my, my
I've been stamped at bleach_rating!
I wear the hat. The hat does not wear me.
Title: Exodus
Author: Fey Puck
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz Spawnverse
Characters: Farfarello/OFC, Cailin
Disclaimer: I own not Farfie. The others, however...
AN: Part of the Spawnverse, but can be read on it’s own. Warning for non-con.
Summary: A not-quite immaculate conception.
Every night, when the stone halls had gone all but black, she placed a saucer of milk outside the convent’s door and pressed her palm against the cross around her neck. There were no cats to drink from the dish, nor any other wild animals that she had seen, but she left it there nonetheless. And in the morning she would find everything as it was. It never stopped her, though, even when the older sisters shook their heads and brushed it aside as childish.
Her mother had handed her this ritual when she still wore ribbons in her hair, just as it had been handed to her mother years and years before, in a world that could always blend old and new but never quite seamlessly. West and North from city streets and harsh traffic lights, there were only slowly falling trees and fields sprinkled with mounds of earth. Yeats Country, the locals called it with good reason.
“They’re still here, dove, and never doubt it,” her mother would tell her as she latched windows closed and added peat to the fire. “This is their kingdom, our green land, the closest to Heaven they will ever again see.”
And so they would leave a treat of whatever they could spare, sometimes gone come morning and other times not, but mostly the latter to a small girl’s disappointment.
She never doubted, but she wondered.
When she gave her Vows, donning black and virtue, her mother had handed her a Celtic cross of rough pewter and pressed a kiss to her brow. “May it protect you. And never forget…”
She remembered every tale and warning her mother told her, but sometimes they slipped away from her. Because what could harm her here, in this house of God, where the women moved silently and whispered prayers of holy thanks?
It was on March 25th that Sister Brigid found the saucer empty by the sink and the panic that eased into her stomach made her clutch the pendant she treasured so much.
“I forgot!” she exclaimed, a mix of shame and fear.
One of her Sisters smiled slightly through the lines on her face. “Ye’re fine yet, child. Once willnae kill ye,” she said in a bemused tone.
“You don’t understand.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve never forgotten before. And my mother, she never has either. Something might…”
“Then what will ye do?”
Brigid thought, quickly, and began to flutter about the kitchen. A cup of milk, a chunk of fresh bread, a handful of grapes to wrap in a towel. “I’ll go out and leave Them a gift.”
“You ask forgiveness from some imaginary thing?” someone asked harshly. There was a line not to be crossed and she treaded near it.
“Not forgiveness, ma’am. I only want to make amends and feed some hungry being in the wild. Whether it be fey or a wandering fox,” Brigid explained, packing her collection into a basket.
“And on such a day! You young ones.”
Twisting her dark copper hair into some order, she ran towards the back door, calling “I shall be back in time for morning prayers” over her shoulder.
The sky was still streaked with lines of violet and pink, the ground still damp with dew as the mist began to fade. These fields were not the vibrant emerald of other counties-nothing so postcard worthy-instead a mix yellow-green and jade that was no less beautiful. There were bogs just past the hills, she knew, with dots of bog cotton waiting to be picked by anyone foolish enough to step onto that land.
Steadfastly ignoring that stretch of land, Brigid walked with purpose towards the old fence, the posts molding but strong and almost invisible against the tall grass and wildflowers. Rocks shifted under her feet as she got closer to it, making her stumble twice.
“It won’t do to get skinned knees and scrapped palms,” the redhead mumbled to herself, readjusting her grip on the basket. “I’m not a babe anymore, after all.”
When she reached the first post she set her burden down, unwrapping the food and opening the canister of milk, pausing only once to listen for any sound of music from the small hill in front of her.
She shook her head, wisps of hair escaping the knot she had made, and brushed her hands off on her black skirt.
“I’m not a babe,” she said again and suddenly felt rather foolish for insisting on this little trek.
“Aye, yer no’.”
Whirling towards the voice, Brigid’s hand immediately sought out her cross. The man had appeared out of nowhere though she wondered if perhaps he had formed from the mist or from some hollowed hill.
How foolish you are…
He was so pale though, with bleached skin and hair, and his eye! One single gold eye that fixed on her in way that made her feel cold and flushed at the same time.
What was he doing here?
He probably wishes to pray at the convent…
But who us he?
Some weary traveler…treat him as you treat all…
Straightening, Brigid inclined her head slightly and smiled. “Top o’ the morning to you.”
The stranger seemed amused by this, scarred lips stretching into a smile of their own kind. “And the rest o’ the day ta ye.”
She shuddered. His voice rasped and bruised and worked up her spine like a hundred spider steps. She took two steps back without even realizing it. “Do you seek prayer, sir?”
The smile changed, became ragged and sharp. “Ye pray to him?”
“I am Sister Brigid, sir.”
Gold shifted, glancing at the basket. “And to the Gentry?”
“It isn’t prayer. Only an offering,” Brigid explained calmly, wishing once more that she had left well enough alone. Wishing she had remembered.
Don’t wander near the hollowed hills alone, where foxgloves grow, mother used to say with her most serious expression.
“I…I should be returning to the convent. Will you be passing our way for morning prayer on this day of Annunciation, Mr…?”
“And the angel Gabriel appeared unto her,” the albino recited in a tight voice. “I bring better news than tha’.”
There was silver in his palm.
She didn’t know what it was, exactly, that urged her to escape, but she was running in an instant. Away, away, as far away as she could from the strange ghost of a man. Her hand never left her cross, words of strength and faith pouring from her mouth, all of it second nature to her by now.
She stumbled and fell hard on the uneven ground, a stray rock cutting into her forearm as she landed on her side. Tried to find her footing again, to run back to safe walls and rosaries and hoped it would lend her wings of some kind, the thought of her sanctuary.
It didn’t.
He was on her, forcing her onto her back as she kicked and shook her head in denial, even as she wondered if this was her punishment. From her Lord, perhaps, or from something else. “No…no…”
Her arms were pinned to the ground by his knees, and her eyes widened as she saw the knife. Glinting steel, plain and unmarked save for a scar or two. He watched her, head cocked to the side in curiosity or thought and Brigid shook her head once more in some final plea.
“Ye’re no martyr,” he told her as the pad of his thumb ran over the dusting of freckles on her cheek. “Ye’re higher than the whore of God for what ye’ll bear will be far more precious.”
There was blood on his wrist, a thin line spreading, and as the blood was forced into her mouth, down her throat, she swallowed. Salt, iron, and madness. The haze of it wrapped around the redhead, stilling her, even as he pushed into her, moved in her in such a way that was never supposed to happen.
“Amen,” she found herself whispering when it was over.
Wetness on her thighs, on her face, on her hand. The man pried open her fingers, mixing blood, and snapped the chain of the cross.
“I’ll return it when you return my own,” he told her and stood, a fluid motion that barely stirred the mist.
“Amen,” she said again.
But she was alone.
There was screaming from the halls, strangled and cut off before they reached their climax. Wailing, hurried footsteps of terrified women as they tried to escape the monster they had allowed to enter. Doors slammed and windows fell with the delicate sound of chimes.
Brigid sat by her small window, the window that overlooked their garden, and waited patiently.
“Are you afraid?” her Sister asked, wringing her hands beside her.
“No. No, not at all.”
“You will just wait here? Wait for him to come?”
“Of course. There’s nothing else I can do,” Sister Brigid responded, her own hands folded neatly on her lap.
The older woman cast a doubtful look over her, fully expecting her to take some other form of action. As if the red-haired mother would give in to the rough stones of the wall, a modern day Deirdre.
She was not a martyr or a heroine, but wasn’t she a fool either.
“I will go to the living room and try to phone help,” the elder nun said, making for the exit. “Stay here if you feel it’s safe.”
“God bless,” Brigid murmured, attention back to the window.
Minutes passed.
Another shrill scream-Sister Mary Katherine, who had treated her so well over the past months-and the splatter of liquid on walls. If she were to look out her door, would the floor be covered in slick red? Would she find bits and pieces of her life? Rosary beads snapped and scattered, and pages of The Book thrown to Nature’s Will?
Would she find anything but ruin?
All that outside her tiny room, removed from it all by a few feet and chance. The eye of the storm, the Sister knew, but there was some comfort in that thought. Her hand clutched at the empty air that rested on her chest.
“Soon, poppet,” Brigid said to the infant on her bed.
The baby was calm, gold eyes-his eyes-taking in the world around her with a serene expression. Her girl never cried much, was such as good child, the other nuns told her, despite the father.
“Soon everything will be fine.”
There was silence, now, in the convent. There were no voices in the air or panicked footsteps. Just the drip drip drip of blood and spilled wine and the creak of old, worn wood.
Her girl giggled, waving pale arms about in some excitement.
Such a strange child, but always so happy. Brigid abruptly decided she would miss her girl.
The doorknob turned slowly, as if it expected to meet some resistance. Brigid turned in her seat to face it, face composed and proud, her fine chin raised. Hinges protested as they were known to do, pale skeleton fingers curling around the edge of the door.
It opened fully. The black clad figure was smeared with gore and life, his hair and face streaked with it. Careful, silent steps brought him closer to the mother and her child, eyes resting on the former fleetingly before fixing on the infant.
It was as if the anger leaked out of him, muscles relaxing ever so slightly and shoulders slumping into a less painful looking position.
“She’s it,” he said, stepping forward until he knees almost brushed the side of the mattress. “What d’ye call her?”
“I gave her no name. I knew you would change it. She’s only been ‘girl’ and ‘poppet’,” Brigid told him, rising from her seat. “She laughs a lot.”
The white-haired man nodded, swooping down to gently pick of the tiny girl. Small fingers, matching skin, traced a pattern on his bloodied arm. And giggled again.
He smiled, eye soft and protective. “She isn’t a poppet.”
The mother just nodded, accepting this, arms twitching as they fought to reach out and snatch the baby away, to hold her one more time. “Still…she’s my girl.”
Reaching into his pocket, the man took out her cross. It had been cleaned and polished, shining like new. “I believe I promised ye this.”
She grabbed it out of the air as it was thrown her way, glad to be able to hold something. “An even exchange, then.”
He snorted. “Not nearly.”
Brigid couldn’t help but agree, as the pearl she carried inside of her-inside of her like he had been-stared at her one last time with laughing, content eyes.
“What is your name, stranger?” she asked as she should have nearly a year ago.
The man hesitated. Looked down at his treasure, who gurgled and mumbled nothing. But he listened as if it was the most important thing he’d ever heard in his life.
“Jei,” he finally told her, twisting away.
Brigid nodded, brought her cross to her lips, and felt free.
She hardly even noticed the dagger in her stomach.
I wear the hat. The hat does not wear me.
Title: Exodus
Author: Fey Puck
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz Spawnverse
Characters: Farfarello/OFC, Cailin
Disclaimer: I own not Farfie. The others, however...
AN: Part of the Spawnverse, but can be read on it’s own. Warning for non-con.
Summary: A not-quite immaculate conception.
Every night, when the stone halls had gone all but black, she placed a saucer of milk outside the convent’s door and pressed her palm against the cross around her neck. There were no cats to drink from the dish, nor any other wild animals that she had seen, but she left it there nonetheless. And in the morning she would find everything as it was. It never stopped her, though, even when the older sisters shook their heads and brushed it aside as childish.
Her mother had handed her this ritual when she still wore ribbons in her hair, just as it had been handed to her mother years and years before, in a world that could always blend old and new but never quite seamlessly. West and North from city streets and harsh traffic lights, there were only slowly falling trees and fields sprinkled with mounds of earth. Yeats Country, the locals called it with good reason.
“They’re still here, dove, and never doubt it,” her mother would tell her as she latched windows closed and added peat to the fire. “This is their kingdom, our green land, the closest to Heaven they will ever again see.”
And so they would leave a treat of whatever they could spare, sometimes gone come morning and other times not, but mostly the latter to a small girl’s disappointment.
She never doubted, but she wondered.
When she gave her Vows, donning black and virtue, her mother had handed her a Celtic cross of rough pewter and pressed a kiss to her brow. “May it protect you. And never forget…”
She remembered every tale and warning her mother told her, but sometimes they slipped away from her. Because what could harm her here, in this house of God, where the women moved silently and whispered prayers of holy thanks?
It was on March 25th that Sister Brigid found the saucer empty by the sink and the panic that eased into her stomach made her clutch the pendant she treasured so much.
“I forgot!” she exclaimed, a mix of shame and fear.
One of her Sisters smiled slightly through the lines on her face. “Ye’re fine yet, child. Once willnae kill ye,” she said in a bemused tone.
“You don’t understand.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve never forgotten before. And my mother, she never has either. Something might…”
“Then what will ye do?”
Brigid thought, quickly, and began to flutter about the kitchen. A cup of milk, a chunk of fresh bread, a handful of grapes to wrap in a towel. “I’ll go out and leave Them a gift.”
“You ask forgiveness from some imaginary thing?” someone asked harshly. There was a line not to be crossed and she treaded near it.
“Not forgiveness, ma’am. I only want to make amends and feed some hungry being in the wild. Whether it be fey or a wandering fox,” Brigid explained, packing her collection into a basket.
“And on such a day! You young ones.”
Twisting her dark copper hair into some order, she ran towards the back door, calling “I shall be back in time for morning prayers” over her shoulder.
The sky was still streaked with lines of violet and pink, the ground still damp with dew as the mist began to fade. These fields were not the vibrant emerald of other counties-nothing so postcard worthy-instead a mix yellow-green and jade that was no less beautiful. There were bogs just past the hills, she knew, with dots of bog cotton waiting to be picked by anyone foolish enough to step onto that land.
Steadfastly ignoring that stretch of land, Brigid walked with purpose towards the old fence, the posts molding but strong and almost invisible against the tall grass and wildflowers. Rocks shifted under her feet as she got closer to it, making her stumble twice.
“It won’t do to get skinned knees and scrapped palms,” the redhead mumbled to herself, readjusting her grip on the basket. “I’m not a babe anymore, after all.”
When she reached the first post she set her burden down, unwrapping the food and opening the canister of milk, pausing only once to listen for any sound of music from the small hill in front of her.
She shook her head, wisps of hair escaping the knot she had made, and brushed her hands off on her black skirt.
“I’m not a babe,” she said again and suddenly felt rather foolish for insisting on this little trek.
“Aye, yer no’.”
Whirling towards the voice, Brigid’s hand immediately sought out her cross. The man had appeared out of nowhere though she wondered if perhaps he had formed from the mist or from some hollowed hill.
How foolish you are…
He was so pale though, with bleached skin and hair, and his eye! One single gold eye that fixed on her in way that made her feel cold and flushed at the same time.
What was he doing here?
He probably wishes to pray at the convent…
But who us he?
Some weary traveler…treat him as you treat all…
Straightening, Brigid inclined her head slightly and smiled. “Top o’ the morning to you.”
The stranger seemed amused by this, scarred lips stretching into a smile of their own kind. “And the rest o’ the day ta ye.”
She shuddered. His voice rasped and bruised and worked up her spine like a hundred spider steps. She took two steps back without even realizing it. “Do you seek prayer, sir?”
The smile changed, became ragged and sharp. “Ye pray to him?”
“I am Sister Brigid, sir.”
Gold shifted, glancing at the basket. “And to the Gentry?”
“It isn’t prayer. Only an offering,” Brigid explained calmly, wishing once more that she had left well enough alone. Wishing she had remembered.
Don’t wander near the hollowed hills alone, where foxgloves grow, mother used to say with her most serious expression.
“I…I should be returning to the convent. Will you be passing our way for morning prayer on this day of Annunciation, Mr…?”
“And the angel Gabriel appeared unto her,” the albino recited in a tight voice. “I bring better news than tha’.”
There was silver in his palm.
She didn’t know what it was, exactly, that urged her to escape, but she was running in an instant. Away, away, as far away as she could from the strange ghost of a man. Her hand never left her cross, words of strength and faith pouring from her mouth, all of it second nature to her by now.
She stumbled and fell hard on the uneven ground, a stray rock cutting into her forearm as she landed on her side. Tried to find her footing again, to run back to safe walls and rosaries and hoped it would lend her wings of some kind, the thought of her sanctuary.
It didn’t.
He was on her, forcing her onto her back as she kicked and shook her head in denial, even as she wondered if this was her punishment. From her Lord, perhaps, or from something else. “No…no…”
Her arms were pinned to the ground by his knees, and her eyes widened as she saw the knife. Glinting steel, plain and unmarked save for a scar or two. He watched her, head cocked to the side in curiosity or thought and Brigid shook her head once more in some final plea.
“Ye’re no martyr,” he told her as the pad of his thumb ran over the dusting of freckles on her cheek. “Ye’re higher than the whore of God for what ye’ll bear will be far more precious.”
There was blood on his wrist, a thin line spreading, and as the blood was forced into her mouth, down her throat, she swallowed. Salt, iron, and madness. The haze of it wrapped around the redhead, stilling her, even as he pushed into her, moved in her in such a way that was never supposed to happen.
“Amen,” she found herself whispering when it was over.
Wetness on her thighs, on her face, on her hand. The man pried open her fingers, mixing blood, and snapped the chain of the cross.
“I’ll return it when you return my own,” he told her and stood, a fluid motion that barely stirred the mist.
“Amen,” she said again.
But she was alone.
There was screaming from the halls, strangled and cut off before they reached their climax. Wailing, hurried footsteps of terrified women as they tried to escape the monster they had allowed to enter. Doors slammed and windows fell with the delicate sound of chimes.
Brigid sat by her small window, the window that overlooked their garden, and waited patiently.
“Are you afraid?” her Sister asked, wringing her hands beside her.
“No. No, not at all.”
“You will just wait here? Wait for him to come?”
“Of course. There’s nothing else I can do,” Sister Brigid responded, her own hands folded neatly on her lap.
The older woman cast a doubtful look over her, fully expecting her to take some other form of action. As if the red-haired mother would give in to the rough stones of the wall, a modern day Deirdre.
She was not a martyr or a heroine, but wasn’t she a fool either.
“I will go to the living room and try to phone help,” the elder nun said, making for the exit. “Stay here if you feel it’s safe.”
“God bless,” Brigid murmured, attention back to the window.
Minutes passed.
Another shrill scream-Sister Mary Katherine, who had treated her so well over the past months-and the splatter of liquid on walls. If she were to look out her door, would the floor be covered in slick red? Would she find bits and pieces of her life? Rosary beads snapped and scattered, and pages of The Book thrown to Nature’s Will?
Would she find anything but ruin?
All that outside her tiny room, removed from it all by a few feet and chance. The eye of the storm, the Sister knew, but there was some comfort in that thought. Her hand clutched at the empty air that rested on her chest.
“Soon, poppet,” Brigid said to the infant on her bed.
The baby was calm, gold eyes-his eyes-taking in the world around her with a serene expression. Her girl never cried much, was such as good child, the other nuns told her, despite the father.
“Soon everything will be fine.”
There was silence, now, in the convent. There were no voices in the air or panicked footsteps. Just the drip drip drip of blood and spilled wine and the creak of old, worn wood.
Her girl giggled, waving pale arms about in some excitement.
Such a strange child, but always so happy. Brigid abruptly decided she would miss her girl.
The doorknob turned slowly, as if it expected to meet some resistance. Brigid turned in her seat to face it, face composed and proud, her fine chin raised. Hinges protested as they were known to do, pale skeleton fingers curling around the edge of the door.
It opened fully. The black clad figure was smeared with gore and life, his hair and face streaked with it. Careful, silent steps brought him closer to the mother and her child, eyes resting on the former fleetingly before fixing on the infant.
It was as if the anger leaked out of him, muscles relaxing ever so slightly and shoulders slumping into a less painful looking position.
“She’s it,” he said, stepping forward until he knees almost brushed the side of the mattress. “What d’ye call her?”
“I gave her no name. I knew you would change it. She’s only been ‘girl’ and ‘poppet’,” Brigid told him, rising from her seat. “She laughs a lot.”
The white-haired man nodded, swooping down to gently pick of the tiny girl. Small fingers, matching skin, traced a pattern on his bloodied arm. And giggled again.
He smiled, eye soft and protective. “She isn’t a poppet.”
The mother just nodded, accepting this, arms twitching as they fought to reach out and snatch the baby away, to hold her one more time. “Still…she’s my girl.”
Reaching into his pocket, the man took out her cross. It had been cleaned and polished, shining like new. “I believe I promised ye this.”
She grabbed it out of the air as it was thrown her way, glad to be able to hold something. “An even exchange, then.”
He snorted. “Not nearly.”
Brigid couldn’t help but agree, as the pearl she carried inside of her-inside of her like he had been-stared at her one last time with laughing, content eyes.
“What is your name, stranger?” she asked as she should have nearly a year ago.
The man hesitated. Looked down at his treasure, who gurgled and mumbled nothing. But he listened as if it was the most important thing he’d ever heard in his life.
“Jei,” he finally told her, twisting away.
Brigid nodded, brought her cross to her lips, and felt free.
She hardly even noticed the dagger in her stomach.