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joz-yyh · 4 months ago

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Blighted Hearts - Ch. 11

SUMMARY: *Flashback chapter!* Bigby and Damian set off to explore the witch's house to see if the local legend holds true. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T ((for this chapter ONLY!!))

PAIRING: Abomination x Flagellant

WORD COUNT: 2,877

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Paracelsus finally makes her appearance!! For anyone wondering, Nephthys is the Egyptian goddess of death and darkness.

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“I can't believe we're doing this,” Bigby sighs, feet stamping through a dirt path of leaves.

It's a gloomy day, foggy and damp, appropriate for “ghost hunting,” the two travelers well past the outskirts of town, the woods fully engulfing them on either side.

Damian made sure to tell Baldwin where they were going should they fail to return by the designated time (he was against them going at all), but words could only do so much to stop a willful flagellant.

The werewolf is expecting something to pop out at him at any moment, eyes shifting all around, jumping at the smallest sound.

“Do you want to turn back,” asks the holy man, giving his companion a coy smirk.

Damian has shown no ounce of fear, but rather excitement, Bigby hard-pressed to admit he’s scared, give more munition to merit the superstition of the witch’s tale.

“A part of me does,” the wolfboy admits, clutching his shroud, “but the less rational side of my brain wants to keep going.”

“Listen to the less rational side.”

Bigby laughs, keeping close to Damian, their hands and shoulders brushing every other step, the lycan finding it comforting, grounding.

“There, do you see it up ahead?”

The bloody priest points, indicating a carousel roof of charcoal-colored shingles amidst the treetops, a beaten up weathervane as it’s belfry, setting it apart from the branches.

Bigby slows to an almost stop, having second thoughts now that the reality of myth was coming into focus. “Uh, maybe we should come back another time?”

“What's a matter,” the flagellant teases, "I thought you said nobody would be home.”

“There probably isn't, but I am just being um … neighborly. It’s probably too early for visitors.”

“What better way to be neighborly then to say, ‘hello?’”

Damian continues forward, Bigby floundering, having no choice but to join him, unable to let the half-crazed man go alone.

They approach from the front, the house encased by a cobblestone fence, an old wooden gate blocking the footpath leading to the door.

The lawn consists of mostly dead grass, the clearing upon which it's built having too much exposure to the elements, various junk scattered about the outside, heavy with rust and wear. Ivy also streaks across the cylindrical hut, a wire-enclosed garden on the other side that looks better tended to than the rest of the yard.

Damian unlatches the gate, letting himself in.

“Hey, maybe the gate’s closed because they don't want any company.”

“If they didn't want company, they wouldn't have made it so easy for us to walk in.”

‘Maybe everyone knows better than us,’ Bigby thinks, catching up to him, traversing across the overgrowth between the flagstones.

The flagellant peers through a nearby window, the glass dirty, cob-webbed, making out only dark shapes on the other side.

“Should we knock,” the werewolf asks, looking toward his companion, standing just outside the threshold.

Damian shrugs, pulling back, “You can try it.”

The branded lad goes to tap on the wood grain when the door swings open all by itself, announcing their arrival with an eerie creak.

“Umm, hello? Anyone home?”

Bigby's call is left unanswered as he hesitantly enters the space, greeted by stray raven feathers left scattered about the floor.

A table and chairs are among the first pieces of furniture he sees, books spread out upon it, a hearth on the left, herbs and garlic hung up to dry around the pegs.

Damian strides past him, taking in the sights, shelves and shelves lined with glass bottles and canisters, a personal apothecary.

“It doesn't seem as abandoned as we thought,” Bigby says, looking over the texts, recognizing some of the sigils from the spellbook, handwritten medical diagrams set astride it.

“Maybe she stepped out,” Damian muses, reading over the many ingredient labels, touching over various knick knacks.

“Even worse. Can you imagine coming home to two strangers in your house, touching all your stuff?”

Both men go stock still, a sharp grating noise alerting them that they were no longer alone.

“Someone's coming,” Bigby warns, a harsh whisper, “We gotta get out of here.”

“There's no time!

“Then, what do you propose we do?!”

“Hide!”

“Where?”

“Anywhere!!”

Damian runs off somewhere toward the living room. Bigby, in a panic, chooses what is arguably one of the worst places to hide: under the table.

The witch appears from behind a false stone wall, carrying an ample of glowing green, stairs leading down into the basement now sealing closed behind her.

“Seems restraints were not enough. Perhaps, we should sedate the subject next time. What do you think, Nephthys?”

The crow perched upon on her shoulder caws it's opinion.

“So what if you're the smartest known species of bird to exist. My brain is bigger than yours!”

Another lackluster caw.

“Oh, go fly off to be with that old hag if you don't like it. But don't come crying to me when she turns you into stew!”

A more incensed caw from her animated pet, wings flapping along with it.

“You know, I don't approve of cannibalism, but it would take weeks to harvest those ingredients on our own. Would you rather I strap a plough to your wings?”

Nephthys strongly objects.

“Didn't think so.”

The witch sets something atop the table, Bigby flinching from the sudden clatter happening just above his head, covering his mouth to keep his voice down.

The dark shade around him pauses, listening in.

“Do you hear that?”

Oh no. She's going to find him, skin him, boil him alive. Bibgy feels his breakfast churn in his stomach, swallowing it back down.

A gust of wind, a wobble from the squeaky door, a scrap of dead compost being swept in.

“Must've left the door open again.”

Her boots step across the floorboards, aiming to close out the draft, Bigby flooded with relief.

From here he can see the witch, she wears a dark shroud like him, but it's heavy, full of feathers, her grand mantle dragging across the ground, leaving a trail of plumage, practically a crow herself.

“Well, now that that's out of the way, we can finally begin.”

She lights a fire with a snap of her fingers, the hearth coming to life, making the cauldron there glow.

“Now let's see, what goes in first.”

She's consulting her books when another loud noise arises, something being thrown, rolling like a marble, coming from the other side of the room and Bigby instantly worries for Damian.

“What was that? Who’s there,” the witch demands, swirling to investigate, cape spread out like a breadth of wings.

Damian runs out from behind the couch, towards the door while she's distracted, seeing Bigby stashed under the table, helping him to escape.

They hear Nephthys caw just as they turn the knob, making their exit.

Bigby's heart is beating fiercely, taking a few gulps of breath as they wait, huddling around the exterior of the house, just below the window.

“Is she gone,” Damian asks him.

The wolfboy is almost too afraid to look, gingerly poking his head up to peer inside, catching the afterimage, the rush of a black-quilled shroud.

Bigby dips back down, shaking his head.

“We'll wait her out,” Damian whispers.

They hear stomping, clattering, cawing and then silence, the two men left in suspense of what's happened.

Seconds later there's an eruption of sound, the window being thrown open, the witch popping their stitched beak out, shouting a cry of victory.

“Ah-ha! Found you!!”

The flagellant takes the wolfboy by the hand, running as fast and as far away as his feet can carry him.

“Don't think you can escape from me,” the masked sorceress hollers, casting a spell at their feet.

Damian is momentarily circumvented, lethargic, coughing as a cloud of vibrant green blight surrounds them.

“C'mon! Keep running!”

It's Bigby that leads them away this time, unaffected by the bombs debilitating properties, tugging his wheezing companion along.

A dark cloud soars above them in pursuit, a shadow of a massive winged creature, it's shape blocking out the grayed yellow sun.

“She can fly,” marvels the werewolf, terrified of such brilliant skill.

“Most witches do,” Damian supplies.

“With a broom! She has wings!! I thought you said she never leaves her house!”

“Guess I was wrong.”

“Watch out!”

The plague doctor swoops low, the two males ducking to avoid a strike of plumage, velocity nearly forcing them apart, rustling both hair and hood alike.

The bird woman glides on ahead, landing right in front of the strangers that encroached upon her home, wingspan blocking off the entire road, a bold declaration of her vascular reach.

She stares the culprits down, shiny lenses for eyes, wings now folded behind her.

“Well, well, just what do we have here?”

The boys stand by one another, not saying a word, the scholarly witch stalking closer, assessing them with richety, corvid movements. She recoils back, a discovery made.

“Ha! You came to steal from me, didn't you! Steal knowledge that is rightfully mine!”

“We didn't steal anything,” the wolfboy pleads, “We knocked, but no one answered.”

“And that gave you permission to let yourselves in?”

“The door was open,” the flagellant supplies, probably hurting their case more than helping it. “We came to see if the myths were true.”

“Oh, so you came to gawk at me? Ridicule me? Preach your ethics and faith? Ha! You're not the first to try. Ignorant fools! Always so naive to the truth!”

The witch pays particular attention now to Bigby, pointing her stark white nose at him.

“But you, you already know that, don't you? I smell the Otherside on you, abomination. And just how did you come to acquire your powers, hm? Did you do it yourself, or did someone else do it for you?”

Bigby growls at her, brows furrowed with anger, unanswering.

“Yes, you would do nicely,” the plague doctor surmises, gloved hand appraising the werewolf’s fangs, “come back with me. I am sure the blight from you would be most beneficial to my endeavors.”

Damian steps in, wedging himself between her sudden obsession, pulling Bigby to stand behind him.

“He's not interested.”

“Ha! Look at you! A leech that's only good for bleeding himself! Hm, I may have use for you as well.”

“Look, we're sorry we wandered into your home uninvited, but we would like to leave now, please,” pipes the branded boy, still guarded by the bulwark that is the flagellant's shoulders, propping himself up on top toes.

She cackles, Nephthys along with her.

“So you can bring the villagers to my door? Carrying pitchforks and torches? Out to burn everything I've built!”

“We wouldn't! We meant no harm, really! Just please, let us go!’

“Why,” she snaps, brandishing her silver dagger, “When I could just gut you both for trespassing and take what I want instead?”

“I don't want to hurt you,” Bigby snarls, his ears growing pointy, eyes luminescent, “please, don't make me.”

“To see a beast in action, now wouldn't that be a sight! Give yourself to me and I'll let your little friend here live.”

The wolfboy swallows, considering it, half tempted to agree.

“No deal,” Damian shouts, taking Bigby by the hand once more, opting to flee.

The flagellant suffers a slice from her weapon, but it was nothing deeper than what he was used to, running into the cover of the woods, knowing it would be harder for her there, having to match them on foot.

“Do you really think you can outrun me,” she cackles, amused by their persistent efforts, red coating her blade.

They're damn well going to try.

“That was so stupid,” Bigby warbles, a stumbling gait through the underbrush of fallen trees, “You’re bleeding!”

“As stupid as offering yourself over to her? Just keep running! We need to make it back to the church.”

Bigby's survival senses are tingling, something telling him to look back.

The witch's familiar, Nephthys, is closing in, it's smaller aerodynamic size easier to navigate through the tighter gaps in the forest, assaulting their eardrums with aural shrieks.

“Her crow is following us.”

“That would explain the screeching.”

Damian weaves them through the tree trunks, the crow firing blasts of regurgitated bile in attempts to slow them down.

“It'll catch up to us at this rate.”

“Wait, I think I have an idea! Hide behind this tree.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me!”

Damian nods, letting Bigby take over, following his plan.

The abomination waits, ears open for the bird's approach. His timing would be everything, waiting for that exact moment to lash out.

With a harsh whip crack, he stuns the familiar completely, it's body falling to the ground with a limp thump.

“You're quite good with a chain,” the holy man praises, watching as the corvid's feet twitch, a daze of little stars circling around it's head.

“I am sorry” the wolfboy offers to the indisposed creature, frowning at what he had to do, even if it was justified.

“You can apologize later. C'mon!”

The abbey is within their sights now, the two boys running up the steps in record time, pushing the doors open and then slamming them shut just as quickly.

They take a moment to catch their breath slumped against the sturdy wood of the entrance way.

“Do you think she's gone?”

“Dunno, but we're safe now.”

“We should get your wound looked at.”

“Just a scratch. Nothing to fuss over.”

“Still,” Bigby insists.

“Fine, if it pleases you.”

The abomination helps carry Damian further inside, arm slung over his shoulder amd waist.

“Remind me never to go on an adventure with you again.”

“Stuff like that usually doesn't happen,” the flagellant assures him.

“I bet,” Bigby chuckles.

Just as their nerves are beginning to settle down, there's a sharp rap at the door.

“Oh no.”

“You don't think …”

“She wouldn't … would she?”

As the boys debate on what to do, Junia wanders out into the hall, poised to answer the hubbub. “Oh, who could that be?”

“Junia, no!”

“Don't open it!”

The innocent girl doesn't hear them, offering a well-meaning, “Hello, who is it?”

“Where is he,” demands the shrill voice on the other side.

“Umm, ‘he’,” he vestal asks, a tad confused by the vague description, “Sorry, who is it that you're looking for?”

The plague doctor forces her way in, the unsuspecting Junia pushed aside.

“Don't play dumb. I saw him run back here,” the witch cries, beak waving through the air, “I can smell him, I know he's been here.”

Damian and Bigby are quick to hide behind the corridor, the hooded man poking his nose out to see Reynauld joining his comrade in the hall, ready to assist her.

“This a place of Light,” the knight says, a hand on his sword, willing to enforce it, “if your intent is not for worship, then I must ask you to leave.”

“Funny how my house was intruded upon, but I am treated as an unwelcome solicitor here,” she squawks, feathers poofing, doubling her size.

“If you seek to deliver a message,” the knight prompts, “then I am more than capable of handling it.”

“Very well, give him this. He dropped it while running away like a frightened little rabbit. And do tell him that he's invited for tea tomorrow or else a most wicked curse shall befall him.”

The plague doctor drops a small, inconspicuous pouch into Reynauld's hand, bidding him a sinister, “good day,” before gathering her opulent fringe for departure.

The knight shakes his helmet in disapproval, helping to steady the vestal from the debilitating intrusion.

“You really must learn to check the peephole before answering the door,” he advises gently.

“Yes, perhaps you're right,” she says, rubbing at the back of her head, still sore from being thrown against the stone.

“I better go explain what's going on,” Bigby says, feeling guilty for all the trouble they've caused.

“Best we find Baldwin first.”

“We can't wait for him. Stay put, I'll be right back.”

“Bigby–”

It's too late, the changeling has already revealed himself, walking up to the armored crusader despite their past differences.

“Umm, I am really sorry about all that. It's just a really big misunderstanding.”

“Why am I not surprised that the eldritch menace was after you ?”

The shapeshifter stands stiff, Reynauld's voice cold, foreboding as he leans in close, a sinister threat, setting the parcel in the abomination's upturned palm.

“If anything should happen to the church, I am holding you personally responsible.”

With that, the knight stalks away, lest he extract a punishment that's much worse than a warning.

Bigby tries not to let Reynauld's distasteful reproach get to him (this incident surely didn't win him any favors), focusing his efforts on the recovering vestal.

“Lady Junia, are you alright?”

“Me? Oh yes, I am fine. Surprised me is all. What did that strange woman want with you?”

“It's a long story, but before that, could you help me with Damian? He's hurt.”

“Oh, of course.”

As he shows the good-natured healer to the spot where he'd left the injured priest, Bigby can't help worrying about what's waiting for him inside that tiny hex bag.

#my writing #darkest dungeon #dd abomination #dd flagellant #abomination/flagellant #bigmian #dd plague doctor #abomination #flagellant #plague doctor #dd #fanfiction #darkestdungeon #dd paracelsus #dd damian #dd bigby

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saintlygames · 1 year ago

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Dust to Dust

Before I was set to descend to Bedlam, I met my uncle. He was the last priest of Bedlam and most recently turned Markayuq.

He stood on the dais of the monastery, petrified. He likely wouldn’t wake for a few more decades. He had a low brow and an expression of frozen concentration, as though he’d been pondering something interesting before he finished the transformation.

I’d never had a problem looking at the Markayuq. They were sacred and worshipped here. I cared for them as part of my service; waxing the leather robes, keeping their stone skin clean of dust, and making offerings. I couldn’t look at him though. It was the future’s fingernails scratching down the back of my neck.

When the two guards brought me down to the forest, my ears ached from the altitude change. My eyes adjusted to the dark below in the shade of the canopy. When I moved, I was taken aback when the air around me glowed. I waved my hand through it, leaving a golden afterimage that stayed until the wind swept it away.

‘Pollen,’ one guard explained. It was the first time either of them had spoken to me on the way down.

The walk to the village was a long one. By the time it got dark, I was shivering and had a hard time picking my way through the mangled roots of the forest floor. I tripped several times, and the guards were kind enough to pick me up.

It took two hours to reach the stacks, and seeing it made me uneasy. The buildings were visibly old and ramshackle, patched hastily in ways that were sure not to last. After growing up in pristine monasteries above the mountains, this place felt like it was made from splinters.

The paths of the village were lit with lamps whose light resembled the pollen from the forest. Inside the case, instead of a metal burner for fuel, there was a mechanism that spun to keep the pollen churning.

Walking canes and chairs outfitted with wide wooden wheels were leaned against the little houses. There were no stairs anywhere, only shallow ramps.

A line of salt was drawn on the ground. If I turned my head both ways I couldn’t see where it ended in either direction. At least three Markayuq had gathered at the salt, facing the village with their backs to the forest. I stepped over, careful not to disturb the grains. When I turned around to see if the guards would follow, they stayed well behind the line.

In the darkness, they were statues. ‘We were told to take you only this far.’

The steeple of the church was the tallest point in the village. The cross topping the tower loomed over me and I felt a roll of unease. I wasn’t Catholic the way the villagers were — they truly believed and I only practiced for the role, but if there was a God like they there was, I hadn’t heard from him yet.

The garden and the graveyard were overgrown and made shadowy limbs in the dark. Pulling my arms close, I took care not to touch them as I watched the guards retreat silently back into the treeline. I stood there until my fingers were numb from the cold before turning back to the church.

Inside, the air was stale. I groped around in the dark for something to start a fire or a lamp, knocking my hip painfully into a table corner as I went. My uncle had left ample firewood behind, and I tossed too much of it into the hearth without thinking that it was a waste. As the fire grew, I found one of those pollen lamps and fumbled with it for a minute before turning a key that made the metal parts churn the pollen to life.

With light to see, I wandered through the halls of the church. On one long stretch of walls by the first row of pews, there were fifteen portraits of Jesus carrying his cross to Calvary. I only managed to study four of them before the phantom ache in my shoulders forced me to move on.

There was a kitchen and a dining table in the same room as the hearth and past that, there was a chapel turned into a makeshift spare bedroom with two cots on either side of the room. I climbed up to the belfry and found only a bed and an empty shelf. I put my things on the mattress, stole the musty blanket, and clutched it around my shoulders. The bell was enormous, three times my size and swayed eerily above my head when a draft blew up from the church.

When a branch banged against the stained glass window I jumped and turned the lamp brighter, but all it did was lengthen the shadows of the room. Back home, I used to keep a lamp burning all night until I fell asleep because I hated the dark. I slept in the same room as my mother even when I started to be told that I was getting too old for it, but she never minded.

She was still there, probably in that room right now. I wondered if she would still keep a lamp on for me. I tucked my knees to my chest and cried into them, feeling swallowed by shadows and stricken by the fear of being alone for the first time.

Beyond the church, a house on the stacks turned the lights down. I watched the brightness in their window fade to dark until I couldn’t see the shape of the village against the mountains. All those people down there were mine to look after now.

I was twelve years old, all on my own and the only one of my kind. When I looked out the window the Markayuq guarding the salt line stared back at me, both lifeless and not.

read the rest on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47615128

#the bedlam stacks #raphael #raphael thebedlamstacks #merrick tremayne #fanfic #sorry this was a sad one

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containatrocity · 1 year ago

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The chapel is quiet this early, it should be empty, no parishioners, little more than the birds and bats in the belfry to contend with as the sun streaks technicolor the visage of saints and saviors across the well-loved wooden floors beneath the pews. It should be just like any normal morning for Cabell to arrive to. But there's one thing sure to upend that normalcy- his long legs dangling off the side of a pew, soft snoring and disheveled dark hair denoting that, perhaps once more, in a case that's become all too regular- the Catholic worship leader had made their bed in the back rows of a place of prayer.

Absinthe likely could have slept through a second paradox- the young priest's tendency to completely silence the real world when sleep took him well known by the people in the Commune by now- but he seems a little less taken with his slumber, today, because as the door opens to cast dirty boots in the warm morning sun, he stirs, groaning and sitting up slowly, pawing sleep from pale blue eyes as stacked journals- four of them, now- tumble from his bared chest and to the floor below.

He's a chapel in and of himself- stained glass tattoos in brilliant blues and purples strewn across pale skin, angels and saints committed to flesh- his leather jacket and habit sit discarded nearby, their state suddenly forced to the forefront of their awareness as bleary eyes settle on exactly who's arrival had awakened them. "Ah-" He goes to swing legs back down, boot catching on the arm of the pew's edge and pitching him into the floor with his journals, knapsacks, and the not-minimal remains of his odd herbal cigarettes put out in a water bottle.

"Ngh. good morning, Cab." They greet from their place in the floor, groaning low under their breath. "I appear to have lost track of time, last night, hm?" A row of bruises mark the scant pale skin along the column of his neck- likely from the rosary still hanging around it- as if they'd spent a not small amount of time recently held by the end of it in one position. "I hope I didn't give you any sort of scare- I uh. just needed the quiet."

@inxthexshadowxofxdeath

#a.cab #a.cab03 #a.threads #once again i write too much in a starter what else is new

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allstarph · 6 months ago

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Top 5 Historical Churches in the Philippines that Stand the Test of Time

Since the Spanish colonization era in the Philippines, various churches have risen nationwide. Though many of these churches have experienced their fair share of wear and tear, historical churches in the Philippines are still standing strong.

List of Historical Churches in the Philippines

Spain’s colonization of the Philippines spanned over three hundred years and had lasting effects on the country’s culture. Their influence is still evident today in Filipino tradition and structures. This article aims to explore a list of historic churches in the country due to Spanish colonization.

Parish Church of San Agustin of Intramuros

Located in Intramuros, this parish is known to be the oldest church in the Philippines, constructed with stone. Originally, the church was built on bamboo and nipa leaves in 1571. However, due to its weak structure, it was destroyed by typhoons and strong winds. In the year 1586, a resolution was made to build a church with a stronger structure using adobe stone. Large stone slabs were cut from quarries in various places like Guadalupe, Meycauyan, and San Mateo, Rizal.

Additionally, the parish’s design and structure were designed by architect Juan Marcias on the intersection of Calle Real and St. Lucia Street. From its construction in 1587, the church took several years to complete until 1607.

Paoay Church, Ilocos Norte

This historical church in Ilocos Norte was completed in 1710 and recognized as a National Cultural Treasure and UNESCO World Heritage Site. It is popular for having twenty-four large buttresses on its sides and back. The church’s pyramid-like structure makes it so distinctive from other parishes in the country. Moreover, its architecture showcases the earthquake baroque style due to its thick walls made of coral stones and bricks. This style is popular among historical Philippine churches to minimize the effects of earthquakes.

Additionally, the church stood as an observation post by Katipuneros during the revolution by guerrilleros against the Japanese. It has seen its fair share of catastrophes in Philippine history, from surviving natural destruction like earthquakes and typhoons to serving as war headquarters for Filipinos.

Parish Church of Saint Joseph of Baras, Rizal

Another historical church in the Philippines is located in Baras, Rizal. Originally, it was built in 1595 by Franciscans after Aetas burned down the area as an act of rebellion. After the Aeta’s retribution, the town moved to Ibayo in 1636 but returned to its current location in 1682.

The inside of the church has also been preserved with its original external structure. The interior boasts exposed wooden trusses supporting the parish’s roofing. However, the church is unlike other parishes that showcase decorated ceilings since these are not popular in the area. Visiting this church will surely make individuals feel like they are traveling back in time.

Bacarra Church, Ilocos Norte

This church has been included in the list of historical Churches in the Philippines. Visitors can visit this church museum in its former convent, which stores religious and cultural artifacts and other archival images and documents. Moreover, this parish is known for the Torres di Bacarra or its “beheaded” belfry. It is also another National Historical Landmark and a National Cultural Treasure.

The Torre di Bacarra was once one of the highest buildings in the Philippines, with an original design of a sixteen by sixteen-meter base and fifty meters tall. It was once the highest bell tower in the country until earthquakes damaged the structure. The ruined parts of the tower remain untouched and are now filled with beautiful greenery.

Majayjay Church, Laguna

Originally built with plywood, its original structure was not made to last. The current structure of the Majayjay church has Romanesque roots and is two hundred feet long, fifty-six feet wide, and fifty-four meters high. The parish boasts three stories, and at the highest point is a triangular pediment paired with a circular window. It was originally built in 1649 and has been renovated ever since. Today, the parish has azulejo tiles, a glazed and colored Spanish tile.

This church is also declared a National Cultural Treasure by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCAA). Augustinian missionaries spearheaded the structure, partly burned in 1660 and restructured in 1707. Furthermore, it served as an American base during the Filipino-American war and was once restructured in 1912.

Final Thoughts

There are still numerous historical churches in the Philippines to this day. These churches have witnessed numerous strides in national history and culture. They are now more than safe spaces for believers; they are also testaments to Filipino architecture and tourist spots. That said, they always showcase the popular designs in those areas when they were built.

#allstar.ph #philippines #Historical Churches

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revista · 10 months ago

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow »

Hyperion: A Romance » Chapter 8

FOOT-PRINTS OF ANGELS.

It was Sunday morning; and the church bells were all ringing together. From all the neighbouring villages, came the solemn, joyful sounds, floating through the sunny air, mellow and faint and low,--all mingling into one harmonious chime, like the sound of some distant organ in heaven. Anon they ceased; and the woods, and the clouds, and the whole village, and the very air itself seemed to pray, so silent was it everywhere.

Two venerable old men,--high priests and patriarchs were they in the land,--went up the pulpit stairs, as Moses and Aaron went up Mount Hor, in the sight of all the congregation,--for the pulpit stairs were in front, and very high.

Paul Flemming will never forget the sermon he heard that day,--no, not even if he should live to be as old as he who preached it. The text was, "I know that my Redeemer liveth." It was meant to console the pious, poor widow, who sat right below him at the foot of the pulpit stairs, all in black, and her heart breaking. He said nothing of the terrors of death, nor of the gloom of the narrow house, but, looking beyond these things, as mere circumstances to which the imagination mainly gives importance, he told his hearers of the innocence of childhood upon earth, and the holiness of childhood in heaven, and how the beautiful Lord Jesus was once a little child, and now in heaven the spirits of little children walked with him, and gathered flowers in the fields of Paradise. Good old man! In behalf of humanity, I thank thee for these benignant words! And, still more than I, the bereaved mother thanked thee, and from that hour, though she wept in secret for her child, yet

"She knew he was with Jesus,

And she asked him not again."

After the sermon, Paul Flemming walked forth alone into the churchyard. There was no one there, save a little boy, who was fishing with a pin hook in a grave half full of water. But a few moments afterward, through the arched gateway under the belfry, came a funeral procession. At its head walked a priest in white surplice, chanting. Peasants, old and young, followed him, with burning tapers in their hands. A young girl carried in her arms a dead child, wrapped in its little winding sheet. The grave was close under the wall, by the church door. A vase of holy water stood beside it. The sexton took the child from the girl's arms, and put it into a coffin; and, as he placed it in the grave, the girl held over it a cross, wreathed with roses, and the priest and peasants sang a funeral hymn. When this was over, the priest sprinkled the grave and the crowd with holy water; and then they all went into the church, each one stopping as he passed the grave to throw a handful of earth into it, and sprinkle it with holy water.

A few moments afterwards, the voice of the priest was heard saying mass in the church, and Flemming saw the toothless old sexton treading the fresh earth into the grave of the little child, with his clouted shoes. He approached him, and asked the age of the deceased. The sexton leaned a moment on his spade, and shrugging his shoulders replied;

"Only an hour or two. It was born in the night, and died this morning early?"

"A brief existence," said Flemming. "The child seems to have been born only to be buried, and have its name recorded on a wooden tombstone."

The sexton went on with his work, and made no reply. Flemming still lingered among the graves, gazing with wonder at the strange devices, by which man has rendered death horrible and the grave loathsome.

In the Temple of Juno at Elis, Sleep and his twin-brother Death were represented as children reposing in the arms of Night. On various funeral monuments of the ancients the Genius of Death is sculptured as a beautiful youth, leaning on an inverted torch, in the attitude of repose, his wings folded and his feet crossed. In such peaceful and attractive forms, did the imagination of ancient poets and sculptors represent death. And these were men in whose souls the religion of Nature was like the light of stars, beautiful, but faint and cold! Strange, that in later days, this angel of God, which leads us with a gentle hand, into the "Land of the great departed, into the silent Land," should have been transformed into a monstrous and terrific thing! Such is the spectral rider on the white horse;--such the ghastly skeleton with scythe and hour-glass;--the Reaper, whose name is Death!

One of the most popular themes of poetry and painting in the Middle Ages, and continuing down even into modern times, was the Dance of Death. In almost all languages is it written,--the apparition of the grim spectre, putting a sudden stop to all business, and leading men away into the "remarkable retirement" of the grave. It is written in an ancient Spanish Poem, and painted on a wooden bridge in Switzerland. The designs of Holbein are well known. The most striking among them is that, where, from a group of children sitting round a cottage hearth, Death has taken one by the hand, and is leading it out of the door. Quietly and unresisting goes the little child, and in its countenance no grief, but wonder only; while the other children are weeping and stretching forth their hands in vain towards their departing brother. A beautiful design it is, in all save the skeleton. An angel had been better, with folded wings, and torch inverted!

And now the sun was growing high and warm. A little chapel, whose door stood open, seemed to invite Flemming to enter and enjoy the grateful coolness. He went in. There was no one there. The walls were covered with paintings and sculpture of the rudest kind, and with a few funeral tablets. There was nothing there to move the heart to devotion; but in that hour the heart of Flemming was weak,--weak as a child's. He bowed his stubborn knees, and wept. And oh! how many disappointed hopes, how many bitter recollections, how much of wounded pride, and unrequited love, were in those tears, through which he read on a marble tablet in the chapel wall opposite, this singular inscription;

"Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly heart."

It seemed to him, as if the unknown tenant of that grave had opened his lips of dust, and spoken to him the words of consolation, which his soul needed, and which no friend had yet spoken. In a moment the anguish of his thoughts was still. The stone was rolled away from the door of his heart; death was no longer there, but an angel clothed in white. He stood up, and his eyes were no more bleared with tears; and, looking into the bright, morning heaven, he said;

"I will be strong!"

Men sometimes go down into tombs, with painful longings to behold once more the faces of their departed friends; and as they gaze upon them, lying there so peacefully with the semblance, that they wore on earth, the sweet breath of heaven touches them, and the features crumble and fall together, and are but dust. So did his soul then descend for the last time into the great tomb of the Past, with painful longings to behold once more the dear faces of those he had loved; and the sweet breath of heaven touched them, and they would not stay, but crumbled away and perished as he gazed. They, too, were dust. And thus, far-sounding, he heard the great gate of the Past shut behind him as the Divine Poet did the gate of Paradise, when the angel pointed him the way up the Holy Mountain; and to him likewise was it forbidden to look back.

In the life of every man, there are sudden transitions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous. At once, as if some magician had touched the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the wind falls, and serenity succeeds the storm. The causes which produce these sudden changes may have been long at work within us, but the changes themselves are instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient cause. It was so with Flemming; and from that hour forth he resolved, that he would no longer veer with every shifting wind of circumstance; no longer be a child's plaything in the hands of Fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. He resolved henceforward not to lean on others; but to walk self-confident and self-possessed; no longer to waste his years in vain regrets, nor wait the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet desires; but to live in the Present wisely, alike forgetful of the Past, and careless of what the mysterious Future might bring. And from that moment he was calm, and strong; he was reconciled with himself! His thoughts turned to his distant home beyond the sea. An indescribable, sweet feeling rose within him.

"Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps," said he; "and be a man among men, and no longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth be mine a life of action and reality! I will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness. This alone is Life;

'Life that shall send

A challenge to its end,

And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!'

Why have I not made these sage reflections, this wise resolve, sooner? Can such a simple result spring only from the long and intricate process of experience? Alas! it is not till Time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life, to light the fires of passion with, from day to day, that Man begins to see, that the leaves which remain are few in number, and to remember, faintly at first, and then more clearly, that, upon the earlier pages of that book, was written a story of happy innocence, which he would fain read over again. Then come listless irresolution, and the inevitable inaction of despair; or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves that still remain, a more noble history, than the child's story, with which the book began."

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ultraheydudemestuff · 1 year ago

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East Cleveland District 9 School (Superior School)

Cleveland Heights Historical Center

14391 Superior Rd.

Cleveland Heights, Ohio

The Superior School was built as the District 9 school of East Cleveland Township in 1882. It was the third school building on the site, replacing an earlier brick building. The minutes of the Board of Education in 1853 stated that a still older building was "an Old House of little value. Must be rebuilt." The frame second story of the existing building was added in 1915. Cleveland Heights became an independent municipality in 1901. The Superior School was used for regular classes until 1925. It stood vacant for years, then in the late 1940s and 1950s it was used for classes for slow-learning children. Then it was used as a storage building by the City of Cleveland Heights and the windows were boarded up.

Because the first portion of the building was unusually solid in construction; the addition shows the adaptation of the building to the increasing needs of the community; and the survival of the building in a large metropolitan area is unusual. There are perhaps a half dozen 19th-century schools in the Cleveland metropolitan area whose integrity has been altered by conversion to residential or other uses. There are five schools of some integrity in the area older than the Superior School. Two are one-room brick schoolhouses; the other three are large public city schools in the Italianate, Victorian Gothic, and Queen Anne styles (one will probably be demolished by the Board of Education; one is now a parochial school; one is the Sterling School).

The Superior School is the only schoolhouse in Cuyahoga County constructed of sandstone, and there is only one other in all of northeastern Ohio. This stone construction makes the building "unusually solid," compared to brick or wood frame construction. (The other is Florence Township School, an octagon.) The building was added to the National Register of Historic Places on July 26, 1979.

The architectural configuration of the school (stone ground story, wood second story) is unique in all of northern Ohio, and probably in the state. It is precisely because it does not fit the traditional stereotyped image of a "little red schoolhouse," and because it is an unusual variant of vernacular building, that the architecture is significant. The second story of frame construction was added for functional reasons in a style that harmonizes but does not try to duplicate the earlier structure. The school is educationally significant not only because it was a local district school, but because it was adapted in its declining years for special purpose education for slow learners.

The survival of the school is significant because the country school remained on a city lot while an entire upper middle-class residential neighborhood grew up around it. The survival is not credited to the substantial construction, but to the fact that it was used continuously until 1925 and then adapted for use again in the 1940s and 1950s; and today to the fact that it is recognized locally as one of the community's few links with the 19th century (the community of Cleveland Heights).

This is a small two-story schoolhouse building of sandstone and wooden frame construction. The narrow front of the building faces southwest on Superior Road. The lower story is constructed of sandstone ashlar masonry. The windows are rectangular with sandstone sills and lintels. The entrance steps are slabs of sandstone. The second story of frame construction was added thirty-three years later than the first story. Its exterior sheathing is narrow wooden lap siding. On the roof is a small square belfry with a pyramidal roof. The original roof was slate, but new roofing was put on in 1976. To the rear of the building is a small (15 feet by 15 feet) room of the same stone construction as the lower story. The interior consists of one large room on each floor. The walls and ceilings are plastered. The woodwork is very plainly finished.

The restoration of the Superior Schoolhouse, located at 14391 Superior Road (at Euclid Heights Boulevard), has been the dream of many Cleveland Heights residents over the last forty years. The passage of the 1997 Bond Issue and additional Community Development Block Grant funds have allowed for the restoration to become a reality and the Cleveland Heights Historical Center to have a home.

Owned and operated by the City of Cleveland Heights, the Cleveland Heights Historical Center at Superior Schoolhouse is home to an archival collection and museum committed to the presentation and preservation of Cleveland Heights’ history and architecture through documentation, exhibits and special events. The Historical Center stands as an educational resource to deepen our citizens’ commitment to preserving a rich cultural legacy for future generations. Special thanks should be given to the City’s Landmark Commission for their dedication to the project and to the citizens of Cleveland Heights who see in this Schoolhouse a commitment not only to Cleveland Heights’ history, but also to its future.

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rabbitcruiser · 3 years ago

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Gamla Uppsala Church, Sweden (No. 1)

Gamla Uppsala Church (Gamla Uppsala kyrka) was the seat of the Archbishopric of Sweden prior to 1273, when the seat was moved to Östra Aros (Östra Aros was then renamed Uppsala due to a papal request). The old cathedral was probably built in the 11th century, but finished in the 12th century. The stone building may have been preceded by a wooden church and probably by the large Temple at Uppsala. After a fire in 1240, the nave and transepts of the cathedral were removed, leaving only the choir and central tower, and with the addition of the sacristy and the porch gave the church its present outer appearance. In the 15th century, vaults were added as well as chalk paintings. Among the medieval wooden sculptures there are three crucifixes from the 12th, 13th and 15th centuries.

Archbishop Valerius was buried here. King Eric IX of Sweden was as well, before being moved to Uppsala Cathedral. Astronomer, physicist and mathematician Anders Celsius (1701–1744) was also buried at Gamla Uppsala Church next to his grandfather Magnus Celsius (1621–1679).

Source: Wikipedia

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theodoreangelos · 2 years ago

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Rtyně v Podkrkonoší (Hertin), okr. Trutnov (Trautenau) Church of St. John the Baptist (1679). The wooden belfry (1592) dates back to the late Gothic period and is one of the oldest and unique belfries of this type in the Czech Republic. Kostel svatého Jana Křtitele (1679). Dřevěná zvonice (1592) pochází z doby pozdní gotiky a patří tak k nejstarším a ojedinělým zvonicím tohoto typu v České republice.

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cutiecorner · 2 years ago

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Evil

Ficlet• agere • Regressor! Bruce Wayne, Caregiver! Alfred Pennyworth

Woah two fics in two days! I guess the inspiration fairy is just blessing me at ungodly hours as a hobby. Anyway I finally finished up this cute concept inspired by @paper--moons from a while ago! I love how it turned out, I hope y'all enjoy!!

The manor smelled heavenly when Alfred was baking. He had a supernatural power to make the smell so tantalizing that anyone on (or beneath) the manor's grounds could sense it, and no one could resist its magnetic pull. Not even Batman. So, on one particular night that the Batman had been particularly stuck in his cave, Alfred just happened to start baking.

Evil.

This was a tactic, and it was evil.

Bruce sat at the bat-computer (which he was too tired to deny the name of) and stared blankly into the LEDS until his eyes stung. Well, they were already stinging. 27 hours without sleep will do that to you. But he had to resist the temptation beckoning at his senses somehow and staring at the already-solved-but-is-it-REALLY-solved case in front of him was his last line of defense. Bruce knew very well that if he closed his eyes the full force of their heaviness would weigh him down like the heavy batsuit he forgot to take off. He knew very well the cold ache of exhaustion would creep up his spine, and the warm, comforting scent of cookies would become too much to bear. He did not know very well why Alfred was doing this to him. The world's greatest detective had yet to connect those dots.

Yet still, he read lines of text over and over until he knew he was going on memory alone. He shifted forward in his chair, nose as close to the screen as he could get it. He wondered how long he could hold his breath. He was wondering so hard he didn't notice his eyes drift shut and his chin grow heavy in his hands. Hold yourself together, he thought, you're strong, you're Batman, you can resist this.

He could resist. Until he heard the humming.

Alfred was standing next to one of the vents, and through the vast silence of the manor, all sound carried. Especially the notably loud humming. Am I Blue. A childhood favorite of Bruce's.

And thus the last bastion of the Batman was gone. It was wrung dry, not a drop of vigilante verve left in the battered body wearing the suit. Just Bruce. Sad, tired, lonely Bruce.

Pushing himself up from his chair felt like the most exhausting exercise of the night. Nevermind carrying 3 grown adults to safety, his own bodyweight was the real knockout. He felt the consequences of the past 48 hours in every step, especially those up the obscene flight of stairs he was just now realizing were a bad idea. At the very top, taped neatly to the door, was a note:

No batsuit in the manor.

Bruce slumped, using what little energy he had to repeat the message in his best nagging-alfred impression. Mercifully, the source of the note had also left a robe and set of pajamas hung dutifully on the doorknob. Bruce shucked off the suit layer by layer, leaving an ever growing pile of kevlar to deal with later. Once he slipped into his night clothes, he felt a deep sigh escape him, a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The light of the manor hallway felt actively warm compared to the cold damp cave, like stepping outside on a spring morning. The smell that drew the bat out of the belfry hit him like a wave once the heavy metal obstruction was cleared. Bruce felt his feet move on their own volition, injected with an increased furver which deposited him in the kitchen in no time. The kitchen was only home to an empty cooling rack, but the accompanying den had a more smug inhabitant - plus a plate of cookies on the table.

Bruce crept up to the entryway, hiding behind one of its pillars as if the keenly trained spy he was avoiding could be fooled by a wooden beam. Said spy simply took another sip of his tea, not looking up from his book but failing to contain his smile. Bruce's eyes wandered to the plate of cookies once again, and upon the realization that they were his favorite, he begrudgingly toed out from his hiding spot.

"Master Bruce, so you've finally decided to join me."

Bruce could only articulate a hmf in response as he planted himself on the couch, having no energy to humor Alfred's teasing. He silently reached over for a cookie and returned with the whole plate, settling them beside him as he curled up into the couch. His toe found a soft blanket (one of his favorites), and he quickly cozied himself into it. His muscles finally relaxed. He listened to the sound of the crackling fire, the soft crunch of cookies, and a page turning.

Bruce opened his eyes to peek over at Alfred, who held an old copy of Romeo and Juliet. His face twisted into a pout. Absolutely evil. Alfred, of all people, knows very well that it's Bruce's favorite. He may be the only one who knows. If asked (in his adult frame of mind) he'd prattle off some high minded comment about the tapestry of tragedy in Hamlet, but Alfred knew better. Alfred was there when Bruce fell in love with Shakespeare, and it was listening to Romeo's Soliloquy.

"You're reading that on purpose." Even Bruce would describe his own admonishment as grumpy. He hated that word, especially when it applied. Alfred was undeterred.

"Whatever do you mean, sir?" The satisfied smile hadn't left Alfred's lips. Bruce's voice was small and quiet now.

"That one's my favorite…"

Bruce was curled up, knees to his chest, blanket covering everything but his eyes. The fibers of the blanket tickled his nose as he tried to hide his pout.

"Oh dear, how rude of me. I suppose I'll just have to read for the both of us now won't I?"

Bruce didn't respond to Alfred's goad. He knew whatever he retorted, Alfred was gonna do it anyway. He munched on a cookie and resigned himself to his fate.

Alfred began Act II. Bruce knew the scene very well, recounted his favorite theatric iterations in his head as his eyes grew more heavy. He remembered each set of the Capulet's garden, the beautiful roses, the fateful trellis. Though the sight was beautiful, no performance held a candle to Alfred's. In Bruce's heart, Romeo's soliloquy was always to be delivered by a young butler just before bed. As the scene approached he found it's setup incomplete.

"But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and -"

"Wait, Alfie."

Bruce used the last of his strength to push himself off the couch, draped in his blanket, and slot himself in beside Alfred on the recliner. A voice small and cold in the back of his mind chided, you're too big to cuddle, but it was recanted by the warmth of Alfred's arm wrapping around him, tucking him into the crook of his neck.

"Better now?"

Bruce sleepily nodded.

"Okay bubby …"

His eyes drifted shut. The steady thrum of his father's heartbeat, the crackling fire, and the sound of a soliloquy finally easing him down to sleep.

"But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun…"

#i think this one might be my favorite so far honestly #agere #fandom agere #agere fandom #dc agere #batman agere #dadfred & babybat #agere fanfic

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