparently a bit anxious and awkward too, that you didn’t say anything for a moment. You merely stared at him, your cheeks still stained with tears, but at least you were now breathing somewhat normally.

“You’ve been c-crying,” he pointed out as if it wasn’t obvious.

“It’s… it’s nothing, Your Eminence,” you shook your head, finally remembering your manners and lowering your gaze, wiping hurriedly at your cheeks. “You needn’t worry about it. You must have many more important things to do!”

A long silence followed, both of you seeming to size the other up with caution. Strange, he was so confident and eloquent when he performed Mass or gave sermons. And now he seemed genuinely lost as to how to talk to someone one on one.

“C-congratulations, by the way!” you finally blurt out. “If… if that’s the proper thing to say. I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful Papa. I’ve overheard some of the rehearsals and you sound amazing.”

That was at least true. The Cardinal had a beautiful singing voice and a powerful stage presence.

“Oh! Eh, grazie… thank you. It’s a great honor,” he smiled slightly, his black upper lip curling up at the corners in a way you found immediately endearing. “Not to be, eh, too forward, b-b-b-but… what has so upset you?”

“It’s… it’s nothing. It’s stupid. I just… I feel like… I don’t really…” you paused, closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. “I’ve never really fit in anywhere…and even though I’m trying so hard… I don’t seem to fit in here either. Square peg, round hole.” Woah, that was the most pulled-together thing you’d said in months!

You silently prepared yourself to be told to try harder, not be so sensitive, don’t be so weird, or some other variation of unhelpful advice that authority figures always tossed at your feet.

“Sì, it’s very difficult. I understand.”

You snapped your eyes open to meet his uneven gaze head-on.

He continued, “Some people just seem to effortlessly be adored and others… others must work tirelessly to be accepted by even a few.” He sounded contemplative, even a touch sad. “It… it can be overwhelming, I know.”

“Are you saying that… you’ve had t-trouble fitting in? But you’re terrific on stage and at Mass! In fact, every time I’ve heard you talk, you’re always so sure of yourself!” you exclaimed.

He gave an ironic smile. “It helps, sorella, to have a sc-script. At the microphone, I already know what I’m going to say or s-s-sing. I don’t have to anticipate the questions or comments of others because I’m the only one expected to t-talk, sì?”

“Oh,” you said with a note of surprise. You’d never really thought of it that way. “I’ve not really ever spoken to an audience. Or sung. Not by myself anyway.”

“You sing, sorella?” he perked up, the motion making something warm slide over your heart.

“Yeah, yes. I mean… I used to. I sang in choir all through school and I was in the Mass choir in Los Angeles. I’d like to join the choir here, but they aren’t accepting new singers right now,” you shrugged, biting your bottom lip.

“The choir at the L.A. ministry?” his eyebrows rose. “You must be talented then, sorella. The choirmaster there is very exacting.”

You smiled, despite knowing that your cheeks were flaming red. That had been one bright point of the last few years. The confirmation that you did still have a good singing voice had meant a great deal to you. “He is. The rehearsals were grueling sometimes, but I loved it just the same. Music is just so… powerful. I can’t think of a better word. Even ‘powerful’ feels inadequate. It’s what brought me to the Ministry in the first place. I saw Papa Secondo during the Haze tour and, I don’t know… something just clicked in place.”

“Papa Secondo, eh? Small wonder, he was quite the commanding presence when he was Papa. Still is, actually. But, wait…” he paused, looking up and muttering in Italian. “Papa Secondo hasn’t been Papa since, what 2013? That was five years ago. You’ve been a postulate for that long?”

Motherfucking Christ on a popsicle stick, why did you have to mention Secondo?

“Um… yeah. It’s just… never felt like… the timing was right. And… if I’m honest, I’m scared,” you swallowed tightly.

“Scared?” he repeated with a cock of his head. “What is there to be scared of?”

“If I may speak plainly… it’s the whole… um… sex thing..?” Your words came out more like a question than an answer.

“You’re scared of… sex?” he said, seeming to only want to confirm that he had heard you correctly.

“Not exactly. I’m not afraid of the act. B-b-but I’m afraid of… it’s-s-s-s-stupid of me, I know… but I can’t help but be sc-sc-scared of being… rejected…” you managed to strangle out, eyes glued to your hands folded in your lap. “No one’s ever wanted me before. Why would this b-b-b-be any different?”

“Sorella, it’s not stupid. Fears like that are very… d-difficult to shake. However, being as currently said deed would fall to m-me, I can promise you that I will not be rejecting such a lovely soul.” His voice had gone a little lower and he drew closer to you, kneeling down so you were at an even level, although you didn’t look up at him.

A black leather glove obscured your view, curled fingers tucking up your chin, coaxing you gently into looking up at him. “Sorella, I promise it. I would be more than honored to help you complete your… eh… training, if that is the word.”

You chanced looking up and meeting his gaze. Even at a distance, it was obvious that the Papas and Cardinal all had one ghostly white eye. But this close, you could see that his other eye was a rather pretty shade of green. You’d always liked green eyes.

Apparently, your momentary contemplation of his eyes made him a little nervous, because he looked down, cheeks slightly flushed. “I-if-if you like, of course… I’m not… I mean… eh, Sathanas, no pressure? Is that the, eh, the phrase? If you don’t want to have me as your initiator, it’s eh… it’s o-o-o-okay. One of the other Papas would be happy to serve in my place. I know most people seem to like T-T-Terzo the best. And if I know him, he would never turn down an initiate,” he rambled slightly.

Under any other circumstances, you would have assumed that he was agreeing to make you feel better and then trying to pass you off to one of the former Papas to get out of the chore. But something about the Cardinal’s anxious patter convinced you that he was only trying to give you options, not avoid the task.

Completely on impulse, you clutched at his nervous hands, holding them still. This also served the purpose of stilling your own hands. “You don’t need to advertise the others to me. It will be you, Cardinal.”

He looked up from your joined hands with a half-smile. “It will, eh? Does that mean you’ve decided to go through with becoming a novice, sorella?”

Your breath stopped. You had just implied that hadn’t you? Shit. Shitshitshitshit! “I guess it does, Your Eminence.”

“Bene, sorella. I look forward to it,” he smiled, though his gaze returned to your hands. A small shift and he was able to press your hands into his, palm to palm, with your fingers entwined. The motion reminded you of something…

-Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.

The Cardinal chuckled softly under his breath, a rather deep sound that gave you delightful goosebumps. “Shakespeare, sì? Hmm, let me think…”

Fuck! Had you said that out loud? You must have! Random Shakespeare was not going to get you anywhere and of course you’d choose a passage rife with Catholic imagery.

- Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Holy shit on a shingle, he was reciting Romeo’s part now? Oh Satan. Lucifer. Lilith. Hecate. Kelly Clarkson! What was the next bit?

-Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

-O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

-Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

-Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.

You’d both been leaning closer to each other and now were barely a breath away. You licked your lips nervously. That small gesture apparently spurned him on. He completed the connection, kissing you so sweetly that you thought you might actually pass out. You’d been kissed before; but those previous kisses felt nothing like this! Your lips felt as though they were burning, the familiar heat of arousal curling low in your belly.

-Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.

How could he even remember the next line after that! It took you a decent minute and a half to recover your thoughts and remember the next line.

-Then have my lips the sin that they have took?

He smiled, nearly grinned, teeth very white against his black upper lip.

-Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

You were ready this time, meeting his kiss with one of your own, tenderly mapping the sensation of his lips and the searing path of want as it spread in your veins. Fuck, you already had a little crush on Copia; this would inevitably push it into full-blown infatuation.

-You kiss by th’ book.

You practically moaned that last line as you both paused, foreheads pressed together, hands still palm to palm. He was panting ever so slightly, as were you.

“You understand what I mean about having a script, sì?” he whispered softly. “Neither of us stumbled or hesitated even once. Not what you were thinking when you began reciting, I know. But, for myself at least… I would not yet have had the nerve to kiss you. But with the Bard’s words to encourage… it felt very natural to kiss you.”

You felt your cheeks grow hot, although for once it was not from humiliation or shame, but from pleased embarrassment. The way he was looking at you! No man… hell, no person or ghoul or whatever… had ever looked at you the way Copia was looking at you. There was a hunger in his eyes that made your stomach do flips. But under that desire lurked a sweet, longing kind of affection.

A beeping noise interrupted your thoughts. “Cazzo!” he hissed and pushed back the sleeve of his cassock to reveal an old digital watch. “Perdonami per favore; I seem to be running late for rehearsal. Had I the choice, I would not be leaving you so… eh… abruptly,” he apologized with sincere regret.

“It’s OK,” you replied somewhat dreamily, still feeling a bit floaty from his kisses.

“I will look for your… ehm… initiation papers and authorize them. Then you n-n-nneed only set the date,” he assured you as he rose to his full height. “I must go, sorella.”

“Oh! Yes! Right. Don’t let me keep you. Rehearsal’s important,” you nodded hastily, not wanting to come across as needy even though you wanted to bury yourself in his chest and cling to him like a koala.

“It is, si,” he allowed, before looking down on you with a fond expression. “But you are important too, no?”

He turned to leave and was almost around the corner before he stopped and turned back to you. “Eh, mi scuzi, but… I didn’t get your name, sorella.”

“Huh? Oh! It’s Y/N, F/N L/N,” you replied perhaps a bit louder than you should have.

“Y/N… lovely,” he echoed with a small smile. “Arrivederci, Y/N.”

What? Just? Happened?

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