† VIII Hail Marys †

[dusty_angelus]

[✞]Mark 3:22-29

And the scribes which came down from Jerusalem said,
“He is possessed by Beelzebub! By the Prince of Demons he casteth out demons!”
So Jesus called them unto him, and said unto them in parables:
“How can Satan cast out Satan?
If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand.
If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand.
And if Satan rise up against himself, and be divided, he cannot stand, but hath an end.
Verily I say unto you, All sins shall be forgiven unto the sons of Men, and blasphemies wherewith soever they shall blaspheme.
But he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Spirit hath never forgiveness, but is guilty of eternal sin and damnation.”[✞]

[†]The middle of the night rouses the priest from a slumber so deep he had not realized just how long he had been out. Stirring, he stretches an arm over his head at an impossible angle, poking the lens of the tiny camera unbeknown before sitting up with a look of utter bemusement.

How in God's good name did he get into the bathtub?

And why was the tight space so, eerily comfortable? Despite his long legs and arms dangling over the sides of it. Anderson shudders over brushing his head, which is uncharacteristically cold to the touch. Sick, perhaps he's sick, and in his delirium wandered into here? Mewling as he pushes himself out of the tub the sensation of utter cold seems to grasp him at all ends... to his very core it felt like sub-arctic ice, and perturbably hallow within.

Stepping over to the sink, he doesn't take notice that he seems to glide rather than walk, as if his very presence were soaked into the floor like the shadows roving about in the small room. Turning the faucet he cups water to splash upon his smooth-feeling and ashen cheeks. A heavy sigh leaves him, as if he'd forgotten to breathe... or how to breathe, he cranes his head up to face the mirror, to see not his visage, but two bright Hellish and Red glowing eyes staring back at him.[†]

ALUCAAAAAAAARD!!!!!


[†]A violent fist crushes into the mirror shattering shards of glass in every direction.[†]

YE FOUL WRETCH! HOW EN NINE HELLS DID YE GIT EN HAUR--!?

[†]Spinning around he expected to hear the creature's infuriating guffawing from all around him. Yet instead, he heard the laughter come from within.. One chortle, then two guffaws, then twenty cackles, then a hundred crowings, then thousands, millions of cachinnations deafening all other sounds of the world till his mind felt as if it would implode and blood leak from his ears. The pain was immeasurable as he dropped to his knees clutching his skull in a paling cry.[†]

Aaa..AAAHHHH...AAAHHH!!! SH-SHUT UP! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!!!

YE DAMNED DEMONS GET THEE OOT AV MY MIND! Sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio contra nequítiam et insídias diáboli esto præsídium! Imperet illi Deus, súpplices deprecámur!! Tuque, princeps milítiæ cæléstis, Sátanam aliósque spíritus malígnos, qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in mundo, divína virtúte, In inférnum detru--!!!

[†]A feral roar twisted up his throat as agony wracked up his body, feeling it contort as if he was not one whole being, but the peculiar shadow of many. His hands dropping to the floor as he quaked in fiery pangs, he stared at one large shard of glass to see his own face staring back at him. Pale and cadaverous as a dead thing, eyes as deep and ruddy and aglow with all the debased flames of Gehenna.[†]



. . .O' Mary. . .Mother of God. . .

[†]The flesh of his hands burned like fresh branding irons pressed to his nude skin, and as his balking and dread-stricken gaze crept towards the source of the pain, he saw the Occult Seals, the Sigils that bound the Devil and Black Peril, scarificated upon his own hands.

What unholy abomination had he become?

Scribe! Pharisee! Hypocrite! Monster!

The camera dies, yet returns to life minutes later, still in the dark, still amongst reflective glass covering the tiling. The priest is seated upon his heels, his arms stretched out as far as they could go, with a blessed bayonet grasped strong and stalwartly in both hands, the silver blade-tip pointed at his own heart.[†]

Yea, Lord, Ah give myself as ae unholy sacrifice fer them sae they can be made holy by Your truth. Nae shall Ah allaw m'self tae be ae burdensome beast whilst carrying Your holy Cross.

Ye cannot drink th' cup of th' Lord, an' the cup of th' Devil.. ye cannot be partakers of th' Lord's table, an' of th' table of th' Devil.

Doth Ah provoke th' Lord's jealousy? Am Ah stronger than He? Nay.... N-nae.. Ah've fallen frem His grace, an' shall nae rove abit as ae mockery tae His name an' sacrifice.

Yea, an' even if Ah lose my life, pouring it out loch ae liquid offering tae God, Ah be offering upon thes sacrifice an' service of Your faith... Ah joy.. Ah joy an' rejoice wit' you all.

In nomine Patris, et Filii, † et Spiritus Sancti.


. . .Amen.

[†]End Transmission.[†]

Comments

[Action]

[silvery-serpent.livejournal.com]

[Arm lifting, beautifully sculpted fingers lightly pressing frigid palm in perfect sync with the gentlemanly gesture. He kept himself close, merging to the vampiric
Priest's side if only to keep some form of physical contact to get him used to the idea that the Archbishop did not find him to be abhorrent in the least.]

She knows, Father. On some level, I'm sure. I promise she will have a message before too long. But, tonight at least, I am not letting you out of my sight.

[Diminutive figure crowds the Scotsman's hip, lingering there before stepping off towards the living room. He leads the man, yet not quite man, by way of an invisible leash clasped figuratively around his neck, patting one of the couch cushions to indicate that he wanted the other to sit next to him.]

[Action]

[dusty-angelus.livejournal.com]

[There were points in time on their short stay here on this island that he was sure the stiff-necked man he was brought here with was out of his zealous mind. Staring at him, such affliction in those ember-flecked russet eyes, Anderson expected him to find him the most putrid thing on this sin-infected earth.

Ye hate what is bad, sayeth the Lord. And let those who love the LORD hate evil, for he guards the lives of his faithful ones and delivers them from the hand of the wicked. The world itself was cruel and wicked, thus he saw his ward's hatred spread to all men and all things not of their creed. So why, when given the chance to hate the most wicked of all... did he not?]

Ah'm. . . Ah'm nae gontae be able tae sleep.

[Uttered rather sheepishly for such a demonic presence. That body wanted to seethe it's evil into the darkness of the walls. Yet his pious will bridled it as he walked with the archbishop into the living room.]

[Action]

[silvery-serpent.livejournal.com]

[How could he ever hate the man who had given so much of himself to his upbringing and to his Organization? Anderson had looked after Maxwell when no one else would. Cared for him. Taught him. Loved him. And who was he to throw all of that way? All those memories, all those years of laughter and tears. It did him no good to Cast Damnation on his most loyal subject.]

I will stay with you, Alex. Even to the last.

[Waits patiently with hands folded politely over his lap as though waiting for a dinner party guest to arrive, a placid smile fixed in place over his mouth. Perhaps Anderson didn't understand all that he did, but there were certain things that were not meant for him to grasp given the current circumstances. ]

Please. Sit.

[Action]

[dusty-angelus.livejournal.com]

[Ever the most meekest and sheeplike, the ones herald to inherit paradise, Anderson never felt his deeds, be it his guidance, protection, teachings, caring, and love, to ever be rewarded or re-compensated. The acts in themselves were his joys in life. Yet with such a mindset, he truly did not amount his worth to any tangible value. A simple priest, he called himself. . . the only things that made him special were the gifts God had granted unto him.]

O. . .Oh.

[Knitting his brows, dolor coloring those strange eyes a darker shade of cardinal, his mouth failed to upturn again. It was probably another blessing he didn't inherit Alucard's penchant for a perpetual smile ever stamped upon his horrible visage. The priest took a seat on the couch, scooting over so his brethren had room for himself next to the gargantuan beast.]

Ye ken.. Ah shoold be sayin' 'at tae ye.

[A willing obligation he had nearly forsaken for the sake of every soul on this wretched island.]

Yet. . . Thank ye. Thank ye fer showin' absolve
en yer grace o'er me.

[For as far as he was concerned, he was undeserving.]

[Action]

[silvery-serpent.livejournal.com]

[Thrumming in a perfect inner pitch of Trust and a Faith as pure as St. Francis', the very portrait of a Saint dowsed in the Sacrosanct.

Lord, Give me Strength, In my companions Hour of Need. Lord, send me Your Blessing, if not for me but for my Brethren who Serves You. Spare your son, who is your Righteous Tool, and look Favorably upon him. Amen

Supplication: The first since his abandonment of the Trinity and Betrayal. The shame of the real Judas once carved Maxwell's heart. Now, it only defined him. The moment the prayer passed through his mind he felt a jolt of Light pass through his disgraced chest, basking him in its Warmth and Kindness.

The change was immediate: True compassion washed over his sullied tongue, coating the Serpent's forked muscle until only the purest of Love could pass through his lips.

Wordlessly he pushes up from the seating arrangement across to the kitchen, pulling forth a cloth and wetting it with hot water. This, the Bishop carries forth before kneeling down on one knee in front of the Inferno Incarnate, taking each of those great hands to wipe them clean of the encrusted blood.]

Nonsense.

[He snorts and dabs quietly at the Assassin's fingers, then slowly travels up with the wash cloth to his face, pushing up against those great knees while lifting himself up enough to reach.]

[Action]

[dusty-angelus.livejournal.com]

[The fallen priest sat hunched, hands folding over and over in his lap, eyes of Gehenna flames gazing with wonder at those Marks of the Devil. Marks of the Wild Beast. The power inside him pulsed against the sigils, casting a orangish glow through the intricate carvings of flesh. Yes, that's how it worked, binding a demon in blood, and sealing it with a black spell braided into the core of his corrupt soul. Slave to the liquid red life he craved, how the priest imagined the Red Specter to loathe his very existence. Was that perpetual grin but a mask to the lamentations within?

Did he shed tears of blood through his eyes just as he?

And how so then, if what he knew to be true. . .

Yea, when man's tears hath dried up, dost he become a monster.

That was why he had become one, hadn't he? To staunch the tears of a fallen kingdom, a fallen legacy, a dejection from his God.

Anderson clutched his chest as a pang wretched his heart like a silver dagger piercing the dead and black muscle and twisting violently into it. To walk that creature's path now, he felt a sense of pity for him, yet seethed still that his pride allowed him to continue onward without looking to the Spirit he had rejected. . . and still awaited his prodigal return.

With that thought in mind, Anderson realized the hope that still lied for him through Maxwell's words.

Incarnadine eyes lifting up, blond eye-lashes stained anew with moist droplets of sanguine, he stared somberly at the holy man who washed his face clean of those thick scarlet lines of caked sin.]


. . .


[There he saw his reason for existing. What physically kept him bound to this world. This man, the creed that followed him, and the holy temple they resided under. As damned a beast as he was, they still were in need of his protection, no matter how lacking in divinity he was now.

As the last remnants of scarlet were swathed away, cleansing his body free, like waters at baptism, the exiled priest reached out for his beloved child, now a man, who showed favor upon his wicked form. And with that fluid motion, long arms threaded about him, pulling him into an embrace that shuddered despair and relief.

Crown of darkened thorns dipping, his brow pressed to Maxwell's collar, as if it were a shadowed place to reside from the burning light of judgment set upon him.

Clutching to him then.

His last haven in this maelstrom.]

[Action]

[silvery-serpent.livejournal.com]

[What self-inflicting agonies must be leeching themselves to his bronze bull's consciousness for those precious tears to be shed, drawing forth bleeding rivulets of carmine doubt and disgrace.

'Draught by draught therein creates
The deep persisting crimson memory
Of the last fleeting rose' ~

At the Darkest Hour, Their most Solemn Hour, Who would be there to Save them when Time ceased to have meaning, when Strength dispersed to the four corners of the world, when Life gave no purpose, only endless Tribulation?

Conquer Paradise and Burn it to the Ground; Making a Future all our own; Destroying all that you hold Dear.

The answer lie in the Question: 'Who'. The very essence of a Dream was produced in these two troubled Spirits, a Mirror Image cast back on the shattered lake of transmuted energy which gave every failure a second chance.

You and me against the World. You and me against Everything. Only you and I can stand Testament to this moment, only You and I to Face this Madness.

And even here, even now, they were creating their own Destiny.

A feeling that these Happenings were inexorable plucked at his threaded heart strings, that somehow everything had its place. There were no coincidences, only a series of inevitability.

Drawn into the Embrace of Darkness itself, Maxwell was sure of it. And while he feared no man or beast, the possibility lurking behind every Door had no end, could not be controlled.

The pinkened cloth, dampened with a mixture of water and blood, slips from his twitching fingers, shock and excitement fused within his quickening pulse. Extending limbs wind in their own fashion about the conflicted mastiff and draw him in just as he was drawn in turn, completely and utterly bound by their mutual sanction and want of solace.]

[Action]

[dusty-angelus.livejournal.com]

[In the Cradle of Sheol, the arms that spread the Shadow in the Valley of Death, neither would they fear the evil, and the wickedness that sought to corrupt the last remnants of their departing souls. They were men damned for the pyre, willingly and longingly, Martyrs and Saints for His greater purpose.

A fate all Iscariot embraced like they embrace their brethren. For sin to be free of this earth, Judas became a Devil and slandered the Most High so that He might be Martyred and the faithful be Cleansed in the Blood of the Lamb.

The faith-begotten priest knew all this well, yet never imagined it to come this.

Clawed fingertips hooked at the clothed shoulders and back of his ward, taking what sense of assuagement he could in the arms of the Faithful. Their Lord was still with them, he had to remind himself, even if he could not longer feel His sanctity, even if to utter scripture scalded his heathen tongue, even if to bear the cross branded his flesh. . . He would not turn away.

The folly of the monster who owned this corruption, owed his damnation not for God turning His back on him, but for he turning his back on God.

With that thought in mind, a croon shivered up the shield of his chest as he hummed a hymn to let Him know, His loyal ram still sought His shepherding call.]

Nearer, my God, tae thee, nearer tae thee. . .

[Quivered his highland's brogue.]

E'en though it be ae cross that raiseth me.

Still all my song shall be. . .

[Serrated teeth worried his lip, a small but feigned gasp leaving him as he felt the holy psalm tingle like coals upon his mouth, which refused to give in to the burn.]

Nearer, my God, tae thee. . .

[A softer pant, the small song of sanctification tampered off with a shuddered and a bestial mewl, a ghost of a smile etching the corner of his mouth, stamping triumph over that blasphemous body of his.]




Nearer, my God, tae thee, nearer tae thee. . .

[Action]

[silvery-serpent.livejournal.com]

[ Pressure built and pressure torn, a damage that cannot be faced alone. Lost in his cynical dust Maxwell drifted in the cradle of those arms, brought into confidence pulled free from woven treachery. Seen and unseen, clean and unclean, the dignitary of the Church would take all of the Priest regardless.]

You are my Shepherd, I have no needs.

[The opposites brought together in one body; Saturn and Mars, reconciled.]

Fear is bitter. Fear is unheard.

[An accompanying tenor of encouragement, the blood rushing faster under his translucent skin. His brave, brave Crusader, standing victorious over that which divided Beast from Men.

Venomous lips crease into a smile of their own, lulled into a sense of false security by how steadfast that control reigned.

Judas kin, standing by the Faithful on Most High.

There was no need to handle the other like a Wolf kept on a tether.]