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boogiewrites · 3 years

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Never Break the Chain Pt. 4

Part 4 of 5

Characters: Javier Peña x OFC

Summary: Esme is left with the harsh reality of her feelings with Javi and what loving him means. Lead by her heart and her gut she leaps into action to try to secure her hopes of having a future with him. But in their line of work, things can take a turn for the worse in a second.

Warnings/Tags: Injury. Canon Typical Violence. Life or Death.

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To hold herself together in times of distress Esme had to fall apart from time to time when she was alone. Tonight was going to be one of those times. She secluded away in her small hideaway in the mountains. She had always enjoyed her own company, knowing the difference between being alone and being lonely, but the latter was heavy on her back as she sat red-eyed on the bed, looking out the plantation shuttered double doors in her bedroom.

Her mind couldn’t decide if talking to Javi had been a mistake or not. She felt every buried emotion in a rush that left her a sloppy, blotchy mess. There was no one around for kilometers to hear her, so she let it all out. The rosary she’d mentioned to Javi was occupying her hands as she bounced her legs, full of anxious energy.

Before, the consequences of knowing Javi were something she could deflect, although the coincidence of knowing a cop from over four thousand km away from her childhood would be a hard sell, she hadn’t worried drastically about it. The more intricate reality of how she felt about him was what she was wrestling with. The fact that she had seen him, touched him, talked to him were no longer what ifs’ or fantasies but hard facts. The fact she was struggling with most intensely was that she was still very much in love with him. Before he was a memory, a myth, a story to be told over drinks. He was now the man in the next town over, sharing her same sentiment in both love and life. They weren’t kids anymore, he’d been right about that. Which meant seeing their lives for what they were in the harsh light of day and not through rose-colored glasses. Where they had wanted to be was no longer a thing to strive for, it’d become a prison of their own making.

She didn’t know if it was her body getting worn or the years of repressed emotions that made her feel so damned exhausted. The thought of going back into the den of the same men that wanted her one love dead suddenly wasn’t as easy to sit with. There were real consequences now. For both of them.

Perhaps it was paranoia, but it’s kept her alive this long. She had her bug-out bag by the bed, rosary wrapped around her wrist, and slept with her shoes on. She rubbed the wooden beads like a worry stone; even though she hadn’t been sure what she believed in for many years. Especially not after the things she’d seen, or the things she’d done. There was a strange comfort knowing Javi had a similar sort of experience. Even if she wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. Maybe he would understand. Maybe he was just as tired as she was. Maybe… she had some hope for a future. She had to talk to him again. This time with a purpose, to ask him to leave with her instead of abandoning him again.

———

As she had following every breakdown, she’d dusted herself off and got back to it the next morning.

In a dress and heels that said, ‘Don't fucking question me.’ She walked into the stone-columned entryway in a powerful man's home. It was a nice morning, not a trace of her collapse the night before remained on her face. She sat poised, with understated jewels glinting in the sun. Yet, her favorite accessories were hidden in places the sun wouldn’t hit, those were her weapons.

She had been establishing herself to get to this client, networking, and performing feats to gain trust in a trust-less circle. Playing it cool, she kept her face set into a lovely neutral but curious. It was a grand promise of cash. She found herself in the right spot for the rule as old as time; supply and demand. If she could seize the articles that had been taken from their owners, she would be compensated with a bigger payday than she’d ever encountered. The sentimentality of the pieces, the danger in the retraction, and the previous failures of those that had come before her secured the pay to be something someone like her could not resist.

“They were in my family... generations ago… before their family decided to fuck over mine we were joined by marriage, then by blood. We have not been able to get them through legal or... other means. But you, Estelle, I believe you have a chance to be successful.”

It was flattering but she was already decided by her motives. Enough money to run. And far. Not to mention a comfortable life on the other side when she sold what she’d accumulated over the years and combined with her savings. She’d played it smart the last few years and pulled the plug on the extravagant lifestyle that had beckoned her to this sort of work in the first place. She saw it as a sign, a dazzling neon one directing her to do it. So with a smile and a handshake, she did.

These people she operated with were not the cartel, but that did not make them just as dangerous. They had their hands in every sort of money stream and political influence. They couldn’t go into this location she was to infiltrate guns blazing, they had to have more finesse and mystery. Which is why they hired out. No connections made for less chance of blowback and made it easier to deny the job was them. And by the time they had to worry about such things, she’d be long gone.

She was being personable, enjoying a cocktail by a sapphire-blue pool and eavesdropping on the conversations around her. While ignoring the guy trying to impress her that had perched next to her she was tuned in to the young man that had a two-way radio by the stone fence that enclosed the pool.

They spoke English from time to time which she found unusual. But if they were looking to not be understood it wasn’t the worst approach. The staff here wouldn’t be able to understand them. Most of the men presumably wouldn’t recognize it either. Esme however spoke fluent English. She was raised by a Mexican mother who pushed her to speak English to fit in in Texas. At home, she was one person, a fluent tongue, and outside she was the brown girl that was berated with “HABLA ENGLAISH?” By every white woman she ran into. It had saved her more than once; when she was younger and especially now.

“The pigs are out today.” A statement she knew wasn’t about the animal was caught.

“Pigs are out every day.”

“They think they’re up to something.”

Esme knew that the people that were being referred to were the drug runners. These mining types didn’t pay much mind to cops, they paid them off when they needed and they were mostly left alone. When you have the foresight to build a public image with legal means of income, it’s easier to hide the sketchy shit.

“The gringo is asking questions.”

One of the white boys must have been trying to gather intel in the force. It could be Javier's partner but she couldn’t know for sure.

“Boss? Do we need to let the boys in town know? Is there going to be anything we don’t want them getting mixed up in?”

He thinks for a moment, Esme seeing him out of the corner of her eye, a squint down the mountain and onto the sprawling city below. “Our boys are in the east today, yes?” a pause and a nod of acknowledgment. “Tell them to come home.”

With that order, her jaw tightens. Esme knew something was going to happen. These men might not be narco’s but they certainly knew them, and ordinarily, they would tip the other off to trouble. Business going as usual was best for all involved. Normally she’d head back to her hideaway, let it all play out. But she knew if there was some trap that Javi’s partner might be falling into, that meant trouble for Javi. She couldn’t stand by idly and wait with that knowledge.

She remained composed, finishing her drink before a schmoozy goodbye, a promise to catch up as soon as plans were made. She acted nonchalant until she was past all the checkpoints, she knew better than to act in any sort of rush. Her little cabana was tucked away out of sight from the road between the deeply nooked mountain homes of powerful men and the city. She tried calling into town, a risk she was willing to take while she scurried to change her clothes and add a gun to her ensemble. She asked for Pena first. When she was informed he was not there she asked for his partner, and the same answer found her. She hung up swiftly, heavily armed but light on information. She knew the east side of the city would be the smallest area she could narrow it down to. She hoped her mind didn’t fail her at calculating where to go.

On her motorbike she darted about the streets, eyes peeled, heading by Javi’s place and finding his car gone, and the oil spots now dry, in its wake. He hadn’t been home in a while. Was it the smartest idea to break into an officer’s apartment? No. But was she? Yes. Javi had always been a researcher, if they were going to be zeroing in on a place, he would’ve been to it already. He was an active learner, not passive. He’d never be satisfied with being told what to do, he had to get in and see, touch, taste, and smell for his own opinion to be formed. She took a quick loop around, finding nothing out of the ordinary and circling back to the front door. The place was nicer than she’d expected, it did smell like liquor and cigarettes but so did he off hours. A little mirror and a catch-all basket by the door on a small table was her target, and inside were matchbooks, places she’d watched him go before buried beneath but one she wasn’t as familiar with on top. A pool hall, which wasn’t Javier’s style, sat like a sore thumb. She took the hint, this must’ve been the place they were headed, or at least close to it. She pulled her hair back and looked at herself once in the mirror before a nod to reassure herself and once again she was back out among the busy streets.

She pulled up and parked by a small marketplace, a casual place to leave her bike while she set off on foot, eyes behind her glasses ready to pick up any little nuance. Sadly seeing a guy with an automatic rifle wasn’t automatically a tell for narco behavior, this part of town was rough, you had to defend yourself. The uptick in the number of guys sauntering in the streets with them did however raise a red flag. She took to the rooftops with light feet, sneaking about and hopping from ledge to tin roof, shimmying up pipes and broken walls to scan. Not many were out on their rooftops, making it easy for her to cover lots of space fast, but that was also a bad sign. Like before a natural disaster happens, the animals clear out. The sentiment was the same.

She found a nice place to camp out, shaded by the sun and out of sight of the street on a corner near the pool hall. She could hear the static of a two-way radio a few buildings over from time to time, each time it made her jolt and she was growing impatient. The only thing that kept her calm was that she hadn’t heard any gunshots, and even that was grasping at straws. She eyes a few streets down, higher-end vehicles in red and blue, one after another. This meant one of two things, narcos or cops. She leaves the safety of her cubbyhole and crawls about to find a way to move quickly. She wasn’t being the most stealthy, leaping from ledges, but she had to follow the cars. Her instincts had been right.

Men in and out of uniform pile out, talking quietly, moving swiftly. Now she had to worry about staying out of sight as she got closer. She saw men on the rooftops she hadn’t noticed before, with sights on their guns and she would bet itchy trigger fingers. The static of a distant radio blurts out, a hushed voice in Spanish says “They’re here. Moving into position.”

It was a trap. The situation made her stomach drop and her pulse quicken. She wanted to be close, to warn them… well, to warn Javi. She was about to insert herself into the narco’s game and that would put a huge target on her back. It would potentially ruin her chances of booking this career-ending job she’d landed. She pulls out her gun, switching the safety off, and lowering herself with burning thighs as she used all her slyness. She could get away with it if she was smart about it... and killed all the witnesses.

She knew between the choices of standing by and watching Javi die, or intervening and getting ousted, she could only live with herself in one of those situations. Better to go out fighting for someone she loved than to be a coward and die with regrets. She jumps ahead, closer to where they seemed to be funneling to, various bursts of static around her as she studies to keep a close eye on not coming across anyone lurking.

She sees that shiny, coiffed head of black hair she’d wanted to run her hands through just days before, the lean build and tight jeans wrapped up in a bulletproof vest. His head was on a swivel, she knew he could look after himself but wasn’t about to take chances. She finds a man on his stomach, gun through a small slot in the wall, and aimed in their direction. She takes her moment patiently, padding foot over foot closer and closer with her gun drawn and her knife at the ready in the other hand. He wore no identifying markings, he wasn’t one of them, he might’ve heard her if he was. He was too zeroed in, potentially coked up so she had to act discreetly. She paused until that coke nose of his itched, hand off the trigger for only a few seconds before she latched and covered his mouth, head back and stabbing in deep to keep him making any sounds. It’s not that she wanted to kill him, she just saw no other way for this interaction to go down.

From here she had a better vantage point and was trying hard to look away from Javi and keep her eyes on every alley and rooftop. She lines up her eye with the scope, seeing it was aimed right at the group, she notices a man across from her, just a slight bit of an angle, an accomplice she assumed. The group moved forward, inching closer to being in between the two guns' direct line of sight. There wasn’t even a need for the sights at this point, a spray could take most of them out in a few seconds. These were calculated kills.

“Dibs on the gringo.” a crackle over the radio in Spanish, then another, “Which? There’s so many.” a hiss of laughter and she hears it from the other side of a half wall. They must’ve had multiple men camped out, she knew they intended to kill as many as possible. She couldn’t scream out, she couldn’t shoot them, she had to find that millisecond between when they would shoot and let their position be known. “When they get to the cars. Wait. Then fire.”

“What if I don’t fuckin’ want to? I want to shoot this smug look off this mother fucker’s face.”

“We won’t get them all if you don’t wait.”

She had pieces of information and tried to see the whole picture. She believed in the car there was a remote bomb being held by one of these sicarios. It’d take a good piece of them out and render them blind. It was a plan that had worked many times, but this time she’d be happy to fuck up a well-laid plan.

“Get the white boy, he’s been snooping. I got the mustache. Asshole fucked my sister.” If this had been any other situation it would’ve made her laugh, or at least crack a smile. But now it gave her a target, a plan of action.

“Maybe if your sister wasn’t a whore.” one laughs then a hiss follows throughout the rooftops among the static.

“Fuck you, man. Shut up or I’ll make sure you get shot today too.”

She moved as quickly as she could, having to backtrack to not be seen and climb over the wall to sneak up on the boy who was claiming Javi as a prize. She hunched over him, taking a chance at being seen, but since she couldn’t make out the placements of any of the other voices, she took her chances. A tension-filled hush fell across the street, no one but the cops out now. She waited for the man to readjust his arm, a sure sign of pulling the trigger shortly. They were holding their breath for the bomb, and she was assuming it was the double-parked cars, waiting for the group to get between them and hit them from all angles.

He swallowed, then popped his neck, settling down, face away from the hole he aimed out of and she took only a second to make up her mind. She shot him in the head as he braced himself.

“TRAP!” she screamed with all the force she could manage, tasting blood as she hit the ground, the cops now on high alert to the rooftops, and the guns fired. She’d given them enough time to duck for cover, having to take out the gunfire from one side of the street herself. She heard the bullets whizzing by as she hunched and ran down to the street, an alleyway where Javi had huddled down a moment before she saw the men barrel down the stairs opposite them. They’d had the same idea. “JAVI!” she screams, gun out and trying to peak from behind a dumpster.

His eyes were wild for the second he met hers. Confusion is all that read on his face, unable to answer under the gunfire.

“FOLLOW ME!” she shouted, firing off rounds to cover him as she motioned him towards her.

“You wanna explain-?” He’s caught off by the bombs in the street going off, knocking him back.

“SHUT UP AND RUN!” she shouts, shoving him forward, “You’re surrounded. Head West!” it’s all they needed, him hitting the pavement as hard as he could and her grabbing him by the vest to jerk him the way she needed. She hoisted him up against walls, all while hearing the men shouting and the stray spray of bullets hitting the corners they’d just passed. She knew they weren’t concentrated west, the men would instinctively run east towards the station, towards the backup, but she knew better.

She raced ahead, a small blocked-off space high up is what she yanks him down into. They don’t speak for a moment, catching their breath and her pushing him down to look out to see if anyone had been able to keep up with them.

“Now can I ask a fucking question?!” he rasps out.

“I got wind of something going down in the east today. So I came. And you should be kissing my ass for saving yours!”

“We were about to-”

“About to get blown the fuck up. Whatever you thought that was, it was a trap.”

“How did you know?” his eyes narrowed at her accusingly.

“I know that look and no, I’m not working with the narcos. I overheard some cronies at my meeting this morning. I narrowed down the options, ran across town and scoped it out, took out two guys, and then...lit the keg and ran.”

He blinks rapidly in response, processing the information.

“Yeah, you’re welcome. They wanted to kill you and your partner pretty bad.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Apparently you fucked one of their sisters?”

"I stand by my response.”

She smiles at him, something he doesn’t expect. He doesn’t have time to react until a few stray bullets hit something near them causing them to hunker down again.

“You could’ve gotten killed you know.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” she rolls her eyes.

“I’m serious.” he grabs her wrist. “I have to deal with you being with these other... assholes and not the ones I deal with. Don’t make me worry twice about you.”

“I’m a big girl. I can handle it. I promise. I wasn’t about to let you walk into an ambush.” she states defensively.

“I’ve made it out before.” he huffs defensively.

“You will until one day you won’t.” when she meets his eyes again, after seeing his soot-covered knuckles wrapped around her wrist, she adds “If I can keep your ungrateful ass around long enough to make up for all the shit I put you through I’m gonna do it.”

He looks her up and down, but not how he had countless times with women, but biding his time to figure out what about that statement he wanted to ask her first. “What do you want me around for if you’re not gonna be there?” It was direct and hurtful, but also a fair point.

She stops looking out and meets his dark eyes to hers, she looked almost offended. “I want to be around,” she says softly. “I just wasn’t sure how.”

“Stay with me. Stop running. I’ll keep you safe.” he moves his hand from her wrist to interlock his fingers into hers.

“Over 20 years and you still haven’t come up with anything else?” she jokes and squeezes his hand. “I did want to talk to you about it. About… us...” she spoke softly and paused, ears perked up to the movement outside.

“What do y-”

“Shh.” a quick and low serious squeeze of his hand. “Someone’s close.”

“Where the fuck are you Javi?” blares out over his radio on his chest. Not a second later, bullets are coming through the back of their hiding spot, scrambling to get out, despite her fighting him, he covers her.

“Rooftop. West.” is grunted out as he and Esme wrestle to be the one to shoot the perpetrator.

She hits his chest and then right in the head, falling in a slump before she notices Javi is no longer hovering and trying to keep her down. A quick turn, intaking the rest of the space, knowing more would be on their way soon, and whether they were cops or sicarios she couldn’t let them find her. In her rush she hasn’t noticed Javi on the ground, she sees his face for only a second, slightly confused before looking at up her the moment she sees his side and hands covered in blood.

“Oh fuck, Javi... no.” She spits out and immediately ducks over him

“S’not... good news sweetheart.” He gives her a smirk, one she’d seen a thousand times on a younger version of his face. She knew with that expression alone it was indeed not good.

She doesn’t get time to react, to even breathe before more shots make her go into survival mode. She covers him, dragging him to a nearby brick wall to at least be safe from one side while she covered the others.

“Can you watch behind me while I look at this?”

“Yeah.” A pause while he holds his gun out. “I can try.”

“Was that your partner on the radio?”

“Yeah should be here soon.”

“Let’s hope so.” She grits her teeth and can’t tell if the shot went straight through, which meant he would probably be okay if it hit in and was now embedded in his stomach. Either way, this wasn’t ideal, to say the least.

“There’s-“

Before he gets it out she’s turned and shooting more men trying to get on the roof, none having the foreign blonde hair and pale skin of his partner.

“You should get out of here... y’know. They’ll ask questions.”

“I’m not leaving you.” She applies pressure to his side and he lets his head fall back to the wall with a heavy breath.

“Now is a hell of a time to start.”

She gives him a hard brow but would normally laugh because he had a point. “I never... ugh.” She grunts in frustration, shooting another man a few rooftops over. “I never wanted to leave you.” She continues trying to figure out the best way to slow the bleeding down. “It's the last thing I wanted to do. You know that right?” She asks to receive no response.

She sees he’s lost consciousness. Now it was proving to be worse than she had hoped. Cursing under her breathe, fighting back tears, the burning making a splitting headache form in her forehead, she uses the only thing in sight she can, taking her shirt off and ripping it tie a makeshift tourniquet around him.

She hears a bark from a man that sounds almost familiar and a dead giveaway as a cop. His partner was almost there. “You’ll be fine Javi.” She whispers, not knowing if she believed it or if he could even hear her. She kisses his cheek and holds his head close for a moment. A few seconds of kissing his hair, trying to forge a deep memory from a rushed moment. Just in case.

“JAVI?!” She hears shouted.

“UP HERE!” she shouts, knowing she had to get away but wasn’t going to leave him until she had to. She was soon not given a choice when orders were barked at her on sight.

She used her savvy, knowing how to get away, even if it was a stretch. “He’s shot.” She says backing away with her hands up to the edge of the roof. “Murphy, please don’t let him die.” She begs as the man’s face softens for a moment, she recognized he must have understood who she was.

The man coming up behind him however didn’t. He fires off a shot, hitting her and forcing her to make an abrupt jump from the rooftop.

“SHIT!” Murphy barks again and shoves the other man’s gun to aim down at the ground. “Don’t shoot HER!” He shouts in the man’s face. “She was helping him! Can’t you see that?!” He runs to the edge, looking down and seeing nothing but a dumpster and a few drops of blood on the pavement. Javi had been right. She was good.

@jaegeeeeer @likedovesinthewnd @inkededucatednnerdy @biharryjames @ladamari68 @past-romantic @weliketomoveit @shikin83

#Javier Pena #Javier Pena Fanfic #javier pena x reader #javier pena fic #javier pena fan fic

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harlot-of-oblivion · 5 years

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Sweet Sacrilege

It's been a month since you revealed your vampiric nature to Vergil and you're still trying to quell one of the most crippling flaws of your curse. This is a continuation of Partake of Me.

I figured spooky spice would make a good treat for all of ya'll on this Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain. Enjoy! 💕

There is nothing quite like walking through a cemetery in the middle of the night, even if it is really cliché for you, a vampire, to enjoy a midnight stroll among the dead buried deep beneath the ground. As you pass by a grand memorial you muse that in order for it to be cliché, there must be some truth to it. There is a certain peace that hangs in the air that never fails to soothe your undead soul. Perhaps it is the various gravestones and statues that glisten in the moonlight or the odd tranquility of death. Whatever it may be, it never fails to distract you from your troubled thoughts as you ponder the mysteries of the lives laid to rest.

As you make your way towards the back of the cemetery, your mind goes back to how you ended up there walking alone…agonizing over how utterly weak you must appear in the eyes of your lover now. After that momentous night in the motel, you and Vergil have been together romantically for a month. A shiver runs down your spine as you reminisce about all the long nights writhing in pleasure between his sheets and whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ear. And his blood…never have you fed so well in all your immortal life.

I could say the same for him, you wryly thought as you rub the side of your neck, almost feeling the tingling imprint of his ravenous bite. With all the noise that goes on during those nights, it is no wonder that Dante quickly finds out about your intimate relationship with his brother. Sometimes you catch him wearing a shit-eating grin when you pass by him, but he never asks about it. Neither does he question the bloody sheets that end up in the wash with his clothes. There is no denying that he knows about your vampiric nature now and you kind of expected him to confront you about it, but nothing is ever simple with Dante around.

Instead, he has been testing out every trick in the book that reveals vampires for the past few weeks: crucifixes, holy water, garlic…he even placed a mirror in every single room! It is just a shame that not all of those tricks actually work. You are not averse to any holy symbols or blessed water, and garlic just plain stinks. You do not cast a reflection though, so it has been a bit tricky to navigate the shop without passing one of those damn mirrors. He even baited you to cross running water one day after a really bad thunderstorm. And you have no doubt that if there is a large body of water nearby, he would test out whether or not you can walk across it.

Vergil smirks every time you complain about his brother’s antics. He always suggests that perhaps you should just tell Dante when you are done ranting and raving. And you always tell him that you do not want to give his brother the satisfaction…you will damn well tell Dante when you feel like it. Plus, it is kind of entertaining to see what new tactic he takes and the shocked expression he tries to hide every time his little test goes awry. You still have a giggle fit every time you remember his confusion when you put on the rosary and take a swig of holy water out of its decanter before dramatically flipping your hair and saunter off into the next room…and then surreptitiously spit the water out into a nearby rubbish bin.

Such a shame. It was all going so well…until you fucked it all up.

You growl at your pessimistic thought as you stalk through the oldest part of the cemetery. The upkeep of this section is obviously neglected, nature retaking the stone slabs with every overgrown plant creeping along its surface. It very rarely receives any visitors, abandoned and forgotten long ago by the living. As your preternatural eyes scan the surrounding gnarled trees and old graves, your mind decides to torment itself by going over the incident that brought you here to begin with.

It is absurd. You know that Dante did not mean to tap into one of your curses most primal fears. You are watching Vergil spar with his brother, admiring his strong physique and his agile legs as they glide gracefully across the floor. In between their bouts, Dante regales you with a colorful account of the quiptoth tree. Normally, you only half hear his ridiculous stories, distracted by Vergil’s smug grin as he purposefully stretches his body in the most delightful way. But this one held your attention, totally engrossed as he boasts about how much blood he had to wade through as he made his way through the tree. You suspect that this is another one of his tactics to out you as a vampire, but you cannot help the stirring of your hunger as you imagine Vergil covered from head to toe in blood…it would truly be a delectable sight!

All of your lustful fantasies come to a screeching halt as Dante tenses and suddenly turns around. He dodges to the side, no longer blocking your view of Vergil and you catch a glimpse of the Yamato as it flashes straight at you. Your insidious paranoia kicks into high gear as you fight the intense urge to flee as far away as possible. You know deep down that Vergil will redirect his attack, but it is incredibly difficult to override your terrified thoughts while in the beginning stages of a potential fear frenzy.

But then Dante just had to make it worse by wielding fire. Seeing those deadly flames blazing so close to your face turns your last shred of control to dust. You can still see the horrifying look on Vergil’s face as you dash away from the fire. A vicious hiss escapes your lips as you exit the building as fast as possible, using some of your blood to bolster your unnaturally swift retreat. It is only once you reach the cemetery do you let yourself slow down, letting its tranquility wash over you and calm your fears.

Your peace of mind slowly turns into shame as you finally arrive at your favorite mausoleum. Its gothic architecture shines like a beacon in the night as the crosses on the roof cast eerie shadows on the stairs leading up to it. A lone stone altar rests at the foot of the stairs, empty flower vases adorning its forsaken surface. A trio of winged stone statues surround the altar, hands pressed in pray as they mourn the loss of poor souls. You push aside the vases to make room before hopping on top of the altar, laying down to gaze up at the stars as guardian angels woefully loom over you.

As the ever-burning orbs twinkle in the night sky you cannot help but smile as you recall the fond name Vergil likes to use in private. The grin falters though, knowing that after that display of weakness, you may very well not hear his sensuous voice refer to you as his Evening Star ever again. Your mind starts to whirl, trying to figure out how to even begin explaining to him that…you are utterly terrified of the Yamato.

Before you revealed yourself as a vampire, you had the constant fear of him turning that powerful blade against you if he ever found out. You used to have crippling nightmares of him lobbing your head clean off your shoulders, his handsome face never showing remorse as he mercilessly cuts you down. When he shows you that he means you no harm, you thought that would be enough to alleviate your fears…but apparently, you were horribly mistaken. And now, here you are…hanging out in a somber cemetery as you stare into the void and wallow in self-pity like the damned cliché that you are.

He deserves someone free of this damn bloody curse.

He deserves someone better than you.

The sound of distant footsteps startles you out of your gloomy contemplation. An annoyed hiss escapes your lips as you quickly sit up, displeased that you have to deal with an unwanted visitor. I’m really not in the mood for drunk teenagers or creepy cultist, you thought wryly. You decide that it would be best to just cloak yourself in the shadows of their mind and hide until they hopefully move on. It only takes a moment to render yourself essentially invisible to the naked eye. All you need to do is stay perfect still to maintain this state while waiting for them to pass by and hope they do not linger long.

A light breeze blows by and you catch a familiar scent: crisp and clean snow in the dead of winter. Your eyes snap over just as your devilish paramour rounds the corner of the pathway leading up to the mausoleum. Even in your miserable state you cannot help but to admire Vergil from afar. His slicked back white hair glows in the ethereal light of the moon. And his stoically striking face never fails to stoke the flames of desire inside you. He is wearing his usual blue attire, and as he gets closer you spot the Yamato by his side. The sudden impulse to run courses through your body, but you are able keep your composure and stay motionless.

The direction of the wind changes. Your scent must have been carried along with it because Vergil abruptly pauses and takes a deep breath. Being the Son of Sparda gives him many advantages, such as heightened senses on par with a vampire. You feel pretty confident that he will figure out where you are shortly. His silver blue eyes gleam as he strides purposefully along the well-worn path until he stops just in front of the stone altar. You remain silent and still, testing him to see if he can detect your concealed presence.

Vergil examines the trio of angels and the empty flower vases you moved to the side. His brow crinkles in thought as he touches a faint mark left behind by one of the vases. Then those stunning eyes glance over in your direction as his hand reaches out towards your face. One corner of your mouth lifts into a smirk as his warm fingers caress your cheek. You let go of the shadows obscuring you from his vision as you lean into his gentle touch. He grins in victory as his thumb strokes your chin.

“There you are, my Evening Star.”

Your smirk widens at the sound of his endearment before wilting a bit. “I don’t really feel very proud at the moment…more like dreadful,” you joke with downcast eyes.

Vergil gently lifts your chin and meets your eyes. “Tell me of your troubles, Y/N. Perhaps I can help.”

You shake your head glumly. “You can’t help me with this. It’s just another part of my curse.” A dejected sigh escapes your lips. “If I was older or stronger…but in all honesty, I shouldn’t have been distracted by Dante.”

“You did seem quite enthralled by his tale,” he comments, clearly amused as his hand sweeps your hair out of your face and brushes it delicately behind your ear.

“I couldn’t help it!” you exclaim wildly. “It’s damn near impossible to keep my hunger in check when the handsome devil you constantly crave is looking mighty scrumptious!”

Vergil chuckles as he takes a step closer and presses his lips to your forehead. The feel of his soft lips against your cold skin makes you gasp as pleasant tingles erupt throughout your body. Your head lifts up just as he bends down and both of your lips meet in a passionate kiss. You moan softly and scoot closer to him, moving so your feet dangle off the edge of the stone altar. A low hum of appreciation emanates from his throat when you wrap your legs around his waist and your hands slide up his chest. His wicked tongue swipes at your bottom lip, demanding to explore your mouth, and you allow him entry as your tongue bids him welcome. You are instantly lost in his kiss, relishing the feel of his body warming your skin as his hand moves down and squeezes your hip.

Vergil softly withdraws and releases your lips after a few more teasing strokes of his tongue. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says while nuzzling his face close to your ear.

“I know. It’s just…” you trail off, not wanting admit it out loud.

“You’re afraid of the Yamato.”

You shiver at his forthright words. “I’m not-”

Vergil quickly lifts the Yamato and pops the hilt away from its sheath. You instantly react like a spooked cat, hissing and spitting as you try to back away from the object of your fear. The vice grip on your waist prevents you from getting far though. “Shh…it’s alright,” he gently reassures as he pulls you close. It takes a few more words of comfort before you to calm down and rest your head on his shoulder, blocking the Yamato from your view.

“I would never turn its blade upon you,” he solemnly promises as his hand rubs your back.

“I know, I know,” you mutter against his coat. “I’m just weak.”

“You are not weak,” he counters as he moves away and coaxes you to stare into his fierce eyes by resting his forehead against your brow. “I will not tolerate any form of self-contempt from one of the strongest women I have ever known.”

You smile sadly and nod your head in acknowledgement of his complimentary words. “You’re right…it’s just a deep-seated fear of swords beheading me,” you lament before leaning in and giving his pouty lips a soft peck. Your head tilts to the side as you offer an afterthought. “At least it’s not as bad as the threat of fire though.”

Vergil is quiet as he gazes pensively into your eyes. “I cannot do much about your fear of flames,” he admits after a few moments, “but I do believe I can ease your mind about the Yamato.”

Your brow furrows in curiosity. “How?”

“You once feared that I would destroy you, correct?” he gently prods as his hand slowly glides up your back.

“Yeah…kind of a confusing time for me,” you mumble, the embarrassment of that mere fact evident in your voice as your eyes tear away from his intense stare. “Fearing the very object of your desire.”

“But I managed to assuage your fear,” he starts as his hand reaches the back of your neck. “…and your desire,” he adds, the tone of his sensuous voice dropping low as he grasps the side of your neck. His thumb tenderly strokes the sensitive skin at the crook of your neck…one of his favorite spots to bite and partake of you. “That night I proved to you that I meant no harm.”

You sigh in pleasure as your head turns to bare more of your neck to him. “Where are you going with this, Vergil?”

“Do you trust me?” he asks gravely.

Your eyes immediately dart over to meet his gaze in earnest. “Yes. Wholeheartedly.”

Vergil smirks and gives you a hard kiss before motioning you to hop off the altar. You follow his lead, thinking that he means to take you back to the shop and straight to his room. Your body trembles in excitement as your mind shuffles through all the erotic possibilities that may happen in his bed. He guides you a couple of steps away from the altar before telling you to stop in your tracks. You quirk an eyebrow as he backs a few feet away and takes an offensive stance. Your eyes widen in shock as his right hand grasps the Yamato’s handle.

“Don’t move,” he commands, pinning you with the most intense glare you have ever witnessed on his gorgeous face. You close your eyes as your body trembles again, but this time in apprehension as you once again fight the urge to run. He won’t hurt me…I trust him. Using all of your willpower, you strengthen your resolve and manage to quell your instinctual response. You open your eyes and give Vergil a slight nod, letting him know you are ready for whatever comes next.

All is quiet and calm. The only sound in the cemetery now is the autumn breeze howling through the trees. Both of you are as motionless as the stone angels surrounding the altar for what feels like hours…until Vergil furrows his brow in concentration and a sudden series of bright blue flashes whiz by you in quick succession. Your body seizes up as you slam your eyes shut. It only lasts for a few seconds, but you still struggle to follow his instructions to remain still.

Your eyes crack open just as Vergil is sheathing his sword with utmost style and grace. When the hilt of the sword snaps against the scabbard, you hear the soft ripping of cloth before the dress you are wearing falls to the ground in pieces. You jump back and hiss in annoyance as you stare daggers at the smug devil currently grinning at your skimpy undergarments: a set of matching black bra and panties along with garters holding up your black nylon stockings. Your hands settle on your hips as you tap your high heeled foot in irritation.

“You better buy me another dress, Vergil.”

His nasally cocky laugh bursts out as he walks back to you, making you huff indignantly as your head turns away from him with your nose up in the air. The sizzling warmth of his body heat engulfs you as his right arm encircles your waist. “I will buy only the best for you,” he whispers against the top of your head, making you feel weak in the knees as you look up at him. “You did well, Y/N.”

Vergil pushes you back against the stone altar and quickly pulls you into a heated kiss. Your agitation instantly disappears as it is quickly replaced by a simmering hunger. His tongue pushes past your wanting lips and begins to lick your elongated fangs. A sultry groan escapes your throat as your arms whip around his neck, begging him to stop his teasing and give you have a taste. You feel him smile against your mouth as he softly laps at your fangs a few more times…then swiftly cuts the flat of his tongue against the point of your fang.

His rich blood touches your tongue and ramps your hunger up to a higher degree as you moan in satisfaction. You lose yourself in the familiar flavor of his exquisite nectar as a soothing warmth seeps through your body. It is exactly how a steaming cup of mulled wine used to heat you up in the darkest of winter nights. You are so deeply taken by the greedy kiss that you almost do not feel the soft caress on the back of your thigh…or the firm press of something hard on your bottom.

You release his mouth with a soft purr and realize that both of his hands are now holding you close. Your eyes flit around as you wonder where Vergil put the Yamato. He grins in amusement as he moves his left hand…and you feel something rub your leg, butt, and back in unison. You look over your shoulder and blink in disbelief as you notice that the Yamato is still in his hand. The decorative hand guard is grazing your back as the sheath strokes the curve of your ass and the back of your legs.

“Did you forget to put the Yamato down or…?” you question, glancing back over at Vergil as your body begins to fidget against the impressively long sword.

Vergil’s grin turns utterly wicked. “I am not quite done with the Yamato yet.”

Before you can ask the meaning behind his odd statement, he spins you around and presses your back against his chest. You are now facing the stone altar and numerous eyes of praying angels. The hand holding the Yamato rests against your hip while the other brushes your hair away from one side of your neck. A low rumbling purr enters your ear as he nuzzles that side of your face.

“Even angels cannot compare to your beauty,” he boldly claims before kissing your cheek tenderly. “My heaven.” His lips trail down and kiss your slender neck. “My night.” The tip of his nose grazes the skin on the crook of your neck before giving it an affectionate bite. “My Evening Star.”

You gasp out in pleasure as you reach up and rakes your fingers through his lustrous hair. His hands grip your hips hard as he grinds into your bottom and you feel the unmistakable outline of his erection against your voluptuous bottom. A desperate moan passes your lips as his mouth leaves your neck. Your growing excitement turns into slight alarm when he brings up the Yamato at arm’s length in front of you. His thumb pops the hilt and your body immediately quakes as you try to back away, but his strong frame blocks your escape.

“Shh…it’s okay,” Vergil whispers calmly by your ear. “Allow me the chance to put your mind at ease once and for all,” he softly persuades as his free hand gives your hip a comforting squeeze.

He will not hurt me. He will not hurt me. He will not hurt me.

You chant this like a mantra in your head, willing your body to listen and settle down. Your fearful shivering gradually diminishes until you fully relax, reminding yourself that you are safe in his warm embrace. Vergil lets out a pleased hum as you turn your head and kiss his neck just above the collar of his vest. His right hand leaves your hip and grasps the Yamato’s intricate handle. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he steadily unsheathes the blade. The pale moonlight glitters off of the sharp edge as he displays it in all its brilliant glory.

“It’s a shame you cast no reflection,” he murmurs as he rests the hand holding the sheath on your waist. “Your eyes would no doubt add a certain allure to the Yamato’s blade.”

Vergil turns the sword so the flat of the blade is horizontally facing you and, sure enough, your image is nowhere to be seen on its shiny surface. Instead, you only see a pair of soft smirking lips as they kiss your temple. You laugh softly as he once again shifts the Yamato so that the back of the blade is now facing you. His thumb on your waist gently strokes your skin as he begins to slowly bring the blade closer, closer, and closer still…until it touches your chest. Your body jolts on contact, prompting more consoling whispers and soothing touches from the composed devil behind you.

When you confirm that you are fine with a slight nod, he slides the Yamato across the top of your breasts, making you quiver underneath its smooth blade. The glossy metal glides on your skin until the end of the sword slips delicately under one strap of your bra. It drags back across your chest, careful not to cut the strap just yet as it slips under the other one. Vergil pauses for a moment as your hands reach behind you and clutch at his coat tightly. Then, with a quick flick of the wrist, he easily cuts the straps before instantly bringing the tip of the Yamato just below the center of your bra. You whimper as he slides the sword underneath, grazing your skin with the flat of blade until it reaches your neck. There is another brief pause before he turns the blade and completes his unique way of removing your underwear.

The cups of your bra fling to the side, baring your breasts for all to the heavenly angels to see. As the tattered remains of your bra fall to the ground, Vergil sheaths the Yamato and spins you around to face him. He growls as he kneels down and buries his face in between your breasts, quickly nipping and licking his way underneath the curve of one breast. You cry out as both of your hands comb through his hair, pushing your breast closer to his questing mouth. His free hand slides down your back and grasps one side of your bottom as his tongue licks a trail up your breast. The tip of his tongue flicks your nipple a couple of times before fully capturing it with his mouth, sucking on it just enough to have you moaning above him.

You are so distracted by his lavish mouth that you do not even notice where the Yamato went off to until you sense something slip between your legs. The slightly smooth texture of its sheath feels surprisingly good as it caresses the inside of your thigh, causing you to spread your legs as it climbs higher up. Vergil releases your breast and proceeds to lick the other just as the sword reaches the apex of your thighs. His eyes dart up to meet your lustful gaze while he firmly presses the sheath against your damp panties.

A strangle cry of elation slips from your mouth when the Yamato starts to languidly thrust back and forth, rubbing deliciously against your clothed sex. Vergil is practically purring around your nipple as you lift one of your legs and place it on his shoulder. Your hips rock in time with his thrust, desperately trying to relieve the blissful tension between your legs. Of all the scenarios that could have happened during your stroll in the local cemetery, you did not foresee being pleasured by the very sword that frightens you. And yet, here you are…seeking out your orgasm while praying angels watch what is undoubtedly a titillating show.

Vergil releases your breast and gazes up at you in awe. “My, what a vision you are…riding my most treasured possession,” he declares as said treasured possession quickens its pace between your legs. “Tell me…does it feel good? Does the Yamato make you exquisitely wet?”

The shuttering moan that spills from your lips causes the corner of his mouth to lift into a smug grin as your hands grip his head tighter against your chest. “Yes! Oh, Vergil,” you whimper as your hips move faster against the Yamato. The familiar pressure of an impending orgasm starts to build up, but you are only able to achieve a few more strokes before Vergil abruptly pushes your hips against the edge of the stone altar. You groan in frustration as he removes the Yamato, teasing you one last time with it as the sheath slides away from your aching core. He leans back a little and gently takes your leg off his shoulder before drawing his blade once more. This time you do not flinch away as he cuts your panties off in a speedy manner.

The small scrap of lacy fabric drops to the ground, your sheer nylon stockings and garters the only remaining garments on your person now. You look down and catch Vergil staring at your bare sex as he sheathes the sword, grunting softly when he sees just how sopping wet the Yamato has really made you. He bolts up and crushes his lips against yours as he easily lifts you up onto the altar. His hands trail down your thighs, calloused fingers playfully pulling at your garters before hooking behind your knees and spreading your legs wide.

Vergil breaks away from your begging lips and stares deeply into your eyes. “I find myself overwhelmingly dressed…pleasure yourself while I remedy that,” he demands before taking a step back, “…using the Yamato,” he finishes, both hands holding the deadly weapon out in front of you.

If you still had a pulse, your heart would surely have skipped a beat right then. Vergil watches you patiently as your shaking hands reach out, nervously inching ever closer to the offered sword. When your fingers wrap around the sheath, a thrilling chill runs up your arms and all throughout your body. Your eyes glance up at Vergil as you carefully lift the Yamato, silently asking him if he is really sure about this.

His eyes examine the surrounding statues before turning back to you. “Show these virtuous angels the true meaning of sacrilege.” He gives you an encouraging nod as he releases his grip on the sheath and takes a few more steps back.

As you bring the Yamato closer to your body, you cannot help but admire its harmonious design. The top end of the handle easily reaches your shoulder as you tilt it vertically and place it on the ground. Its smooth sheath feels akin to plush leather rather than wood, perhaps softened over time by the blood of his enemies. You lightly rub your hands up the length of the sheath, surmising that its slightly porous surface would add some extra stimulation. Your fang bites your lower lip as your keen eyes notice the course wrapping on the handle, enjoying its mesmerizing pattern as your fingers trace along its path.

You adjust the Yamato between your legs and tentatively press the sheath against your silken sex. It is pleasantly warm despite cold night air. Your desire rises once more as you begin to slide the Yamato leisurely up and down in between your slick lips, softening its surface even more with your arousal. The sheath feels sensational, pulling in all the right ways as it sporadically strokes your sensitive nub. You arch your back to press one of your breasts against the handle and let the intricate wrapping tease your nipple, making you groan as you slowly sink into an ecstatic stupor.

A string of pleasant sighs and sensual moans soon fill the night air as your eyes flicker over to Vergil, who is gazing at you intently and palming the bulge in his leather pants. You are vaguely aware that he is no longer wearing his coat, gloves, and vest. The sight of his bare chest makes your toes curl in your heels as you move the Yamato faster. His silver blue eyes seem to glow as they linger all over your body, totally enraptured by the lewd display of utter depravity. You can feel your own arousal getting more thicker as that familiar tension returns, prompting you to pick up the pace and chase your pleasure.

Vergil only takes a couple of long strides before he is standing right in front of you, his eyes never straying from the Yamato pumping between your legs. His sudden close proximity has you moaning louder as the scent of fresh snow wafts under your nose. You eye the side of his neck greedily as the craving for his blood mixes with the rising pressure of your imminent orgasm. This does not escape his notice as he rests his hands on either side of you on the altar. His pouty lips form a cocky grin as he tilts his head to the side, showing off the perfectly smooth skin of his neck.

“Do you hunger for a taste?”

A guttural groan tears itself out of your throat in response to his tempting taunt before you can stop it. You glare at him and display your fangs as they extend in anticipation, warning him with an angry hiss to stop teasing the bloodthirsty vampire currently pleasuring herself with a dangerous weapon. He chuckles at your venomous reaction before leaning in closer, baring his neck for your feasting eyes as you feel the beginning thrums of your orgasm stir deep inside you.

“Partake of me while you come on the Yamato, my Evening Star.”

The soft thrums of pleasure escalate quickly as your sharp eyes stare longingly at his neck, complying with his wicked demand as the Yamato slides faster between your legs. The cadence of your cries of passion speed up as it rises higher and higher. You strike at Vergil’s neck right when it swells at its highest point. Your climax blessedly breaks forth just as his crimson nectar floods into your needy mouth, convulsing and pulsing against the Yamato as your muffled screams of ecstasy echo in the night.

Vergil growls in your ear while you take your fill of his blood, his hands caressing your legs gently as you practically ride the Yamato through your hazy orgasm. When your pleasure finally starts to recede, he grabs your knees and stretches them further apart. You detach your fangs from his neck as he straightens up and inspects the mess you have made, smirking at the sight of your arousal leaking down the sheath. He takes your bloody chin in his hand and guides you into a scorching kiss, grunting softly when one of your fangs nips at his bottom lip. You clutch the Yamato tighter against your chest as his tongue sweeps over every inch of your mouth before breaking away.

“I do believe,” he began as his hand grasps the Yamato at the hilt, “you have successful shown the angels…” He removes the sword from between your legs and holds up the sheath close to his face. The thick slick from your orgasm shines in the moonlight as he breathes in your aroused scent. “That you…” he pauses as his devilish tongue peeks out and licks the wet sheath, moaning softly at the taste of you before uttering “…are sin incarnate.”

You moan as Vergil laps the remnants of your orgasm off the Yamato while staring straight into your eyes, silently daring you to not look away as he savors every last drop of you. When he finishes cleaning the sheath, he slides it under both your knees and gently lifts them into the air, subtly instructing you to lie back on the altar. You can feel your stockings stretch and your garters tighten as the Yamato bends your knees close to your chest and holds them apart in place, leaving you completely as the mercy of the devil currently admiring your blooming center.

Vergil hums as his lips graze down the inside of one of your thighs, stopping when they get to a particular vein close to your center…another one of his spots to drink from you. He licks and nips at your sensitive skin, making your dripping heat reawaken and pleasantly pulse. “I will never tire of seeing your quivering sex as I…” he whispers darkly against your skin before biting down hard. Only a small gasp of pain passes from lips before you are moaning in delight as he licks and sucks at your thigh, growling in gratification as he indulges himself on your own redolent blood.

Your body shakes as the pleasant pull of his lips makes you ache with need once more. After only a few deep draws of your blood, one of your hands grasp the Yamato between your knees while the other hand reaches down and rapidly rubs your aching clit. Vergil grunts against your thigh and drinks a few more mouthfuls of blood before he steadily licks his way towards your twitching mound. When he gets to your entrance his tongue pushes into you fully and begins to pump in time with your hand. Another orgasm rips through your body after only a few more precise strokes, his tongue never wavering from its rhythm as it draws out moan after moan from you.

When your pleasure dies down again, he removes his tongue and gently lowers your legs with the Yamato. You lay there on the altar for a moment to recollect yourself before cracking your eyes open. The judgmental eyes of the stone angels come into view as the sound of rustling clothes brings you back down to reality. You carefully sit back up on the altar and immediately purr at the sight of Vergil’s naked body. He is still holding the Yamato in one hand and his dripping red lips smile softly as the other hand reaches up to caress your cheek.

“Have I fully eased your mind yet?” he asks sincerely.

You laugh and nod as you lean into his hand and kiss the inside of his palm. “Yes…but I might need a bit more convincing,” you insist playfully as your eyes glance down at his hard member. “You up for some more blasphemy?” you ask suggestively as you reach down and give his cock a firm stroke.

Vergil snarls and quickly snaps into action. He hops onto the altar with you and sits on the heels of his feet before pulling your back flush with chest, nestling his cock between your wet heat as you sit fully on his muscular thighs. You wiggle your hips and rub your sex along his hard length, teasing him a little before angling yourself over his cock. He grasps himself and teases you back by circling your entrance with the tip of his cock before holding it steady. You slowly sink down until the head of his cock is fully inside you, knowing that his eager hands will soon be on your hips to guide you the rest of the way.

And sure enough, his hands gently squeeze your hips as they slowly pull you halfway down his length until his own hips snap forward and fully sheaths his cock inside you. He grabs the Yamato and you whimper as he sets it up between your legs, pressing it firmly against your mound and chest as he begins to thrust fervently. Your head falls back on his shoulder as your hands clutch his legs for dear life, mewling and keening at the mind-blowing sensation of both the Yamato and Vergil pleasuring you in unison.

It does not take you long to come again, sobbing and writhing in his lap as he rides through your orgasm. Vergil grunts in your ear and moves the Yamato horizontally across your hips, slowing down his thrusts as he leads you down onto all fours. You bend down low and rest on your elbows while the Yamato holds your hips up. He thrusts with renewed vigor, setting a brutal pace that pounds his cock even deeper inside you. All you can do at this point is whimper desperately as you feel another orgasm rising.

“Please,” you beg softly, “come with me, Vergil.”

You feel his cock twitch and thicken at your plea. Vergil growls and pulls your hips closer into his frenzied thrusts. As your wet heat begins to convulse around him, you feel the warmth of his seed gush inside you. Both of your screams of passion form a chorus of pleasure for the angels as they behold your final sin of commission on the altar.

His thrusting gradually comes to a halt before he carefully removes the Yamato. With nothing to bar your hips any longer, your legs practically melt and you faintly feel Vergil help you lie down on the altar before disengaging from your warmth. You steep in your blissful haze as he lies next to you and scoops your body up into his arms. He gently rubs your back and brushes your hair as you slowly come back to your senses. When you finally regain some clarity, you cuddle up closer to his chest and nuzzle his neck affectionately.

Vergil hums and tilts his head to the side to give you better access for your fangs. “What a profound end to sweet sacrilege,” he murmurs against your forehead as you bite down and feed.

You giggle against his neck as you slake your thirst. After you are done taking your fill, you close the mark with a swipe of your tongue and look up at him. “I am no stranger to sacrilege…being eternally damned and all,” you remark candidly.

“And yet holy symbols and such have no effect on you like it should…” Vergil discerns as his eyes squint at the crosses on the flower vases and on top of the mausoleum.

You shrug. “They are classics…but not all vampires have the same flaws.”

“What other flaws do you suffer from?” he asks as his chin rests on your forehead.

“Listen.”

Both of you stay silent for almost a minute, the only sounds present in the cemetery are the wind and Vergil’s soft breathing. He turns his head and scans the area with utmost alertness before speaking. “It’s strangely silent.” His eyes peer down at you. “No chirping insects or the stirrings of other nocturnal creatures.”

You nod sagely. “My presence terrifies most animals. They just flee in horror as soon as I come within a certain distance of them.”

Vergil quirks an eyebrow. “Most?”

“It doesn’t seem to affect bats, rats, and wolves…so, I guess I can have any of them as pets?” you joke with a cheeky grin.

A deep chuckle resounds in Vergil’s chest as he caresses your cheek in wonder. After a few more moments of comfortable silence, both of you decide it is time to head home. You complain about not having any clothes to wear, since someone thought it was a good idea to just cut your dress and underwear to pieces. Vergil only smirks and gives your bottom a light smack as he hands you his signature blue coat. You put on the offered coat, trying your best to look disgruntled as you resist the urge to smile. But when he leans down and whispers how lovely the Yamato looked against your skin at it sliced through your panties…well, how can anyone not smile at that?

When Vergil is done putting on the rest of his attire, he grabs the Yamato off the altar and offers you his free hand. You take it and follow his lead as he pulls you to stand in front of him. He lets go of your hand, wraps his arm around your waist, and embraces you from behind as he gives the side of your neck a tender kiss. A warm smile graces your lips as you hum at his affectionate attention. His lips gracefully trail up your neck and nuzzle the side of your head before whispering gently into your ear.

“Is my Evening Star proud once more?”

“Very much so.” You turn your head and meet his eyes. “All thanks to you, Vergil,” you reply with total sincerity in your voice. “And the Yamato,” you tack on as you clasp his hand holding the magnificent weapon, lift it up close to your face, and give the tip of the handle a soft kiss.

Adoration ignites within those captivating eyes at your heartfelt words. You lift your head up and press a tender kiss against his lips just as Vergil swiftly opens a portal back to the shop. And as you follow your devilish lover back home, you realize that you have never felt happier in all your eternal life.

Read on Ao3

My Master List if you want more. ❤

Read the follow up here 😘

Tagging: @drusoona @thedyingmoon @bettybattaglia @nalax9 @veenus-ow @cherryvane @fandomhell97 @queenmuzz @flipping-fan-tastic @clevermentalitybeliever @just-an-adventurer @lewdbunbun @a-midsummer-nights-odyssey

#vergil #vergil x reader #devil may cry #dmc 5 #vampire spice #vampire reader #blood #vampire bites #sweet sacrilege #yamato play #there's no cutting btw #spooky spice in the cemetery #with a dash of blasphemy #make love with the yamato #harlot writes

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momo-de-avis · 5 years

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Wordtober Day 6: Build 2.0

Yall, I cheated. And am also late. I couldn’t get anything done with ‘husky’, so I decided to prolonge my previous prompt, as the last one didn’t give me room to fully explore my idea. So... be warned that this is... quite long. Possibly very long. I leave that up to you.

It’s a continuation of this one

𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚓𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟷𝟿𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟸𝟻𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟷, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝙿𝚊𝚣.

Dani and I had done this before, many times. We’d had our fair share of paranormal investigation—sometimes just plain investigation—and most of the times, it even amounts to nothing, if not a slight disruption of a picture or the ‘mysterious noises’ turning out to be either stray cats or a group of teenagers setting a horror movie set for strangers. But the Maduro case was peculiar to us. It was Dani who suggested we’d investigate the Maduro case, and she always did seem rather curious about the outlines of the case.

We did the needed investigation before we got there. Aside from some news articles, there was the original 1983 police report, which looks… sloppy, rushed, and honestly, not like they were even trying at all. The majority of the photos vanished, supposedly lost in mishandling of paperwork, except three—the ones well known—and both disappearances were chalked up under ‘runaway children’, despite the fact that Samuel Maduro was 15 and Aura 28 at the time of each of their disappearances.

We knew the house had belonged to Aura after her parents, and before that, to Amelia and Augusto Maduro, the grandparents, who used to own a quarry up until 1939, when they sold their part of the business to Mr Maduro’s partner. At the time, we couldn’t really find the reason why they sold it, though what we did conclude afterwards is nothing short of speculation, so we just assumed it to be some sort of financial strain. There was a civil war going on, though we couldn’t find confirmation on the Maduros’ political affiliations, nor is their village located anywhere close to where the war hit, but… War always does bring about hard times, so it wasn’t at all that inane.

What was surprising was finding our first clue that contradicted the original 1983 report. Though Claudia Maduro, mother of both Samuel and Aura, suffered from a lifelong heart disease and eventually died four years after her son’s disappearance—a time spent between check-ups and several psychiatric consultations—the father’s death, Francisco Maduro, does seem related to the case.

He appears to have lived the last ten years of his life as a recluse, and the only visits he ever had were a gardener—who helped around with the backyard—, a maid—mostly responsible for doing his laundry, some cooking and cleaning—, and a man named Antonio. He was the last one to see Mr Maduro alive, though his name wasn’t even mentioned in the original report.

According to Antonio, when he arrived at the house that afternoon, Mr Maduro was in a state of distress. He had set up a ladder to go up the attic and was going up and down frequently, to fetch several items, all of which he recognized as being used for construction purposes: toolboxes, measuring tapes, rope, sandpaper. Of this, Antonio reportedly joked for a while, asking him if he was building something, or maybe fixing a piece of furniture, but Mr Maduro was majorly unresponsive, instead appearing focused on his task. He simply kept mumbling: “The animals keep tearing it down.”

It must have been shortly after he left that Mr Maduro fell off his ladder, approximately two meters high, hitting his head on a rock and being found hours later by the maid, who had him rushed to the hospital, where he died an hour later.

Here’s what’s so appalling about this. Looking at the original police records, there were no interviewed. It looks like the police simply asked no questions to anyone, no acquaintances of the family, no friends, no neighbours. Every evidence was gathered from inside the home, and every conclusion reached without taking into consideration the village itself. At first, we thought they had been careless—ridiculously careless, mind you—but as our days went on and we tried speaking to others, it became clear just what the real reason was.

The villagers avoided the Maduros because they were afraid of them.

Overall, it seems neither Aura nor Samuel—nor their parents, for that matter—were particularly hated, rather ostracized by what the villagers saw as a need. The priest at the time, one father Ángel, even did his best to include the two children in his community, and we did find several photos of Samuel carrying the podium of Santa Marina during one of its processions. Both siblings appear to have been devout Catholics too: crucifixes and rosaries were found in both rooms, as well as prayer books and Bibles, they attended church regularly, got involved with the community and celebrated every day of the calendar.

The problem was not Samuel and Aura, nor Francisco and Claudia—the Maduros’ dark history was older than that.

There was one fundamental piece to their history that everyone completely overlooked, which wasn’t on records for reasons that, for a while, seemed mysterious enough, though it became clear as we unravelled the story. Francisco Maduro, grandfather of both Aura and Samuel, disappeared without a trace in 1939, immediately after selling his part of the quarry.

After searching through records, old newspapers and considerably angering the locals, all we found was one newspaper clipping, though not an article. It was an ad, an announcement, posted by the local police, asking villagers to please notify them if they new anything about Mr Maduro’s whereabouts. And nothing more. The only way to understand what had happened was by asking, and by now, we knew nobody would say a word about it, so we thought Antonio would perhaps collaborate.

By all means, it must be said: Antonio had a bit of a drinking problem, and we might have bargained in that sense. I’m not terribly proud of it, but in my defence, he looked desperate to talk, like he had kept something buried so deeply he waited years to finally speak up. Though I wasn’t expecting a confession exactly. After all, Antonio was, in his own words, Francisco’s best friend, though the two weren’t as close in adulthood as they had been in childhood. And like the Maduros—maybe because he appeared to be the only one in the village who didn’t fear going near the house—he was a bit of an outcast.

He told us that Amelia Maduro was far from being a heart-warming woman. He recalls her posture from childhood, which I think can be seen in the pictures found inside one of the locked rooms of the house: haughty, stern, impeccable. She seldom smiled, and her face bore something grievous to it, a chiselling of austerity that made children everywhere tell stories of her beatings and whippings. She was very pious too, at times too severe in her belief, and her doctrine was an imposing one. Antonio recalls an event from childhood, after visiting Francisco one afternoon: she had stopped a maid on her tracks, taken a step back and inspected her outfit; then, she had asked why was her skirt three fingers above the knee, to which the maid, flustered, replied she had to borrow her sister’s, who was younger, considering she had found a hole in hers that morning. Then, without warning, Amelia slapped the young woman across the face and said: “I will not have whores serving me.” And she fired her.

This might be explanatory to what truly seems to be the reason behind the quarry issue. Shortly before, Francisco Maduro became romantically involved with a supposed worker at the quarry, a woman who would bring refreshments to the men on the field every afternoon. It turns out, however, the woman was Pilar Deocampo, niece of Alfredo Deocampo—Francisco’s business partner. She became pregnant and decided to plan an escape with the aid of Francisco, who was supposed to meet with her after dealing with some logistics as to not leave his family with no support, but the plan failed when Amelia discovered their affair. When Pilar gave birth to baby boy in 1939, things took a grim turn.

From here on, Antonio swears, the story has become folklore, but the vast majority of the villagers strongly believe it to be true, and stands as the reason for them to stay away from the Maduros and their home. Amelia, without her husband’s knowledge—who was away for a few days—invited poor Pilar for some afternoon tea, under the guise of friendship and empathy before her condition—unmarried and with a son borne from a married man. How it happened differs, since nobody was present if not one maid who left the house immediately after, but on one thing all tales are consistent: Amelia killed the child in front of his mother, proclaiming that her act was justified before God because it was in God’s plans to cleanse the earth of sinners, and that the child was impure and shouldn’t have been born either way.

In a fit of rage, Pilar Deocampo attempted to injury Amelia, but failed to. As a result, Amelia inflicted several wounds on the grievous mother, who bled out in her living room. Many say Mrs Maduro watched, untouched by her very own gruesome actions, and in her dying breath, Pilar Deocampo uttered one last thing, something the village now chants as much as a curse as a reminder: Mi sangre marcará tu tierra, y mis huesos serán tu mausoleo. Por cada uno que pierdas, un otro quedará en sofrimiento, y como las árboles de tu finca, vosotros marchitarán lentamiente.

My blood will mark your land, and my bones will be your mausoleum. For each one you lose, another will stay in suffering, and like the trees of your property, you will wither away slowly.

Amelia then proceeded to force her very own maids into taking the body to the nearby forest, dig up a grave and bury them; then, she placed the two pillars with the chain to forbid anyone from going into the area, and never spoke of the subject again—until her husband arrived home the next day. Seeing the maids scrubbing blood from the wooden floorings, he inquired his wife as to what had happened. Amelia didn’t spare any details; in fact, many agree she was quite assured in her grim account, believing hers had been a righteous act.

Francisco Maduro then, in a frenzy of grief and despair, ran into the woods to see it for himself, to see the grave of his beloved and his child—and he crossed the space between the two pillars. He was never seen again.

Amelia would die less than ten years later, and despite everything, many agree she was incredibly grievous of her husband’s disappearance and entirely devoted to her faith. The Maduros then became a cautionary tale—it’s unclear to me whether or not Francisco witnessed this event, considering he would be around 18-20 at the time, but the tale became part of the villages’ folklore so much he became a person they willing avoided. Antonio swears, however, that both Aura and Samuel were entirely unaware of this past.

From the story came a legend, one the villagers believed to be real, from the case of Samuel and Aura Maduro’s disappearance. Anyone who crossed the space between the two pillars would find the secret burial place of Pilar and her child; keeping her promise, it seems a Maduro would always be bound to find the place in one way or another, and it was none other than Pilar who called them, leaving someone else behind to suffer for their absence, until no Maduros were left.

It seems Pilar achieved her goal, then.

This also explains something about the house, something Aura herself spoke of in her last journal entry: that there was an overwhelming sadness to it, something bittersweet that didn’t seem to belong there. If the path itself sent a shiver down our spines, and there always seem to be something lurking between the trees when we looked, inside the house we felt… safe. Dani even recalled feeling this sudden pang of sadness which she described as being ‘like a mother losing her child’. At the time, I laughed it off, told her she was just missing her cat, but after Antonio told us the tale, we… froze in dread, to be honest.

Energy like this is nothing new—the spirits of those who died inside the place always leave some speck of it behind, and we feel it like something external. We thought it strange at first because no Maduro had died inside the home that we knew of: Francisco at the hospital, Claudia at the local market, Samuel and Aura vanishing, and as far as we could tell, with Francisco also vanished, Amelia died while in mass of a heart attack. But it started making sense then: the only people who had died inside the house were not members of the Maduro. It was their pain we felt, and consequently, that Aura felt.

Dani and I weren’t sure what to expect of this, but it certainly explained why all those who had tried finding the clearing described by Aura never did—because they went around the two pillars, not through them. We had come all this way to find answers, so we figured there was only one thing to do.

I think we were naïve. We believed the tale was only a tale, and if any of it was to be taken for truth, it was certainly aimed at the cursed—the Maduros, not us, mere wanderers. But… we were wrong.

I took a recorder and a camera with me, while Dani took a photographic digital camera. For a while, we stood before the two pillars in silence and tried telling ourselves it was fine, perfectly fine, it was just a piece of local folklore based on Catholic devotion of two women, one a sinner, the other scorned. We’d heard many like that, and it seemed improbable the clearing even existed in the first place. So we held our hands—though why, I can’t exactly tell—and we leapt over the chain.

Every single one of Aura’s words travelled back to me. She was right. It was… daunting. Shapes hovered about, escaping my sight constantly, caught only from the corner of my eyes, and the dense vegetation closed around us. There was a horrible silence all around—more of an absence of sound—and we couldn’t even hear our own heart beats. The sun struggled to transverse the heavy foliage, and the air was thick and prickly. Dani snapped a few photographs as we trod on, but it was clear she was aiming at nothing specifically, just frantically moving her camera with a gasp and a jitter, frightened by a sudden movement from which came no sound. Even the snapping twigs and crunching leaves beneath our feet seemed muffled.

After thirty minutes, we stopped. Before us, the space opened widely, and trees sprouted from a bald batch of white and brown earth, entwining together above our heads like a gable roof. Dani stopped, her camera frozen between her hands, but her eyes were glazed into a sort of mania I had never seen before. With a shuddering finger, she pressed the shutter, but didn’t look into the screen, just ahead—contemplating, focused. Her arm lowered then, and I called her name; Dani jittered, blinked and looked down at the photo she had just snapped—frozen and pale.

When she showed me photos, my heart sank to my feet. Every single one of them was so corrupted almost all of them were unusable, but a few of them showed something buried beneath the static corruption. Shadows, figures, silhouettes. A pair of baby feet. Faces, hollow and daunting, frozen into a scream.

I pressed my recorder, but it didn’t seem to work; Dani pressed some buttons on her camera but suddenly halted, and her eyes—glazed once more—cast curiously all around. She gave a step forward, and another, and a few more—all considerate and cautious, though they grew, and unexpectedly, she took her backpack off her shoulders and threw it on the ground; she dashed ahead, her hands diving deep into a bush, rummaging through meshes of thorny foliage, and a faint yet vivid laughter escaped her lips.

I called her in screams, but she did not react. At this point, I was terrified and could not move; all I could see was Dani dashing back and forth, stacking sticks under her arms and wiping the centre of the clearing clean, hands covered in white and brown dust—until I realized what she was doing.

I remembered Aura’s account. She was building something.

I shouted again, telling her to stop, as loud as I could, but this time, I couldn’t freeze. I ran to her, wrapped my arms around her when she began to struggle, and with all my might, held her steady, face buried against my chest. She smacked her fists at me, but I persisted, desperately trying to keep her still. I thought then that all it mattered was that she wouldn’t see, she wouldn’t look at the clearing, at that spot where she was feeling somehow compelled to build. I closed my eyes shut, and wind gushed past—no sound still. And I waited.

I opened my eyes first, didn’t let Dani move, and froze again. Before me was a house—small, no higher than a meter and a half tall—made of something white, polished and scraped to precision. Bone.

Stood in a moment of suspension, my arms relaxed, and my fingers stopped gripping Dani’s clothes. Her body shuddered against mine, and her breath raged louder than the gushing wind around us, louder than any sound in that deathly and hollow clearing. Then, she screeched—a gasp that grew in timbre, a rising cadence that somehow seemed to come far slower than I took notice of, and she jolted herself. In a motion faster than I could have anticipated, her body escaped my grip, and she ran—she ran away from me, towards the bone house that rose before us, without really having actually seen it before turning her head with resolution and dashing away.

I tried to grab her, but she escaped; her hands smacked open at the door, and on her knees, she crawled; her panting, heavy and desperate, came like an omen. She was famished for whatever exited beyond it, and I tried to stop—I screamed and ran after her, but she was elusive and fast and set on getting through that door and into the darkness that sucked her in and in and in—and I was too slow. Inside the door, nothing but blackness—swirling, consuming blackness—and as Dani entered the daunting absence of it, she evaporated from her very being. It was like watching someone being devoured by an invisible mouth that swallowed her into nothingness, and her every gesture came with so much reassurance I finally understood what Pilar Deocampo had warned: one always stays behind to suffer.

It wasn’t just meant for the Maduros; it was meant for anyone who desecrate her grave.

When the door slammed shut with a hollow thud, I collapsed to my knees and screamed her name, over and over until nothing existed inside my throat but the soreness of my efforts and the saltiness of my tears. There was not a sound. The entire space around me was engulfed in nothingness. I couldn’t see nor hear Dani anywhere, and before me, the house made of bone appeared far too small for her body to fit inside.

I curled up, and though the terror that had consumed me and made my heart pound so harshly my chest hurt, I couldn’t move. I grabbed the camera, but was unable to turn it off. By my side, Dani’s backpack laid forgotten, tossed aside in a rush. I had studied the Maduro’s case to the smallest detail and I knew she wouldn’t come back. And I finally understood what it was that had consumed Aura in such overwhelming grief, enough to make her leave her home and never come back, until her father passed away and she realized—she must have—he too crossed the space between the two pillars. I finally understood what madness had possessed Amelia after her grim crimes.

It was knowing they weren’t dead, but sentenced to absolute nothingness, left to hover in a sea of absence and non-existence, spiralling down to possible madness. It was knowing they were better off dead.

I blinked my teary eyes open, cold and trembling, hands gripping the camera, and saw something. The house was still there, but next to it, someone: sitting on the ground, back turned to me, legs crossed and shoulders slouched forward, clothes ragged and torn, and in their long auburn hairs, small leaves and twigs were caught in the slender threads. Instinctively, I turned the camera and snapped a quick picture—but the figure didn’t move.

My eyes didn’t move away from the strange figure in front of me, and as I put the camera down, I realized it could only be one person.

“Aura Maduro?”

Her head rose slowly, as if she tried to have a look at the skies, hairs swaying behind her, but she said nothing. Then, I felt it again—that same pressing sadness we always felt inside the house, like a mass of air that swarmed around me, emanating from the spectre before me.

“Where is Dani?” My voice was low, considerate; I looked at the figure and I still saw who I had seen in Aura Maduro the moment I had arrived there—a victim, as much as I was now. “Can you please bring her back to me?”

Immobile. Time passed, though I couldn’t measure, couldn’t tell how long it had been, if it was night or day though the sun existed somewhere in the sky—of that, I was sure. Then, her voice floated in the air, a ragged tune, husky and dragged, but frayed by an overwhelming agony that consumed me like a gust of wind.

“She has to stay.”

My breath rose and whipped the back of my throat; I moved restlessly, but couldn’t leave the small batch of earth on which I knelt. “Please,” I pleaded. “Please, just let me take her home.”

“El sangre marca la tierra,” she spoke, “y sus huesos son nuestro mausoleo.”

“I know what Pilar did to your family.” Every word seemed senseless to me, as if I read from a book: reciting a prayer in order to save myself, though unsure I was there was any salvation left. I wanted to say more, let her know that I understood that misery that encompassed us both, that exuded out of her like a cold wind—but every word died.

“One always stays,” she said, “and the other feels pain. But I look after them.”

I felt my chest tear open in that same sweeping sadness—it was something carved deep into her words, something instilled in the worn-out tone of her voice.

“I look after them,” she continued—and in between her words, a dissonance came: of a woman that wept in silence, the distortion of a throat filled with swallowed tears, “so they don’t feel so lost.”

Defeated, I looked down at the earth beneath me, at last understanding what never-ending horror Pilar Deocampo had cast on the world, that projected grief that would never cease, a continuous cycle of pain and terror—meant forever to steal and burden those who lived, who came out unscathed, to unfathomable pain.

I thought there was something I had to say, though I sincerely don’t know what my reason was: “What can I do?”

Her hand waved in the air, and from the ratty long-sleeves of her jersey, a slender finger, bony and pale, pointed to her left. I noticed there was a watch, glass cracked and black bracelet, with gold rims around. “Take him,” she said. “Let Sam rest.”

The order was immediate, and somehow, I understood. I stood, paced slowly towards the area she had pointed at—below a tall tree, at a small mound covered in pine needles and dried leaves, a batch of golden-brown amidst a soft green. I knelt, pushed the leaves aside, dug my fingers into the earth, and shuddered at the touch of something cold, harsh and angular. A hand, made of bones entirely, no flesh left, emerged—and when I understood at last what she demanded of me, I nearly vomited—sure I was completely incapable of completing the task.

I didn’t look back; short of breath, lungs collapsing at every sweeping movement of my hand, I didn’t rest. When I was done, a putrid smell filled my nose and I covered it with one arm; I ran back then, to Dani’s abandoned backpack, and rummaged for something useful enough for the rest of the deed. We had both brought our sleeping bags, expecting to perhaps spend the night to collect some evidence—so I unrolled Dani’s, pulled the zipper open, and with a force I hadn’t felt before in my life, unsure still where it came from—an urgency of survival, perhaps, or something outside of myself, cast upon me by Aura Maduro—I grabbed the pile of bones and put them inside the sleeping bag.

She was still there when I was done, her hand resting on her lap again. I stopped, stared at her with a cold shudder—whether of dread or something else, I can’t say anymore. Aura Maduro—what was left of her—simply sat in contemplation, her head still raised as she stared at something ahead, and only then did her words echo in my brain in full meaning. I grabbed my backpack, put the sleeping bag carefully on Dani’s, and stared at her. I had almost forgotten about the bone house.

“Do not return,” she said. “You won’t resist next time.”

Somehow, there was an unpronounced message in the air, something that wafted by like a tune carried from the distance, something you only notice when you stop and listen carefully: I am sorry you will have to suffer like we all did. I am sure that was it. Somehow, the precision existed in the tone of her voice, exuding out of her like a radio wave meant to be captured; somehow, I knew.

I walked back—ran back—and once I leapt over the chain, almost instantly, the air was weightless, soft and comforting. But everything else—my entire existence—began to press against my shoulders into a burden that was only now beginning to emerge. Guilt. Terror. Sadness. Crushing, overwhelming sadness—and Dani’s inexistence, her sentence into nothingness, collapsed over me.

It goes without saying I never saw her again.

I buried Samuel Maduro in the backyard of the house, and with nothing to mark his grave, I simply left, on the mound of earth, a framed picture I had found in the house—of Samuel and Aura. In it, she was wearing a wristwatch, black bracelet with golden rims.

I left and never went back. Though sometimes there is a burning wish to grab my things and drive until I see them again, the two pyramidal pillars with that creaking chain between, I never did. I think of Aura’s words, her blooming sadness, and something about it breaks my heart to pieces. The last of a cursed family, unknown of what she carried. On the night she had finally returned to her brother, in 1983, she had sacrificed far more than I could have anticipated. Cast into nothingness forever, sentenced to exist in a limbo of non-existence, forever imprisoned in the blackness of the bone house, she had willingly become a guardian. A watchful soul over those who fell victim to Pilar’s treachery—unable to put an end to it, she had at least given herself to the chance of easing their burden, making that consuming nothingness a bit more bearable. The core of it is, however, what it means to the two last members of the Maduro family.

I was never religious. I still am not. But they were stark Catholics, born and raised between catechesis and Saturday mass. For them, being sentenced to a limbo that is neither death nor life, neither Heaven nor Hell, and something far worse than purgatory… It must be horrifying.

I destroyed my camera and the footage, as well as the tape recorder I took with me, though there was nothing in it. I couldn’t bear, however, to destroy Dani’s digital camera. It was a piece of her, and every little thing that attested to her existence, I just… held on to it.

It was only months later that I turned that camera on again. To my surprise, there was a picture I had never seen—the last one I had taken, of Aura Maduro herself.

I can’t describe it. I will leave it to your eyes to see what lacks words entirely. Perhaps you can understand what it that I felt that afternoon.

I wish I could tell Dani how sorry I am.

________

𝙻𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚓𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝟶𝚝𝚑, 𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟷. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔, 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚓𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝙿𝚊𝚣.

𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝙿𝚊𝚣 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.

𝙰 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚐. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚓𝚘’𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

_________________

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

Wordtober Day 4: Freeze

Wordtober Day 5: Build I

#wordtober #writing #my writing #creative writing #fiction #my wordtober #ITS LATE and FAKE but hey #I am trying to be better at short stories so if i get a bit overly excited this is why #bc i really NEED to have more short stories

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caridadmercedes · 5 years

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1.Whosoever shall faithfully serve me by the recitation of the Rosary shall receive signal graces.

Signal Graces are those special and unique Graces to help sanctify us in our state in life. See the remaining promises for an explanation for which these will consist. St. Louis de Montfort states emphatically that the best and fastest way to union with Our Lord is via Our Lady [True Devotion to Mary, chapter four].

2.I promise my special protection and the greatest graces to all those who shall recite the Rosary.

Our Lady is our Advocate and the channel of all God's Grace to us. Our Lady is simply highlighting that She will watch especially over us who pray the Rosary. (see Lumen Gentium chapter VIII - Our Lady #62) [a great more detail is available on this topic in True Devotion to Mary, chapter four, by St. Louis de Montfort]

3.The Rosary shall be a powerful armor against hell, it will destroy vice, decrease sin and defeat heresies.

This promise, along with the next, is simply the reminder on how fervent prayer will help us all grow in holiness by avoiding sin, especially a prayer with the excellence of the Rosary. An increase in holiness necessarily requires a reduction in sin, vice, and doctrinal errors (heresies). If only the Modernists could be convinced to pray the Rosary! (see Lumen Gentium chapter V - The Call to Holiness #42) St. Louis de Montfort states "Since Mary alone crushed all heresies, as we are told by the Church under the guidance of the Holy Spirit (Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary)..." [True Devotion to Mary #167]

4.It will cause good works to flourish; it will obtain for souls the abundant mercy of God; it will withdraw the hearts of men from the love of the world and its vanities, and will lift them to the desire for Eternal Things. Oh, that souls would sanctify themselves by this means.

This promise, along with the previous, is the positive part, that being to live in virtue. Becoming holy is not only avoiding sin, but also growing in virtue. (see Lumen Gentium chapter V - The Call to Holiness #42)

5.The soul which recommends itself to me by the recitation of the Rosary shall not perish.

Since Our Lady is our Mother and Advocate, She always assists those who call on Her implicitly by praying the Rosary. The Church reminds us of this in the Memorare prayer, "... never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help or sought your intercession, was left unaided ..."

6.Whosoever shall recite the Rosary devoutly, applying himself to the consideration of its Sacred Mysteries shall never be conquered by misfortune. God will not chastise him in His justice, he shall not perish by an unprovided death; if he be just he shall remain in the grace of God, and become worthy of Eternal Life.

This promise highlights the magnitude of Graces that the Rosary brings to whomever prays it. One will draw down God's Mercy rather than His Justice and will have a final chance to repent (see promise #7). One will not be conquered by misfortune means that Our Lady will obtain for the person sufficient Graces to handle said misfortune (i.e. carry the Crosses allowed by God) without falling into despair. As Sacred Scripture tells us, "For my yoke is sweet and my burden light." (Matthew 11:30)

7.Whoever shall have a true devotion for the Rosary shall not die without the Sacraments of the Church.

This promise highlights the benefits of obtaining the most possible Graces at the hour of death via the Sacraments of Confession, Eucharist, and Extreme Unction (Anointing of the Sick). Being properly disposed while receiving these Sacraments near death ensures one's salvation (although perhaps with a detour through Purgatory) since a final repentance is possible.

8.Those who are faithful to recite the Rosary shall have during their life and at their death the Light of God and the plenitude of His Graces; at the moment of death they shall participate in the Merits of the Saints in Paradise.

Our Lady highlights the great quantity of Graces obtain through praying the Rosary, which assist us during life and at the moment of death. The merits of the Saints are the gift of God's rewards to those persons who responded to His Grace that they obtained during life, and so Our Lady indicates that She will provide a share of that to us at death. With this promise and #7 above, Our Lady is providing the means for the person to have a very holy death.

9.I shall deliver from purgatory those who have been devoted to the Rosary.

Should one require Purgatorial cleansing after death, Our Lady will make a special effort to obtain our release from Purgatory through Her intercession as Advocate.

10.The faithful children of the Rosary shall merit a high degree of Glory in Heaven.

This promise is a logical consequence of promises #3 and #4 since anyone who truly lives a holier life on earth will obtain a higher place in Heaven. The closer one is to God while living on earth, the closer that person is to Him also in Heaven. The Catechism of the Catholic Church states "Spiritual progress tends toward ever more union with Christ." (Catechism of the Catholic Church paragraph 2014)

11.You shall obtain all you ask of me by recitation of the Rosary.

This promise emphasizes Our Lady's role as our Advocate and Mediatrix of all Graces. Of course, all requests are subject to God's Most Perfect Will. God will always grant our request if it is beneficial for our soul, and Our Lady will only intercede for us when our request is good for our salvation. (see Lumen Gentium chapter VIII - Our Lady #62)

12.All those who propagate the Holy Rosary shall be aided by me in their necessities.

If one promotes the praying of the Rosary, Our Lady emphasizes Her Maternal care for us by obtaining many Graces (i.e. spiritual necessities) and also material necessities (neither excess nor luxury), all subject to the Will of God of course.

13.I have obtained from my Divine Son that all the advocates of the Rosary shall have for intercessors the entire Celestial Court during their life and at the hour of death.

Since Our Lady is our Advocate, She brings us additional assistance during our life and at our death from all the saints in Heaven (the Communion of Saints). See paragraphs 954 through 959 in the Catechism of the Catholic Church.

14.All who recite the Rosary are my Sons, and brothers of my Only Son Jesus Christ.

Since the Rosary is a most excellent prayer focused on Jesus and His Life and activities in salvation history, it brings us closer to Our Lord and Our Lady. Doctrinally, Our Lady is our Mother and Jesus is our Eldest Brother, besides being our God. (see Lumen Gentium chapter VIII - Our Lady #62)

15.Devotion to my Rosary is a great sign of predestination.

Predestination in this context means that, by the sign which is present to a person from the action of devoutly praying the Rosary, God has pre-ordained your salvation. Absolute certainty of salvation can only be truly known if God reveals it to a person because, although we are given sufficient Grace during life, our salvation depends upon our response to said Grace. (See Summa Theologica, Question 23 for a detailed theological explanation). Said another way, if God has guaranteed a person's salvation but has not revealed it to Him, God would want that person to pray the Rosary because of all the benefits and Graces obtained. Therefore the person gets a hint by devotion to the Rosary. This is not to say that praying the Rosary guarantees salvation - by no means. In looking at promises #3 and #4 above, praying the Rosary helps one to live a holy life, which is itself a great sign that a soul is on the road to salvation. (See also paragraphs 381, 488, 600, 2782 in the Catechism of the Catholic Church.) In fact, St. Louis de Montfort says even more strongly that "an infallible and unmistakable sign by which we can distinguish a heretic, a man of false doctrine, an enemy of God, from one of God's true friends is that the hardened sinner and heretic show nothing but contempt and indifference to Our Lady..." [True Devotion to Mary, #30]

#15 promises of the Holy Rosary #Rosary #Holy Rosary #BlessedVirginMary #catholic church #roman catholic #catholicism #marian devotion

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sapphicscholar · 5 years

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Pride Month Prompts Day 20: Confession (Grace/Frankie)

From this Pride Month Prompts post! I’m taking the opportunity to write some short fics for a variety of pairings that I haven’t written for as much. I’ll be sure to tag them all with #pride month prompts so you can find them later if you’d like!

Day 20: Confession - on AO3 as Absolution

Pairing: Grace/Frankie

A/N: As a once very Catholic, very closeted, very gay lady, my mind jumped straight to religion for confession, so I ran with it and also played more with form and temporality than I normally do… Figure that’s what these little ficlets are for!

Grace inhales deeply, fills her nose and mouth and lungs with the air that feels a little thicker than outdoor air, heavy with mysteries and promises and millennia of history. Incense wafts through the chapel—smoky and spiced in a way that lingers, just barely, in her clothes and hair for the first few hours after she’s left the church. Grace tries to let the familiarity of it ground her as she readjusts the pristine white lace of her chapel veil, thinking back to the days of elementary school, remembering little Katherine Agostino who had always forgotten hers, been forced by Sister Patricia to pin a tissue to her hair instead, blushed a bright red when the boys laughed at her as the line of girls was marched over to the church. Grace’s had always been in perfect order—none of the frayed edges or grayish tinges that had marred the other girls’ veils. No matter how tight money was, her mother always ensured that they looked respectable, neat, orderly; they would not be the children talked about in hushed tones at the market or after mass. The fact that they whisper about her now, the 26-year-old without any prospects for a husband and we all know what that means, isn’t lost on her, but she tries to focus on her rosary beads, repeats the well-known words silently as she waits for her turn in the confessional.

---

The beach house never smells like Clorox bleach and fresh linens anymore. It overflows with a bounty of smells. A different kind of incense—something with hints of hickory and jasmine and a heady combination of spices. Freshly toasted Eggo waffles and the slightly burnt smell of crystallized sugar from when Frankie had popped a syrupy waffle back into the toaster to see if she could make a creme brulée-waffle hybrid. A few times a year the vats of boiling yams that Grace has only recently admitted make an end product that’s worth the messy, smelly process of its creation. The acrylic paints that remind Grace of the studio but that have begun making their way into the main house too. That lavender chamomile organic soap Frankie buys—or, more often, asks Grace to buy for her—from the farmer’s market. Despite the years of complaining about it, when Frankie left for New Mexico Grace found herself missing the particular bouquet of smells that was Frankie’s presence, thinking the house smelled too sterile. Even after Sheree moved in and started filling the house with the aroma of melting cheese and butter and chocolate, it still hadn’t been right. And when she and Frankie moved back into the house after their stay at Walden Villas, she practically invited it, determined to rid the house of the lingering smell of the focus-group-approved candle that every fucking real estate agent in California seemed to burn. These days Grace’s bedroom is permeated by the smell of Frankie and her incense and her soaps and shampoos and paints, and there’s nothing fleeting about it.

---

After two decades of the rosary, it’s Grace’s turn to go back to the confessional. She kneels down and waits for the priest to finish with the person on the other side. She’s only been to this church once or twice, when she happened to be visiting family who lived across the lines for the neighboring parishes, but she doesn’t want to confess these things to Father Thomas who’s known her since he baptized her, who she just knows recognizes every voice even if he’s sworn to secrecy about the specifics of what she says. Then Father Patrick is there, the vague outline of his face visible through the screen as he tells her to begin. She clears her throat. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Her fingers tap lightly against her forehead, her chest, her shoulders. She feels the sharpness of the bone through the thin fabric of her dress and relishes in it. “My last confession was five weeks ago.” The last one where she’d been honest was about eight years ago, though. But today is about making that right. Today is about moving forward, about doing things right.

---

“Things need to be different moving forward.” Those were the first words out of Frankie’s mouth when Grace returned to the beach house, suitcase in hand, the rest of her belongings in the process of being moved out of Nick’s penthouse—not that she’d ever got around to bringing most of them over, their whirlwind marriage barely lasting a full two months before she caved and admitted it had never been what she wanted, had been a way to make her forget the things she really wanted. Grace had nodded, sworn to Frankie that she understood. She didn’t say anything, but she was fairly certain that going back to the way things were before would have killed her; she didn’t leave a marriage only to make the same mistakes again. Within three weeks of the divorce’s finalization, they’d found their path forward into that “different” in a way that Grace had never dared to articulate as a hope—not even to herself. But then Frankie was there, telling her these things were possible, telling her she understood even without the words, dragging her into an unknown future that Grace knows—a knowledge rooted somewhere deep inside herself—will be better.

---

Four. Four had always been the best number of sins to confess. Maybe you could get away with three if it had only been a week, but two was proof that you were lazy, hadn’t sat with the reflection questions long enough to evaluate your life and judge your past choices. Five was getting up there, but so long as most of them were venial sins, the kind you technically didn’t have to go to confession for, little things like fighting with your brother, it was probably okay. More than five, though, and suddenly you were trouble. But four was safe. Four sins. Four lapses. Four things to be confessed and forgiven, purged and forgotten.

She knows she’s supposed to start with any mortal sins, work her way into the lesser ones, but she needs to build up to things. So she takes a deep breath and begins, “Father, I have taken the Lord’s name in vain twice.” Times about 20. “I was unkind to one of my coworkers.” He’d deserved it, of course. “This past week, I missed mass.” She actually did feel guilty about that, but she’d thought about, well, about doing the very thing she’s finally doing the night beforehand and had drunk enough to wake up feeling like she’d already been to hell and clawed her way back out. “And…” She swallows heavily. “I, uh…” There had been a script. She had opted not to bring it with her, though, hadn’t wanted the small piece of paper fluttering to the ground somewhere people not sworn to secrecy might see it. But this is the whole reason she’s here. She’s trying to make amends, move forward, do right by her family and God. “There were indiscretions,” she finally manages, her voice sounding strangled and wrong to her own ears. “It was a moment of weakness.” That was what Margaret had called it the next morning, the warm haze of the previous night’s wine long dissipated in the chill New England morning air. “I am sorry for these sins”—her stomach churns, the swirl of grief and guilt making it hard to breath—”and all the sins of my life, and I ask for absolution and penance of thee, my father.”

---

The first time she and Frankie fight—and really fight, not the bickering that is its own love language between them at this point—after getting together, Grace can admit is her fault. They’d been out at a restaurant, Frankie determined to “court you properly,” as she’d explained it, and had run across two of Grace’s old country club friends out with their husbands. It only occurred to Grace after the fact that they likely would have assumed she and Frankie were simply out to dinner as friends—though they would judge her for the friendship with Frankie as much as anything. But in the moment, she’d panicked, pushed herself as far back into her chair as she could, laughed too loudly and nodded too eagerly when they asked if there might be another man in her life after Nick, ordered a few too many martinis once they’d gone back to their own table. She’d been able to see the hurt reflected in Frankie’s eyes through the rest of the stilted, silent meal, but when Frankie had called her on it later, she’d lashed out, yelled at Frankie for rushing her, told her it wasn’t fair of her to expect Grace to let go of the values she’d been raised on all in one breath.

The next morning, Grace wakes up late, later than she can remember sleeping in ages, with a pounding headache and a stomach she won’t dare try putting food into, but even with the intensity of her hangover, she feels the guilt most of all. After a long, too hot shower, she makes her way downstairs, practically throws herself at Frankie’s feet. She’d intended to apologize for the night before—and she does—but then she can’t stop the words that come rushing out of her. There are apologies to be made for the years of judgmental looks and constant complaints, for the first few months after the first divorce and all the things she’d said about her one real friend to the women who were never really her friends, for the terrible drunken rant in front of Frankie’s whole family that had come back to Grace in flashes and snippets later, each returned memory making her hate herself more and more. There is forgiveness still to be begged for over every instance of doubting Frankie, of telling her, in word and in deed, that she was incompetent. There are still reparations to be made for the years of denying this thing growing between them, for running off and marrying Nick because it seemed easier, and now, for pushing Frankie away again because it seemed safer than being the one people talked about when she left the room.

By the time she finishes, she feels hollow and empty, her cheeks stained with tear tracks and her whole body trembling. But Frankie doesn’t leave her in anxious suspense as penance, doesn’t prolong the fight to make Grace earn her forgiveness; she sweeps Grace up in her arms and kisses away the tears and thanks Grace for the words, thanks Grace for meaning them—somehow she can tell, knows deep inside that they are sincere. With her head on Frankie’s chest, Grace lets out a deep breath, and she swears the next inhale seems to reach down to someplace new, filling her up with fresh air in ways her body had never believed were possible.

---

The Act of Contrition comes more easily than the list of sins. Long-memorized words recited into the stillness of the confessional. She’s been given her penance already; five Hail Marys and two Our Fathers, and she’ll be washed of the past, allowed to move forward, start clean, act as if there had been no night where everything felt good and right for the first time in her life. She will feel proper again. Better. She will never be that girl that gets whispered about before her family has stepped far enough away to miss the words. And then Father Patrick is reciting the old Latin phrases, comfortable in their strangeness, the language a welcome distance between her and the whole ordeal. “Misereatur tui ominipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam. Amen.”

---

Frankie doesn’t care when people stare. “Let them look!” she cries out, smile wide and open, an invitation to anyone around to share in that happiness with her. Sometimes Grace even manages to feel it herself. Somewhere along the way, she’d become the kind of woman who could stand on a college campus and hold up a vibrator that she designed, that she created, that she admitted, at least implicitly, to using. She’d become a squatter who slept beside pigs in a house she didn’t own, using electricity she didn’t pay for, while family members and strangers alike gawked down at her as if she were some kind of spectacle. She’d become someone who cried, albeit sparingly, in front of other people, admitted that she felt things, talked about things she wanted, even the things she wanted too much, the kind of wants that swept through her, leaving a burning trail of shame and unresolved need in their wake. And instead of laughing and scoffing and pushing her away, Frankie had opened her arms wider, told Grace she could want those things, told her she could give her those things, let her have those things in abundance without shame or judgement or guilt or apology.

---

Grace kneels in an empty pew as soon as she’s done to say her penance. When she’s finished, she sits back, the hard wood pressing up against her spine in a slightly painful way that has always felt fitting. She stays there and waits for the Sunday morning service to begin. She listens to the half-familiar Latin words, and gives the responses at the proper times, and sits and stands and kneels in turn, and lines up with everyone to receive the only carb she voluntarily eats (knows it must be sacrilege to call the Body of Christ a carb), and tells herself that it will all be okay.

---

Frankie is a firm believer in carbs. She swears they’ve got healing powers. Pasta in olive oil with salt (too much salt, Grace would tell her these days) and a bit of garlic for any illness because “The Italians sure did get that one right, Grace!” Thick-sliced challah bread turned into French toast for special occasions. Homemade cakes that Grace knows better than to question these days for celebrations. Donuts and croissants and cereal for ordinary breakfasts, as if such indulgences can be had daily. But still, when Frankie joins Grace in bed, slipping under the covers, the wool of her socks slightly scratchy against Grace’s bare skin, and offers her a plate or bowl with extra of whatever she’s chosen for the morning, Grace doesn’t push it away in the way she had with Robert or the children on Mother’s Day mornings. Instead, she takes small bites, lets herself relax into the buttery flakes of a croissant, even if she’ll never finish the whole thing, takes comfort in the knowledge that Frankie won’t push her on it, won’t purse her lips or scowl when she goes downstairs and fixes herself some fruit to round out the meal.

---

Grace doesn’t stick around to mingle after the service—being away from the crowds of too familiar parishioners back at Holy Trinity would have made the disappearing act impossible, but here she can manage it so long as she moves quickly. The fresh air hits her skin and ruffles the hem of her dress slightly. She’s been absolved. Done her penance. Sat through the service. But she doesn’t feel any better for it. That magic sense of purity, of some blank slate stretched out in front of her, is gone. She’s just a 26-year-old unmarried woman who’s gone and sworn to God that she’ll never again do the only thing that’s made her feel like a life worth living is before her. She tells herself it’s better this way, that she’ll find her path again. She hopes it’s true.

---

Trying not to wake Frankie, Grace slips out of bed, biting back a groan as her joints creak and pop, her skin still bare from the night before and coated in a thin film of dried sweat. She walks quietly to the bathroom and eases the door shut. Within an hour, she’s showered and dressed in one of her loose, soft sweaters—perfect for the overcast morning, the threat of rain hovering in the air but distant enough to allow Grace hope for a quiet morning on the beach. Downstairs, she measures out coffee grounds—from the Fair Trade-certified beans she buys now because Frankie has asked her to—and then the water, sets the pot to brew, and steps back. While she waits, she goes through her morning rituals. Vitamins. Supplements. A yogurt with fresh fruit. The two pills she isn’t supposed to take on an empty stomach. When the coffee is ready, she pours some into the mug Frankie had gotten her for Pride month and leaves a Post It note next to the pot to let Frankie know it’s fresh.

Once she has her coffee, Grace pauses at the stack of books. She knows which one she’d like to take, but there are the two graphic novels Frankie has bought for her, still adorned with a bright pink Post It note: “Grace! I need someone to talk to about these. Plz read them. P.S. I know how you feel about comic books, but old MacArthur swears she’s a genius.” Grace looks at them, finally grabbing the one on top, before making her way out the back door. It’s not quite chilly outside, but she’s grateful for the sweater and the hot coffee as she settles into one of the armchairs overlooking the ocean.

At some point—Grace has lost track of time—Frankie comes outside to join her, grinning as she spots the copy of Fun Home with the Post It carefully folded in half to be used as a bookmark—no dog-eared pages for Grace Hanson, no sir. “Move over. I want to sit with you”

“There’s a perfectly serviceable chair right there,” Grace grumbles, but she’s already moving over as far to one side as she can.

Frankie finally manages to find a spot that’s halfway comfortable, and she celebrates by taking one of Grace’s hands in her own. It’s not quite so easy as sitting side-by-side together in the beach chairs the way they once had, but Grace finds she doesn’t mind the change to their routine, not when it means Frankie’s thumbs rubbing soft circles against the backs of her hands, the warmth of Frankie’s body pressed right up against the full length of her body.

For a while, they watch the ocean together. The beach is still and almost silent in the gray morning—the only sounds the soft crash of the waves falling against the water and rushing up the sand until they fade to nothing but a thin foam and remnants of the ocean life left behind.

Grace drops her head to Frankie’s shoulder, gently squeezes Frankie’s hand. “I love you,” she says, still facing out to sea, her voice loud in the silence. But it doesn’t matter who hears. She wants them to know, has a delicate, smooth ring of white gold in a drawer in the desk in the old office neither of them use that will tell the whole world that Frankie is hers, and she is Frankie’s, and they are each other’s. She’s waited too long, denied herself for too many years, to sit back and refuse this small mercy she so desperately wants to last forever.

Frankie turns inwards, kisses her softly, her lips chapped and her breath smelling faintly of coffee and Fruit Loops. “Love you too.”

The words came easily for Frankie—much more easily than certain actions had, a different kind of openness, of vulnerability, of intimacy—but Grace has never doubted them, not even for a second. And day by day she’s learning to trust them, to let them find those dark, walled off spaces inside her and warm them with their insistent refrain of forgiveness given freely, of love gifted openly, of new futures opened wide before her.

#pride month prompts #grace x frankie #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace and frankie #fanfic #ficlet #queerness and religion and flashbacks oh my!#cw internalized homophobia and disordered eating

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15megapixels · 5 years

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Childhood OCs & Comic Ideas # 2: City Zombie

/confused? check out my master post about this self project here/

Age that I made this: 9

Genre: Action, Adventure, Comedy, Mystery, (a bit of) Drama

Series/ Anime I drawn inspiration from: Soul Eater, Naruto, and my fascination of angels vs. demons back then

I know the title is lame aaaa.

Story under the cut!

Story

Jam, Mark, and McHann are students of the St. Michael’s Fallen Hunters Academy, that rescues the souls of children who died accidentally, of a meaningless death, and revive, (but erases their memories) in order to give them a second chance to live another life by serving the academe; to rid of the world of the Fallen.

The Fallen are enemies of the academy and are called as such because of its origins, creatures of Lucifer, a.k.a. demons who escape hell to wreak havoc on earth. But Jam does call them “Them”, or Zombies in the City (where their team was assigned), hence the title of this comic.

Simply put, the story revolves the training days of the team, how their missions increases in difficultly (as they’ll discover how some cults infiltrated the academy), and strive to be the best hunters they can be so they can graduate— to enter heaven.

(So yes, its kind of my imaginary limbo)

Prologue

One evening, Jam and his best friend Mark were on their way home from their school field trip. The two were riding on their school bus, siting beside each other, while some of their classmates were minding their own business. After talking to Mark, Jam looked out of the window and gazed at the sky. The trip was cut short when some unknown creature suddenly crossed the road— which made the school bus driver jump in panic to avoid the obstruction, but instead drove the bus into a cliff and killing everyone in it.

Few moments later, Jam woke up, not from the accident, but in a well-lighted white room with no walls. The room only consists of a bed (where he woke up from), a table with a brown backpack sitting on top of it, a packed snack, and a piece of note. Confused yet curious, Jam stood up, his body didn’t have any sign of injury, and was able to walk normally toward the table across his bed.

“Eat the fish and bread and go to the registration room – M.”

Jam picked up the tuna sandwich and took a bite. Before he takes another bite, a door opened and a gust of wind pushed him outside of a school hallway— and accidentally bumped into a girl named McHann. After McHann gave a condescending look of Jam from head to toe, her expression changes from annoyed to a nice-to-meet-you vibe, then she offered to shake hands with him – and the two were instant friends. McHann seems to know where the newbies should head on their first day, while Jam just went with her despite having a lot of questions in mind:

“Why am I here?”, “What am I doing here?”, “Where’s Mark?, aren’t we supposed to be in a school bus on our way home?”, “Am I dead?” —

Jam’s train of thought was cut the moment he felt the back of McHann’s hand slapping his chest “take a look at this,” she says. Jam and McHann were astonished that they just arrived at the Academy’s common grounds—

Characters

This time I made an effort to describe them.

Jam – 15 year old kid who dyed his hair white because he likes it, he’s into video games and comics, he’s a slow-learner/ late-bloomer, often spaces out, but kind, brave, resilient, and willing to go far for his team. He looks up to Mark and he’s kinda into McHann.

Weapon: Bead bracelet

Mark – same age with childhood friend, Jam; like a yin to a yang, Mark’s traits are the opposite of Jam— who’s intelligent, smart but he becomes an introverted snob when Jam met him after the accident. Jam figures out why Mark does this to him. Little does Jam know, the students of the academy is mandated to have their memories of their pasts wiped out. (more of this in the fun facts below)

Weapon: M40 Sniper Rifle

McHann – a 16 turning into 17 year old whose death was caused by her mother who poisoned her and her siblings because of poverty. They were left by her dad and her mom was in despair of how to provide for the family so she resulted in such act. (Too dark for my 9 year old me to think of this). Being the second out of four of his siblings, McHann is like the eldest/ mid-child, she’s cheerful, social, will defend whoever fights her and her friends, but can be a super weirdo sometimes (that’s why she and Jam get along). McHann is also nicknamed as ‘cockroach-chan’ by her classmates in the academy.

Weapon: Scythe

Fun Facts

To get this out of the way, the academy believes that wiping the memory of the children’s past lives will help them focus and objectively fulfill their mission. I loved this idea so much that I used it in one of my comics in the future which both dwell in the same universe as this.

By the time I’m typing this, I find how nice I was able to post this comic idea just when the season of lent just started

There is a scene where St. Michael suddenly shows up as the principal to greet the new comers— he interrupts Jam and Mark’s argument in the common grounds— and just goes there lookin’ good with his all white suit and tie, greeting everyone and giving the students a warm welcome

Jam appears to have no powers and felt useless in the beginning of the comic— because of the weapon he got from the Gethsemane activity (where students are required one by one to meditate and pray alone to God—in the stone where Christ used to pray from in the Gethsemane Garden— to ask Him to give them the kind of weapon that will suite their fighting style), but all Jam received was a bracelet with beads. In comparison to how cool Mark & McHann’s were. He later realizes that it’s a rosary.

These three are the main characters. There are supposed to be a lot (like other teams/ their classmates) who were like enemies to them (like that team who always sees everything as a competition), the friendlier ones, etc.— I think I was really aiming for the dynamic of the teams of threes/ twos as seen in Naruto, Soul Eater, or if I compare it to a recent series, like RWBY. ~Powah of Frienship!~

Since I know the plot of this comic is leaning to that kind of stories in anime back then where you follow the characters’ development to “become the very best like no one ever was” – I decided to end it asap after I finish sketching, like, the first episode.

/End!

#occtimecapsule #city zombie #jam #mchann #mark #mydesigns #jvsketches #digi color practice #im doing backgrounds???#this can be reblogged :p #ocs

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ogygia · 6 years

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Holy Week

Sometimes I feel like a terrible occultist for not posting more original occult content on my Tumblr – all the occult users I know have excellent content that puts my reblogs and rambling posts to shame, but I’ve also made good friends with Imposter Syndrome over the past year and this is one of those times I need the little bugger to, well, bugger off.

The unscrupulousness of scrupulosity

The crux of the matter probably lies in the fact that I have a tendency to scrupulosity – it happens to a segment of OCD sufferers – which is defined by an obsession with religious rules and codes, particularly of morality. I suspect I slightly worry that I shouldn’t be talking too much about any magical work that I do, that I need to put limits on how much I reveal. I worry that I end up playing to an authoritativeness that I do not deserve. Scrupulosity makes me obsess over what I should or shouldn’t do; it makes me worry incessantly over the rights and the wrongs, and what will happen if I break any rules.

Clearly, I’m far better at it now – I remember having bought A.E. Waite’s The Book of Black Magic in my teens and not daring to open it at all, in case the seals printed inside it caused any trouble. Now, I’ve delved into Crowley, engage constantly with the Thelemic godforms (whom I used to be terrified of because Satanism), have performed a few planetary options, and have also done work in a cemetery before. Thirteen-year-old me would be proud.

The rollercoaster ride of Holy Week (Spoiler: it ends well)

In the early days of my puberty, looking back, I would punish myself by slapping my palm with a plastic ruler whenever I masturbated or even felt a twinge of sexual desire. I was obsessed with the idea that God was permanently angry at me, not helped by the fact that I went to a Bible-Presbyterian kindergarten that taught me that not even Princess Diana or Mother Teresa, for all of their good deeds, would go to Heaven if they did not accept the Lord Jesus as their Saviour. Translation: I grew up with this idea in my head that Princess Diana and Mother Teresa were burning in hell (although we now know that Mother Teresa possibly did deserve some measure of post-life punishment), and that no matter how hard I tried, it might be impossible to please God, and that I might lose my acceptance of Jesus if I even made a single mistake of thought.

So it probably really comes as no surprise that when I found the courage and the recovery to do it, I did my best to go as far in the other direction as I could – though much like a knot tightens the more you pull the two ends away from each other, the more I tried to escape it, the more I was brought back to not just my relationship with guilt, but my relationship with Christianity.

Even after a year and a half with the OTO I can safely say that my affection for the beauty at the heart of Christianity, and the overwhelmingly positive experiences I had over three years as a member of a mega-church, mean that it still maintains its sway over me, in all of its various, divergent forms. But I still find power and transcendence in the drum-and-guitar-driven, radio-friendly songs of the modern church; I still find majesty and solemnity in the sacred music written by the best composers we’ve had throughout the years; I still want to decorate my spaces with icons and little saint statues and rosaries and crosses. I still want to say prayers and recite little bits of scripture and marvel at the visionary verses of Ezekiel and Isaiah. I still want to read the Psalms when I feel downtrodden; I still don’t regret the day I sat down in a tattoo parlour tucked away in a corner of a quiet shopping centre in Singapore and asked the artist to tattoo de profundis between my shoulder blades.

For me this is what Holy Week represents every year since I stopped going to church. I remind myself to turn over the guilt, the shame: reject dogma, reject the pressure to conform, reject prudishness. But it is also a time when I remember that there is something wonderful but mysterious, something simple but profound, something beautiful but also important here. Something that – for me at least – temporarily breaks the walls of the church building and spills its secret, hidden joy, and seems to offer a kind of glimpse into eternity beyond the Hallmark depictions of the crucifixion, the Easter bunnies and the pointless debates about its pagan origins.

No, there is something magical here.

#occultism #christianity #easter #holy week #good friday #thelema #oto #crowley #text #ogygia

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memorylang · 4 years

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23rd Birthday~ Roses and Rosaries | #39 | July 2020

I’ve focused on being present for others while even taking to new projects, as I continue to wrestle with the time COVID-19 in America has given me.

With July 6, 2020, I’ve turned 23, hooray! Hard to say whether I feel young or old.

Just after my birthday, my half-brother, his wife and my baby nephew visited for the first time since Christmas, too! Now their adorably big 15-month-old baby babbles and crawls. He’s so squishy. Just before I returned to Reno and they returned to Ohio, we also saw “Hamilton” (2020), which felt grand as well.

Also included, tales from the 4th of July, American Independence Day. But before I go any further, though, I need to share news that’s been hanging on me all month, no matter my activity.

Sensing the Soul’s Hourglass

A dear friend said he’s been diagnosed with brain cancer. He said he’s heard he won’t have long to live.

About a month ago on June 10, I learned this. Just two weeks earlier, my friend and I were chatting, and he shared how excited he felt to have finished undergrad at the top of his class like me. He’d asked for leadership advice, too, on a new role he was taking on. Unfortunately, he’s since had to step down.

My friend and I have kept in close communication ever since his news I received on my stateside Week 14. Our first couple weeks, we mostly talked through the shock. As topics started to thin, we’d begun talking about movies. This led me to take up his offer to see the films he’d recommended most. More on this later.

Memento mori

The Knights of Columbus, like many Christian organizations, invites its members to reflect on the Latin phrase, “Memento mori,” which people often translate to, “Remember you must die.” To have a fellow brother knight undergoing the challenge he faces now, this phrase matters especially.

Our Knights of Columbus College Council, of which he is a part, began praying weekly rosaries for him and his family. We asked others to pray for him as well. Meanwhile, he appeared on a podcast hosted by a fellow knight, the same one I appeared on a couple weeks later.

Terror Road

The day after I learned my dear friend’s news, June 11 at 1:34 a.m., Dad and I had what Dad calls a “Thank you, Jesus” moment.

Dad was driving. It was pitch-black off the highway, judging from how well I could see the stars. We rode a two-lane road, heading back to Reno from Vegas. I was talking to Dad a bit, and he mentioned planning to stop in Beatty, Nev.

In the oncoming traffic, I saw what seemed the semi-driver ahead had his or her brights still on. Then it looked like another car was passing. Dad slid our car right, into the shoulder, as not one but two vehicles zoomed by.

Three cars just passed each other on a two-lane road.

Not long after, we drove over a large animal's carcass, which didn’t quell my morbid thoughts much.

Sure 2 a.m. neared, but I felt way too rattled to rest. Every passing headlight for a while made me flinch. But then we reached Beatty, got our rest and continued, ending Week 14 (June 5–11).

Ancient Skies

June 22, a separate drive up to Reno, Week 16 (June 19–25), around the same dark hour, a more peaceful moment happened. While Dad napped at the rest stop in Luning, Nev. from 1:47 a.m., I went forth and stargazed.

I felt enamored to see the Milky Way. This was the rest stop where Boys’ State often stopped, on my trips with them years ago. I searched for the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia, my usuals. I tried to find Orion, too, but had trouble. There was one area I thought might have been it, though. So, I Googled star charts. I felt that childhood song, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” made far more sense while stargazing.

First I found Vega and Hercules from Big Dipper, then Deneb and Cygnus, followed by Delphinus. What I thought might have been the Little Dipper was part of Sagittarius. Turns out what I thought was Orion was part of it, too. Then I went back and found Altair and Aquila, after zooming out my perspective. Pegasus looked so big! What I thought may have been Cassiopeia, I doubted. Then I found Polaris, solving that mystery.

I paused and saw a couple shooting stars. I reflected on the seeming perfection of ancient star charts, ancients’ stories they wove with the patterns in the sky and the dome creation mythos in the Hebrew Bible that piercing lights there. Some even liken stars to souls of those passed.

Lastly, I found Draco, Lacerta, Cepheus and Ursa Major, followed by Perseus and what looked like Camelopardalis. What I thought might have been Cassiopeia I realized was Ursa Minor.

My Milky Way quest this night reminded me of my Memorial Day Great Basin quest, Week 12 (May 22–28), but better. I felt awed how a quest to find Orion instead opened me to the rest of the summer sky. If I ever visit the Southern Hemisphere I better stargaze.

After I returned to the car at 3 a.m., Dad said he’d seen the stars when he was little. What a memorable night.

Science in a Lifetime

Curiously, ‘Philosophy of Science’ has been among the most impactful courses I took for compulsory credits in late undergrad. I met a friend who’s eagerly engaged in space politics, especially with how that historic Dragon launch (my family watched) changes opportunities. Likewise, that class exposed me in greater depth to gene-editing, beyond the CRISPR-Cas9 I first learned about on a trip with Boys’ State staff.

On one of these Nevada rides with Dad, I asked about his med school experiences. He shared how some professors and students lost their lives to cancers. Leukemia had even taken the life of my father’s brother when the brother was in the 1st grade.

I felt awed then to realize in our world, science has given us potential to reverse cancers that once so mercilessly claimed lives within still living people’s lifetimes. My dear friend and I had hope, and that’s all we needed beyond prayer.

Birdwatching

One day in the backyard during a return to Vegas, I decided my new favorite animal has changed from mantis shrimp to the elusive, hoving hummingbird.

Furthermore, I just thought about how awesome birds are in general.

I met an Irish priest in Taiwan who even watched birds for fun. He had such excitement in his eyes. I vaguely recalled a poem I encountered, sometime after I came back from Mongolia. The poet compared herself to the birds. In fact, Mongolian hunters use eagles, falcons and other birds of prey. But I felt even the normal birds sounded different in Mongolia. Birds can be so colorful.

God bless the hummingbirds.

July 4, 2020, and an Eclipse

This was my first time back in America for July 4 since 2016.

Down in Vegas on American Independence Day, my youngest brother and I drove to our stepmother's, where two of her daughters and Dad were. My older brother would come later. I helped a little in the kitchen. Mostly, I worked on my writing while chatting with my youngest stepsister before she left for work.

I had no idea I missed the taste of an American-style burger on the 4th of July. It's truly been four years since my last.

Dad had felt glad I saw “What’s Up, Doc?” recently, so he had his wife, my youngest brother, and my older (not oldest) stepsister see it. My stepsister and my brother left, though. I enjoyed seeing it again.

Then I went out on the back porch, as fireworks began downtown and around the neighborhood. Being there, feeling the warm breeze, reminded of Panamá, seeing on my host family’s front porch the lunar eclipse during January 2019.

Here in the States for the 4th felt good—a taste of home again. The United States is a young nation, one I hope that continues to revel in its history, remembering its roots. Its roots run all throughout the earth. Unless we are indigenous peoples, we and our ancestors came from elsewhere. And as citizens of the States now, let us continue to honor those who gave of themselves to make possible the democratic experiment on which the United States was founded.

God bless!

23rd Birthday—Online, Anywhere

“It's a funny thing about coming home. [...] You realize what's changed is you.” —The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008)

When I was a schoolkid, I used to enjoy sleepovers for my birthdays. I'd at least have get-togethers at my house so friends and I could see each other halfway through summer.

In recent past summers, though, studying abroad in China then serving with Peace Corps Mongolia, I hadn't been stateside for my birthdays! This changed due to the COVID-19 pandemic, making this my first summer home a birthday since 2016. Even online, I could read what people wrote me!

About a week before my birthday, I had the pleasure of visiting to pray a rosary with Evan, an older fellow Knight of Columbus who has been homebound due to limited mobility among other conditions. He felt thrilled by my commitment to see him and keep the faith, and he asked me to join him daily in rosaries over the phone. We began at once. We even started praying two a day, at his request. He deeply believed in continued prayer and suggested what many need is a night entirely in prayer. Unfortunately, he lacked the health to do this.

Understanding a physically distant birthday would be best amid this pandemic, I'd already planned to restrict my birthday functions to online only. I realized my day would mark a perfect occasion for the vigil! Reaching out to fellow knights, I received rapid support for the vigil idea. I and those who join me would pray for peace, preservation and intercession amid the pandemic for all who suffer illness, especially our dear friend.

Realizing, too, late nights in the States could be more pleasant times for Catholics elsewhere in the world, I reached out to pilgrim friends I met during World Youth Day 2019 pilgrimage in Panamá. Since rosaries contain a sequence of repeated call-and-response prayers, I felt we could share our native languages and still understand the meaning, just as we’d done at World Youth Day. Salvadoran, Mongolian and Malaysian friends helped me translate my invitation to Spanish, Mongolian and Mandarin Chinese. I hoped by having fellow Americans alongside pilgrim friends pray together with me, we could share in the universality of the faith in peace and solidarity during this pandemic.

Birthday Vigil Begins

We began 23:00 Pacific time on Sunday, July 5, praying until we completed all 23 rosaries. We finished at noon on my birthday July 6. When some friends had to retire for the night or to leave for work in their timezones, I'd pray alone until a new friend appeared. At most, only an hour would pass between others' arrival to join me in prayer, which felt great.

At kick-off, I was joined by fellow two fellow knights—Javier, who had begun our council’s weekly rosaries, and my dear friend. I felt so elated on video to see him again for the first time in ages! Additionally, two pilgrim friends join us—Andrea in El Salvador joined us and Marie in the Czech Republic.

We began with Latin, the Church’s universal language, which might have been a laughable start. We followed it with an easier rosary, Spanish, which was Andrea’s native language. We tried another hard one for us, next. Javi taught us responses for Tagalog, then we gave it a shot. I really enjoyed praying in Tagalog, as many of my middle and high school friends know the language.

For our fourth rosary, we tried to do French since our dear friend knows it, but because the language’s pronunciation rules aren’t straightforward, we bailed after the “Our Father” and switched to English. I felt impressed we prayed the first three in non-English languages, though!

Most had to go around 1–2 a.m. Around that time, Marie, who had been without a camera and microphone, realized she could try using her sister’s laptop. Thus, right after everyone else left, she was able to speak! She taught me enough Czech that I could read the responses. I found it a beautiful language. Then I taught her enough Mandarin Chinese so she could read the responses in Mandarin. Marie might have set the record for being online longest with me—about four hours!

Birthday Vigil and Daybreak

My most difficult hour was between about 3–4 a.m. Alone, I completed three rosaries but felt increasingly lethargic.

Thankfully, when I felt totally drained, my fellow knight Marco bailed me out! For the next hour or so, we said one in English then another in Latin, which helped me find my groove.

After Marco left for work, two unexpected guests popped in. My Mongolian friend Angelica, whom I met during Peace Corps, visited briefly as well as my Panamanian host mother, who housed me for World Youth Day. Although neither could stay long, I appreciated their presence. They wished such kind blessings! Meanwhile, I said rosaries in Latin and Mongolian.

My fellow knight Evan joined our rosaries for an hour and a half around 6:30 a.m., our usual time we prayed together. Our Grand Knight Thomas joined that morning, as well. Evan enjoyed hearing us in Latin.

My Mexican pilgrim friend Ricardo came in about when Tom left, so after Latin with Evan, I prayed in Spanish with Ricardo. He said great blessings, too! Then I said a quick rosary alone in English.

Then came more Salvadoran pilgrim friends! Josselyn dropped by around 9 a.m. Just after she left came Rosibel around 10. I enjoyed how they added litanies, which I hadn’t done on previous rosaries. With them, I spoke and prayed in Spanish, which gave me lots of practice. They felt relieved they didn’t need to speak English to join me, and they thought I spoke well, too!

Just after Rosibel left and shortly after 11, my Salvadoran friend Andrea, who joined me at the vigil’s very beginning, returned! I practiced a lot of Spanish that morning. Thankfully, Andrea knew English and indulged me to pray the final, 23rd rosary in my native tongue.

Vigil’s Aftermath

In total, I with friends prayed six Joyful, five Luminous, six Sorrowful and six Glorious Mysteries. Of these, we prayed most in non-English languages, primarily Spanish and Latin, but also Tagalog, Czech, Mandarin Chinese and Mongolian. I really enjoyed honoring prayer in others' native languages. Beyond the States, we were joined by friends in Latin America, Europe and Asia, including El Salvador, Panamá, México, the Czech Republic and Mongolia.

I'm touched and honored by those who came to support our efforts. Got to finally put to the test my months of restarting Spanish! Those who participated shared their joy and commendations, too. My homebound knight even requested I do another in August. (My late mother’s birthday is in early August, so we’ll see.)

Mere days after the vigil, my dear friend shared doctors said he’s in recovery! That raised our spirits.

Mere days after, my dear friend received opposite news that the cancer spread. Days later, he reported rough days and said he could practically sense his hourglass of life. Doctors said in three months, he would lose function in his legs. Still, our correspondences continue.

On the bright side, “glioblastoma” makes a great Scrabble word, he added.

Rose Thorns of Life

Felt a little choked up clipping the dead rose blooms yesterday morning. I thought they were still alive, but they weren't. So I needed to prune them. For, the whole life of the bush looks better when it's free of its once alive-and-beautiful, now finished-and-dead parts. Its life thrives by focusing on the living pieces when they live and removing the dead when they’re dead. Such are our lives.

My stepmom likes roses.

When I was little, I disliked roses because of their thorns. I bled whenever I grabbed them. I realize now that if I don't get close, I don't get hurt. But to care for them better, I must get closer. Such is life.

I was praying over the phone my daily rosaries with fellow knight Evan while pruning the rose bushes yesterday. It was Thursday, so we prayed the Luminous and Sorrowful Mysteries—fitting. They meditate on acceptance, suffering and letting go.

I don’t find rosaries all that fun, to be honest. But people say they’re important. And they feel like a nice way to get in the right spirit, even outside places of worship. In the clipping of roses, they remind me of the beauty and tragedies natural to our lives on Earth.

More to Come

When it comes to my Latin and Spanish studies, I took a pause to refocus on my writing. Though, I still do a Duolingo Latin lesson a day to keep up that 75-day streak. I’ve plenty to share on languages next month.

For my four months of labor, I wanted my own camera for my birthday. But ultimately, I found those a bit too large for my needs. Dad purchased me a new mid-range smartphone with a great camera instead. It felt odd compensation for 20 weeks’ work, but, still, I don’t have to cover rent, food nor transportation while home... Plus, the device still beats the older used phone I’d been on through the back half of my undergrad, especially on Google suite and apps. Feels Sci-Fi!

By the way, do you play Pokémon GO? If so, you can add me at 2070 8544 5874. I recently rejoined after having stopped four years ago. Just one more way to get me and my face mask out and about while physically distancing!

My younger sister also spoofed an old story I wrote when I was little and gave that as a birthday gift. I found it hilarious. My day marked the third of my siblings’ quarantine birthdays!

Up next, I’m working on blog stories from last July in Mongolia. So, in a sequel to my previous throwback, get ready for adventures back to that Mongolian summer with me! We’re going rural, too, so the countryside is coming back.

I’ll update you in August on exciting projects I’ve taken on, too. Please keep my dear friend in your thoughts and prayers, also.

Till then, take great care, my friend.

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

#Peace Corps #Mongolia #hope #WithMe #COVID-19 #Nevada #StayHome #July4 #tragedy #Coronavirus #cancer #news #memoir #story #Reno #Las Vegas #USA #memoryLang #God #Catholic

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gospelmusic · 4 years

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Catholic Daily Reading - 17 June 2020

Wednesday June 17, 2020 Weekday (11)

Vestment: Green Today’s Rosary: The Glorious Mystery Death Anniversary: OKIGWE: Bishop Anthony Ilonu, 17/6/2012 FIRST READING A chariot of fire appeared, and Elijah went up into heaven. A reading from the second Book of Kings 2 Kings 2:1.6-14 Now when the Lord was about to take Elijah up to heaven by a whirlwind, Elijah and Elisha were on their way from Gilgal. [They came to Jericho, and] Elijah said to Elisha, “Tarry here, I beg you; for the Lord has sent me to the Jordan.” But he said, “As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.” So the two of them went on. Fifty men of the sons of the prophets also went, and stood at some distance from them, as they both were standing by the Jordan. Then Elijah took his coat, and rolled it up, and struck the water, and the water was parted to the one side and to the other, till the two of them could go over on dry ground. When they had crossed, Elijah said to Elisha, “Ask what I shall do for you, before I am taken from you.” And Elisha said, “I beg you, let me inherit a double share of your spirit.” And he said, “You have asked a hard thing; yet, if you see me as I am being taken from you, it shall be so for you; but if you do not see me, it shall not be so.” And as they still went on and talked, behold, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them. And Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven. And Elisha saw it and cried, “My father, my father! The chariots of Israel and its horsemen! ” And he saw him no more. Then he took hold of his own clothes and tore them in two pieces. And he took up the coat of Elijah that had fallen from him, and went back and stood on the bank of the Jordan. Then he took the coat of Elijah that had fallen from him, and struck the water, saying, “Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?” And when he had struck the water, the water was parted to the one side and to the other; and Elisha went over. The word of the Lord. RESPONSORIAL PSALM Psalm 31:20.21.24 (R. 25) R/. Be strong, let your heart take courage, all who hope in the Lord. How great is the goodness, Lord, that you keep for those who fear you, that you show to those who trust you in the sight of the children of men. R. You hide them in the shelter of your presence, secure from human scheming; you keep them safe within your tent from disputing tongues. R. Love the Lord, all you his saints. The Lord guards the faithful. But the Lord will repay to the full the one who acts with pride. R. ALLELUIA John 14:23 Alleluia. If a man loves me, he will keep my word, says the Lord; and my Father will love him, and we will come to him. Alleluia. GOSPEL “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” A reading from the holy Gospel according to Matthew (Matthew 6:1-6. 16- 18) At that time: Jesus said to his disciples, “Beware of practicing your piety before men in order to be seen by them; for then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven. Thus, when you give alms, sound no trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may be praised by men. Truly, I say to you, they have their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street conners, that they may be seen by men. Truly, I say to you, they have their reward. But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. “And when you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by men. Truly, I say to you, they have their reward. But when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by men but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” The Gospel of the Lord Today’s Reflection Almsgiving, prayer and fasting indicate three key relationships in Christian living. Almsgiving portrays a relationship to the other, prayer to God, and fasting to the self. Almsgiving, prayer and fasting are not virtues or rituals to be trumpeted or paraded but unique signs of relationship between God, others and self to be celebrated in perfect harmony. When Jesus gave, he gave everything including his own life; fasting strengthened him to overcome all the temptations; and prayer kept him always in communion with his father. Let our observance of these relationships help us to develop a Christ-like character that enables us to experience a personal relationship with God. Today’s Saint and Quote: St Emily de Vialar – June 17th Since God does so much for me, what could I not do for him? Personal Devotional "The Lord is our shelter and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble. So we shall not be afraid, even if the earth is shaken". Psalm 46:1,2 - Father, forgive me for neglecting to focus on the crown of life every day of my life. - Dear Lord, give me the grace to follow you till the end of my life. - Pray that every child of God should be conscious of the reward of eternal life which Christian race has to offer and work towards it. Let Us Pray Dear Lord, do not let me be separated from you because of hardship, persecution, hunger, poverty, danger or death. Help me to remain faithful to you in the mighty name of Jesus. Memory verse: Matthew 5:39

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You may also like our gospel worship songs page which contains, the best, coolest and hottest Nigerian Gospel Songs, and Foreign Gospel Songs. Whatsoever is the mood, we've got you covered. Do you feel like dancing, rejoicing, shouting, screaming, or you're filled with jubilation because of the Mighty things the Lord has done? Then look no further, cos our gospel praise songs page, containing the hottest Nigerian and foreign praise songs collection, was prepared specifically for you. Peradventure you need the lyrics of the songs you are downloading now, just downloaded, or have downloaded before, our lyrics page is the best place to look. What more could be more helpful and entertaining than seeing the lyrics of your most favourite song before you, as the music unfolds unto the climax. Hey we've been there before, and still encounter it from time to time when the vocals get lost in the cloud of heavy orchestration.

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Are You a Classical Music lover, our classical music page, contains the best of classical songs, composed and written by composers like G. F Handel, Bach, Joseph Haydn, etc. As you listen to your best gospel song, you may also want to get some more insight and knowledge about the word of God, from eBooks written by God's servants, or you may want to learn something new or build yourself up in some way. Then our eBook Page is the right place to look. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); You may be in need of entertainment, and probably want to watch a video too. We understand that as well. You can get entertaining video downloads from our video downloads page.

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cnfhumss12a-blog · 5 years

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The Light and Shadows of Binondo

By Kiana Lane R. Altoveros

My family loves the Chinese culture so much that our house is filled with antiques from Binondo, charms from the local chinese stalls in nearby malls, and Buddha statues from random bazaars that we passed by. My mom used to tell me that the Chinese are so keen on good luck that they were rich partly because of it. Take note that no one in my immediate family was Chinese but we somehow truly believed in what they believed in.

I have never been to the skeletons of Binondo. Yes, I have visited the famous Binondo Church to celebrate mass but other than that, I can never truly say that I have been to Binondo with a hundred percent conviction. Being raised in the province, the image of Binondo was painted to me by the media that is particularly in television. Telecasts of the Chinese New Year celebrations every year showcased odd-looking dragons, bright red lanterns as bandiritas, and so many flavors of tikoy. I always wonder why the attributes of the sticky snack was considered lucky.

In all honesty, Binondo to me was nothing but an extravagant venue for another animal-labelled zodiac year ahead.

Travelling to the Chinese capital in a jeepney was suffocating because it only has a seat capacity of 20 people. To add to that, the driver squished 25 people inside to earn more. My pink cropped sweater made it worse as all walks of life tried inserting themselves on the two parallel rugged cushions. Passengers were carrying plastic bags that were colored with red and white stripes that was filled with clothes and bags; Divisoria was just minutes away from Binondo. Errands at noon were not at all appealing, as the heat of the sun blended with the smoke of Metro Manila that seeped through every inch of our skin. As I tried distracting myself from the pollution that my provincial lungs were inhaling, I thought of my first stop.

The Binondo Church stood tall amidst the rise of the buildings reflecting the contrasts that the modern technology has brought in historical sites. With its sturdy stone facade facing the flow of traffic in the busy streets of Ongpin, Spanish Architect Domingo de la Cruz González would never have imagined that his design would somehow survive to see what Binondo has become today. The bloody red lines seemed to highlight and reflect the disasters that it had experienced. I have never seen red to be an important element in the design structure of a church before. I must say that this church bears the in betweens of the Spanish Colonization and the Chinese cultural impact in the Philippines.

Quickly gathering my thoughts, I hopped off the jeepney that slowly halted just as the stoplight turned red. I was now right across the famous church after travelling 20 minutes from DLSU. The usual lit and burning red candles were placed at the left corner near the entrance, and the religious souvenirs and items such as rosaries and bibles were at the opposite side. The air was filled with unanswered questions, and wishes that might never be granted; it is prayers that represent social media posts in the eyes of God. People flocked the church on a Tuesday afternoon and the traces of Catholicism prevailed just as what the invaders had hoped for- permanent transformation.

After saying a quick prayer, I was then on a hunt for food. The locals, when asked about the things that are the best to do in Binondo, would always say food trip without hesitation. And because of that, I let my grumbling stomach guide me through the hustling streets of Binondo. Walking through Chinatown, restaurant signs bombarded me left and right. I passed Eng Bee Tin’s flagship store with a booming speaker that entices passersby to take a peek. They claim to be the house of the best hopia and tikoy in all of Binondo and it’s hard to argue against their 107 years of existence. I was not at all surprised that the red lanterns never failed to make an appearance. Oddly enough, the red looked good against the purple aesthetic of the whole place.

Still searching for affordable and quality food, I saw Chuan Kee - the oldest fast food in Binondo, and their interior did indeed looked as if it was last updated in the 50s. Their low ceiling and white-tiled floors are audiences to the crowd of people eating. Restaurant appearance did not matter as long as the food is good, I guess. I must admit that I was almost pulled in by the popularity of the place. Standing by my main objective, I wanted a different kind of experience. The kind that is unique to all the Chinese food lunches that I had been to with my family.

Just as my eyes scanned the remaining restaurants that are placed strategically in the streets that’s going to the other parts of Chinatown, I passed the towering arch of Ongpin North Bridge. The air that I inhaled was infected by the stench of the estero that was hidden beneath the structure. The black stain from the dirt that it has collected throughout the years layered the stone railings of the bridge. Red rectangles outlined the bridge’s shape as it connected the restaurants to the various businesses that reside in Binondo. Vendors were trying to market their products, the horn of the impatient jeepneys driven by the impatient drivers rang in my ears, and the whispers of Hokaglish, the combination of Hokkien Chinese, English, and Tagalog, surrounded the hot air. The bridge witnesses scenarios like these everyday.

I was slowly losing hope of finding the perfect unique Chinese Restaurant as I stopped by the end of the historical bridge. Needless to say that I was extremely hungry, I opted to ask a local about the good restaurants nearby. What he recommended to me was the chain of food places just beside the estero. Hey, I did ask for something unique- lunch beside a drainage canal. Nothing but unconventional yet exciting!

The Estero Fast Food has a variety of meals to choose from, and it does not sway away from the usual dishes that you see in high-end Chinese restaurants. Yang-chow fried rice, garlic shrimp, fried spare ribs and beef broccoli are some of the dishes that they offer. Everything was cooked fresh and the ingredients were all laid out in front of their kitchen so that the customers can see it. The size of the servings are generous as I was more than satisfied after the meal. It seemed as if there were sukis that often came to the restaurant. It was packed considering that it was a weekday and that it was hidden from plain sight. The food was cheap, delicious, and worthwhile. This convinced me that there were hidden gems in Binondo that a lot of tourists often miss out on. Gems beside esteros that were hidden underneath an old bridge. Unfortunately, the self-proclaimed Chinese-me was disheartened when I found out that they do not serve dumplings like pork and shrimp siomai (a savory snack wrapped with a wonton wrapper and filled with pork) and hakaw (a shrimp dumpling) - my two favorite Chinese dishes.

After paying less than 200 pesos for a meal that would probably be priced for 400 pesos in DLSU, I was desperate for a long walk. It was my first spontaneous trip and not knowing where I’ll end up next somehow excited me. It is true that mystery reels you into the black hole of adventure.

It’s funny how I’ve never been to Binondo which is known to embrace everything in Chinese culture and beliefs yet I feel like I have been trained to be familiar with everything that I encounter. I entered the Dragon Phoenix Enterprise, oddly enough, it reminded me of home and my family.

I knew that shops position their cashier box based off of to what the Feng Shui advised. I knew who Kuan Kong is and what his presence gives the homes or offices since mine had a porcelain statue of him in the middle of our living room. I was very aware that Guan Yin Ma is the Goddess with many arms and that she symbolises kindness and love as she was placed in a vanity mirror inside my parents’ bedroom. Charms like bracelets and pendants, especially when newly bought, should be blessed inside a stainless bowl that echoes when hit by a small wooden bat. The smell of incense as the fire urges it into ash is not foreign to me as we would bow three times to Guan Yin Ma every night to say why we were grateful. Even when I was searching for Chinese snacks to try in a small convenience store near Dragon Phoenix Enterprise, I saw Haw Flakes - a dark pink candy that smelled like tamarinds and sweet candy at the same time was my favorite candy that my dad would bring home from the mall and it has been years since I devoured its tangy taste again. The Chinese usually eat it with tea or as a distraction to their bitter medicine. I was always curious why it was sold in a Chinese drugstore in my hometown and now I got the answers.

The Philippines was home to Chinese traders in the late 16th century and their population steadily grew with their influence to the culture and livelihood of Filipinos. The friendship of the two nations were even honored by the national government by renaming the Ongpin South Bridge into the Friendship Bridge. I took a glance at the fruit stands that is placed at the end of this bridge while eating my Haw Flakes. Binondo was where these traders resided in and it is rather safe to say that this place bears the fruits of the bond of these two nationalities. Maybe the friendship that grew between our ancestors and the Chinese traders have brought my family to embody the same ideals.

I stand in the Plaza San Lorenzo Ruiz as I wait for the jeepney going back home. The traffic started piling up as employees from one of the booming business capitals in the country have started to go home. The shadow of the church casted upon the plaza. I had no idea what Binondo was; its past will always be a shadow to my present and I can never insert myself into the history. Television shows did not do justice to the skeletons of Binondo to say the least. The skin and flesh celebrations covered its crumbling old bones - surviving amidst the hits that it continuously endures; bombs from the World War then, or the constructions of different high-rise buildings now.

The sun was setting and the shimmer over the city looked like specks of glitters scattered by the wind. The gold specks in Binondo might be a reflection of the rich culture, delicious food, and historical value that this place possess. I have never been to your Binondo, but I sure have enjoyed reminiscing what I have seen. Gallery: https://cnfhumss12a.tumblr.com/tagged/kiana

#english #kiana

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pamphletstoinspire · 7 years

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Our Universal Mother - Part 67

Miracle of the Sorrowful Virgin of Quito, Ecuador 1906

...little by little the Sorrowful Virgin opened and closed her eyes with love and tenderness - to indicate that she is ready to receive all

Miracle of the Sorrowful Virgin of Quito

The image of the Sorrowful Virgin of Quito, with her Heart pierced by the seven swords of her Seven Sorrows, is one of the best-known images of our Mother of Sorrows in the Catholic world. What is not so well-known is the history of this image and of the miracle which made it so famous. This history is very much entwined with the history of Ecuador itself; for Quito is the capital of Ecuador.

Historical Background

Ecuador was the first Spanish colony in the New World to rebel and gain independence from the Mother Country (in 1822). Catholics who fought for independence may have thought they had a just cause, but, as so often happens, eventually the revolutionary movement fell under the domination of anti-Catholic liberals. Ecuador’s history has often been marred by revolutions and anti-Catholic liberals. Ecuador’s history has often been marred by revolutions and anti-Catholic governments. Thus, President José Urbina expelled the Jesuits from Ecuador in 1852.

Ten years later the truly Catholic President, Gabriel García Moreno, allowed the Jesuits to return, and gave them back their ancient church and college. In gratitude, the Jesuits renamed the college "St. Gabriel." It was the same President Moreno who solemnly consecrated Ecuador to the Sacred Heart of Jesus on March 25, 1874, with these words: "Prostrate before Thy Divine Presence, all the public powers of the Church and State offer and consecrate to Thee, now and for always, the Republic of Ecuador as Thy exclusive property and possession." Gabriel García Moreno paid for this consecration with his blood. He was assassinated by enraged liberals more than one year later, on August 6, 1875, as he was returning from First Friday adoration of the Blessed Sacrament in the Cathedral of Quito - the site of the consecration. Moreno had noted in his diary that morning: "Lord Jesus, show me what it is that I ought to do today for Thy love."

THE MIRACLE

It was in 1906, when the persecution of the Church had reached its height, that the miracle of the Sorrowful Virgin took place. It was the 20th of April 1906, Friday of Easter Week; the 35 boarding students were dining in the refectory of the College of St. Gabriel. An image of the Mother of Sorrows hung on one side of the door, to the right as one enters, about six feet from the floor. The picture was an oleograph (a print using oil-based inks), printed in France, of about 20 inches long by 16 inches wide. The Jesuits had purchased three such pictures from a traveling salesman. The Prefect of Discipline, Father Andrés Roesch, testified as follows at the Canonical Process investigating the miracle:

"At 8:00 pm, when the students had finished their meal, I entered the refectory and, contrary to the established custom, and without explanation, I said "Deo Gratias" to the boys, to their great surprise (this was a permission to converse, instead of continuing the spiritual reading). At several of the tables, I spoke about the events in San Francisco, California (the earthquake which had taken place two days earlier). I did so with the boys at the first table (who had made their First Holy Communion on Holy Thursday), in order to make reflections upon that event and to encourage conversation concerning the Most Holy Virgin. One of them, Jaime Chávez, raised his eyes toward a print of the Virgin of Sorrows, hanging on the wall about one and a half meters from him.

"With amazement he saw that the image closed her eyes; filled with fear, he covered his eyes with his hand and spoke of it to the boy next to him, Carlos Herrmann, who saw the same marvel. Because of this, they knelt down between the table and the bench and recited the Our Father and Hail Mary. Then they called to another boy and another, until one of them came to me and urged me with great insistence to go and see…

"At first I admonished the one who called me to be quiet, because it appeared to me to be an illusion of the boys; but finally, at the insistence and calls of all those who were present at the prodigy, I went over to the table situated closest to the image, with the determination of solving the mystery. I carefully made sure that the electric lamps were not flickering and that there was no reflection on the image: this did not appear to be the case.

"Standing in front of the image, I fixed my eyes upon her without blinking, and I saw that the Most Holy Virgin slowly closed her eyelids; but not believing that this was certain, I withdrew from that place. Seeing this, Brother Alberdi ( the Assistant Supervisor), who was standing much closer than I had been, said to me wondering at what had happened: 'But Father, it is a miracle...if it is a miracle…' I returned again to the place where I was before; then I felt a chill come over my body as I saw, without the possibility of doubt, that the image definitely closed and opened her eyes. When this happened all the boys who were present cried with one voice: 'Now she’s closing them; now she’s opening them; now the left eye…' It should be noted that at times only the left eye closed, or at least did so with greater clarity than the right, and so appeared to be more closed.

"The event was repeated many times over the space of about fifteen minutes, more or less. It ceased when, seeing that we were already late for night prayers, and always fearing to give too much attention to this, I gave the order for the students to retire. Many of them did so reluctantly, since they wanted to kneel down right there and pray. I suppressed any noisy manifestations in order not to cause a disturbance, for it appeared to me that if the event were miraculous, there would not be lacking sufficient witnesses to prove it. In the beginning I believed it to be an illusion; but after I had seen it, I withdrew without giving credence to anything. At the insistence of Brother Alberdi, I returned and beheld the blinking with such clarity that it gave me a chill, and I remain convinced."

The testimony of Brother Alberdi is in full agreement:

"One of the boys from the first tables came and informed us about the Virgin… that she was moving her eyes; we received the news with unconcern or without any enthusiasm, at least speaking for myself. I don’t know how to account for what happened to me then, but I remember that I said to Father Roesch, after I had gazed on the picture, "Father, it is certain;" and he exclaimed, "What a prodigy!" Then the boys started to get up from their tables and to gather around where we were looking at the holy image; little by little I moved closer to the picture, where I could see her closing and opening her eyes for about a quarter of an hour or a little longer… I remained convinced that the eyes of the holy image of the Virgin were closing and opening during that time without ceasing. The boys were saying in one, loud voice: "Now she is closing them; now she is opening..." A great fear came upon the boys; I saw one by, who was close by, trembling.

"One boy insisted on calling the Father Rector, but Father Roesch would not allow it, because there was such a commotion"; therefore he clapped his hands to signal that it was time to go to the Chapel to recite the Rosary, even though the Virgin continued to close and open her eyes. The boy said to the Father: 'Let us carry the picture to the Chapel and pray the Rosary before her there;' but he would not allow it."

Typical of the testimonies of the boys is the following:

"I do not fear that I was mistaken, nor did I have a prejudice in favor of the prodigy; on the contrary, I believed it to be a joke of the little boys; but afterward, I stood at a distance of one or two meters and saw perfectly that the image opened and closed her eyes, but more so the left; and when they were closed the whites of her eyes were completely concealed."

THE CHURCH INVESTIGATES

Seven days after the event a Canonical process was begun by the Church authorities. It mandated the appearance of a Theological Commission expressly named for this case, and of a Commission of scientists and doctors. They all submitted their findings after mature examination according to their proper expertise. Finally, on the 31st of May 1906, the people of Quito heard the conclusions of the Church authorities:

The event of April, 1906, at the College of the Jesuit Fathers is established as historically certain.

This event, in the circumstances in which it occurred, cannot be explained by natural laws.

This event, on account of its antecedents and consequences, cannot be attributed to diabolical influence.

Devotion to the Sorrowful Virgin quickly spread across the national boundaries and was established in Columbia, Peru, and Venezuela; it jumped to Bolivia and Chile; then to Spain, England, France, the United States and Australia.

Ever since 1906, the miracle has been commemorated every year with a solemn and fervent novena, at which crowds of the faithful assist.

#our universal mother

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stopsubstanceabuse1-blog · 5 years

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