hellspreacher-blog

[hellspreacher-blog]

He’d never seen a person rush through God’s doors so fast. (Perhaps once, under a different light. But that man had been bleeding, dying.) Curiosity flaring – accompanied by a distinct anger at himself for needing to use the bathroom at such a crucial time – it took a great deal of willpower to slow his own steps. To walk into his own chapel, feet still moving a little too fast.

A familiar cascade of red hair greeted him. Simeon stopped in his tracks, brow twitching in a moment of unrestrained confusion. This was not a lost patient. He brushed the thought away as he carefully closed the door behind him. Private matters must remain private, after all. “The heart a’ man plans his way, but it is the Lord who establishes his steps.” With a soft breath, the Chaplain added, “Though the path He chooses can be… unpleasant, a’ times.”

What was she going to do? Rowena asked herself, as she walked down the hallway. Her mind as restless, almost racing from what she’d just witnessed. From what she’d just read. How was this possible? There of all places,how had she found him. Slowly, she took a breath, trying to blink away the memories that currently were haunting her thoughts.

She rushed down the hallway, heading towards the small chapel room. Perhaps she’d hope to find somewhere to clear her thoughts. Religious or not at least the room was calming. Quickly, she opened the door and sat down taking a deep breath. “Why is this happening.” She asked aloud swallowing hard, tyring to keep her emotions in check. @hellspreacher

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wienerofthemonth:

Eyes snapped open and took in the figure kneeling on the ground next to him, debating in his mind if he could bare to be so impolite as to move away… Better not. “Uh… Psalm eleven… ‘On the wicked he will rain fiery coals and burning sulfur; a scorching wind will be their lot.’”

Unfortunately, he feels like the strange… Priest? Wouldn’t be satisfied with just that, and will be expecting a conversation. So with a pointed sigh, he unfurled and sat in a polite, regular position. Ingrained social convention to a person of higher authority, overriding his dire want to be left alone. But, that teenage stubborn streak that still sat within him, meant that he refused to introduce himself, or hide just how ‘pleased’ he was about the interruption.

He heard the sigh but missed the expression, eyes still resting shut in prayer - or so he would have his company believe. Vision covered, ears pricked up and tuned to the slightest sound; the shuffling of patients across the floorboards, the creak of a chair, the soft mumblings of a madman. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord who goes with you. That didn’t mean Simeon would be caught unaware, however.

“Mnn! Yes!” He hummed, as if he took pleasure from the very utterance of the Psalm, “F’ the Lord is righteous, he loves justice. An’ the upright will see his face.” The Chaplain’s eyes opened to find the boy beside him moved; sat more comfortably. With an expression of dire discontent; someone interrupted by an unwanted visitor. Somehow Simeon’s grin could only turn to a laugh as his hands unfurled. “Come now, son.” Still on his knees, the preacher laid a hand on the patient’s shoulder. Swiftly, giving no time to pull away, fingers squeezing the blond’s flesh in an unrelenting grip. “Did the Lord not say; F’ where two or three’re gathered in m’ name, there am I among them? Shared prayer’s the only way t’ truly speak t’ the Almighty.”

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Danver’s Chapel was perfection. To come from a tent in the desert, struck by storms of sand more often than it could take, the brick and mortar walls of the small chamber were a sight to behold. Greying whitewashed walls, simple wooden pews, a bare cross – of course, only Idolaters worshipped the faces of Saints and Martyrs hung in gold across their indulgent churches. This blank canvas, free from sin, ready for him to paint on, was a slice of Heavenly pie. Gifted to him by the Almighty, no doubt, complete with congregation of wayward souls who so desperately needed saving.

One of which she was not. Not outwardly, at least; she wasn’t a patient. Simeon considered himself good with faces, and hers he recognised. From fleeting glances, a figure rapidly exiting the staffroom should he appear in the doorway. As if the very red of his hair were disgusting to her. (Or frightening, perhaps.) She’d slipped through his fingers easily, his reactions always too late to grab her. So why would she come here?

“Now, there ain’t nothin’ t’pologise for.” The Chaplain soothed, holding up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I should know bedder by now – that the Lord calls people t’ his alter at all times, not jus’ when it suits me.” His strides were long and purposeful, deliberately taking a swift route up the isle to stand beside her. (Conveniently blocking her quickest path to the only exit. Not that he would know anything about that.) His fingers found the back of the pew behind hers, leaning his weight casually against its frame. His smile a little less enthusiastic than usual; softer, smoother, desperately curious as to why she had come.

“There’s no need t’leave, child.” He gestured to the simple alter, the battered wooden cross on the wall. “If y’have need t’pray, then do so freely. The apology is mine f’ interruptin’.” He paused for thought, glancing her way once more. “Though - when y’done a’course – I would enjoy hearin’ jus’ what y’called me a moment ago.”

@hellspreacher

She didn’t exactly advertise the few times that she weakened and found herself in Danver’s excuse for a chapel. In her eyes that was what it was, weakness. Despite her father’s stern insistence that she follow the faith that had been pushed on her since birth, Sofiya had always resented going to church.  But since her estrangement from her old life, she had noticed that she sometimes looked back almost fondly those long Sundays, Feast Days, Name Days… Maybe she just missed being at home. The chapel certainly didn’t do anything for her, it just made the absence of faith worse. The church had been lavish, beautiful icons had hung on the walls, hand-painted hundreds of years before, the altar had gleamed and glittered, the gold that adorned it seeming alive with the reflections of lit candles. Robed priests and deacons drenched in resplendent robes… this sterile, non-denominational box in the asylum couldn’t compete with the grandeur of their proud Orthodox institution. But she was there, trying to feel some sort of connection to the life she had had before, religion had mattered, if not for the sake of their souls, but for the culture they had left behind. She’d thought she was alone, which was the only reason she had taken a seat, eyes gazing at the cross on the wall with a glazed distance, so when she heard a noise behind her, the orderly jumped, and turned, viciously. She panicked when she saw who had disturbed her distracted remembrance. Sofiya had purposefully kept her distance from the Chaplain, she didn’t need her soul to be saved, and she didn’t need to talk to someone who made her feel so uncomfortable simply by existing.  “баща” She said, startled, before she could stop herself, having been too caught up in the memories to snap out of the old ways fast enough. She cleared her throat, “I’m sorry, I should, you know… go.” 

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condom:

don’t tell me to calm down I’ll throw a fucking desk at your face

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thekingsparty:

It was ridiculous, thinking that if he was to meet the priest this place had to offer, he’d repent and beg to be forgiven for his sins. Really? As if he could just lay down the metaphorical knife and walk away from fate. Nobody could fight fate. And he wasn’t going to start trying now, he didn’t have to - nobody could tell him what to do. Well, except for the doctors and orderlies at this place. With the pills they forced him to take, he couldn’t get out of this place, so for the time being all he could do was follow their orders.

“That’s highly unnecessary. It’s an honour, love. I’ve been chosen - I know an ordinary mind like yours can’t grasp what it means to have this duty laid upon you, but trust me it’s fantastic.” His purpose wasn’t holy, he wasn’t hearing God’s word and he didn’t have to. He knew what he had to do without a voice telling him to.

A show reel of emotions passed over the priest’s face; a brief look of confusion, shock, then a silent anger that had the hairs on his head raised as a cat would arch its back. And finally, with a calming blink, back to pity. Hoping he could portray the deep pain he felt for the other man through his gaze alone. What a horrible fate, to be so comfortable in sin.

“An’ who has laid this curse upon you, son?” His elbows found his desk, leaning over to peer at the patient, “Who chose you t’shoulder this burden? Who twisted y’mind enough t’think that bein’ the very King a’ the Damned is a greater honour than bein’ redeemed by God’s light?”

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misc. Sim headcanons :

- he has a ridiculously large and obnoxious collection of novelty mugs. all very tacky, examples include: a cross, “what would Jesus do?”, a selection of #1 somethings, baseball team merch, several stock cat photos, etc. he loves to share them and show them off, but woe betide you if you break one.

- his favourite war was WWI. senseless violence, no clear ideological divide, brutal close quarters fighting in tight trenches. he relished it.

- he milks Invidia of her venom since she’s a rattlesnake. he doesn’t want her bites to kill anyone; only friends get to hold her since she is otherwise curled around his forearm. he can kill trespassers himself.

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demcndrinker:

Sam had been forced to go see the preacher about his…delusions, as they called it. When would they accept that he wasn’t having delusions, that these were REAL and that he was trying to save people in using his gifts. He supposed when he really thought about it he saw how crazy it must sound. But he wasn’t crazy. At least that was what he kept telling himself. This place wore on you. The drugs getting to you, slowly breaking you down till you began to question what was real and what was not.

❝ So let me guess… ❞ Sam looked at the minister with a cocky smirk on his features. ❝ You’re gonna ask me when I started hunting monsters, when I started drinking demon blood and when I started seeing the devil right? ❞ it was the same thing everyone else asked him. The same thing he went through with every single staff member in this God forsaken place. ❝ You’re not gonna cure me Father…There’s nothing to cure. ❞

His gaze took in the smirk, the cocky expression that seized the man’s face, as if this was all going through the motions. Simeon’s own smile did not falter. It was just as when an atheist entered a church; they already had an expectation. Removing that expectation, speaking the unexpected, taking a different angle; that was the only solution.

“On the contrary, son,” One finger extended from his entwined hands, pointing towards Sam’s chest, “I couldn’t care f’ the whens ‘n wheres.” He was leaning forward, eyes alight with excitement as he peered into the patient’s eyes. Hoping to find something, maybe a flinch or a spark of understanding. “Evil lurks ‘n all places, Samuel. It is m’ job – no, my duty, t’ vanquish it from men’s souls. If it is your duty to vanquish it from the world aroun’ us, then you an’ I’re in the same business.” He stopped his craning forward, ensuring he left Sam with some breathing room. (Regardless of how close he personally would consider comfortable.)

“Start with the monsters, son. How d’you vanquish them?”

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As the sun disappeared below the horizon and its glare no longer reflected off a glassy sea, I thought of how beautiful the sunsets always were in the Pacific. They were even more beautiful than over Mobile Bay. Suddenly a thought hit me like a thunderbolt. Would I live to see the sunset tomorrow? - Eugene B. Sledge, With the Old Breed: At Peleliu and Okinawa

[hellspreacher-blog]

{{ Please reblog this if you’re a mun who’s open for angst plotting. Death, pain, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, illness, misery, fighting, screaming, tears, hate, disgust, trauma, graphic gore, etc; I’m in need of threads. Thank you. }}

[hellspreacher-blog]

Treat it like a warzone, a friend had advised; these people are on the side of the enemy and you’re task is to convert them. Some claimed to be as dangerous, with their records and trials and twisted pasts. But even the Devil was not above forgiveness, should he seek it.

Simeon never thought himself to be encouraging sickness. He encouraged repentance. His knees found the floor beside Alfie quietly, his slacks hitched up so he could comfortably rest against the ground. Hands clasped, eyes closed with a loud and blissful sigh. Making himself known before he spoke, warm smile taking his features and spilling into his words, “Name y’ psalm, son.”

@hellspreacher

Samandriel, being a high-risk patient, wasn’t allowed to just wander off the ward and take himself to the chapel. He had to get permission to leave, and for that he had to find a member of staff that was free to take him there and supervise his visit. No one was ever free. They weren’t too keen on ‘encouraging his sickness’, either. So in the end, it was simply easier for him to pray in his cell. Or when they force him out, he finds a quiet corner of the day room, bows his head, and gets on with it there. That’s where one could usually find him. Purposely isolated from the others, as small as he could make himself, talking to his ‘God’.

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@thekingsparty

“Crowley. King of Hell.” His eyes remained trained on the file open between his hands, as if he were reading the words scrawled under the symptom description. (He wasn’t.) You didn’t need to notice the locked door to realise his company didn’t desire to be there. Understandable, if his delusions were to be believed. Why would a demon seek out the company of a priest?

To corrupt them, Simeon’s mind supplied. He hid his amusement behind a grunt, swallowed by the coffee mug pressed to his lips. A thick gulp – cold as the grave – and he turned his attention to the patient sat opposite. “A title no man should wish ‘pon his head. Y’ have m’ deepest sympathies.”

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@demcndrinker

"Monsters. Divine precognition. Demon blood. The Devil himself." The frown creasing his brow was perplexed rather than disbelieving, the words leaving his lips slowly as he took the time to digest them. "Y' record reads like more of a sermon than a description a' symptoms, Samuel."

The paper folded in his hand, file snapping shut as Simeon allowed it to slip from his hand. Falling with a soft thud by the leg of his chair, a visual denouncement of the content within. His fingers found each other instead, entwining as he leant forward. Elbows on his knees, smile as curious as it was inviting, all attention directed to the man sat on the bed opposite him.

"Good thin' I'm not a doctor, interested in 'symptoms'." Simeon tilted his head an inch, expectantly, "I'm a Deacon. Your monsters, visions - demons an' the Devil... That is mine t'cure."

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@angelusfera​

There was something placating about it, tilting his head to watch the coffee pour into his battered mug - adorned with a cross, naturally. Some people had a weakness for stuffed toys; Simeon had a weakness for tacky porcelain. He could reluctantly admit to weeping over several prized cups losing their lives to a hard floor.

"I regret not lookin' at the staff notes a lil' closer." Gaze never lifting from the steaming liquid, the Chaplain addressed the man closing the door behind him, tone apologetic. "Y' work with those who served is 'ighly praised - Coffee?" The pot lifted, offered up along with his eyes, attention turned on Hale. His smile friendly, enthusiastically so, as a cat would draw in a mouse.

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Simeon: embrace jesus and stop being such a fuckin prick