#Sistine Chapel of the Ancients

[sakuraswordly]

"That's right......There's no way everyone can be happy...."

"Sakura...thinks that you're special. That's why I trust your love. Sometimes, there is a definite crime that can't be made up. There's no one who can't love someone. Like my brother...and Sei-chan..."

Knowledge 26

Ongoing research and excavations continue to uncover new sites and further our understanding of the prehistoric cultures of the Amazon. Studies often involve collaborations between archaeologists, anthropologists, and indigenous communities. Amazon rainforest rock art is a testament to the rich cultural heritage and historical depth of the region, highlighting the creativity and ingenuity of its ancient inhabitants.

Deep in Colombia's Amazon rainforest, an 8-mile-long stretch of ancient rock art, discovered in 2019, reveals astonishing depictions of now-extinct Ice Age megafauna. In the heart of this lush jungle, the painted cliffs of La Lindosa showcase vivid paintings dating back approximately 12,500 years. These artworks feature human figures, daily life, and a variety of animals, including mastodons and giant sloths. Dubbed the "Sistine Chapel of the Ancients," this discovery offers a rare glimpse into the Ice Age era, showcasing the biodiversity and culture of ancient Amazonian peoples. The sheer scale and detail of the artwork provide invaluable insights into prehistoric life and the environment of the time. This extraordinary site stands as a testament to the rich, yet largely unexplored, history of the Amazon basin.

Introduce characters:

Hokuto is Subaru's elder twin sister, and his loyal emotional support. She is a happy, energetic young woman, and incredibly skilled with her sewing machine. She is nowhere near as skilled as Subaru at magic, but makes up for it with perseverance (and a healthy dose of martial arts). She wishes only the best for her younger brother, but fears that his tender heart will only bring him pain. She eagerly encourages Seishirou and Subaru's relationship, hoping to make Subaru care about his own needs and feelings. She always knew that Seishirou was dangerous, but she could also see that the man was gaining a special spot in Subaru's heart, so she let him get closer to her brother in order to get him to think more on his own needs and desires. In the end, Seishirou is self-sacrificing to the utmost to achieve Subaru's happiness in Tsofph season 1.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

The History of the Names of the Successors of Peter

A longstanding tradition has it that Popes change their names from their baptismal name, though it hasn’t always been the case, especially in the first centuries of Christianity.

Popes have often chosen the names of their immediate or distant predecessors out of respect, admiration or recognition to mark continuity, but also different names to mark innovation.

By Lisa Zengarini

7 May 2025

The first act of the new Pope, immediately after accepting his canonical election as Supreme Pontiff and before fulfilling other obligations, is the choice of his name.

This name is announced by the Cardinal Protodeacon after the famous formula “Habemus Papam,” followed by the Pope’s baptismal name in Latin.

The longstanding tradition of changing the baptismal name

According to a longstanding tradition, this name differs from the baptismal name — a choice that follows the precedent set by the first Pope, Saint Peter, whose birth name was Simon.

This custom emerged as early as the first millennium of Christianity to signify that the election to the Petrine See is akin to a second birth.

In the early centuries of Christianity, many Popes changed their names because their original names were of pagan origin.

However, not all Popes followed this practice.

Out of the 266 Popes in history (267 including the next one), only 129 have chosen a new name.

This tradition became standard practice starting in 955 with Pope John XII and has continued to this day, with the exceptions of Adrian VI (1522-1523) and Marcellus II (1555).

For some Popes, the new name was actually their third name in life, as they came from religious orders.

The reasons behind the choice of a name

As for the choice of the name, many often choose the same name of their immediate or recent predecessor out of respect, admiration, or recognition, which also signals the desire to follow in their footsteps and continue the most relevant pontificates.

Others choose a different name from that of their immediate predecessor, sometimes signifying a commitment to innovation and change.

This was epitomized by Pope Francis, the first Pope in history to take the name of the Saint of Assisi.

The most common names: John, Gregory, Benedict and Pius

Saint Gregory the Great

In the history of the Papacy, the most commonly used name has been John, first chosen in 523 by Saint John I, Pope and martyr.

The last Pope to choose this name was Italian Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli, elected Pope John XXIII, in 1958, who was proclaimed Saint by Pope Francis in 2014.

Other frequently used names include Gregory, in honour of Pope Gregory I, commonly known as Saint Gregory the Great (590-604), which was last used by Gregory XVI in 1831, and Benedict, which was chosen sixteen times, including by Joseph Ratzinger in 2005.

Other recurrent names in the Papal tradition include Clement, Innocent, Leo, and Pius.

From 1775 to 1958, out of 11 popes, 7 were named Pius, from Pius VI (1775–1799) to Pius XII (1939–1958).

Eugenio Pacelli took the name Pius XII because he was distantly related to Pius IX (1846–1878), but also out of gratitude to Pius X (1903–1914), who  was canonized in 1954, and finally, in direct recognition of Pius XI (1922–1939), who made him a Cardinal and Secretary of State.

Among the names never chosen by a Pope are Joseph, James, Andrew, and Luke.

No Pope has ever chosen the name Peter, out of reverence for the first Pope.

Six Popes with the name of the Apostle Paul

However, six Popes have taken the name of the Apostle Paul, including Pope Montini (Paul VI, 1963-1978), whose choice reflected one of the key aspects of his pontificate — the initiation of apostolic journeys abroad.

Two Popes with two names

The first Pope to adopt a double name was Albino Luciani in 1978, who became John Paul I, emphasizing continuity with the pontificates of John XXIII and Paul VI.

His successor, Karol Wojtyła, repeated this choice as John Paul II.

As for Benedict XVI, in his first General Audience on 27 April 2005, he explained that he had chosen the name Benedict to symbolically connect to Pope Benedict XV, who led the Church during the turbulent period of World War I, and to the extraordinary figure of Saint Benedict of Nursia, the Patriarch of Western Monasticism and co-patron of Europe.

Pope John Paul II signing the new Code of Canon Law as Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger looks on, 25 January 1983.

Ratzinger succeeded John Paul as Pope Benedict XVI in 2005.

[blueiscoool]

The Sistine Chapel

The Sistine Chapel is undoubtedly one of the greatest artistic achievements of mankind!

Michelangelo painted this ceiling fresco between 1508 and 1512, creating a cornerstone work of High Renaissance Art.

The artist then returned to paint the Last Judgement (1536-1541).

Most experts agree that Michelangelo depicted his own face in the flayed skin of Saint Bartholomew in the monumental work.

[xcatsissuesx]

Oh to feel like this board

[sammy-traveller]

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[sagasartdrama]

Sculptor Paints Nudes on the Ceiling of Church, Says He "Didn't even want the job to begin with". 

I'm sure you're wondering why you should continue reading this blog. I don't blame you. Art history is boring. That's what I thought when I was but a fresh undergrad in my first tertiary study unit. There were tears through Ancient Indian, Chinese, and Japanese art, pushing on through Islamic art and Gothic architecture. Weeks were spent struggling to conceptualise hours and hours of essential readings covering densely complicated timelines of art movements. By the time we got to the Renaissance I was so overwhelmed that I thought there was no hope of me completing that unit.

Ever wondered why everyone on the Sistine Chapel looks so buff? The return of artefacts and writings stolen rediscovered from Ancient Classical Greece in the 13th Century triggered a renewed interest the Classical Greek philosophical ideologies of Man's Idealised Physical Form™️. You know Michelangelo, right? One of the most well-known artists of the Renaissance period. Masterfully able to combine those Greek Idealist philosophies of physical perfection with the religious mythos the ruling elite were obsessed. The result was one of the most iconic artworks of the 13th century. Michelangelo is the Pope's go-to man to complete the Sistine Chapel Fresco. Despite his fame as a sculptor and artist, even Michelangelo couldn't escape a nit-picky boss with no experience in the job he hired his employees, whilst forcing him to accept constant unsolicited criticism. 

Michelangelo's naturalist reflection of the ideal human form (involving lots of nonsexuallised genitalia) stems from Ancient Classical Greece's depiction of the ideal human form. After he completes his work, the Pope turns around and decides that this full-frontal nudity no longer has a place in religious art. There's a bit more dick swinging, but eventually the Pope has every single naked body modestly covered up.

Art history is full of men being precious about their genitals. There are so many problems caused by religion. Female artists defy societal norms and pioneer new art styles. Artists fight over the rights to use particular colours. Animals go extinct for the dye in rich people's clothes. The inner demons of artists become the muses that result in the masterpieces we get to appreciate today. Art history is the reason that art has a meaning; it's the reason that abstract art is more than one colour brushed across a canvas (Looking at you, Rothko) and that a naked woman is rarely ever just a naked woman. I want to connect the history of the world to the work of the artists that lived through those times.

Figure 1

The Last Judgement, Michelangelo, 1536-1541, fresco, 48x44ft

Notes: From The Last Judgement: Images of a Masterpiece, ItalianRenaissanceArt.com. Image is in the public domain.

[mimok]

The Spiral of Faith and Power~

This morning, against all reasonable judgment, I decided to visit Vatican City. The lines were, as promised, endless. Still, I felt I couldn’t be in Rome and not set foot in the Sistine Chapel—a space where so much human history has unfolded. What overwhelmed me wasn’t just the art or the architecture, but the sheer volume of people. The endless lines outside, stretching around corners, and this…

[immersiveartproject]

More Ideas

Rooshil Hibbert

During our first group discussion there were a few ideas/concepts/examples I presented.

I started by talking about the idea historical Virtual Experiences based on examples such as Horizon of Khufu, which consisted of a tour of the pyramids in Egypt and elements of ancient Egyptian culture.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Secret London (@secret.london)

Creating an environment akin to the Sistine chapel in Italy would be an interesting idea for an immersive environment due to its detailed paintings and vast scale.

Our discussion of immersive environments also reminded me of the Las Vegas sphere, which has a concert venue inside with large screens covering the audience’s view.

I thought about immersive exhibitions in London which have focused on artists such as Van Gogh. Given that our space will be a dome I would consider these examples an appropriate frame of reference.

When thinking about how abstract visuals could be used in our immersive experience, some aesthetics which came to mind included fractals, which can be zoomed infinitely to create amazing psychedelic videos. However this would be difficult to create within an immersive experience because of the mathematical complexity of the shapes.

References

Davis, H. (2016) Sistine Chapel Ceiling. Available at: https://www.digitalfieldguide.com/blog/15119 (Accessed: 23 January 2025).

Dragomir, M. (2016) Beauty Behind Math: Explore Fractals in Windows, Softpedia. Available at: https://www.digitalfieldguide.com/blog/15119 (Accessed: 24 January 2025).

Horizon of khufu in London: The VR Immersive experience (no date) Available at: https://horizonkheopsexperience.com/london/?cp_smn_source=secretldn&cp_smn_content=horizon-of-khufu-tickets (Accessed: 23 January 2025).

Mayer, B. (2023) U2, aura, height, led: The Las Vegas Sphere Facts, invidis. Available at: https://invidis.de/en/story/u2-aura-height-led-everything-you-want-to-know-about-the-las-vegas-sphere/ (Accessed: 23 January 2025).

★ NEWONE (psychedelic visuals, fractals zoom) (no date) MakeAGif. Available at: https://makeagif.com/gif/newone-psychedelic-visuals-fractals-zoom-mBlumX (Accessed: 23 January 2025).

Secret London (2025) 'Journey back to the storied lands of Ancient Egypt at Tutankhamun: The Immersive Exhibition, coming to London for a limited run this Spring. The fascinating experience uses cutting-edge technology, immersive storytelling and authentic artefacts to bring history to life.' [Instagram]. 22 January. Available at: https://www.instagram.com/p/DFIdwLRA2WK/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link (Accessed: 24 January 2025).

Van Gogh: The immersive experience London - exhibition at 106 commercial street in London (no date) ArtRabbit. Available at: https://www.artrabbit.com/events/van-gogh-the-immersive-experience-london (Accessed: 23 January 2025).

[supernotnatural2005]

Lovin' You

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: It’s that time of the month and Dean is there to save the day.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings/tags: FLUFF! Dean is a hero! Menstruating, mentions of blood (nothing graphic) Dean is an actual sweetheart! I want one 😭

AN: Just a little wishful thinking for those doom and gloom moments us ladies get once a month 🫠 i hope this can be a pick me up for those times 💕 Gif not mine (found on google)

Dolly was the inspo behind this one 😉

Main Masterlist

You groaned as another sharp pain twinges in your lower abdomen, curling further into yourself as if that would somehow lessen the relentless ache. The hot water bottle pressed against your lower belly was practically scalding your skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Anything was better than the pain currently wreaking havoc inside you.

Menstruating sucked.

Nestled in a fortress of blankets and pillows, you had tried to make yourself as comfortable as possible, but comfort was a foreign concept right now. Even the TV, which Dean had so thoughtfully set up in the room to distract you, barely held your attention.

Your phone buzzed in your weak grasp, drawing your attention. The screen lighting up with a picture you’d taken of Dean crossing his eyes goofily the last time you pointed a camera at him. The sight alone brought a tiny smile to your face as you answered, lifting the phone to your ear while suppressing another pained whimper.

It honestly felt like someone had taken up a chisel inside your uterus and was attempting to recreate the damn Sistine Chapel.

“Okay, I got light flow, heavy flow, extra wing support, night support—” Dean’s voice came through the speaker, listing off the brands as well. His voice was too serious for the matter, like if he was reeling off a list of supplies for a damn spell, and you had to bite your lip to keep from giggling despite the pain.

You’d run out of everything—tampons, pads, even your emergency stash. Between constant hunts and general chaos, your usual monthly toiletry restock had completely slipped your mind. But this particular cycle was hitting you like a freight train, leaving you barely able to move.

So, Dean—without hesitation, without complaint—had gotten dressed, laced up his boots, and headed to the store. No questions asked.

Sure, most guys knew about periods. Some were even cool about it. But not all of them wanted to hear the details without making a face or pretending they were about to pass out.

Dean Winchester, however, was a rare breed.

He never cringed or acted grossed out. If you needed something, he got it. If you were in pain, he listened. And, as if that wasn’t enough to make your heart swell, in the especially bad months—when you woke in the middle of the night to find you’d bled through your pyjamas and onto the sheets—Dean never got mad. He never looked at you with anything other than concern.

Instead, he’d scoop you up in his arms, carry you to the bathroom, and help you clean up while murmuring reassurances in that deep, gravelly voice of his. Then, without hesitation, he’d strip the bed, toss the sheets in the wash, and settle you back in a freshly changed bed like it was nothing.

Whether it was the years of hunting and being desensitised to blood or just the way he loved you—completely, without hesitation—it only made you fall harder for him.

“—or what about these? Super Soakers?” Dean drawled, snapping you back to the present. You could practically see him squinting at the box, brows furrowed like he was trying to crack some ancient hunter lore.

“I mean… I’m pretty sure they do the opposite of what you need, but hey, they claim to absorb up ten times more than the last version.” He let out a low whistle. “Damn. If these things were around when I was a kid, Sammy could’ve used ’em as flotation devices.” He sounded genuinely impressed, and that time, you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Just my usual, please.”

“Alright, alright, no Super Soakers,” he muttered, still sounding way too fascinated. More rustling followed, then—“Aha! Got ’em.” The sheer triumph in his voice was like he’d just bagged the biggest salt-and-burn of his life.

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Congrats, champ. You wanna do a victory lap?”

“Tempting, sweetheart,” he quipped. “But I think the ladies in the aisle might start throwing coupons at me in appreciation.”

You shook your head at his ridiculousness, but you adored him for it.

You were still in the exact same curled-up position when Dean returned, two stuffed grocery bags in hand and a bag of your favourite chips clenched between his teeth. He kicked the door shut behind him and dropped the bags onto the foot of the bed.

Slowly, wincing, you sat up. “Did you buy the whole damn store?” you asked amused, rifling through the bags.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the pain, but the sheer volume of products he’d brought back almost made you cry. He hadn’t just grabbed your usual brand—he’d picked up damn near every similar product on the shelf, as if he was preparing for the apocalypse of all periods.

And the second bag? Overflowing with your favourite snacks, along with his, because of course he wasn’t suffering with you without the proper provisions.

Dean shrugged, flashing you a wink as he kicked off his boots and shed his jacket. “Maybe. But now you ain’t gotta worry about running out for a while. And this—” he lifted the snack bag with a proud smirk “—is so we don’t have to leave the bed.”

Your eyes welled up, and you tried to blink the tears away before he could notice.

But he always noticed.

“Hey, hey, no.” His face softened immediately as he rounded the bed, settling next to you, hands warm as they cupped your shoulders. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles against your skin, his touch grounding you. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did I get the wrong ones? I swear that’s what you said, but maybe you were cutting out, and I—”

You silenced him with a soft kiss, cradling his scruffy cheeks between your hands. He let out a small, surprised sound before melting into it, his arms instinctively winding around you, pulling you in. When you pulled back, his green eyes searched yours for an answer.

“I love you, Dean.”

His entire body relaxed. His shoulders dropped, and that rare, completely unguarded expression softened his face. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing in his world—and you were.

One hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite tenderness. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, before easing back against the pillows and pulling you into his arms. His warmth immediately engulfed you, his scent—leather, soap, a hint of motor oil—comforting you more than anything ever could.

His hand slid over your abdomen, his palm pressing softly against the ache there, radiating the kind of warmth that soothed more than any hot water bottle ever could. He was your rock, your safety, your home.

“You good?” he murmured after a beat of comfortable silence.

You nodded, burrowing into his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

“Good,” he sighed, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Now c’mon, let’s eat enough junk food to make both of us sick, and then pass out watching that show you like about Friends or something.”

You let out a watery chuckle, “You mean Friends?” You corrected him. It was your ultimate comfort show, one Dean’d had to endure many times. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he’d gotten hooked on it himself.

“That’s the one.” He hummed, stroking your side with the tips of his fingers. You closed your eyes and melted against him. Even through the pain, wrapped up in Dean’s arms, you’d never felt luckier.

AN: So this was a short one, but what I'd give to have my own Dean in these God awful times 😭😍. It’s giving Priestly vibes in Ten Inch Hero (if you’ve seen the movie) but i went with Dean on this one. Hope you enjoyed 😘

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[conclover]

Vincent Benitez x Nun! Reader

Warnings: +18, reader is a nun, referred to as she/her, afab, first time for him, explicit sex, no use of protection, religious kink, corrupting a pure soul.

Notes: Benítez my beloved.

Word count: 6k

...

Vatican City, 2024.

Within the cloistered walls of the Apostolic Palace, behind layers of secrecy and ceremony, the Conclave was about to begin.

You’d been through it once before, enough to keep your nerves steadier than the young sisters flitting like sparrows through the polished corridors. Still, it wasn’t like you had much to do this time. Mother Agnes, ever cold and calculating, had assigned you a role so vague it felt like exile.

“Logistical, clerical, and medical assistance to the cardinals,” she’d said, her voice flat, her eyes sharp. Which was just another way of saying stay out of the way.

You hadn’t liked her from the start. She could smell the thoughts you weren’t allowed to speak. She didn’t tolerate even a flicker of impropriety, especially not from the nuns who’d earned reputations for piety and restraint.

So, while the others labored, cooking for the crimson clad cardinals of the Church, scrubbing every marble surface, preparing the Sistine Chapel for its sacred task, you sat alone like a ghost in a narrow room that barely deserved to be called an office. A table, a chair, an old crucifix, an almost dying potted plant and a dusty window that overlooked the courtyard below.

From there, you watched the sea of red silk and age roll in. You couldn't hear them from your window, but you could read their gestures. Some embraced like old friends reunited after decades. Others clustered in quiet corners, heads close, lips barely moving. A few smoked on the edges of the patio, taking their last worldly pleasure before the spiritual lockdown began. You didn’t judge them. Not exactly. But truth be told, there was no one worth watching.

You’d taken your vows long ago. However, they didn’t cauterize your imagination. You were human. You were still allowed to think things, weren't you? You could still play in the shallows of fantasy without drowning.

Only, there was nothing to fantasize about.

The cardinals, many whispered to be papabile, were like ancient relics draped in red. Not just in body, but in soul. Their minds were locked in some century that even medieval popes would have found embarrassingly outdated. There was no beauty in them, no spark. Nothing to draw the eye, let alone the heart.

Until someone knocked. It was a soft and almost too polite tap, followed by a voice that didn’t match the rest of the aging choir.

“Forgive the intrusion, Sister. I know you must be busy during these... stressful days.”

You turned too quickly in your chair, spine straightening, fingers instinctively reaching for a pen as if you'd been working and not staring through the window as if there was nothing else to do.

There he was. The answer to your prayers.

A cardinal. Yes, the robe confirmed that. But younger than the others, and striking in a way that was hard to look at directly. He possessed the kind of beauty that didn’t beg for attention, but commanded it all the same. He had dark brown eyes, steady and unblinking, as if they saw more than most would ever admit. His hair was black, thick, and just long enough to hint at rebellion before discipline caught it. He was clean shaven, his jawline sharp, his mouth unreadable, neither smiling nor stern. There was something about him, not just his looks, but the way he carried silence like a blade.

“Oh, please,” you said, smiling too fast. “It’s no bother at all.”

Your fingers fumbled slightly beneath the desk, betraying your nerves. He stepped inside, and for the first time in days, your breath caught in something more primal, more dangerous. And God help you, you didn’t want to stop it.

He stepped further into the room, the heavy door closing behind him with a hush of wood on stone. The silence that followed was charged. You could feel it settle between you like incense smoke, curling into the corners.

“I’m Cardinal Benitez,” he said with a modest nod. “But you can call me Vincent.”

You hadn’t heard of him before which was surprising, really. Seeing someone like him here? That was unusual. He didn’t carry the same weary air of authority that clung to the others. He seemed quiet, observant, almost too composed. Thoughtful, maybe even incorruptible. And far too handsome for someone wrapped in vows.

“I'm Sister (Y/n),” you replied, forcing your voice into steadiness. “Assigned here to assist as needed, though I’m afraid there hasn’t been much need.”

He offered a faint smile, the kind you feel more than see. “A pleasure to meet you, (Y/n).”

His gaze wandered around the small room, taking notice of all of details. There was something about the way he looked, like he saw more than he should. It unsettled you, not in a threatening way, but in a way that made you want to shift in your skin.

“You see,” he began, stepping closer to your desk with such unhurried calm that your nerves flared in response, “I wasn’t able to find the entrance to the Conclave. I wonder if you might point me in the right direction.”

“Of course,” you said, standing way too quickly. You moved to the window and gestured toward the far end of the courtyard, where the great doors were just beginning to swing shut. “If you head back through the corridor you came from, you’ll find a staircase leading to the main patio. The doors are right there.”

He stepped closer as you spoke, just near enough to blur the line between propriety and proximity. And in that moment, something inside you shifted.

A memory stirred, long buried beneath layers of obedience and habit. You saw yourself in college, before the veil, standing barefoot on the edge of a summer lake, a textbook under your arm and a boy’s name caught between your teeth.

You’d chosen the veil freely. But not without ghosts. And now, one of them had walked through your door. Or something achingly close.

“I appreciate the help, Sister,” he said, voice low and smooth. “These halls twist on themselves.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He didn’t linger. Just turned with quiet efficiency and made his way to the door. He paused briefly with his hand on the knob and glanced over his shoulder. Then he smiled again, wider this time, with something playful tucked beneath it.

“Expect to hear from me again soon,” he added, pausing just as he pushed the door open. “I’m all new to this place. I’ll be sure to keep you busy.”

You let out a soft laugh, a sound that surprised even you. “Well, I suppose I’d rather be needed than forgotten.”

His gaze lingered a moment longer than it should have. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But enough.

“Then I’ll make sure you aren’t,” he said.

And then he was gone.

You sat back down, but the room felt smaller than before, as if his presence had left something behind, like a weight you didn’t know how to name.

Through the dusty window, you caught sight of his silhouette crossing the courtyard with quiet urgency, his robe trailing behind him as he disappeared through the door.

You could still feel the echo of your own reaction, the heat of it, the way your body had remembered a life it was supposed to have forgotten. The lake. The barefoot days. The touch of a man's fingers brushing your body during late-night parties.

That part of you was long gone. Or it was supposed to be.

You folded your hands tightly in your lap, as if to bind the thought before it spread.

He was just a visitor. Nothing inappropriate had happened.

And yet you knew yourself too well. You would look for him again.

...

“Cardinal Benitez thanked us sisters for the delicious meal. He even included us in tonight’s prayer,” Agnes exclaimed, her eyes wide, clearly thrilled to be seen.

“How thoughtful of him,” one of the younger sisters whispered to you, trying and failing to contain her excitement.

“Yes... quite unusual for this place,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. Your voice carried a note of skepticism. “Where did this cardinal come from, anyway?”

The young sister leaned in, delighted to have a reason to gossip. Her words came rehearsed, like a story she’d already told the others too many times.

“Well, he came from a mission in Afghanistan. After he got injured, I think. He’s a brilliant theologian. And very, very disciplined.”

You nodded, absently. Disciplined. That word clanged around in your head like a dropped chalice.

You told yourself you’d be professional. That this was kindness, not chemistry. Curiosity, not temptation.

But if he was as spiritually strong as they claimed, if his discipline matched his celibacy, then there was nothing for you to do. Nothing but let the moment pass.

And yet, as the sun began to dip behind the courtyard wall, you found yourself adjusting your veil in the mirror by the door. Smoothing your habit. Combing your hair in a way that let just a little more of it show than it should have.

...

It was nearing evening when the knock came.

You hesitated a moment longer than necessary before answering.

When you opened the door, there he was again: Cardinal Benítez. He was standing there with that same composed air, though his cassock was a little dusted at the hem, like he’d been exploring the place for too long.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said.

“Not at all,” you replied, stepping aside before he even asked to come in.

He entered with no air of entitlement, only quiet gratitude. “They’ve begun to seal off some of the entrances. I was nearly locked out of the palace.” He offered a wry smile. “I was hoping you might show me a not too obvious way back to my room.”

You could’ve pointed him to the corridor immediately, but instead you motioned for him to sit, unable to resist the pull of just a few more minutes in his presence. “Of course. Just a moment.”

You reached for the small map Mother Agnes gave you, unfolding it across the table. As you leaned in, he sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours ever so lightly. You both noticed this.

“There,” you said, finger hovering over the intricate map. “This path will take you behind the chapel. No one watches it this late.”

He studied the map, but you could feel he was studying you, too.

“How long have you been stationed here?” he asked, curiosity taking over him.

You shrugged. “A few years. Long enough to know most people in this place aren’t as polite as you.”

He gave you a genuine smile. “I’ve learned kindness goes further in places where power speaks too loudly.”

There was a long pause, comfortable yet dangerous.

And then, perhaps to break it, or perhaps to test something, he said, “You look different today.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Different?”

He tilted his head, eyes tracing the edge of your face with a gentleness that felt deliberate. His gaze lingered a second too long near your veil, where a few strands of your hair had slipped free.

“Softer, maybe,” he said at last. “Like something’s been lifted off your shoulders.”

“Maybe. I think I forgot how much this place can take out of you before you came here...” you smiled, though it felt like a confession.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch until it almost trembled.

Then he said, “It’s easy to forget who you were, isn’t it? Especially in a place like this.”

You nodded. “But it’s harder to ignore who I could be.”

Another silence followed. This one heavier, more suffocating. His eyes lingered just a fraction too long. In that fleeting moment, you knew he felt the same way.

Then, as though pulling himself back from something dangerous, he straightened, ready to escape this situation.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. “You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

He turned to leave, and just before stepping out, he paused at the door.

“I’ll try not to get lost again,” he said.

But you both knew he would.

...

Just as night began to devour the last of the light inside the palace, your thoughts returned again and again to your conversation with him. You swore you’d seen it: a flicker in his composure, a quiet tremble behind the strict lines of discipline he wore like armor.

"Enough of this nonsense..." you told yourself, tossing in your narrow bed. You couldn’t sleep with your mind pacing like this. You needed air. Stillness. A sky without frescoes.

With a sharp exhale, you dressed quickly, your movements sharp and purposeful. Hands tucked deep into your pockets, you slipped out into the night. You just needed a short walk to shake him loose from your thoughts.

You drifted toward the side courtyard, where the moonlight spilled like silver paint across the polished floors. The fountain murmured in the center, its soft voice the only thing breaking the silence.

When you heard another noise you stopped, heart skipping a beat.

There, beneath the arches, half cloaked in shadow, sat Vincent.

He wasn’t praying. Just looking up at the sky as if trying to get an answer from God.

He hadn’t seen you. Not yet.

You told yourself to turn back. That if you stayed, you might get tangled in the way.

But your feet stayed rooted to the ground.

When he noticed you he didn’t startle. He wasn't surprised. Instead, he simply looked at you for a long moment.

Then, quietly, as if afraid someone might hear him, he spoke. “You couldn’t sleep either.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a quiet truth shared between two people who no longer needed to pretend they weren’t thinking the same thing.

“No. I thought some air might help.” You took a seat beside him on the bench, the space between you shrinking with every passing second. “You’re not like them,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

His lips curved into something that wasn't fully a smile. More of a sigh. “No. And I try not to forget that. But sometimes it feels like this place is made to change you.”

You nodded. “Or erase you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fountain filled the silence between sentences, and the floor beneath your feet seemed to hold the echoes of things you weren’t yet brave enough to say.

Then he turned toward you more fully, his eyes searching yours in the dark.

“What did you give up?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“Everything,” you replied, your throat tight. “But… it’s been harder than I thought to give up on everything.” The words lingered in the air between you, heavier than you expected. “You?”

He was quiet for a beat too long, his gaze momentarily slipping away, as if shyness had taken hold of him.

“A life I think about more often than I should... recently,” he said, his voice softer now.

And there it was. A confession. A door that had been opened. His vow of celibacy was now at odds with the pull you had unknowingly set in motion.

Neither of you moved at first, as if recognizing the shift would make it real. But slowly, almost cautiously, his hand brushed yours where it rested between you on the bench. Not a grab. Not even a touch, really. Just the suggestion of warmth. The line between accidental and intentional blurred. And you didn’t pull away.

“If I asked you what you miss the most...” he began, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “Would you tell me?”

“Being seen,” you said. “Maybe not just that. Being touched.”

His eyes closed briefly. As if the weight of your words touched something raw inside him.

And when he opened them again, his hand found yours firmly. Not by accident.

You both looked down at the contact, as though the weight of it was more than either of you could fully understand.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, his voice low and strained.

You tilted your head slightly, your gaze steady. “Then don’t,” you said, pulling your hand away from his with a quiet, deliberate motion.

He turned to face you, surprise flickering across his expression as he saw you move your hand away. “You make it sound easy...”

You smiled, slow and just a touch dangerous. “It’s not. But maybe it doesn’t have to be impossible.” And with that, you moved your hand back to his, your actions a clear contradiction to the words you’d just spoken.

His thumb brushed gently along your knuckle. The motion was barely there, but it felt like lightning.

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” he said quietly, but there was no conviction behind it.

You met his gaze, steady. “Don’t I?”

He studied you. In the dim moonlight, his face was softer, less cardinal, more human.

“You’re a dangerous temptation,” he said, his voice a mix of admiration and caution.

“You’re the one who wanted to touch me,” you replied, a slight smirk curling at the corner of your lips.

He looked down, shaking his head slightly, but didn’t let go.

“You came out here to forget about me,” he said after a beat, his voice softer, almost contemplative.

“And here we are…” you said, your words trailing off as the weight of the moment settled in.

And then, silence again. However, it was no longer awkward. Now it was filled with unspoken things.

His thumb continued tracing slow, absent-minded circles on your knuckle, as if his hand hadn’t quite received the command to stop. His eyes held yours, conflicted and burning with desire.

“I should go,” he whispered, but didn’t move.

You leaned in just slightly, enough to bridge the gap without closing it.

“Then go,” you said, your voice low, dangerously so.

You watched his eyes flicker to your lips, the brief glance heavy with everything unspoken.

And then, like a decision made between heartbeats, he leaned in. The movement was slow and intentional. His free hand rose, hovering near your cheek, waiting for permission, maybe. He touched your face with the back of his fingers, reverent, like he was afraid he might harm you if he held you too firmly.

And then, your lips met his. They were warm and tentative at first, as though he was unsure, as though he might pull away. But then, when desire finally overtook him, something shifted. The kiss deepened, and in that moment, the hesitation between you both vanished.

The hand at your cheek curved into your jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. His breath caught.

The kiss deepened, slow and quiet, but laden with everything you’d sworn to deny. Everything your vows had demanded you forsake.

You weren’t even sure which one of you reached for the other first, but suddenly your legs were tangled, and your bodies leaned in too close for holiness.

He broke the kiss, his breath shallow, and looked at you with a flicker of worry in his eyes.

“This…” he murmured, almost to himself. “This can’t happen.”

But his thumb was still on your lips, tracing the echo of what had just happened between you.

You closed your eyes, a shiver running through you. “It already did.”

He exhaled shakily, his voice strained. “God, help me.”

You smiled, though the weight of it made your chest tighten. “Maybe He sent me.”

He answered with a bittersweet laugh, caught between joy and regret. His hand slipped from your face, but he didn’t move away.

“I really need to go,” he said, this time with a little more conviction, as though trying to convince himself more than you.

You nodded, the silence between you thick with unspoken things.

And this time, he actually stood. But before he left, he bent forward, his breath warm against your skin, and pressed a final kiss to your lips. The softness of it lingered, a quiet goodbye that felt like a promise. Then he disappeared into the corridor, his figure swallowed by the darkness of the night.

You sat alone on the bench, your fingertips resting where his lips had been. And for the first time in a long while, your heart was anything but still.

...

By morning, the palace had resumed its mask of solemnity. Light filtered through stained glass like softened judgment. The sisters moved quietly, purposefully, as if trying not to disturb the weight of the decisions being made behind sealed doors.

You had dressed early, already feeling the veil a little tighter around your face. The habit heavier. You told yourself you wouldn’t look for him. You didn't want to cross that barrier. But you did.

Cardinal Benitez.

Vincent.

He was in full vestments now, red trim sharp against the black of his cassock. He stood with a group of cardinals, nodding to something a bishop said, posture straight, expression serene. Untouchable.

He didn’t look your way. Not even once.

You passed by with a tray of documents and kept your eyes forward. You didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. But your chest burned with something sharp and hollow.

Last night had happened. You’d kissed. You’d touched. And now… nothing?

Later, during midday prayer, you saw him again. He bowed more slowly than the others. Folded his hands with deliberate reverence. Not once did his gaze drift to yours.

Disciplined. They’d said that about him.

Now you saw just how deep that discipline ran.

...

When the silence of the convent deepened, and the last bells had long since rung, you found yourself walking the halls once more. Past the courtyards, past the garden gate. You walked aimlessly, as if your feet could lead you somewhere far enough to escape the ache in your chest. You were searching for a place to cry, a place to forget him once and for all. You didn’t want to see him again. Not after he had been avoiding you so deliberately, keeping his distance like a wall between you both.

But he was already there, quietly seated, head bowed in thought. His attire was understated, almost casual: a plain black shirt paired with matching trousers. The only clue to his vocation, the only symbol marking him as a man of the cloth, was the white clerical collar nestled at his neck, stark against the dark fabric. You noticed it had come loose, sitting slightly askew, not just from the wear of the day, but from something deeper. A weariness not merely of the body, but of the soul. The kind that seeps in when long held convictions begin to waver.

He looked up when you approached, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“I was hoping you’d come,” he said, voice low, almost reverent.

You hesitated. “You didn’t even look at me today.”

“I couldn’t,” he admitted, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. “If I had…” He trailed off, the silence heavier than words.

You took a step closer, your heartbeat quickening. “You kissed me. And then you disappeared.”

Vincent nodded once. “Because I knew if I let myself… I would’ve done more.”

You took another step toward him. "And what are you doing here, Vincent?"

Distant thunder rumbled over the Vatican rooftops, as if God Himself knew what was about to unfold. The air felt charged, thick with the weight of unspoken words, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.

His eyes met yours. They were hungry, tormented, impossibly alive. Moonlight silvered the edges of his profile. He looked less like a man stripped bare by something he could no longer resist.

You sat beside him, closer this time. No space left for pretense. No polite distance.

He turned to you slowly, like a man stepping willingly into the fire, fully aware of the pain waiting on the other side.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, but there was no strength in the plea. Only desire dressed in guilt.

You reached up, your fingers gentle, deliberate, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. The touch lingered just long enough to draw a breath from him.

“I think we’re well past that,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath between you.

And then, something in him cracked.

His hand was on your neck before the breath even left his lips, pulling you into him with an urgency that had been building for days. His lips met yours harder this time. There was no caution now. No careful silence.

Your hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer. You felt the heat of his body, the tension in his arms, the battle he was losing so beautifully.

He broke the kiss only to press his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice a plea, raw with the weight of everything that hung between you. “Please.”

You didn’t.

Instead, your hands slid down his chest, fingers slipping under the loosened edge of his collar. His skin was warm. Forbidden.

You kissed him again, this time slower, deeper. He groaned softly against your mouth, the sound escaping him not in pleasure, but in surrender. The edge of his self-control was unraveling thread by thread.

His hands moved too, hesitant at first, then firmer, bolder. Tracing the curve of your waist through your habit. Feeling the shape of you beneath the vow.

Thunder cracked again, louder now. Closer.

Still, neither of you moved to leave.

Nothing mattered now. Only the desire between you.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breath shallow. He was still so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips.

“This… changes everything,” he said again, as if trying to convince himself to stop.

“Then let it,” you whispered into his ear, your fingers threading through his hair with quiet urgency.

Your fingers slipped inside the neckline of his shirt, brushing his bare chest. He didn’t stop you. Instead, his hands came to rest at your hips, then slid around your back, pulling you gently into his lap as if he’d been holding that thought all day.

The movement was agonizingly slow, dragging on with the weight and inevitability of sin itself.

His hands gripped your waist now, unsure if he meant to keep you there or push you away. But his mouth found yours again before the choice could be made. All the silence and self-denial ignited in the heat of it.

You felt his discipline breaking under your touch, and your own vows cracking under the weight of need.

Your hand cupped the side of his face, thumb running along the line of his jaw.

“This is madness,” he murmured between kisses.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Then stop.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, his hands slid down to your legs, gathering the folds of your habit, fingers trembling in the way. Your lips moved from his to his jaw, then lower, tracing the soft, forbidden path down his neckline.

A shudder ran through him.

You shouldn’t be doing this. Getting him all hard in the house of God.

But his hands were beneath your habit now, brushing your bare thighs, his touch unsure but hungry. He looked at you like a man seeing something he was never meant to touch, but unable to look away.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, voice hoarse.

“But I want you,” you answered, without hesitation.

He pulled you closer again, your bodies pressed together now, no more barriers in the way. You felt the tension in him. His restraint pushed to its limit as he guided your face back to his, kissing and licking you with all the desperation of a man who had prayed this away and failed.

Thunder cracked again, even closer this time.

You pulled your habit above your head, your veil still holding in place but some strands of hair had slipped away.

And that broke him. Seeing you naked, your body fully expossed against the moonlight was all he needed to make a decission. Yet his hands were still. He was frozen. Taken aback by your actions. This was maybe too much for him.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, tracing a finger along the sharp line of his cheekbone, your touch feather-light.

“I’ve never…” he began, then stopped himself, his jaw tightening as if he were ashamed. “I don’t really know what to do.”

“That’s fine,” you murmured, taking his hands in yours and guiding them to your body, steady, sure. “But just a few minutes ago,” you added, your lips close to his ear now, “you didn’t seem like someone who didn’t know.”

The silence snapped like glass underfoot as he reached for you, his hands no longer hesitant, no longer bound by the invisible lines he'd drawn around himself. There was urgency in the way he touched you. The ache of something long denied, something that had lived too long in the shadows of silence and shame.

His touch was clumsy, awkward, desperate, as though this was the last thing he could do before he got erased by God's wrath. He squeezed, groped, as though your presence was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Guilt flickered in his eyes, dark and heavy, as though the very act of touching you was tearing him in two. He looked like a man unraveling, a broken soul clinging to what little solace he could find.

Despite his lack of experience, there was something intoxicating about the raw attention he gave you. Every touch, awkward yet fervent, held a depth of feeling that left you breathless. The tension between his desire and his guilt hung heavy in the air, but you couldn’t deny the pull. The thrill of being the focus of his turmoil, of having him all hard and throbbing for you.

But you wanted more. You longed to see him unravel completely, to watch as desperation consumed him, his trembling voice pleading to God for salvation as the fire of carnal desire overtook every last shred of his restraint.

And so you leaned in, the stiff fabric of his clothed erection brushing your fingers, your breath a whisper of sin against his ear.

"Is this what you pray for?" you murmured, lips ghosting over the trembling line of his jaw.

His wide, panicked, starved eyes clung to yours like a drowning man to driftwood. You smiled knowingly, like a serpent offering Eve the forbidden apple.

"You poor thing," you cooed as you let his size spung free from his pants.

You slowly moved your hips to his lap again, the pressure of your crotch sending a shiver through his entire body. You felt his member twitch behind you and it was already soaking wet for you. And if it hadn’t been night, you might have seen the flush burning across his cheeks.

"Have you been thinking about this in your alone nights?" The words dripped from your tongue like honeyed poison.

His breath hitched. It was sharp, ragged. He almost choked on the edge of control. He could barely contain the sounds spilling from his lips, the moans breaking free like prayers he no longer knew how to hold back. But to you, they were no burden. They were a reward. A melodic symphony for your ears.

"God," he gasped, his voice hoarse with guilt and desire, taking the name in vain without meaning to.

You smiled, cold and wicked. "Keep Him out of this," you lifted your hips just for a second to place his member in your entrance. "He’s done nothing to save you tonight."

With one swift movement, his size filled you completly. Oh. How much you had missed this feeling.

Vincent, on the other side, was panting, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves, as if the very air had turned too thick to breathe. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. They hovered midair, useless, desperate. And then he looked at you. Just looked. Like a starving stray that had finally been offered something warm.

He was trembling and obedient, waiting for your command, anything to make the ache inside him stop. And once you started thrusting in and out of him, his hand flew to his mouth. He bit down against the palm of his own hand, muffling the sound, trembling from the effort. But even in his silence, you heard him. The way his body shook. The way his eyes begged. It was delicious.

It didn’t take much effort for him to come undone, his cum filling your inner walls with no warning. In another situation this might have frustrated you as you might have wanted the game to last longer. But not here. Not with him. Here, his ruin was enough to satisfy you.

...

You laid against him, the marble bench cold beneath your knees, his hands a warm contrast against your skin. Your habit was laying on the floor, his shirt partially undone, the collar wrinkled, the breath between you still uneven.

Neither of you spoke.

The courtyard felt impossibly silent now, as if even the statues had turned away. The rain hadn’t come yet, but the air was swollen with it.

You shifted your head against his chest, felt the beat of his heart beneath your cheek, steadying but strained.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered.

His fingers traced you gently, a trembling warmth that sent shivers through your body.

“I do,” he said softly. “And I don’t.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

He looked older now, not aged, but worn. Like something sacred had been cracked inside him. Not broken. But no longer untouched.

He exhaled deeply then reached up to fix your veil, gently tucking a few strands of hair back into place. The intimacy of it struck you more than the sex had.

You rose first, putting on your wrinkled habit. He followed, slower, adjusting his collar, fingers clumsy now that adrenaline had ebbed.

When you turned to go, he caught your wrist.

“Will you come tomorrow?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?” Your words hung between you, teasing, probing.

He hesitated just a beat, his breath catching in his chest before he nodded. “I’ll be here. After compline.”

A shared look. Silent. Charged. Nothing more.

Then, like a shadow dissolving into the night, you vanished through the hallway, leaving behind only the echo of your absence, and the weight of everything that had just passed between you.

[justforbooks]

Pope Francis, groundbreaking Jesuit pontiff, dies aged 88

Death of 267th head of Catholic church triggers period of global mourning and Vatican conclave of cardinals to elect successor

Pope Francis, the pontiff revered by millions of Catholics around the world whose popular appeal reached far beyond his global congregation, has died at the age of 88.

Cardinal Kevin Ferrell, the Vatican camerlengo, said: “At 7.35 this morning, the bishop of Rome, Francis, returned to the home of the Father. His entire life was dedicated to the service of the Lord and of his church.″

Francis, who suffered from chronic lung disease and had part of one lung removed as a young man, was admitted to Gemelli hospital on 14 February for a respiratory crisis that developed into double pneumonia. He spent 38 days there, the longest hospitalisation of his 12-year papacy.

The pontiff, who was discharged from hospital on 23 March, made his last public appearance on Sunday, when he briefly spoke to the crowds gathered in St Peter’s Square for Easter mass.

In recent weeks, he left his home in Casa Santa Marta on several other occasions, including visiting prisoners at Rome’s Regina Coeli prison on Thursday and making a surprise visit to St Peter’s basilica, wearing plain attire, a week before.

Loved by many Catholics for his humility, Francis simplified rites for papal funerals last year and previously said he had already planned his tomb in the basilica Santa Maria Maggiore in the Esquilino neighbourhood in Rome, where he went to pray before and after trips overseas. Popes are usually buried with much fanfare in the grottoes beneath St Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City.

Amid intense mourning over the coming days and weeks, manoeuvring within the Vatican over who is to succeed Francis asbecome the 268th head of the Catholic church is certain to begin. Cardinals from around the world will head to Rome for a conclave, the secret, complex election ritual held in the Sistine Chapel and involving about 138 cardinals who are eligible to vote.

Some of the potential contenders mooted before Francis’s death were Matteo Zuppi, a progressive Italian cardinal, Pietro Parolin, who serves as the Vatican’s secretary of state, and Cardinal Luis Antonio Tagle, from the Philippines.

His death is likely to exacerbate sharp divisions within the curia, with conservatives seeking to wrest control of the church away from reformers.

During his 12-year papacy, Francis – the first ever Jesuit pope – was a vocal champion of the world’s poor, dispossessed and disadvantaged, and a blunt critic of corporate greed and social and economic inequality. Within the Vatican, he criticised extravagance and privilege, calling on church leaders to show humility.

His views riled significant numbers of cardinals and powerful Vatican officials, who often sought to frustrate Francis’s efforts to reform the ancient institutions of the church. But his compassion and humanity endeared him to millions around the world

Francis, who was born Jorge Mario Bergoglio in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1936, was elected pope in March 2013. He immediately signalled his style of papacy by taking the bus, rather than papal car, to his hotel, where he paid his bill before moving into the Vatican guesthouse, eschewing the opulent papal apartments. At his first media appearance, he expressed his wish for a “poor church and a church for the poor”.

He focused papal attention on poverty and inequality, calling unfettered capitalism the “dung of the devil”. Two years into his papacy, he issued an 180-page encyclical on the environment, demanding the world’s richest nations pay their “grave social debt” to the poor. Climate change represented “one of the principal challenges facing humanity in our day”, the pope declared.

He called for compassion for and generosity towards refugees, saying they should not be treated as “pawns on the chessboard of humanity”. After visiting the Greek island of Lesbos, he offered 12 Syrians refuge at the Vatican. Prisoners and the victims of modern day slavery and human trafficking were also highlighted in his frequent appeals for mercy and social action. During his recent period in hospital, he kept up his telephone calls to the Holy Family church in Gaza, a nightly routine since 9 October 2023.

One of the biggest issues Francis had to contend with was that of clerical sexual abuse and the church’s cover-up of crimes committed by priests and bishops. In the first few years of his papacy, as wave after wave of scandals engulfed the church, Francis was accused by survivors and others of failing to understand the scale of the crisis and the urgent need to proactively root out abuse and its cover-up.

In 2019, Francis summoned bishops from around the world to Rome to discuss the crisis and later issued an edict requiring priests and nuns to report sexual abuse and its cover-up to the church authorities, and guaranteeing protection for whistleblowers. It was a significant move towards the church taking responsibility for the scandals, and went much further than his predecessors.

Also during his tenure as the head of the Catholic church, Francis was obliged to respond to repeated acts of terrorism and persecution. He was at pains to stress that violence had no part to play in true practice of religion, and that people should not conflate acts of terrorism with Islam. “I think it is not right to identity Islam with violence,” he said after the murder of a Catholic priest in France in 2016. “I think that in nearly all religions there is always a small fundamentalist group,” he said, adding “We [Catholics] have them.”

Francis spoke with compassion on issues of sexuality (famously responding “Who am I to judge?” to a question about gay priests), the family and the role of women in society – while adhering to traditional Catholic doctrine on marriage, contraception and abortion. Although many on the left strove to claim Francis as one of their own, he could not easily be defined as liberal or conservative.

On his many trips abroad, Francis was greeted like a rock star, with hundreds of thousands – sometimes millions – waiting for hours for a glimpse of the diminutive, white-robed figure in his open-sided popemobile. His appeal was particularly strong among young people, whom he frequently urged to reject materialism and over-dependence on technology. “Happiness … is not an app that you can download on your phones,” Francis – who had nearly 19 million followers of his English Twitter account– told Catholic youth in April 2016.

Although part of one lung was removed after a teenage infection, the pope was in remarkably good health until recent years. But he still kept up a busy schedule and last September embarked on his longest trip, to south-east Asia.

In July 2021, he had surgery to remove 13in of his large intestine, spending 10 days in hospital after the operation. Francis underwent further intestinal surgery in June 2023, almost three months after being hospitalised at Rome’s Gemelli hospital with bronchitis.

The deliberations and final choice of the Catholic church’s cardinal-electors in the coming days and weeks will determine whether Francis’s efforts to reform its institutions and to shift its emphasis towards the poor will be a durable legacy.

The College of Cardinals is expected to convene for the conclave within 15-20 days of Francis’s death.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[camillasgirl]

King Charles III and Queen Camilla will undertake State Visits to the Holy See and the Republic of Italy from 7th – 10th April 2025

The Holy See

The Jubilee Year On Tuesday 8th April, Their Majesties will visit the Holy See to join Pope Francis in celebrating the 2025 Jubilee. Held traditionally once every 25 years, the Jubilee is a special year for the Catholic Church; a year of reconciliation, prayer and walking together as ‘Pilgrims of Hope’, which is the Jubilee’s theme.

Nature and Sustainability The King and Queen will have an audience with Pope Francis. Their Majesties will also attend a Service in the Sistine Chapel, focused on the theme of ‘care for creation’, reflecting Pope Francis’ and His Majesty’s long-standing commitment to Nature.

Ecumenical Relationships In an historic first, His Majesty, Supreme Governor of the Church of England, will also visit the Papal Basilica of ‘St. Paul’s Outside the Walls’, with which English Kings had a particular link until the Reformation. ‘St Paul’s Outside the Walls’ is recognised as the Papal Basilica where reconciliation, ecumenism and relationships across the Christian faith are celebrated. Members of the Choir of His Majesty’s Chapel Royal and the Choir of St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, will perform in both the Sistine Chapel and at ‘St Paul’s Outside the Walls’. In the Sistine Chapel, they will be accompanied by the Sistine Chapel Choir.

The King will also attend a reception with Seminarians from across the Commonwealth and the British Vatican community. Meanwhile, Her Majesty will meet Catholic Sisters from The International Union of Superiors General, who are working around the world at grassroots level to promote female empowerment, through girls’ education programmes, improved access to healthcare, climate action and the prevention of sexual violence and human trafficking.

Italy

The Bilateral Relationship The strong bilateral relationship between the U.K. and Italy will be celebrated with a series of ceremonial engagements during Their Majesties’ State Visit. In Rome, on April 9th, as well as His Majesty’s audiences with President Mattarella and Prime Minister Meloni, The King and Queen will lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

The King will be the first British Monarch to address a joint session of the Italian Parliament. Their Majesties will also attend a State Banquet at the Palazzo Quirinale, hosted by The President.

Defence As NATO Allies, the U.K. and Italy share common defence interests, collaborating on initiatives such as the Global Combat Air Programme. This relationship will be marked during the visit by a joint flypast over Rome by the Italian Air Force aerobatic team, ‘Frecce Tricolori’ and by the Royal Air Force acrobatic team, the Red Arrows.

In Ravenna, Their Majesties will attend a reception in the Town Hall, marking the 80th anniversary of the province’s liberation from Nazi occupation by Allied Forces, which took place on 10th April 1945 (80 years to the day of Their Majesties’ visit).

Sustainability The two countries’ commitment to sustainability will be also reflected in Their Majesties’ engagements. In Rome, the Foreign Secretary will chair a roundtable on Clean Energy Supply Chains, with business leaders and others involved in the sector, and The King will then join to hear a report of the outcomes. Meanwhile, at a regional festival in Ravenna (10th April), Their Majesties will celebrate traditional Emilia-Romagna cuisine, Slow Food, and the region’s excellent produce. As part of this engagement, The King will meet local farmers, whose land and crops have been severely affected by devastating floods which have hit the Ravenna region in recent years.

Literature, Culture, Community and Heritage Their Majesties’ visit will also provide an opportunity to highlight the common cultural heritage shared by Italians and the British, whether that be a love of great Literature, or a desire to preserve Ancient Roman and Byzantine architecture and heritage crafts. It will celebrate the many ways in which culture brings the people of the UK and Italy together, creating a common bond.

In Rome, Her Majesty will meet school children who have been taking part in a competition to mark the 80th Anniversary of the British Council, describing or imagining a day in the life of their favourite literary characters.

In Ravenna, The King and Queen will view Dante’s tomb and Her Majesty will tour the Byron museum, uncovering the secrets of the great Romantic poet’s life in Italy, and attending a reception for local book clubs, libraries, book shops and representatives from Her Majesty’s charity “The Queen’s Reading Room”. His Majesty will visit the Basilica di San Vitale and the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, viewing their impressive mosaics from the 5th and 6th centuries and meeting artisans who are keeping this ancient art form alive.

[correlance]

Paradise Lost: How John Milton's 1667 work influenced "Hazbin Hotel"

I've been thinking about why the "fruit of knowledge" in Hazbin Hotel is depicted as an apple, as opposed to another fruit that would've been more accurate to the Middle East during the Fall of Man, as well as how Paradise Lost by John Milton (1667) influenced the show.

Per one source:

"Because the Hebrew Bible describes the forbidden fruit only as 'peri', the term for general fruit, no one knows [what exactly type of fruit it was]. It could be a fruit that doesn't exist anymore. Historians have speculated it may have been any one of these fruits: pomegranate, mango, fig, grapes, etrog or citron, carob, pear, quince, or mushroom."

Per Wikipedia:

"The pseudepigraphic Book of Enoch describes the tree of knowledge: 'It was like a species of the Tamarind tree, bearing fruit which resembled grapes extremely fine; and its fragrance extended to a considerable distance. I exclaimed, How beautiful is this tree, and how delightful is its appearance!' (1 Enoch 31:4)."

In Jewish and Islamic traditions, the "fruit of knowledge" is commonly identified with grapes. The Zohar explains that Noah attempted (but failed) to rectify the sin of Adam by using grape wine for holy purposes. Today, the "Noah grape" is still used to make white wine.

Furthermore:

"The association of the pomegranate with knowledge of the underworld as provided in the Ancient Greek legend of Hades and Persephone may also have given rise to an association with knowledge of the 'otherworld', tying-in with knowledge that is forbidden to mortals. It is also believed Hades offered Persephone a pomegranate to force her to stay with him in the underworld for 6 months of the year. Hades is the Greek god of the underworld, and the Bible states that whoever eats the forbidden fruit shall die."

So, how then did the apple become the foremost symbol of the "fruit of knowledge"? You can partly thank Paradise Lost by English poet John Milton, a work which the lore of Hazbin Hotel is based off of.

Milton published the book in 1667, a time when the hedonistic Restoration era was in full swing. The exiled King Charles II was restored to the throne as King of England in 1660, and was a party animal, with dozens of mistresses, and nicknamed both the "playboy prince" and "Old Rowley", the latter after his favorite lustful stallion.

However, the association of the "fruit of knowledge" began with a Latin pun long before Milton immortalized the association in Paradise Lost. Per the linked article above by Nina Martyris for NPR:

"In order to explain, we have to go all the way back to the fourth century A.D., when Pope Damasus ordered his leading scholar of scripture, Jerome, to translate the Hebrew Bible into Latin. Jerome's path-breaking, 15-year project, which resulted in the canonical 'Vulgate', used the Latin spoken by the common man. As it turned out, the Latin words for evil and apple are the same: 'malus'.

[...] When Jerome was translating the 'Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil', the word 'malus' snaked in. A brilliant but controversial theologian, Jerome was known for his hot temper, but he obviously also had a rather cool sense of humor.

'Jerome had several options,' says Robert Appelbaum, a professor of English literature at Sweden's Uppsala University. 'But he hit upon the idea of translating 'peri' as 'malus', which in Latin has two very different meanings. As an adjective, 'malus' means 'bad' or 'evil'. As a noun it seems to mean an apple, in our own sense of the word, coming from the very common tree now known officially as the 'Malus pumila'. So Jerome came up with a very good pun.'

The story doesn't end there. 'To complicate things even more,' says Appelbaum, 'the word 'malus' in Jerome's time, and for a long time after, could refer to any fleshy seed-bearing fruit. A pear was a kind of 'malus'. So was the fig, the peach, and so forth.'

Which explains why Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel fresco features a serpent coiled around a fig tree. But the apple began to dominate Fall artworks in Europe after the German artist Albrecht Dürer's famous 1504 engraving depicted the First Couple counterpoised beside an apple tree. It became a template for future artists such as Lucas Cranach the Elder, whose luminous Adam and Eve painting is hung with apples that glow like rubies.

Milton, then, was only following cultural tradition. But he was a renowned Cambridge intellectual fluent in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, who served as secretary for foreign tongues to Oliver Cromwell during the Commonwealth. If anyone was aware of the 'malus' pun, it would be him, and yet he chose to run it with it. Why?

Appelbaum says that Milton's use of the term 'apple' was ambiguous. 'Even in Milton's time the word had two meanings: either what was our common apple, or, again, any fleshy seed-bearing fruit. Milton probably had in mind an ambiguously named object with a variety of connotations as well as denotations, most but not all of them associating the idea of the apple with a kind of innocence, though also with a kind of intoxication, since hard apple cider was a common English drink.'

It was only later readers of Milton, says Appelbaum, who thought of 'apple' as 'apple', and not any seed-bearing fruit. For them, the forbidden fruit became synonymous with the 'malus pumila'. As a widely read canonical work, 'Paradise Lost' was influential in cementing the role of apple in the Fall of Man story."

To tie this back into John Milton's relationship with King Charles II of England, as mentioned, Milton originally served Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of England, and the English Commonwealth, which was formed with the overthrow and execution of King Charles I on 30 January 1649, following the bloody English Civil War (1642 – 1651).

The King's two sons - the newly-christened King Charles II, the elder, and James, Duke of York (King James II), the younger - fled into exile on the European continent. However, with the death of Oliver Cromwell on 3 September 1658 came the 2-year-long dissolution of the English Commonwealth, and the restoration of the monarchy.

As for Milton himself, we can look to an article by Bill Potter.

Milton, born on 9 December 1608, was around 51-52 years old when King Charles II was restored to the throne. He attended Christ's Church, Cambridge in his youth, and mastered at least six languages, as well as history and philosophy; making him, perhaps, the most knowledgeable poet in history. He spent more than a year travelling across Europe, conversing with and learning from intellectuals, linguists, poets, and artists, including the famous Galileo Galilei.

However, Milton was a controversial figure of his time, being unafraid to criticize institutions of authority; arguing that "divorce was Biblical", for which he was routinely condemned; joining the Puritans; penning the Areopagitica, a treatise on liberty in favor of Parliament and the Roundhead rebels, during the reign of King Charles I, arguing that the King must be held accountable by the people; and agreed with and justified the murder of King Charles I, for which Parliament hired him in 1649 as a propagandist and correspondence secretary to foreign powers, on account of his fiery manifestos against "the man".

The collapse of the Commonwealth with the death of Oliver Cromwell in 1658 did not deter Milton from continued political writing against the monarchy and the new public sentiment that brought about its Restoration under King Charles II in 1660. On the contrary, Milton - now totally blind, having lost his eyesight by the age of 44 in 1652, a decade earlier - began writing Paradise Lost in 1661, and spent the next six years dictating the work to transcribers.

A supporter of regicide, Milton was also forced into exile himself, and faked his own death, as Charles refused to pardon - and sought to execute - any of those directly involved with his father's murder. Milton's friends held a mock funeral for Milton on 27 August 1660, just months after the coronation of King Charles II on 23 April 1660.

King Charles II commented that he "applauded his [Milton's] policy in escaping the punishment of death [execution for treason] by a reasonable show of dying", but insisted on a public spectacle nonetheless by having Milton's writings burned by the public hangman.

After eventually obtaining a general pardon from King Charles II, Milton was imprisoned, and released, likely due to political friends in high places. He died, aged 64, in 1674. His theological views were sometimes considered heterodox by the best Puritans, and his political views came close to getting him executed on several occasions. His poetry, however, has endured as some of the greatest works in the English language, especially Paradise Lost; much of his greatest work was written during his 22 years of complete blindness.

One of the main factors in King Charles II deciding to grant a pardon to Milton was, ironically, Paradise Lost. While originally written by Milton as a scathing criticism of King Charles II and the monarchy - depicting Lucifer Morningstar as a sympathetic rebel against God, with King Charles II claiming that is right to rule came from "divine ordainment" - Charles II enjoyed the work, and authorized its publication on 20 August 1667. We know this because a 1668 copy of Paradise Lost in royal bindings by Samuel Mearne, bound lovingly in a fine red leather made of goat skins tanned with sumac, and stamped in gold with the royal cypher of King Charles II, was found. The endpapers bore a watermark with the royal arms of Charles II.

Per one Miltonian scholar: "The most single important event in Milton's life was the event against which he struggled most: the Restoration of Charles II, [and his relationship with the King]. Had it not come, we might have never had Paradise Lost...certainly, we should never have had [it] in [its] present power and significance."

Milton followed up Paradise Lost with Paradise Regained in 1671, three years before his death, with advice for King Charles II, urging the hedonistic Charles to "reign over himself and his passions":

"For therein stands the office of a King, His Honour, Vertue, Merit and chief Praise, That for the Publick all this weight he bears. Yet he who reigns within himself, and rules Passions, Desires, and Fears, is more a King; Which every wise and vertuous man attains: And who attains not, ill aspires to rule Cities of men, or head-strong Multitudes, Subject himself to Anarchy within, Or lawless passions in him which he serves." - John Milton, Paradise Regained, Book II, lines 463-472

To summarize: "If we must have a King back again, my Lord, please try to be a good man, unlike your father, who fell to his pride, [which was also the downfall of Lucifer]."

To quote another source: "Though the passage begins by noting that the office of a King is to bear the weight of public concerns, it is the control of one's private concerns that truly set a King apart as a virtuous character. Indeed, so important is self-command that any wise or virtuous man who attains it is like a king; any king who does not practice [self-command] is nothing more than a mere subject, ruled by anarchy and lawlessness."

Milton's words, too, echo a work written by Charles' grandfather, King James VI/I of Scotland and England: Basilikon Doron ("Royal Gift").

Per Wikipedia:

"'Basilikon Doron' (Βασιλικὸν Δῶρον) means 'royal gift' in Ancient Greek, and was written in the form of a private letter to James' eldest son, Henry, Duke of Rothesay (1594–1612). After Henry's death, James gave it to his second son, Charles, born 1600, later King Charles I. Seven copies were printed in Edinburgh in 1599, and it was republished in London in 1603, when it sold in the thousands.

This document is separated into three books, serving as general guidelines to follow to be an efficient monarch. The first describes a king's duty towards God as a Christian. The second focuses on the roles and responsibilities in office. The third concerns proper behaviour in daily life.

As the first part is concerned with being a good Christian, James instructed his son to love and respect God as well as to fear Him. Furthermore, it is essential to carefully study the Scripture (the Bible) and especially specific books in both the Old and New Testaments. Lastly, he must pray often and always be thankful for what God has given him.

In the second book, James encouraged his son to be a good king, as opposed to a tyrant, by establishing and executing laws as well as governing with justice and equality, such as by boosting the economy. The final portion of the Basilikon Doron focuses on the daily life of a monarch.

All of these guidelines composed an underlying code of conduct to be followed by all monarchs and heads of state to rule and govern efficiently. James assembled these directions as a result of his own experience and upbringing. He, therefore, offered the 'Basilikon Doron' ('Royal Gift') to his son, with the hope of rendering him a capable ruler, and perhaps to pass it down to future generations.

Overall, it repeats the argument for the divine right of kings, as set out in 'The True Law of Free Monarchies', which was also written by James. It warns against 'Papists' (Roman Catholics) and derides Puritans, in keeping with his philosophy of following a 'middle path', which is also reflected in the preface to the 1611 King James Bible. It also advocates removing the Apocrypha from the Bible."

King James VI/I further instructed his son and grandson:

"A good monarch must be well acquainted with his subjects, and so it would be wise to visit each of the kingdoms every three years."

"During war or armed conflict, he should choose old-but-good captains to lead an army of young and agile soldiers."

"In the court and the household, [a royal] should carefully select loyal gentlemen and servants to surround him. When the time came to choose a wife, it would be best if she were of the same religion and had a generous estate. However, she must not meddle with governmental politics, but perform her domestic duties."

"As for inheritance, to ensure stability, the kingdom should be left to the eldest son, not divided among all children."

"Lastly, it is most important...that [a royal] would know well his own craft...to properly govern over his subjects. To do so, [one] must study the laws of the kingdom, and actively participate in the council. Furthermore, [one] must be acquainted with mathematics for military purposes, and world history for foreign policy."

"[A royal] must also not drink and sleep excessively. His wardrobe should always be clean and proper, and he must never let his hair and nails grow long. In his writing and speech, he should use honest and plain language."

King James VI/I further supplemented Basilikon Doron with a written treatise titled The True Law of Free Monarchies: Or, The Reciprocal and Mutual Duty Between a Free King and His Natural Subjects.

"It is believed King James VI/I wrote the tract to set forth his idea of absolutist monarchism in clear contrast to the contractarian views espoused by, among others, James' tutor George Buchanan (in 'De Jure Regni apud Scotos'), [which] held the idea that monarchs rule in accordance of some sort of social contract with their people. James saw the divine right of kings as an extension of the apostolic succession, as both not being subjected by humanly laws."

Milton's own Areopagitica was a follow-up on De Jure Regni apid Scotos by George Buchanan, and also to The True Law of Free Monarchies, as well as the idea of the "divine right of kings". It takes its title in part from Areopagitikos (Greek: Ἀρεοπαγιτικός), a speech written by Athenian orator Isocrates in the 4th century BC.

Most importantly, Milton also wrote on the concept of free will: "Milton's ideas were ahead of his time in the sense that he anticipated the arguments of later advocates of freedom of the press by relating the concept of free will, and choice to individual expression and right."

The concept of free will, too, was a major topic explored in Paradise Lost. Per one source: "In 'Paradise Lost', Milton argues that though God foresaw the Fall of Man, he still didn't influence Adam and Eve's free will. [...] God specifically says that he gives his creatures the option to serve or disobey, as he wants obedience that is freely given [or chosen], not forced. Some critics have claimed that the God of the poem undercuts his own arguments; however, Milton did not believe in the Calvinistic idea of 'predestination' (that God has already decided who is going to Hell and who to Heaven), but he often comes close to describing a Calvinistic God. God purposefully lets Lucifer (Satan) escape Hell, and sneak past Uriel into the Garden of Eden, and basically orchestrates the whole situation so that humanity can be easily ruined by a single disobedient act. In describing the Fall of Man before it happens, God already predicts how he will remedy it, and give greater glory to himself by sending his Son [Jesus Christ] to die, and restore the order of Heaven."

In Hazbin Hotel, Adam also describes the Calvinistic idea of 'predestination', and that "the rules are black and white":

However, "This possible predestination leads to the theory of the 'fortunate fall', which is based on Adam's delight at learning of the eventual coming of the Messiah [from his bloodline]. This idea says that God allowed the Fall of Man, so that he could bring good out of it, possibly more good than would have occurred without the Fall, and be able to show his love and power through the incarnation of his Son. In this way, the free will of Adam and Eve (and Lucifer/Satan) remains basically free, but still fits into God's overarching plan."

However, there is one major flaw with this, and that is that we don't know if Jesus Christ exists within the Hazbin Hotel universe or not. Yet Charlie Morningstar, the daughter of Lucifer Morningstar and Lilith, and the "Princess of Hell", is depicted as a savior-esque figure within the show who, like God in Paradise Lost, encourages lowly sinners to choose obedience to God out of their own free will. More interestingly, Charlie does not come from Adam's bloodline; yet, while Lucifer decries 'free will', Charlie supports 'free will' instead.

Perhaps is is merely because Charlie, being the daughter of Lucifer and Lilith, claims to want to fulfill Lilith's "dream" of humanity being empowered in Hell ("The mind is its own place, it can make Heaven out of Hell, or Hell out of Heaven" - Lucifer, Paradise Lost); however, I think it also stems from Charlie having a genuine belief that 'free will', and people choosing to do good instead of evil, is "good" and "Godly".

True to Paradise Lost, this is also in fulfillment of God's plan; and, according to one fanfiction, why God allowed Charlie to be born to Lucifer and Lilith, so that sinners may be redeemed through Charlie.

For more on differing interpretations of 'free will', I suggest reading: "Free Will and the Diminishing Importance of God's Will: A Study of Paradise Lost and Supernatural" by Kimberly Batchelor (2016)

Excerpt: "'Paradise Lost' –and Milton’s purpose for writing the poem— is rooted deeply in postreformation Arminianism and this is apparent in its employment of free will. Chapter 1 argues that Milton turns to free will as a tool to justify the actions of God. Freedom of choice is God-given, and sets up a morality in which right and wrong are dictated by God. Chapter 2 shows that in 'Supernatural', free will is not given by a higher power; and, in fact, free choice functions as an act of defiance against God's will."

This raises the question: Is 'free will' given by God, using Lucifer as his vessel, in Hazbin Hotel, as in Paradise Lost? Or is 'free will' not given by a higher power; and, in fact, an act of defiance against God?

This brings us back around to our first question: Why is an apple, or 'malus', used to depict the "fruit of knowledge", especially if 'malus' means 'bad or evil', whereas Milton depicts 'free will' as God-given?

Well, for one, Lucifer still chooses to associate himself with apple symbolism and imagery, despite being skeptical of free will:

Based on the introduction to Episode 1, Charlie also views 'free will' as a gift (Miltonian), whereas Lucifer appears to view it as a curse.

However, Charlie also notes that it was through the 'gift' of free will that the "root of all evil" entered the world, for if mankind could choose to be good, then they could also choose to be evil ('malus').

John Milton states in Paradise Lost: "Of Man's First Disobedience, and the Fruit Of that Forbidden Tree [malus], whose mortal taste Brought Death (evil, malus) into the World, and all our woe."

Thus, the use of an apple specifically is likely a tie-in to what others have been speculating about a character that series creator Vivienne Medrano (Vivziepop) alluded to a while back: "The Root of All Evil".

However, "Roo" itself is depicted as possessing the body of a human woman, presumably Eve, the first one to eat the "fruit of knowledge":

Thus, we can discern that "Malus" likely refers to this character. (Also see: "Maleficent", a name that also uses the root word "mal", "evil".) As for Roo's intentions, if Charlie is "good" - and, if, in fact, Alastor was sent by "Roo" (Eve) - then they may want for Alastor to work on their behalf to "corrupt" Charlie, or make sure the hotel never succeeds.

This is because demonic power is tied to human souls, and there are "millions of souls" in Hell, which likely fuels the great power of "Roo". The more souls there are in Hell, the more powerful "Roo" becomes. The Overlords also get their demonic power from "millions of souls".

The deal between Eve and "Roo" might even be the first contract, or deal, between a human soul and a demonic entity; in exchange for 'free will', and the knowledge of good and evil, Eve allowed the "Root of All Evil" to inhabit her body, and to escape the void or prison it was confined to by Heaven (Hell?). (For one cannot be 'all-good' unless you attempt to 'eliminate' or 'ablate' evil; and, in Greek mythology, Zeus imprisoned the Titans in Tartarus for all of their evil deeds.)

Another possibility, brought up in an article by Gillian Osborne, is that Lucifer sees the "fruit of knowledge" as an apple, but it may appear as different fruits to different people, depending on how they view it. This also fits with Lucifer and angels being able to easily shapeshift.

In Paradise Lost, only Lucifer describes the fruit as an "apple" (malus), as he associates malus with "bad, evil", while the narrator also describes the fruit as "a mix of different colors" and peach-like. This then begs the question: "Did the fruit of knowledge of good and evil become 'evil' because Eve harbored resentment towards Adam?"

Quote: "Lucifer (Satan) gives Eve yet another hint that this tree may be more complicated than he wishes her to believe: although elsewhere in Milton's poem Eden is heady with its own newness, sprouting spring flowers left and right, the tree of knowledge is already old: its trunk is 'mossie'. Nevertheless, Lucifer claims to wind himself around the tree 'soon'; the quickness of his reported arrival stands in contrast to the timescales required to cover a fruit tree with moss (PL 9.589). Placing Lucifer's winding body between these two timescales—an easeful present and the inhuman scale of natural history—Milton suggests that there is something dangerous in entangling the past with the present. Yet, 'Paradise Lost' also makes deep biblical history feel like present politics for its readers. When Adam and Eve wander out of Eden at the end of the poem, they famously make their way not only into an earthly paradise, but also into the present. Eden's mossy apple tree therefore represents the pitfalls of conflating nature and history, of seeing any action in human history—even Eve's eating of an apple—as natural, if by nature, we mean inevitability. For Milton, history, unlike nature, is directed by humans, progressive, and, like the reading of 'Paradise Lost', hard work. While trees may inevitably collect moss the longer they live, Adam and Eve's labors in the garden, and our labors of reading, require agency and effort. Milton's poem refuses mourning the loss of Eden, [and the perfection of Heaven], in favor of a perpetual, melancholic, recreation of paradise: a present perfecting."

To quote Twisted: The Untold Story of a Royal Vizier, which also draws inspiration from John Milton's Paradise Lost: "It's an unfortunate situation...but you do have a choice [i.e. free will]."

[fairytalegonewronga03]

Tidbit Tuesday!

The wonderful @xtarmanderx tagged me in Tidbit Tuesday! Here's a sneak peak of my BuckTommy Artist AU. 💜🩷🩵

Tommy hunched over his canvas, brush poised between steady fingers as he applied careful strokes of cerulean blue to the sky. The painting had consumed him for weeks now—a rolling landscape of ancient oaks and distant hills, each layer of paint breathing life into the scene.

He was just adding the final, delicate highlights to the lake—arguably the most challenging part, demanding absolute focus—when the studio door crashed open with a force that sent vibrations through the floorboards.

His hand jerked. The brush slipped. A dark streak of paint smeared across the pristine water, ruining weeks of meticulous effort.

Tommy inhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

The intruder strode in like he owned the place, oblivious to the crime he had just committed against Tommy’s canvas. A camera swung wildly from his neck, nearly toppling a precarious stack of canvases as he spun in a slow circle, taking in the studio like it was the Sistine Chapel.

“Whoa.” He exhaled, eyes darting across the space. “This place is—wow. It’s like stepping into another dimension.”

His hands gestured wildly as he spoke, his camera landing on whatever surface was closest. He was talking as much to himself as to Tommy, words spilling out unchecked.

Tommy set down his brush with deliberate care and cleared his throat, unimpressed. “Can I help you?” What he really meant was Why are you here?

The stranger froze mid-ramble. For the first time, his gaze locked onto Tommy. His mouth hung open slightly, words evaporating on his tongue.

For three excruciating seconds, the studio filled with nothing but the soft cooing of pigeons from the skylight above.

Then, barely above a whisper, he managed—his voice an octave higher than before—“Oh. Wow. You’re gorgeous.” Tommy raises an eyebrow, still gripping his brush—now an unintentional weapon.

The stranger runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, making it stick up in even wilder directions.

“Your eyes,” he blurts out, breathless. “They’re the exact shade I’ve been trying to capture for years. That impossible blue that appears right after a storm breaks.”

He takes a hesitant step forward, then stops himself, as if catching his own audacity in real time. His gaze flickers over Tommy’s face, studying every angle with the intensity of someone analyzing a masterpiece.

“And your jaw—God, it’s like it was carved by someone who actually understood the golden ratio.” His eyes dip lower. “That dimple should be illegal.”

Tommy blinks. Of all the possible reactions to a ruined painting, this was not one he’d anticipated.

“…Excuse me?” he asks, half-wondering if he’s being pranked. 🩵🩷💜

No pressure tagging! @bangpop91, @quintessenceofdust88, @racerchix21, @cliophilyra and @exhaustedpirate

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Angela Giuffrida and Harriet Sherwood at The Guardian:

Pope Francis, the pontiff revered by millions of Catholics around the world whose popular appeal reached far beyond his global congregation, has died at the age of 88. Cardinal Kevin Ferrell, the Vatican camerlengo, said: “At 7.35 this morning, the bishop of Rome, Francis, returned to the home of the Father. His entire life was dedicated to the service of the Lord and of his church.″ Francis, who had chronic lung disease and had part of one lung removed as a young man, was admitted to Gemelli hospital in Rome on 14 February for a respiratory crisis that developed into double pneumonia. He spent 38 days there, the longest hospitalisation of his 12-year papacy. The pontiff, who was discharged from hospital on 23 March, made his last public appearance on Sunday, when he spoke briefly to the crowds gathered in St Peter’s Square for Easter mass. In recent weeks, he left his home in Casa Santa Marta on several other occasions, visiting prisoners at Rome’s Regina Coeli prison on Thursday and making a surprise visit to St Peter’s Basilica, wearing plain attire, a week before. Leading the reaction in Italy was the prime minister, Giorgia Meloni. She said: “I had the privilege of enjoying his friendship, his advice and his teachings, which never failed even in moments of trial and suffering.”

The mayor of Rome, Roberto Gualtieri, said: “Rome, Italy and the world are mourning an extraordinary man, a humble and courageous pastor who knew how to speak to everyone’s heart.” Loved by many Catholics for his humility, Francis simplified rites for papal funerals last year and previously said he had already planned his tomb in the basilica Santa Maria Maggiore in the Esquilino neighbourhood in Rome, where he went to pray before and after trips overseas. Popes are usually buried with much fanfare in the grottoes beneath St Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. Amid intense mourning over the coming days and weeks, manoeuvring within the Vatican over who is to succeed Francis and become the 268th head of the Catholic church is certain to begin. Cardinals from around the world will head to Rome for a conclave, the secret, complex election ritual held in the Sistine Chapel and involving about 138 cardinals who are eligible to vote. Some of the potential contenders mooted before Francis’s death were Matteo Zuppi, a progressive Italian cardinal, Pietro Parolin, who serves as the Vatican’s secretary of state, and Cardinal Luis Antonio Tagle, from the Philippines. His death is likely to exacerbate sharp divisions within the curia, with conservatives seeking to wrest control of the church away from reformers. During his 12-year papacy, Francis – the first Jesuit pope – was a vocal champion of the world’s poor, dispossessed and disadvantaged, and a blunt critic of corporate greed and social and economic inequality. Within the Vatican, he criticised extravagance and privilege, calling on church leaders to show humility.

His views riled significant numbers of cardinals and powerful Vatican officials, who often sought to frustrate Francis’s efforts to overhaul the ancient institutions of the church. But his compassion and humanity endeared him to millions around the world.

Francis, who was born Jorge Mario Bergoglio in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1936, was elected pope in March 2013. He immediately signalled his style of papacy by taking the bus, rather than papal car, to his hotel, where he paid his bill before moving into the Vatican guesthouse, eschewing the opulent papal apartments. At his first media appearance, he expressed his wish for a “poor church and a church for the poor”.

He focused papal attention on poverty and inequality, calling unfettered capitalism the “dung of the devil”. Two years into his papacy, he issued an 180-page encyclical on the environment, demanding the world’s richest nations pay their “grave social debt” to the poor. The climate crisis represented “one of the principal challenges facing humanity in our day”, the pope said. He called for compassion for and generosity towards refugees, saying they should not be treated as “pawns on the chessboard of humanity”. After visiting the Greek island of Lesbos, he offered 12 Syrians refuge at the Vatican. Prisoners and the victims of modern-day slavery and human trafficking were also highlighted in his frequent appeals for mercy and social action. During his recent period in hospital, he kept up his telephone calls to the Holy Family church in Gaza, a nightly routine since 9 October 2023.

[...] The College of Cardinals is expected to convene for the conclave within 15 to 20 days of Francis’s death.

Pope Francis lasted 12 years in the papacy, dies at 88. During his 12 years, Francis made several groundbreaking legacy markers and pitched himself as a voice for the downtrodden. The Pope made a public appearance on Easter Sunday.

The fight to succeed Francis will be an interesting one, as the College of Cardinals (those at or under 80 at the time of his death are eligible cast their votes) will select his successor.

See Also:

HuffPost: Pope Francis, Argentine Pontiff Who Preached A Welcoming Church, Dies

ABC News: Pope Francis, everyman leader of the Roman Catholic Church, dies at 88

[bystarlightlore]

this is just me gushing about the beauty of the boys.  they’re heartbreaking & i couldn’t breathe until i wrote this out.

let’s just start with this shot of henry sleeping.

i don’t have the words for him here. every cut & curve of him is absolute perfection & it drives me insane. i always think people are pushing it when they compare certain men to greek gods, but when i tell you that this prince is every myth & every fable. birth, life, and death. he is apollo, achilles, & hercules. he sits in grecian temples. he’s hand-carved in ivory, marble, & gold. he's the pantheon. unspeakable in his ancient pillars, hallowed in his ruins. & he’s just … sleeping. he’s just sleeping. 

but his arms are framing the pillows & the pillows are taking such delicate care of his face. his lips are parted & full & red against a whispering white frame. artisans etched him from an alabaster stone, i swear to god. he is artwork, music. an aria unmatched in its melody.

the back, the shoulders, the dimple in the shoulders. the sharp ridge of his jaw, the even-keeled slope of his nose. the eyes. the brows. he looks completely relaxed & it’s just so painfully gorgeous. he belongs in the museums he loves so deeply. it’s too much. it’s too perfect. 

alex is just as devastating. he’s what happens when the fates want to give “tall, dark, & handsome” a reference photo. 

he’s a roman cathedral, dripping in glittery coppers, deep reds & thick obsidians. if henry is carved, alex is painted. michelangelo’s final evolution. the sistine chapel consecrated by the saints. the renaissance, an archangel — gabriel. (oh sweet, blissful irony)

he’s breathtaking in a way that eases into the heavens. a centuries-old gust of wind crying “glory” from the clouds. a warmth written into the bones of history.

those big, wide brown eyes -- curving like the sun over the horizon line, thinning into creased lids at the center & side of his face. those lashes are a crime against sanity, full & fluttering — i die.

the cappella magna in broad morning daylight. the colosseum. an eighth wonder of the world; six feet of lithe & dancing limbs. a basilica of a boy; brought to life by an artist’s prayer --

-- father, son, & holy spirit — amen.