Reverend Francis John Patrick Mulcahy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lovethyneighb_or) wrote2024-01-05 06:04 pm
lovethyneighb_or) wrote2024-01-05 06:04 pm
IC inbox (pumpkin hollow)
Mulcahy here! Leave a message.
It's like they're back in that maze again, Mulcahy flickering between the grown-up Radar knows, the person he became, and the kid he used to be. Radar holds him as securely as he held Francis, letting him cry against his side. He didn't think twice about picking up Francis when he had to, even though Francis was almost too big for it and he wasn't completely sure he'd be able to carry him easily. But he did it. He's carried and sheltered Mulcahy before; so he can do it again.
When Peter lands, a tiny smile twitches Radar's mouth, just for a second. "Hey Peter," he whispers, as quiet as he can. "Good boy. Good keyring."
When Peter lands, a tiny smile twitches Radar's mouth, just for a second. "Hey Peter," he whispers, as quiet as he can. "Good boy. Good keyring."
Edited 2024-11-09 19:22 (UTC)
It’s a beautiful evening for a stroll. The leaves have really reached their peak, and the countryside is in its splendor of reds and golds. Somewhere in the woods, a mockingbird sings. The false stars provide a comforting sight, despite the sad truth of what their presence involves.
Mulcahy’s path leads him astray of anything familiar, and suddenly, he finds himself at a small collection of buildings he’s never seen before. A small sign is just barely readable by the light of the heavens: “Weynon Priory”
The chapel door seems to have been left open…
Mulcahy’s path leads him astray of anything familiar, and suddenly, he finds himself at a small collection of buildings he’s never seen before. A small sign is just barely readable by the light of the heavens: “Weynon Priory”
The chapel door seems to have been left open…
How very strange.
He's never seen that name around, not like any Larkin or Leeds or Calloway. Certainly he's not heard of any religious structure other than the Temple, and it hardly seems abandoned. Not for very long, at least.
His flock may be minimal, but when has that stopped him? He still has responsibilities as a religious leader in this town. It's a simple choice, really, to walk up and knock on the door; and provided there is no response, he will ease it open, peering in.
He's never seen that name around, not like any Larkin or Leeds or Calloway. Certainly he's not heard of any religious structure other than the Temple, and it hardly seems abandoned. Not for very long, at least.
His flock may be minimal, but when has that stopped him? He still has responsibilities as a religious leader in this town. It's a simple choice, really, to walk up and knock on the door; and provided there is no response, he will ease it open, peering in.
Opening the door of the very humble-looking chapel leads to an interior that is more akin to a Catholic church. It’s a grand building, though not of the scale of a cathedral. It’s architecture suggests it might be a basilica, but that can be hard to tell.
In any case, it’s bigger on the inside, and the figures depicted in the stained glass are unfamiliar. There seem to be nine figures, four to each side and one at the front, behind the altar. Said center figure seems to be a man with two heads- one that of a man, and the other that of what is most likely a dragon.
Though no one seems to be attending the church, and though it’s the middle of the night (wait, then how was the foliage outside so vibrant?) the room is warmly lit with several burning braziers, and numerous lit candles adorn the altar.
In any case, it’s bigger on the inside, and the figures depicted in the stained glass are unfamiliar. There seem to be nine figures, four to each side and one at the front, behind the altar. Said center figure seems to be a man with two heads- one that of a man, and the other that of what is most likely a dragon.
Though no one seems to be attending the church, and though it’s the middle of the night (wait, then how was the foliage outside so vibrant?) the room is warmly lit with several burning braziers, and numerous lit candles adorn the altar.
What a strange place. He's not unused to the idea of very Church-like motifs being used for other, and even poly-theist faiths; the Temple is one for example, with their towering windows of stained glass. Back home, it's not something he sees often beyond the structures of the Abrahamic faiths. But the universe is wide, and he could be wrong even on Earth.
This is all to say that the idea that this is somehow appropriated does not spring to mind, despite recent experiences with idolatry and blasphemy. Curiosity sparks in him instead, and he finds himself looking around for information of any kind, be they books lying around or plaques beneath the windows. Or if none of those are evident, perhaps peering more closely at the altar and the two-headed figure will be more illuminating.
This is all to say that the idea that this is somehow appropriated does not spring to mind, despite recent experiences with idolatry and blasphemy. Curiosity sparks in him instead, and he finds himself looking around for information of any kind, be they books lying around or plaques beneath the windows. Or if none of those are evident, perhaps peering more closely at the altar and the two-headed figure will be more illuminating.
Edited 2024-11-14 05:08 (UTC)
There’s actually quite a lot of information lying around, books tucked into the pews and plaques under each window. The nearest one, depicting a woman with flowing hair, reads:
“Kynareth, Mother of the Weather, Wilderness, and all Creatures of the Air. Honor faithfully her domain.”
“Kynareth, Mother of the Weather, Wilderness, and all Creatures of the Air. Honor faithfully her domain.”
Not a name he's seen before, so likely not from one of the faiths he's already encountered.
He continues to tour the plaques beneath the window to familiarize himself with the names. Very, very odd. What is such a well built structure such as this doing here on the island, when he's never heard of a local faith besides that of the four seasonal Mothers? Unless Kynareth is somehow part of some kind of syncretization?
He gleans what information he can from the plaques and skimming books, before coming to inspect the altar and the central statue. These braziers and candles are all lit...
He continues to tour the plaques beneath the window to familiarize himself with the names. Very, very odd. What is such a well built structure such as this doing here on the island, when he's never heard of a local faith besides that of the four seasonal Mothers? Unless Kynareth is somehow part of some kind of syncretization?
He gleans what information he can from the plaques and skimming books, before coming to inspect the altar and the central statue. These braziers and candles are all lit...
cw: desecration of a corpse, hellish torment (being eaten alive)
blindwatchersees
2024-11-14 04:11 pm (UTC)(link)
It's as he turns that the lighting changes, from warm and inviting to a cold, bleak, unearthly blue. The windows are shattered, the pews overturned, and a chill wind howls down through the dilapidated ceiling. The air smells like blood, metal, and ash. And on the altar, laid out like a feast for flies, is the beaten, bloody body of Harry Powell.
At least, it seems like just his body at first. He's being picked apart by what appear to be blue, slate-skinned imps, which are ravenously and gleefully stuffing chunks of him into their toothy maws. After a moment, a blue fire ignites behind his eyes, and he begins screaming, alive and awake but seemingly incapable of moving otherwise.
At least, it seems like just his body at first. He's being picked apart by what appear to be blue, slate-skinned imps, which are ravenously and gleefully stuffing chunks of him into their toothy maws. After a moment, a blue fire ignites behind his eyes, and he begins screaming, alive and awake but seemingly incapable of moving otherwise.
The church smashes itself apart. It’s a howling and raging wind that Mulcahy flinches and cries out from; in a second he will feel a sense of divine wrath in such an immediate and drastic, terrible change; but in this moment, what he thinks of first is the war. Shells, iron, and a bus full of wounded.
And there is a wounded man.
He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he’s convinced that either God or some other divine power has laid this purgatory on Powell, freezing him in this moment of most humiliation and at the same time ossifying Mulcahy’s most shameful act–he stares in horror at the imps, too familiar with the smell of blood and tear of sinew. And he claps his hands over his ears when he screams.
This is his shame: that he hesitates. That for a moment, two, three moments, he considers going away.
It isn’t guilt that moves him forward. It is deeply rooted instinct. Not a jerk reaction like a flinch or a scream, but a behavior as inherent to him as shepherding is for the working dog. Mulcahy rushes in to help and attempt to beat the imps away. “Get off of him! Off, all of you! Off!”
And there is a wounded man.
He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he’s convinced that either God or some other divine power has laid this purgatory on Powell, freezing him in this moment of most humiliation and at the same time ossifying Mulcahy’s most shameful act–he stares in horror at the imps, too familiar with the smell of blood and tear of sinew. And he claps his hands over his ears when he screams.
This is his shame: that he hesitates. That for a moment, two, three moments, he considers going away.
It isn’t guilt that moves him forward. It is deeply rooted instinct. Not a jerk reaction like a flinch or a scream, but a behavior as inherent to him as shepherding is for the working dog. Mulcahy rushes in to help and attempt to beat the imps away. “Get off of him! Off, all of you! Off!”
The creatures scatter at first, but then the wounded man’s eyes fix on Mulcahy, and the poison and vitriol begin pouring from his lips.
“Miserable get of Sodom… you think I want your pity? Your mercy? Filthy companion of that whore of Babylon-“
The imps, seemingly emboldened, start inching back towards him, though they still eye Mulcahy warily.
“Miserable get of Sodom… you think I want your pity? Your mercy? Filthy companion of that whore of Babylon-“
The imps, seemingly emboldened, start inching back towards him, though they still eye Mulcahy warily.
Any relief he could have had at Powell's being alive is snuffed immediately. Still--a M*A*S*H doesn't refuse to treat someone just because they're the worst person you've ever met. They treated the enemy, too. It's not their lot to cast judgement like that. Only to heal.
"Keep him out of this or I'll lay you out again, and you won't like how I do it!" he snaps, as he gently tries to ease his arms around the man to carry him from the altar. "You know as well as I do that it's only the luck of Providence that of all people to end up here, it should be me."
"Keep him out of this or I'll lay you out again, and you won't like how I do it!" he snaps, as he gently tries to ease his arms around the man to carry him from the altar. "You know as well as I do that it's only the luck of Providence that of all people to end up here, it should be me."
Powell proceeds to respond by spitting on him.
“I’d… rather die than accept the likes of you. There is no redemption for the sinner who attributes the works of God to Satan. The spawn of Sodom and all those who are sexually unclean shall not inherit- ggk!” He’s suddenly cut off as one of the imps suddenly leaps upon him and tears out his throat, holding the grisly trophy with an air of triumph, before the others start scrabbling to steal it.
“Nasty little things, Banekin,” comes a voice from behind Mulcahy.
“I’d… rather die than accept the likes of you. There is no redemption for the sinner who attributes the works of God to Satan. The spawn of Sodom and all those who are sexually unclean shall not inherit- ggk!” He’s suddenly cut off as one of the imps suddenly leaps upon him and tears out his throat, holding the grisly trophy with an air of triumph, before the others start scrabbling to steal it.
“Nasty little things, Banekin,” comes a voice from behind Mulcahy.
Mulcahy reels back in horror. It is the grace of having seen such slaughter before that he does not drop Powell outright, but it's a near thing. Instead, Mulcahy makes his peace with the massive splatter of viscera now staining his front, and sets the corpse down, albeit ungracefully.
He steps forward to start shooing them from the rest of the corpse when a voice issues from behind him. Blood freezing, he whirls around to see who's caught him here.
He steps forward to start shooing them from the rest of the corpse when a voice issues from behind him. Blood freezing, he whirls around to see who's caught him here.
It’s Theodor… or is his name Sheogorath? The man of many names, many faces, is sitting cross-legged in the only upright pew.
“You’re fighting a losing battle, Father Mulcahy.”
“You’re fighting a losing battle, Father Mulcahy.”
It’s him.
How? This is—he’s sitting there like he expected him. Like he’s comfortable. Like…
A feeling, freezing cold and prickly and horrifyingly familiar, crawls up his nerves.
“That has never stopped me,” he says warily. “You know these things, Theodore?”
How? This is—he’s sitting there like he expected him. Like he’s comfortable. Like…
A feeling, freezing cold and prickly and horrifyingly familiar, crawls up his nerves.
“That has never stopped me,” he says warily. “You know these things, Theodore?”
“I know many things, except when I don’t.” He stands up, approaching Mulcahy. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“I suppose what I’m asking is, why are you trying so hard to keep him from what he wants?”
“I suppose what I’m asking is, why are you trying so hard to keep him from what he wants?”
Mulcahy would back away, but two issues: first, he’d bump back up against Powell’s corpse. Second, he’d show fear.
It’s just Theodore. He knows and likes the man, and yet—and yet something feels so deeply wrong. Obviously there’s the inexplicable presence of Powell and these imps and the church and the fire, but there’s—there’s horrible and impossible such that either he’s been beset by devils or he’s dreaming… and then there’s another underlayer, a mysterious off-ness that he doesn’t understand. And he can’t stand it.
“Because what he wants is denying himself his peace,” Mulcahy tries sternly. “And no man should have to suffer forever like that. How are you here?”
It’s just Theodore. He knows and likes the man, and yet—and yet something feels so deeply wrong. Obviously there’s the inexplicable presence of Powell and these imps and the church and the fire, but there’s—there’s horrible and impossible such that either he’s been beset by devils or he’s dreaming… and then there’s another underlayer, a mysterious off-ness that he doesn’t understand. And he can’t stand it.
“Because what he wants is denying himself his peace,” Mulcahy tries sternly. “And no man should have to suffer forever like that. How are you here?”
“You needed a confessor,” he says, quite plainly.
Tap.
“I’m afraid you’d have to tear through a whole army to get through to him. An unenviable task. Tell me, Father, is he not consumed by hatred?”
Tap.
“I’m afraid you’d have to tear through a whole army to get through to him. An unenviable task. Tell me, Father, is he not consumed by hatred?”
You needed a confessor, Theodore says. Mulcahy hears 2’s voice saying, tell me the truth.
His gaze turns bitter and suspicious. “Of course he is. Should that mean that I abandon him?”
(It’s an ugly and thankless duty, to care for people in spite of their tireless hatred for others. It’s just the thing for a priest to do.
He’s so tired.)
His gaze turns bitter and suspicious. “Of course he is. Should that mean that I abandon him?”
(It’s an ugly and thankless duty, to care for people in spite of their tireless hatred for others. It’s just the thing for a priest to do.
He’s so tired.)
"Of course not. But it may be best that you know what you're up against."
He gestures to the implike things, which are keeping their distance now, seeming uncertain in their actions.
"Banekin hail from a realm that, at its core, is Domination-as-Consuming, Hope-Crushing, Forever-Chained. Daedra are... how might you say? Embodiments. His own hatred, his constant companions, are quite literally eating him alive when he no longer has what he needs to lord over his surroundings. That's quite typical, of those that seek out ol' Molag for power. The promise of being powerless under someone else, so long as you can dominate everything else in turn, is quite appealing when you don't think too much about it. After all, most mortals realize they're inevitably under someone else's heel- isn't it just a matter of survival and practicality, to make sure you end up as close to the top of the heap as possible?"
He gestures to the implike things, which are keeping their distance now, seeming uncertain in their actions.
"Banekin hail from a realm that, at its core, is Domination-as-Consuming, Hope-Crushing, Forever-Chained. Daedra are... how might you say? Embodiments. His own hatred, his constant companions, are quite literally eating him alive when he no longer has what he needs to lord over his surroundings. That's quite typical, of those that seek out ol' Molag for power. The promise of being powerless under someone else, so long as you can dominate everything else in turn, is quite appealing when you don't think too much about it. After all, most mortals realize they're inevitably under someone else's heel- isn't it just a matter of survival and practicality, to make sure you end up as close to the top of the heap as possible?"
This is reaching into a kind of alien mysticism that 2 would never once have bothered with. In all those years he was never so imaginative, and if there was any kind of mystic or occultism he bothered Mulcahy with, it was his own.
That stinging iciness in his nerves doesn't go away, but this... is different. It's the shallowest compensation.
...
"How are you here?" He wants to know what kind of game he's expected to play before he plays it. This, before he answers any questions, before the man tries to pull a confessional from someone whose most terrible mistake he can clearly already see. "For that matter, what is here?
That stinging iciness in his nerves doesn't go away, but this... is different. It's the shallowest compensation.
...
"How are you here?" He wants to know what kind of game he's expected to play before he plays it. This, before he answers any questions, before the man tries to pull a confessional from someone whose most terrible mistake he can clearly already see. "For that matter, what is here?
“We’re somewhere, I believe, between a dream, a desire, an an appeal for help. And I… well, I suspect I’m here because I have a tendency to promote change, for better or worse. And I’d rather it be for the better in your case, Father. I do like you.”
He walks over to a nearby candle, snuffing out the icy flame and seeming to conjure up a new one that glows with a proper warmth. The orange hues of comfort and safety begin to radiate from it, but there’s a distortedness to it. The edges of the world are too sharp, too deep, like heavy strokes of an oil painting, and the colors are a little too bright.
“You don’t trust any of this,” he remarks, tone neutral, as he scoops up a piece of broken stained glass. It turns into a butterfly and takes to the air.
“Probably best that you don’t. I had a dream recently that kept folding in and in and in on itself, and by the morning I had folded myself into such a tight knot.”
He walks over to a nearby candle, snuffing out the icy flame and seeming to conjure up a new one that glows with a proper warmth. The orange hues of comfort and safety begin to radiate from it, but there’s a distortedness to it. The edges of the world are too sharp, too deep, like heavy strokes of an oil painting, and the colors are a little too bright.
“You don’t trust any of this,” he remarks, tone neutral, as he scoops up a piece of broken stained glass. It turns into a butterfly and takes to the air.
“Probably best that you don’t. I had a dream recently that kept folding in and in and in on itself, and by the morning I had folded myself into such a tight knot.”
Peter chir-chirrups, lifting off to bop briefly against Radar’s face (this is a well-loved creature who receives lots of kisses on its little metal head for sure) before landing down on Mulcahy again.
The proverbial well of tears will never dry, but one’s arms get tired of hauling up bucket after bucket. Eventually he wears himself out enough to stop. He settles, and just… sighs, staying right where he is. How unspeakably wonderful it is, to be free to be weak. He feels convalescent in a lot of ways, only he wishes the matter was as straightforward as redressing his wounds.
“Thank you, Radar,” he says.
The proverbial well of tears will never dry, but one’s arms get tired of hauling up bucket after bucket. Eventually he wears himself out enough to stop. He settles, and just… sighs, staying right where he is. How unspeakably wonderful it is, to be free to be weak. He feels convalescent in a lot of ways, only he wishes the matter was as straightforward as redressing his wounds.
“Thank you, Radar,” he says.
The nature of a MASH unit is to move patients through as quick as you can. Patch them up good enough to get them out to Seoul or Tokyo if they need more care; never let them stay in a bed for too long if another wounded soldier can occupy it instead. It's so rare you get to linger. So if Mulcahy's convalescing, then it's kind of nice that Radar can take the time to do just that.
"You're welcome, sir."
As long as Mulcahy stays here today, Radar will too.
"You're welcome, sir."
As long as Mulcahy stays here today, Radar will too.
Theodore is a spirit of change, then? He is, at least, forthright.
"Is that so...?" He still doesn't deign to get closer, but that butterfly is ever such a familiar sight.
"W-well... you dream as well, then? Are... are they often good dreams?"
"Is that so...?" He still doesn't deign to get closer, but that butterfly is ever such a familiar sight.
"W-well... you dream as well, then? Are... are they often good dreams?"
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