#the chosen simon peter

[peterchosen]

[abcmuushroom]

the chosen tweets, part 3 :)

[rambleonwithrosie]

Omg I knew there was a reason Eden was my fav Chosen lady. Lara Silva is doing the little hand thing that I do, that all my college friends and I used to do together. I have no idea what it's called but it was a definite Thing for millennial college girls and I still do it.

[nobrain-onlysteven]

I absolutely love that you're gifing The Chosen. It's such a great show and the casting is 🤌 If you ever feel like gifing any extra Simon Peter I'd love you forever.

I’m back from my break and have so many Simon Peter gifs to share. Also I had to add one with Eden because this man cannot function without his wife

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Simon Peter & Eden | Worth Everything | Platonic

Peter and Eden have taught you well, which brings you immeasurable grit now that it matters more than ever.

 Requested by Mayflower

You observe her in the light of the fireplace, watching how she works with able hands, preparing the two of you a hearty dinner as she has been doing for as long as you can remember. Eden’s dark hair has begun to grey at the temples, more and more as the years pass by, and age has become prominent on her face in the form of fine lines at her eyes, brow, and the corners of her mouth from all the times she has spent smiling. 

And that, she had done plenty throughout your childhood. After Jesus’ ascension, Eden found that she had fallen pregnant again. It had complicated things, for Peter had to travel a lot to spread the message of the Gospel, but neither of them would have had it any other way through the strengthening of the Holy Spirit within them.

His regular absence didn’t mean a lack of his fatherhood in your life. Whenever he could, Peter would come and visit, telling you all about his travels, and he never forgot to tell you how much you meant to him. Many things had happened throughout his life, but you were one of the greatest blessings amongst them. 

Although not carefree, nor without worry, your childhood had been so full with unbridled love for each other and for God. The faith of your parents had inspired you ever since you were a little girl and that hadn’t changed ever since. 

Their God is your God. Even when life takes unexpected, heart-wrenching turns.

He hadn’t deserved such an end. At the same time, everyone did. 

There is a strange conundrum within the belief that God’s mercy through Jesus was undeserved, for why else would it be grace, and the fact that your father had lived so fiercely for Him. Everything about his life belonged to God, his heart entirely with Jesus, staunch and unwavering, even in death. 

When word reached from Rome that Simon Peter has been crucified by the opponents of the Good News, your mother had been inconsolable for the first few hours. The two of you had cried together until the sun was long gone and you had buried your father the moment his remains had been returned by the hands of his killers. 

Everything seemed to be a bit of a blur for a while, but you managed to get by. Eden finds joy in cooking, comfort in the familiar, domestic motions of life, knowing that you need it, and she does, too. You watch her with quiet wonder as she fights her way through her grief silently.

“I miss abba.” The words leave you before you even realise they have formed on your lips and Eden freezes for a moment before putting the onion down and wiping her hands on her apron and walking over to you, where you are sitting on the small sofa that she had purchased ever since she found out she was pregnant with you. Her lips brush against your forehead in a gentle kiss. 

“I miss him, too.” 

She pulls away, about to continue cooking dinner, but you grab her arm before she can fully turn back. 

“How are you feeling, eema? Now that it has been a month?” Some defeat manages to slip into her shoulders as she lets them lower.

After a brief moment of silence, Eden gives you a look, her hands cradling your face. Her thumbs trace your cheeks, finding so much of her husband’s demeanour in your expression. Part of Peter’s unapologetic fire had found a home within you, too. “The socially acceptable answer would be… Well, torn and empty, but…” 

“…The non-acceptable answer?” you muse, knowing that she is feeling the same as you are. Amidst all that pain sits love and, partially, relief. Eden searches your face, hoping for you to speak it out loud what both of you are thinking. 

“He is with Jesus again.” 

Relief floods Eden’s chest as she nods, her eyes glittering with something different than tears. “That is right,” she says, “So how could I be sad?” 

“It is alright to grieve. Jesus mourned too, right? I am sad, too,” you admit, “Sad and happy at the same time.” 

She hums. “That makes sense,” Eden agrees. “You’re just as perceptive as your father.”

For a few beats, you look at one another, allowing yourselves to feel so much at once. “Abba was so proud of you.” 

“I was proud of him, too. I still am.” 

Eden sighs and gently caresses your hair. “He knew that.” 

You close your eyes, sighing deeply. “I hope to find a love like yours one day,” you say, “That you are so connected through Jesus that you can live without one another in physical presence.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Eden confesses, which you are well aware of. You had celebrated many a Holiday without your father present, and it had made your mother cry. “But missing him here means nothing compared to what we will gain in the end.” 

“Being with the Messiah means giving up everything,” you whisper, “What was it like, really?” They had told you the stories countless times before, but you never tire of them. Eden smiles and shifts a bit.

“Just how hungry are you?” she wonders, making you even more curious than you already are. If your mother suggests pausing her preparation of dinner in favour of telling a story, then it must be really good. 

Shifting a little, you make some space so that she can sit beside you, and you pull your legs up underneath you to get more comfortable. Eden smiles as she sits, putting a hand on your knee. She considers a tear in your dress with her index finger, taking a mental note to fix it later. 

“When I first met Jesus, your father had already seen Him perform a miracle at the Sea of Galilee,” Eden tells you the familiar story, at which you smile softly.

“The gigantic catch of fish,” you muse, “With uncle Andrew, may he rest in peace.” 

Eden sighs and nods. “Right. Your father was skeptical at first, but when Jesus called him, he left everything behind at an instant. Including me, to some degree.” 

“And by extension, me in the long run,” you say. “But you’ve told me so regularly, eema, that you found it worth your loneliness. That your husband could walk beside the Messiah was worth any pain, yes?” 

“I wasn’t alone,” she says, gently touching your cheek as if you’re still a little child, “I had you, remember? God provided in that.” 

“Jesus ate dinner here too, right? What was His favourite meal?” 

Eden smiles and gives you a look. “He was particularly fond of my pickled cucumbers.” 

You laugh at that, finding the simplicity of the snack endearing. “That is not what I expected.” 

“Jesus was… Is full of surprises, in the littlest of things.” Eden murmurs softly. For a few long beats, she zones out.

You find something on her face that you cannot quite place. Tilting your head slightly, you lean closer to her. “What’s on your mind?” 

She clears her throat, snapping out of her thoughts. “I… I wanted to give it to you sooner.”

“Give what to me sooner?” you question, looking at your curiously. 

Eden stands and walks over to Peter’s personal study, disappearing for a good minute. When she returns, she holds a leather folder inside her hands, clutching them against her chest, as if the contents inside are very precious to her. 

“Peter… I mean, abba, wanted to leave you with something to guide you further on the path of faith in case something… Happened to him. He knew the risk, we all did. As a result, he wrote these for you, only to give to you if and when he happened to die for Jesus.” 

She hands you the document folder with shaky hands and you carefully open it, finding a stack of parchment sheets inside, all written on with dark ink, both the front and back of the paper, barely an inch left untouched. The dates were scribbled at the top, giving you an indication of when he had begun his project. 

Your eyes widen. “But this was from… Before I was even born.” 

“Yes,” Eden murmurs, “And he had already been so convinced that you were going to be a girl, that he opened every letter with the greeting ‘my dear daughter’, until you were born and we had settled on a name.” Your mother looks over your shoulder and you snuggle into her a little, getting comfortable. 

“That is so thoughtful of him.” 

“Your father loved you very much. He wanted to see you as often as he could, but he knew that he was getting himself into danger every time he left home. He knew that one day, he wouldn’t come back.” 

You flick through the dozens of pages, about one for every month ever since Eden fell pregnant and then during your life, up until… A soft gasp leaves your lips when you see the newest entry to the collection, written only two months ago. “I… I don’t know what to say.” 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Eden reassures you, “But I hope that it will give you strength and solace on what happened to abba.” 

Sudden tears cloud your vision and you swallow the lump that forms in your throat. “It will… Eema?” 

Eden looks at you. “Yes?” 

“Would you read them with me?” 

It takes her a second to gather herself. “The letters are meant for you. I wouldn’t mean to impose. These are things between you and your abba, and—” 

“—Eema,” you whisper, “I offered it myself, did I not? I would like to do this together with you.” 

Smiling, Eden tucks some (h/c) hair behind your ear. “If you are certain, then I would be honoured to read with you. Would you mind me continuing on dinner in the meantime? I promise that I can listen perfectly during it.” 

You nod, starting to feel quite peckish. “Alright,” you say. Eden stands and walks back to the kitchen, where she resumes the earlier chopping task by dicing an onion. 

“The 7th day of the month Tammuz, the year 3739. My darling daughter, the Lord be praised. My beloved Eden, your adoring mother, has just told me she is expecting you. This is the greatest blessing I have received other than the mercy of our Saviour Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit that dwells within me. So shortly after Jesus’ ascension have you entered our lives to bless us with your presence now that things are going to change for us. 

My dear daughter, whose name we have yet to decide upon, I love you already more than anyone else in this world. Adonai knows how long we have wanted to receive children and here you are, like a prayer answered. I cannot wait to meet you in the future, so that I can tell you all about Jesus and what He did for this world.

You may not know Him yet, at least not inside your mind. Your soul already rejoices in Him, I am certain of this. We will teach you everything there is to know about Him. I, your abba, stood right beside Him when He preached and walked the Earth, I felt the agony when He died and the joy when He rose again from the grave, defeating death altogether. 

My child, you will hear many stories about our Saviour from firsthand experience. I cannot wait to share all of them with you to proclaim His Name over your life. I cannot promise you that things will be easy, nor that it will be without pain.

By the time you receive this letter and the many others I am planning to write over the course that I may be with you on the world where the consequences of sin are still felt, you are going through an event that brings you great hurt; my death. I will give these letters to your mother to hand to you once I’m gone, so that you may find peace and guidance in them, now that you know what it means to live and die for something. 

I pray that my words will help you navigate through life the same way Jesus helped me navigate through mine. Before Him, I was a way different man than you know me as. Everyone who truly met Jesus became radically different than they were, and now, we have learned the full understanding of Jesus’ mission.

Know that I am proud of you already, my wonderful girl. You aren’t even visible underneath your mother’s tunic yet, but I know you are going to do wonderful things for His Kingdom. The Lord has blessed us with you in our lives, and now it is up to your eema and I to lead you on His path, no matter how narrow it may be.

By the time I am writing this, I don’t know how many of us are still alive when you get these letters. Perhaps everyone is still here, but maybe some have perished during their ministry. It is perilous, yes, but it is worth to give up everything for. Please, seek them out for guidance if you need it. They will be happy to provide.

We will soon meet again, my darling daughter, my heart. I will wait for your arrival one day, or on the day of the Lord, that He may come to you instead. Until then, take good care of your eema, of yourself, and carry on my legacy. For His Kingdom.

I love you,

Your abba, Simon Peter, son of Jonah.”

When you conclude the letter with a breathless exhale, you notice the teardrops on the parchment, only now realising that you are crying. There is so much love and hope poured into your father’s words, amidst the mourning that you are going through. 

Eden sniffles next to you, gently squeezing your arm. “Your father was often emotional whenever he was writing these letters for you. He knew that you wouldn’t get to see these before his death, so that was heavy to digest from time to time. However, this is a manifesto of his unconditional love towards you, his (Y/n), his lovely daughter.” 

“I miss him,” you croak, leaning into your mother’s touch. Eden sighs and circles the sofa to face you, crouching down in front of you. You accept her open arms, the two of you sitting like that for a few minutes. 

“I want to carry on his legacy.” When you push yourself out of the hug and straighten out, Eden cannot help but laugh as she watches you immediately spring into action. 

“I… I’m going to write a letter to Paul. Perhaps I could become an assistant of his and learn from his ministry, too. Perhaps that uncle John could also help out. He had to navigate uncle James’ death as well, so he knows what I’m going through. Oh! And maybe that aunt Mary has any tips on how to be a bold woman in this culture full of men. I’d love to learn from her courage!” 

Gently shaking her head, a large smile on her features, Eden looks at you. “You are exactly like your father, doing rather than thinking.” 

“Would you have it any other way, eema?” 

Eden sighs. “Never.” 

With that, she begins to help you grab your writing materials, proud to see your ministry begin where Peter’s ended; or rather, paused.

[yeshuaedits]

[SIMÃO/PEDRO (SIMON/PETER) EM THE CHOSEN S1]

please, like or reblog if you use/save.

psd coloring by @miniepsds ♡

[ghostsmp3]

JOHN, BIG JAMES and SIMON PETER in THE CHOSEN: LAST SUPPER, PART 3.

[heatherslovelythoughts]

Jesus: Why are you two always out during rainstorms? Zee: It’s so peaceful and refreshing. I love the smell of rain. Simon: Matthew bet me I couldn’t get struck by lighting, but they’re WRONG

Zee: I reserve the right to judge a movie based on when it was made, thank you very much. Jesus: You consider anything made before 2000 old and bad. Zee: And I reserve that right! After all…. Zee: I bet you wouldn’t like the average movie made in 1879! Jesus: There were no movies made in 1879. Zee: slams table WRONG! There was ONE movie made in 1879! The first movie! A zoopraxioscope of a horse galloping! Simon: Oooh! Let’s go ask Matthew if he saw it in theatres!

Simon: LOWERCASE LETTERS ARE FOR THE LOWER CLA--! Matthew: And here we have a capitalist. Jesus: Did you just- Zee: Let us all take a moment to appreciate that all of human history, human language, and the universe itself aligned to make this joke possible.

Zee: Blue M&Ms are the best. Simon: whAT IS THIS SLANDER? Zee: What about it? They are. Simon: I WILL NOT ALLOW SUCH LIES ON MY CHRISTIAN MINECRAFT SERVER! Simon: THE RED ONES ARE THE BEST! Zee: YEAH? WELL YOUR MOM'S A-! Jesus: They're all chocolate inside, the colors don't mean anything. Matthew: I like the yellow ones. Zee and Simon: SHUT YOUR MOUTH!

Jesus: What’s your biggest fear? Simon: That I’ll never be good enough for anyone. Matthew: Everyone hates me and talks about me behind my back. Zee: Zombies. Simon: … Matthew: … Zee: BUT they can open doors.

Jesus: My stomach growled super loud in French. Jesus: I would like to clarify, my stomach did not speak in French. It growled during French cla--. Simon: Bonjour. Zee: Le growl. Matthew: Hon hon hon, feed me a baguette.

Simon: Why do you act like we’re three year olds? Jesus, exasperated: WHY?!? Jesus points at Zee: YOU TRIED TO HYJACK A CAR! Jesus points at Matthew: YOU NEARLY JUMPED 20 FEET OFF A CARPARK! Jesus points at Simon: AND YOU ATE MULTIPLE DRIED LEAVES AND ROCKS OFF THE GROUND! Jesus: AND YOU ASK ME WHY????

Jesus: I have a question. Zee: Shoot. Jesus: Is the S or C in scent silent? Simon: Now I’m going to be thinking about this all day. Zee: Okay well, cent is pronounced the same way as scent so I’m gonna say the S is silent. Jesus: Okay, but sent is also spelled the same way. Simon: Google says that the C was added in the late seventeenth century, so I guess the S is silent. Matthew: Plot twist, both the S and the C are silent and the E actually makes the sss sound. Simon: Matthew is not allowed to talk anymore.

Simon: Zee, keep an eye on Matthew today. He's going to say something to the wrong person and get punched. Zee: Sure, I'd love to see Matthew getting punched. Jesus: Try again. Zee, sighing: I will try to stop Matthew from getting punched.

Zee, Simon & Matthew: screaming Jesus: runs into the room What's wrong, Matthew?! Zee: Wait, why are you asking Matthew that when Simon and I are also here? Jesus: Because Matthew wouldn't scream unless it's an emergency. You two scream whenever you have the chance.

Simon: So, everyone, what does a story NEED? Matthew: A character! Jesus: A setting! Zee, a gleam in their eyes, in a near-whisper: REVENGE.

[wolfythewitch]

you of little faith, why did you doubt?

[nobrain-onlysteven]

There’s not a thought between those men

When I say “my last four braincells” this is what I mean

[imnotkosmic]

Jesus: Alright, I'm going out and I've left instructions for all of you.

Simon P: But, Rabbi, mine just says "Peter, no."

Jesus: And you can apply that to any situation.

[c4lled]

Who are you talking to? Apparently, no one. You shouldn't joke like that, my friend. Yeah, your friends might think you've lost faith.

[abcmuushroom]

the chosen as tweets- again!

[gabriella0807]

[saikechi]

I'm not sure either ...,

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Simon Peter & Andrew | Through All The Hardships | Platonic

When you get injured during the attempted stoning of Jesus, your brothers come to the rescue, each in their own way.

Requested by Lizzy

What had started as a sermon of love, safety and hope had turned into something darker.

Blasphemer. The word is uttered with such hatred by the teachers of the Law in the Temple square of Jerusalem that it replays inside your mind over and over again. Said with a venom that chills you to the bone.

It had not been the word you had expected to come from the Pharisees upon witnessing the sermon of Jesus on being the Good Shepherd and laying His life down for those who follow Him. Although the message spoke of nothing but unconditional love to those who believe truly that He is the Son of God and will thus find eternal life because of it, the Pharisees take the greatest offence they could have.

“You would utter such a profanation amid the pillars of Solomon’s Porch?” One of them accuses Jesus, and it causes the tension to be able to be cut with a knife. Your gut twist and turns at the aversion that lingers in his dark eyes. “Have You no shame?!” 

“My sheep hear My voice,” Jesus concludes, “And I know them, and they follow Me.” 

“—He just said that He is the Christ and we did not believe! This blasphemy is enough for capital punishment, and we are on Temple grounds.”

The earlier accuser turns to command: “Stones! We need stones!” 

With bated breath, you find the hand of Andrew standing next to you and squeeze it. Your older brother squeezes right back, ushering you behind him carefully. 

“What, stones?” Simon the former Zealot steps forward to come to the Messiah’s aid as unrest brews under the followers, panic finding a home amongst you.

“—I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of My hand,” Jesus fearlessly continues to preach to any ear that will hear.

“No one can grant eternal life!” one of the rabbi’s protests as their helpers begin handing stones to them, “Your desecrations of heresy will be purged from this sacred place!” 

Your oldest brother attempts to de-escalate the situation by asking Jesus if you all should leave, but his words are in vain as Jesus talks on. “My Father, Who has given them to Me, is greater than all, and no one will be able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand. I and the Father are one!” 

That does it— With a cry that sounds animalistic, tearing from his lungs, one of the Pharisees hurls a stone towards Jesus with all this might. It misses by quite a bit, but everything bursts. There is screaming, including your own, and you begin to move in order to get out of their line of fire. 

Right as you turn away to run, however, a painful jolt goes through your thigh, rendering you momentarily frozen in place as you attempt to register what is happening. As you cry out, your brothers turn to you like one being, worry etched across their faces. 

“(Y/n)!” Andrew exclaims, rushing over as Peter tries to keep off the assailants. The curly-haired former fisherman watches you with wide-blown eyes as he crouches down next to you— You don’t recall falling, and you swallow hard as you feel warm liquid stain your dress where the pointy rock has hit you. The object in question lays next to you, and as if it would still hurt you, Andrew hurls it towards the nearest wall before putting an arm under you.

“I’m going to help you up,” he anxiously mutters, “One, two—” 

On three, your brother lifts you from the ground under a protesting whimper from you, the chaos around you only now finding a way into your senses. The others are running, too, as a few Disciples attempt to hold back the Pharisees from advancing any further. Your blood rushes inside your ears.

There is no use in trying to calm the situation now. Big James staggers back, holding his forehead in his palm as he falls to the ground. Philip and John help him whilst Andrew supports you, dragging you out of the epicentre of unbridled chaos. Jesus’ voice bellows over the sound of panicked shouting, once again showing the heart of forgiveness that beats within Him by trying to get through to them.

“I have shown you many good works from the Father. For which of them do you stone Me?!” 

“Good works?!” you hear one of them guffaw, “If You’ve done any, that’s not why we are stoning You. It’s for blasphemy, because You being a Man, make Yourself God!” 

Your gaze fixes on Big James as he remains on the ground, a rag pressed to the side of his head. He seems to be in a great deal of pain, even more so than you, and you instantly feel guilty for even complaining. That notion, however, fades the moment you look down at your leg; deep crimson is covering half of your upper leg now. Andrew flinches at the sight. “We need to get out of here,” he mutters, “This is no longer safe.” 

“You call Me a blasphemer because I said I am the Son of God?” 

“He Who utters such a thing shall be punished by death according to the Law of Moses—” 

The rest of their back and forth is missed by you as you lean into Andrew, suddenly light-headed as you wince. “Oh, I don’t feel so good—” 

“—Easy, (Y/n)… I—” 

Right as he is about to speak to you, more rocks are being thrown at you. Jesus proclaims something that makes everything break loose, and you can barely comprehend what is going on when Andrew drags you off alongside the others. Only a few stay behind to push back the Pharisees attempting to pursue the group of followers and the Messiah; Peter is amongst them, which you do not like in the slightest. 

The adrenaline wears off the moment you reach the outskirts of Jerusalem, having passed the slums. When the running speed doesn’t lower, you find yourself stumbling forward into the dirt, only just caught by Andrew before you get yourself a mouthful of mud. A yelp of pain leaves you, your brother easing you down to sit on the ground. 

“We can’t keep resting here,” Zee exclaims, “Come on, we have to keep running before they see where we are headed!” 

Tears roll down your face as a great pain overtakes you. “I can’t— I can’t—”

“Here, let me.” Your oldest brother makes his way over to you and carefully heaves you onto his back. In spite of his own exhaustion, he makes sure you are secure. You wrap your arms around his shoulders tightly, grabbing your own wrist as you hold onto Peter.

He looks at you over his shoulder, careful to not hold onto your injured leg. “Are you okay?” 

You nod, your face pale and contorted in pain. He gives you a worried look before determination crosses his face. “Alright guys, let’s go!” Andrew trots right next to his brother, making sure that you don’t fall off in the process.

It has been a long time since you’ve sat on Simon Peter’s back. Actually, you cannot recall the last time you were offered so to make your way around town; perhaps that somewhere in your early to mid-teens marked that time. Still, you cannot enjoy it the way you used to, with blood oozing down your leg as you rest your cheek against the back of Simon’s head. Andrew keeps a close eye on you as a dull ache throbs through your wound, which might be worse than you had initially thought. 

The road back to Perea is lengthy and far from comfortable. Peter’s neck and shoulders are killing him, but he refuses to let you walk by yourself. Even when you need to cross a shallow stream of water that goes up to everyone’s waist, he doesn’t lower you into the water even once, only getting you wet up to your knees. 

In spite of his groaning and grunting, and his lack of complaint, you can tell that he’s completely fatigued by the time you arrive. When the table is cleared for Big James to lay down on, Peter carefully puts you on a chair. “Thank you,” you meekly whisper, smiling softly as he nods at you, wiping the sweat from his brow. He is still in full action mode, eager to help both you and James with your injuries. 

Andrew quickly focuses on taking care of you as you find a more remote spot in the house so that you can hoist up your tunic. You let out a cry of agony as you look upon your injury at last; a huge gash that runs from your mid-thigh to just above your knee is bleeding like a stuck pig, your face becoming even more colourless upon witnessing it. “Goodness, (Y/n),” Andrew covers his mouth to gulp unintentionally, “That looks like it hurts.” 

“It got me good,” you whimper, resting your head against the wall behind you as you fight the wail that threatens to escape you. “Oh, that’s bad…” 

Tamar shows up with a wet rag and bandages, taking over the task from your brother to clean your wound and patch you up. Andrew doesn’t leave your side for a single moment, making sure to stay close so that you can squeeze his hand into a pulp. 

The Ethiopian woman gently wraps up the wound, giving you an apologetic look as you wince. The pressure somewhat eases the bleeding as well as the pain, but you still cannot put pressure on it. With quite some effort, Andrew scoops you up and carries you back to the room where the others are, but there is such silence that has fallen within the group that you instantly sense that something is extremely wrong. You hadn’t noticed that Zebedee had arrived, either.

“What’s—“ 

“Lazarus is gone.” Peter whispers your way. The news slams all air square from your chest as Andrew’s jaw falls open.

“What? How?” 

Judas speaks up. “Peter, you told us Rabbi said we—” Your brother waves him to quiet down and let Jesus speak instead. The Master has taken a seat on the small flight of stairs with an intense look of grief on His face, not much unlike the time when He had caught wind of John’s passing.

“Rabbi, may God give You comfort among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” Peter whispers comforting words. “But I thought You said his sickness wouldn’t lead to death.”

It takes Jesus a moment to reply before He opens His mouth: “We will go back across the Jordan into Judea.” 

That takes the entire group by surprise and you grab Andrew’s hand when you read the shock on his face. 

“Rabbi, just hours ago, they tried to stone You there.” 

Zebedee sharply turns to his younger son to hiss something in offence, but John waves it off for now.

“You would go back to that?”

“It’s not safe, Rabbi.”

“Rabbi, perhaps they would agree we should delay coming back and might appreciate it.” Matthew offers. 

The protests of the followers digest in the room before the Messiah speaks again. “Our friend has fallen asleep… But I will go and awaken him.”

“Wait, he’s just asleep?” Nathanael wonders, “Rabbi, what are You talking about? What did the note say?” 

“If he’s asleep, then he’ll recover. There is no need to put You at risk.” 

Big James mumbles something you cannot hear. John instantly calls out his brother’s name, as if he revealed something he hadn’t been supposed to.

“The note says dead,” Mary Magdalene clarifies. 

Your older brother need answers. “Rabbi, tell us what You intend to do.” 

Brief silence as Jesus straightens His back a bit. “Lazarus has died… And for your sake, I’m glad I was not there, so that you may believe.” The words hang heavy between the followers and no one says anything. “You’re about to be given firmer grounds for which to believe.”

“Rabbi, You just told us he was asleep. Are You feeling alright?” 

“What does his death have to do with our belief?” Matthew wants to know. Jesus rises to His feet and steps closer to the others. 

“Come with Me, and you will see.” Matthew nods at the Messiahs’ words. “Everyone put on dry clothes. The sun will soon rise.” 

Judas comes forward: “I don’t understand—” 

“—If we’re going back into Judea, it might as well be to the house of Lazarus.” Thomas’ solemn voice resounds and grabs the attention of everyone present, “That we may die with him.” 

It is a sorrowful proclamation, a depressing one at that, but no one intervenes when he takes up his things and goes to leave for bed. Everyone silently goes out of the room to catch some rest, casting mournful glances in the direction of the Messiah. 

Andrew helps out Little James whilst Peter brings you to the women’s room, where he sits you down on the edge of the bed. You let out a whimper, biting your bottom lip to the point of tasting iron, not wanting to complain in the light of everything that is going on.

Now that everything is settling down and crashes over you like a wave of realisation, you begin to cry. Peter gives you a worried look as he gently puts your leg into a comfortable position before taking a seat next to you. “Oh, (Y/n). Jesus said it will be alright, didn’t He?” 

You sniffle and rest your head on his shoulder, where he cradles it with a warm hand. 

“I know,” you sob, “But it’s just a lot to digest. With the stoning, and my leg, and now Lazarus’ death…” 

“No one expected this when we woke up this morning,” Peter acknowledges, “So it’s fine to let it all out.” 

Your other sibling peeks his head into the room as well and sees you and Peter huddled together on the bed. With a small, grieving sigh, he walks over to join as well, wrapping an arm around you tightly. The three of you sit in silence for a long while whilst you sniffle, feeling comforted by the sons of Jonah. 

“Thank you for putting up with my stupid tears.”

“They aren’t stupid,” Andrew whispers, “You are our sister. We are there for you no matter what.” 

You give them both a grateful albeit watery smile. “I appreciate it.” 

“How is your leg?” Peter wonders, noticing that it has stopped bleeding. 

“It hurts terribly,” you admit, “I’ll ask Mary to help me change into a fresh tunic in a bit.” 

They nod at you before exchanging a worried glance. “Don’t worry about the journey back,” Peter tells you, “We will figure something out. I can carry you on my back and I’m sure that Andrew will be able to temporarily push you in a cart every so often.” 

“That would be wonderful,” you whisper, feeling suddenly less anxious about the trip to Bethany with an injury like your own. “I think it will be best to go to sleep now, right?” 

Your brothers agree to that, embracing you in a group hug before leaving you and the other women be, watching how Mary walks your way with a clean set of clothes. You give them a small wave and a tired smile of gratitude right as they close the door, wishing them a good night. 

The sons of Jonah pat each other on the shoulder, both feeling the weight of all the recent events on their shoulders. But both of them know one thing for sure, like a wordless promise that they know the other has locked inside his heart as well: to always protect you, their little sister, no matter what comes your way.