lostakasha (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lostakasha) wrote2005-11-08 02:38 am
lostakasha) wrote2005-11-08 02:38 am
Entry tags:
danger! darkfic ahead
Okay, I got a little soap-boxy about abuse of power and I wound up writing this fic and posting at a_darker_angel. It just came spilling out. So, either I'll be glad I wrote it, or be sorry. I'll let you know when I get some sleep. If Angelus being a very bad Catholic bothers you, please move on.
Title: Lamb of God
Pairing: Drusilla/Angelus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Religious perversion, implied non-consensual sex.
Word Count: 1477
Disclaimers: These characters belong to ME, Whedon & Greenwalt. I own nothing, mean no harm.
Author's notes: This is my version of how Angelus might have driven Dru mad before turning her. To that end, I've given her another name, and named her sisters.
On a historical note, in 1860's England, Roman Catholics were a tiny minority and were discriminated against. A "Papist" is a derogatory term for an RC. And, it was common for Catholic homes to have small altars, usually in the bedroom. Hope this bit o' background helps as you read.
Credit Where Credit is Due: ETA to say that I readkita1610's metafandom post about her writing mechanism, and in it she recs romanyg's amazing Spangel fic, http://www.ficbitch.com/slashingtheangel/boat.html . Romany's wonderderful, spare style in that piece inspired me to try this form, and she deserves credit. Unfortuantely, when I finished and posted this fic at 2:30 this morning, I was tired and neglected to make mention. I bow to romanyg, and blow kisses to kita1610
Feedback: This is experimental, so please -- let me know if it works, or if it doesn't. Thanks!
I
Fingers clasped bloodless around the hematite and silver beads, Clare begs forgiveness, nearly witless in her desire to be cleansed of her sins.
She is the devil’s own; the priest said so himself.
“God is watching you,” he intones.
II
Perpetua and Felicity are first to hear the news. Father Chapman at St. Phillip -- their very own priest at their very own chapel – found dead, hanging, they hear, from the rough-hewn rafters above the altar.
Their father hears the entire story.
The constable shows him the note, written in the cleric’s own hand.
Strike from my heart such Evil that I cannot bear. Release me from the clutches of the evil child, Clare Tyrell, whose vile touch and hideous ways have tainted my soul and ruined me for the service of Our Lord, thy God, Jesus Christ.
Clare kneels at the modest altar by her bed and prays the rosary.
III
The altar holds a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a votive encased in glass, a scapular with an image of the Virgin on one side and crucified Christ on the other, a porcelain pot of holy water, and three rosaries: one for daily prayer, one for evening prayer, and one for Sunday best.
The simple white altar cloth is frayed at the hem and stained with blood on the corners where Clare has beaten her head against it.
IV
The new priest comes under cover of night and explains to Clare’s parents that he can return her to purity, in time. He must be allowed to work with her in his way, undisturbed.
The Tyrells agree without question. Mrs. Tyrell bends and kisses the carved onyx stone on his finger.
Mr. Tyrrell shows the new priest to Clare’s room, and turns his back. The priest steps in and locks the door.
Perpetua and Felicity listen for sound in their sister’s room, ears pressed hard against the adjoining wall.
V
“What do you see, child?” the priest wants to know.
Clare covers her eyes. “Nothing. Nothing.”
He is smiling with the kindness of the savior himself. “You’ve got nothing to fear. Uncover your eyes and look at me. Tell me what you see.”
He is the representative of Christ on earth, smiling at her as if she is his beloved daughter. So how can it be that she sees a monster, unless evil recognizes its own?
“Nothing,” she whispers. “Nothing.”
VI
Clare finds her mother hanging from the transom above the back door, with the morning sun casting buttery wedges of light around her still, broken form.
The constable finds the note in her apron pocket, and reads it aloud to Mr. Tyrrell and his weeping daughters.
“Dearest Jesus, forgive me. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for my soul, and for the souls of my family. Grant mercy on my horrid child, and forgive my weakness.”
God, the constable thinks, revolted but oddly pleased, I hate Papists.
VII
Mrs. Tyrell’s body rests in a box atop a lace covered table. Black bunting covers the light in the front door. Mr. Tyrell sits at the foot of the box, and waits. Perpetua and Felicity hover nearby, praying for someone to come and pay their respects.
The only visitor to the wake is the new priest.
“I can’t bless her and she can’t be buried in the chapel yard. Taking her own life is a mortal sin.” Without another word he leaves them to attend to Clare, who has not been permitted to leave her room since finding her mother swinging in the sunlight.
The new priest sits in the rocking chair, crosses his legs, and assumes the posture of a confessor, hand to his temple.
“Tell me about your mother, child. The things you love the most about her.”
Choking on her sorrow, Clare speaks to him of her mother’s sweet voice, her love of music and piano and a host of other warm and happy things.
Only when she hears the creak of the rocker against the hardwood floor does she open her eyes to see the new priest, eyes closed in rapture, hands moving in his lap beneath his cassock.
He peers at Clare through lowered lashes and licks his lower lip. “Filthy girl,” he snarls.
The priest moans her name at the moment of his release. He touches her cheek tenderly as he leaves, smiling like an angel.
VIII
“There’s no need to have her taken away,” the priest soothes, nodding solemnly at Mr. Tyrell. “She is troubled by demons. With prayer and time it will pass.”
“But the unspeakable things she said, Father. I can’t bear to tell you because I fear for my immortal soul.”
“You should,” the priest laughs.
IX
Perpetua and Felicity can’t bear to be apart from Clare. It is cruel to leave her alone and sick, without kindness or care. In defiance of their father they take turns sitting with her during the day, and whisk Clare back to her cloistered room moments before he comes home from work.
That night, as they lie huddled together in the small bed that they share, Perpetua tells Felicity about a convent mission established by the Sisters of Mercy. “They’re looking for novitiates,” she explains.
Tears well in the younger sister’s eyes, and she presses her face into the flat, hard pillow. “I don’t want her to go away. Not my Clarie. First Mum, now Clairie? She mustn’t leave. I couldn’t bear it.”
“She’s lost to us already,” Perpetua sighs, and pulls young Felicity tight.
X
Mea culpa.
Mea culpa.
Mea máxima culpa.
This is what the priest instructs Clare to say as he holds her head against the folds of his skirt and the pulsing flesh beneath.
Through my fault.
Through my fault.
Through my most grievous fault.
XI
Mr. Tyrell finds Felicity in the tiny patch of yard in the back of the house, barely alive.
The doctor theorizes that she slept outside wearing only her nightdress, and does not comment on the puncture wounds in her throat.
She lies still in her mother’s bed, pale and vacant. When she speaks, she calls for Clare.
XII
Seven days have passed since Mr. Tyrell has been seen at his work or at his home.
XIII
Felicity speaks in slow, syrupy tones of the handsome man who visits her in the night. When she confides in Perpetua about the delicious things he does to her, how he touches her in forbidden places, how he feels like satin and ice inside her, she is rewarded with a slap across the face.
Instead of crying, Felicity laughs and reminds her sister that she is a jealous cur. “You’ll love it. Like Clairie does.”
Felicity giggles herself to sleep.
XIV
Clare empties the basin from the day’s laundry and frowns at Perpetua.
“Bite your tongue, Petty. I’ve never done such a thing with any man.”
No word of a lie.
XV
They wait until nightfall to bury Felicity in the farthest corner of the little yard.
Clare digs with every ounce of strength that she has. She wants to finish before the priest visits.
When he does, she sits on her mother’s bed and tears at the dirt under her fingernails while she prays the rosary. She has not quite finished the sorrowful mysteries when he comes to her with Perpetua’s blood on his mouth and her scent on his fingertips.
“Where are we?” he asks, handing her a bloodied pair of rosary beads, her Sunday best.
“The fourth sorrowful mystery, Father. Jesus carries the cross.”
The priest throws himself across the bed and stretches. “Goody. That’s a funny one.”
XVI
The good Irish sisters take pity on Clare and accept her petition to work in their tiny convent. She is no more than chattel, a maidservant doing menial tasks, and she never complains.
After months in the heart of London without so much as a single convert, the Mother Superior grudgingly hears Clare’s plea to join the order. No matter that her fervor borders on madness; she is devout, earnest, and says little. She will make a fine teacher.
Behind her back, her companion novices speak of her in hushed, reverent tones. She is saintly, they say. Pure. Blessed. Holy.
Clare excels in her course of study.
XVII
A final prayer after days of meditation, fasting and sacrifice, and Clare will take her new name. She gathers her dun brown skirts and kneels by her cot, and remembers.
As images flood, she forms the words, determined not to succumb to the itch of terror tickling the back of her throat.
“Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary,”
run and catch
“that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection,”
run and catch
“implored thy help,”
the lamb is caught
"or sought thy intercession"
in the blackberry patch
“was left unaided.”
end
Optional Notes on Catholic references:
Saint Clare is the patron saint of seers, and meditated daily on the Passion, which is the period in Christ's life that purportedly occurred in the days leading up to his death. The "Sorrowful Mysteries" is the section of the rosary related to the Passion.
Saints Perpetua and Felicity watch over all mothers and children who are separated from each other because of persecution.
The prayer referenced at the end is the "Memorare." It's a plea to Mary, the mother of God, for mercy:
Remember o most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who asked for your protection or sought your help was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I come to you, o virgin of virgins, my mother. To you I come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petition, but in your mercy hear and answer me. Poor, poor Dru. . .
a_darker_angel. It just came spilling out. So, either I'll be glad I wrote it, or be sorry. I'll let you know when I get some sleep. If Angelus being a very bad Catholic bothers you, please move on.Title: Lamb of God
Pairing: Drusilla/Angelus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Religious perversion, implied non-consensual sex.
Word Count: 1477
Disclaimers: These characters belong to ME, Whedon & Greenwalt. I own nothing, mean no harm.
Author's notes: This is my version of how Angelus might have driven Dru mad before turning her. To that end, I've given her another name, and named her sisters.
On a historical note, in 1860's England, Roman Catholics were a tiny minority and were discriminated against. A "Papist" is a derogatory term for an RC. And, it was common for Catholic homes to have small altars, usually in the bedroom. Hope this bit o' background helps as you read.
Credit Where Credit is Due: ETA to say that I read
kita1610's metafandom post about her writing mechanism, and in it she recs romanyg's amazing Spangel fic, http://www.ficbitch.com/slashingtheangel/boat.html . Romany's wonderderful, spare style in that piece inspired me to try this form, and she deserves credit. Unfortuantely, when I finished and posted this fic at 2:30 this morning, I was tired and neglected to make mention. I bow to romanyg, and blow kisses to kita1610 Feedback: This is experimental, so please -- let me know if it works, or if it doesn't. Thanks!
I
Fingers clasped bloodless around the hematite and silver beads, Clare begs forgiveness, nearly witless in her desire to be cleansed of her sins.
She is the devil’s own; the priest said so himself.
“God is watching you,” he intones.
II
Perpetua and Felicity are first to hear the news. Father Chapman at St. Phillip -- their very own priest at their very own chapel – found dead, hanging, they hear, from the rough-hewn rafters above the altar.
Their father hears the entire story.
The constable shows him the note, written in the cleric’s own hand.
Strike from my heart such Evil that I cannot bear. Release me from the clutches of the evil child, Clare Tyrell, whose vile touch and hideous ways have tainted my soul and ruined me for the service of Our Lord, thy God, Jesus Christ.
Clare kneels at the modest altar by her bed and prays the rosary.
III
The altar holds a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a votive encased in glass, a scapular with an image of the Virgin on one side and crucified Christ on the other, a porcelain pot of holy water, and three rosaries: one for daily prayer, one for evening prayer, and one for Sunday best.
The simple white altar cloth is frayed at the hem and stained with blood on the corners where Clare has beaten her head against it.
IV
The new priest comes under cover of night and explains to Clare’s parents that he can return her to purity, in time. He must be allowed to work with her in his way, undisturbed.
The Tyrells agree without question. Mrs. Tyrell bends and kisses the carved onyx stone on his finger.
Mr. Tyrrell shows the new priest to Clare’s room, and turns his back. The priest steps in and locks the door.
Perpetua and Felicity listen for sound in their sister’s room, ears pressed hard against the adjoining wall.
V
“What do you see, child?” the priest wants to know.
Clare covers her eyes. “Nothing. Nothing.”
He is smiling with the kindness of the savior himself. “You’ve got nothing to fear. Uncover your eyes and look at me. Tell me what you see.”
He is the representative of Christ on earth, smiling at her as if she is his beloved daughter. So how can it be that she sees a monster, unless evil recognizes its own?
“Nothing,” she whispers. “Nothing.”
VI
Clare finds her mother hanging from the transom above the back door, with the morning sun casting buttery wedges of light around her still, broken form.
The constable finds the note in her apron pocket, and reads it aloud to Mr. Tyrrell and his weeping daughters.
“Dearest Jesus, forgive me. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for my soul, and for the souls of my family. Grant mercy on my horrid child, and forgive my weakness.”
God, the constable thinks, revolted but oddly pleased, I hate Papists.
VII
Mrs. Tyrell’s body rests in a box atop a lace covered table. Black bunting covers the light in the front door. Mr. Tyrell sits at the foot of the box, and waits. Perpetua and Felicity hover nearby, praying for someone to come and pay their respects.
The only visitor to the wake is the new priest.
“I can’t bless her and she can’t be buried in the chapel yard. Taking her own life is a mortal sin.” Without another word he leaves them to attend to Clare, who has not been permitted to leave her room since finding her mother swinging in the sunlight.
The new priest sits in the rocking chair, crosses his legs, and assumes the posture of a confessor, hand to his temple.
“Tell me about your mother, child. The things you love the most about her.”
Choking on her sorrow, Clare speaks to him of her mother’s sweet voice, her love of music and piano and a host of other warm and happy things.
Only when she hears the creak of the rocker against the hardwood floor does she open her eyes to see the new priest, eyes closed in rapture, hands moving in his lap beneath his cassock.
He peers at Clare through lowered lashes and licks his lower lip. “Filthy girl,” he snarls.
The priest moans her name at the moment of his release. He touches her cheek tenderly as he leaves, smiling like an angel.
VIII
“There’s no need to have her taken away,” the priest soothes, nodding solemnly at Mr. Tyrell. “She is troubled by demons. With prayer and time it will pass.”
“But the unspeakable things she said, Father. I can’t bear to tell you because I fear for my immortal soul.”
“You should,” the priest laughs.
IX
Perpetua and Felicity can’t bear to be apart from Clare. It is cruel to leave her alone and sick, without kindness or care. In defiance of their father they take turns sitting with her during the day, and whisk Clare back to her cloistered room moments before he comes home from work.
That night, as they lie huddled together in the small bed that they share, Perpetua tells Felicity about a convent mission established by the Sisters of Mercy. “They’re looking for novitiates,” she explains.
Tears well in the younger sister’s eyes, and she presses her face into the flat, hard pillow. “I don’t want her to go away. Not my Clarie. First Mum, now Clairie? She mustn’t leave. I couldn’t bear it.”
“She’s lost to us already,” Perpetua sighs, and pulls young Felicity tight.
X
Mea culpa.
Mea culpa.
Mea máxima culpa.
This is what the priest instructs Clare to say as he holds her head against the folds of his skirt and the pulsing flesh beneath.
Through my fault.
Through my fault.
Through my most grievous fault.
XI
Mr. Tyrell finds Felicity in the tiny patch of yard in the back of the house, barely alive.
The doctor theorizes that she slept outside wearing only her nightdress, and does not comment on the puncture wounds in her throat.
She lies still in her mother’s bed, pale and vacant. When she speaks, she calls for Clare.
XII
Seven days have passed since Mr. Tyrell has been seen at his work or at his home.
XIII
Felicity speaks in slow, syrupy tones of the handsome man who visits her in the night. When she confides in Perpetua about the delicious things he does to her, how he touches her in forbidden places, how he feels like satin and ice inside her, she is rewarded with a slap across the face.
Instead of crying, Felicity laughs and reminds her sister that she is a jealous cur. “You’ll love it. Like Clairie does.”
Felicity giggles herself to sleep.
XIV
Clare empties the basin from the day’s laundry and frowns at Perpetua.
“Bite your tongue, Petty. I’ve never done such a thing with any man.”
No word of a lie.
XV
They wait until nightfall to bury Felicity in the farthest corner of the little yard.
Clare digs with every ounce of strength that she has. She wants to finish before the priest visits.
When he does, she sits on her mother’s bed and tears at the dirt under her fingernails while she prays the rosary. She has not quite finished the sorrowful mysteries when he comes to her with Perpetua’s blood on his mouth and her scent on his fingertips.
“Where are we?” he asks, handing her a bloodied pair of rosary beads, her Sunday best.
“The fourth sorrowful mystery, Father. Jesus carries the cross.”
The priest throws himself across the bed and stretches. “Goody. That’s a funny one.”
XVI
The good Irish sisters take pity on Clare and accept her petition to work in their tiny convent. She is no more than chattel, a maidservant doing menial tasks, and she never complains.
After months in the heart of London without so much as a single convert, the Mother Superior grudgingly hears Clare’s plea to join the order. No matter that her fervor borders on madness; she is devout, earnest, and says little. She will make a fine teacher.
Behind her back, her companion novices speak of her in hushed, reverent tones. She is saintly, they say. Pure. Blessed. Holy.
Clare excels in her course of study.
XVII
A final prayer after days of meditation, fasting and sacrifice, and Clare will take her new name. She gathers her dun brown skirts and kneels by her cot, and remembers.
As images flood, she forms the words, determined not to succumb to the itch of terror tickling the back of her throat.
“Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary,”
run and catch
“that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection,”
run and catch
“implored thy help,”
the lamb is caught
"or sought thy intercession"
in the blackberry patch
“was left unaided.”
Optional Notes on Catholic references:
Saint Clare is the patron saint of seers, and meditated daily on the Passion, which is the period in Christ's life that purportedly occurred in the days leading up to his death. The "Sorrowful Mysteries" is the section of the rosary related to the Passion.
Saints Perpetua and Felicity watch over all mothers and children who are separated from each other because of persecution.
The prayer referenced at the end is the "Memorare." It's a plea to Mary, the mother of God, for mercy:
Remember o most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who asked for your protection or sought your help was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I come to you, o virgin of virgins, my mother. To you I come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petition, but in your mercy hear and answer me. Poor, poor Dru. . .
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