#the sanctuary basilica

[postcard-from-the-past]

Ceremony entering the Sanctuary Basilica of the Assumption of Our Lady in Mosta, Malta

French vintage postcard

[wgm-beautiful-world]

Santuario Nacional de la Basilica de Nuestra Señora de Las Lajas en COLOMBIA

[manessha545]

Sanctuary of Las Lajas, Minor Basilica, Colombia: The Sanctuary of Las Lajas is a Roman Catholic minor basilica located within the canyon of the Guáitara River, in Ipiales, Nariño Department, Colombia. The Marian shrine is dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary as Our Lady of the Rosary. Wikipedia

[escapismsworld]

Sanctuary Basilica of the Assumption of Our Lady (aka Rotunda of Mosta)

📍Mosta, Malta

[lahilden]

Las Lajas Sanctuary

Las Lajas Sanctuary is located in Nariño, Colombia, near the city of Ipiales in South America. The Roman Catholic Basilica was built inside the canyon of the Guáitara River. The present church was built in the Gothic Revival style between 1916 and 1949. A miraculous event is said to have occurred at this site in 1754 when a mother and her deaf daughter were caught in a storm and sought refuge between the giant Lajas. The little girl spoke and claimed the lighted silhouette she saw over the Laja was the Virgin Mary. The miraculous healing story had others visiting the sanctuary for healing, as it became a pilgrimage site. The image of the Virgin Mary on the stone is still visible today, although no one knows who made the image, which sits at the end of the church behind the altar. The name Laja comes from a flat sedimentary rock similar to shale. The first shrine built on this site was created in the mid-18th century from straw and wood. It was replaced with a new, larger shrine in 1802. The current church stands 330 feet high from the bottom of the canyon and connects to the opposite side by a 160-foot tall bridge that sits over the Guáitara River. Las Lajas received canonical coronation from the Vatican in 1952 and became a minor basilica in 1994. Many healing miracles have been reported to occur at this church throughout its existence. Las Lajas Sanctuary is open to the public.

[d1s1ntegrated]

basilica

tomura shigaraki

cw: religious trauma, religious motifs/themes/imagery, catholicism, defiling of the church, angst, hurt, slightly ooc

a/n: just a short angry religious trauma post drabble bc i'm feeling a type of way rn and it kinda sucks lol. sorry for projecting this onto u tomura i love u

try reading with the song! it adds a layer to the writing i feel honestly is kind of important

Tomura wanted to cry. Wanted to scream in anguish, beg and plead for a miracle or a sign from a God, any God. But the pews of the rotted church served little to sanctify him as he crumbled each one with an angry fist. Shaking fingertips dug into the deep grooves in the mahogany and crumbled them into forgotten prayers. Scattered pages of proverbs and psalms littered the marbled tiles, and the sun rays twinkled in through the ornate stained glass, reminding him just how small he was against the hands of God. There was no God here- only Him, and He alone could stand the tides of change with a battering ram for a heartbeat. It hurt, it hurt so badly, to be forgotten and known all at the same time. Who was he? Tenko Shimura, the sweetened cherub boy, with scraped kneecaps and bruised elbows? No, never. It was a dream, a softened hymn that only time knew the words to. Now he stood, an adult in the eyes of society- though his body never felt quite big enough to be- Tomura Shigaraki. A man, a disciple of the Feared One, a machine created to destroy. And destroy he would. Starting here.

He didn't believe in God. He didn't follow the practice of any one religion, especially not the Catholic Church. Hell, the fact that there was even a church to find out here was a one in a million shot- they weren't exactly few and far between in the cities, but the Catholic population in Japan was a small decimal compared to Shintoism or Secularism. But for this moment, he felt it was best to be in here. A lot of western media he had consumed over the years painted church and Christianity as some all-consuming Light, like this is where miracle happened. Well, the only miracle here was that Tomura even set foot inside.

Every step pressed another layer of dust into the deep red runner up to the sanctuary. The altar remained pristine as he caught his breath, his throat tight and dry. The sound of his thumping heart swelled in his ears and head, the pressure reminiscent to being underwater. Looking up, the height of the cathedral shrank him down to atoms. It felt like a mockery. Like even God was reminding him he was small.

Small. Tiny. Pitiful.

Each word of arrogance against him made his blood turn darker, thinner, rushing through his veins as he grasped at the elegant pillars, dragging himself to the ground with a gasping cry, so that he fell to his knees at the altar rails, his tired bloody eyes locking with the adorned chancel, and the poignant, giant statue of the Son, hung plainly in front as if to scream "I'm here, too".

He felt more alone at this revelation, that human faithlessness was so overlooked because of sin, that people like him weren't meant to be here not because of their trouble finding faith, but for their lack of it. That he too would be damned because he chose not to find light in God, and instead found his own way of safety through destruction and chaos and everything Sensei had taught him. His own scripture, signed in viscera, torn at the edges. It wasn't his fault no one taught him to believe, but it was damn sure his fault he didn't seek it for himself- and he felt it, now, as Mother Mary's half-lidded gaze held above his wakened frame as if he were a pestilence on this world that God created.

Was he in the wrong for keeping his head low? Should he hang it high, be grateful for the hands that supposedly formed him and molded him? This, Tomura knew, was the entire reason behind his aversion to faith. Because he needed someone to listen, and not a single ear fell for him. Not even Sensei cared enough to listen to his alleged son, his pride and joy as some called it. He felt neither prideful or joyous when face to face with him, instead it was a sinking, sorrowful feeling, that could best be described as grief. Grief for his old life, or for the new one he failed to perfect for himself, his Sensei, his friends- try as he might, he was just so small here, and could do only so much.

Church was a last-ditch effort to feel something. Anything. His time was low, and the unfortunate arms of fate were every turning and chiming, reminding him that his goal was only so far. It was seconds away, he felt as he could reach out and grasp it- but he was too well trained, he knew better than to reach out to the things he really wanted, in fear he would destroy it all in the blink of an eye. Not even Gods hands could hold him now, though, as he pretended to pray for one last chance.

His hands pressed into the cold tile and he felt the ground beneath him rumble, his body quaking and splintering in wretchedness, the power lifting him entirely. The pure white turned a murky grey as they shattered and cracked under him, the giant spires atop the roof even quivered at the desolation. And as he screamed, as his throat burned in anger, poor Mother Mary fell to the ground from her pedestal, an ironic display. The caricature of fallen angel, in the house of God, airing his grievances to no one but marble and blood wine, he stood. Destroying it all.

Not in the name of God, but the name of Tomura Shigaraki. Because there was no God that could ever come close to being this angry.

[catholicpriestmedia]

"The heart of Jesus is a refuge for sinners and a sanctuary for the suffering." - #SaintPadrePio #FirstDay

📷 Chapel of the Sacred Heart in the Basilica of Saint Ambrose, Milan, Italy / © THEPALMER / #GettyImages. #Catholic_Priest #CatholicPriestMedia

[kavehsmommyissues]

The existence of Chappell Roan confirms the existence of the other following Roans:

Cathedral Roan

Basilica Roan

Temple Roan

Shrine Roan

Sanctuary Roan

Abbey Roan

Feel free to add all the other Roans you can think of.

[boricuabrujita]

Ancient Swan Iconography

October 10th 2024 (10/10 for the numerology lovers) just three days before my birthday was the first time I ever laid my eyes on swans in the flesh. These beautiful waterbirds known for their grace and beauty, as well as their aggressive temperament, were the perfect paradox for a Libra Sun + Mercury like myself. I felt such a deep connection to one of them in particular, I’d like to think we’re friends now. We shared some fig bar and they came closely to me. So in honor of my Solar Return, my Venusian Libra nature and my approaching opposing Martian Aries Saturn return, here is some archaeological evidence of swan iconography:

“Swan of Soli” (6th Century AD)

Swan (possibly goose; they weren’t distinguished between the two until much later) Mosaic at the St. Auxibus Basilica in the Ancient city of Soli, modern-day Northern Cyprus. There is an inscription in the mosaic set reading, “Christ! Mercy to those who have created this mosaic”. Cyprus was known for it’s rich copper mines. If the artistry and copper-filled lands weren’t enough to scream “Venusian!”, there is also the Temples at Cholades. Here, there are temples dedicated to the goddess Aphrodite herself as well as Isis (also a Venusian figure), Eros (also Venusian), Anatolian Goddess Cybele, Greco-Egyptian God Seraphis, Zoroastrian deity Mithras and more.

Aphrodite riding a Swan Terracotta Dish (4th Century BCE)

During the Archaic Greek period, sometimes Aphrodite was weaved in with swan symbolism. Good health, music, divination and grace all being associated with the majestic waterbird. Ovid and Horace have also referred to the Goddess on her chariot being drawn by swans into the air. It is believed to be found in Taranto, a coastal city in Southern Italy.

Aphrodite riding a Swan Pottery (5th Century BCE)

The Iron Age was a time when Cyprus had foreign influences from all over the Mediterranean. The sanctuary of Paphos was dedicated to the Goddess Aphrodite during this time. Homer and Hesiod even account for Aphrodite rising out of the sea from there. Vases like this one were called ‘lekythoi’ (“oil flasks”). The type of pottery is called “Athenian red-figure ware”. The piece is from Polis tis Khrysokhou while it was under Persian control, a town in Cyprus that was once known in Ancient times as Marion and Arsinoe.

“Swan Goddess” (Unknown-750 AD)

An Ivory statuette that was the side arm of a musical instrument, probably a 7-stringed kithara. It was found in Ephesus, an Ancient Greek city in Turkey. The style of the piece finds its closest relation to ivory pieces found on the site of the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus. Similarly in design, are also pieces found in Tumulua D excavation in Elmali to North of Antalya on the South coast of Turkey. While it is unsure which goddess is being depicted, it is speculated to be the Anatolian mother-goddess Cybele.

Sources:

“Swan of Soli”

https://www.academia.edu/1637307/_Papantoniou_G_2009_Revisiting_Soloi_Cholades_Ptolemaic_Power_Religion_and_Ideology_Cahier_du_Centre_d_Études_Chypriotes_39_271_87

https://www.visitncy.com/discover/soli-ruins/

“Terracotta Dish of Aphrodite riding Swan”

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/248373

https://www.jstor.org/stable/43646721

“Pottery of Aphrodite riding Swan”

https://cyprus.ashmus.ox.ac.uk/AncCyp-Aph-07.html

“Swan Goddess”

https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/‘the-swan-goddess’-unknown/2gETPGGWVmYIeg?hl=en&avm=4

[postcard-from-the-past]

Sanctuary Basilica of the Assumption of Our Lady in Mosta, Malta

British vintage postcard, mailed in 1912

[krindor]

So re your tags on the pope post...

Where's the menorah krindor?

So, starting at the very beginning.

70 CE: Titus sacks Jerusalem and loots the Second Temple. In his triumph (fancy war parade) he has the Menorah, as is recorded by Josephus Flavius in 71 CE and by the Arch of Titus' reliefs in 81 CE

The Menorah is displayed in the Tempulum Pacis in Rome, and 2nd century CE Rabbis claim to have seen it in Rome, as well as various other artifacts from the desroyed temple including the parochet and the choshen.

Now here's the thing. This is the last time historical texts mention the Menorah by name so everything below here needs to be taken with an increasing pile of salt

410 CE: The Visigoths sack Rome. Procipius of Ceasarea (500-560), a Byzantine Historian, writes that the Visigoths take "treasures of Solomon the King of the Hebrews." If this includes the Menorah, the trail goes cold. So that's it right? The Menorah got taken to a secondary location and was lost forever, right?

Wrong, because that's not the only time Procipius mentions Jewish Temple loot.

425 CE: The Vandals sack Rome again, to the point where the word vandalize comes from it. Procipius notes that their leader, Geiseric, takes "a huge amount of imperial treasure" with him to Carthage, which was at that time the Vandal capital.

Trust me this is relevant

534 CE: The Byzantine Emperor Justinian sacks Carthage, and they hold a triumph in Constantinople. Among the paraded items are "treasures of the Jews, which Titus, the son of Vespasian, together with certain others, had brought to Rome after the capture of Jerusalem”

That these "treasures of the Jews" include the Menorah is not a new theory, as is indicated in the 19th century painting Geiseric sacking Rome by Karl Bryullov

(Note the Menorah)

So it's in Istanbul right?

Wrong, because our boy Procipius isn't done yet: according to him, Justinian sent the "treasures of the Jews" to Christian sanctuaries in Jerusalem, since he heard that they were cursed that any city save Jerusalem that held them was doomed to be sacked.

This is the last time the "treasures of the Jews" are mentioned in historical texts.

So for our next step, lets look at major churches in Jerusalem in the 6th century, and officially enter the cork-board and string section of this rant post.

As well as the extant Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Hagia Sion Basilica, and the Church of the Holy Apostles, Justinian built a church himself in the city, called the Nea, in 534 CE, just nine years after sacking Carthage. It would not be unreasonable that he'd send the Menorah to his own church, so we can theorize that it's in the Nea for the remainder of the 6th century (there are, of course, problems with relying on one historian's account of these things, but this is for fun, not a published article)

So that's it? It's in one of the churches of Jerusalem?

...

So in 614 CE Jerusalem gets sacked by the Sasanian/Persian Empire, who according to historical records destroy all the churches.

Now here's the thing. Recent archaeological evidence gives rise to the possibility that our Byzantine historical sources are trying to stir up outrage against the Sasanians: While mass graves dating to around 614 CE were found, the churches and Christian residential neighborhoods were barely, if at all, damaged, and the Nea itself was very possibly completely undamaged. This is, however, a recent theory, and the academics are still hashing it out.

So it may be in one of the churches of Jerusalem?

Tragically, even if the 614 siege didn't get the churches, in 1009 the Fatimid Caliph al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah destroyed all churches, synagogues, and many religious artifacts of both Christians and Jews in Jerusalem. So if by some miracle the Menorah had survived until this point, if it was in Jerusalem it was most likely destroyed.

But that's disappointing, and what's a good conspiracy theory without going a step or two beyond what is reasonable?

Apparently, while the churches, synagogues and most of the artifacts were destroyed, at least in the case of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, objects that could be carried away were looted, rather than destroyed. And if we know anything about the Menorah at this point, that thing is certainly able to be carried away by people.

If the Menorah was looted rather than destroyed, it's not unreasonable that it would have made it's way to the Fatimid capital of Cairo. However, as the historical record dried up some 500 years beforehand, beyond this point it's unreasonable to attempt to track the Menorah.

So that's it. If the Menorah wasn't destroyed it most likely made its way to Egypt and was lost or destroyed there.

Is what I'd say if I wasn't so far down this rabbit hole I was beyond reason. Because as we all know there's one place that has all the significant treasures of Cairo and a penchant for looting:

The British Museum

[manessha545]

Sanctuary of Las Lajas, Colombia: The Sanctuary of Las Lajas is a Catholic minor basilica located within the canyon of the Guáitara River in Ipiales, Nariño Department, Colombia. The Marian shrine is dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary as Our Lady of the Rosary. Wikipedia

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

9th November >> Fr. Martin's Reflections/Homilies on Today's Mass Readings for The Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica (Inc. John 2:13-22): ‘He was speaking of the sanctuary that was his body’.

Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

Gospel (Except USA) John 2:13-22 Destroy this sanctuary and in three days I will raise it up.

Just before the Jewish Passover Jesus went up to Jerusalem, and in the Temple he found people selling cattle and sheep and pigeons, and the money changers sitting at their counters there. Making a whip out of some cord, he drove them all out of the Temple, cattle and sheep as well, scattered the money changers’ coins, knocked their tables over and said to the pigeon-sellers, ‘Take all this out of here and stop turning my Father’s house into a market.’ Then his disciples remembered the words of scripture: Zeal for your house will devour me. The Jews intervened and said, ‘What sign can you show us to justify what you have done?’ Jesus answered, ‘Destroy this sanctuary, and in three days I will raise it up.’ The Jews replied, ‘It has taken forty-six years to build this sanctuary: are you going to raise it up in three days?’ But he was speaking of the sanctuary that was his body, and when Jesus rose from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the scripture and the words he had said.

Gospel (USA) John 2:13-22 Jesus was speaking about the temple of his Body.

Since the Passover of the Jews was near, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. He found in the temple area those who sold oxen, sheep, and doves, as well as the money-changers seated there. He made a whip out of cords and drove them all out of the temple area, with the sheep and oxen, and spilled the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables, and to those who sold doves he said, “Take these out of here, and stop making my Father’s house a marketplace.” His disciples recalled the words of Scripture, Zeal for your house will consume me. At this the Jews answered and said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” Jesus answered and said to them, “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.” The Jews said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and you will raise it up in three days?” But he was speaking about the temple of his Body. Therefore, when he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they came to believe the Scripture and the word Jesus had spoken.

Reflections (8)

(i) Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

The Basilica of Saint John Lateran in Rome is the Cathedral church of the Pope in his role as Bishop of the Diocese of Rome. It is called ‘Saint John’ after the two monasteries once attached, dedicated to Saint John the apostle and Saint John the Baptist. As the Cathedral Church of the Pope it has the title ‘Mother and Head of all the churches of the City and of the World’. It is sometimes called the Lateran Basilica or the Basilica of Saint John Lateran; the ‘Laterani’ were an old Roman family who probably once owned the land on which the Emperor Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, built this Basilica. It is one of the most important religious buildings in the Catholic Church. The most important religious building in the time of Jesus and the early church was the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. In the words of today’s responsorial psalm, it was ‘the holy place where the Most High dwells’. At a time when this Temple was still standing in all its glory, Paul makes the extraordinary statement in today’s second reading, ‘Don’t you realize that you are God’s Temple and that the Spirit of God is living among you?’ Paul is declaring that the Most High now dwells in the community of believers who gather around the risen Lord. The focal point of God’s presence is no longer a building, no matter how magnificent, but the community of those who have responded in faith to the preaching of the gospel. Paul declares that the foundation of this building is the one he has laid, namely, Jesus Christ. A little later in this letter, Paul declares that each individual member of the church is a temple of the Holy Spirit, in virtue of baptism. In today’s gospel reading from John, which was written perhaps thirty years after the Jewish Temple was destroyed by the Romans, Jesus speaks of himself as the temple of God, the focal point of God’s presence. The Word who was God became flesh in Jesus; to see Jesus is to see God the Father. The risen Lord is the primary temple of God and the church can only be God’s temple if the risen Lord remains its foundation. As members of the church, we can reveal God’s presence to our world to the extent that we allow his Son, our risen Lord, to live out his life of love in and through us.

And/Or

(ii) Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

The Lateran Basilica is one of the four great Basilicas of Rome.  The original Basilica was erected by the Emperor Constantine, the first Christian Emperor. It is the Cathedral church of Rome and, so, is the church of the Bishop of Rome, the Pope. For that reason, it has come to be known as the mother church of Christendom. Before the time of Constantine there were no public buildings called churches. Christians met in ordinary spaces, such as people’s homes. Writing to the church in Corinth about thirty years after the death and resurrection of Jesus, Paul says to them, in the words of today’s first reading, ‘You are God’s building… God’s temple’. For Paul, it was the Christian community, rather than any physical building, that was the place of God’s presence in the world. In the gospel reading, Jesus points to himself as the Temple of God. He, more than any human being, is the place of God’s presence in the world. As individuals and as a community we look to the Lord to help us to be the place of God’s presence in the world, to be church, in that sense. We gather in a building we call a church, to open ourselves to the presence of the Lord, so that we can become more fully the church of God, the body of Christ, in our world.

And/Or

(iii) Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

In the early fourth century the first Christian emperor, Constantine, had a church built on land that once belonged to the Laterani family. That church of Constantine was the precursor of the present Basilica. This Basilica is now the Cathedral of the Diocese of Rome. It is the church of the Pope in his capacity as Bishop of Rome. For that reason, it has the title, ‘mother and head of all the churches of the city and the world’. Our local parish churches are much more modest building that the Basilica of Saint John Lateran in Rome, and, yet, both are equally monuments to people’s faith. In today’s first reading Paul tells the Christians in Corinth, ‘you are God’s building… you are God’s temple’. Paul is reminding us that more fundamental than the building we call church are the people we call church. The church building is there to help us to express our identity as a people of faith, called to worship God through Christ in the Spirit. If our worship is to be authentic, the shape of our worship must become the shape of our lives. Our whole lives are to be a movement towards God, through Christ and in the Spirit. This is what it means to be church, to be the temple of God in the world, the living sign of God’s presence. In the gospel reading Jesus points to himself as the temple of God in the world, the one through whom God is present in the world. This is the heart of our own baptismal calling, to become temples of God through whom God’s loving presence touches the lives of others.

And/Or

(iv) Feast of the Dedication of Basilica of Saint John Lateran

In the early fourth century the first Christian emperor, Constantine, had a church built on land that once belonged to the Laterani family. That church of Constantine was the precursor of the present Basilica. This Basilica is now the Cathedral church of the Diocese of Rome. It is the church of the Pope in his capacity as Bishop of Rome. For that reason, it has the title, ‘mother and head of all the churches of the world’. Every church building tells a story about the faith community who gather in the building. In that sense today’s feast is less about a church building and more about the people we call church. Paul’s words to the Corinthians this morning are addressed to every parish community: ‘You are God’s building’. For Paul, the local faith community is the Temple of God, where God’s Spirit is dwelling. The local parish church is most itself when it is filled with the people who are the church, the baptized and believing community. Paul in that second reading reminds us that the foundation of the believing community is Jesus Christ. As individual believers and as a community of faith we are called to build our lives on the person of Jesus, by keeping his words and by remaining open to his Spirit. That is our shared baptismal calling. In attending to that calling we give meaning to the building in which we gather.

And/Or

(v) Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica                  

The Lateran Basilica is one of the four great Basilicas of Rome. The original Basilica was erected by the Emperor Constantine, the first Christian Emperor. It is the Cathedral Church of Rome and, so, is the church of the Bishop of Rome, the Pope. For that reason, it has come to be known as the mother church of Christendom. Before the time of Constantine there were no public buildings called churches. Christians met in ordinary spaces, such as people’s homes. Writing to the church in Corinth about thirty years after the death and resurrection of Jesus, Paul says to them, in the words of today’s first reading, ‘You are God’s building… God’s temple’. For Paul, it was the Christian community, rather than any physical building, that was the place of God’s presence in the world. In the gospel reading, Jesus points to himself as the Temple of God. He, more than any human being, is the place of God’s presence in the world. As individuals and as a community we look to the Lord to help us to be the place of God’s presence in the world, to be church, in that sense. We gather in a building we call a church, to open ourselves to the presence of the Lord, so that we can become more fully the church of God, the body of Christ, in our world. Even when we cannot gather in a building called a church, we remain what the first letter of Peter calls ‘living stones’ in a ‘spiritual house’ whose cornerstone is the Lord.

And/Or

(vi) Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

Today’s church celebrates the Cathedral church of the Diocese of Rome. It is one of the four major Basilicas in Rome and as the Cathedral church of the Diocese it has a special association with the Pope in his role as Bishop of Rome. It is as Bishop of Rome that he is Pope of the Universal Church. It is a beautiful building the origins of which go back to the first Christian Emperor Constantine. Today’s second reading is from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians. At the time Paul wrote that letter there were no Christian churches, big or small. The Christian community gathered wherever it could, sometimes in the home of one of its members. In that reading Paul says to the community of faith in Corinth, ‘you are God’s building’. ‘You are God’s temple and the Spirit of God is living among you’. In the gospel reading for today’s feast, Jesus points to himself as the sanctuary or the Temple of God. He is the one in and through whom God is present in a special way. Paul reminds the local church in Corinth that they are now the Temple of God, in and through whom God is present in the world in a special way. Rather than a focus on a building, Paul puts the focus on the community. As a faith community we come to this building which we call a church. Yet, more fundamentally, we are the church, all of us, and the Lord wants to be present in the world in and through us as a community of faith. We are called to live in a way that reflects that wonderful identity in which we all share.

And/Or

(vii) Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

We don’t often celebrate the feast of the dedication of a church. However, the basilica of Saint John Lateran is a special church. It is the cathedral church of the Diocese of Rome. Like any diocesan cathedral, it is the church of the bishop of Rome, who, of course, is the Pope. The Basilica is the church of the Pope in his role as Bishop of Rome. For this reason, this particular church has been given a rather long title, ‘Mother and Head of all the churches of the city and of the world’. Why is it sometimes called the Lateran Basilica or the Basilica of Saint John Lateran? The ‘Laterani’ were an old Roman family who probably once owned the land on which Emperor Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, built this Basilica in the early decades of the fourth century. The present Basilica retains the plan given to it by the Constantine but it has been rebuilt and restored over the centuries, and its interior was transformed in the mid-17th century by the famous sculpturer Borromini. If you happen to be in Rome, it is a Basilica well worth visiting. Of the three readings for this feast, only the first reading focuses on an actual building, the Temple in the city of Jerusalem, understood as the place of God’s living presence in the world. In the gospel reading, even though Jesus is present in the Temple in Jerusalem, he places the focus not on the building but on himself, Speaking of himself, he says, ‘Destroy this sanctuary (this temple) and in three days I will raise it up’. Jesus is saying that he is the place where God is truly present in the world, not some building, no matter how sacred. When Paul was writing to the church in Corinth in today’s second reading, there were no Christian buildings in existence. Paul’s focus in that reading is not on any building but on the community of faith, the church. He says to them, ‘You are God’s building…you are God’s Temple’. Paul is saying that the Christian community, the body of Christ, is the place where God is to be truly present in the world. The church is a spiritual temple. Later on in that same letter, Paul addresses each individual member of the church as a temple of the Spirit. If Jesus was the supreme expression of God’s presence in the world, we are each called in our own way to be living expressions of God’s loving presence in our world today. The Lord, now risen, continues to be God’s presence in the world today through each one of us in all our rich diversity.

And/Or

(viii) Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

The church of Saint John Lateran in Rome is one of the four great Basilicas of the city, the other three being Saint Peter’s Basilica, Saint Mary Major’s Basilica and the Basilica of Saint Paul outside the Walls. It is the Cathedral church of the Pope in his role as Bishop of the Diocese of Rome. It is called ‘Saint John’ after the two monasteries once attached, dedicated to Saint John the apostle and Saint John the Baptist. As the Cathedral Church of the Pope it has the title ‘Mother and Head of all the churches of the City and of the World’. There are many wonderful churches in Rome and throughout the world. Yet, we are all very aware that the church is not primarily a building, no matter how grand. The church is the community of believers who gather in the building we call a church. That is why at the beginning of today’s first reading, St Paul says to the community of believers in Corinth, ‘you are God’s building’. The most impressive physical building of worship among Jews in Paul’s time was the Temple in Jerusalem. Yet, in that same reading, Paul says to the church in Corinth, ‘you are God’s Temple’. Interestingly, in the gospel reading, Jesus, while standing in the magnificent Temple in Jerusalem, identifies himself as the Temple or sanctuary of God, ‘Destroy this sanctuary and in three days I will raise it up’. Jesus was claiming that the place where God dwells among humanity was no longer the physical Temple in Jerusalem but himself. Paul reminds us that we, the community of faith, the members of Christ’s body, are now the place where God wishes to dwell among humanity. As living stones in God’s building, God’s Temple, each one of us is called to reveal God’s loving presence to others. One of the reasons we gather in a building like this, a church, is to receive the grace and strength we need to be true to our calling to be living stones in God’s spiritual building. The Lord needs us to make tangible his loving and merciful presence in our world today.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[3rdeyeblaque]

On June 7th, we venerate Elevated Ancestor Mother Julia Greeley on the 105th anniversary of her passing 🕊

Affectionately known as Denver’s Angel of Charity, Mother Julia is a Servant of God & is the Patron of Black Catholics, Firefighters, Children, & the Poor/Homeless.

Mother Julia was born enslaved in Hannibal, Missouri sometime between 1833 -1848. She endured hellish treatment, even as a young child beneath her mother's skirts. During one fateful event, in particular, she was stricken by the whip that the slave master used while beating her mother; permanently damaging her right eye. Decades passed before she became among the first "freeman" in the state following the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863. A young woman now, Mother Julia subsequently earned her living by serving White families throughout Missouri, Colorado, Wyoming and New Mexico —though primarily in the Denver area. It was her work with the family of Colorado’s first territorial governor that brought her to Denver in 1878.

Two years later, she worked odd jobs around the city until she came upon the steps of the Sacred Heart Parish of Denver, where she was conditionally baptized into the Catholic Church - since she hadn't known if she'd ever been baptized before. She became an enthusiastic parishioner, a daily communicant, & became an active member of the Secular Franciscan Order in 1901. The Jesuit priests at her parish recognized her as the most fervent promoter of devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus that they'd ever witnessed.

She was often seen wearing a floppy hat, oversized shoes, & dabbing her injured right eye with a handkerchief while pulling her red wagon of goods to deliver to the poor & homeless of the city. She'd often do this at night, knowing that some of the poor White families would be embarrassed to be seen receiving charity from her, a Black woman. Whatever she did not need for herself, she gave to the poor. When she had nothing more to give, she begged for food, supplies, & clothing for the needy.

She had a particular devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and would deliver pictures & pamphlets depicting it each month to firefighters throughout the city of Denver. As a daily communicant, Mother Julia also had a rich devotion to the Blessed Sacrament and the Blessed Virgin. She'd recite prayers even while working outside of the parish. She did so until the day of her death. Mother Julia died on June 7, 1918 — ironically on the day of the Feast of the Sacred Heart, around 80 years old.

After which, her body lay in state for 5hrs in a funeral that drew hundreds throughout the city to pay their respects to the woman who fed, clothed, & suported them in the dark for years on end.

Mother Julia was buried in Mt. Olivet Cemetery. The Catholic Church finally granted the request from many for her to be considered for canonizatio in 2016.

As part of the Cause for Canonization, her body was transferred to Denver’s Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception in 2017. Her remains were placed in a funerary box made of exotic red heart wood near the altar of the Sacred Heart in the northwest corner of the sanctuary, which will later be encapsulated in a sarcophagus made of Caralla marble (the same stone used by Michaelangelo in his statues). She is one of 6 Afrikan descendants in the U.S. to have open canonization causes with the Catholic Church. Currently, she remains a Servant of God.

In 2012, Catholic Priest, Father Blain Burkey authored a book entitled, “In Secret Service of the Sacred Heart: The Life and Virtues of Julia Greeley,” which later was adapted as a documentary film.

" My communion is my breakfast " - Mother Julia to the priests of her parish.

We pour libations & give her 💐 today as we celebrate her for her service to the city of Denver & for her patronage of all Black Catholics, firefighters, children & the homeless communities whom she served.

Offering suggestions: red wine, bread, catholic Bible, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, parish of denver badge, & little red wagons.

[cemeteryreviews]

Church Reviews #1 - Basilica of Our Lady of Socorro The Basilica of Socorro is special because it's at risk of collapsing. An ugly crack covers its entrance, and to keep it from falling, two giant red support beams have been placed inside. Not the entire church is closed; you can enter from the side, and the back of the atrium is still functional. The church itself is open to the public—it's just that entrance that is kinda wonky. Construction took 70 years, from 1873 to 1943. The original plans were made by students from the National School of Engineers at the time, with domes and towers designed by an Italian engineer. There was also a master builder, Bonifacio Vargas, who worked on it for 52 years but didn’t live to see it finished, and one of his sons also tragically died during its construction.

Even though it's a broken church, in a strange way, that makes it more beautiful. With its cracks and red supports, you can feel how hard it is not only to build but also to maintain a church like this. As a kid, you see these churches and take them for granted, but it's that imperfect and risky part that reminds you it was built by human hands and took a lot of effort. I like that they're making an effort to preserve it—every time I see it, I wonder if it will be the last time. It also has an intriguing aura because it always draws you in. The sanctuary still functions as a church, but you know it also likes to be a tomb.

8/10

[rachellesedai]

The Lasting Memory

Here is my story for the @inklings-challenge 2023! This was my first time doing the challenge. I had a lot of fun! It got kind of long, but it's finished. So here you go.

Team: Tolkien Genre: Secondary World Fantasy/Time Travel Themes: Burial/Visit the Sick Word Count: 5,621 [PART 1] | 4,467 [PART 2]

―

PART 1

Treasa drew back the midnight blue hood that hid her face and took a step forward. Her limbs trembled, moving automatically as her name was spoken again. “Cleric Treasa Raelle.” The call boomed through the chamber with a slight vibration from the enhancement that sent it to every corner of the great basilica, echoing up to the lofty spires above. Strands of brown hair escaped the braid she had attempted in an effort to bring them to order. She resisted the urge to smooth back the unruly wisps and swallowed, trying to focus on the dais where the High Elder stood instead of the churning in her stomach.

        The only other sound was the swish of her formal robes and the tap of her leather short boots on the floor. Her fellow clerics and the ranked orders of scholars and healers on one side and knights-reverend on the other were as silent as the stone walls, whether from shock or reverence for the solemn occasion, she did not know. Hundreds of eyes followed Treasa as she moved up the marbled walkway. Her position at the rear of the congregation made her journey a long one, and her heart beat louder with every step. She expected someone to step out at any moment and say there had been a mistake and this honor would go to one of the knights-reverend who had fought alongside the First Guardian or a member of the high scholars who had advised him these many years. 

All of Damaria mourned the loss of their great leader. Men and women alike had wept openly when the announcement had been made. Every bit of gray and white material had been snatched up, and overnight, the normally vibrant capital city had been blanketed in somber colors. Muted banners adorned the buildings and every citizen wore a gray scarf or a bit of white ribbon to honor their revered leader’s passing.

The Order of Scholars, which Treasa had joined only seven years ago, had the weighty task of presiding over the First Guardian’s burial ceremonies and, most importantly, establishing his final monument and memorial. The central, and most sacred, element of the memorial was the Lasting Memory. A few minutes of history captured in every detail. The crowning moment of a person’s life, the event that represented the essence of who they were, recorded and displayed as a legacy for the ages. The task of finding and recording this event was the highest honor one could bestow, and for some incomprehensible reason, the First Guardian Peatar Valleth III, High Lord Chancellor, Protector of the Realm, had chosen her, a lowly cleric, to decide how he would be remembered for time immemorial.

―

Treasa clutched the scroll she had been presented by the High Elder, the golden seal of the First Guardian freshly broken. She blinked, a dazed part of her mind wondering if this were a dream she would soon awaken from. After bowing low and formally accepting the duty given her, she had stood still as a statue as the congregation filed past. A few had smiled their congratulations, but most had shook their heads in confusion or disapproval. She had then been unceremoniously hustled out of the main sanctuary and up to the Order’s council chambers.

Elders she only knew by reputation and high scholars in their white robes argued with a group of high-ranking knights and the First Guardian’s son who had burst into the room a few moments ago, his supporters among the Order apparently being very swift in their relaying of information.

Standing at attention in a corner, Treasa tried not to fidget as she listened to their exclamations and arguments insisting she was the worst possible choice for this sacred role.

Snatches of conversation stung, though she could not deny their truth.

“She is only a cleric...���

“… cannot have had enough training.”

“…should have chosen Sir Damerel… ”

“Someone who has at least gone on a recovery mission…”

“My father was not well at the end,” Timon Valleth said, his tone implying pity while his eyes blazed with white hot indignation, “Surely this is a regrettable mistake that can be rectified. I will not leave my family’s honor in the hands of an inexperienced commoner.”

“She is not totally inexperienced.” A voice cut through the commotion and a tall, dark skinned woman with intricate rows of iron gray braids leaned forward, her hands planted firmly on the large wooden table at the center of the room. She looked directly at the High Elder, who sat in his presider’s chair at the head of the room.  

Treasa froze. Scholar Althea Keltris had taught several of her secondary level classes. To say she was demanding was a laughable understatement. The woman seemed to delight in pushing her students to their limits and beyond. She did not suffer fools and would dismantle a student’s project before their eyes rather than allow them to submit something one whit less than what they were capable of. Treasa had withered under her hard gaze more than once and had only barely survived her courses with a passing mark.

“That is beside the point, however,” Keltris continued, “Is it not, Elder Reyes?”

The High Elder sighed, rubbing his brow. “Scholar Keltris is correct. This discussion serves no purpose. What is done cannot be undone.”

“My father cannot have been in his right mind to choose—”

“It is done.” The High Elder rapped the floor with his ornate staff, bringing an end to the murmurs circling the room. “Your father followed the forms to the last detail. His choice was witnessed and sealed. It is final.”

Timon opened his mouth, but a knight with a golden crest indicating a rank of Lord-Commander raised his hand, halting his words.

“Would you bring the First Guardian’s final commands into question? It would be wise to consider they include your official appointment as heir.”

The young lord’s face twisted into an ugly scowl. “But why her?” he demanded, glaring at Scholar Keltris and the High Elder in turn.

“I have no idea,” Keltris replied, “Has anyone thought to ask the girl?”

All eyes turned to Treasa and a hot flush suffused her cheeks. Panic welled up inside her as if she were actually guilty of an inexcusable crime instead of just as bewildered as the rest of them. “I don’t know why,” she rasped, “He never said anything about it.”

“But you did speak to him,” the High Elder said, leaning forward.

Treasa nodded. “I was assigned as his night attendant two or three times a week.”

“And he would just chat with his nurse in the middle of the night,” Timon said, his lip curling.

“He rarely slept,” Treasa stammered, glancing at Scholar Keltris. The details of the First Guardian’s illness had been kept very close. Not receiving any indication of how much to disclose, she went on. “I would read to him, out of The Tales of Damar or The Knights of Lord Haverel mostly. It eased his restlessness. Sometimes he would talk of how the stories reminded him of his youth and would tell me about his own boyhood adventures and such things. It seemed to calm him,” she said, shrinking under the incredulous looks of everyone in the room. “Once or twice he asked me about what part of the kingdom I was from and how my education in the Order was coming along.” She took a deep breath. “We spoke, but not about anything important. He definitely never said anything about choosing me to recover his Lasting Memory.”

Keltris sniffed. “So she was kind to him in his last days. Not the best reason to choose her, but perhaps an understandable one.” She turned to the High Elder. “Cleric Raelle did fairly well in my classes as I recall.”

Treasa’s eyes widened. The words were essentially a glowing recommendation, coming from her.

“I believe, given some time to prepare, she will be able to complete the task creditably.”

Treasa stiffened, as everyone looked her up and down. Some shrugged and several shook their heads in disgust. Timon Valleth crossed his arms in front of his chest, apparently resigned to the state of affairs.

The High Elder nodded. “Very well. Scholar Keltris, you will take the girl in hand and prepare her for her duty. I will appoint someone with experience in recovery missions to assist you.” The last seemed to have been added to appease the grumbling among those still dissatisfied with the situation. He looked at Treasa. “There is not much time, child, a few weeks perhaps until the monument is completed. It would not do to wait much beyond that to install the First Guardian’s Lasting Memory.”

Treasa straightened and responded with the words that had been engrained into her from her first days in the Order. “I am ready.”

         Treasa held it all together, smiling bravely, shoulders back, as one high-ranking official after another poured advice into her ears. She would never be able to remember it all, which was probably a good thing, since not a one of them seemed to agree with another. She nodded again and again, jaw clenched and hands folded respectfully in front of her. Finally, Scholar Keltris announced she needed rest and ushered her away, going with her as far as the door to her tiny, two-room apartment in the west tower.

“Be ready at sunrise,” Keltris said, “I will send someone for you.”

         Treasa nodded once again, unable to form a more coherent response and the scholar gave a satisfied sniff and turned away. Treasa shut the door, leaning against it for a moment, her knees buckling. She stumbled past her desk that also served as a table with its tidy stacks of books and papers. She thrust aside the beaded curtain to her sleeping closet and collapsed onto her narrow bed, not bothering to light the candle standing ready in its alcove.   

            Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears, her breath coming in short gasps as the enormity of what had happened crashed down on her. She balled her fists, willing back tears. This was impossible. It could not be real. The kind, if sometimes garrulous, old man she had spent countless nights caring for over the past several months had never really been the same person as the majestic First Guardian in her head. She had tried to ease his suffering and distract him during the empty hours of innumerable sleepless nights, but never in hopes of gaining a reward or commendation. And this was hardly a reward! Tears leaked out of her eyes. It was a crushing responsibility.

“I can’t do this,” she moaned, looking up at the ceiling, “Why did you ever think I could do this?”

―

        Treasa woke to a crisp winter morning still shrouded in starlit shadows. She rubbed her hands together, massaging cold fingers until they were limber enough to lite a fire in the grate. Pulling a carefully wrapped, day-old honey cake from her basket, she ate the entire thing while water heated over her small fire. Her meticulously ordered routine meant nothing now. She would have to pass the cases she was assisting on to other clerics. At least her notes were clearly ordered, and the recording crystals she had reviewed organized according to relevance to the prosecution’s arguments. She frowned, wondering whom best to give them to as she poured hot water into her cup over a fragrant pouch of tealeaves.

        Treasa took a sip and blinked. It seemed, somewhere in the middle of the night, she had accepted her fate. The task of choosing the First Guardian’s Lasting Memory still terrified her, but she was beginning to think of it as a problem to be worked out instead of an overwhelming impossibility.

Stirring her tea, Treasa pondered her time with the First Guardian. He had talked to her quite a bit as the last few months of the sleeping sickness had taken their toll. The illness did not dull the mind per se, and the First Guardian had been very capable of performing his duties most days. Night was when things became difficult. Sleep was near impossible once the sickness took hold, and a body was not meant to go for such long stretches without it. Anything that kept the First Guardian’s mind occupied during those long, dark hours had helped, and he had loved to tell stories.

Treasa wrapped her hands around her cup to still their trembling. As much as she had enjoyed listening to his varied adventures, his decline had been horrible to watch. While the condition did not pass from person to person, there was no cure. If you did not go mad from the lack of sleep, eventually your body simply gave out. The worst nights had been when sheer exhaustion had taken him, after days awake. He would slip into a delirium and thrash about calling out for his dead wife or attempting to leave his apartments in a daze. Sleeping draughts had no effect and eventually only the highest doses of medicine meant to dull the pain of the dying could calm him. Even then, after a few short hours, he would awake, glassy-eyed and not the least bit refreshed. Understandably, the Elders had not wanted the First Guardian’s condition to become fodder for malicious gossip. Thus, only healers and clerics from the Order had been allowed to care for him.

  Shaking her head, Treasa focused on the conversations they had had. None she could remember seemed to explain his decision. Any one of a hundred more skilled candidates existed. People closer to him, people who were experienced in what it meant to hand down a legacy. The only legacy she’d ever received were her mother’s green eyes and keen mind, and her father’s quiet stubbornness. They had sent her off to the Order chapterhouse with blessings and good wishes the summer she had turned seventeen, but without even a silver mark in her pocket. She was a hard worker, and had advanced steadily in the order, but she was no one special. So why had the First Guardian chosen her?

―

The stone amulet warmed Treasa’s hands. Her eyes traced the intricate carvings along the edge, following their twisting and curling until they turned in on each other and she lost the thread. She blinked and tried staring into the depths of the opalescent jewel imbedded in the center of the pendant. With even breaths, Treasa built an image in her mind, bit by bit, like a puzzle coming together. Low clouds obscured a sky. A cavalry regiment swung around a bend in formation and flanked a contingent of howling Rethans. The leader of the regiment, tall in the saddle, raised his saber. The image crumbled and Treasa held her breath, trying to get it back.

          The tapping of Scholar Keltris’s fingers made her shoulders slump. A cool breeze raised goosebumps on Treasa’s skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking the view of city rooftops and shrouded mountains in the distance. They had moved to the large stone balcony outside Scholar Keltris’s rooms to see if the open feeling and fresh air would help her form the outdoor scene.

“Are you concentrating?” Keltris asked.

          Treasa let out a loud sigh. “It’s no use. I can’t get the picture right.”

          “You’ve done it before, while working with the judges,” Keltris said, her tone brusque, “Several times, if my reports are correct.”

          “They are,” Treasa said, lifting her chin as she looked from the frowning scholar to the dark haired knight-protector, who leaned against one of the elaborate columns supporting the vaulted ceiling above them, “but those were short little jumps back in time to record a crime or verify an alibi. The locations were accessible here in the present or shown to us in great detail by court artists.”

            “It takes no more effort or concentration to go farther back in time,” Sir Damerel said, his tone somehow both instructive and encouraging, “You only need to see the event in enough detail. Do not let the span of years overwhelm you. Simply visualize the moment as if it were happening around you, not on the other side of a door you have to step through, but already existing beneath your feet and within your grasp.”

Treasa bit her lip. “It seems so far away. I don’t know if I’ll be able to…” She waved her hand vaguely. “… do that.”

Damerel straightened. “I have every confidence you will be able to travel to wherever you need to. Simply give yourself a moment to breathe.”

         Treasa cast the knight-protector an appreciative look. She had been intimidated when the High Elder had presented him as her mentor in all things relating to time travel. The few knights she had met working in the courts had been self-important prigs or battle hardened veterans who had little patience for inexperienced clerics.

Thankfully, Sir Adrian Damerel was nothing like that. On first impression, Damerel was the very picture of a Knight Reverend, tall, classically handsome, with the confident but graceful bearing of those dedicated warriors. When he smiled, however, a twinkle shone in his warm brown eyes she had not expected to see in someone with his experience. He could not be many years older than her, but she had heard he had been on more recovery missions for his fellow knights than anyone currently in the Order. In spite of that, Damerel never once hinted he was jealous or resented the fact she had been given an honor he clearly deserved more than she did.

         Scholar Keltris rubbed her forehead. “Perhaps it would be better to put the travel itself aside for a moment. Once you are there, you must be careful to do nothing that would push against the flow of time. The past will tolerate a small pebble it can flow around without changing its course. However, if something you do goes against that inexorable flow, you will be spat out and end up back here.”

         “And much worse for wear,” Damerel interjected with a wry smile, “That way back is painful, to say the least.”

         “I know,” Treasa said, “We did receive some training before going on missions for the Judges.” Holding up a hand, she counted off rules of time travel etiquette on her fingers. “Interact as little as possible. Record only what is needed. Above all, do not try to influence anything. It will end badly.”

         Damerel nodded. “This type of recovery is a little trickier,” he said slowly, “You have to consider perspective and what the recording is meant to convey.”

Treasa frowned.

         Keltris stood, pacing the length of the terrace. “What Sir Damerel is trying to say is you have to frame your recording with an eye to what it is being used for. The reality of war is messy and the death of so many a tragedy. Politicians spend more time bickering over taxes than enacting grand programs to benefit the people. A man’s Lasting Memory is not meant to convey the gritty reality of what he may have had to do in his life, but the spirit of his ideals and what he stood for.”

         Treasa looked down; the scholar’s words did not sit right with her. She understood the Lasting Memory was meant to be beautiful, but it was also meant to be true and good. The honor of a memorial with a Lasting Memory was mostly reserved for knights and leaders of Damaria, and she was not so naïve as to think all those people were paragons of virtue. She supposed, at times, an appropriate moment for the memorial would be hard to find, but that did not mean she should make things look different from what they were.

“I do not think the First Guardian would want a Lasting Memory that gave a false impression of who he was,” Treasa said, fiddling with the end of her braid.

“What do you think he did want?” Damerel asked, leaning forward.

“I don’t know.” Treasa frowned, her brow furrowing, “He said once the best things he had done were not the grand moments most people thought of, but I don’t know what he meant by that.” She frowned. “How am I supposed to choose one thing, one moment, that sums up everything he was?” She looked down at the amulet in her hand. “And if I think of one, will I even be able to get there?”  

Scholar Keltris threw up her hands. “Being so indecisive will only make things harder, child. Choose a moment and know it is where you want to be, where you need to be. That is more important than visualizing the details. You must have faith in in your decisions and in yourself.” 

“Of course, Scholar Keltris,” Treasa said, bowing her head, “I will try harder.”

Sir Damerel crossed his arms, a speculative look in his eyes. “Do you ride, Cleric Raelle?”

Treasa blinked. “What?” She lifted her chin as he waited for an answer. “Of course I can ride. I grew up in the country.”

“Good. There is nothing like a brisk canter astride a swift horse to clear the mind. We can visit one of the smaller pavilions to the south and try a few practice time jumps. There will be less chance of curious onlookers outside the city.” He turned to Keltris, but she put up a hand.

“I am not spending the afternoon in a saddle. Just make sure you actually work with her while you’re gallivanting around the countryside.”  

Damerel smiled, giving the scholar a courtly bow. “I promise.”

―

Treasa paced up and down the grand hallway. She had spent weeks riding out with Damerel, practicing jumps, and discussing the strategy and finesse needed to get the perfect recording. Scholar Keltris had drilled her on every aspect of Guardian Valleth’s life and gone over every contingency involved in a recovery mission of such importance. Now, she was down to the last day of her extensive preparation and she could no longer put off the one task she was dreading the most.

It was customary to visit the family of the dead before leaving to seek their Lasting Memory, but she had been surprised when Lord Valleth had accepted her request. He had not ceased in his vocal disapproval of his father’s choice. The few times she had seen him in public he had looked down his nose at her when he acknowledged her at all. Treasa took a deep breath and entered Lord Timon Valleth’s suite after a hesitant knock.

“Give me but a moment.” Valleth’s voice drifted in from farther back in the apartment, behind one of the standing screens. Treasa hovered in the doorway. Sir Damerel had said he would accompany her, but he must not have received her note, for he was nowhere to be found, and she did not want to keep the Guardian’s heir waiting. Treasa’s feet sank into a thick wool rug as she crossed the entryway, muting the sound of her boots on the floor. Heavy velvet curtains had been drawn back and tied with golden cords, allowing sunlight to stream into the spacious apartments while a roaring fire chased away the winter chill.

She straightened as Timon sauntered into view.

“Thank you for coming, Cleric Raelle.” Timon acknowledged her brief bow with a nod of his head. “It is so important that we speak before you embark on your sacred mission.”

“I agree,” Treasa said.

Timon wandered over to a group of chairs near the massive fireplace. He paused, idly examining a vase that would probably fetch enough to feed a small family for half a year. Treasa waited while he settled himself in one of the cushioned chairs. He crossed one leg over the other and gazed up at her, pointedly not inviting her to sit. She schooled her features into a neutral expression, refusing to show any reaction to his insulting lack of common courtesy.

“I want my father’s Lasting Memory to be worthy of him. It needs to inspire the people as well as be a constant reminder of their exalted leader and all he accomplished.”

“I fully intend to honor his legacy,” Treasa said, relaxing a little. Perhaps he really just wanted his father to be well remembered. “Are there any specific events you want me to consider?”

“There are. In fact, I have a list.” Timon produced a slip of paper.

Treasa accepted it and scanned the events he had written in a neat script. She nodded, tense muscles beginning to unravel. She might actually be able to satisfy Timon Valleth without compromising what she thought the First Guardian would want in his memorial. If she went to one or two of these moments, surely he would be satisfied. There was no reason to tell him she was probably going to choose at least one of these before he had suggested them.

“Thank you,” Treasa said, “These are good. Is there anything else? Sometimes the family wants to talk about their loved one, who they were to those who knew them best and what was important to them…” she trailed off as Timon’s expression hardened, his mouth twisting into a sardonic smirk.

“I do not think you understand me, cleric. These are not suggestions. These are the events you will go to, and once you have recorded my father’s most glorious moments, you will bring the crystals to me and I will decide which one to use.”

“That’s not how it works,” Treasa interrupted, “I’ll only have one crystal, and while I can go to a handful of events, I am supposed to return with only one recording. Making the decision of which one to use in the Lasting Memory is the whole point of why the First Guardian chose me.”

“It does not matter what he wanted,” Timon snarled, “He isn’t here. This monument needs to reflect the power of my family and remind everyone that I am the First Guardian now and should receive the same respect he did.” Timon was up and out of his chair, crossing the space between them before Treasa could formulate a response. He loomed over her, his soft voice made terrifying by the fire in his eyes. “Do not think this ridiculous choice guarantees your advancement in the Order. If you disgrace my beloved father’s memory, I will make my influence felt.” He was inches away from her, his breath hot on her face.

Treasa backed up a step and blinked as her stomach clenched and her heart pounded like the hoof beats of a wild horse. “I don’t understand,” she gasped, “I only want to honor your father.”

“It is quite simple,” Timon said, “If you mess this up, it will reflect badly on me. So, I am taking steps to avoid that. I will provide you with two additional crystals. That gives you three chances to get this right. You should be thanking me for saving you from embarrassing yourself.”

Treasa shook her head. Words failed her. What he was asking was unprecedented, not illegal exactly, but very disrespectful of the First Guardian’s wishes.

Timon’s eyes narrowed. “Even if you cannot appreciate this gift, remember the position I will hold when you return. You do not want me for an enemy, cleric.” Without waiting for a response, he retrieved a small wooden box from a low table and took out a velvet pouch. He carefully shook out two recording crystals and offered them to Treasa.

“No one outside the Order is supposed to have access to these,” she said accusingly. Treasa snatched the crystals out of Timon’s hands, her sensibilities more offended by his handling of them than his boorish behavior and sinister threats. She held them up to her eyes, automatically checking them for imperfections. They were large, made for longer, more detailed recordings, and they were clear, indicating they had never been used.  

Timon smiled smugly. “Now that you’ve touched them, who would believe that you did not ask me to get them for you because you suffered from anxiety and doubt concerning my father’s frankly unfathomable choice. You simply did not feel capable or up to the task. It will be proof enough that the elders need to choose another for the task.”

Treasa gasped. Only years of training having ingrained a deep respect for the precious crystals kept her from immediately dropping them at Timon’s feet.

Timon straightened. “So, now you can choose to do as I ask or turn in the extra crystals and see who the authorities at the Order believe.”

A knock sounded on the door to the suite and Treasa thrust the crystals deep into the pocket of her coat.

Timon laughed softly. “Enter,” he said in an infuriatingly cheerful voice.

Sir Damerel entered and bowed to Timon. “My sympathies, Lord Valleth. Your father was a great man. I apologize for being late.” He glance over at Treasa. “I meant to accompany Cleric Raelle on her visitation, but I was unavoidably detained.”

“Thank you, Sir Damerel,” Timon said, “Cleric Raelle and I had a very productive conversation. I was touched by her empathy and respect for my feelings.”

Treasa gaped at him, closing her mouth with a snap before turning to look at Damerel. His dark eyes held a look of concern mixed with a bit of confusion. He knew she had been worried about this meeting and rather intimidated by Valleth in general. For a brief instant, she considered showing him the crystals and spilling everything that had happened. But she could imagine Valleth’s feigned surprise and sympathy for her situation and how it was all too much for her.

Damerel was the one person she had let herself confide in. He knew the level of her anxiety and the depths of her fear that she had been the wrong choice. She did not think she could handle seeing pity in his eyes. Even the chance that he could believe Timon and think less of her was too much. She would have to figure something else out, find some other way.

“It went well,” she said, forcing a brightness into her voice she did not feel, “I am sorry you were not able to be here.” That much was true at least. She took a deep breath. “But I think I have everything I need for the recovery mission now.” She turned to Timon. “Thank you for your time, Lord Valleth.” Timon smiled and waved them both out.

Damerel gave her a searching look as soon as the doors were shut, his eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you are all right?”

“I’m fine.” Treasa blinked back tears. “He is insufferable and egotistical, but it’s over and I’m fine.” She smiled up at him, ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. They walked down the hall side by side and exited the building via the grand entryway.

Once outside a short walk brought them to the familiar Order district with its libraries and lecture halls. Neither spoke. Treasa’s mind raced, trying to find some way to deal with the crystals in her pocket that seemed to weigh more and more by the minute.

The knights’ practice yards were out of sight, but the sound of metal on metal rang out from beyond the jumble of stone buildings that forced the narrow street into twists and turns. Treasa had been to several cities whose roads were laid out on an orderly grid, but she much preferred the meandering paths of the capital with its unexpected cul-de-sacs and ever present scent of damp stone.

In a few short minutes, they approached the west tower where most of the clerics and lower level scholars had their rooms. She twisted the end of her braid, contemplating the collar of Damerel’s jacket. “Would you help me make my final preparations for tomorrow?” she finally said.

“It would be an honor.” Damerel laid a hand on her shoulder. “You have no reason to worry. You are strong and you are ready, worthy of your name.”

Treasa shook her head. “My name?”

A smile quirked at the knight’s lips. “Treasa means ‘strength’ and you have born up under the pressure and scrutiny of your situation with a graceful, quiet strength that I am in awe of. Give me a battle to fight or an enemy to strike down and I will never waver, but the constant doubt and criticism you have endured with determination would send me running for the hills.”

Treasa laughed. “I do not believe you. Your courage would never fail. I am grateful to have had you for a teacher. You have been very patient.” She paused. “We both know you would have been a much better choice. I’m sorry the First Guardian did not see that.” She raised her eyes to his, wishing she had the courage to tell him just how weak she was, how she was actually considering Timon’s suggestion.

            “He chose you for a reason.” Damerel cupped her cheek in his hand. Treasa couldn’t help leaning into the touch. His hand was rough from years of handling weapons and yet as gentle as a brush of silk across her skin. He leaned in, his eyes shining. “You will find the perfect moment to show everyone who the First Guardian was at his core and give him the legacy he wanted. I know you will.”

            Treasa exhaled, her body finally remembering how to breathe. “I hope you are right,” she whispered.

[PART 2]