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thebard490 · 2 years ago

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Paladins: Order Undivided Chapter 9: Devil May Care

I Am The Bard, who has seen that the most dangerous sort of man is the one who believes he is righteous. But it is good to be dangerous, so long as one is controlled.

As Jort set about his infilitration, the Paladins were not idle in the least. Julian composed a report to the leader of the colonists, placed it on his mount, and ordered it east to the watchtower. The black charger thundered into the woods and out of sight, while Julian remained in the forward base to watch the abbey. Kazador and Senket retreated to their newly consecrated chapel. Senket watched the road while Kazador set to work re-burying the dead and fixing the door. He did keep all the weapons though, stockpiling them in the chapel for later use.

Peregrin and Yndri were likewise busy, as they began scouting the area around the abbey and chapel. Yndri scoured the woods for any places where the horde might be gathering food, and successfully identified a hunting camp, though she does not engage. She also searched for something somewhat more sinister and found it, nightshade and poisonous mushrooms, which she stored away for later. Near where she found the mushrooms, she spied large silver webs in the trees and quickly evacuated. That would be the polite way of putting it. The less polite, but more accurate way would be that she ran like a bat out of hell the moment she saw a trace of giant spiders.

Peregrin on the other hand was looking for signs of civilization, halfling civilization. He was rewarded when he discovered a small hidden path, something nobody but a halfling would know to look for. Sneaking along it, he eventually spied a village, hidden in a forest clearing. He smiled to himself and returned to report back in camp, not looking far enough to see the far larger path, cutting through the forest into the village, a path cut with wagon wheels and hobgoblin boots.

That night, the party re-assembled, bar Kazador, who remained in the chapel to begin repairing and improving the weapons there. If they meant to rally an army, they're going to need armarments. Senket snuck close to the abbey, hoping to find the ghost again. While she didn't find it, she did find Jort, who dropped a small bag off the wall near where she hid. She retrieved it and hurried back to the party.

Inside the bag, they found a map of the interior of the abbey, which Julian began examining closely, looking for any potential weak points. He was disappointed to find that it only had three entrances, the main door which led into a grand hall, a small door near the kitchens, and a side door near the orchards which led to the staircase to food storage. Further examinations revealed that while the upstairs could be accessed from several different staircases, the abbey's underground, which included a secondary hall most likely used for meetings, and the majority of food stores, could only be accessed from a single staircase near the main hall.

The party also found a written message from Jort: "Cleric to move on chapel soon, possibly tomorrow morning, Pilus to take sizeable force to gather tribute soon, expecting ambush from gnolls. Best forces are being prepared to counteract an ambush. Enemy believes the gnolls are still active, and that an elven raiding party is afoot. Goblins to be used as shields, will attempt to further divide them from the rest of the horde."

"Tribute?" Julian said. "Must be a nearby village they're extorting. Could be a useful batch of allies."

"I did find one of my kin's villages relatively close by in the northwest, but I think it's still hidden, could be what they're talking about though." Peregrin mentioned, his face darkening at the thought.

"If so, Kaz is busy fixing up the weapons from the chapel. We could supply them with those." Senket pointed out. "Of course, the fact that they know about the chapel could be a problem. We'll have to prepare a welcome for this cleric."

"We may have another potential target. I discovered a hunting camp to the east. We should be careful though, that area is rather close to what might be a giant spider den." Yndri mentioned, visibly shuddering. “I suggest that Kaz burn that section of the forest to the ground.”

"Too many objectives, not enough time. I say we shadow the tribute mission and see if we can't rally any allies. If we can, we double back to the chapel to rearm them and catch this cleric, then move to try and ambush the tribute.” Julian advised.

"Small problem with that. If we engage the tribute mission, either we'll have to delay our weapons or go without Kazador, he was only about halfway through getting those old swords and maces into useful condition." Senket cautioned. "It also might alert them to our presence. If the tribute didn't show up, they'll launch a retaliation, and unless we can wipe out the entire force or somehow evacuate our new allies, even assuming they'll work with us, they'll know we're out here. Beyond that, the best forces are going to be ready for a counter-strike. If word gets out of the attack, we’ll have to retreat swiftly or risk being crushed between a hammer and anvil.”

"Possible, but that's still a force that we can eliminate outside the walls and potentially a whole bunch of new help. I say it's worth the risk." Julian said, rolling up the map. “Particularly with halflings, we could launch a hit and run strike, harassing the enemy and aiming to target any commanders to reduce their capacity for command and control.”

"I agree. Even if they know we're here, they can't do anything about it without sending out more forces, where we can catch them. Either that or they hide in the walls and give us all the time we need to train our new allies and possibly even call for reinforcements from the colonists." Peregrin supported.

"Right then. It's decided." Yndri concluded. "Regarding possible future strategies, I think I have an idea. Julian, you mentioned how hierarchical hobgoblin command structure is. Would that include meals as well?"

"I don't know for sure but possibly. Most army commanders eat better than the footsloggers even in normal armies." Julian confirmed. "Why do you ask?"

In response, Yndri pulled the poisonous plants she recovered from her bag. "While you're right about not finding enough poison for the whole camp, finding enough to deal with their leaders wasn't singularly difficult."

Julian whistled appreciatively. "Remind me to never piss you off, or let you cook."

"Hey! I'm the only cook here!" Peregrin protested good-naturedly. Senket was somewhat less amused.

"Poison's a coward's weapon. I don't like it." She said with distaste.

"Given the circumstances, we can't afford to put any options off the table, no pun intended." Julian countered. "We're trying to destroy an army of highly trained, highly disciplined soldiers in a strong defensive position. If poison's what it takes to win, then we'll use poison."

"Hmph. For an angel, you're rather ruthless, must be nice being able to use tricks like that and still have people look at you like you're a hero." She responded, her tone biting.

"I don't care what they think I look like. If the history of the world I make decided they want me to be a villain I don't care. The fact that they get to write it at all is validation enough." He answered coldly.

Honest devil and clever angel stared at one another for a tense moment, before Senket shook her head. "Hells take you then. I'm off to warn Kaz. I'll meet you on the morrow." She said before mounting up on her iguanodon and riding off.

"Why's she mad at me? You're the one who grabbed the damn poison." Julian grumbled as she watched her go. "And she didn't say anything yesterday either. I don't understand that woman."

"Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, or so the saying goes." Peregrin said sadly. "Though I must admit I find the poison plan distasteful, although I suppose dead is dead one way or another, and not killing them is unfortunately not an option. Still Yndri, what is it with you and poison?"

"It's how a serpent defeats a far larger and stronger opponent, how the angelfish and the ivy protect themselves, how the gods remind us that might alone is not always victorious. I have never understood the moral connection you mortals put on it. Nature has many weapons; I will use whichever one is needed. I don't understand why she reacted this way, especially blaming Julian."

The older halfling sighed. "Even as old as you are, you're still as inexperienced as a child." He said, lighting his pipe. "Imagine for a moment that one of the dokkalfar decided to turn from her wicked heritage and goddess and pursue goodness. Don't look at me like that, it's happened, spend any amount of time about the great forest in the south, and you'll hear about one, last I heard he’d married a human lass. Every elf she runs across is going to look at her like she just crawled out of the nadir, so she's got to not only be good, she's got to be better than good. She has to become the most upstanding and virtuous person possible to prove to the world, and probably in no small part to herself, that she's not some wicked hellspawn. All the while the so-called goodly races can get by not working half as hard and being twice as nasty. A life like that changes the way you look at things, and too many get bitter." He said as he drew on his pipe.

“I see. You are right.” Julian admitted. “It is terribly unfair, the judgement that one receives because of their birth, because of their station. Men are not judged according to their wills and ambitions, but according to their circumstances, be they station, flesh or parentage. The world has so many boxes, it wants to put everyone within. If you dare to deviate, woe to you. But of course, it is only those who step outside of their boxes who can dare to change the world for the better.”

“Be that as it may, we are each made with our own skills and talents. This is the understanding of caste.” Yndri pointed out. “Of course, there are variations. I may be Ljosalfar, but my magic is distinct from the normal sorts of my caste, and my talents might be more expected among the Skoguralfar, but the rights afforded to me, and the duties alike, remain. It is simply chance that I was born to whom I was, but for that blessing and all rights afforded to it, equal responsibility must be maintained. To deviate from that, from my duties as a shepherd and an avenger, would be to betray all that I have been given.”

A note from your translator: The original elvish terms have been kept intact for this translation. These refer to different castes of elvish society, the Ljosalfar, also sometimes called the high elves, are somewhat akin to a warrior noble caste, and are often powerful magi and skilled craftsmen. Most commonly upon the mortal plane they are governors of elvish colonies. They are surpassed in rank by the Helialgalfar, called by mortals, Sihde, which are rarely seen in the mortal realm, dwelling within Faerie as its princes and masters. They in turn rule over the Skoguralfar, oft called the wood elves and sea elves, which labor in working the land and defending its seas and forests. Then there are the Dokkalfar, the dark caste. Long ago they were weavers and craftsmen, but, unwilling to be the lowest caste, broke with the rest of elvish society, and resided deep beneath the earth, becoming pale as ghosts, afflicted by the sun, and with bloody red eyes that pierce the dark better than any others. Such is the common Dokkalafar, but the term technically applies to any who break from elvish society to escape their caste. Great anger spread between the Dokkalfar and the rest of the Aflar, and their war has lasted longer than empires, with great evils being done by all against all.

“True, in this present world, where power is so often a gift, and chance alone sets the path of a man’s life, it would be unjust to break from it. But, if that were to be undone…”

“You would undo fate itself?”

“I will destroy fate itself. Genetics, that is, heredity, talents, circumstances, wealth, fame, none of these things reflect anything about any person, only limit them. The rain falls on the righteous and the wicked alike, and illness comes to good men as often as wicked ones. I would make all these things irrelevant, that men would be free to be true to themselves.” Julian countered.

Yndri shook her head in amazement. “You are a human with wings, always chasing after ambitions beyond anyone’s capability.”

“My mother was human, and she inspired the best parts of me. All my father gave me was the power I need to do what I must.”

Yndri shook her head. “You should need to live a thousand elven lifetimes, or make a thing equally immortal, to accomplish all that. And even if you should, it would not be the end of evil. The dark caste will forever be wicked, and the only good drokkalfar will be a dead one, until they all rot in their self-imposed burial.” She finished the last lines with a voice that spit venom as potent as any spider’s.

Meanwhile, Senket rode back, rather frustrated, to the Chapel, where Kazador was still working, having used the discarded remnants of headstones to construct a small sort of forge, not hot enough for proper work, but hot enough to bring the old weapons up to form.

"I take it the meeting dinnae go well, based on the fact that ye nearly undid all my hard work on the door coming in." Kazador rumbled as she entered, carefully checking that she hadn’t blown the door off its hinges in her ill temper.

"Well enough. We have a plan, we have good information, we have enough target to keep us busy for the next several days, and possibly even more allies."

"Seems I’d better see to it that these old things get ready to be used in a proper fight then." He said as he examined a scimitar. "I'll stay up on this then, see if I cannae get them ready in time. We crakin any hob skulls on the morrow?"

"Aye, Jort's found a tribute mission, we'll follow it and see if we can't get whoever they're extorting to help us. Also, we’re expecting a visit from another priest for you to turn into a bar of iron."

"Hah. I should hope nae to, you’ve done such nice work on this altar, would be a shame to break it.” Kazador remarked with an amused grin. “Right then, well I’m gonna need tae ask ye fer some of that coffee then tae make sure ah dinnae slow us down with yawnin. Might need some help carryin the weapons as well, or at least as many as ah can fix up 'afore we head out."

"Kaz, if you need to remain and fix the weapons, we can handle a few hobgoblins."

"Nae lass, I've naer let any work go undone when it's needed an' I've naer left me comrades to fight without me. I'll be with ye, and these'll be done." He said determinedly as he redoubled his efforts, vigorously cleansing the rust from a saber while another went into the faux-forge.

Senket smiled, in spite of her somewhat foul mood at her friend's diligence. "Well then, where do I help?" She offered.

"Ah nae ye don't lassie. There's a twist in yer beard an' until that's comin out yer nae coming near me forge. Angry work is sloppy. So, what's the issue?" He said firmly, but not unkindly.

Senket's smile fails. "Gah, poison." she cursed. "What's the damned point of killing goblins with a goblin tactic? Are we really so scared that we'll drop to that level?"

"Hm. Elves are tricksy like that, Yndri specially so." He said as he worked. "Ye thinks its nae honorable, an' it’s not. I'd rather just bloody chop em already, but it's still clever, an' we've got tae be clever 'ere."

"Clever's one thing, cowardly is another. Is this really how we win? With treachery and poisons? We're supposed to be better than this, we've a duty to be better than this!" She said, and Kazador turned.

"Is it that we've got a duty, or that ye feel bound?" He asked. "Aye, ye've a duty, a duty to protect the weak, to defeat evil, to aid yer comrades, and to nae be ruled by fear. Are ye actin by duty, or are ye actin by fear?"

The dragonoid turned from his forge and placed a hand on Senket's shoulder. "Ye say we need tae be better. I ken what ye mean. I had tae be "better", drink more ale, praise the ancestors mair fervently, mine harder, hate the goblins mair fiercely, fight 'arder an' mourn the fallen longer. Fer tae many years, aye, I kenned I needed tae be better." He said, reptilian blue eyes looking hard into golden ones. "I ken how ah could naer, ever, dare tae look even a wee bit greedy. I ken what it's like tae live actin by the fear that ye're nae different tae yer bloodline. 'til my father told me "Kaz, if ye were nae different tae a drake ye'd nae care, dragons dinnae care."

He raised his other claw and tapped a talon over Senket's heart. "Ye've a good heart Sen, use yer head and remember that devils dinae hardly have 'ave hearts at all, devils dinnae care." He left his hand on her shoulder for a long moment, two misfits together, and then turned. "Come on then lassie, ah can use yer aid with the maces!"

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secondbeatsongs · 2 years ago

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you were ordained by the minister and turned a lake into holy water???? explain pls I'm new and so so confused

however on another note your life sounds awesome

yup! this did really happen!

I did one of those online-ordination things in high school, because I thought it was funny, and that maybe it would come in handy someday. and then a few years later, some friends and I went to a new year's event at our old church camp, and decided it would be fun to bless the camp's lake so that it would be holy water

I don't remember what process we used, but I know it wasn't an Official Catholic™ one - but then, none of us were Catholic, so it didn't really matter to us.

we performed a ritual, set some stuff on fire, walked around the lakeshore while wearing silly outfits, and then signed a certificate together to mark the consecration of the lake.

I'm pretty sure I've still got the certificate somewhere, but I couldn't find it today when I looked. hopefully it's somewhere safe

1. oh, I have no fucking idea. we just thought it was fun!

but this church camp did have sort of a history of strange rituals - I know of at least three others that took place, one involving dumping someone in the lake as a sacrifice to the lake gods, another that involved burning a racist counselor's stuff after she left the camp, and...I'm pretty sure the third one was some kind of ghost banishing? or maybe ghost-prevention, I can't remember.

2. I had spring rolls with peanut sauce! and they were very yummy

#asks #ciysdfks #universallytraveledfart #sbs polls #personal #id in alt text #the spring rolls broke open a bit :(#still tasty tho #food #biscuitcultist #sorry I just added your ask in now #I think I got it while I was typing up the rest of this

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dwellordream · 4 years ago

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“...In one way, the marriage of Eleanor and Louis was unusual, for he was also a teenager (born c.1120–23) and little older than his bride. In numerous aristocratic marriages, the bride was much younger than her spouse; it was not uncommon for teenaged noble maidens to be married to men in their thirties or older. The couple’s similar ages likely gave Eleanor higher expectations that their marriage had more likelihood of turning into a true love match than other aristocratic marriages with great age disparities. No doubt, their similar ages also led Eleanor to assume that their marriage would be a true partnership; and she would feel more free to express her opinions to her young husband and to persuade him to accept her ideas than if he had been a mature, experienced man.

In several ways, however, the bride and groom were mismatched. Louis the Younger, apparently a good-looking youth with shoulder-length hair, was quiet, serious, and exceedingly devout. The second son of Louis VI and Adelaide of Maurienne, his upbringing had aimed at preparing him for an ecclesiastical career with studies at the school attached to Notre-Dame Cathedral on the Île de la Cité in Paris not far from the royal palace. Louis’s elder brother Philip, heir to the throne, was killed when he was thrown to the ground and crushed by his falling horse after it “stumbled over a diabolical pig” in the road. This unexpectedly elevated Louis to the position of heir to the French throne.

The boy left Notre-Dame’s cloisters at about age ten to be crowned king in accordance with the custom established by the second Capetian king of installing the current monarch’s heir in his own lifetime to ensure a smooth succession. Twelve days after his brother’s death, Louis’s consecration as king took place at Reims Cathedral in October 1131 in the presence of a great council of prelates presided over by the pope. Louis VII apparently returned to his religious studies after his coronation, and his clerical education would make a powerful impression on him throughout his life, imprinting on him simple tastes in dress and manners and an earnest piety.

His Capetian predecessors had sought to present themselves as models of Christian kingship, stressing their close relations with the Church as compensation for their modest military power. Louis’s reputation for piety and spirituality surpassed that of earlier French monarchs, however. As one contemporary wrote, “He was so pious, so just, so catholic and benign, that if you were to see his simplicity of behaviour and dress, you would think . . . that he was not a king, but a man of religion.”

Young Louis thought of kingship as a religious vocation, and he felt called to govern according to Christian principles. In his first years as king, his confidence that he was God’s agent as French monarch gave him an unrealistic notion of his power, and he tended to over-reach, pursuing excessively ambitious political goals. In his youthful enthusiasm, he often displayed an inclination toward rash decisions taken in anger and without reflection. Yet he sometimes seemed sluggish and unenthusiastic for his task of governing, partly due to a distaste for political intrigue, and partly due to a lack of perseverance, his ardor rapidly cooling and giving way to periods of indecision and inactivity.

Although he held a very high view of the monarchical office, he could be timid, and he allowed himself to fall under the influence of members of his entourage. Most prominent among those seeking to influence this impressionable youth was his young wife Eleanor, and he readily allowed her to take part in political decision-making. Such a mild husband as Louis VII was unlikely to find happiness with a wife such as Eleanor of Aquitaine. His young bride had already seen more of life than his sheltered upbringing had allowed him. A girl brought up at a sophisticated and lively court where no more than conventional piety was observed and whose own grandfather had lived openly for years with his paramour would find the Capetian royal court’s piety and repression confining.

If Eleanor had been too young to remember life at William the Troubadour’s court, she grew up surrounded by people who had tasted its pleasures willing to tell her about it. Looking back on her earliest childhood while in Paris “through the prism of her imagination,” she could only compare the austere Capetian royal court unfavorably with an idealized image of her grandfather’s court. A widely quoted quip ascribed to Eleanor that she felt that she “had married a monk, not a king,” while hardly an authentic quotation, captures the feeling that she surely came to hold for Louis.

Although his clerical education had not prepared him for a fulfilling marital relationship, Eleanor’s beauty and charm captivated him at once and soon he fell deeply in love with her. Indeed, some observers of the couple’s marriage described the king’s love for his wife as “almost childish” and passionate beyond reason. The intensity of Louis’s love for his bride may have made him an anxious husband, easily roused to jealousy. Despite evidence of Louis’s attraction to his bride, the Church’s notoriously misogynist view of women and teachings of the early Fathers had ill-equipped him for the robust sexual relationship that Eleanor expected. Louis, brought up in a clerical environment, was prudish and repressed in a way that the queen could not understand.

…The royal bridegroom and his entourage reached Limoges on 1 July 1137, and after stopping there for prayers at the shrine of Saint Martial, Louis and his party arrived at Bordeaux on 11 July. They raised tents and camped on the banks of the Garonne river across from the city, where they waited for boats to cross the wide waters. The entry into Bordeaux of Louis the Younger, crowned king six years earlier, marked the first French monarch’s visit there in three centuries. The wedding took place on 25 July in the cathedral of Saint André, constructed around the end of the eleventh century. Today only its surprisingly plain façade survives from Eleanor’s time.

In full summer heat, a great throng of nobles of all ranks came from throughout Eleanor’s lands to witness the couple’s exchange of vows. As part of the ceremony, Louis had his bride “crowned with the diadem of the kingdom.” To commemorate the occasion, young Louis had brought along lavish gifts for his bride that a chronicler asserted would have required the mouth of a Cicero or the memory of a Seneca to expose their richness and variety. Usually aristocratic marriages were preceded by lengthy negotiations between the couple’s parents about financial arrangements.

…In the case of young Eleanor, she was bringing to her husband a great duchy, and no other wedding gift was expected. No doubt she retained revenues from her ancestral estates in Poitou, and it seemed pointless to designate lands from the limited French royal domain as her dowerland. As the young couple set out on their journey to Paris, she offered her new husband another splendid present, however—a vase carved from rock crystal, one of her few possessions that survives today. The vase was a cherished possession, connecting her to her grandfather William IX, who had brought it back to Poitiers after an expedition to Spain.

Louis VI marked the marriage of his son and heir to Eleanor with grants of important privileges to the ecclesiastical province of Bordeaux, acting quickly to secure the support of the bishops in Aquitaine. Before Louis the Younger set out for Aquitaine, the king renounced any claim to rights of lordship over the dioceses of the province of Bordeaux, allowing them free episcopal elections. This concession ended the traditional ducal privilege of playing a part in the selection of bishops in the six dioceses of the province of Bordeaux.

…As soon as the wedding celebrations ended in the evening of 25 July, the newly-weds lost no time in beginning their journey toward Paris. Eleanor and Louis stopped to spend their first night together at Taillebourg, a formidable castle looming over the Charente river, where their host was its lord, Geoffrey de Rancon. The most powerful of lords in the Saintonge, Geoffrey held wide lands stretching from his castle of Taillebourg eastward to La Marche, to Poitou proper in the north, and southward into the Angoumois. He and his heirs would be important players in Poitevin politics throughout Eleanor’s lifetime. Whether the young couple consummated their marriage that first night at Taillebourg cannot be known, but royal retainers surely looked for evidence, since both the Church and popular opinion held no marriage to be an indissoluble union until it was consummated.

By the beginning of August, the couple arrived at Poitiers, where a week later Suger organized a formal investiture of young Louis in the cathedral of Saint Pierre, a religious ceremony signaling the Church’s sanction for his ducal title. Young Louis, already crowned and anointed king of the French, did not adopt the titles “count of Poitou” or “duke of Gascony” on his marriage; instead, he had only the additional title “duke of Aquitaine” engraved on his seal. The title that he adopted implied that his bride’s duchy, though under Capetian administration, was not to be absorbed into the French Crown lands, but would preserve a separate identity with distinct institutions.

Barely after the ceremony had ended, a messenger arrived from Paris with the sad news that King Louis VI had died on 1 August, aged almost sixty. The intense summer heat demanded his immediate burial at the abbey of Saint Denis without waiting for the arrival of Louis the Younger and his bride from Poitou. Young Louis, already a crowned and anointed king on his father’s death, had to take on royal responsibilities at once, and the newly married Eleanor became a queen. Now King Louis VII, he had to leave his bride in the care of Bishop Geoffrey of Chartres to continue her progress toward Paris, while he led a force to subdue the rebel townspeople of Orléans, who had taken advantage of the old king’s death to proclaim their city a commune, taking rights of self-government for themselves.”

- Ralph V. Turner, “Bride to a King, Queen of the French, 1137–1145.” in Eleanor of Aquitaine: Queen of France, Queen of England

#eleanor of aquitaine #eleanor of aquitaine: queen of france queen of england #ralph v. turner #history #high middle ages #medieval #french #louis vii of france

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foreverpraying · 4 years ago

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August 7 is the Feast Day of St. Sixtus II., pope and Companions, martyrs and St. Cajetan, priest

Source of picture: https://anastpaul.com

Life of St. Sixtus II. and Companions

The sixth pope was named the “Sixth” or, in Latin, “Sixtus.” He reigned from 115–125 A.D. The next Sixtus was today’s martyr, who reigned from one August to the next in 257–258. Sixtus II (or Sixth, the Second) is listed in the Roman Canon’s select roll call of sainted popes: “Linus, Cletus, Clement, Sixtus, Lawrence, Cyprian…” The preservation of his name in the liturgy is compelling proof of the lasting impact of his bloody witness.

Sixtus II succeeded to the chair of Saint Peter at a difficult time. The on-again, off-again persecutions of the early Church were on-again in the 250s. The Roman Emperors Decius and Valerian sought the blood of Christians not only to try to decapitate the surging Church but also to confiscate the wealth and property of Christians. The tensions in Church-State relations were no less serious than internal Church tensions tearing at its unity. The persecution of Decius from 250–251 was wicked. Decius’ edict required everyone in the empire to sacrifice to a Roman god in the presence of a state official, with a signed libellus, or certificate, being issued afterward as proof that the sacrifice had been offered. Many Christians were weak and afraid and so sacrificed to gods they knew didn’t exist. Some Christians purchased a libellus, some fled to the safety of the countryside, and some refused to sacrifice and were cruelly martyred.

Christians’ divergent responses to the persecution—some heroic, some weak, some uncertain—were traumatic for the Church. Many in the African and Asiatic Church said that those who sacrificed (the lapsi) must be re-baptized. Pope Stephen I, Sixtus II’s predecessor, said that the lapsi must only repent to be reconciled with the Church. The theological positions of the two camps were each sincere, and hardened over time. There was no easy answer.

Source of picture: SeekFirstCommunity on Pinterest

Sixtus II had to be consecrated as Pope in secret because of the times. In 257, the formerly peaceable Emperor Valerian issued an anti-Christian edict which forbade Christians from assembling in cemeteries. Sixtus avoided persecution for many months. But in early August 258, Valerian got serious. A new edict focused on essential targets. Bishops, priests, and deacons could be put to death without a trial. On August 6, 258, Pope Sixtus II was with his flock, seated and preaching the word of God, probably at Mass, in the catacombs. A small troop of soldiers was on the hunt. The Pope must die. With torches lighting the way, the soldiers scurried through the warren of dark and narrow passageways toward the underground chapel. Perhaps they heard some singing. They acquired their prize soon enough, and the deed was done.

Saint Cyprian, bishop of Carthage, North Africa, received the news shortly afterward and, before being martyred himself, wrote a letter to his flock: “Valerian has issued an edict to the Senate to the effect that bishops, presbyters, and deacons shall suffer the death penalty without delay…I must also inform you that Sixtus was put to death in a catacomb on the sixth of August, and four deacons with him…Let all our people fix their minds not on death but rather on immortality…knowing that in this contest the soldiers of God and Christ are not slain but rather win their crowns.” An inscription placed on Sixtus II’s tomb over a hundred years after his death by Pope Saint Damasus, rediscovered in the 1800’s, verifies the drama of Sixtus II’s last moments. It notes that the shepherd gave his life for his flock. The faithful with Sixtus that fateful day walked up the steps of the catacomb into the daylight totally unharmed, while their pastor lay dead. The companions martyred with Sixtus were the deacons Januarius, Vincentius, Magnus, Stephanus, Felicissimus and Agapitus.

Source: https://mycatholic.life/saints/saints-of-the-liturgical-year/august-7-saint-sixtus-ii-pope-and-companions-martyrs/

Memorial of St. Sixtus II.

Source of picture: www.sandrobotticelli.net

At the time when the sword pierced the bowels of the Mother, I, buried here, taught as Pastor the Word of God; when suddenly the soldiers rushed in and dragged me from the chair. The faithful offered their necks to the sword, but as soon as the Pastor saw the ones who wished to rob him of the palm (of martyrdom) he was the first to offer himself and his own head, not tolerating that the (pagan) frenzy should harm the others. Christ, who gives recompense, made manifest the Pastor’s merit, preserving unharmed the flock.

Life of St. Cajetan

Source of picture: https://americaneedsfatima.org

Like most of us, Cajetan seemed headed for an “ordinary” life—first as a lawyer, then as a priest engaged in the work of the Roman Curia.

His life took a characteristic turn when he joined the Oratory of Divine Love in Rome, a group devoted to piety and charity, shortly after his ordination at 36. When he was 42 he founded a hospital for incurables at Venice. At Vicenza, he joined a “disreputable” religious community that consisted only of men of the lowest stations of life—and was roundly censured by his friends, who thought his action was a reflection on his family. He sought out the sick and poor of the town and served them.

The greatest need of the time was the reformation of a Church that was “sick in head and members.” Cajetan and three friends decided that the best road to reformation lay in reviving the spirit and zeal of the clergy. Together they founded a congregation known as the Theatines—from Teate [Chieti] where their first superior-bishop had his see. One of the friends later became Pope Paul IV.

They managed to escape to Venice after their house in Rome was wrecked when Emperor Charles V’s troops sacked Rome in 1527. The Theatines were outstanding among the Catholic reform movements that took shape before the Protestant Reformation. Cajetan founded a monte de pieta—“mountain or fund of piety”—in Naples, one of many charitable, nonprofit credit organizations that lent money on the security of pawned objects. The purpose was to help the poor and protect them against usurers. Cajetan’s little organization ultimately became the Bank of Naples, with great changes in policy.

Source: https://www.franciscanmedia.org/saint-of-the-day/saint-cajetan

Quote from St. Cajetan

Source of picture: https://anastpaul.com

“Do not receive Christ in the Blessed Sacrament so that you may use him as you judge best, but give yourself to him and let him receive you in this Sacrament, so that he himself, God your saviour, may do to you and through you whatever he wills.”

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efrmellifer · 4 years ago

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Her Fury

Day Six: Avatar

As if the Echo hadn’t been enough.

It had started when Etien had lifted her scythe and hatchet, and scoffed at the prayers to Nophica inscribed on their handles.

Granted, she had always been more drawn to Nophica’s older sister, Llymlaen, despite growing up close enough to Gridania. Though, being in the North Shroud, she was wedged between the time-honored lands of rival goddesses, so maybe it had been the better option not to take a side.

At least, not until later in her life.

But Etien’s mother had grown up in La Noscea, worshiping Llymlaen, and it had been a compromise between C’ailie and M’ellifer that if they went to live with his parents, their firstborn would worship C’ailie’s patron (though for what it was worth, Nophica was not her father’s patron, either). And Etien’s consecration had made sense, in so many ways. She had a knack for finding wind crystals, and had strongly identified even as a little girl with the role of an older sister—it was probably no coincidence that she had been filling that same role for all of Eorzea for seven years now. And now, of course, she had taken to fishing as one might expect a woman blessed by the Navigator would.

And she still felt that connection to the goddess that had been hers, her only patron, for nineteen years.

So it was a tad unnerving to react with such visceral disgust at the imprint of the goddess who was her patron’s little sister—she would never react to her own sister...s, or her sister...s’ patrons in such a way!—the symbol she had been seeing everywhere for as long as she spent time in the Shroud (and especially within the city of Gridania), the mark that was on the tools of one of her favorite pastimes. She had explored the wilds of Eorzea and beyond with Nophica’s sign strapped to her back, why was it now that her skin crawled?

It had been odd, but she still set out with botany gear in hand.

The second strange occurrence had been when Estinien had brought her Halone Gerbera flowers in a bouquet. The flowers weren’t out of the ordinary; he brought her flowers all the time. The favorite flower of his to give were Pearl Roselles, so he had been trying something new with the Gerbera.

So what was expected from the experience was a breath of fresh air in Etien’s flower vase, not the elation she felt when she saw the flowers.

Lavender and the carnations from the Central Shroud, those were her greatest floral loves, not Halone Gerberas. Why had she reacted so strongly? (Not to mention, they didn’t make her sneeze. Ever more peculiar.)

The third event, the nail in the divine coffin perhaps, had happened when Etien was wandering the Central Highlands. It would be a lie to say the habit had only developed after she had moved to Ishgard; she had spent hours just walking in the North Shroud as well. But when the weight on her shoulders had gotten even heavier as she agreed to help Ishgard, she had taken to walking first around Camp Dragonhead (when it was all she had access to and knowledge of), and then the city.

She still liked the areas of the Central Highlands, where she could watch the karakul wander or pluck apples off the trees between Camp Dragonhead and Skyfire Locks… when she could reach them.

So she had made her way toward The Fury’s Gaze, getting only as far as Halone’s mark when she stopped in her tracks, her mind went blank, and--

She came to with the Temple Knight Hospitalier peering into her eyes.

“Hello, Whitecape.” she mumbled. “What did I do this time?”

He blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. “Survived. You were found passed out in the middle of a blizzard near the mark of Halone. She Herself had to be the thing that saved you, or you would have been dead. We thought you were, in truth. It was only because we recognized your coat and that particular shade of blue that we even knew whose body was curled in the rapidly-accumulating snow.” He paced for a moment. “We were holding you here so the Lord Commander could bid you farewell if you did not make it.”

Her eyes widened, though she swallowed so her jaw wouldn’t drop.

“The most odd thing is that several people have come in here asking why we had a statue of the Fury in a bed and how She looked so life-like.”

Etien looked at her hand. Nothing looked different to her. She could feel that, other than being frigid and damp, her hair was the same.

“Since when do I look like Halone?”

“Not to me,” Whitecape clarified. “Not to the knights in the highlands who found you. Not, I should think, to Ser Aymeric when he comes down here, which I would imagine he will momentarily, now that word is out that you have awoken.”

There was a thudding outside the door, like footsteps—footsteps she had heard running to her in a similar situation before—and Etien smiled. “A dependable man with every beat of his heart.”

“I would dare say you had him skipping a few, afraid he had lost you.”

Her eyes welled. “A fair point.”

Now the doors opened, and Aymeric came in. “Is she all right?” He asked Whitecape.

“I am,” she answered instead.

He collapsed at the side of the bed, taking her hand in both of his. He pressed his forehead to her fingers, curled around his hand and still cold. “Etien.” He sighed as he said it, like shedding a heavy coat. Maybe more like dropping the weight of a coffin he had not wanted to bear. “Oh, Etien.”

He didn’t have the words to express everything he was feeling. More than that, to express his fear would make her feel guilty, to express his joy would start them both weeping.

“I suppose I should leave you two alone now.”

Neither of them looked up, not until the door opened again, Estinien coming to join Aymeric at Etien’s bedside.

“I got the full report from Whitecape,” he murmured. “A goddess among women, hmm?”

Etien tipped her head. “What?”

“They’re saying that Halone has chosen to dwell within you. Rather more serious than settling Her gaze on you during the Grand Melee, from what I heard.”

Etien swallowed. “I… don’t understand.”

“Some stories tell of the gods choosing an avatar in other ages,” Aymeric said, “a vessel, someone to bear their essence.”

“You’re the glass, the Fury is the wine,” Estinien interjected.

“Something along those lines,” Aymeric agreed. “And what a fine cup to bear it.” He kissed her hand.

“But why don’t you two see me as Her, then?”

“I could never see you as anything but you,” Aymeric replied, sweeping her still-wet hair away from her eyes. “You were already divine to me.”

“What interests me is how She seems to have selected someone without a shield.” Estinien laughed. “Halone came back not with a hoplon, but with a harp.”

“They say She was close companions with Oschon, She would place her trust in a bard.”

“I suppose so,” Etien mumbled.

“I always did want an excuse to worship you,” Aymeric whispered, kissing the inside of her wrist.

“Giving ‘Her faithful’ a new meaning,” Estinien scoffed. “You’re acting like Menphina chose her.”

“When you put it that way…” Estinien lifted and kissed her other hand.

“No,” he replied, cheek pressed to Etien’s palm, “this is the goddess I have sworn to serve, and this is the woman I pledged to love, one and the same now.”

The door opened again, and Etien snatched her hands back, cheeks and the insides of her ears flushing.

“You will have time to worship her,” Whitecape gently chided the two men, about to usher them from the room.

“She spent bells in the snow, did she not?” Estinien rebutted, “her hands are still like ice. Could we not help to warm her up?”

Whitecape sighed. “It will save us time preparing water bottles, I suppose.”

Aymeric thanked him, still looking at Etien reverently.

Now Estinien sighed. “Let me take your armor off you, so you can get into bed with her for the first shift.”

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #fic #Twelve's Chosen AU #at some point I'll say more about the specifics for now Etien is Halone!

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versegm · 5 years ago

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As if to shake off the bad atmosphere hanging over the conference, Ruler spoke up to ask a question.

“An airplane, huh…? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it in terms of speed, but have you thought up any countermeasures against making us an easy target for the enemy when we approach them?”

Fiore frowned and pressed a hand to her head as if very troubled.

“We have come up with three tentative measures. If you’ll all listen, then—”

Fiore laid out the full details of the strategy she had refined together with Archer. Among the three measures she had devised, two of them were extremely valid and effective plans that anyone could think of.

The problem was the last one.

‘It’s a bit forceful, but it’s not a bad idea’—so judged Rider of Black. Sieg also agreed to it, saying, ‘It will slightly raise our chances of reaching the Hanging Gardens.’ When Archer of Black heard the idea, he was also satisfied, saying, ‘It will reduce our disadvantage in the air even if only by a little bit.’

And lastly, Ruler, the only one among them who understood the common sense of regular society, became pale-faced when she heard it.

“…Ruler, is something wrong?”

Fiore tilted her head and asked her curiously. Ruler breathed out a sigh and shook her head.

“No, it’s nothing. I just painfully realized the gulf that lies between magi and normal humans.”

Even with this plan, though, they would only be able to get close to Assassin’s enormous Noble Phantasm, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

“It still isn’t enough. I’d like at least one more countermeasure to have in play.”

Sieg groaned at the difficulty of what Fiore asked.

In the first place, the preconditions were harsh. An impregnable floating fortress, along with Atalanta, Karna, Achilles and Semiramis—all of them Servants of the strongest rank.

The problem wasn’t a matter of winning or losing, but how to feasibly approach that floating fortress—

Ruler raised her hand first. She cleared her throat, gathering everyone’s attention towards her.

“How about preparing a second airplane loaded with explosives and enhanced through consecration and making it dive and crash into the gardens from a high altitude?”

Ruler, who had run through numerous battlefields, proposed quite an extreme plan.

“…H-How bold.”

Fiore stiffened. Archer of Black exclaimed “Oh!” in admiration and clapped his hands.

“But the Hanging Gardens is an autonomous moving fortress. It’s most likely Assassin of Red’s greatest and most prized mystery. Even if you consecrate them, I have doubts about how much damage mere explosives will be able to do…”

“However, if we don’t manage to damage it at least a little, even infiltrating the gardens will be impossible. The situation is far different from the last battle. This time, they’ll definitely counterattack with all their might.”

Ruler was correct. Back when they were stealing the Greater Grail, the situation hadn’t allowed the Red camp to ambush the enemy Servants while the Hanging Gardens was so close to the surface. In the first place, Shirou had intentionally led the Black Servants and Ruler into the Gardens back then.

This time would be different. The Red camp would move to eliminate the Black camp with all their might.

“Even if we use that plan, it still isn’t enough.”

After Archer of Black stated that, the gathered Servants, Masters and even the homunculi standing by for orders exchanged various ideas, but none of them were worth pursuing.

“Not a plane, but strategic bombing aircraft… Hmm, either way, we need a weapon with great destructive power… missiles… or a bunker-buster… or, though the name is disrespectful, perhaps the [Rods of God]1…”

Fiore and most of the others couldn’t understand even half of the things that Ruler murmured. Only Gordes trembled in fear, saying, “Does this holy woman intend to end the world…?”

[translator’s note: (1) Rods of God: the nickname for kinetic bombardment, which basically involves launching a projectile down from orbit and using the kinetic energy from the drop to deliver a devastating strike to the surface even without any explosives.]

Good morning friendly reminder that Jeanne does not fuck around

#fate #fate apocrypha #jeanne d'arc

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revisitingsundayschool · 3 years ago

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The Israelites Complain - Numbers 11-15

The Israelites Complain for Food - Numbers 11

Synopsis: The Israelites complained about their hardships, so God placed a fire around the camp. The Israelites cried to Moses, Moses prayed, and God stopped the fire. The place was called Taberah (burning). The Israelites then complained that they only got to eat manna. They claim to wish to never have left Egypt. Moses complained to God about the Israelites coming to him for their problems. Moses said, "Did I conceive all these people? Did I give them birth? Why do you tell me to carry them in my arms, as a nurse carries an infant, to the land you promised on oath to their ancestors?" (Numbers 11:12, NIV). God told Moses to gather 70 elders to share his burden. He also told Moses to tell the Israelites, "Consecrate yourselves in preparation for tomorrow, when you will eat meat. The Lord heard you when you wailed, 'If only we had meat to eat! We were better off in Egypt!' Now the Lord will give you meat, and you will eat it. You will not eat it for just one day, or two days, or five, ten or twenty days, but for a whole month—until it comes out of your nostrils and you loathe it—because you have rejected the Lord, who is among you, and have wailed before him, saying, 'Why did we ever leave Egypt?'" (Numbers 11:18-20). God put the spirit in the 70 elders (including 2 that didn't show up to the tent of meeting, Eldad and Medad). The wind of God blew quail to the camp about 3 feet deep. They ate, but God struck them with a plague. The place was called Kibroth Hattaavah (graves of craving).

In this chapter, we finally return to the narrative of the Israelites journey to the Promised Land. I remember this story being used as a cautionary tale for questioning God or asking too much from Him back when I was in Sunday School. The Israelites, again, complained to God for not giving them enough. God, again, responds with violence. Some of this dialogue is actually pretty funny. Moses can't stand the Israelites demands and basically said to God that he's not their mother. God then says that He will give them so much meat that it will come out of their noses and they will hate it (He did deliver, 3 feet deep of quail is a lot). This chapter seems to contradict Exodus 16 when God already gave them a cycle of manna and quail after the Israelites complained about food. There has been debate by rabbis to try to explain this contradiction, but my thought is that this is the result of combining many versions of the same story with slightly different details in the legends. This chapter is also similar to Exodus 18 when Jethro told Moses to get assistants to help carry his load as the leader, but this chapter was much more dramatic.

Aaron and Miriam Challenge Moses - Numbers 12

Synopsis: Aaron and Miriam (Moses' siblings) spoke against Moses because he had a Cushite wife. Because of this, God told them that Moses is more than a prophet and that He speaks to Moses face-to-face. He asked them (rhetorically) why they were not afraid to speak ill of him. Then, He gave Miriam leprous skin and she had to be quarantined outside the camp for seven days.

This story is similar to Numbers 11. Pretty shitty that Miriam, the sister, was the only one punished when Aaron also spoke ill of Moses.

The Twelve Spies - Numbers 13-14

Synopsis: God told Moses to send 12 spies (one from each of the tribes) into Canaan to see what the land was like and if the people there were strong. The spies reported that the land was fertile (flowing with milk and honey), but the people were powerful. They claimed that some of them were Nephilim (giants). Caleb (spy from Judah) and Joshua (spy from Ephraim) claimed that they could beat them with the help of God, but the others said they should not go. That night, the Israelites rebelled against Moses. God threatened to destroy the Israelites. Moses bargained that God get them to the Promised Land to show the other nations how powerful He is. God agreed, but promised that none of them (except Caleb and Joshua) would be allowed to enter the Promised Land and that the Israelites would wander in the desert for 40 years for grumbling against Him. He then killed the 10 spies who doubted Him. The Israelites then decided to charge into the Amalekites in Canaan (despite Moses warning that God would not be with them). The Israelites were soundly defeated.

Again, the Israelites went against God. I understand them being afraid to fight the Amalekites, but to decide to go in after being punished by God for not having faith and warned not to go in just seems childish. God and the Israelites have a complicated relationship I guess. This story is used with the previous chapters in this section in Sunday school to teach kids to have faith and to trust Him because He can do all things.

Additional Offering Requirements - Numbers 15

Synopsis: God told the Israelites that they must bring a grain offering with every offering of a lamb (~3.5 lb of grain and ~ 1 qt of wine), a ram (~7 lb of grain and ~ 1-1/3 qt of wine), or a bull (~10.5 lb of grain and ~ 2 qt of wine) once they enter the Promised Land. If the community sinned unintentionally, then the community had to offer a bull (with grain and wine). If an individual sinned unintentionally, they had to offer a female goat. Moses put a man to death (via stoning) for gathering wood during the Sabbath. Then, God ordered the Israelites to wear tassels with a blue cord on the corners of their clothes to remember His commands.

Back to laws. Pretty boring. More extreme punishments for not following the Sabbath. Here's an example of what a tassel would look like. Kinda interesting.

Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment on this post or join the Discord for more discussions and fun things like watch parties. On December 3 at 8pm EST, there will be a watch party for The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe on the Discord server to get in the spirit of Christmas-related Christian movies. Hope to see you there! The passage for next Sunday will cover details more stories and rules for the Levites (Numbers 16-19).

#bible #numbers #atheist #ex christian #manna #quail #complain #aaron #miriam #sacrifice #caleb #joshua

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mattchase82 · 4 years ago

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Saint Aloysius Gonzaga, Confessor from the Liturgical Year (1904)

"Oh! how exceeding great is the glory of Aloysius, Son of Ignatius! Never could I have believed it, had not my Jesus shown it to me. Never could I have believed that such glory as that, was to be seen in heaven!" Thus cries out Saint Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, whose memory we were celebrating a month ago: she is speaking in ecstasy. From the heights of Carmel, whence her ken may reach beyond the heavens, she reveals to earth the splendour wherewith the youthful hero of this day shines amidst the celestial phalanxes.

Yet short was the life of Aloysius, and it had offered nothing to the superficial gaze of a vast majority, save the preliminaries, so to say, of a career broken off in its flower, before bearing fruit of any kind. Ah! God does not account of things as men do; of very slight weight are their appreciations, in His judgment! Even in the case of the saints themselves, the mere fractional number of years, or brilliant deeds, goes far less to the filling up of a life-time, in His view, than does love. The usefulness of a human existence ought surely to be measured, as a matter of fact, by the amount produced in it, of what is lasting. Now beyond this present time charity remains alone, fixed for ever at that precise degree of growth attained during this life of passage. Little matters it, therefore, if without any long duration or any apparent works, one of God's Elect have developed in himself a love as great or greater than some others have done, in the midst of many toils, be they never so holy, and throughout a long career admired of men.

The illustrious Society that gave Aloysius Gonzaga to holy Church owes the sanctity of her members and the benedictions poured upon their works to the fidelity she has ever professed to this important truth, which throws so much light on the Christian life. From the very first age of her history, it would seem that our Lord Jesus, not content to allow her to assume his own blessed Name, has been lovingly determined so to arrange circumstances in her regard that she may never forget wherein it is her real strength lies, in the midst of the actively militant career which He has especially opened before her. The brilliant works of Saint Ignatius her founder, of Saint Francis Xavier, the apostle of the Indies, of Saint Francis Borgia, the noble conquest of Christ's humility, manifested truly wondrous holiness in them, and to the eyes of all; but these works of theirs had no other spring nor basis than the hidden virtues of that other glorious triumvirate, in which, under the eye of God alone, by the sole strength of contemplative prayer, Saints Stanislaus Kostka, Aloysius Gonzaga, and John Berchmans, rose to such a degree of love, and consequently to the sanctity of their heroic fathers.

Again, it is by Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, the depositary of the secrets of the Spouse, that this mystery is revealed to us. In the rapture during which the glory of Aloysius was displayed before her eyes, she thus continues, whilst still under the influence of the Holy Ghost: "Who could ever explain the value and the power of interior acts? The glory of Aloysius is so great, simply because he acted thus, interiorly. Between an interior act and that which is seen, there is no comparison possible. Aloysius, as long as he dwelt on earth, kept his eye attentively fixed on the Word; and this is just why he is so splendid. Aloysius was a hidden martyr; whosoever loveth Thee, my God, knoweth Thee to be so great, so infinitely amiable, that keen indeed is the martyrdom of such an one, to see clearly that he loves Thee not so much as he desireth to love Thee, and that Thou art not loved by Thy creatures, but art offended!.... Thus he became a martyrdom unto himself. Oh! he did love, whilst on earth! Wherefore, now in heaven, he possesses God in a sovereign plenitude of love. Whilst still mortal, he discharged his bow at the Heart of the Word; and now that he is in heaven, his arrows are all lodged in his own heart. For this communication of the Divinity which he merited by the arrows of his acts of love and of union with God, he now verily and indeed possesses and clasps forever."

To love God, to allow His grace to turn our heart towards Infinite Beauty, which alone can fill it, such is then the true secret of highest perfection. Who can fail to see how this teaching of today's feast answers to the end pursued by the Holy Ghost ever since His coming down, at our glorious Pentecost? This sweet and silent teaching was given by Aloysius, wheresoever he turned his steps, during his short career. Born to heaven, in holy baptism, almost before he was born to earth, he was a very angel from his cradle; grace seemed to gush from him into those who bore him in their arms, filling them with heavenly sentiments. At four years of age, he followed the marquess his father into the camps; and thus, some unconscious faults, which had not so much as tarnished his innocence, became for the rest of his life the object of a penitence that one would have thought rather beseemed some grievous sinner. He was but nine years old when, being taken to Florence, there to be perfected in the Italian language, he became the edification of the Court of duke Francis; but though the most brilliant in Italy it failed to have any attraction for him, and rather served to detach him more decisively than ever from the world. During this period, likewise, at the feet of the miraculous picture of the Annunziata, he consecrated his virginity to Our Lady.

The Church herself, in the Breviary Lessons, will relate the other details of this sweet life, in which, as is ever the case with souls fully docile to the Holy Ghost, heavenly piety never marred what was of duty in earthly things. It is just because he really was a model for all youth engaged in study, that Aloysius has been proclaimed Protector thereof. Of a singularly quick intelligence, as faithful to work as to prayer in the midst of the gay turmoil of city life, he mastered all the sciences then exacted of one of his rank. Very intricate and ticklish negotiations of worldly interest were more than once confided to his management: and thus was opportunity afforded of realizing to what a high degree he might have excelled in government affairs. Here, again, he comes forward as an example to such as have friends and relatives who would lain hold them back, when on the threshold of the religious state, under pretence of the " great good they may do in the world, and how much evil they may prevent." Just as though the Most High must be contented with useless non-entities in that select portion of men He reserves to Himself amidst nations; or, as though the aptitudes of the richest and most gifted natures may not be turned all the better, and all the more completely to God their very principle, precisely because they are the most perfect. On the other hand, neither State, nor Church, ever really loses anything by this fleeing to God, this apparent throwing away of the best subjects! If, in the old law, Jehovah showed Himself jealous in having the very best of all kinds of goods offered at His altar, His intention was not to impoverish his people. Whether admitted or not, it is a certain fact, that the chief strength of society, the fountain head of benediction and protection to the world, is always to be found in holocausts well pleasing to the Lord.

Prayer:

Venerable old age is not that of long time, nor counted by the number of years: but the understanding of man is grey hairs; and a spotless life is old age (Wisd. iv. 8, 9). And therefore, Aloysius, thou dost hold a place of honour, amidst the ancients of thy people! Glory be to the holy Society, in the midst whereof, thou didst, in so short a space, fulfill a long course; obtain that she may ever continue to treasure, both for herself and others, the teaching that flows from thy life of innocency and love. Holiness is the one only thing when one's career is ended, that can be called true again; and holiness is acquired from within. External works count with God, only in as far as the interior breath that inspires them is pure; if occasion for exercising works be wanting, man can always supply that deficiency, by drawing nigh unto the Lord, in the secret of his soul, as much and even more than he could have done by their means. Thus didst thou see and understand the question; and therefore, prayer, which held thee absorbed in its ineffable delights, succeeded in making thee equal to the very martyrs. What a priceless treasure was not prayer in thine eyes, what a heaven-lent boon, and one that is indeed in our reach too, just as it was in thine! But in order to find therein, as thou didst express it, "the short cut to perfection," perseverance is needed and a careful elimination from the soul, by a generous self-repression, of every emotion which is not of God. For, how could muddy or troubled waters mirror forth the image of Him Who stands on their brink? Even so, a soul that is sullied, or a soul that without being quite a slave of passion, is not yet mistress of every earthly perturbation, can never reach the object of prayer, which is to reproduce within her the tranquil image of her God.

The reproduction of the one great Model was perfect in thee; and hence it can be seen how nature (as regards what she has of good), far from losing or suffering aught, rather gains by this process of recasting in the divine crucible. Even in what touches the most legitimate affections, thou didst look at things no longer from the earthly point of view; but beholding all in God, far were the things of sense transcended, with all their deceptive feebleness, and wondrously did thy love grow in consequence! For instance, what could be more touching than thy sweet attentions, not only upon earth, but even from thy throne in heaven, for that admirable woman given thee by our Lord to be thine earthly mother? Where may tenderness be found equal to the affectionate effusions written to her by thee in that letter of a Saint to the mother of a Saint, which thou didst address to her shortly before thy quitting thine earthly pilgrimage? And still more, what exquisite delicacy thou didst evince, in making her the recipient of thy first miracle, worked after thine entrance into glory! Furthermore, the Holy Ghost, by setting thee on fire with the flame of divine charity, developed also within thee immense love for thy neighbour: necessarily so, because charity is essentially one; and well was this proved, when thou wast seen sacrificing thy life so blithely for the sick and the pestiferous.

Cease not, O dearest Saint, to aid us in the midst of so many miseries; lend a kindly hand to each and all. Christian youth has a special claim upon thy patronage, for it is by the sovereign pontiff himself, that this precious portion of the flock is gathered around thy throne. Direct their feeble steps along the right path, so often enticed as they are to turn into dangerous by-roads; be prayer and earnest toil, for God's dear sake, their stay and safeguard; be they illumined in the serious matter before them of the choosing a state of life. We beseech thee, dearest Saint, exert strong influence over them during this most critical period of their opening years, so that they may truly experience all the potency of that fair privilege which is ever thine, of preserving in thy devout clients, the angelical virtue! Yea, furthermore, Aloysius, look compassionately on those who have not imitated thine innocence, and obtain that they may yet follow thee in the example of thy penance; such is the petition of Holy Church this day!

#catholicism #traditional catholic #catholic #christianity #heaven #love #jesus christ #its the truth #catholic saints #catholic faith #saint aloysius gonzaga

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forestwater87 · 5 years ago

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Listen, just because this fandom is temporarily dead doesn’t mean my love for Gwenvid is.

Mega thanks to @gwenvidweek for making this happen! We love you, mods!

Gwenvid Week, Day 1: Before Camp/After Camp

David’s always had a soft spot for rituals. They remind him of his mom, of camp -- of all the things that feel like home. They center him, clear his mind, get him ready for the challenges ahead.

He carefully dots the exclamation mark in the sand and takes a step back, tossing his writing stick to the side and putting his hands on his hips. The words written on the shore are a little crooked, the D a little crooked from when a sudden bird call startled him, but as he kicks off his boots (carefully rolling up his socks and smushing them into the toes to keep them from getting sandy) his chest is warm and light.

And lucky for him, because the lake is so cold he nearly jumps out of his skin. Clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, he forces himself to wade out to his waist, and turns back to survey his handiwork. With the frigid water of Lake Lilac leaving his legs numb, the cool breeze making the trees rustle and the air smell like pine needles, and the sun already scorching everything it touches as it climbs into the sky, he reads back the words in the sand, letting his gaze move slow and deliberately over each swoop and wobbly line and tracing their mirror in the calm surface of the lake like sacred runes.

Campe diem. The words that make the summer begin.

Or . . . not quite.

“David!”

The voice makes him jump, but a second later he smiles. “Good morning, Gwen!” he calls, splashing back to shore and subtly kicking away the letters. “It’s nice to see you up so early on such an important day!”

His co-counselor doesn’t look like it’s nice to be up, but aside from a baleful glare she shoots at the sunrise she doesn’t respond. She’s still groggy, dressed in her pajamas with her hair a messy tangle of knots that blend the two tones into a single warm burgundy. The sun makes her glow where it hits her face, warm and lit from the inside like a jack-o-lantern . . . only that sounds a lot less pretty than he intended, so he’s relieved that’s one of the thoughts he didn’t share out loud.

David wonders if people enjoy looking at their best friends this much, or if it means something potentially dangerous. The way he always does when this question occurs, he quickly banishes it from his mind. “How are you settling in?” he asks, fully aware of the answer. They share a cabin, after all, and Gwen’s spent enough years at Camp Campbell to have the routine down to a science; within minutes of hopping off the bus QM rented for the summer, she’s mostly unpacked, changed into her counselors’ uniform, and begun a critical sweep of the camp’s supplies and paperwork.

She makes a noncommittal noise, rubbing the sleep from one eye with the heel of her hand and trying to shield herself from the sun with the other. “Are you ready? The stores are gonna be full of families getting shit for the summer -- it’ll be like Black Friday, so we’ve gotta be in and out as soon as the Tradin’ Post opens unless you’re prepared to deck some soccer moms.”

He resists the urge to smile; she might not believe in the power of the beginning-of-summer rituals, but this optimistic plan for their camping supply trip is as much a staple of every summer as David’s sand writing. “Sounds like a swell plan, Gwen.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she mutters, but he catches a half-smile before she turns her back on the lake. “Come on, get dressed and meet me in the Mess Hall. I’ll start inventory.” As he falls into step beside her, she glances over at him, raising her eyebrows. “Morning swim?”

He shrugs, turning to survey the empty campground. “Basically!”

“Sure. Seems like something you’d do.” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand, already fixated on the task at hand. “Just hurry up so we can get out of here. If you think you’re gonna make me do all the hard jobs by myself, I’ve got a guitar with your face written all over it.”

David laughs before he can stop himself. “There it is,” he murmurs, causing her to glance over curiously.

“Huh?”

“Nothing! I’ll meet you in the kitchen. Might as well start by seeing what food we have, right?” As he ducks into the counselor’s cabin, he catches a glimpse of her hair, glinting like copper in the early-morning light, and his heart lifts.

There it is.

Writing the camp’s motto in the sand and water is important to him, a silly little consecration ritual that marks the line between his life outside of Camp Campbell and the endless, magical months of summer. He’s done it ever since he was a junior counselor; it feels like staking a claim on the only perfect place that’s ever existed, like writing his name on the heart of the earth. Even if he technically owns the camp now -- something that felt too bizarre and wonderful to make sense last summer and if anything is only more strange after an entire year -- no amount of signatures or invoices capture the simple power of the words “campe diem” on Lake Lilac.

But for David, the summer doesn’t really begin until Gwen tells him she needs him. Never in those exact words, of course . . . but he’s gotten pretty good at reading between her lines, and she’s never exactly been subtle.

He tightens his bandanna around his neck, smiling at his reflection. Get out there and help your CBFL, David. Campe diem.

The wheels that help spring become summer begin turning.

---

“Okay.” Gwen groans, rolling her shoulders; there are some ominous pops and cracks, but she doesn’t look like she’s dislocated anything so David assumes everything’s fine. “I’ll “Okay. This is okay.” Gwen runs a hand through her hair, grimacing as her fingers get caught in tangles. She’s still in her pajamas, a smear of dirt along her thigh from crawling around the supply shed, but she’s so single-minded David isn’t sure she’s even aware of what she’s wearing. (He makes a quick mental note to remind her to change before they leave, because when she gets hyperfocused like this, it’s easy to see her blasting down the shelves of the Sleepy Peak Tradin’ Post in bare feet and oversized paisley boxer shorts.) “We can’t afford literally anything we need. Just like every summer. This is gonna be a disaster, but that’s okay.”

He puts his hand on her shoulder, figuring now isn’t a good time for a hug. “It’ll be fine,” he tries. He scans over their shopping list and tries to imagine a way they can stretch their budget to cover it all; then he remembers that he doesn’t know what their budget is, because Gwen takes care of that, and feels a faint spike of panic jam itself between his ribs. “Let’s ask Mr. Campbell if --”

“Don’t even think about it, kiddo. The government already cleaned me out.” Mr. Campbell slouches into the room, tugging at the trapdoor in the Mess Hall ceiling that leads to the attic. “Those brothers found every last hiding place I had. Apparently it’s being used to repay my ‘debts to society,’ if you can believe it.”

“I can,” Gwen mutters, gaze darting around the Mess Hall as though hoping a sign saying “Free Money Here” will appear out of the blue. She hurries into the back room, where they’ve managed to convert a closet into something resembling an office.

David’s distracted by something else, though. “Brothers?” he repeats, hurrying to help Mr. Campbell lower the spring-down ladder from the ceiling.

“Yeah, those suits from Washington. You’ve met them a hundred times -- sunglasses, terrible fashion sense. The secret agent guys.”

“Um, sir --” he’s not supposed to call Mr. Campbell “sir” anymore, since he’s technically the boss now, but it’s a surprisingly tough habit to kick, “-- if you mean Agent and Agent Miller . . . they’re not brothers.”

He frowns down at David, frozen halfway up to the attic like he’s scaling a mountain. “Of course they are! Or are you going to tell me it’s a coincidence that they have the same last name?”

David shrugs awkwardly, kind of wishing he hadn’t said anything. “They’re married, sir.”

“Really?” His brows furrow. “And that’s legal here now?” David nods. “Go figure. Well, good for them.”

Gwen bursts back into the Mess Hall with a scrap of paper, snatching her phone off one of the tables. “Agent Miller?” she says after a moment, and her tone abruptly melts into honey. “It’s Gwen Santos! You know, from Camp Campbell? Yeah, it’s great to hear from you, too! How’s the weather over there?”

The rattling sound of the ladder being drawn back up into the attic startles David, making him jump and glance away from the conversation. He frowns up at the closed trapdoor -- he’s pretty sure Mr. Campbell is telling the truth about his stashes of money, but it’d be nice if he at least tried to help -- then crosses over to the safe in the corner. (It’s empty, of course, but he wants to feel like he’s doing something useful.)

Meanwhile, Gwen’s voice still sounds like it’s made of spun sugar: “Things are wonderful over here! We’re taking good care of everything. Actually, that’s part of why I was calling . . . I noticed Ered’s coming back this summer?” A moment of silence, then a bubbly laugh. “Well, we’re certainly excited to have her here! The thing is . . .”

A few minutes later she ends the call, immediately jumping into the air and spiking her phone into the couch. “That’s how it’s done!” she crows, dancing in a circle. “I -- am -- the -- best!” Each word is punctuated by punching the air, and then she twirls around again.

Her eyes land on David as she finishes spinning. It’s like a bucket of water was dumped on her head -- her shoulders slump, her arms fall to her sides, and it even seems like the brilliant violet of her eyes turns duller.

“Oh. Hey, David.”

He forces a smile, rising to his feet and wincing as his knees crack. “That sounds like good news!” he says, wondering if there’s a way to tell her he doesn’t mind seeing her happy without it making everything awkward and weird.

She brightens a bit, rescuing her phone from where it lodged itself between the couch cushions. “Yeah. Turns out the Millers are really happy with you for taking care of Campbell all year. They’re Venmo-ing the camp some cash. Probably not enough for most of the stuff we need, but we can cut it down to the essentials.”

“That’s amazing!” He doesn’t entirely know what she accomplished, but it sounds encouraging. “Gwen, you’re incredible!”

She shrugs, her cheeks flushing pink. “Whatever,” she mumbles, then raises her voice almost to a shout. “It’s crazy what great things can happen when you’re not breaking the law all the time!”

Mr. Campbell’s voice is muffled by the closed door: “Give it a rest, Gina!”

Gwen rolls her eyes, but her attempt to look annoyed is dampened slightly by the smile that keeps tugging at the corner of her mouth. “What a dick. Come on, David, let’s get out of here.”

When she emerges from the cabin, dressed like a Camp Campbell counselor for the first time this summer, he looks up from his phone with a smile. “Campe diem, Gwen!” he says, giving her the Camp Campbell salute. Her response is just to shake her head, which is about all he expected. “You look great!”

She gives him a strange look as she slides into the driver’s side of the campmobile. “I look like this all the time, David.”

And she looks great all the time, but he knows better than to say that out loud. “Camp Campbell has a Venmo?” he asks instead (he looked it up while she was getting changed).

“Yes, Brother David. It’s one of those boring grown-up things I did while you were playing in the dirt last summer. No need to thank me.”

Well, she said he doesn’t need to thank her, so he chooses not to. That’s just the kind of thing Gwen does, after all, and once again he wonders how they’d get by if she was able to find a better job.

We’d figure it out, he tells himself, looking out the window as the camp falls behind them. But not this summer.

He has one more year of grace, anyway.

She’s here, and he might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

---

Even though Gwen says she doesn’t have any rituals, there are a few things that they have to do every summer, the day before all the campers arrive. Inventory coupled with a panicked last-minute shopping trip is one of them. Listening to strange music at earth-shaking volumes on the drive to and from town is another.

“Yeah, girl, it's true, I'm into you, but these benzos, they got me feeling loose --”

David’s tempted to cover his ears -- it cannot be good for his eardrums; he didn’t even know the volume knob went this high! -- but if he does that, he might block out Gwen’s voice. There are very few situations where she’s willing to sing with an audience, and the car ride into town is one of those rare occasions.

He sits back, watching her shimmy her shoulders in time to the music, painting the air with the hand not on the steering wheel in strange gestures that are half conducting and half gang signs --

“Why don't you come through, before I Goku -- fuck this white pill and go super xan!”

-- and decides, like he does every year, that this is worth the risk of moderate hearing loss.

As they pull up in front of the store (despite Gwen’s dire warnings, the street is as empty always), she switches the music off. David tries to convince himself the ringing in his ears is all in his head, and that he isn’t going to suddenly wake up deaf. He mostly succeeds.

“Okay, David.” Gwen stops directly in front of him, putting her hands on his shoulders. It suddenly feels like there’s a snake constricting around his chest, and his next breath stutters and doesn’t seem to pull in enough air. She doesn’t notice, narrowing her eyes at him as though he was one of their poorly-behaved campers. “We have a list.” She waves it between their faces for emphasis.

He swallows, nodding. “We do.”

“We’re sticking to the list.”

David nods, resisting the urge to laugh. “Of course we are,” he says; he hadn’t intended for his remark to sound sarcastic but can’t be entirely disappointed that it does.

“We’re not buying anything unless it’s on this list, got it?”

“Got it, Gwen!”

“Good.” She takes a step back and punches his arm lightly. “Let’s go, CBFL.”

As he follows her into the store, he couldn’t keep from smiling if he tried.

---

“Wasn��t that fun?”

Gwen groans, shoving the last of the bags into the car (David reminds himself yet again to put his reusable shopping bags in the campmobile so they don’t spend another summer gathering dust under his bed) and slamming the door shut. “Swear to god I’m gonna get a leash for you,” she grumbles, putting her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment before starting the car. “I’ll order one from a kink website or something and you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “I don’t think that’s necessary . . .”

“Oh, yeah?” She lifts her head to give him a sideways glare. “How many knives did we buy?”

“Two.”

“And how many knives were on the list?”

Okay, she’s made her point. “But Gwen, one of them is specially engineered for whittling!” He digs through the bags until he recovers it, holding it up to her. “I’ve always wanted to try whittling!”

“‘Specially engineered’ is a bullshit term used to sell stuff to idiots, David. And the other one . . .”

“Is . . . well . . .” Okay, so he doesn’t have an exact use for it yet. But he likes being prepared, and it’s important to have tools on-hand. “The box says you could shave with it! Isn’t that cool?”

She taps on the steering wheel impatiently. “Are you planning on shaving with it?” she asks, deadpan.

“No.” But he could.

Gwen snorts, starting the car. “Well, you’re gonna have to explain to the campers why we’re using the same old watered-down paint as last year.” She pulls an imitation of him that’s disturbingly accurate. “‘Golly gee, sorry about that, kids! But look at this cool knife I got instead!’”

That hardly seems fair, but he doesn’t have a good comeback. Knives aren’t cheap, it’s true, and he hates the thought that the camp will suffer because of him. “I mean, when you put it like that . . .” he mutters, looking out the window to avoid her accusing gaze.

There’s a moment of silence. Then her arm lands heavily around his shoulders, pulling him into a sudden half-hug. By the time he’s registered what’s happening, she’s taken her arm back and gently shoved him back to his side of the car. “It’s fine, David,” she says with a sigh, her face slightly pink. “I didn’t have to buy Nights with the Wolf Queen, either.”

He doesn’t point out that a grocery-store paperback is hardly as much of an expense as two wilderness knives, mostly because he doesn’t want her to realize it herself. So he takes the olive branch and smiles at her before reaching to the dashboard and turning the music back on.

Noise explodes through the car, making both of them jump even though they knew it was going to happen. Gwen’s surprise immediately dissolves into delight, and even though she doesn’t thank him outright, she bobs her head and drums on the steering wheel to the beat, and that feels like thanks enough.

“Robbing banks, knock it off! Not saying thanks, knock it off!”

David perks up, tilting his head to hear better (not that he needs to, since the music is currently drilling its way into his skull). “Hey, I like this one!” he says. Why didn’t they start with this song?

Gwen glances at him for a second before returning her eyes to the road, clearly trying not to smile. “Would it even matter if I tell you this is sarcastic?”

It wouldn’t, and they both know it.

---

David takes a step back, holding up his phone and fiddling with the zoom. This is another important part of beginning the season; the supply room will never be this full or tidy for the rest of the summer, and their hard work deserves to be documented before it all gets undone. “Looks perfect!”

So perfect, in fact, that it needs to be uploaded to Instagram. Right now!

“Yeah?” Gwen huffs, slumping against a pile of unmade tents nearly as tall as they are. She must’ve dragged it out of the shed while he was sharing his photo. “I’m so glad you’re doing the important stuff while I slack off.”

If that’s sarcasm, he chooses to ignore it. “Don’t say that! You’ve done a great job today!” She groans loudly -- so it was sarcasm, good to know -- but takes the other end of the tarp holding all the tents and helps him drag it out to the field. The sun hovers just above the trees, golden-yellow and almost thick enough to touch, and his stomach grumbles as they survey the campgrounds. “Do you want to have dinner first, or . . .”

“Fuck that.” She grabs a tent and slings it over her shoulder. Her face and neck glisten with sweat, and she impatiently brushes the strands of hair that’ve escaped her ponytail out of her face. She looks unkempt and beautiful, like a lumberjack, or a viking. “If I sit down, I won’t be able to get back up. Let’s just finish this shit.”

Her language leaves a little to be desired, but her logic is sound. The tents are meant to be put up by and for children, so they aren’t too difficult to set up, but most of them have taken damage between the last summer and storage, so the process keeps stalling to fix broken rods and quick-sew patches over holes in the fabric (David’s job, mostly; Gwen isn’t much of a seamstress). The air is a gloomy indigo by the time they finish, cooling down just enough to make their sweat-damp clothes miserable. “Why don’t you take the first shower?” he offers as they walk back. “I’ll start dinner.”

“My hero,” she quips, veering off toward the counselors’ cabin. David shrugs off his discomfort and exhaustion, forcing a skip into his step as he heads into the Mess Hall.

This is their final ritual before the campers arrive tomorrow, and he wants everything to be perfect.

---

“Hmm?” He cups his free hand around his ear, gently twirling his stick over the fire. As much as he wants to look over at Gwen, he has to keep his attention on roasting his hot dog. The last thing he wants is to deal with another exploded dinner. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

She snorts and throws a marshmallow at his head. “Oh, fuck off.”

“No, I’m just not sure I heard you correctly! Because it sounded like maybe you were saying you were wrong about something --”

“Very cute,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.

“-- and that, consequently, I was right!” He grins at her, removing his (cooked to perfection) hot dog from the fire and transferring it to a bun.

“Sounds like you’re saying you wanna be hit in the face with a flaming hot dog, Greenwood.”

He leans forward and gently takes the stick from her hand, saving her food from its fiery doom. “I just think it’s swell that you’re willing to admit when you’re wrong, Gwen.”

“Give that back! It’s not done cooking.”

“It’s overcooking!”

“And that’s how I like it!” She snatches back her stick and holds it to the center of the flames, shooting him a defiant glare. A moment later there’s a loud pop; they throw themselves to the ground to avoid the burning shrapnel of the exploded hot dog, which light up the air like fireworks before sizzling harmlessly out in the dirt.

They both sit up, brushing themselves off, and take their seats around the campfire again. David waits a minute before saying, “This might be another good opportunity to practice owning up to your mistakes.”

She shoves his shoulder, laughing. “Let’s see you do it better.”

He does, knowing and not caring that she’s gotten him to do all the work for her. The fire is a lovely contrast to the chilly night, and he feels warm and glowing all over.

After dinner they crowd themselves into one of the campers’ tents, rolling out sleeping bags on the floor next to the child-sized cots. Gwen sprawls out across hers, stretching like a cat. “Hell of a last supper.”

He knows what she means, but he isn’t comfortable sharing her dread over three months of meals cooked by the Quartermaster. At least, not out loud. Instead he crawls back outside, recovering the two steaming mugs he pilfered from the Mess Hall and bringing them into the tent. “Here you go!”

She sits up and takes the hot chocolate, curling both hands around it despite the heat. “Well, since I’m apparently on a roll here,” she says, taking a sip and sighing happily, “I guess I have to admit that this is a really good way to start the summer.”

David quickly takes a drink as well, hiding his smile behind the mug. “So I was right about that as well?”

“Okay, don’t milk it,” she snaps, but there’s no real malice in her voice. She leans back against one of the cots, wincing at the screech of metal shifting, and tilts her head up to the ceiling, as though she can see through the fabric to the stars beyond. “I had a lot of fun today,” she says after a moment. Setting her drink to the side, she tugs the elastic out of her ponytail; in the white light of their lantern, with her hair falling in loose, fluffy waves down to her shoulders, she looks soft and almost ethereal, like a princess in a fairy tale. “Thanks, David.”

She meets his eyes, the light turning them a silvery lavender, and looking at her is suddenly too much so he turns his attention to his drink. “No problem, CBFL,” he says, taking a deep breath and wishing his heart wasn’t beating so fast. He opens his mouth to say something else but it turns out there’s nothing else he has to say so he shuts it again, feeling stupid.

For a few minutes they’re quiet, drinking their hot chocolate in companionable silence. At least, David hopes it’s companionable -- he’s not exactly sure how to measure companionableness, but it seems friendly enough so he’s going to do his best not to overthink it. That’s what Gwen would tell him, he knows, and she has a degree in psychology so she definitely knows what she’s talking about more than he does.

Thank goodness he’s not talking out loud; it’s embarrassing enough that he’s babbling in his own mind . . . oh no, what if he has been talking out loud this entire time? What has he said?!

“David?” His gaze snaps up to her, but she doesn’t look annoyed or creeped out so he probably hasn’t been saying anything too weird, at least, and probably hasn’t been talking out loud at all so that’s good but her expression is alarmingly serious and she hasn’t said anything else and it’s been at least ten seconds that they’ve just been looking at each other but he’s not sure what she wants so -- “Let me know if I’m reading this wrong.”

“Reading?” he manages weakly. He feels strangely disconnected from his body as he watches her set her mug aside and cross the small space to kneel in front of him. Her hand alights on his shoulder, fluttery and weightless as a hummingbird, and she seems a little close and a lot beautiful and if he’s not extremely careful she’s going to figure out all the things he’s put so much work into not letting her figure out -- try not to feel at all, but it’s hard to keep his composure and not look at her mouth when it’s so close and there’s no camp activities or pre-camp activities or post-camp activities to distract them both with, just quiet and breathing and soft white lantern light and her hand on his shoulder, and he’s always considered himself able to multitask pretty well but this feels like too much so he squeezes his eyes shut . . .

The kiss takes him entirely by surprise. One moment he’s bracing himself for a confrontation, questions he doesn’t know how to answer, and the next moment is filled with Gwen -- her lips soft and slightly chapped against his and her fingers tightening on his shoulder and the coconutty smell of her shampoo all around him and he’s a little worried that he’s having a heart attack but gosh, jeez, fuck it, he kisses her back.

And she doesn’t shove him away or demand to know what in the name of fun he thinks he’s doing; she lets out a weak little huff of air that lands somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, her mouth opens just slightly, and she shifts forward, her arms twining over his shoulders. One hand slides into his hair, the gentle scrape of her fingernails shivering from his scalp down his spine, and it occurs to him that he can touch her as well, that he’s not only apparently allowed but actually probably should. Slowly, both so she has plenty of him to stop him and in a futile attempt to stop his fingers from shaking, he lifts his hand to her neck, gingerly cupping around the base of her head and running his thumb along the space behind her ear. She gasps against his lips, but she doesn’t pull away so he assumes it’s a good gasp and repeats the motion, and when her tongue flicks against his bottom lip like a question he opens his mouth, because he’s never been very good at saying no to her for anything and he sure as sugar has no intention of starting now.

David’s not sure how much time passes before she pulls back, but even though he feels cold and bereft everywhere they’re no longer touching it’s probably for the best, because he doesn’t realize how lightheaded he is until he opens his eyes and has to wait for the world to shudder into place. She sits on her heels, biting her lower lip; he lets his hand fall away from her, and in a second they’re disconnected, apart.

“Well.” She chuckles weakly, tucking her hair behind her ears. “That was . . .”

A mistake, his brain finishes, and his stomach drops in miserable anticipation.

In fact, he’s so prepared for those devastating words that he almost misses what she actually says: “unexpected, huh?”

It takes him a moment to register that, to recalibrate, so his response is a bit too late, just a little bit awkward: “I -- definitely didn’t see it coming.”

“That’s because your eyes were closed,” she says with a grimace, like she regrets the lame joke even before she’s finished saying it; but it melts so seamlessly into a smile, small and self-conscious and unexpected and perfect, that he forgets what words are, let alone that he’s supposed to say some to continue the conversation.

With a nervous glance at him, Gwen scuttles back to her side of the tent, picking up her mug of hot chocolate.

“Sorry, was that totally inappropriate?” she asks, responding before he can. “I mean, of course it was, you’re technically my boss, I don’t know what -- I just thought I was -- there were some signals -- weren’t there? Was that . . . okay?”

The enormous stupidity of the question finally surprises him into speaking. “Okay? That was . . .” the best thing that’s ever happened in my life. “Very. Okay -- it was completely okay. Better than okay, it was . . . you know, good. Nice. I’m going to stop talking now.”

Her smile widens, visible even as she covers her mouth with one hand. “Really?” she says, suddenly like she’s blurting it out. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He’s so sure that he shuffles forward on his knees, most likely looking like a total idiot, until he’s in front of her again. He doesn’t have the courage to kiss her so he takes one of her hands, turning it over and examining how beautiful it is, how lovely it looks contrasted with his pale fingers. He strokes the backs of her knuckles, marveling at how soft her skin is even after a day of hard work, and tries to remember how to breathe.

Gwen puts her other hand under his chin, forcing him to look up, and kisses him again.

It’s a bit less gentle than the first time, both her mouth and her fingers hot and insistent as they press against him, and he loses his balance, falling onto his back with a small yelp of surprise. She follows him down without breaking the kiss, lowering herself to her elbows and covering his body with hers. He’s distantly aware of a dull ceramic clunk, but he doesn’t really take notice of what it means until a few moments later, when something lukewarm and wet seeps into the hem of his pajama pants.

“Shit!” She rolls off of him, righting the mug of no-longer-hot chocolate and scrambling for the napkins left over from dinner. “Fuck, it’s everywhere.”

He tugs her sleeping bag away from the spill, but it’s already soaked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to knock it over!”

She shakes her head, sitting back and surveying the damage. “No, I think I did it. It’s fine, the dirt’ll soak it up. But it’s gonna bring ants, so we’re going to have to give this tent to the campers we hate the most. I vote Max.”

“Gwen!” He can’t quite make that sound as disapproving as he should. He scoops up the wet napkins and drags her wet sleeping bag outside. “I’ll go put this in the wash right now.”

She glances at her watch, then back up at him. “It’s almost midnight, David. I’m not staying up until that’s clean, it’ll take all night.”

He knows she’s right -- the machine they rely on for the camp’s laundry is the same one they’ve had since he was a junior counselor, and runs extremely slowly -- and disappointment makes his shoulders slump. “We can sleep in the cabin, then. That’s no problem.”

When he returns from the laundry, yawning, Gwen isn’t in the counselors’ cabin like he expected. She’s not by the dying embers of the campfire, or in the tent. The sleeping bag, it turns out, isn’t in there either, nor are the lantern and the mugs of hot chocolate. He opens his mouth to whisper-call her name (it’s spooky with the fire out) --

“David!”

He jumps, covering his mouth to muffle a noise that was definitely not a scream, and turns to see Gwen leaning out of one of the other campers’ tents, half-hidden by shadows. She gestures him over and disappears back into the tent.

Shaking off his alarm, he ducks inside to see Gwen bundled up in the sleeping bag on the ground, with the other supplies well out of reach. “Oh,” he says, not sure exactly what he’s looking at. “Um, should I . . . sleep on one of the cots?” It’d be uncomfortable, but he’d rather shiver through a night curled up on a too-small bed than go back to the cabin alone.

She rolls her eyes at him and wriggles to the side, unzipping the bag halfway. “Get in before you let all the warm out.”

Oh. His face flushes hot and he has to look down at his feet for a moment to compose himself.

Well, he’s hardly going to refuse, is he?

It’s a bit of a close fit, but he manages to slide in alongside her. She turns onto her side, slinging one arm over his waist and resting her cheek on his shoulder. “Is this okay?” she mumbles, already sounding like she’s halfway to falling asleep.

He has to swallow twice before he can answer. “Y-yes. This is fine.” He can already tell that it’ll get unbearably warm soon -- Gwen’s pressed against his side and radiating heat like a furnace -- but her weight on his chest is solid and comforting and he knows he won’t be moving an inch until the sun rises, not unless she tells him to.

She’s quiet for long enough that he thinks she’s fallen asleep.

“Sorry.”

It’s so soft he freezes in the darkness, trying to figure out if that was his imagination or not. When she lifts her head, nothing more than a black vaguely-Gwen-shaped blob, he recovers and says, “Why?”

“I know this whole pre-summer hot chocolate thing is really important to you. It kinda sucks that I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything!” He sits up on his elbows, tentatively reaching out to stroke her hair. His fingertips brush against her forehead and she ducks slightly, letting him pet her hair without poking an eye out. “I know it hasn’t exactly started yet,” he says, flopping back down so she can rest her head on his shoulder again, “but I think this might be the best summer ever.”

“You say that every summer.”

He smiles up at nothing. “And I mean it every summer.”

There’s silence for a moment, then he feels her press a light kiss against his neck. “Call me optimistic, but you might be onto something this year, anyway.”

“Wow,” he says, blowing out a huff of air. “Admitting I’m right three times in one day. I hope it doesn’t keep up like this or I’ll get a swelled head!”

He doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s glaring at him, and that small knowledge makes him indescribably happy. “No danger of that happening.”

“I know.” It’s one of his favorite things about her.

Her breathing evens out as she falls asleep, soft and slightly nasal. It’s another sound he associates with his time spent at Camp Campbell, although never so close, never with her hair tickling his cheek and her hand splayed over his heart like she’s protecting it. He’s used to letting her breathing lull him to sleep from across the room -- but he thinks he could get used to this, if he has the chance.

(He’d like the chance to get used to this.)

David closes his eyes and enjoys the last moments of peace they have, before the kids arrive and the camp explodes into a delightful frenzy of sound and chaos.

Let the summer begin.

#campcamp #camp camp roosterteeth #gwenvid #cc david #cc gwen #gwenvidweek #gwenvidweek2020 #forestwriting

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elisende · 4 years ago

Text

Sharp Teeth

Characters: Halsin/OMC, Astarion Rating: E Words: 2500

Halsin joins Langoth's camp and Astarion isn't thrilled about it. But Halsin and the ranger's mutual fascination is unyielding and undeniable.

There was an energy in the air, the sort of charge that preceded a night of more than mere revelry. It would be a night of abandon. Halsin could sense it.

The young elf, Langoth--he allowed himself the pleasure of saying the name aloud, under his breath, like a cantrip, or a prayer--had chosen a fair site for his camp by the water’s edge.

The mere fact of it reminded him of the youth, his wounded eyes and battle-hardened hands. He saw him in the neatly constructed fire at the heart of the camp, and in the fallen beech trunk by the water, where he knew Langoth must sit most nights, at the mercy of his grim thoughts, twisting the ring on his finger and staring sightlessly into the rushing stream. In many ways, he was not so different from Ketheric, before he was lost to the darkness.

Halsin found a place for himself away from the gathering crowd of anarchic tieflings, who danced and frisked about the camp like so many red flames.

It was not long before the pale elf, Langoth’s vampiric companion, sauntered over. He wore a slashed velvet doublet and a crooked smile. Halsin had seen through his facade in the Shattered Sanctum quickly enough, and his hunch had been confirmed when the pale elf had dug his dripping fangs into an acolyte’s throat. He wouldn’t soon forget that sight.

“Well met,” the vampire spawn said. “Decided to join us, have you? I imagine you’ll be quite a favorite in the adventuring party. For a time, at least.”

Halsin laughed a laugh which was not a laugh at all, but a species of growl. “Oh, I’m merely here for advice. Ketheric Thorm and I have a bit of unfinished business.”

“That is rather your thing, isn’t it? ‘Unfinished business’?” said the pale elf. So he knew, or had guessed, about Halsin’s connection with Langoth. He couldn’t imagine that Langoth had told his companion about their night together, about the ritual, the wild game. But he did seem the type to sniff these things out.

When he didn’t rise to his bait, the vampire spawn shifted tactics. “We haven’t been properly introduced, have we? Langoth is an eminently capable ranger, but somewhat lacking in social graces. Raised by wolves, you know,” he said, showing his teeth. “I am Astarion.”

“I have a higher opinion of wolves than of most civilized people,” Halsin said. “At least they’re plain in their intentions.”

Astarion laughed, a silky, practiced sound. “You’re going to be great fun, I can just tell.”

“‘Fun’ is not a word that’s usually ascribed to me.” He folded his arms in front of his chest. The vampire spawn attacked and dodged like a phase spider, impossible to pin down.

“Oh, I have a hard time believing that. You must join me for a sip of wine this evening. My ego will be terribly crushed if you decline,” Astarion said. “Really, you mustn't make me beg. It would be unseemly.”

“Actually, you seem the sort that might enjoy that,” Halsin said.

“See, you are fun, even if you are old enough to be my grandsire,” Astarion smirked. “Well, I’ll see you tonight, then.” And he swept away on a waft of sweet violet perfume before Halsin could correct him.

Halsin heaved a weary sigh, glancing over as Langoth’s comrades gathered near the fire. His heart seemed to treble in size as he expectantly looked around for Langoth, who was never far from his companions. But he was not yet here. Perhaps still palavering with Zevlor, then. He tried to quash his disappointment and failed. Now that he’d found Langoth--now that they had found each other--every moment spent apart felt somehow wasted. He felt like a lovesick adolescent again, as ridiculous as that was--for as Astarion had so mordantly noted, he was old enough to be the elf’s grandfather.

Night fell and as the chaotic energy built up and the din of the crowd grew with the flames of the bonfire, Halsin’s gaze lifted to the waning moon that ascended over the horizon. Despite all that had happened, and his many mistakes, he was not often prone to regrets, to dwelling on the past. Perhaps this too came with his advancing age. He had never felt so apart before, not just from the others laughing and dancing and drinking and singing by the fire. Apart from himself. If he could not end Ketheric’s curse, now and finally, what had his long life amounted to? What was its purpose?

And then Langoth was beside him, as though summoned by magic. Firelight danced in his eyes. A smile on his lips. Warmth that Halsin could lose himself in, forgetting all doubt and darkness. This one, he could protect: and that would be enough. He felt it in his marrow.

Langoth’s lips found his and there was a sudden rush of heat, like dry grass catching flame. His mouth was sweet; Halsin lost himself in the kiss, running a hand through the younger elf’s chestnut hair, taking in his scent. Then pulling his hips closer, dangerously close.

When they finally broke away, Langoth asked, “Why are you standing over here alone in the dark?”

He might have lied, to save his pride. But they were past such things. “I was waiting for you,” he said.

The other elf paused, drew his breath. “You should join the celebration, you know. This is as much your victory as the tieflings’. The Emerald Grove is safe now.”

“Nowhere is safe, while the shadow Ketheric unleashed still remains.” He failed to keep the darkness from his voice. He didn’t wish to think of Ketheric but felt bound to warn Langoth. If their path led there--to Moonrise Towers--there was much that was needful to know.

But not tonight. “Come to me later,” he said, taking Langoth’s wrist and looking into his eyes. They shone with starlight. The young elf leaned closer, lips brushing Halsin’s ear, his warm breath sighing on Halsin’s neck, heating his blood anew.

“I don’t want to wait until later,” Langoth whispered. The youth’s impatience, his hunger and urgency, reminded him of their stolen moments in the grove the day before. How Langoth had bitten his arm to keep from crying out and giving them away, even drawing blood when Halsin had taken him with too much force. The memory of it quickened his breath.

“Where?” Halsin asked, glancing toward the increasingly wild revels, the glowing heart of the camp aroar with gaiety. Langoth took his hand and pulled him further into the darkness, under the hush of the pines. His tread was soft; the elf knew his woodcraft.

They stopped in a small clearing where a stone table stood under a gnarled oak. A place of sacrifice which he recognized from many years ago.

“This once was consecrated to Corellon, in the days when our ancestors ruled the Sword Coast,” he said, examining the runes on the table. Magic had preserved them against the elements, but even the enchantments were now wearing away. Only a slight tingle of it remained under his fingertips.

“Ancient history,” Langoth teased, leaping onto the table with ease. Despite all, he was still, at least in part, a heedless youth given to demonstrations of skill.

“That’s blasphemy,” Halsin said with a wry smile.

“You’ve not seen anything yet.” And Langoth knelt on the table, dipping his head just slightly to give Halsin a long, sensuous kiss. His lips trailed down Halsin’s throat, finding the gap at the top of his tunic, where he lapped the base of his neck with lingering, greedy strokes of his tongue. Halsin groaned.

Frustrated by the druid’s tunic and straps, Langoth impatiently pulled at the buckles, swearing in filthy Baldurian street slang when they defied him. “Here is a riddle,” Halsin said. “How does a wood elf of noble bearing learn to curse like a Heapside cutpurse?”

Langoth’s mouth was otherwise occupied, however; he was now unbuckling Halsin’s baldric with his teeth. He hissed when they caught his skin instead. “Careful,” he murmured. But the elf had succeeded and was pulling away his clothes, eager hands gliding over the bare skin beneath.

Finally, Halsin stood bare-chested and Langoth paused to admire him, his fingers tracing the fading vine tattoos that extended from his face down the length of his torso, coiling just below the line of his breeches. Halsin shivered under his touch, the rough callus of the elf’s bow finger chastising his flesh.

“So many scars,” Langoth said. He touched a long-healed wound that ran horizontally across Halsin’s ribs, the slash of a wyvern’s claws. Now he knelt to kiss along the scar even as his hand wandered down the front of Halsin’s breeches. Halsin moaned as Langoth palmed his cock through the rough weave of the linen. He was already so hard. He reminded himself to take things slower, this time, even as every part of him wanted to pull Langoth from the stone slab and take him against the rough bark of the ancient oak tree.

Reluctantly, he pulled back from the ranger’s touch and kissed him again on the mouth, slowly but forcefully, insisting. Now his hands found the front of the youth’s jerkin and began to unlace it--it had to be said, with more deftness, if more slowly. His skin beneath was hot--nearly feverish, even--and soft, unblemished save by the few silvery scars Halsin had noticed before on his back. He wondered about those, as he wondered about the Baldurian slang, about the fear that lived in his gaze, and about the strange affliction that the elf and his companions were battling.

“Most of your scars are invisible, aren’t they?” he whispered into Langoth’s ear. The youth stilled like a stalked deer; even his breath seemed to stop. He half-expected Langoth to pull away from him, to slip off into the darkness and leave Halsin for the party, or for another partner without uncomfortable questions about the past, or just for solitude with the ghosts of his past.

But instead, the ranger drew him into another kiss, this one desperate, rough, wild. He slid forward on the table, hand finding Halsin’s cock again, this time underneath his breeches. He gripped the base and achingly slowly stroked along his shaft to pause at the tip. Halsin felt almost weak with desire, leaning forward against the table for support with a moan.

“You want me,” Langoth said. It was not a question.

“You know that I do,” Halsin gasped. The youth was kneeling above him, skin aglow as marble in the moonlight. He tugged down Langoth’s leather breeches, exposing the top of his pelvis, the angles of his hip bones. He kissed there roughly, making him sigh. His hands cupped the elf’s firm round ass and pulled him closer to the edge before unlacing the rest of the breeches to expose his manhood.

Remembering his own admonition to move slowly, Halsin bowed over the youth’s cock and ran his lips over the crown before beginning to tease it with his tongue. Langoth was salty and tasted so slightly of the leather he wore. Above him, the elf groaned, taking Halsin’s hair in his fists and pulling involuntarily as the druid took more of him into his mouth.

Halsin’s self imposed restraint was more than matched by the youth’s eagerness as he arched his hips to force himself deeper and deeper into Halsin’s mouth. When the youth moaned, a high and helpless sound, the druid knew he was close to coming, that Langoth was pushing himself to the edge and beyond it as hard and fast as he could.

With a shudder in his lean hips, a sigh, Langoth’s climax overtook them, filling Halsin’s throat with salty nectar. He coughed, but the youth was beyond noticing. He’d fallen back from his knees to rest, gasping, on the stone slab, eyes fixed to the stars above. A tear suspended from the corner of one eye, and while it could have simply been provoked by their exertions the druid knew better. He wiped it away with his thumb and held the youth’s face in his hand for a time.

Finally, Langoth looked back to him, and his eyes were unreadable. “Take me here,” he said. “Don’t be gentle, this time.” And he slipped off the ceremonial table to bend over it, resting his cheek against the hewn stone.

His back was long and rippled with muscles and the faint tracery of the silver scars. In defiance of the elf’s words, Halsin ran his fingers slowly down the length of it, pausing when he came to his buttocks where the creamy tops of his cheeks were barely exposed by his breeches. He eased them down, hands shaking. He’d never wanted him more than this moment and he wished to stretch it out as long as he could. He pressed himself to the elf’s ass, relishing the answering cry, the way he rose to push against Halsin’s cock. He parted his cheeks and slid his finger inside of him, two, thrusting faster, and when he began to use more force the elf gasped in pleasure. This was what he wanted.

He could restrain himself no longer. Langoth cried out as he entered him, even though the first dip of his hips was shallow. The youth was so tight. Halsin adjusted the angle of his hips, so as not to hurt him but Langoth leaned forward to take him deeper. “Harder,” he demanded, his voice thick.

Halsin gathered himself for a deeper thrust, moving forcefully but still slowly, mindful not to hurt the elf in spite of his demands. Yet he was fighting his own impulses at the same time. He wanted to take the youth with the same abandon as in the rite they had performed under the eyes of another, wilder god, those decades ago. That night imposed itself on the present and his hips seemed to move of their own accord. Langoth grunted as his tempo increased, as the druid rutted him, heedless as an animal.

A moan escaped Halsin’s lips as he sank himself up to hilt into the youth writhing and groaning below him. Distantly, he heard the youth call his name, begging him. He grasped Langoth’s hips, taking him deeper than ever before even as his climax blindsided him, crashing over him like a wave. He finished with a muffled cry as he came inside the youth, bowing his head over him and releasing a shuddering breath.

Below him, Langoth was still but for his breathing. Halsin rested his head on the ranger’s back as he caught his own breath, only to see the power of their joining had activated some of the ancient magic on the stone table, making the runes glow. This was the moment, he realized--under the stars’ vigil, under the eyes of the gods themselves, by dint of ancient rite--that their bond had been forever sealed.

#bg3 Halsin #halsin #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #fanfic #fanfiction #halsin/omc langoth

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